Name:
Morgan Song

Age (at the time of death):
22

Gender:
Female

Sexuality:
Asexual panromantic

Species:
Human/Elf in life, Banshee post-mortem

Ethnicity:
Faustethen

Height:
5'10

Occupation:
Ranger in the Faustethen Border Patrol

Residence:
Fausteth, typically wherever Eisen is.


Physical Description:
Morgan is a tall woman, with long hair that seems to flow as if constantly suspended in water. Everything about her is ethereal, much like it was in life, only now her physical form is replaced by a near-entirely incorporeal one. The only solid part of her is the uniform she wears, and her armor and weaponry. Her eyes are a pale white-blue, and glow like the moon.

Personality:
Even in undeath, Morgan is full of life. She loves to joke, as morbid as it is at times, and has always been fond of the arts, specifically singing. She sees beauty in everything, and while she would love a cure to undeath, she has since made the best of her cursed existence, specifically in the area of the deep friendships she has forged over the centuries.

Magic/Abilities:
She is incorporeal, and as such, physical barriers make little difference to her. She can pull physical objects with her to a point, but they must be small and very close to her to be affected. Like the rest of her kind, she has an extreme weakness to iron and salt, to where she can't even cross a barrier of either.

Her voice has become a weapon in and of itself, and a well-placed shriek from her can have an effect ranging from stunning her target to full on deafening them.

Relationships:
Eisen Noreel - captain and best friend

History:
A singer in life, Morgan delighted in things like music and poetry, and often spent her days entertaining in the best inns of Fausteth. Amicable to all, she never failed to enchant those she came across. It came as quite a shock for her when, after she died, she rose up as a spirit versus one of the shambling corpses that had been ravaging the countryside.

However, her incorporeality proved a boon, making her an excellent scout once she learned to control her visibility and other factors. Now she moves along the borders of Fausteth with her friend and superior, Eisen, keeping the barony's curse well within its borders.

Name:
Eisen Noreel

Age (at time of death):
17

Gender:
Male

Sexuality
Asexual biromantic

Species:
Human in life, Wight post-mortem

Ethnicity:
Faustethen

Height:
5'8"

Occupation:
Ranger-captain of the Faustethen Border Patrol

Residence:
Fausteth, typically out in the wilds of it.


Physical Description:
The most noticeable thing about Eisen is the fact that he is very obviously dead. His skin is sallow and bruised in color, and has given way completely in the area of his shoulders and elbows. There, white bone is visible, though not much else. His eyes seem to emanate a sickly sort of glow, and beneath that his eyes are the standard milky blue-white of his kind. He never removes his mask, but beneath that his face has been twisted by the Faustethen plague, rendering his teeth into sharp, needle-like horrors set in a mouth made for carnage.

Equipment
His armor is made of layered fabrics and leathers, for the most part. Along his arms and over his ribcage, however, there are plates of iron imbued with salt, especially around the sharp spines on his forearm armor. Like most Faustethen clothing, he wears mourning colours, and the fabrics of his clothing have been torn and resewn multiple times.

His weapon of choice is a bow, and he keeps iron-tipped arrows at the ready. When his ammo is spent, he will utilize long iron knives, which he wears at his belt. However, close-quarters-combat is usually a last-ditch effort.

Personality:
At the time of his death, his neighbours would have said that he was far more mature than his age would have led someone to believe. The eldest of four children, he carried with him a sense of duty, and rarely allowed himself the finer things when it might better go to the rest of his family. He has always had a fondness for exploration, and a keen sense of adventure.

That being said, his personal reaction to Fausteth's plague has had a terrible effect; he sometimes loses control, and goes into a sort of frenzy that might prove a danger to anyone who would cross his path. Luckily, his friend Morgan is never far away, and she acts as a kind of stabilizer to keep him focused and prevent too many of these outbursts.

Magic/Abilities:
No magic, but his wight-dom has left him with exceptional reflexes and speed, allowing him to strike fast and hard before his enemy might have a chance to react.

Relationships:
Mother, Father, three younger siblings - deceased, in the permanent sense of the word.
Morgan Song - Best friend and "stabilizer".

History:
Despite being as young as he was, he was one of the first to rise up to fight beside the Baroness against the undead hordes that plagued Fausteth. He proved most effective as a ranged adversary, and he knew the terrain of the barony quite well, having spent much of his childhood exploring the nearby fields and forests. Once the Bastion was refortified, the Baroness left Eisen in charge of maintaining the borders. He spends most of his time along the iron wall that surrounds the barony, noting breaches and pushing back stray undead.

OVERVIEW
Nestled between the craggy mountains of the Kilanthro range and choked by overgrown, darkened woods, Fausteth looks to be a barren ruin. The soil is grey and lifeless, as are the trees and brambles that overrun the rocky landscape. It is unnaturally quiet-- in the silence, the frozen winds from the north almost sound like wailing spirits.

Geography and Climate:
Fausteth is a tiny, tiny landlocked land just south of the Fell. The residual taint from the Fell is obvious in its influence, staining the entire land all the way down to its southern borders. Fausteth's climate is one of near-perpetual winter with mildly chilly summer months being its only reprieve.

Things in Fausteth are incredibly tainted. Residual magic effects run rampant, and any number of bizarre occurrences are possible here.

LANDMARKS

• The Bastion
  Far to the northern border, there stands a great beast of a fortress called the Bastion. Surrounding it are great, thick walls of stone, topped with tall spires and menacing gargoyles. Inside the fortress walls is a patchwork city of old and new buildings crammed on top of one another, all surrounding the large manor that once housed the noble family of Fausteth, and now serves as the central location of Fausteth's fighting forces.


• Middon
  In the south, just above the marshes that line the southwestern edge of the barony, is a large town called Middon. This serves as a main travel hub, as well as the home base for Fausteth's hunting parties. In order to get to the Bastion (safely), one will have to go through Middon.


• Riverton
  A small town in the western portion of Fausteth, Riverton is kept safe largely because of its positioning between two fast-moving rivers. It serves as the western bulwark for the barony.


• Eastshire
  Bordering the dangerous fields known as the Deadlands, Eastshire is responsible for keeping  the worst of Fausteth's horrors in check. Only the most capable of warriors are stationed there, for if Eastshire fails, the entirety of Fausteth would soon be overrun.


• The Deadlands
  Set in the northeast portion of the Barony, and closest to the river that brought the plague that doomed them all, the Deadlands is a hellish wasteland of dead crops and dead earth. It is here that the negative energies from the Fell are strongest, and it is here that the undead horrors find their power. It's all too easy to get lost in the high grasses, and even easier to fall prey to a waiting ambush.

Demonym: Territok

Governance:
The Territoks are led by their Chieftain, who maintains leadership through a demonstration of continued responsibility. Challenges to leadership are settled through physical feats. Second to the Chieftain is the tribe Shaman, and who outranks who is a matter of some debate. Typically, profane matters fall to the Chieftain, while the Shaman has the final say in sacred matters. If an agreement cannot be made over the subject, seniority wins, as the higher in age an orc gets, the more respect they command from the others of the tribe.

Current Chieftain: [open]
Current Shaman: [open]

Geographic Location:
Southwestern Terrin Mountain range

Borders:
The Territoks are nomadic, with no set borders, but a travel pattern that moves from a large valley in the Thunderblack Mountains and down into the Serha plains. Late springs and summers are spent up in the valley, and the tribe begins its movement southeast when autumn begins to arrive. They'll remain in the plains through the winter and into early spring.

Ethnic Diversity by Percentage:
95% Orc, 5% Other, who they also see as orcs. Being part of the tribe precludes any physical differences.

Appearance:
The Territok orcs, thanks to a steady diet of protein as well as access to milk and hardy nuts and fruits, grow huge. Hard work often results in huge amounts of muscle. The average lifespan of a Territok orc is about 70 years, though they may reach nearly a century.

The Territok orcs tend towards grey-brown to grey-green skin, giving them an almost rocky hue. They also practice scarification, making neat networks of lines and dots across their faces and upper bodies, sometimes inserting stones to raise the scars even further. This process is incredibly painful, but also a mark of personal pride and self-worth - to flinch is to show weakness, and often that weakness is permanently displayed in your scars. Scarification begins when an orc reaches adulthood, and the first scars are a very large point of pride in a young orc's life.

Their hair is dark and thick, which they often let grow long and manage via twists and braids wrapped up into one another. For special occasions, they may adorn their hair with brightly colored powders and ornaments. Their eyes typically range in light blues and greens.

Tusks are common, though their growth depends on many factors like genetics, age, and nutrition. If a tusk is knocked out, it won't grow back, so some orcs take to using rocks or metals to substitute lost tusks.

Heights for male orcs usually average around 7.5 feet, while females average around 7 feet. Both sexes sport bony protrusions from their elbows, which continue to grow throughout their life and must be regularly whittled down. They usually use the mountain rocks or nearby trees for this, and it's easy to see where the orcs regularly stay or travel by the marks left behind during this kind of grooming.

Their style of dress changes some depending on the season, but is often a combination of leathers and furs. Men and women both typically forgo shirts, the better to move and also display their scars. Instead, they'll wear wraps of cloth or leather around their biceps as decoration. They wear hide pants, often with fur or leather loincloths fixed with thick belts.

{NAME}
Kojo

{ALIASES}
Just Kojo so far. But it's remarkable how often people mispronounce his name like "gods all lookit the size of you".

{AGE}
18 - Which translates to somewhere in his 20's for orc-kind.

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male.
Goooood question on sexuality. He's super shy about it. Lots of sputtering and 'oh no I think that calf is in trouble be back later, possibly never'.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Orc - from the Thunderblack Mountain Tribe

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
7'2", BIG.

{OCCUPATION}
Cattle herder

{RESIDENCE}
Varies! He spends half of the year down in the Serha Plains, and the other half up in the safety of the Terrin Mountains.



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Kojo is tall, monstrously so, and thick as a tree trunk. Made almost entirely of muscle, he easily dwarfs most non-orcs, and could probably lift them with one hand. He wears his dark hair long and in multiple braids and twists, as is customary for his people, and over his green-grey skin there are a series of carefully laid scars. His eyes are a robin's egg blue, in stark contrast to the other earthier tones that make him up.

{PERSONALITY}
Kojo is in it for the fun of it. Laid back almost to the point of seeming irresponsible, he would much rather try to enjoy himself than over-think things. This bothers the life out of his father, who had hoped Kojo might turn out to be future chieftain material, but more and more it seems like that's just not in the cards. Which is fine by Kojo, really, who much prefers the freedom of driving cattle rather than leading his people.

Fun Facts!:

• One of the few of his tribe who speaks the common trader's tongue, and has started piecing together a few of the local Adelan tribal languages.
• Is totally the sort to nurse tiny animals back to health. The faces he gets from his tribe for this are legendary.
• Loves tattoos: he sees them here and there when they make contact with traders, and is always enamored of how pretty some of them can be.
• Hot spring baths are the BEST.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
He's super strong. Years of wrangling gigantic cattle tends to have that effect. Biceps for days.
Another side effect of wrangling is that he's really handy with rope and lassos.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
His father, the chieftain, who has no name because I'm lazy like that.
Paja, his best friend and often the one who has to deal with his bullshit.

{HISTORY}
Born the only child to the chieftain of his tribe, his father held out high hopes for him. However, as Kojo grew up, it became more and more apparent that he had very little interest in a leadership position, far more taken with the lifestyle of the orcs who drove their cattle. Seeing as these beasts were easily approaching six feet at the shoulders, this was certainly not idle work, and so it was permissible enough, even if his father was disappointed. Kojo fell in love with the plains the first time he saw them, and once that happened, there was no turning back for him.

@paganchick Hey, whoa, here we go!


Overhead, the sun blazed, a white-hot ring in a white-hot sky. It reflected off of the cream colored limestone walls and warmed the sandy streets, creating a hazy kind of warmth that enveloped everything the light touched. Over the stalls and across the streets, long ropes were hung from wall to wall, each adorned with brightly coloured clothes set out to dry in the afternoon sun. They swayed peacefully in the warm breeze, high and far away from the marketplace chatter below.

Not far from the marketplace stands stood the Colosseum, a bright testament to the inherent violence in man. The crowd seemed to be screaming louder than usual, much to the chagrin of an old man pushing a cart full of roasted nuts. It seemed like there was quite the fights going on this day, and he mourned the fact he wasn't present to watch them.

Or, at least, he would have mourned it if the ground hadn't picked that exact moment to quake beneath his feet, the gates leading to the fighter's cages bursting open in a shower of burning rock and metal. A particularly sizeable brick just barely missed the old man, though his cart was not so lucky-- bags of sugared nuts cascaded everywhere, along with splintered wood, and the old man had little choice but to hit the sandy ground for some kind of cover.

It was a good thing, too, because as soon as he did, Sadir leapt over the ragged remains of the cart, his copper skin glistening with sweat and smears of blood. With the gate wide open, the roar of the crowd could better be heard, and it became far more obvious that these were cries of panic rather than the usual sadistic glee at seeing fighters tear each other apart. Black smoke began to plume just above the Colosseum's highest level.

As soon as the gladiator hit the marketplace, there were a handful of guards after him, their weapons drawn and each shouting for bystanders to get out of their way. Sadir cussed, loud and long and with enough vehemence to burn shame into anyone's ears, and he grabbed at the nearest stand he could. He upturned it with ease, sending rolls of fabric and assorted goods into the market street, effectively blocking the pursuit of the guards.

Still cussing, Sadir kept running, now with the accompaniment of blaring horns and alarms shouted high above the city streets. He darted to the side, ducked down an alley and spilled out onto a parallel street, taking another bystander out in the process. He didn't even pause, too keen on running down another alleyway to even pay attention to the redheaded woman he just knocked into the dirt.

Name:
Sadir

Age:
37

Gender:
Male

Species:
Human

Ethnicity:
Essyrni/Adelan mix

Height:
6'6"

Occupation:
Gladiator

Residence:
The Colosseum


Physical Description:
Sadir looks like he was made for physical altercations. Standing tall and seemingly made of muscle, strength is not something that one has to question about him. His skin is copper-brown, and he keeps his jet-black hair cut close to his scalp to prevent any sort of hand-hold. His eyes are a vibrant light brown, bordering on a fiery orange, which is more than a little unnerving at times. He sports numerous little scars, but the largest is a long twist of burnt skin across his chest and upper stomach, with a smaller amount of scarring over his left eye. These injuries were sustained far before he began his work in the Colosseum, though he has yet to let anyone in on that little bit of history.

Personality:
Sadir breathes conflict. Everything he does, he does to get a rise out of someone, or to start something. He's prone to vicious insults, loud swearing, and general bravado with the intent of getting underneath someone else's skin. He's constantly out to start shit, and he doesn't much care who it's with. He's also incredibly possessive-- when he begins to consider something as "his", he will fight tooth and nail for it. This might be mistaken for loyalty, and maybe on some deep level it is? But on the surface it's more of a "screw you, got mine" attitude. Strangely enough, this doesn't necessarily mean he's possessive of sexual partners-- he's a flagrant flirt, and doesn't mind if whoever he's bedded is, too. If nothing else, that just might deepen their 'bond', in a kind of "hey look at what else we got in common" way.

TL;DR: Is it gonna piss someone off? Consider Sadir 10 times more likely to do the thing, if so.

Magic/Abilities:
Just that he is incredibly strong. He seems to be able to take an unnatural beating, and deal it out just as hard.

Relationships:
None, at least none that last very long.

History:
To quote Sadir on this subject: "Who cares?"

{NAME}
Kharon

{ALIASES}
Blackwing
Little Bird
The Bitch

{AGE}
30

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, homosexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, Adelan

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6'

{OCCUPATION}
Mage; formerly bound servant and guardian

{RESIDENCE}
Wherever he stops for the night. Usually a tree.



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

Build; Tall, long-legged and slender. While he is a bit delicate-looking, he is very capable of throwing a solid punch.

Color; Dark brown skin, with long brown-black hair and dark brown eyes.

Alterations; Only what he decides to make happen.

Modifications; On his outer biceps, just below each shoulder, are stylized raven skull tattoos in dark ink. Varying lines run down his arms and back in an approximation of wings and tail feathers. Over his lip is an inverted triangle, and his chin has a single dark stripe running from his bottom lip to just over the edge of his chin. Over his heart is a brand, stylized to look like a pine tree.

Dress; Kharon definitely looks the part of a magic-user. He sports a high collared no sleeve shirt, long fingerless gloves, and dark trousers tucked into soft shoes. Overtop he wears a kind of duster-vest, cinched around his middle with a wrapping belt. He dresses exclusively in black.

{PERSONALITY}

Cold, blunt, and cruel, Kharon spares no feelings and makes his contempt perfectly clear, if only because that's the only real freedom he has left. He won't lie, whether by his own choice or because he physically cannot, but that won't stop him from making the truth as difficult as possible. He seems to get no joy out of anything, or if he does, he is very sure to hide it.

Fun Facts!:

• .
• .
• .

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Kharon is a very talented mage, but particularly specializes in transmutation.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
The Mage - A well-to-do Serenian man, who at some point in his life heard a prophecy that he would die at the hands of a werewolf. He dedicated much of his study to lycanthropy, shapeshifting, and the like, in order to find out how to eliminate the ability of lycanthropes to change. Along the way, he collected several apprentices under false pretenses of teaching them magic, funding their education, and whatnot. The reality is most of them wound up as slaves, experiments, or worse.

Van Hvethrungson - One of the Mage's experiments, who Kharon was charged with maintaining. Their relationship is, to say the least, complicated.

Family - Kharon was kept from them for many years. Only once he was able to leave the Master's tower, did he return home to find a fever had wiped out half the farming town, taking his family with it.

{HISTORY}
What should have been an amazing apprenticeship turned into a lifetime of nightmares. Even away from the Tower, Kharon still hasn't freed himself of it.

Name
Remigio "Remi" Eco

Age
27

Gender
Male

Species
Human

Ethnicity
Adelan

Height
6'1"

Occupation
Constable, murder investigator

Residence
Lots and lots of taverns and rented rooms.


Physical Description
Remi stands tall, made to seem even more so just by how slender he is. His skin is a dark, coppery brown, and he has thick, wavy black hair that he keeps fairly short so as to not get in his way. His eyes are a vibrant green, which might be attractive if he weren't frowning so damn much, or had them constantly in his notes.

Personality
A workaholic to the extreme, Remi fails in what might be considered basic life skills. He has trouble maintaining healthy relationships, often forgetting to give back any affection he receives. He has even more trouble maintaining his own health, often working well into the next morning and forgetting that most human beings require a certain amount of sleep a night in order to continue functioning.

As such, he can seem scattered, with his thoughts in a million different places, and not everything he says or does immediately seems to make sense, or at all. He's also terribly superstitious, and obsessive-compulsive (doing things in fours, counting to ten before taking an action, etc.), to where sometimes it's impossible to deal with him at all on a bad day.

However, he has a very deep sense of right and wrong, of justice and injustice, and is very willing to throw his everything into doing what is right. To him, it is a far worse thing to stand by and be complacent than it is to burn himself out completely.

Magic/Abilities
He uses a form of divination by way of bone runes, which he uses to communicate with the lingering spirits of the dead and help track down their killer. Most notably (though invisibly) followed by his elder sibling, who regularly nags him from beyond the grave into taking care of himself.

Relationships
Parents both alive, though their relationship is strained.
Elder sibling, dead, (currently name and genderless) perpetually stuck as a young teenager and looking after their now-grown baby brother, who still acts like a damn baby at times.

History
Remi was born the younger of two children by about six years. He had a happy childhood, mostly due to the constant doting he received from his elder sibling. He was always looked after, and always safe, or so they both believed. One day, however, in the middle of playing hide and seek in the woods, Remi thought it unusual he hadn't been found as quickly as he usually was. He hung back for another hour or two, but then got hungry and surly and went looking for his older sibling. It took another hour for him to start getting panicked, and as he was running home to fetch his parents, he came across the very brutally stabbed body of his sibling, just off the forest path.

No amount of looking for the killer yielded results, and so the family was forced to bury their eldest without any kind of closure. Remi went from being a happy child to being terribly subdued, scared of leaving his house, and intensely guilty over what happened to his sibling. This is probably what prompted him to enter law enforcement, and coupled with a childhood fascination with divination, led him to work as the homicide investigator that he is.

The bone runes he uses are an heirloom, passed down on his mother's side, and gifted to him by his grandmother when he expressed that he never got a chance to say goodbye. Much to his surprise, his sibling answered back, and continues to talk to him via small means like the runes or knocking something over.

I'll be leaving for Jersey on Thursday to spend some time with my folks. So my posts may become even scarcer than usual. See y'all again when I get back next Tuesday.

@Anadwen Okay, so, here we go!


As with most nights where terrible things happen, it was dark and stormy. Or rather, there was the imminent threat of it being stormy-- great mountainous clouds loomed just above the treetops, flickering with distant lightning and even more distant thunder. It was as if the skies themselves bore witness to tragedy in the woods of Altas Verde, and rebelled against it.

Or at least, that's what some said. Others swore it was a sign of dark malignance, proof beyond proof that evil was hard at work against their tiny little town. As if the snatching of townsfolk from their beds at night weren't proof enough, still others said. Snatched without a trace-- no struggle, no blood, just vanished like smoke from a snuffed candle.

It left the entire town with a dour atmosphere-- silent as the grave they feared and twice as dark. The storm had been brewing for some few days now, and as it approached, the more ominous it became.

Maybe they really were cursed, one baker said, before she was immediately shushed. It was even worse to speak of it aloud, it would just bring even further ruin down on them.

Further ruin, she replied, incredulous. They were now missing half of their village, all the young and strong bodies gone without so much as a clue. All that was left were children and the old and feeble, certainly no one who could go out into the wilderness to attempt a rescue of any sort.

Hell, they had sent someone out for help weeks ago, and still hadn't heard back. There was the vicious, terrified rumor that their messenger had gotten caught by whatever was menacing them, and that help would never come at all. Meanwhile, the forest around the town grew darker and darker, the wood becoming cold and brittle, the grass grey and dead beneath their feet.

Whatever held their people in its grip, it was slowly seeping into the land itself, choking the life out of all of them.

What these people needed was a hero. What they got was a sell-sword, swathed in layers of armor as dark as the storm, riding a great stallion that seemed to be angrier than the thunder. Just as he arrived, the skies broke open, releasing great torrents of water and cracking thunder.

He had barely gotten his steed to the stables in time, though even a few moments in the deluge was enough to soak him to the bone, short-cropped brown hair matted to his cheeks and forehead. He shook himself like a dog as he stepped into the tavern, before he made his way to the bar, boots heavy on the worn and warped wooden floorboards.

"Room. Ale." He rasped, slapping a few coins onto the countertop.

OOC: Welcome, @nizzy !

---

On the edges of the Kilanthro mountains, there was a village. To be even more precise, there was a village. It was a dead thing now-- empty and hollow, with only the rattling of unlocked windows in the valley winds to make a sound. Plates still lay on tables, still full of now-rotting food, and valuables still lay locked up in their cupboards.

A hanged person's spinal column still rattled in the breeze, the rest of the body not more than scraps of cloth and scattered bone, picked clean long ago by scavengers. The bones were the only villager left, the rest of what had once had to have been a decent population gone. Vanished, like smoke.

Or a ghost.

Beyond the ruined village, deeper into the mountains, there was a fortress-home. Or, at least, the skeletal remains of one. Blackened stone told of a fire long ago, though it did little to destroy the heart of the place-- and even less to destroy the labyrinth of stairs that led down, deep into the earth.

What had no doubt once been a meticulously tended courtyard was overrun with wildflowers and brambles, the grasses allowed to grow tall in the absence of the usual vicious winds that rattled the village below. A well stood in the midst of all this, unburnt and unchanged save for the creeping vines that threatened to choke one side.

Kyrrha gripped the lever, and began turning the crank to lift the bucket upwards, full of clean, delicious water. She licked her lips, and wondered why she always waited so long to do this-- soon, the bite of the rusted iron reminded her well enough. She hated the feel of it, of iron, and while it produced no physical malady, it seemed to shake her to her core to be in contact with it.

It was much the same with salt. She hated the stuff, hated the sour bite to her tongue whenever she tasted it. When had she last tasted it?

She sniffled, loudly, eyes welling up at the memory of the last home-cooked meal she had, at the memory of pushing around her potatoes with disdain because her mother had oversalted them. At the memory of being able to see her face for the first time that night, so clear and vivid it terrified her to even speak of it.

Kyrrha turned the crank all the faster, her entire face scrunched up as she tried not to think of her mother, of her mother's bones down in the village, of all the bedtime stories and the comforting hugs she would never experience again.

She was starting to even forget what her mother sounded like.

Finally, the bucket crested the top of the well, and she pulled it to the side, first taking a long drink and then washing her hands of the residual feel of iron on them. A quick splash to her face rid her of the tears that had threatened to fall, and the cold felt good against her skin. She closed her eyes for a moment, just a moment to get under control, and when she opened them again, a half-burnt woman was standing in front of her.

The woman stood tall, where there was still a body to support her, the other side blackened and skeletal from whatever horror had visited her in the end of her life. Kyrrha had tried to ask once, but the woman refused to tell such horror stories to children. Kyrrha smiled up at her, and moved her hand in askance.

The ghost, in kind, rapidly moved her hands, and Kyrrha nearly jumped out of her skin. Someone was coming, and she didn't even bother dropping the bucket back down the well. She ran past the woman, through her, over to the last standing bit of roof and the entrance to the cellar of her home. She ducked down, made herself as tiny as possible, and listened for the approach of footsteps.

Name
Kyrrha

Age
12

Gender
Female

Species
Human

Ethnicity
Connlaothian

Height/Weight
4'/100

Occupation
Seer, part time ghost

Residence
Originally, the ashes of a fortress-home set into the base of a mountain in Connlaoth. More recently, she's wandering the world with her newfound "family", the Shaw brothers.




Physical Description
Kyrrha is small, far smaller than someone her age should be, though that is more to do with health than anything else. She is pale in skin color, save for a small spattering of freckles against her cheekbones. Her hair is kept long, very nearly to her ankles by this point, and she usually pins it off her face with flowers that grow in what used to be her home's garden.

She is often seen wearing clothing far too big for her, and she has modified what was once clearly a man's set of clothing to fit her and give it a more feminine shape.

Her eyes are large and pale grey, and upon closer inspection, one can see that the areas over her pupils almost seem fogged over, part of a condition rendering her (effectively) blind to natural light ranges.

Personality
She is quiet, and nervous of people, and will usually hide in the ruins of her home rather than face anyone who would bother to visit. But if she is questioned, she rarely leaves information out, or lies. Still, that's not to say she won't question whether or not the other person actually wants to know what she has to say. More often than not, she spends her time staring off into a point in space, as if she sees something else there that others don't.

Magic/Abilities
Since birth, Kyrrha was able to see the spirits of the dead and the soon-to-be-dead. Other living souls she can only see a vague whisp of, like smoke in the dark. The closer someone gets to the point of their death, the clearer they become to her, until they are fully formed and detailed. This type of sight is in black and white, so she can't differentiate colors, but it does give her a way to spook out a potential threat if need be.

That being said, she can only see the dead, not hear or physically interact with them. With the friendlier spirits, she's developed a sort of sign language, and can sometimes get information she might otherwise not be privy to in that manner.

Her sight she now considers normal, and is as ambivalent about it as one might be about their own sight. When she was smaller, however, it was like a waking nightmare, especially when the nearby village's dead came a knocking.

Relationships
Mother-- deceased, hung as a witch-sympathizer in the village square
Father-- missing, assumed deceased, potentially executed as a dangerous mage.


History

Years ago, there was a little village set just at the base of one of Connlaoth's mountains, and this was not one of the more tolerant sorts. The villagers lived in fear of magic, to where if one was found out as being a mage, they were not allowed to directly interact with "normal" people and had to keep separate. As such, there was often two of everything, though the quality was heavily disparate between the two.

One could feasibly hide this, if they were careful, and that is exactly what Kyrrha's father did. He wasn't a native to the town, and preferred to keep a smaller single fortress set away from the main village. However, he frequented the town proper, and was generally liked by most, or at least didn't step on many feet.

He eventually married Kyrrha's mother, a sister of the church, a fierce paladin and witch-hunter when necessary, and the pair lived happily enough. Kyrrha was born and raised there, but around her eighth birthday, her father was found out. When the villagers came to accuse him, her mother attempted to defend him, unaware of just what her husband had been up to right under her nose. This didn't stop her from being hanged for breaking the local laws.

Kyrrha, during this time, hid away in the fortress, deep into the cellar and deeper still, down to where her father never let her go before and where she could make out hundreds of the dead at the bottom of the stairs. Unable to hunt her down, and fearing being tainted by the place, the fortress was set on fire, assumingly burning Kyrrha down with it.

She's unaware of what happened to her father, and assumes the worst, and for the longest time even hoped for it. Developing the sign language with the friendlier spirits gave her a much clearer view of just what he had been up to, and she lives in terror of the idea that his ghost might one day come for her, or worse, his living self might.

Name: Tristan Leeds

Age: 27 at time of ritual

Gender: Male

Species: Formerly human, now a kind of demi-fae

Ethnicity: Serenian

Height/Weight: 5'11" / N/A

Occupation: Bogman

Residence: Originally, from a little village set just outside of a sizeable bog in northern Jadenshine. Now officially resides in the bog itself.

Physical Description:
Fairly well-muscled, though physically lighter than this would seem to suggest. His skin is dark, thick and almost leathery. His hair is just as coarse, usually pulled back into a rough knot and rougher braids and kept that way with wax. His clothing is often in a similar state, threadbare in places or so caked in mud or whatever else that it's rough to the touch. The only softness is in the center of his chest, where the skin is open to reveal a smoothed bit of petrified wood where a heart should be. The strings keeping the wood caged are changed regularly, which is kind of horrifying to watch. Even more horrifying is watching him eat-- his teeth are rows of sharp, black obsidian fangs, which let him crunch through tough bark or shells to get to his food. In combination with unnaturally green irises set in dark sclera, he looks rather unsettling.


Personality:
Despite looking like something lurking in marshlands to gobble your kids up, Tristan is actually rather kind. He is especially gentle with the small animals that live in the marshes with him, to where he can often coax them into his lap for petting. This affinity for animals doesn't quite extend to people, as most are put off by the Bogmen and the feeling is normally mutual. He, like the rest of the Bogmen, are only really aggressive when their home is threatened.

Tristan is absolutely, unequivocally, insurmountably in love with honey. He can't get enough of the stuff, and can very easily be bribed with a good bit of honeycomb. His metabolism means that he doesn't need to eat often, but he will pig out like holy hell if it's made with honey.

Magic/Abilities:
Lightfooted, able to move quickly over marshes without crashing into the water, and can blend in with the scenery very well, making for excellent scouting/ambushes. Like most Bogmen, he's more than capable in combat, favouring two short swords.

Particular weaknesses:
As his kind are meant to stay in the area of his home bog, he is technically not allowed to wander off. The only way to circumvent this is for him to carry a bag of bog mud and twigs, which he wears on his person at all times. He's incapable of moving very far from this bag should they be separated.

Like fae and their relations, Bogmen are weak against iron. Skin contact will result in heavy blistering, and in the worst case scenario, scarring. The Bogmen also have a particular weakness to fire, and while that's usually helped by a fair presence of water at all times, if they get sufficiently "dry" they can light up fairly easily.

Relationships: To be added

History:
Centuries ago, an agreement was struck by the residents of Tristan's village and the spirits that dwelled in the bog that made up its borders: the spirits there would leave the villagers alone, and even grant them boons, in exchange for some of their warriors to act as guardians. In a ritual that involves cutting out the sacrifical victim's heart, replacing it with magically-imbued wood, and sinking them into the peat, the Bogmen are made.

These creatures are designed to put the safety of the bog above all else-- while normally sentient and autonomous, they will enter a sort of trance when the bog or the fae are threatened until that threat is negated. Over the years, though, bogspirits dwindled in number and influence, and eventually just became superstition altogether. Now, parents will spook their children with stories of the Bogmen, who would kidnap them into the marshes if they misbehaved.

Without the spirits to guard, most Bogmen sleep the years away beneath the peat around a hidden shrine, only stirring when something disturbs them. Tristan was one of the Bogmen awoken when the shrine was ransacked, ornate carved wood and jade treasures stolen from their former masters' home. Now he wanders about Serendipity, looking for what was stolen so he can go back to sleep.

Have some arts. More to come when I have more than a single character. Hah.

[ Warning for grope-y zombie hands and mild sexy themes. How those two go together I will never know. ]

[ More Zombie-bits. This time of a manservant named Jeeves Haskill ]

{NAME}
Something that has long since been lost to the ages. Now, he goes almost exclusively by his title. When he's not... borrowing... names.

{ALIASES}
"Shea Ru"

{AGE}
Who even knows. Definitely old enough to be a member of the AARP I'll tell you that much.
But eh, if we're talking what he looks like, he's been calling himself 32 for way too long.

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Refers to himself in the masculine, though there have been entire decades where he was feminine. Definitely favors being a dude, though.
His sexuality is an entirely complicated other matter.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
His "favorite" body is a Connlaothian man but lmao that's about as close to a guess as you're gonna get.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6'4", sickly skinny.

{OCCUPATION}

• Former priest
• Perpetual student
• Magical teacher/tutor
• Part time healer and potion maker
• Biologist
• Grave-robber
• Necromancer
• Lich

{RESIDENCE}
He's on the loose and that is what makes me lose sleep at night.

{MISC STUFF!}
Voice claim: RED DEATH



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Assuming he's wearing his favourite, Shea Ru is a tall man, pale almost to the point of being ashen, with piercing grey eyes and long, straight black hair. He keeps parts of it dyed a bright violent red, and the color makes continuing appearances in his daily dress.

Assuming he's being "himself", Shea Ru is a mass of blood and floating blood vessels, congealed together to form a skeleton.

{PERSONALITY}
Independent, inquisitive, curious, polite but cold and surprisingly... honest. He may not tell you the full truth in one go, but he never directly lies. His tone of speech is proper, his vocabulary is extensive, but he's not pretentious about it. Everything to him is a learning opportunity, and he will never ever try and stifle that.

He doesn't get genuinely angry often, but when he does, it is a dark, cold, calculating and utterly malevolent sort of anger. The kind of anger that will have him kill a person in their sleep and turn their corpse into a mindless marionette whose entire purpose is to scrub the inside of his toilet.

Fun Facts!:

• Loves Thanati food. Can't get enough of it.
• Has a cat that looks like it should have died fifteen years ago.
• His Connloathian body is never without a wedding ring.
• Plays the violin for funsies, as all overly dramatic villains must do.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Once a potent cleric to an old and bloody god, nowadays Shea Ru is just magic. And undead.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

Mei Yi - His "little inquisitor". He's very fond of her, though for good or ill remains to be seen.

Haskill - His long-suffering zombie manservant.

Blood Family

Irdel Abidan - his late wife, once a valiant knight sworn to defend the people of Connlaoth against evil witches and the ravenous undead. She was executed by the townsfolk she once protected when they found out she married a mage.

Kyrrha Abidan - his young daughter, who was only eight years old when the same townsfolk burned their house down with her inside...
...Or so Shea thought.

{HISTORY}
Huge. Full of terrible things. Murders people and takes over their bodies to play at different lives for a while.

What types of plots are you interested in playing?

Go dark or go home, but I am not at all opposed to goofy asides. Dignity is not a word I am familiar with.

What types of plots are you not interested in playing?

I'm not quite sure, yet.

How often can you reply to any given thread?

Likely only a few times a day, with possible off days. Life is life.

What is the longest you're willing to wait for a reply to a thread?

Indefinitely.

Are you open to RPing over instant messengers? If so, what's the best way to contact you and what times are you generally available?

Certainly, just PM to ask.

Are you open to post volleying?
(Where you and another player post rapidly back and forth in a thread with each other. If so, what's the best way to set that up?)

Again, I'm not sure just when I'd be able to achieve that, so it's probbo best not to get your hopes up for one.

Anything else?

Mostly just to stretch my old RP muscles, man, I'm down for most anything.


What are you limits regarding powerplay/godmoding?
(For instance, do you mind if someone grabs your character? Picks them up? Punches them?)

Go dark or go home. I'm not opposed to scarring injuries, but I'd prefer checking in beforehand if it's something intensely debilitating (paralyzing, killing, etc.). Just know that my characters will react in a fitting way.

What are your limits in regards to romantic situations?
(What are you comfortable with and not comfortable with? Do you prefer to pre-plot relationships or let them happen organically? Are you open to IC-rejection or love-triangles? Age differences? Etc.)

Oh, I love organic relationships. If you're more comfortable 'betrothing' a pair, that's not a problem, either. I'm pretty much aiming to get down into the grittiest bits of humanity I can.

What are your limits in regards to sex?
(Do you prefer to imply it, fade to black, or play it out? Is there anything you won't write?)

I draw the line at fetishistic stuff, but am pretty comfortable with erotic roleplay.

What are your limits in regards to pregnancy within plots?
(Are you okay with pregnancy in plots? Miscarriages? Loss?)

Oh, for sure. But you might want to check in beforehand to make sure that's... physically possible.

What are your limits in regards to violent scenes?
(Are you comfortable with violent scenes? Do you prefer to imply it, fade to black, or play it out? Is there anything you won't write?)

I looove dark and gory, again, just so long as it's not like. Fetishistic.

What are your limits in regards to abuse/rape in plots?
(Are you comfortable with such themes? Do you prefer to avoid them? Do you prefer to imply it, fade to black, or play it out?)

This has to be discussed beforehand, because I genuinely require that my RP partner understand the ramifications of such an act and treat it with the proper respect and delicacy such a traumatizing event deserves. I don't do rape as a fetish - EVER.

Are you okay with characters being transformed against their will?
(Think vampires and werewolves. Should a player ask before attempting to turn your character?)

Yeah, please ask. Because certain things might not... be physically possible.

What about healing?
(For instance, if someone plays a blind character they may not want people to try and "cure" the character.)

Oh, no, have fun with that. Just don't count on certain results.

Anything else?
(Anything else you want to add that other players should know!)

I'm pretty laid back on most things, but definitely feel free to drop me a PM if you need anything. I'm also most active on the site Discord, so feel free to drop me a DM if that's easier.