[Tags to @Draconian ]

Hylea's swooping narrowly dodged the fireball that coursed their tail. Attila grasped the reins and squeezed his legs around her sides as she turned about and breathed in sharply. The heat from her belly was intense and Hylea spat a blast of fire from her mouth, roaring and twirling away to avoid the grasping claws of their enemy.

Feral dragons were much more common than those that agreed to having a bond with a dragonrider.  And here in the skies, the law of survival was all that they followed. Attila hadn't meant to ride over another dragon's den, and even he and Hylea made for the skies, the other dragon gave chase, seeing prey, a smaller one of its own kind, and human snack on top of it.

It's own size was massive, clearly well-fed from the size of it's body, spanning more than 30 feet in length, and a wingspan twice that, black and green scales cover it's belly. The emerald eyes of this beast glowed with fury, and the fire it breathed in words of hatred was greener than the verdant southern Thunderblacks.

"FLY FAR! FLY FAST, LITTLE INSECT! WHEREVER YOU GO, I WILL FIND YOU!" the dragon roared, wings beating the air like an unruly stepchild, coning around it's body until it darted closer to Hylea.

Attila kept focus and would have raised his bow, but anything launched at their assailant wouldn't do a gods-be-damned thing. So he bristled, ducking his head beneath a stray flare and pressing himself closer to Hylea, to dive into the trees.

But the other dragon was much faster than he calculated and Attila gripped the harness for dear life as Hylea suddenly swooped to draw her claws out to protect Attila.  The dragon reached out, snatching her tail with one clawed grip and Hylea slashed at his underbelly, cutting deep and spewing out green.  The dragon's face reached down and sunk teeth into Hylea's shoulder, wrenching her off to the side and separating Attila from the saddle.

Hylea was flung far off, and Attila spun wildly, dizzied in the fall and she disappeared from sight when he landed in the trees below.  He yelped and tried to brace himself as his body slammed and smacked into branches.  His right ribs slammed hard into the outstretched branch of a maple tree and he felt ribs snap, and the only thing that softened his fall was the damp undergrowth of leaves and detritus on the forest floor.

Whether he was dead or alive, he didn't know, but his ribs were broken, and his shoulder felt oddly out of place, then black stole his vision.

[Tags to @Draconian ]

The zing of iron in the air was ever present and Lucian could taste it on his tongue. The prey was wounded, and it likely couldn't last any longer. The boar was riddled with piercing wounds, bleeding heavily across the hillside and had vanished into a dense copse across on its other side.

Pressing legs tightly against his mount, he turned and guided the horse down from it and signaled for Adelaide to do the same. A fine mist peppered the surrounding area, leaving a petulant gloom within that early morning hunt. A cool touch, braced his cheek, and Lucian pulled up the hood from his cloak, and he took in a deep breath.

Were it not for the blood of their prey, they would have lost the boar in the tall grass around them. It's honeyed color was painted red where the animal had passed through in it's frenzy.  Lucian had to give a small ounce of respect to the poor bastard, putting up one hellish fight. Primal instincts, the tenacity to live in spite of overwhelming opposition and all logical sense. It was that sheer determination that made Lucian's veins run hot, ears throbbing with adrenaline. Beast, his brother.

Lucian stalked quietly along slipping from the saddle and pulling a set of javelins from the straps on te side of it. The leather clasps around his chest were secured and he pulled one javelin from the slot. It was a short slim weapon and it's point was made of a bronze tip and then dipped in iron. They would serve well enough on it's hunt, and finish the boar off with impunity. Arrows thus far had only pissed the thing off.

"Adelaide," he whispered to his companion, "It can't be much farther than those trees. You watch my back, and I'll watch yours."  He crouched low, his brown cloak blending into the bark of the surrounding trees, following the scent of blood.

[Tags to @Wycliff ]

Lucian Andris made sure never to let himself be caught dead in a church if he could help it. The years being raised in one were enough to raise anyone's irritated hackles. The fire and brimstone spit was like acid to his ears now.  So more and more he was finding himself in places like this, quiet taverns nestled in small towns within travelling distance to the nearest chapel. Close enough to be of use, far enough away to keep his sanity.

Lucian closed his eyes and let his nose smell the wine before him and set the glass on the table. His boots were muddied as he sat down on the chair and joined the one sitting at the table already, a darkly cloaked figure already in the tavern. He sat down quietly, respectfully and leaned over the table.

His own garb wasn't nearly as mysterious. A brown cloak draped over his shoulders, the white and blue of his collar hidden beneath a tunic. One wouldn't even know he was anything more than a traveler by the sheer look of him. Walking around in anything resembling uniform was just asking for trouble as far as he was concerned.

"I'm sorry we couldn't meet under better circumstances," he sighed, sipping his wine again. "Can I get you something to drink, sir?" he offered.

Prologue
+ NAME + Lucian Andris
+ ALIAS + Luc / Templar Andris
+ AGE + 33
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Amber Lamplight
+ BORN + Summer's End
+ ORIGIN + Raniva, Falkenrath
+ SPECIES + Human
+ RESIDENCE + Lluin, Falkenrath
+ OCCUPATION + Comfessor and Templar within the Order of St. Agratha
+ COUNTENANCE + Blonde hair / Green eyes
+ STATURE + 6'1" / 197 lbs
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
In beauty, no break or blemish be. At least at first glance. If there are any scars, they are imperceptible.  His face is gaunt, nose lean and long, with an aquiline bend to it, lips thin and always flickering into some kind of wry grin. He's pale, not bothering to spend much time outside. In form, he is lean but strong, athletic and wiry.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
There's a crest burned into the back of his left thigh, a branding of the Order, done to him as a child. Few have seen it or know why it's there.

CH II – Mental Make-up
A jester by any other name is simply a jester. Lucian has a penchant for taking nothing seriously, and tends to joke at even the most inappropriate times. Not everyone responds to this with good humor, and his lack of respect in some cases has caused him to earn the ire of many in higher standing, and dislike him for it.

He doesn't bother to live up to the expectations most people set before him, and has always followed his own whims and needs.  Some say a little too much at times. Lucian wouldn't bother protesting them, their claims have no weight on him. As there is only one life to live, why bother with the rules. He is not without reason, and does his duty as he sees fit, and will do what needs to be done, even if the act may be cruel, even mad. All in the name of Ansgar.

+ FAITH +
Believes in Ansgar, and himself. Mostly himself.   He is loyal to the Order, and his friends. Such as they are.

+ HABITS +
A frequenter of brothels and debauchery. If there's fun to be had somewhere, he wants in on it.

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
Markham Wallace, Uncle, Priest, 68, Deceased

Lucian's uncle and the one that took him in when he was first left to the Church. The man was a priest but raised his nephew as best he could, using the Church as a structure to mold him into a proper and devout citizen. What little good that did.  They never saw eye-to-eye, treating each other with mutual indifference most of the time.

Mercuxio Rastognlir, Best Friend, Alive

His friend and rival. He's known Mercuxio for years, and can't help but feel a vague sense of jealousy at the aptitude he showed when he joined in, becoming a Templar quicker than Lucian did.

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ DIVINE RETRIBUTION +
A blessing to some, a bane to many, a gift believed to be bestowed by Ansgar himself.  A confessor may trap and absorb the very magical essence a mage or magic user, rendering them completely ordinary.  It takes much energy to use such a power and can be utilized gradually or all at once.  The subject in question often experiences weakening as their essence is pulled away, taxing both physically and mentally.  If the essence is taken away too quickly – and particularly violently – the body may enter a catatonic state from shock.  It may only be utilized by direct contact and with total focus by the Confessor.
-Though rare, it is possible to extend this gift to allow temporary absorption of any magic cast at its user.  It takes a great deal of concentration and practice, being difficult to hone, and has a slim chance of working.  How much can be absorbed depends on its user, but what energy is absorbed must be used quickly through physical or mental exertion, lest they suffer a burn out.   

These gifts also inclue Sanctus, and Wrath of God.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
TBA

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
Lucian had no mother in his youth, none that he remembers more than a few flickering images. He knew that she was not well in mind, or in heart, and that she had a brother in the Church. When she died, he was just a boy, and Markham took him in. Markham was not kind or loving, and seemed really to resent his presence.

Lucian knew why, figured it over time, that it was because he had fathered him. And that resentment grew when Mercuxio joined the Order. He was content to let sleeping dogs lie, but couldn't help feel further isolation when Markham took to mentoring the young Templar. It wasn't his fault. Mercuxio was bright and intelligent, eager to be perfect.

Markham treated him like a son, and was proud to have such an impressive protege. Lucian always was the wild card after all, and saw no incentive to live up to the expectations placed upon him, much to his uncle's ire.

THREAD TRACKER
Hell or Highwater [M]

This night wasn't a promising one, and that was just fine with Roland.

Everyone needed some downtime, a moment just for themselves. In the middle of the chaos, a quiet place like this, not far off from the road, was casually packed. A small group of dirt-sodden men congregated in the corner, grumbling to themselves over watered down pints of beer.

The Red Hawk Tavern was quite less in shambles than even Roland expected. However, it was nice to know that the proprietors probably paid considerable attention to it's well-being. Likely due to it being the only structure they had. There were no colors flown here.  The only sign of any nation being that of the Red Hawk perched on the sign outside the door, now faded and touched up here and there where it was convenient.

The rural area was much preferred either, although the elements were much crueler to the structure's condition over al.

The wood here was cracked and worn, but it would support the weight of him as Roland took himself to the bar, sitting on a stool there and ordering a pint of beer. It was pisswater, but better than drinking actual piss at any given time of day.

Roland took a whiff of the brew before downing quite a large sip. The washing of throat alleviated that parched tissue, and the sounds of tavern seemed a little duller, a little less rowdy. He looked up to the stranger that sat down beside him and raised his pint as a sign of respect.

Prologue
+ NAME + Attila Armok
+ ALIAS + N/A
+ AGE + 27
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Pale Wraith
+ BORN + End of Spring
+ ORIGIN + Village of Danir Thunderblacks
+ SPECIES + Mostly Human, some fae ancestry
+ RESIDENCE + Adela
+ OCCUPATION + Dragon Rider and Ranger
+ COUNTENANCE + Dark Magenta hair / Cyan eyes
+ STATURE + 6'2" / 198 lbs
+ SEXUALITY + Heterosexual


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
His skin is a swarthy brown, tanned like most Adelans. His hair is long, reaching just above his shoulders and choppily cut. The strands are dark and somehow reflective against light at times, a feat he isn't fond of. Years have training have lest his body lean and mean, but built for battle if necessary. Scars pale here and there along his arms and chest, although they are not remarkable.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
Animal tattoos mark most of his back and lower belly, winged birds of prey, a serpent coiled on his lower back, and other such creatures.

CH II – Mental Make-up
Attila is, in so few words, bitter. He doesn't try to be. He just is. Very set in his ways, he prefers Hylea's or his sister's company to most others, and when he's around other people he tends to be separate from them.  He's thoughtful in his quiet, treasuring his solitude.

In his mind, form must follow function, and practical in nature and in practice. Nothing he uses is wasted, least of all food, and nothing he does is without reason or as a means to an end. What he lacks in spontaneity is generally made up for in his over all dedication.

[Will add more as I play him.]

+ FAITH +
Spiritual, deeply so, praying to his ancestors and able to hear the spirits around him while in deep meditation. Acknowledges there is more to this world than at first meets the eye.

+ HABITS +
Hunting and sparring, recreational drinking

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
Vaulder Armok, Father, 55, Alive
Medea Cassander, Mother, 44, Alive
Vander Armok, Brother, 18, Deceased
Calla Armok, Sister, 28, Alive – Knight

Hylea, Dragon,
   A swift and lean beast with dull-dark blue scales and a white chest. Her horns curl around her head and her wings are a mix of blue and green

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ HAND-TO-HAND +
Vaulder expected much of him as a young boy, and taught the boy to fight by force. Vaulder wasn't the perfect father, but he did what he felt was necessary to the survival of his family, teaching them to survive in a world that would not give them sympathy. Attila is capable of defending himself, and seeking out weaknesses that might otherwise not be considered.

+ RANGER +
A skilled hunter and tracker from youth, these skills aid Attila greatly when taking to the skies.  He's exceedingly patient, accustomed to waiting weeks for a kill, and a talented archer. He has some ability with javelin, but is admittedly better with his barbed lance if it comes to direct combat.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
Scale armor, riding gear, his bow and lance are all he really carries with him.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
When a bandit of little renown knocks up a prostitute and decides to do right by her, the play at being a family is tentative at best. Vaulder and Medea had three children before Medea decided being a mother was not for her and vanished to the four winds. There was some talk of her being a witch, but Attila learned no truth to it.

He was the youngest of the three, raised much like his older siblings, and relied on them mostly for any sense of comfort, since there was none to be had from their father. Danir was a small village nestled in the southern edge of the Thunderblacks. Largely hidden away, they got by with what they hunted or traded.

He was 16 when a dragonling attacked his village.  She was a young creature, driven mad by the pain of the barbed collar she wore, from smugglers that tried to capture her. She stopped her assault suddenly, testing Attila's fortitude. Seeing that she was that in pain, Attila approached with caution and clipped the collar from her neck. She ceased her attack and flew away.

His older brother Vander died in the attack, to which Vaulder blamed Attila for, even to this day, claiming that if he'd just gotten to him sooner, his brother might be alive.

His sister took him to a Meeting with the dragons, knowing that if one responded, another might. It was there he found Hylea, the scars evident around her neck. Remembering the gesture he had made, she chose him as her rider and they've been together ever since.

[Tags to @Boysenberrybootstraps ]

"Do not argue, Rais," Anki said. He stroked his beard and curled up the ends of his mustaches. "Why can't you simply enjoy the moment and move along, like the rest of my guard. They do not question, argue, or ruin what is supposed to be a perfectly good night of feasting and fucking."

As ever looking at the mask on his bodyguard's face proved fruitless, as there was no expression there. Surely his eyes burned with irritation, and even a twinge of disappointment. Most men would jump at the opportunity to escort their merchant prince to a brothel, an opportunity to take in the sights, and perhaps get a grope here or there.

Except his mouth, that was all that was visible that one would see in the small grooved cut out on that ivory mask.

"I am not arguing with you. I am simply wondering why your, ahem, party cannot simply be done at your manor my lord," Rais murmured back, careful of his tone and manner. He did not wish to step out of line as the wagon rolled down the street and the red lantern hung outside of Madam Oire's establishment.

"Because I can take a concubine at any time, Rais. But a lovely lady of the night, my friend. These are rare creatures that are a wonder to indulge in.  Please, no more talk.  We are here. Or I swear I will have a conniption."

Rais burned at the thought. No, it would not do to embarrass his employer, and doing so would not end well for him. He was here as a servant, and to protect Anki Aiavar from potential danger – and perhaps of making a fool of himself.. As they were aided out of the cart by the other three guards at his back, Rais kept himself steady and went in right at Anki's back, eyes surveying the establishment. Oh...it was much nicer than he expected.

"Hello my dear. Madame Oire, it is so lovely to see you again," Anki murmured, leaning into the Mistress's side and kissing her cheek, left then right.  "I hope you are well. I admit, you always look radiant. I just want to devour you here and now."  He growled with eager hunger, wrapping an arm around the older woman's waist, and her hands gently shoved him off.

Anki was handsome and distinguished for his age, closer to 50 than 60, and had a natural charm to him that the Mistress of the house had taken a shine to. "My working days are long over, Anki. But, perhaps one of my girls can interest you in sating your hunger? I think Yari remembers you, doesn't she?"

A young slender creature stepped forward, with her sandy hair having been bleached at the ends and she waved her hands at Anki, nodding.  She didn't need to say much more other than what she did with her hands, waving them across his arms, and wrapping one gently around Anki's elbow.  He laughed and gently pinched her chin with interest. "I think she does," he murmured.

"I'm please you will allow me to entertain you, my lord," she spoke at last, and kept her gaze low, demure.

Anki laughed. "Yari, Yari, be still my heart.  I think she will do just fine, Madame Oire. I did come here to have a good time, after all. And if you can, please help my friend, Rais here, relax as well," Anki chuckled, admiring the girl's high cheekbones and sultry posture.

Rais did a double-take, sputtering. "My lord? W-wait!"

But Anki waved him off. And soon he was sitting on a lounge, deep in conversation.

"Oh, I'm sure I can find him someone," Madame Oire murmured, tone soft, and looking him over.

1. Organization Name
Red Legion

2. Objective
To fight for the Connlaothian people, return the land to them.

3. Who may join?
Anyone and everyone is welcome that has been a victim of the current civil war. Hating the Grand Duke is a plus. Mage-tolerance, highly recommended. Rich or poor, inconsequential.

4. Organization Location
Varandus
   A hidden ravine nestled within the bluffs of northern Folkvar, just across south of the border of Allar. It's concealed within network of caves before opening up into a large valley that's overshadowed between high cliffs. It is close to the ocean enough to receive the cooling air, and it's soil is surprisingly fertile.

It's here that those of the Red Legion swear a blood oath of loyalty, train, forge, ride, and march. They are housed in barracks as well as have natural and man-made fortifications.

5. Current Members and Ranks
Lord Commander
The "General" of the Red Legion
Roland Harker

Sentinel
Ranking just below the Lord Commander, and only 4 at any given time, Sentinels serve as counsel to the Lord Commander, and command a segment of Red Legion forces.
Maddison Hart

Captain
Ranking just below Sentinels, Captains make up a large portion of the commanding officers within each fighting regiment.

Soldiers, Scouts, Hunters, Men-at-Arm, Mages, and others make up a large portion of Red Legion forces. There can be as many of these as necessary.

6. Additional Information
Background Info
Founded as a mercenary company by Roland with a few ex-soldiers he knew from the civil war. As the company's reputation grew, more came to join. Recruitment was less strict back then, you just had to be good in a fight, reliable, and desired coin.

And the coin was good, from what of it could be made protecting hamlets or escorting nobles when their own soldiers deserted them. Life was good, even prosperous. But the war still raged around them, and Roland saw a need for good where there was none to be had. Many that joined the Red Legion were farmers, hunters, those that wanted no part in the fighting but became victims of the carnage anyway.

He took the money he made from mercenary work and turned it toward forging an army, hoping to rebuild Connlaoth from the shadow it had become.

[Tags to @DragonSong , and OPEN by request]

All was quiet among these trees, almost disturbingly so. Scouting out into the wilds was a necessary but taxing effort, and Roland found he wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of being as exposed as they were. All had been quiet for days on end, and the men, were tired, and growing antsy.

When given orders to make camp, they did so with grim expressions on their faces, and were wary. It wasn't often that Roland would go with a patrol. But for this occasion, it was to take weight off his mind. They had been traveling west from the coast for some days now, and it would be nice to have a distraction that wasn't wondering when they were going to be attacked, or find their next meal.

Between the trees, Roland stepped silently, pulling the bow he'd strapped to his back and knocking an arrow into the string. He'd seen a deer not far from here, bounding off when one of his men snapped a branch. They would follow it, tracking it for the next few hours or however long it would take to hunt. Food seemed to be getting scarcer.

Some of the others went up ahead of him, and he scanned the hillside, finding nothing. Except the sound of voices coming closer to him, voices that were not of his patrol.

He stirred, holding his breath and ducked behind a tree, listening as one voice became two and he spied two figures walking side by side.

[Blink]

Cold freezing rain pelted down on the camp that had been erected around the fallen village. Kogan. It had been burned out in the early years of the conflict. A small village of nondescript importance, and had been destroyed for one reason alone: it was a village of mages, free ones at that, whom thrived in the forest away from civilization at large.

They had lived on the edge, Roland thought, thinking that here in Sirantil Valley they were safe. It hadn't been run down by the Grand Duke's army, but instead by a mob of vigilante folk that felt the village was a danger to everyone. The mages didn't even fight back...  They were burned along with their homes.

Roland had settled his men here where nobody would come to look. They were not overly large, but their numbers grew every day, little by little, word spreading. They were not always wise words, nor kind ones, some warning he was coming to sack their homes and pillage their goods. An army was only as good as the food going into its stomach after all.

Here was just another place that had been scorched by the war. Needless death, at that.

Worn leather boots stepped carefully between tents, and the rain was but a drizzle now, lightly pattering the leather of his cloak, and the fur-line of his collar. As Roland stepped between those that worked on cleaning up some of the rubble, they stood at attention  and saluted with right fists crossed over their hearts. He turned and did the same, although he excused them from having to do so in the first place.

He moved toward the center tent of the encampment, where a set of crates were laid out like a table and a worn map was spread out over it. It was of a vellum, and not updated in some time, but it would do for now. The eastern edge of the Sirantil Valley, was marked with a corked needle, and he saw their position, just on the border of the eastern edge of Falkenrath.  The war had taken more than lives, but even that of the wealth and power of nobles.  Many were made destitute from trying to fund the war effort, and some were driven out of their homes.

He stepped toward the council of his lieutenants, listening to what they had to say, but saying nothing of his own. Roland looked up and across to Tiberius, an older man, balding, and grizzled; and he carefully measured the distance between one point of land to the next.

Roland tilted his head. "Tiberius.  Measuring the distance it will take for our enemies to find us?" he asked sharply.

All the men at the crate-table peered upward, then between Roland and him. Tiberius chuckled. "I'm sorry?  Haha, surely you jest."

Roland grinned, leaning against a boulder off to the side. "I think it's rather funny that you think I'm jesting."  He chuckled. "You certainly seem to be smiling more. And that ring is rather shiny on your finger."

Tiberius' laugh waned.  "My lord, what has my ring got to do with anything?"

"I mean, it's new. And one you seemed to think I'd fail to notice. Tell me, was it worth it? That sack of silver and that heirloom trinket, only given to high ranking members of the nobility. You're certainly not related to any duke, so how do you explain the ring?  And consider your answer carefully."

"My lord, Roland, have you gone mad? Are you feeling well? I can't possibly understand what you're talking about?"  Tiberius straightened and his hand concealed the fidgeting he was doing, turning the sapphire ring on his finger upside down so as to hide the jewel that reflected in its motion.

"Traitor," Roland pressed, pushing up from the rock. "You thought I didn't know. That you were paid to funnel information about our movements to our enemies."  He tread closer to Tiberius, the other man looking at him squarely. "Hudson Quarry.  A false lead, and when that patrol showed up, digging themselves in, I knew it was you. There was no one else it could be. Traitorous pig."

Tiberius' eyes were wide, watching Roland as the taller man was stand side-by-side with him now.  No one heard him breath, stock still, hesitation and nerve keeping him locked in place.  That was until Roland began to laugh, cackling like a mad man, grin stretched ear to ear and he slapped Tiberius on the shoulder.  It was a reassuring touch, and the older man visibly relaxed.  He even went as far as to grin himself, chuckling nervously as the other men followed suit.

Roland suddenly gripped Tiberius by the shoulder and shoved him down, pulling out the blade at his side swifter than lightning. And like it, Anguish only briefly flashed before being struck down on the man's neck, separating his head from his shoulders. Tiberus suddenly went limp, and the vellum map was stained with the blood from Tiberius' severed head.

Roland pulled the shoulder back and dropped the body to the ground.  He bent down and took the ring from his hand and gave it to another of his lieutenants.  "Find a use for that. You don't want to end up like him," he murmured, and the others gave way to Roland, as he moved passed them toward the camp's edge.

He watched the trees, as the hill sloped down from where he was. He carefully wiped Anguish's edge clean, resheathing the long sword, and straightening himself. In honesty, he wished it hadn't come to that. Tiberius had been a good man, but even good men could be tempted by coin, and to what end.  The man was headless now, and even now being dragged into a hole in the ground.

Roland stepped just into the forest's edge, listening to the sounds of the wild. Until a sound very un'-Wild'-like caught his attention.

Prologue
+ NAME + Roland Harker, Surname formerly Mercer
+ ALIAS +  The Reaver of Hawkes Hall, Lord of War, Sir Roland Harker
+ AGE + 34
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Iron Knight
+ BORN + Year's End
+ ORIGIN + Lynden, Bellkrath
+ SPECIES + Human, probably
+ RESIDENCE + The Road, Hawkes Hall,  Varandus
+ OCCUPATION + Ex-Mordecai / Disgraced Knight / Crusader against the Grand Duke
+ COUNTENANCE + Dirty blond hair / Red-Orange eyes
+ STATURE + 6'1" / 200 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Heterosexual


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Stories paint him to be a much larger figure than he is, that he is a giant among men, or a monster coming from the shadows. In either case, he's a warrior in stature and statement. His face is stern, if a little grim, and his eyes are deep in his skull, fluctuating in lightness and contrast at times. He's mostly clean shaven,  and has a scar across his cheek and crosses his lips just at the bottom left corner.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
Tribal patterned tattoos of a hawk along his shoulder, with wings wrapping around his shoulder blade and chest, left side.  A snake wrapping itself around his right wrist.

CH II – Mental Make-up
Outwardly, he seems fierce, the beast of a man in the heat of battle. Roland doesn't think of himself as noble, nor kind.  While he is loyal to those he stands with, he sees people as pawns that can either help or hinder him, and if it's the later, they must be dealt with accordingly.  He is not without heart though, and has given alms to the poor and helped those that have been burned by the war. Roland does it simply because he sees it that no one else will help the people, mages or ordinary folk alike.

They are fools to him and not worthy of his time. He believes wholeheartedly in his cause, that Connlaoth has been taken away from it's people by the Grand Duke, and has built a force against him.

+ FAITH +
Went out the window a long time ago.

+ HABITS +
A practitioner of strange taboo magics, praying into smoke, although it's more like a deep meditation than the kind of prayers one might use within the Church of Ansgar.

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
Braxton, friend, Right Hand, deceased.
Alanna Mercer, estranged Wife. She presumes he is dead.

Maddison Hart, Friend and comrade, Sentinel of the Red Legion
Dyson Volker, Friend Comrade, Sentinel of the Red Legion
Rowan Marsh, Spymaster of the Red Legion

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ MORDECAI +
His gift came at a young age, and he had spent years training to shoot with a musket, and learning to wield his weapons well. His gift is particularly strong, ranging to approximately three quarters of a mile.   

CH V – Gear / Equipment
+ ANGUISH +
The long sword he's wielded since the war began. It was given to him from a friend named Braxton, a knight that died. His shield was given to him as well. It's a long piercing blade, with a blue-wrapped hilt and diamond-shaped pommel. It's a beautiful blade, but he's careful not to use it if he doesn't have to.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
Few people know of his past, most know of the stories surrounding his presence. They say he was a soldier once in the Grand Duke's army, and that he was betrayed. Others claim him a deserter that forgot his duty. But let the naysayers speak. He has no time for such fools. He believes only in Connlaoth and the nation was robbed from it's people by the Grand Duke.

What is left unsaid is that Roland was there since the beginning of the war, serving as Mordecai since he was 18. As the years progressed, he became disillusioned with whom he served and after a battle left him for dead, he went on find his own way. He spent a year or so in between as a mercenary, fighting for whoever had the coin for it, and recruiting former soldiers or others that needed an occupation, forming the Red Legion.

Soon after, he saw a better use for his company, and his skill, and saw an opportunity to serve, perhaps driven by guilt or some need for redemption. None can say for sure.


[Maybe I'll add more later.]


THREADS
Descending from most current:
A Mercyful Fate [YR 10 - OFFICIALLY DUKE OF FALKENRATH]
The Devil, The Son, And the Fool [YR 10 - INVADES FALKENRATH, DEPOSES DUKE CHARLES BRENNICK]
A Night at the Red Hawk Tavern
Sounds Like Rain

An Officer and a Gentleman [FLASHBACK]

[Tags to @Cheesigator ! ]

It was going to be a long day. The sun was at it's peak, and even with it's height, he remained lingering in the shadows between Piet's Apothecary and the Norther's Goods: Bakery and Sundries. The large buildings provided enough shade to keep him out of the main beam of light. He ate a small role of sweetbread, that had been dipped in caramel. It wasn't common for him to feast upon sweets like this one, but when he could afford it and when he came up here, it was nice to treat himself to something once in a while.

What was the harm?  It wasn't like he could afford it back in Arca, and much of that was closed off ground.  Anything he had for himself was taken in by someone else anyway. And there was no fun in sharing. So Crowe ate his sweetbread slowly and thoughtfully, enjoying it as he eyed the frame of the building around him.  And eyed the street and the surrounding neighborhood.

Jobs away from homeground were troublesome, mostly since he had to pay quite a hefty share to the Mountain Cats.  That and the further away he went meant fences were harder to come by. But a quick score, something small and light, could garner a pretty penny for himself. Jobs alone weren't recommended for anyone with half a brain; leaving Mountain Cat territory meant leaving back-up. Thankfully, Crowe had most of his brains.

He chewed the last of his sweetroll and licked his fingers clean. After that, he pulled out the small leatherbound book from behind his shirt, tucked just under the lip of his trousers and began to sketch.  It wasn't exact artistry, but his lines were clean and his notes were legible to himself. Various markings on possible entranceways and exits, where guards were patrolling or posted, or stopped to take leaks or shags.

This town was nice, not too many whores trying to ply their wares, just one red-light manor down the road in a finely red-bricked building. Not much to be had there, but his friend Jann was rather good at giving him scoop on who or what might need a good robbing.

Crowe stepped out from the alley and looked up and around, carefully wrapping up the book with it's leather strip and knotting it before it placing it back in the compartment on his belt. He clicked the lock in place and put the old piece of chalk into his pocket.  Jann would get a cut.  There was an interesting pawn shop not too far around the corner of the baked goods shop, one that might not mind a few jewels lifted here and there.

What was more it had a back that led right through this alleyway.  Might as well go check it out; there wasn't any point in wasting daylight.

Prologue
+ NAME + Rais Bahram
+ ALIAS +  The Man in the Ivory Mask
+ AGE + 28
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Twilight Tower
+ BORN + First of Spring
+ ORIGIN + Essyrn/Moraki Desert
+ SPECIES + Human (1/8 djinn)
+ RESIDENCE + Essyrn
+ OCCUPATION + Warrior
+ COUNTENANCE + Violet-Gold eyes / Dark brown hair
+ STATURE + 6’2” / 205 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
A tower in mind and in body, Rais bears in an elegant yet imposing physical stature.  Yet his form is somehow reserved and graceful, never one to show more than necessary of what he is capable. He was once a beautiful creature, as he might have described himself, but events beyond his control forced him to wear the porcelain ivory mask that covers his features. It is a placid array of regality, a strong nose and full lips. The eyes are carved proportionate to his own, showing his eyes, and the edge of the mask stops just at above his chin, with it's edges swooping down along his jaw. His lower lip might still be seen beneath it when speaking.  Gold accents mark the edges of the masks lips and eyes and the bridge of the nose. Faceless, expressionless.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
His face if he ever showed it. The rest of his body is unmarred.

CH II – Mental Make-up
Once holding himself in very high regard, not much has changed about him since his punishment.  Humility is a difficult cross to bear, considering the status he once held, Rais just tries to take one day at a time.  He is generally a quiet and well-mannered, respectful person, but he is quick to put people in their place that don't know any better.  Once hierarchy is established, he's much more amicable. He has an obsession and appreciation for beautiful things.

+ FAITH +
A strong believer in Hakeshna and the Shah as her embodiment. He is not overly vocal of his faith, but he quietly prays when he feels the need to.

+ HABITS +
Regularly prays, is intensely private, enjoys gambling every now and then.

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
TBA

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ MAN-AT-ARMS +
Trained in many weapons from a young age. Of course back then most of that training was purely recreational and had very little necessary application. Now as Rais has grown, he's adapted it to have a more relevant place in his life. He is most proficient with a bow and blade, but he will not shy away from the use of a chain whip or even a staff. 

In addition he has had some mages in his family, but he will not openly admit that, nor will he admit what magical properties do manifest. His blood can heal, although it is not very strong, and he has an inclination toward earth magics.  He has had some tamperings with alchemy but it is not something he is very proficient with.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
+ IVORY MASK +
The mask that covers his features, providing both a semblance of a normal life, and rest to his mentality.  It is a beautiful crafted piece of artistry, fashioned of gold and smooth porcelain. Despite it's consistence, it is unbreakable, enchanted by magic to make it so.  Nevertheless, Rais keeps it clean and carefully maintains it's edifice.

+ BROKEN BLADE +
A broad sword with only two thirds of the blade remaining above the hilt. It was a weapon acquired after he was released from service and he's been hard-pressed to part with it since. While it is perhaps not a practical weapon, he is more than capable with it in his hands.  It has a diamond-cross hilt over a leather-wrapped handle, worn and cared for with time.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
Once enjoying a life of privilege, Rais was sold into slavery to pay for debts incurred when he refused to follow through with an arranged marriage. In his pride he felt he was too good for the girl. The other noble prince was of a close relation to the previous Shah, and demanded retribution, the dowry had been paid, and if there was to be no wedding, there was going to be a payment of some kind lest the wrath of Hakeshna be brought on the heads of the Bahram family.

The family he insulted purchased him as a slave, and his face was burned with acid as punishment for his transgression. His pride was broken, and he was thrown out into the world with nowhere to go, nothing to his name, save a broken rusty sword he found when he was left in the Moraki Desert.  He was found by traders on route to Essyrn, where he has been living for a number of years. He hid his face from much of the world, until a nomad gave him a mask under which he could hide.

The Bahram family proper refuse to acknowledge his existence, and turned him away when he tried to return home.

[Still a WIP]

THREADS
A Minute to Midnight [M]

Tags to @Incognus

It was said that nothing worth attaining was found in the nadir of a gully.  Crossing the mountains between Connlaoth and Serendipity mean facing the malicious bite of wintry cold, one Corvus couldn't say he was accustomed to. It was a risk he was willing to take, however, to find a treasure worth fighting for, worth bleeding for. Nevermind the last part; yet it didn't dilute the determination he'd set within himself.

Nothing was eternal save the soul, and even then the love of Time had been cruel and demanding, giving little of what it promised. Corvus had seen ages gone by, watched his family wither away and turn to dust. Time was a fickle mistress, but Death, death was always wanting, waiting. Of the lives he had lived, this curse fallen upon him, he remembered them as if they were a flicker of light in the darkness, a candle the was ignited for a second before being doused by a droplet on a rainy night.

He hunted further north, to reach the mountains far north of Connlaoth in search of a legend. His companions told him he was a fool, chasing a legend. And entering into a war torn land no less. A ship of fools, and now it was sinking. 

The wagon lurched as he sat in the back of it and when it suddenly stopped, he threw the hood of his cloak off his head and crawled over the sacks and baggage to see what was the matter.  "Why did we stop?" he demanded.  He growled softly and looked out from the edge of the tarp that kept the good dry from the rain.

The wagon driver's hood was soaked with rain and the murky sky was reflected in the puddles that dipped here and there in the muddy road. He grunted and saw there was discoloration in the ground ahead of them.  "I'll go no further," he murmured and looked to Corvus.

"I gave you a hefty sum, you'll venture on if you have the mind for it," Corvus replied.

"I will not," he said.  "This is as far as I'm willin' t'go."  The driver pulled out the sack of gold Corvus had given him to take him up the road and his dirty fingers dug out a few coins, before wrapping tight the intertwined thread that closed the leather pouch. With a grunt he shoved the coin purse into his passenger's hand. "That land is death up there. And if'n y'wanna tread upon it, won't be no worry o' mine."  He nodded and watched as Corvus moved to the front seat.

He growled in frustration. It'd be easy to kill the man and take the wagon for himself. There was no one else to look, but for now, he would let this one go. He shifted his already muddy boots over the side and jumped down to the bottom, flipping his hood back over his damn hair.  Corvus glared at the driver and the wagon as he gave the horse a yip and directed it to turn around.

Corvus pulled the cloak tighter around him following the road up further, and seeing the discolorations that had given the driver pause. The ground here was muddled with dilutions of crimson red. There was  a smell wafting in the air that Corvus was familiar with: rot.  The rain only encouraged the odor to waft up further into the air.

He pressed onward and stepped over the broken musket and ignored the hand that lay in the grass, missing fingers. It was a long way to go, and despite him being frustrated, he forced himself to swallow it down. The road had to lead somewhere after all.

Prologue
+ NAME + Adrienn Chastain
+ ALIAS +  Ser Adrienn
+ AGE + 28
+ GENDER + Female
+ STAR SIGN + The Giving Tree
+ BORN + Mid-Spring
+ ORIGIN + Reichsgard, Darken Vei, Serendipity
+ SPECIES + Human (or so she thinks)
+ RESIDENCE + Arca, but travels a lot
+ OCCUPATION + Knight
+ COUNTENANCE + Violet Red Hair / Ice Grey Eyes
+ STATURE + 5' 9" / 175 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Wild hair covers the head of this brave knight.  She's forgone the popular long length for a practical cut, and while it's sloppy (often from being done by her own hand) it gets the job done. Her eyes are narrow and small, and lips thin. Her nose is a little large for her face, but she has more important things to worry about than her appearance.

She has the body of a knight, strong for her appearance, with a square jaw that seems quite unfeminine.  There is very little concern in her gaze as to the opinions of others, but there is a powerful beauty about her, even if it is hard to find.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
Adrienn has her fair share of scars and bruises accrued from her training.  Among them is a half-severed pinky on her left hand.  A strange birth mark appears on the right side of her torso that looks like a burn, spread from beneath her armpit, her shoulder blade, and just beneath her right breast.

CH II – Mental Make-up
A woman of few words, Adrienn knows how to listen better than she does to hear the sound of her own voice.  Her intellect is made presence in the sting of sharps words, but action has always been more potent in her mind. She's stern and practical and has little in the way of humor. She can't find it in herself to suffer fools lightly, and will demonstrate her independence to any whom she feels simply weigh her down.

+ FAITH +
She's practical in her faith in Kia. She prays for luck, health, wellness, and survival in battle, but doesn't lean on religion as a crutch. It won't solve all of your problems, if you're not willing to do anything to help yourself.

+ HABITS +
Pragmatic to a fault, and with little interest in alcohol or herbal addictives.

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
She has her colleagues, fellow knights, but few friends.  And many enemies.

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ KNIGHT +
Being a knight is really all that gives purpose to Adrienn's life. She's knows little in the way of anything else. Being taken in as a squire allowed her to be educated, conditioned, and trained. She strove to be stronger, better, faster than others.  She didn't have the parentage that would have paid for it otherwise. She's dutiful to her status, and well-trained. She is most proficient with sword and shield fighting, although she may also use a longsword and dagger, as well as a spear.

While she is Serenian by birth, she finds she does not share the same aversion to iron. She also possesses a strange magic that seems to manifest only subconsciously or when under duress.  Among them are the ability to reverse death if it has happened swiftly, or project her spiritual energy to push against, or negate the energy or others. Magic has little effect on her as a result of this.  She has no real control over her abilities, nor does she fully understand them.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
+ RISE +
A long sword given to her by the widow of the knight she served under.  It's a well-crafted blade of steel, with a wrapped, hilt, worn etched blade, and a fishtail pommel.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
An orphan given to a small chapel in Reichsgard, Darken Vei, Adrienn grew up knowing she was different. She was raised a young kit in the church of Kia for many years until she was nine years old. The children in the orphanage were often separated from her, thinking her strange and dangerous.  She revived a bird from death once, not with any healing magic they'd ever seen, reasserting the poor creature's broken neck anew.

The nuns that ran the orphanage were eager to be rid of the strange child, and when she was 9, she was adopted by a knight and his wife. At first, not much was expected of her, for they were kind, but not doting.

Sir Edcar, as she had come to call him, saw potential in her when she managed to best his young son Oscar in a fight over who would clean the stables. She was made a squire, along with Oscar, although not much was expected of her. She was trained primarily to be Oscar's squire upon his knighting, but after years of cultivation, she was determined prove herself in her own right.

Oscar had never saw her as a sibling, just an outsider that had weaved her way into his family, but with time, grew his respect, and admiration. Their bonding grew both in competition, and in battle when Adrienn pulled Oscar from death when their village was attacked by a band of mercenaries. He was wounded severely in his side from a crossbow bolt. Though she saved him the fight, his wounds soon took him, and he died.

Sir Edcar was broken then, trying to piece himself together for his family. When he saw Adrienn's selflessness, he knew he loved her as his own, despite the gruff treatment he'd dealt her in youth. He knighted her and gave her his sword when he passed in the years that followed.

Adrienn didn't stay in Darken Vei for much longer, leaving behind the place she'd called home for years. Except it was only in name, and there was nothing left to keep her there.

[Tags to @Draconian ]

Oh he'd never thought he'd be this hungry. And begging in the streets didn't seem to work. For some reason people ran from him, as if he had some horrid creature on his head, or stunk with cadaver-like severity. All he wanted was something warm, meaty, and filling.  Was it too much to ask!? For once, Maako was afraid. He had no idea what was going to happen and the unknown of it all was swiftly becoming overwhelming.

So he did as any frightened creature would do.  He hid in the shadows until those creatures known as humans slowly dissipated from the streets.  Little by little they drifted off until the last dregs wandered their way into the warmth of taverns and their homes. 

"Find a cat!  No one will miss one," his hand griped.

"NO!" Maako hissed, glaring at the blinking eye in his left palm.  "NO cats!  They leave behind hairballs.  You think people run from me now? You should see them when they see me spitting up fur!"

Maako kept his hand to his chest to prevent it from speaking further and he tried to quiet the grumblings of his stomach.  Eyes darted toward a passerby, and he sniffed.  Gods, the woman smelled like salami!  Quickly, he scittered from the darkness, crawling quietly and making his way behind her.  She soon turned a corner and disappeared behind a tavern.

Maako rushed to follow, only to be distracted by another scent.  More salami, and it wasn't just residue either.  It was food!  And he quickly clamored up the window to go and investigate.

The place was deserted, as far as he was aware, and he waited until the silence assured him of exactly that.

He moved toward the smell, following his nose to a T. When he found it's source, he slowly opened the door, his eyes widening at the sight before him.  Salamis and beef cuts and bread and cheese and more food than he could believe.  He was practically salivating right there.  He didn't hesitate, finding his nails digging into a portion of a pig's thigh, and sinking his teeth into it.

[Open by Request. Pm to join! (:]

"Hey!  You gonna pay for that or d'ya think you can just walk out with that bottle of hooch you thought I didn't see ya stuff in you're pockets," the old woman at the counter said with a growl.  She was something in the realm of her late sixties, and ornery, and not afraid to use her anger when it came down to it. 

Vance cut her a grim glare, and pulled the whiskey he'd stuffed into his coat out for her to plainly see.  It wasn't that he couldn't afford a few shots at a tavern, but what was the thrill in that?  That was boring.  He said nothing to the old woman, but it was clear she wasn't going to have any nonsense out of him.  So he did the only sensible thing and popped the cork, took a swig and slammed the rest down on the shelf he got it from.

He sneered at the old hag.  And the fire ignited in her eyes.  With a rush she flung herself over the counter and revealed the bullwhip she'd been hiding in her hand beneath the counter.  A loud crack and it lashed Vance across the back.  The crack had been enough to tear open the back of his coat, where it'd been mended a few times before, but that particular gash was the largest.

Vance dashed for the door, throwing himself out of it and dodging another crack of the whip, and skittering around the corner and he bolted down the alleyway.

"Dirty fuck!" she howled, chasing him as far as she could.  "Get back here!  Ya hear me?"  Her voice echoed as if in a wind tunnel.   Luckily Vance ran faster than her whip could crack.

He gave a laugh until he saw a small crate smash open when her third lash came sailing at him.  He narrowly dodged it and continued to run until he made a sharp turn and turned up onto a set of boxes that launched him up over a wood wall.  Falling over the other side, Vance didn't see the others hidden in the shadows.

He laughed when he heard the cursing on the other side of the wall.  When he was sure the woman had walked away he turned around, about to come out the other end of the alley when he saw one of them come out from an doorway that led to the rear of a tavern.  Vance paused again, looking the figure up and down and scowling.

"Griff," he said with a nod.

"What're you doing here, Vance?  I thought I told you to stay off my turf," the hulking mass of muscle said.  He clearly had seen better days, his face half burned from an 'accident' with a bottle of whiskey and playing chicken with a bonfire.  Vance was sure he would probably still be mad about it.  In all honesty, he thought he'd done Griff a favor.  It wasn't like he had much to show for beforehand.

"Damn son, I guess I just made a wrong turn somewhere."  He sniffed, grinned, and tried to walk past him.

"No so fast!  You think you're just gonna get off that easy?"

"Only in a whorehouse," Vance spat and wrenched the man's grip from his collar.  Except Griff really meant business and turned his other arm out to grasp Vance around the neck.  Vance reached into his jacket and slipped his hand into his claw.  He grasped his arm around Griff's, wrenching down hard and making three firm slashes deep into his flesh. 

Griff growled and he dropped the smaller man and Vance took that chance to book it out of the alleyway.  And ran headlong into a passerby.

Shit, just his luck.

[ @Moonie <3]

Too many times he'd told himself this was the only way.  There was no going back.  Turning back would mean disgrace, dishonor and shame, and he knew he couldn't live with that.  He wouldn't be able to live with himself.  For Christer the act of leaving the edges of Connlaoth was much more difficult than he imagined.  Thinking it was always the easy part.  But taking the first step; it took everything in him not to break down.

How could he have failed in his duty?  What sort of knight let the daughter of the lord they served just run off and then lose them in the process?!  Oh he could never face his family again.  A soft impotent fear drifted into him when he thought about what would become of them.  Would his own failure have repercussions beyond simple banishment? 

Was his own guilt at his failure the only real cause of his exile...?

The last question was pushed far from his mind.  It didn't matter now he told himself.  He couldn't go back no matter how much he tried.  Being a knight was all he wanted to be, was all he was destined for.  And now that future was gone.

Christer sat quietly on his horse, overlooking the mountains that served as the border between Connlaoth and Serendipity.  It would be a long trek, and the mountain caravan that was guiding him through wasn't going to do so cheaply.  With what gold he managed to scrounge up, Christer paid for passage, walking alongside the horse when it was tired, and helping out where he could.  The others in the caravan ignored him and he was grateful for it.

The mountains were harsh and cold, the altitude difficult to assimilate too.  Popping ears had left him vaguely deaf on more than one occasion, however because so few cared to communicate with him, Christer had no real need for hearing.

He would tend to his horse, and the animal was content to nuzzle his nose against his cheek, or chuff to blow back the young knight's loose locks.

It would take close to a month for the journey to end, and every day went by like a burning stone in the pit of his stomach.  He was both sick and relieved, and he could feel a change in the atmosphere.  No longer was he in the safe confines of his Church, of his homeland.  He was just another wanderer, a vagabond, a knight without a lord.  He was no better than a vagrant, and that very thought only sickened him further.

Maybe that was why the other passengers aboard the caravan cared little to converse with him.  He could sense their scowls, their uneagerness to even be noticed by him.  He gave off an aura of misery, and only the caravan master bothered with him. 

"You're not going to make many friends with a look like that on your face," he said with a laugh.  "Look we're all going to be resting up for the evening, settling in and making camp.  Why don't you make yourself useful and help an old man gather some firewood for the burning?"

Christer stood up from where he'd been reclining against a tree when the caravan took break.  He frowned.  "Why me?  Can't Bartolomew help you?  Isn't he your assistant or something?"

The caravan master laughed.  "Ol' Junior can hardly count to five.  I wouldn't trust him with handling an axe for chopping wood, much less getting these people into Moonspear safely.  Besides, you don't think you've had enough rotting away sitting dere with that fancy sword.  Now quit being a sourpuss and take this ax, and do what I've asked ya.  There's a good lad."

Chister's scowl deepened.  He was a knight, not a woodsman, this was beneath him.  However with the ax shoved into his hand he saw he had little choice.  With a grumble he wandered off away from the clearing in which the rest of the caravan had settled.  The woods in the surrounding mountain lands were dark and deep where they appeared most, and for once Christer felt he liked them.

He wasn't much for the wilderness, or traveling long distances, but with others the journey was much less taxing.  He found some branches scattered on the hard, rough soil and raised the axe above his head, about to take his first swing when a rustling nearby caught his attention.  Suddenly he didn't feel so at ease any more, and the sickening feeling in his stomach returned with a vengeance.

Pausing now, he crouched, waiting and listening until he thought he might hear it again.  When he didn't, he tried to relax and let his eyes scan the trees around him.  It was a little hard to see with all this...brush in the way.  Cities were so much nicer...  A nice estate, with a nice soft warm bed, a pillow...  How he missed pillows.

The brush was disturbed once more.

"W-who's there!?" he barked.  Damn!  Why did he have to stutter then!?  "S-show yourself!  Or else!"

Prologue
+ NAME + “Ka” Akash Aviir
+ ALIAS +  N/A
+ AGE + 28
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Sun Child
+ BORN + Mid-Spring
+ ORIGIN + Thanati
+ SPECIES + Human
+ RESIDENCE + The Road / The Temple
+ OCCUPATION + Temple Warrior / Wanderer
+ COUNTENANCE + Maroon hair/ Dark blue eyes
+ STATURE + 5’9” / 188 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Cuts a very sturdy but slender figure.  He’s well-built with strong lithe muscles and certainly packs a stronger punch than one would expect from looking at him.  He’s slim, and keeps himself in shape with regular physical activity.  Though not prideful perse, his body is his temple and he treats it as such…more or less.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
Full-body tattoos mark his skin, minimalistic in design, one that resembles a tribal bird that is spread across his back, and talons across his chest and abdomen.  He has piercings along his ears and a scar sculpted into the side of his face tracing down his left eye, curving around his temple and cheekbone, and straight down toward his jaw.

CH II – Mental Make-up
He is a very calm individual, keeping himself centered, and not prone to bouts of anger.  However, he has a strong sense of what he considers right and wrong.  And when his convictions collided with his desire to maintain tradition, it ruined his life.  The inability to speak words has left Ka a little more than wary and antisocial, but he does his best to communicate however he can, through hand signals or writing something down if necessary.

He is ashamed of himself, however, that he betrayed his position as a guardsman instead of turning a blind eye.  And refused to commit suicide.  He has contemplated it several times however, but something prevents his hand from finishing the act. 

+ FAITH +
He has very strong faith in Inima and his Thanati traditions. 

+ HABITS +
Ka enjoys smoking and light drinking, but he doesn’t make a habit of either.  He is very particular about his possessions as well and doesn’t like people touching them.  Keeps a small collection of herbs to smoke, and a pipe.

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
*TBA

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ WARRIOR +
As a warrior of the temple, Akash was trained from the age of 6 to fight with a variety of weapons.  He is much stronger than he appears to be, and has an adequate strength of speed and ferocity.  While he is not adverse toward violence, he does his best to avoid it when he can.  While he is just as deadly with a blade, he is proficient in several weapons, different hand-to-hand styles, he has grown to favor the retractable double-bladed staff he carries on his person at all his time, it is his most prized possession.

+ ELECTROMANCER +
Akash has minor psychic abilities.  While his main talents reside in combat, he is capable of controlling and projecting electricity in the atmosphere to a minor degree.  If he focuses hard enough and long enough, he is able to cast it directly from his hands, but it takes a lot out of him.  However, many years of suppressing this gift have left it stagnant.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
He has very little need for earthly possessions, and has only his staff with him, and the clothes on his back.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
Ka was given to the temple at a very young age, although his family were on the lower-end of the wealthy.  The Aviir were merchants that made their wealth in the silk trade, but had suffered too many losses in a row.  The decision to send Akash to the Temple was not an easy one, but once there he acclimated quickly and was trained as a Temple warrior, one of the guard, and was able to be educated and trained.

But a brush with one of the higher ranking Councilmember would threaten Akash’ fortune.  He learned some terrible things about said Councilmember.  Ka couldn’t feign ignorance, not when he felt the action would perhaps stop something drastic altogether.  But his whisperings made their way back to him.

He was captured by other guardsmen and punished, his tongue being cut out, so that he could no longer spread any further secrets.  He was lucky to be alive, or so he was told.  He was lucky to not be cast out, but he is uncertain of his future.

[Tags to @DragonSong ]

The hunter deserved a darker road.  That's what he told himself. 

The forests of these Serenian Highlands had an ethereal majesty to them, one that made Decebal feel distinctly out of place.  For a Connlaothian, the hunter had never felt like one of his countrymen.  The memories of his past sunk in deep, and he knew no matter what he'd never been one of them, likely to never be.

Coming south had been a temporary relief however.  It was better to keep wandering than to remain and let the shadows of his mind overcome him.  Decebal kept the horse beneath him steady, easing his hand into the mane of the animal, as they trudged into the lonely village of Aveiard.  Rain soaked the ground beneath them, hooves sinking into deep mud and hair clumping here and there.

The horse chuffed and paused when Decebal pulled back on the reins, instead walking with his mount, a gentle drizzle dotting the soft cloth of his hood.  He kept his left arm hidden beneath his cloak, just so, and pulled the animal along with his right, keeping easy footing.

For Serenians, the locals didn't seem all that inviting here.  But honestly he hadn't known what to expect.  He reminded himself he wasn't here to socialize, except where necessary.  He had  a job to do, and finding the little fledgling that would lead him right to it.  He'd managed to come this far on his own, seeking out the vampire Lorian Croft.

Some said he was killed long ago, gone from the face of the Earth.  But Decebal knew better than to believe silly rumors.  Still, those rumors had led him here to this very village.  He hadn't hoped of finding his quarry right away.  No, he still had a ways to go for that, however every step was one that brought him closer than before.

Decebal tied the horse at the stable, paying the young man there generously to care for his horse.  He gave the animal a few light scratches on his nose, the cloth slipping from his left arm.  Decebal eyed the burned and grotesque flesh there, meeting the stable hand's gaze.  There were no words exchanged.  Decebal turned around and walked away, stepping lightly into the tavern.

It was a start.

The tavern proper was well-maintained, if a little shabby but the village wasn't exactly swimming in gold.  Decebal smiled and sat down at the bar.  There the bartender welcomed him and nodded.  "What can I top ya off with, friend?  You clearly don't look like you're from around here."

"Oh, water for me.  I haven't had a proper drink of water since coming down the road."

"Where ya hail from?"

"Connlaoth.  I've come to Serendipity to get away from the war.  And to look for an old friend.  I got my last letter from this village.  And I just hope that they're still around.  Have you ever heard of a woman by the name of Gwen Cooper?" Decebal asked, taking a small sip from the tankard served to him.

[left it open for you to respond as you wish!  Hope it's okay.]