The dirt road snaked southward through the sparsest portion of the forest, occasionally cutting east to avoid particularly dense thickets or an odd rock formation but always cutting back south. The landscape gently sloped downward as the pair traveled. They kept just to the left of the road lest any human eyes spot them before they'd had a chance to reach their target destination. Several deer trails afforded them an easier time in traversing the wooded area even though they never once saw a deer itself, not even in the distance.

For a large-built man, Aryn moved surprisingly swiftly through the brush. If not as agile and graceful as his female companion, he at least stepped over fallen branches roots without stumbling and without causing too much noise, although occasionally the width of his shoulders would brush or scrape up against the bushes. The farm was, by his estimation, just a little over a mile away from where they had camped for the night. To lessen the anxiety of their sure-to-be-bloody task, he chatted in a chipper, albeit quiet voice.

"The farmer there is a very nice man. His wife too. She used to bake this incredible bread that you crumbled in your hand. She gave me a small loaf the last time I passed this way, in payment for some job or another that I did for them. Oh the smell from that kitchen... I could die just thinking about it now. Anyway, they're nice people. Ugly as hell though. And their children, just as ugly as them."

As the treeline cleared up, the view of the wheat fields ahead grew clearer. It wasn't a particularly large farm, nestled between the forest on one side and the base of a tall rocky hill on the other. But its importance to the town could not be underestimated. From the edge of the wheat field, something was clearly amiss: the field itself looked as though it hadn't been tended to in weeks. And the farmhouse and barn sitting across the way looked, at least from a distance, like it'd survived a storm but had not been repaired. The thatch has clear holes in it and several of the wall planks looked to almost be rotting.

Aryn crouched at the edge of the field and scanned the distance. His eyes were good, and he saw no signs of life. Or at least nobody out in the open. He turned to his acrobatic little companion. If her flexibility and the lightness of her footsteps back at camp gave any indication of her abilities in a fight, then today was sure to be an interesting day. "Thoughts?"

"Right. The quicker we spill this blood, the quicker we can head back to the village. Who knows? Maybe there'll be beds in that inn for us if we do a good job. I haven't felt my head on a pillow in too long." The farmhouse was the only thing on the map anywhere even remotely close by. It served as a logical starting point, but whether or not the two sellswords would find their targets there remained to be seen. He let out a small laugh under his breath. He probably should've gotten a newer map before they left town. When she untangled the heavy chain from around her waist and dropped it to the ground, his thick brow raised slightly. "So what is the chain for?" he asked.

However, at the mention of food, Aryn's head perked up like a loving pet whose trainer had blown a whistle. Without pause he stuffed the crumpled map back into his pack and rummaged for a weathered wooden bowl and an equally wooden spoon, his question all but forgotten. The grin on his face could not have been wider as he spooned a nice chunk of stewed hare meat into his bowl to go with the thickened gravy. Twice he had to cough and pound his chest with a clenched fist from eating it too fast. More than once he nearly burned his tongue on it.

When the last of the stew had been scraped from the bottom of his bowl, he let out a loud sigh of satisfaction. "Where have you been all my life?" he remarked with a hearty laugh, cleaning his palate with a quick gulp from his waterskin. "By Angsar, that's the first good meal I've had in weeks!" It certainly trumped the stale bread and dried jerky on which he'd subsisted while traveling south to the village.

Satisfied and full, it took mere moments for him to stuff his assorted items back into his pack and shove the entire thing into the hollow of a thick oak. He draped several branches to conceal his belongings and gathered up his axe, slipping it into the leather loop on the left side of his belt. He hefted his wooden shield over his back and tucked his dulled skullcap into the crook of his arm. Kicking a handful of dirt onto the small fire with his boot, he peered east down the road and gave a low grunt. "A fine day to get paid."

Pinning the oiled sharpening stone firmly between his knees, Aryn began scraping the curved edge of his axe against its coarse surface, each gentle stroke eliciting a grinding sound. Every few strokes he lifted the blade to eye level to inspect its edge and to ensure that the steel remained evenly angled on both flat ends. Occasionally, he scratched at his beard with his free hand. All the while, he listened to the words she spoke.

"Aye, that we do," he replied to her, halting at his task and glancing over at her. If she hesitated or significantly altered the tone of her voice while speaking of her experience as a sellsword, the Ironhand did not notice it. "The town's gathered enough coin for us to eat well, if we can get this job done. So let's make sure we do not disappoint." He was growing more and more comfortable with his companion as they spoke, and good thing. He had a reputation for never disappointing his employers, one Aryn was keen on maintaining. He punctuated the thought with a low chuckle and a cheery declaration of "Of course we won't disappoint. Look at us, we're practically unbeatable."

When the blade of his axe was sharpened to a level he found acceptable, he propped the weapon up against the trunk of a nearby tree and wrapped the stone in another linen cloth before replacing it in his pack. In its place he withdrew a small map of the surrounding countryside, accurately drawn if perhaps a bit outdated: he'd procured it when he was last in the area, during happier times. While waiting for the stew to ready, he inspected it.

"There's a farmhouse maybe a mile down the road, but Angsar knows if it's even standing, let alone occupied. The bartender said that most of the thieves along this road have been coming from the east, so I say that's the best place to start. We can cut through the wheat field." Another glance up at her. "Make sure to tie your belt up tight. We can't have it clinking and clanking as we draw near."

Aryn gave the girl a small grunt of acknowledgement as she sat back in her place. He pulled the sleeve of his shirt back over his elbow, but not before using a little bit of saliva to clean off just the faintest speck of dirt marring the metal prosthetic. The brief glimmer of a newer, more elaborate hand crossed his mind but, with a blink and a quick shake of his head, he relegated that thought to the part of his head where he kept wistful thoughts. First things first, he had to complete this job and earn the village's coin.

"Most would. But this kind of work is all I know. If I stopped then, I don't know what I would have done. Probably be drunk or dead. Or drunk and then dead, whichever is worse." As she stretched herself, he watched her intently with his piercing green eyes, noting how she was able to bend in ways he couldn't even begin to comprehend. Probably some dancer in a past life, before the war forced her to find new ways of earning her meals. The war had done that to a lot of people.

When she asked for salt, he shook his head with a guffaw. "I would have to sell my firstborn child to be able to afford salt." That wry grin creased the corners of his mouth again though as he dove back into his pack. From it he withdrew a sharpening stone and a small, tightly lidded tin container, the latter of which he tossed over to her. "Pepper. A close second. Don't use too much, or I'll have to empty every pocket to afford more."

The aroma from her little pot was beginning to wreak havoc on his mostly-empty stomach. To distract himself, he began sharpening the edge of his axe with the stone. Attention focused on the weapon, he nonetheless spoke up with a questioning voice. "So tell me, how'd you get into this sort of work?"

With the girl gone in the bushes, Aryn took the opportunity to say a quick morning prayer to Angsar, lids half closed as he mumbled his words of affection, the thumb of his good hand gently rubbing at the pendant around his neck. By the time she returned to the now-crackling fire, he was stretching the knots out of his arms and shoulders. The sight of two dead rabbits in her hand raised his brow slightly, but also elicited a huge grin across his face. So maybe she did have some experience on the road. He tossed her the second apple and watched her deftly skin the carcasses. "Finding anything in this cursed land is a miracle in itself," was his reply to her as he sat down across from his new companion.

Catching her stealing surreptitious glances at his metal arm only brought the grin wider to his face. Without hesitation he pulled back the already shortened sleeve of his shirt and held the arm forward. Dancing flames from the campfire gleamed off of its heavily polished surface. There were slight dents and chips in its surface, but nothing that majorly detracted from the metalwork as a whole.

"Oh plenty of fights, my friend," he said with more than a hint of pride. "Lost it about ten years back. There were ten. Giants, the lot of them. One of them had this twitching eye that always looked the wrong way. Anyway, he took my arm off, but I beat him senseless with it. The others too. They'll always remember the Ironhand I wager. I mean, the ones that are still alive."

Of course the melee had actually been an ambush on the road, and he'd almost died from the shock and the blood loss. Not to mention that there were more like four than ten. But who was counting? He'd told the story hundreds of times by now, and everytime the antagonists grew larger in size and in number.

The grin slipped off his face slightly as he glanced around at the trees surrounding them. The village had hired them to take care of a few bandits, but by the looks of it the countryside was crawling with them. One could see that the war was beginning to takes its toll on the locals. Everything seemed a little sickly, from the wildlife to the weeds struggling to grow at the side of the roads. "We are but two, so yes. Heavily outnumbered. I hope you know how to use that sword of yours. Or that chain, whatever it is you do."

His metal arm was still held out, and the boastful smile spread across his bearded face again. "Go ahead and touch it if you want."

This would not be the first time that Aryn had passed through this particular area, but last time the village had in much better spirits. The local tavern, centering a ring of ramshackle houses, had provided incredible entertainment in the form of music and boastful stories. The flickering fire roaring in the hearth had warmed the stone walls and had danced drunk shadows across them as the patrons sang together in merry but off-key tunes. The oaken barrels behind the counter had been filled with this delicious ale, lightly spiced and smelling of whatever local fruit grew in this part of the country.

But that had been before the war.

The roads leading in and out of town were little more than a line of rain-filled puddles now, having stomped into the earth by the immense amount of traffic here. There had been promises of riches for any brave soul that had enough courage in his heart and enough steel in his hand. Of course, by the time the mercenaries all flocked to the town, the available work had whittled down to nothing. It was barely a week before a house was burned to the ground, and barely a second week before a family on an outlying farm had been put to the sword, their bare coffers raided and their pantry entirely emptied. It was by sheer luck that the local elder, recognizing the Ironhand from so long ago, offered what little the village had left for the sellsword to help rid the surrounding countryside of the increasing infestation. He'd immediately accepted.

Of course, they conveniently forgot to tell him about the companion with whom he'd be travelling. Some girl, who barely spoke two sentences to him the first evening aside from several terse observations, and who seemed to eye every tree and every cloud with a hint of suspicion. And that chain wrapped firmly around her waist... he'd wondered about that. A simple leather belt would have cost her pennies. The girl seemed light enough on her feet though.

That night, lying on a bed of damp moss with his cloak wrapped around his frame, he dreamed of that fruity ale from the tavern. It might have been apples, but he wasn't sure. He could almost feel the froth on his upper lip, feel the cool liquid dribbling down his chin. Until that stern, commanding voice woke him up.

"Alright, I'm awake," he growled under his breath even as he wiped away the rainwater that dampened his face. Water from the branch above his head had been dripping on him for the better part of an hour now, and had caused that unmistakably sour smell of wet leather as it'd soaked into his garb. He sat up quickly enough, eyes quickly adjusting to the light of the orange dawn as it just filtered through the canopy. As always, the first thing he did was gingerly unwrap his metal prosthetic from its linen cradle and fit the scarred stump of his right arm into a wool-lined socket, buckling the thing against his muscled bicep and over his shoulder.

The girl had disappeared into the treeline behind to do Angsar knew what. With a loud yawn and a quick spit to the side he ruffled through his pack and pulled out an overripe apple. It wasn't the ale, but it was good enough.

"This countryside's filled with hungry mouths. I'll be surprised if there's a single hare left," he called out over his shoulder, not knowing if she'd even hear the sound of his voice through the thicket. He produced a second apple from his pack, this one with just a hint of brown on its skin, just in case she returned empty handed.

What types of plots are you interested in playing?
I like to keep an open mind plotwise. Anything from political intrigue to old-fashioned adventuring, from a long-winded conversation to a no-holds-barred brawl. My favourite games are those with lots of human emotion and personality building. Feel free to contact me with ideas!

What types of plots are you not interested in playing?
My line is drawn at stories that have no value other than pure smut. I'm also not really interested in plots with god-type characters.

How often can you reply to any given thread?
I won't lie, I'm a very busy person. That being said, I'll try to reply within the week at the longest. If a particular reply may take longer than that, I will certainly let you know.

EDIT: due to the need to be an adult, the above timeframes may be even longer.  I'll still make a good faith effort to reply to my threads in a timely manner.

What is the longest you're willing to wait for a reply to a thread?
I understand that other people also have their own business to deal with. Take as much time as you want.

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?
I actually came here after over ten years of interactive chat roleplaying. I needed the switch because I don't have the time to sit and throw posts back and forth for hours anymore. If you really have the need to do so, throw me a PM and we might be able to work something out, but for the time being it's highly unlikely.

Are you open to post volleying?
Again, the whole time issue comes into play. And again, PM me to potentially set something up. No guarantees.

Anything else?
Just wanted to emphasize my heavy workload IRL. If I'm ever slow in replying, please don't take it personally.


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

Sometimes a story works a lot better with minor controlling of other characters, like picking them up and giving them a good bonk on the head. If you really feel it necessary, and it's within reason, I'm all for it. I have lots of respect for other gamers. If need be, I'll reciprocate within reason. I do draw the line at godlike machinations, or instant-death shenanigans and anything of that sort.

What are your limits in regards to romantic situations?

If it fits within a storylines and the two characters are compatible, I'm all for it. They can either be prearranged or can occur organically, I have no problems with either one. Again, if it's purely for smut, I decline.

What are your limits in regards to sex?

Aside from things that have absolutely no value story-wise, I am open to being as explicit or implicit as my writing partner. My PM box is always open if you need to clarify the level to which a thread might get graphic. That being said, if my writing partner is below the age of 18, then for obvious reasons I'm going have to strongly insist that we imply it at the most.

What are your limits in regards to pregnancy within plots?

I have no issue here. Again, the PM box is always open if my writing partner wants to plot one out, or wants to make sure it's okay.

What are your limits in regards to violent scenes?

Again, it all depends on how graphic my writing partner wants to get. I will defer to their wants and needs, but I am able to get reasonably detailed.

What are your limits in regards to abuse/rape in plots?

The same applies here as it does with sex. If you're below 18, it has to be implied. Otherwise, it's up to you, whether you want these sort of plotlines in the thread. I will never initiate something without first discussing it through PMs.

Are you okay with characters being transformed against their will?

I'd rather this not happen without my knowledge. But a little informed consent can go a long way, so do let me know!

What about healing?

Minor things like cuts and bruises, I can handle. But a lot of characters I've played in the past were memorable specifically because they had injuries or disabilities that played directly into their personalities and stories. I'd rather not have a crippled character suddenly healed. It kind of ruins the character.

Anything else?

My favorite ice cream is green tea. This has no relevance game-wise, but thought you should know.

The dirt road south was always poorly kept this time of year, especially with the onset of winter rains. Aryn sat firm on the back of his old horse as it trotted down the muddy pathway, each hoof clopping down into a brand new puddle that had washed away a portion of the road. The horse seemed to not have a problem with it, and from all other appearances, neither did its rider. He bit down into the last portions of the apple held in his left hand, chewing on it thoughtfully as he rode through the thicket and toward the smithy he knew was somewhere down this way. The last town was more than a few miles behind him.

Eventually the trees began thinning out, and the man knew that he neared his destination. He sat up a bit straighter in the saddle and took a peek down at the prosthesis attached to the stump of his right arm. The iron of it had began to slightly rust some weeks back, and one of the fingers had been snapped off. The dents were also beginning to pile on, making the thing seem altogether unbalanced and clunky. Fortunately, he had plenty of coin to pay the smith for a brand new arm, if not just a repair.

As he spied the small smoke trail in the distance that signalled the smithy, he heard a loud crack in the bushes to his left. He tugged the reins and stopped his horse in its tracks, but a quick search of the wilderness beyond the treeline yielded nothing but more trees.

"Hmm," he muttered under his breath, but paid the sound no more attention as he gently dug his heels into his horse's side. They continued to trot along until finally the smithy came into full view. Its winged proprietor was already standing in its doorway, looking very much the way he always did: tired of visitors. The thought elicited a wide grin from the Ironhand.

"My good friend! It's your favourite customer, back for more!" he half-shouted to the doorway. He'd been here only once, maybe twice, before, and quite some time ago. He doubted that the smith would recognize him. But just for good measure, he gave the smith an exaggerated wave with his prosthetic arm, the dull metallic sheen of it glimmering in what afternoon light penetrated the foliage above.

__________________QUICK STATS
Name: Aryn "the Ironhand" Ohlund
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Species: Human
Ethnicity: Connlaothian
Height: 6' 4"
Weight: 250 lbs
Occupation: Sword for Hire
Residence: On the road

__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description:
Ironhand is built like an ox, with broad shoulders, thick arms, and a neck that seems to disappear into his torso. He's a homely looking man: large nose that's slightly crooked from being broken so many times, flashing green eyes, a devilish grin. His blonde hair is cropped close to his head, and an immaculately kept beard graces his square chin, except for the few patches where scars prevent the hair from growing.

He wears the typically mismatched armor of a mercenary, mostly comprised of leathers and buckles over a clean linen shirt, and a polished skull cap when he decides to wear it. A long grey cloak is fastened to his shoulders and drapes down his back, nearly to the ground. An assortment of weapons line his body, as expected. Several daggers strapped to his chest, maybe one or two more in his boot. A long-handled axe sits comfortably in a loop around his waist. He carries a thick wooden shield with him.

The most noticeable thing about this man has to be his right arm, which is completely missing from just below the elbow. In its place is a heavy metal prosthetic arm, strapped to the stump and to his shoulder with a complicated array of belts. Thick slotted metal fingers are designed to fit nicely into his shield. Clearly the prosthetic is the source of his name and reputation.

Personality:
Aryn the Ironhand can be loud and boisterous when he needs to be, but also aloof when he needs to be (though doing so is difficult for him). He's never afraid to back down from a challenge, evident from his missing limb and the amount of scars he's accumulated over a short lifetime. He's friendly to those who impress him with their skills and abilities, those who cut him a good deal (the man loves to haggle), and even those who can put up a good fight.

He prides himself in his own abilities as a capable fighter, and especially prides himself in the reputation he's gathered around taverns and inns, where many mercenaries find work. The nickname "Ironhand" has become almost a symbol for him, to the point where he takes great care in maintaining his image and his renown. The Ironhand has become synonymous with competence and a fair price.

Even despite his upbringing, Aryn remains a deeply religious man, wearing a small symbol of Angsar around his neck and praying to the God on a nightly basis.

Magic/Abilities:
The man very proficiently wields an axe-and-shield combination, honed over years living as a mercenary for hire. He's also not too bad of a knife thrower, though perhaps not the best. The additional tactical advantages granted by having an arm made of iron are also not lost on him. He's been known to bash a man in the teeth with it, or throw it across a tavern at an insulting drunk.

Relationships:
Aside from several barmaids across the land that have become captivated with tales of the Ironhand, he has no meaningful relationships.

History:
Born in the slums around Reajh, little Aryn really had no expectations of greatness or even of longevity. His upbringing was typical of those in his position: claw out a living however he and his family could. As a young man he learned the value of money and the importance of keeping a tight grip on every single coin he could. His adolescence was punctuated by street fights and small-time burglaries, the result of one such failed attempt which lost him two fingers from his right hand.

When he finally made it out of the city alive, he fell in with a crowd of wandering vagabonds, learning how to earn his keep by selling his natural strength and his ever growing ability with an axe. When he was twenty three, he was involved in a bloody melee between his gang and a group of bandits on the high road that left him with a severed right arm and an imminent meeting with his maker. A quick thinking surgeon brought him back from the abyss by cauterizing the wound with a red-hot poker. When he recovered, Aryn understood that he could not let such an injury slow him in his tracks, as he really had no other marketable skills of which to speak.

His first prosthetic arm was fashioned out of wood and was ill-fitting, to the point where it left rashes and splinters in the stump of his right arm. It was that first wooden arm though, along with the scars on his face, that had merchants believing him to be a grizzled old veteran of the roads. With the coin he gained from those first excursions, he was able to hoard enough to afford an upgrade to his prosthesis. The limbs increased in quality and in practicality as he earned enough to replace each. Along with the improvement to his arm, he also saw a marked improvement to his reputation as a sellsword. Today, if one asks around in any tavern around the nation, there is guaranteed to be at least one drunk who's heard of the Ironhand.

__________________THREAD TRACKER
Current Threads

The Great Escape!



Complete Threads

Lady of the Cake
A Bright Day and Bloody Work
The Auld Anvil

Thought I'd chime in with my character, Luc (see the signature below). I'm all ears if you have some feedback, or would like to somehow work him into a plot of yours, or if you want to embark on some shenanigans. He's a mage of questionable character and unsettled motives, who could easily switch sides at the drop of a dime, if it furthers his own needs.

__________________QUICK STATS
Name: Luc Linden
Age: 47
Gender: Male
Species: Human
Ethnicity: Connlaothian
Height: 6' 4"
Weight: 180 lbs
Occupation: dissident mage
Residence: A tiny village called Knightsbridge, in southern Connloath along the border with Serendipity

__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
He has a face that once might have been considered passable if not handsome, but for the effects of time. Nowadays the wrinkles of a furrowed brow sit atop piercing, calculating green eyes. His semi-curling dark brown hair, slightly streaked with grey at the temples, is mostly neatly kept, save the few disheveled strands that refuse to cooperate like the others. He has a strong jawline, a defined nose, and a day's growth of beard on his chin. If one looks close enough, one might identify a slight discoloration and disfiguration of the skin beneath and behind his left ear, though it's mostly covered by his hair.

Physically he a well-built man of a slim but tall frame. He carries himself well, standing straight enough to be distinguishable from within a crowd, but also with enough of a relaxed stature that he could just as easily lose himself in the same crowd. The clothing draped over his torso are the type one might find in any village or township: a simple linen shirt underneath a warm wool coat, perhaps a cap if the weather is particularly cold.

Personality
If there is a word that describes Linden, it most certainly has to be manipulative. He plays the part of a congenial man and mentor well enough, his natural charm and demeanor helpful in building (or coercing) the relationships he needs with the people around him. But he can just as easily be quick to anger and to show a more volatile, sociopathic and misanthropic side. He can be equal parts heart and heartless.

His entire life, he has struggled with his own need for superiority and selfishness, and the contrasting effect that it has on those with whom he surrounds himself. The man is not above lying for his own sake and, to a lesser extent, those he needs for his own uses. He is certainly not above sending his own people in to accomplish the goals he has set for himself, relying solely on the fact that he's built enough of a facade so that the ones he does sacrifice do so out of a misguided sense of loyalty and friendship. While he does occasionally show flashes of a genuinely softer side, it is often his purpose-driven nature that overrides any want of family and camaraderie.

Ultimately, the man is a mystery, a conundrum. Nobody can ever be sure whether or not he has aligned himself to a faction or to a cause. Nobody can even be sure if he truly fights for magi equality, or if he has his own secretive ambitions hidden beneath his purported causes. Those who are loyal to him, are loyal because of the honey he has poured in their ears.

Magic/Abilities
Linden is very adept in illusionary magic, very appropriate to his chameleon-like personality. He is able to manipulate the senses of those around him to suit his needs, and can trick others into believing things that either are not true, or are not real. His power of persuasion is helped by his ability to fool the senses, but is mostly a product of his conniving nature.

He has also become something of an expert in the art of inscribing runes, granting magical properties to otherwise mundane objects. While exiled to Serendipity, he spent a number of years learning the art while feigning apprenticeship as a runesmith. Lately he has begun experimenting with inscribing runes onto living flesh, both experimentally and in an attempt to find a way to bypass the magic-dampening effects of the Mordecai.

Physically he is a strong man who knows how to use a sword, though not at any real level of martial skill. He is known to keep a dagger at his belt, half for protection and half to carve his dinner meat.

Relationships
He had a daughter, who is since deceased. He does not know whether the mother of his child still lives or not, nor has he much drive to uncover such mysteries.

History
Luc Linden was born into a family of merchants in the eastern fringes of Connlaoth. His father, while not noble by any sense of the word, had amassed enough money for his family to live quite comfortably in a quaint little village some beaten paths off the main roads crossing the kingdom. It was at a young age that he discovered his ability to channel the magical energies forbidden by the laws of the land. Intelligent even at a young age, he knew to keep such things to himself, lest the local church snatch him away from his family and indoctrinate him in the ways of Angsar. His mother passed away from a winter chill when he was fourteen, and his father left for business one day and never returned, presumably lost to the bandit-filled roads leading inland. With nothing left in his town for him, he too left to find his own way in the world.

Travelling west along the roads and earning his keep however he could, Luc quickly became quite adept as both a confidence trickster and as an imposter, lying whenever he needed some extra coin or an extra loaf of bread. When he was twenty-two, he impersonated a wealthy merchant (like his father had once been) and became involved in a tryst with the daughter of a local wheat baron, impregnating her. The fiery romance could never last, he knew, and when the girl gave birth to a daughter, he used all of his tricks and magics to sneak into the estate and steal away his child. Keeping his magic hidden could not last forever: he became a wanted man, as a mage and as a kidnapper, with a hefty price on his head. Fleeing south, he was able to smuggle himself and his daughter out of Connlaoth and into Serendipity. There, he once again posed himself as whatever personality he needed to be in order to survive. Through his own resourcefulness, he was able to settle down as an apprentice to a runesmith.

The circumstances behind his daughter's birth could not have been kept secret forever, however. Too often he lied to her about her heritage and her origins. Too often he lied to her about himself. When she grew older, and found that she herself had the powers of magic, she undertook it upon herself to discover her roots. The fallout between father and daughter was less than cordial, and the girl, now seventeen, packed her bags and headed north back into Connlaoth to find herself. Linden, back turned, let her go without a word.

Several years passed, and the rift between father and daughter seemed to have at least narrowed slightly, if not completely mended. He occasionally received letters from her, detailing her search for her truth, and her astonishment at the way mages were treated by the general populace. The last of her letters detailed her commitment as an activist, to combat the deplorable treatment that mages received from those in power. After that, no more letters arrived.

A year after the last letter, Luc finally decided to trek back to the land of his birth, in an effort to find his now-missing daughter. It took the better part of a year to sneak his way back into Connlaoth through treacherous mountain passes and tunnels that had not been maintained for years. The patrols of Mordecai had increased tenfold since he'd last set foot upon the land, and the anti-mage sentiments had festered into something cancerous. Through this now hostile landscape he trekked, investigating the whereabouts of his daughter. Most of the people he asked did not know her, but some did. The trail of clues finally led him to a church of Angsar very near where he'd once stolen a baby from a baron's daughter. It was here that he learned from the priest that the girl he sought had been dead for some years, betrayed by another mage and given over to the hands of a high-ranking Mordecai. Whatever they'd done to her had been too much for the human body to handle. They'd hung her corpse in the town square for other dissidents to see. When enough time had passed, they'd buried her in a shallow grave outside of town.

That night, he stood in the darkness before his daughter's unmarked grave as a light rain pattered down upon his head. The rest of the night was a blur in his mind, but eventually he found that he had dug down to the wooden crate in which they'd placed his daughter. There was nothing left of her save the few possessions with which she had been buried: some worthless trinkets, a copper bauble. He took these up and left the town, never to return.

Since then, he has found his way to a small village called Knightsbridge, on the southern perimeter of Connlaoth. The village comprises of twenty or so families, plus individual residents. It's been whispered that the residents of the town are all mage sympathizers, helping to smuggle fleeing and persecuted people into Serendipity, away from the bloodshed that has since gripped the kingdom. It's also been whispered that the small town council, on which Luc Linden now sits, leads its residents in an underground resistance against those who would see mages exiled or killed. For his part, it is unclear whether Luc truly believes in the cause, or whether he is simply biding his time and gathering his resources to be able to exact his revenge on those who murdered his flesh and blood, whether they be mages or not.

__________________THREAD TRACKER
Current Threads

Complete Threads

Thanks for the warm welcome. And I'll definitely keep studying up on this whole Civil War thing. I think I've only scratched the surface of it, but give it time and I'm sure I'll be able to get at least some grasp as to the whole plot.

On a side note, what's the c-box?

There's no ending to that joke, really.

My name is Cambie, a 26-year-old second year law student, originally from Vancouver but recently relocated to New York City. I've been roleplaying for about 13 years now, mostly through chat-based interactive story RP. This will be my first foray into forum roleplaying, but I specifically needed the switch because it comports with my schedule a whole lot better than chat-based RP (which can take hours at a time). I mostly played in very controlled settings with little to no magical influence, so this transition into a more open world will be both challenging and exciting. I read the background material for this site and really do look forward to being to exercise my creativity.

I haven't given a whole lot of thought to a specific character as of yet, but I've been browsing the Civil War material and think that I might make a character for that storyline. Perhaps a mage who runs an underground to get other mages to safety. His mage status and his activities would put him directly at odds with the status quo, but his questionable character would have other mages questioning his motives, methods, and personal agenda. Maybe a specialization in illusionary magic to go along with the whole vibe of untrustworthiness.

Of course, I'm brand new to all of this, so any suggestions for characters would be welcome. Also, since this IS the exam season (and law school is a doozy), I won't really be actively involved in anything until at least the 20th, my last final. But I do promise to pop in now and then to further develop something playable.

Anyway, I look forward to meeting all of you. Cheers.