Character Teasers

[ZaoGao]

I really like the idea of character teasers as a way to both build on hype/excitement but also to get a grip on how people are interpreting and processing lore. Seems better to make a new thread for these in case more of us want to throw something together. I'd encourage the couple already posted to be put here so they don't get lost!

I wrote this up as just an excersize to get a grip on the characters roots, but figured I might as well share:






Good judgment is rarely a quality that seven year olds embrace in any self-descriptive exercise. Many children would tell you that they are fast, smart or tall. Parents would avoid the term as well, preferring to deploy descriptors with duplicitous connotations. Curious, adventurous and energetic are the qualities of children that adults both praise and fear. At this point in her life, though she was markedly curious, restlessly adventurous, endlessly energetic, undeniably fast and quite smart, Agatha was certainly not tall, and she most certainly did not practice anything resembling good judgment. She was, after all, just a seven year old.

The sound outside of the tiny porthole that served as her window was just too enticing to ignore. She was in a groggy state of mind, just minutes from falling asleep for the night when whatever it was outside startled her back to her senses. So close to crossing the border from reality into a kinder world of dreams, she may have misinterpreted that sound, misheard a common commotion as something more exciting. It could have been the exclamation of a strange voice just as well as it could have been the sound of one rock falling against another. After a series of heavy blinks, a toss and a turn, the decision came easily; she had to investigate.

With an exasperated huff the seven year old placed both palms beneath her chest, pressing herself into an upright position. The flaxen rug that served as the only separation between her bare feet and the cold earthen floor shifted as she turned, sinking into the soft cave soil in ten spots beneath her toes. Tugging the ragged, once-white tunic more tightly around her shoulders, she eased her way outside of the tent.

A child’s bedtime looked like any other time; the same number of torches flickered on their posts at this hour as they did at any other, sending an unending procession of dull grey smoke trails to meet, converge and part again around the dizzying array of stalagmites overhead. The area that Agatha called home was just as hushed at this time of the day as it was at any other; a few people milled about, keeping busy but rarely making much noise. Unsatisfied with the peaceful formalities, the seven year old took a few more steps into the muddy trail that they called a street.

The fact that this act of investigation was highly frowned upon did not occur to the girl. Her single-minded pursuit was to discover just what it was that had stirred her from rest. It really would not matter what she found in the end, the excitement came from the pursuit and the anticipation. Excited workmen, maybe, or a cat, or maybe even a new friend come to toss stones into mud puddles!

Looking left and then right down the winding muck stream under her feat, the girl took note of the oppressive silence that seemed to have rolled into her corner of the cavern like a low fog at the mouth of a surface-breaching tunnel. It was past the time that children were allowed to roam, but surely someone else should be about. She scurried to the opposite side of the street, resting between two dilapidated hovels; two homes even less impressive than her own. The canvas flaps that would have served as doors for these tents were long removed for some more necessary purpose or another, leaving the barren innards clear for all passers to see. Tonight these shelters covered no one.

This short journey of Agatha’s felt like it had taken hours rather than minutes to complete, and it hit her rather hard and rather suddenly that she was doing something she really would really catch hell for later. But it was too late now; she had to press on. She managed one more careful step before the hair on the back of her neck stood to attention like so many rows of anxious soldiers. Another sound. This time it was more near and more clear. It sounded like a stifled moan; like when an old man tried to speak but struggled with every aspect of just trying to put a word together.

The source of the curiosity seemed to be just around the next corner, so the seven year old moved cautiously forward. Her shoulders lifted as her back muscles tightened, a fear that each step in the mud might produce a revealing squish and ruin all of her fun gripped her innards. Still, she moved forward. Coming to the point where the damp, glistening cavern walls bent sharply to hide the next massive section of the living space from sight, Agatha paused. This much closer, she could now hear mumbling: quick, jumpy mumbling from two men very close to her. She froze.

“Get on with it.”

Just these few words revealed volumes about those around the corner. The tone, the firmness and the twisting dialect to the utterance fell heavily on Agatha’s ears. Even at age seven her heart sank upon hearing the voice of a Draelan. It was a subtle reaction that every child picked up from their parents from a very early age; they would not quite understand the context, they just knew that when one of the horrid elves was around, everyone acted differently. After four exasperated huffs of air, the young girl carefully and bravely leaned forward, sneaking herself into view of the commotion around the corner.

What she saw was far worse than she had anticipated. Upon identifying the Draelan voices, she knew her adventure was over and that there were not any excited workmen, or a cat, or a new friend to toss stones into mud puddles with waiting around the corner for her. She expected grumpy guardelves with dirty, smelly armor and sour faces and harsh voices who would hiss at her and holler till she ran away. But what she saw was worse. She saw two such grumpy guardelves, but also a third individual: a man.

Around this particular corner was the entrance to one of the less structurally sound linking tunnels that led down into the laborers’ depths. The mouth of this tunnel was well known for the mess of scaffolding and buttressing woodwork that burdened its walls. Less widely known to local inhabitants was the fact that these wooden frames were frequently utilized for a second, more sinister purpose as hanging gallows. The third in this mysterious party, the man, had just discovered this bit of trivia. A more experienced eye would have noted that this man, with his dipped head and bloodied arms, was still swaying slightly even in the stillness of the deep caverns and would have concluded that his life had only just expired moments ago. However, these details were irrelevant to a seven-year-old. All that Agatha’s mind processed was that there was a man, one of her own kind, hanged by his neck several feet off of the ground, being gawked at by two grumpy guardelves.

Such a sight is as much confusing to a seven-year-old child as it is terrifying. Death was not something she was familiar with, and so to put this imagine into some sort of comprehensible context was all but impossible. The few years of life she had thus far endured were not particularly complicated. Confined almost exclusively to her “neighborhood,” Agatha’s days were filled by the chores her mother assigned her, the rushed meals by her father’s side, and the few minutes of time with the other two children from nearby hovels.

Structured discipline, regularity and monotony defined her life, and she was a content child, as she did not know of anything else. She did not know of the world beyond the nearest three streets, much less of the world above ground. She did not know about societal structures, about her Draelen oppressors, or of the men and women who toiled far beneath her feet under far worse conditions than what her family owned. She had no idea that she was a privileged human girl, born to a man with an artisan skill and thus spared from the sweat and chains of those less talented. She never knew that her slum was the most luxurious place any of her people could dream of enjoying. She never knew violence or conflict; she never knew that hers was a life kept caged by fear and tyranny. She never knew until today.

The simple curtains that veiled the complicated world beyond her window were lifted before Agatha’s eyes in the rudest, most sudden shock she would likely ever endure in her life. Just as her mind was coming to understand the unnatural posture of the hanging man - understanding death - the swing of his last protestations turned him to face her direction. She saw his face, and in the streaks of blood, the streams of tears and the lifeless, pained eyes that demanded her attention, she saw the world. This was her father, hanging dead from a rope.

She did not know why, she did not know how. All she knew was that the world was not right and that she had to run.

[Fruitomancer]

Maekin.

[MM]

Maekin.

Preferable to walls of italic text. Thank you Talonas! Very inspiring and intriguing. That's almost something I could use to describe my female character. Something grim that has changed her - the underground - a memory of something pure - a melody of the soul? Weren't we both making Thavonir females?

[Reiss01]

Nicely written Zaogao, you've got your character fleshed out to the grain of dirt under her toe nails.

[Black Reilly]

Steel fell from on high. Irresistable, comet-like. All resistance between it and the surface was brutalised, pummeled.

A massive hand wrenched the cleaver free of the bench, then set it aside. Cables and ropes rippled then went taut in their motion.
Calloused hands clenched around meat, bone and gristle. Breath steamed in the air in this chill place.
The tightening of chest and a short, small grunt were all the indication of effort given as the titan scooped up a pig carcass to join the other held on a shoulder. The figure carried the chill meat across the ice-scape with minimal effort, finally stopping at the end of his labors. Steel tips pierced flesh as the pig carcasses were left to hang on meat-hooks.

A bellow like a thunderclap pierced the simulated tundra, causing the blood of all who heard it to run as cold as mountain springs.

This was a place of business, and a freezer-room.

'YOBS! YOBS, GET IN HERE!'

The air changed as work ceased, steel clattered as it was set down. A trio stepped into the chill-room. They were orcish in appearance, and young. Hair grew thick and coarse upon their faces and shoulders, thanks only to their blood. If the crimson was human in comparison, they would be but striplings, mid-way through their teenage years.
They approached the be-rime'd silhouette hurriedly in response to the bellowed commands.

'I gots seven lambs in the pens and two damn steers that need to be slaughtered, cleaned and dressed. Who dy'a think is gonna do that?. You knows what day it is.'

The trio sped away with many nods of compliance.

A warm, satisfied smile split the face of the looming hulk, revealing thick, jagged tusks. They were good lads.

He was Russel Seagrave, owner and proprietor of Seagrave's Quality Meats.
His scalp was shaven, leaving only coarse stubble to cover his skull. Scars criss-crossed flesh, stubble suppressed where the barren tissue quartered and lined his visage.
He was stripped to the waist, revealing pound-upon-pound of thatched torso muscle. A thick, furred belt lopped around a comparitively thin waist, atop suspendered trousers. His feet were calloused and bare.
He was Russel Seagrave, and today was an important day...

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Smokey air filled this place. A room carved from bare rock and lit by flickering lamps. The light created a warm, homely atmosphere. The faces it illuminated were anything but warm and homely.
Scoundrels of mixed race and stripe sat about a circular table made of cheap wood. They laughed, they drank, they smoked. A mound of minted copper and silver discs sat like a coveted totem of worship as the table's centrepiece.
Each held filthy cards in their hands, stained earthen by dirt and tobacco.

The door to this chamber creaked open, bare feet shifting quietly along dusted tiles of earth.
A chorus of greetings lifted, filling the room with a unity of noise to replace the bawdy cacophany.
Russel nodded and grinned to each in turn. A flurry of handshakes, dotted by a few wry jokes followed in his wake before his bulk rested itself down in a chair, joining the group.

'A good evening to each and all, gentlemen, though I handle the term as loosely as your mothers handle their virtue.'
'Now be not saying that, Seagrave. Me mothers dead!' came words somewhere between craggy brow and bushy beard.
'Aye, truth be told I was there the night she died. Tales of dwarven hardiness give much to the imagination, but leave much to be desired- for she could not handle a night with an orc!'

It was not funny, but the alcohol laughed anyway. The throng cackled.

'A drink Seagrave?'
'A man ain't a camel, mate. No matter how much he may resemble one.'
'Bah! How do 'ee know what a camel looks like, Seagrave!?'
'I don't, but theres truth in mirrors.'
The dwarf clapped once and barked a laugh.
'One'o ye' get this camel-lookin' bastard a DRINK!'


The mead and stout flowed, increasing the room's warmth tenfold. The jocular, the vernacular faded, leaving only the dealer's deft flick of wrist.
Hands were played. Coin clattered and bounced. Eyes went dull or focused in equal measure. Visages were read like books, though if these visages were books, they would be a torn children's story, or a chained grimoire.
The night drew on. Feet shuffled, cards were dumped and scooped-up. Coin changed hands.
There was a pattern in all this. The smaller pots went one way, the larger ones all in one direction...
Eyes narrowed in suspicion and brows folded and creased. Jade-green orbs burned with annoyance, swiftly turning to rage.

Lightning. An explosion of movement.
Seagrave had hurled the table aside with one massive arm and now held two hundred and fifty pounds of dwarf and chainmail by the throat.
'Stop...letting me...WIN!' the growl turned to a bellowed torrent of spittle and pure rage. Fingers like claws tightened around the dwarf's throat as he tried to gurgle a reply.
A hand rested reassuringly on the enraged giant's shoulder for a split-second before being slapped away.
'No one's letting you win, Seagrave! They're good hands, thats all!'
The group nodded in wide-eyed agreeance.
'LIES!' spittle flew once more and eyes smouldered.
'We're all friends here, mate! Theres no need for this! Now, come on, put him down, We're all just...friends, trying to enjoy a game'o cards'.
The arms of the group's representative were held out-stretched- disarmingly, placatingly, pleadingly.

The fires faded, the oxygen had run out, leaving them with no fuel to burn. Seagrave nodded and sat the dwarf down gently.
'I'm-...I apologise, gents. Feel free to stay, but...I'm not in the mood for cards.'
The giant nodded his head in acknowledgment and then apology, and made his way out of the room.
The group sat in silent shock for a time, before scooping up the table and beginning the game anew.

From the butcher's shop the sound of cleaver biting into meat was heard.


Thump. Thump...thump...

[Theorum Of Neutrality]

That was gorgeous, BR. Your writing reminds me of Ray Bradbury.
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He was beautiful. He knew it, too. Not that he would ever show it, of course. Those who waste away in front of mirrors only invite jealous onlookers who wish to bash the beauty from their skull across the pavement. No, for those of true beauty, the calling came to beguile the senses, and bewitch the heart in spiderwebs of love. Oh, yes. Love was something to live for. Love was among the most beautiful things one could experience. There were those, the cynical and the foolhardy, who claimed love was an illusion - a lie built upon the tears of spurned lovers and the hollowed souls of those bound in marriage.

These fools knew nothing of love.

He knew love like a Lightkeeper knew fire. He knew how a Lightkeeper loves fire because he gently eased past one, the bells hanging from a thin rope around his waste jingling faintly as he walked. The tinkle made the priest turn and look at the young half-elf. The half-elf smiled, sauntering with the gate of a predatory cat up to the young priest.
"How does she burn?"
"Like fire." The boy-priest responded, frowning. His face was blocky and plain, much akin to the rock around him, and not the fire which he so lovingly tended to.
"Oh? What a beautiful answer." The half-elf sighed out, green eyes lidding half-way. It was such a simple answer, so kind and blunt. Not a hammer striking an anvil, but a toe digging into the dirt.
"Uh... Thank you." He responded, turning to look back to the fire. The half-elf didn't relent, as the young priest may have wanted.
"Tell me, my beautiful, why do you love the fire so?" His voice licked the air with the gentle sweetness of honey as he rounded to the other side of the brazier.
"It brings us the Light of Eleudis. As close to the sun as we can manage." He responded, somewhat gruffly. A stern dog being teased by a languid cat.
"Have you seen the sun, beautiful one?" The bard muttered out, his green eyes flickering much in the same way as the fire between the two.
"..." The boy-priest paused, considering his answer carefully. "I've never seen it, no. I've felt it though. In my heart." He said it with such earnest intent that it made the half-elf laugh.
"You don't know, then... You don't know how the sun burns, or how true fire burns... Not like these little pets you and your fellow men and women of the cloth keep. No... Real fire burns indiscriminately. Eat, spread, eat, spread... Eat and spread until naught is left but black and silk." The half-elf waved his hand over the fire, but not through it. The priest didn't answer, but he didn't walk away. The bard knew he had him in his clutches. "Have you ever been burnt, my love?" The bard sighed faintly, looking up with a smoldering glance to the boy-priest.   "No." Was the simple response, the boy-priest seeming fascinated by the young half-elf who spoke like he had walked through fire before.
"Well? Your pet is hungry enough, my love. Let it taste you. You will feel much closer to it."
"You want me to... Burn myself in the brazier?" The boy asked, incredulous.
"I want you to respect that which you love... I want to respect what I love, and I love you. Please, don't make me regret my affection." The bard whispered out.
"Love me? You don't even know me!" The priest cried, throwing his arms out. The bard smiled in response, moving closer to the priest by circling around the brazier.
"That is why I love you, don't you understand? I don't know the messy details of your existence. I don't know the dirty thoughts that you hide from when your eyelids close. I don't know you, and thus I love what I think I know of you; what I see, what I can assume. The roundness of your behind is what drew me in particular." The bard murmured out, smiling a smile that promised much. The boy blushed, and stepped back.
"No! Get back." He gritted out through clenched teeth. The bard tilted his head towards the fire in response.
"Come now, beautiful... Touch the fire. Join your Light with your God. Let us see who burns who." He reached out for the priests hand, guiding him with all that a gentleman could provide - comfort.

The fire had burnt the boy, in the end. The bard remembered the red, blistered flesh of his fingertip, and the wide-eyed look the boy-priest had given him when he sang to the wound, lulling it to sleep and letting the flesh grow back. Beautiful. The shadows in the boy's eyes were beautiful, growing darker as misconceptions he had before were burnt along with his fingertip. This was love, the gentle way he handled the boy. The bard took the priest's hand in his own, and smiled to him gently.
"You look so lost, my love... Come, let us go across the bridge. I will take care of you... Those robes of yours are filthy. Yes. We have much to attend to." The bard slowly muttered, guiding the priest along to the rope bridge that lead to the rest of the priest's life. This was love, and it was as beautiful as the half-elf that created it.

Almost.   

[Gothic Rose]

The tooth flew through the air, guided along a jet of crimson before it landed in the muddy, snowy, upturned earth.  The man who once had a full set of teeth shook his head, reeling and clenching at the wooden truncheon in his numb hand.  His vision swam, and suddenly it was not one foe, but two, two men closing in on him, two sets of steel-grey eyes filled with both battle-fury and something else, something the man could not place.

The four steel eyes closed in, and the reeling man still could not exactly place that other emotion that was in them - it was something rarely seen among the Volsk, and its name was on the tip of his tongue.  Quite suddenly the four eyes became two and the young warrior realized that if he did not move, his opponent was going to smash his head in. 

Both warriors were armed the same way - simple truncheons and small wooden shields.  Neither wore aught but pants, their torsos naked and covered in a sheen of sweat.  The dark haired man was the worse for the fight, his jaw swollen, blood oozing from his mouth and his also-swollen nose.  The steel eyed man bled from a tear in his arm, and his shield hung only loosely, the hand strapped behind it numb from the beating it had taken. 

About the two warriors was a large, loose ring of onlookers, cheering and jeering at the blood sport - and at the trial, for this was no simple duel.  One woman was not cheering, her downcast eyes fixed on the steel eyed warrior.  In her heart she prayed to Damihra, to grant her champion swift victory - for it was on his shoulders that her fate rested. 

The dark haired man leapt away from his opponent just as the wicked truncheon swept in, the blow barely missing.  Breath panting, the challenger, the suitor, stepped backward again and again, his footing precarious in the slippery mud.  The steel eyed champion swept in again and again, silent and grim-faced amid the chaotic chanting of the crowd.

All too soon for the dark haired challenger, the mud beneath his feet gave way, and he slipped and fell, losing his truncheon.  Curling up with the fall and half raising his shield to ward the blows that would surely rain down on him, he closed his eyes against the oncoming pain...only to find that it did not come.  Grimacing, he looked up, to find his steel eyed foe three meters back.

"Get your weapon, pup, and come at me.  Or give up your suit and let my sister be."  The steel eyed man barked out.

Marshaling himself, the dark haired man pulled himself to a sitting position, eyeing the steel eyed champion.  He spat blood to the side, and worked his swelling jaws.  "You could have already won, Algrim, why do you not attack?" Every word caused the man pain, but he had to know what was behind that look in the other man's eyes.

"Aye I could have, but I'll nay strike a man, even a worm such as ye, when he's without a weapon, on the ground, and sniveling like a sodden wench.  Now get ye up, pick up your weapon and have at me, or yield, and ever-more leave my sister be.  She does not fancy ye, Thorval.  And she does not appreciate your attempts to swive."

Thorval, the dark haired man, slowly rose to his feet and scooped up his truncheon, his body aching.  As his hand clasped the weapon, he spoke.  "You are a fo--oomph!" His words were cut off by a shield smashing into his face.  The dark haired man's body went slack and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.  Above him stood the steel eyed warrior, who spat on the unconscious man's body. Around them, the crowd erupted into cheers and jeers, and soon began to part, the trial at an end.

"I said I'd nay fight ye on the ground without your weapon, ye stupid oaf.  Maybe next time ye will learn to look up and not assume."  The man looked up and around.  "Thorval Vilmarson has lost this trial and by the Thane's Law may no longer pursue my sister.  This is at an end."

The man moved towards his sister, and the two made their way through the dispersing crowd.  Overhead the sun was soon lost in clouds that meant only one thing - a blizzard was coming...

[Zydel]

The groans of the weary slaves pervaded the still air. But all was not quiet that night.

Salvatore Bene (SAL-VUH-TORE-EH BEH-NAY), age 12, lay awake as he heard the hushed murmur of his father and uncle arguing. Salvatore's ears had perked at the sound of his name, but he was otherwise unable to distinguish what the conversation had been about. He was a light sleeper, but the toils of the day stole consciousness from him nonetheless. Would he have stayed awake and crept closer to the conversation, he would have heard important information.

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Rodrick Bene and Cesario Sino (SEE-NO)were the closest of brothers on any other night, but the present discussion was a troubling one concerning Rodrick's only child. Rodrick's eyes flickered angrily at the makeshift dagger in Cesario's hand. It was crude at best, but the jagged side and pointed tip would make it a passable weapon. Rodrick had meant to bloody his brother's nose just moments ago, but the Draelen that had halted near them put the plan on hold for a few moments. The brothers eyed each other disdainfully, not daring to make a noise. Soon, the Draelen guard resumed his patrol, and departed from earshot of the present conversation.

Rodrick promptly delivered a punch to Cesario's nose, and snatched the dagger from his brother's hand.

"Agh-...you...why...the irony!" Cesario had been scowling, but his brother's violent route made him grin. "The boy must learn!"
"No! He is my only son, and he will not turn down the road you have. He is innocent."
"Brother, times are becoming ripe. The woman has the people in a stir!"
"I care little for your rebellion. We are slaves, and my son is a slave. I would taste freedom, but it is neither mine nor my son's place to fight. You know what killing does to us."

Rodrick's mouth tightened. His bloodline had a well-kept secret. In fact, nobody besides his own family knew of it. As the story went, his bloodline had been cursed by a mage long ago.

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The brothers' ancient ancestors had been fruitful and powerful, and were of a noble birth. They were three men, the closest of twins, and a younger sibling. The twins were mighty and conquered great lands, their wealth was matched only by their greed. Force and intimidation reigned supreme in the blood of these twins, and conquering for the sake of conquering was rampant. They desired the world, and nothing less. In that day, the title used for conquering warlords was "Sino", and so the brothers were both called by this name. The youngest brother, not nearly so mighty, and a pious soul, served to keep the twins from killing innocent people in their conquests.

Now, the rumor that a powerful magician had in his possession a stone of great power had reached the ears of the brothers. This stone supposedly had the power to offer empire-building power to its owner. The brothers made haste to conquer the magician's estate. The brothers agreed with one another to share the power the stone offered, but they secretly plotted otherwise. The twins, consumed by their greed, dreamed of their own supremacy. The first brother planned to use the stone against the second, and the second plotted likewise against the first. But they were twins, and so first they both plotted together against the third brother. The third, a virtuous soul, desired to own the magical stone only to build a righteous empire, built for the good of the people.

But the wily sorcerer, aware of the jeopardy to his estate, plotted to trick the brothers. When it came time to defend his estate, he surrendered, but delivered a warning. He told the brothers that they could have the estate, but that they must not claim the stone, for if they did, they would wield devastating power, but be unable to build the empire they so dearly desired. The brothers paid no mind to the warning, and they searched for the stone. When they had found it, the twins locked the third brother into a cage, and went along to gather their armies.

But the plotting soon came to fruition, and the twins turned on each other. The first twin took the stone and fled to gather his army. Each recruited those loyal to him, and a great war began for possession of the stone. On the eve of the breakout of war, the stone was reported missing from the first twin's treasure. Convinced that a thief hired by the second twin had relieved him of it, he flew into a rage. The next day, The Great War of the Sino Brothers began. The war ravaged the land, and the fortune of both twins soon came to ruin. But their lust for power could not be deterred and so they eventually wore their own forces down to only the two of them. In a final battle, they took the life of the other, the stone in the possession of neither.

Now what had really happened was a thief had indeed been hired, but it was the sorcerer who paid him. The third brother, still locked in the estate, was approached by the sorcerer after the fall of the Sino Brothers. The stone was given to this brother to build a glorious empire, for the good of the people, on the condition that the sorcerer could keep his estate. Before the brother left, the sorcerer warned him of the true curse of the Stone of Schism. The brother and all of his descendants would live one of two ways. If he or his offspring did not take the life of another with his own hands, that person would live untouched by the stone's curse. However, if he or his descendant did take the life of another, the unrelenting desire to keep killing would consume him. The third brother then went out, recruited and army, and never personally killed a person. With armies, he conquered many lands, and built a huge empire. He was a good ruler, and his people loved him. He came to be given the title of Bene. From that day forward, his descendants that did not kill took this name, while those that acquired the curse were named Sino.

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Rodrick Bene, looked at the stone dagger in his hand and shook his head.
"You want to rebel against the Draelen? Fine, but I-..."

The Draelen cudgeled Rodrick in the back of the head, cracking his skull. Rodrick's dagger skittered several feet away. Mortally wounded, Rodrick lay on the cold, stone floor. He was of no danger to the Draelen, who now turned his sneer to Cesario.

"Both you rebels will die tonight."

The Draelen lunged toward Cesario, but the brother was able to wrestle the club away from his assailant. The two tussled on the ground, punching, biting, kicking. Cesario, try as he might, was bloodied and battered, and no match for the Draelen. The guard soon had closed his calloused, merciless hands on the human's throat. Cesario fought for air, his breath leaving him, and the world beginning to fade to black. Suddenly, the grip of the Draelen guard relented, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he gurgled. Cesario pushed him off, and dropped his jaw at the stone dagger now lodged into the back of the deceased Draelen's back. He glanced to his left, and saw the boy, Salvatore, standing wide-eyed.

Rodrick, with the last breath of air in his lungs was able to manage only one word.
"Sino."

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Ten years later, Salvatore Sino sheathed his dagger. With a crossbow on his back, and fresh blood on his hands, he made his routine midday prayer to Eleudis. First, for guidance. Second, for the memory of his father, who had died the night he had made his first kill. Third, for the memory of his uncle, who had died in his arms during The Massacre. When he had finished, he looked to the corpse on the ground. Kneeling over it, he closed his victim's eyes, and murmured his signature phrase departing prayer.

"May you be without chains. Amen."
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*Disclaimer: The word "Sino" is rooted in "assassino". It has no relation to the Chinese. The character design of Salvatore is loosely (very loosely, though I have used clear parallels, like the closing words) based on Ezio Auditore da Firenze of Assassin's Creed II.

[Jopetzki]

Stranger things in Koboldtown

A little bubbly pot bubbled away with strange liquids hot
A worn little pot with funky smells that make you sneeze on the spot
Not the strangest thing Koboldtowns have seen
For the Tall ones lurk in the dark and might stab you in the spleen

Much have the kobolds seen suffering and pain
Some feel like all of their struggles have been in vain
Their greatest gift to man was rewarded with a knife in the chest
And a burned home, a plague to the rest

But still the bubbly pot bubbles in the heart of Koboldtown
Reminding the kobolds that help can be found
In a raggy little house that smells like garlic
Is a old little shaman stirring a potion boiling with a wooden spoon gnarly

He cured the sickly and needy be their skin scaled or not
Till one fateful day he stirred his pot for the wrong lot
He healed their wounds, wished them well
As a payment on their swords he fell
Accused a witch for crimes he didn't commit
His legacy had ended in shame decrepit

But that was many years ago
And none have visited the raggy little house for they know
That the angry old shaman haunts it still
Passing his wisdom to an apprentice lil
What is he told no one knows
But the old shaman's hollow wrath lingers no more

Still if you listen closely in the heart of Koboldtown
You can hear the little bubbly pot boiling again.

[MM]

Native to the area around Norhaven, Thavonir refused to give in to the cold that has driven most other races from the surface. They continue to wander the frozen landscape, their natural elven resilience allowing them to survive temperatures which would harrow all others. Consequently, this has turned them into cold and distant loners who sometimes set out across the surface never to return. There is something faintly whimsical about a Thavonir, whose mind always seems to be half on the conversation at hand, and half elsewhere. They are unsocial creatures with a very abrupt manner. Most do not care for their past and are content to leave it buried beneath the snow.

She merely appeared one day. Briefly noted by the keen and observant at Greendell Market as yet another normal anomality of the Depths. Others of her kind had been seen before, the blue skinned Thavonir weren't that uncommon, but they tended to keep to themselves even whilst visitng larger communities. This one, by the name of Vanya, clad in worn and torn secondhand robes with an obnoxiously large hood, had apparently arrived to browse through what passing caravans and lowly merchants had to offer. She came to purchase new robes similar her own, two of them infact, as if knowing their lifespan in her use was limited.

As she was restocking in makeshift healing supplies, or ingredients to compile such, an entreprenuing person came to offer her a wide selection of daggers and other small weapons. The ice elf must have felt rudely interrupted, as she gave the slim, slick human a flat look, and from amidst her robes and beltpouches, she flipped out a pocket knife of her own. Her immediate vicinity was suddenly revealed by this dim blue light, similarly radiating from the rune encrusted dagger as it was from her eyes. She remained poised until the opportunist slunk away. Vanya then turned back to the traveling merchant, giggled briefly, and finished her business along with a nod, before heading off towards the direction of Darkthrone Den.

[Malice]

He let forth a gasp which almost extinguished the flickering candlelight as he winced at the pain. Pausing for a moment for the flame to settle and the dancing shadows to disappear from the poor, silvered mirror, he continued working with the blade.
Always the pain was immense, after untild repetitions of this private ritual, it was never easier to bear, yet he persevered as blood flowed down the sides of his face and neck.

With one final stroke, the small, sinewy triangles of flesh slapped onto the desk. Red and pulpy they  clearly looked as obscene and grotesque as he had always considered them and all they stood for.

Taking up once again the dirty, blotched bandage from where it lay to soak in the boiled water, he delicately wrapped it around and around his temples, tying it with practiced autonomy, he scrubbed the dripping streams of blood from his face and pulled his long hair down, checking to make sure that none of the red blood leaked through.

Lastly,  it was time to dress again. Selecting the grubby, rough clothing over his preferred finer attire, and removing his jewellery. Where he was going, he did not wish to show signs of wealth. Pulling the hooded cloak about his shoulders, he donned the hood, close around his face to hide the visible bandage that peeked through his fringe above his eyes.

It was time to leave, he had promised answers to them and was now ready to deliver. Already he anticipated that they wouldn't like the answers he had for them, but this only opened more possibilities on what he might be able to offer...

------

Yes, that's all... for now...

[Dinean]

The fire was dwindling by the tent; the dried roots used for its fuel were dangerously low in supply; and the grubby paws that were tending to the flame were shivering with a glossy coat of ice around the backs.  He had just caught this day's meal, and returned to add more roots to the life giving fire.  As he managed to get the flame up again, he grabbed into a clay pot to which he held his catch, a medium sized trout still flapping around.  Almost loosing his grip, he grew frustrated and smashed the fish onto the cave floor, the flopping then ceased with its head partially caved in.  Then he set the now limp fish onto the burning roots, and waited for it to simmer...

Growing excited at the luscious aroma from the cooking fish; he reached into the flame... singing his fingers and letting out an angry yelp; as he pulled his hand away in quick pain, the fish landed on the cave floor. The excitement still filling his heart though; his other hand reached for the fish and he took a quick bite from it, another, blood dripping from the fish to his lips as he passes the burnt exterior and into the barely cooked innards.  And then as he took his next bite with such ferocity he subsequently let out another yip... half of his tooth falling from his lips....

He spent much time then by his tent, whimpering from the pain of his tooth.  Waking many times from his rest with the pain, he grew quite miserable.... and went well into the next hunting period without even getting out of his tent, though the hunger began to dwell on him.... the rumbling stomach aching to be filled; convincing him that his tooth was really not that much of a matter.  After all he had many ore of them and he knew that.  But the pain... slowed his start.  He grabbed his knobbly spear, and his tattered net then set off to the water's edge.

When he started to search for the ideal location to step in, he heard a yell and a splash... the yell seemed odd, much like those humans he have seen on occasion... as he looked over he saw a small boat with two people flailing their arms, and he tried to see why..... then he spotted it, slashes in the water and two small arms... a little head.... a child that obviously was caught in the current of the water.  He raced along the water's edge, trying to keep up with the boy.... attempting to get close.. dropping his net.... then his spear... and he leaped in!  The water was very cold... and he was submerged in it... but he was used to the water so he knew he had only a short time.  A little further, yes, he reached the boy!  Now what though... yes, must get the boy to the water's edge... so he grabbed the flailing boy and started to back peddle... but the current is too strong... and the boy was struggling. 

He clobbered the boy on the head, then bit down on the boy's shirt and started to swim back with both arms and legs... this worked much better, now he was winning the current!  At last they are at the water's edge, and the others have come to meet him; he is proud indeed... pulling the boy to the cave floor.  And he places his head to the boy's, the boy breaths still.  The two humans in the boat look angry and start yelling though, but he gets behind the boy... and their raised arms lower; loosing some of their intimidating appearance.  They claimer out of their boat and onto the cave floor near the boy; and he raises up the boy in his paws, lifting him to the two... they appear shocked.  Taking the from him; the one with the large bumps on the chest holds the boy comfortingly; and the other then looks to ready a strike against him....but the comforting one takes hold of the other human's shoulder and shakes her head.

After a bit of a talk; the human kneels down and pulls a dagger from his belt.... then he places it into his paw.... he looks to the human with a toothy grin and gives a yip yip cheer that only a kobold can.

[ColoredPencils]

I suppose I'll actually post this here.

(I originally wasn't going to write anything, but recent events changed my mind. This is dedicated to my friend Calvin, who shot and killed himself monday night. Our friendship was much like that of these three.)

    If the Gods Forbid We Should Ever Grow Up

    "Perhaps it's kind of like water..." Kimil suggested while he examined the twisted bunch of dried leaves that were smoldering between his fingers. Tendrils of smoke wisped and weaved in tight, twisting patterns before dissipating into the cool, damp air. His dark, obsidian eyes watched with relaxed interest as he lounged in a rough alcove of rock.

    "That's dumb." Lyndir, sprawled out on what looked like a very jagged and uncomfortable collection of stone a couple feet below Kimil, retorted bruskly. His body, scrawny for one of the Thavonir, was bent at odd angles over his rocky bed that only a youth such as himself could recover from. Chopped, pale blue locks were tousled and stood on end - probably from some uncomfortable squirming. "If you dump water on the ground, it spreads out into a puddle."

    "Yes, but you can see the puddle..." Kimil reasoned, leaning from his throne of stone to peer down at his friend. He brushed a bit of cerulean hair from his eyes with the fingers that held his smoke, coming dangerously close to lighting himself on fire. "The water sticks together, it doesn't just disappear."

    Lyndir peered right back up. He was idly rolling a pair of rounded stones around in the palm of his hand, fingers grown so accustomed to this habitual motion that the stones did not even touch as they circled eachother in their tight quarters. "I think there are tunnels in our auras around us and it can only escape through them..."

    Kimil should have expected something so stupid to come from Lyndir's mouth, but he couldn't help snorting a laugh anyways. "You're an idiot, Lyn."

    "Hey, think about it!" The poor elf looked dead serious as he twisted from his rugged rest into a sitting position, those rocks still rolling in his hand. "A big bonfire burning on its own just billows away, but if you smoke those weeds... the smoke has to go through your aura."

    "I can't believe how... I can't believe I'm friends with you. I don't know you anymore." Kimil disappeared from the ledge above Lyndir and curled back into his corner. A tickled grin pulled at the corners of his mouth, however, and he shook his head as he went back to watching the smoke rise from between his fingers.

    "Hey, don't be disappointed you didn't think of it yourself, Kimil." Lyndir snorted, feeling insulted and a little sheepish that he couldn't think of a better response.

    "You put us to shame, Lyn," came the response from above the ledge, "You put me and Djenn to shame! Isn't that right, Djenn?"

    There came no response, however, and both sets of elven eyes turned to their temporarily forgotten friend and the final member of their little trio. A boy with shocking platinum blonde hair, who appeared to be about their age (at least physically), sat at the very edge of their private alcove with his legs dangling over the side. His eyes were plastered to an old, worn book in his lap.

    "Hey, Djenn..." Kimil repeated, watching his friend intently.

    "Djenn..." Lyndir chimed in.

    "Djenn."

    "Djeeeennn."

    "Djenn!"

    "Djenn!"

    "By Djimdir!" Yes. That was a combination of their names. "I swear!"

    "Ughhh..." Lyndir groaned and shifted from his bumpy seat, edging over towards the distracted boy. He leaned in close and looked between Djenn's stoic face and the book he stared so intently at, then drew his lips to the gently pointed ear shrouded in blonde hair and shouted, "Oy Djenn!"

    Djenn didn't make a sound, but he did jump abruptly in his seat and nearly toss his  book down the slant of rocks they had climbed up on earlier that day. Fortunately, he kept his balance and didn't go tumbling down, himself. Wide, pale blue eyes gave Lyndir a bewildered look. Though Djenn was pale, and one would swear they could almost see a blue tint to his skin, and he was about the same height and build as his two friends, the bright blonde hair and slightly pointed ears made it quite obvious that he was only half elf... and his friends were full.

    "Look at you, Djenn!" Lyndir carried on, pulling on a false expression of incredulity (and an overly dramatic one, at that). "You weren't even actually reading. Your eyes weren't moving! Are the thoughts in your head really that much more important than our conversation?"

    "And it was a very important conversation, too." Kimil added in.

    Recovered from the initial shock of being disturbed from his deep thoughts, Djenn offered his two friends a sheepish and playful grin. "I'm afraid I couldn't muster the sense of any dire importance in your discussion on the pretty shapes that smoke makes in the air..." His tone was surprisingly composed for having just been lost in thought.

    "I'm hurt, Djenn." Kimil huffed. "We treat you as a brother, and you dismiss us like... like infantile idiots!"

    "That's because you a-" Djenn started, but was quickly cut off by Lyndir grabbing the book from his lap.

    "What are you reading, anyways?" The darker-haired elf questioned, turning the book over and then announcing out loud, "The Depths of Norhaven: A Complete Guide. Volume One!"

    "Djimdir, Djenn," Kimil laughed, plucking up a pebble and pelting his blonde friend in the head with it. "Haven't you read that... five times?"

    "Er. Seven, actually..." Djenn admitted, knowing well enough to look embarassed about it. "It's an interesting read and-"

    "If you're reading and walking again tomorrow when we set off for the top, your mother is going to go nuts," Lyndir interrupted with a warning.

    "His mother's already gone nuts," Kimil stated casually, sliding from his perch above the other two. "I know we've a reputation for being flighty and distracted, but you take it to an extreme, Djenn. You don't even like going with the caravan to the surface. Your mother practically has to force you."

    "What you lack in wanderlust, you certainly make up for in absentmindedness..." Lyndir added with a snort of laughter, rapping his knuckles on the top of Djenn's head. Djenn ducked and rubbed his abused cranium.

    "And you two are insufferably social... and at least I don't fill my mind with things like holey auras and peat puppies," Djenn shot back, causing Kimil behind them to burst into a fit of laughter, and lightly elbowed Lyndir.

    "Hey, those peat puppies were a great idea!" Lyndir defended in a huff. "You just wait and see. People will come around! ... Now stop reading and talk to us!"

    Djenn yelped as his precious book was snatched away and tossed out their alcove, sent bouncing down the jagged slope. It was no wonder the piece of literature was in such poor shape. "If it lands in a puddle!" There was the slightest hint of warning in Djenn's tone as he popped to his feet and started stumbling down the slant after his book, but no real threatening conviction.

    "If it lands in a puddle, I hope you drown in it!" Lyndir shouted after him, looking proud and smug. Kimil kept laughing hysterically.

--------------------------------------------------

    Once, Djenn would have firmly refused to believe anyone who might tell him his two friends would be dead within a couple years. Kimil and Lyndir had been there since he was born amidst the traveling caravan of Thavonir, and they had quickly become a comforting constant to him. He would have firmly refused to believe it, even though he knew how likely it was. They lived in dangerous times and their family was in a dangerous line of work. On top of that, Kimil and Lyndir were both foolish and reckless young elves. They lived in the moment and they ignored all worry and regret.

    He would have firmly refused to believe. And even after the event, after losing them and dealing with what he wished could have been an impossibility, he knew if it were to happen all over again... he still would have refused to believe. But that was just who Djenn had become: an idealist who still held firm to his ideals, despite the fact he had long learned them to be unrealistic.

    Somebody had to believe in the impossible. Somebody had to hold onto hope.

(Kimil and Lyndir are reflections of my friend. Cheerful, teasing, and reckless. To quote my mother, "People get lost and frightened. They don't understand that the universe unfolds as it should... and we are what gives it meaning. I just feel bad that he felt so alone." Wherever we end up, I hope he finds what he was looking for.)

[Norseman]

Only a soft snow was falling late this afternoon, giving the Draelan soldiers a much needed respite. Teric Aln’yamattae stretched out his fingers as he pulled off his mittens. It was good to be able to feel them again, at least as much as was possible on the accursed surface. He would never understand why his foe chose to strike out an existence here instead of enjoying the warmth and relative safety – well, safety compared to this place – of living in the depths. Perhaps it was their short lives of being an inferior race that led them to delude themselves into being able to live up here forever. Or challenge the might of Yeste’al and the First Elves, for that matter.

These Volsk were perhaps the most despicable of all of the lesser races, too. Teric had heard of the atrocities committed by them, women and children enslaved and those too weak to endure the challenges simply executed or fed to their savage war hounds. His superiors had warned them all to never give quarter or to surrender, for the Volsk would give none and death was kinder than what these savages on the surface had in store for prisoners of war.

“Aln’yamattae, get over here and help with the wagon. It’s stuck again. I swear, it either freezes or sinks into the mud. Gods be good, why are we even here? Let the dragon and these wolf-lovers keep the surface.”

The man calling for him was Alaric uln Gephyrn and he was in charge of the unit’s supply. They were en route to reinforce and resupply the force of his brethren that had encircled the Volsk village. All this talk of the ferocity of the Volsk seemed like myth to Teric now – only cowards hid behind fortifications instead of accepting death was inevitable and charge out to meet their foe. Perhaps once these reinforcements arrived, his superiors would finally decide to assault rather than wait out the Volsk.

“I am coming, Gephyrn, don’t get so anxious.”

Sighing, Teric slipped his mittens back on and scuffled over to the wagon, leaning against it with some of his brethren to get the cart out of a rut. Gephyrn stood out next to the wagon, raising an arm and preparing to shout heave, but as the elves prepared to put their backs into it on his order, only a gurgling sound erupted from Alaric’s lips. To his horror, Teric looked over and saw an arrow sticking out of the quartermaster’s neck. Jumping back from the cart, Teric drew his sword only to find that the two other soldiers next to him had arrows in their back as well. He distantly heard screaming and shouting and became aware that the entire column was being raided. Looking around wildly, Teric found his first target – a lone Volsk warrior in armor, with axe and shield walking towards him. Gripping his sword tightly, Teric let out a cry and charged.

____________________________________________________________________

Pulling his axe from the dead and already freezing corpse of the elf, Eirik Havard exhaled slowly to control his breathing. He looked around, frowning at all of the dead. His party had lost some men, he saw, but the elves had taken the worst of the fighting. The re-supply column was wiped out, and his fellows were already salvaging what supplies they could and burning the rest. He glimpsed his war-party leader motioning them all on as he himself gathered his wolves. Eirik grimaced and spat. There was no stopping for him, his eyes fixed on the horizon. That horizon filled with the fires in the distance, the fires burning what remained of his home. The Draelan were probably freezing by now, but they had no idea what sort of cold rage that was fostered in his people. They were about to find out.

[dino mite]

I love it, all of you. I look forward to meeting your interesting characters in game. As for me, I haven't really thought of a backstory for any of my brainchilds yet. However, I find it helpful to get a character analysis down in writing before jumping into a concept. Here's the idea I'm leaning towards the most right now. She might wind up in the criminal underground of Avera's Hope or some other organized crime syndicate. And she would also fit into the Convocation nicely with her scholarly streak. I don't know. I might change my mind by the 11th.

Adriana Larkby,  the rogue accountant.

With silver blond hair, ice blue eyes, and an alabaster complexion, Adriana certainly looks striking--beautiful if you're into that type of thing. But she's quite nearly devoid of any color. Even her eyes, lightest blue, are kissed by a silver shimmer. She stands at 5''8 and possesses a skinny, lanky frame with little musculature which is no surprise given that she doesn't look to be out of her late teens. Despite her youthful appearance, Adriana acts far older--and she enjoys the fact that she can look down at all but the tallest of women. Stoic to the point of sometimes seeming sociopathic, she is dispassionate in manner and rigid in stature. Judging from the fact Adriana seldom smiles, she's cranky most of the time but she's not prone to losing her temper. When she does lose her temper, her anger is more icy cold than fiery: A withering glare here, a disapproving shake of the head there.

Despite her awkward height, Adriana is surprisingly nimble, and she's not bad in a fight either though she prefers to use stealth tactics and guile, often placing a few well-placed stabs from the nearby shadows or throwing dark powder in an enemy's eyes. In a straight up brawl, however, she would probably be out-muscled. That's why she tries to avoid such situations entirely. Adriana has been calloused by whatever happened before her arrival in Avera's Hope, which she won't talk about. Ever. When pressed about her origins or her life before, she says, "You don't don't need to know where I came from. All that matters now is where I'm going." That and the fact she only has a few scruples attracts her to a certain line of work--And that Adriana cares about little besides her own coffers.

She also has a bizarre taste for dull administrative work, believing that book-keeping is the key to any successful venture even if the records have to be altered; if anything, that would give "unauthorized transactions" a legitimate appearance as far as the numbers go. Adriana actually enjoys doing menial paperwork, which is yet another sign that she needs serious help. In another life, maybe she would have been a banker or a financier but she calls herself a "mercenary with a mind for business". Given her aptitude for numbers, she's also quite the tinkerer and particularly good at constructing traps.

To Adriana, logic overcomes emotion in all instances; she cannot understand how some people wear their hearts on their sleeves and let themselves be governed by feelings. During particularly hectic situations, Adriana is one to remain cool as a cucumber. However, being obsessed with logic and reason as she is, she won't act quickly as she'll try to figure out exactly what's going on first.

During the moments when Adriana is not ensconced in something work-related, she can often be found in a tavern nursing an ale and enjoying a smoke from her finely crafted pipe--she smokes even while she's on the job too as it's somewhat of an addiction for her. Although she's occasionally prone to making sarcastic comments, she does so in such a deadpan voice that it's sometimes hard to tell that she's being snarky. She's not a social butterfly at all, seeing other people as walking, talking, breathing ways to further her own interests and those of whomever she works for. Who has time for friendship when there's so much work to get done? Besides, if you want information, books are much easier to deal with if you know how to read.