This thread is for the sole purpose of [highlight]creating the characters[/highlight] to use in the corresponding Role-Play. There are a few [highlight]guidelines [/highlight]I will outline here and a bit of [highlight]extended information[/highlight] to take in to consideration when writing your character's [highlight]Personal History[/highlight] (which will be described below).
Guidelines:
Your character must be a [highlight]resident of the County of Aboron[/highlight].
Your character must have [highlight]at least one stimulation to join[/highlight] in the Aboronian Revoltion Movement.
Your character must have[highlight] a short story leading up to[/highlight] his or her prescence at the Nyord Sardi Fortress battlefield.
You may [highlight]only use the given options (if specified)[/highlight] when filling out the Character Creation form.
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Full Name: (No numbers or the following symbols: !@#$%^&*()}{[]+=<>?/,.) Race: (Human or Asrai) Age: (Human: 15 to 45/Asrai: 15 to 450)* Eye Color: (Try to keep the color somewhat reasonable) Hair Color/Hair Style: (Any natural hair color/Try to keep your hair style reasonable for a Medieval-oriented Western-flavor RP) Gender: (Male or Female) Weapon/Armor Specialization (If Any): (Excludes blatantly far-Eastern weapons/armor) Personal History: (See above guidelines and the note below**) Character-Driving Goals:
* For your own benefit, please consider the following article on the Asrai: http://daysofamyorne.host56.com/show_art.php?artid=6. Also, humans can use magic, too (if anyone was wondering), but you most obey the same principles. For the most part, race is aesthetic.
** Because of the ruling style for a long time in Aboron, there really is no distinguishing of individual hamlets or such in the county. In his greed for power and wealth, and his fear of his own people, Count Reithwayr Aboron III and many of his predecessors ruled their domain so that no large concentration of people would form at any single point so that resistance would be weak. Nerogi (if you saw the map) is at large an exception to this rule because it is on the far side of the mountains and thus is mostly autonomous though it is still in the boundary of the county.
**(continued) Also, the Old Religion, which I have not unfortunately been able to write anything major up on yet besides what is in the other thread in this forum, is revered by all denizens of Amyorne. It is the base for the magical disciplines and many of the challenges in the world. If you choose to be some kind of aetheist or anti-religion person, well... It won't work very well. You will still have to obey all the magical precepts stated by it and observe the countless performances of its spirituality. Simply put: This is a fantasy- things like ghosts, witches, gods, and magic are all real.
Other things to take in to account:
These are mostly obvious, but essentially, we're not going to be having any "Super Dark Priest of Satan"'s or "Grand Matriarchal Sorceress of the Third Plane"'s. Making your self too powerful makes it not fun for other people since it dumbs down battles and the story and it also detracts from the grandeur of villains.
This may seem dumb, but make sure you stick to the options the form offers and take note of the, well, notes. Also, please be familiar with the volume overview here as well as any cultural or genetic aspects of the race your are playing (specifically, the Asrai, here).
Full Name: Aidan Cree Race: Human Age: 22 Eye Color: Hazel Hair Color/Hair Style: Deep brown / Short Gender: Male Weapon/Armor Specialization (If Any): Short sword / Leather padding Personal History:
It is the beginning of autumn, cold wisps of crisp air shivering through the drooping eaves and bows of the trees of southern Aboron. All of the county seems to wilt with heaviness, filled to bursting with death and sorrow. Even the sky shows signs of its misery, often rearing only shades of grey and drained blue, the sun casting a white and blazing glare upon everything.
The fields that spread as far as his eyes could see are dried and withered, small bits of weeds and thorny brush cracking the padded earth scarcely. He looks back on his home. He looks back on ruins.
His mother, Morganti Cree, stands by him, her warm but quivering hand, calloused and encrusted with sores, lays on his left shoulder. He can still hear her sobbing quietly. He can feel it. He can barely stand not giving himself over to the same misery.
"It... It will all be all right... We will live on. It will be okay," she whispers, more to calm her nerves and avoid the choking sobs that persist through her parched lips than to admit any reality, for the only reality now is that they have no hope.
His father, Karrel Cree, died last night. He had died when the squad of Aboronian soldiers had arrived at their doorstep. Aidan had watched as he refused them entry. Aidan had watched as they dragged the man outside, stubborn with his passion to protect his family and land, and tied him to a tree.
He remembers himself, his mother, and his sister, Mahra, being brought forcefully from their house to watch as his father was then flayed with a garden hoe, one of the few farm instruments his family could afford.
He remembers Mahra being slapped across the face and beaten until she fell to the cold, dark earth and bound with harsh ropes, dragged off into the night, and never seen again. He remembers the soldiers laughing, fondling and violating her, saying all the while, "The stupid peasant. He should have just listened and let us in. But now we have you to play with tonight, don't we, beautiful?"
He remembers his mother screaming at them, calling them every foul name she could muster, wringing her hands in fury. He remembers her running after Mahra, being beaten with a cudgel, and the soldiers dragging her back, barricading her in the house, and setting it alight with fire, the whole night sky glaring with a vile red.
She managed to get out by smashing a window, her hands and face sliced to bloody ribbons as she dragged herself through the broken glass to the relative freedom beyond.
Most of all, however, he remembers his anger.
And now, his focus returned to the dusk covering the field before him, Aidan remembered his purpose. His tightened his grip on his short sword, his soul burning once more with renewed anger as his home had burned just months before, and stood facing the high walls of Nyord Sardi. Opportunity had come.
With the countless thousands of other peasants around him, the time for revenge had come. Revolution was at hand.
Full Name: Tyreon Ashari Race: Asrai Age: 212 Eye Color: Green Hair Color/Hair Style: Dark brown / medium length. Gender: Male Weapon/Armor Specialization (If Any): Two rapiers. Light chain mail armor underneathe his robes. Personal History:
The smell of rotting flesh, the sounds of agony and the sight of crimson coated floors fill the room. Hallway after hallway of room after room filled with bodies, both dead and almost dead. One room at the end of the hall, free of the carnage in the rest of the Dungeon. A man sits in a red velvet chair behind a massive apothecary desk. His head hung low, barley keeping itself up with its own strength. Papers, vials, bottles, and instruments litter the top of the desk. The man's hands move across the desk, contradicting the appearance of the motionless torso, crashing everything on the desk down to the floor. Papers fly upwards as metal and glass crash onto the floor. A brief moment of silence in the, otherwise noise laden dungeon. Another man enters the room as the man in the chair raises his head to look at the man.
"It's useless" is all the man in the chair says.
The other man continues to stare at him, not knowing what to say if anything.
"We can't just keep helping these injured. Most of them come to us barely alive. If we are lucky, we can save a quarter of them. Woman, children, it doesn't matter, all of them come to us beat and battered by the reaches of that tyrant. No place is safe, no place is safe from that man and it is only a matter of time before they find this place. It's useless."
"Tyreon, How can you say this is useless? Look at what you have done." The man says as he looks behind him at the hallways of the dungeon.
"You have saved numerous amounts of lives. You haven given hope to those who have none left. You have given children back to mothers and fathers back to children."
Tyreon stands up pushing the huge elaborate chair backwards. He stands up propping his weight onto his arms that lay on the desk.
"I konw...I know. But it is not enough, not enough for me."
Tyreon walks around the room and joins the man standing in his doorway. They both exit the room and walk down the hallways. They look into each room, some filled with dead bodies, others with people missing limbs, burned, or defiled.
"I cannot accept THIS" Tyreon says as he looks his partner in the eyes. It should never even have to come to this. One man and one man alone is responsible for all of this pain and misery. This one man has strucken fear into those who live and hopelessness into those who have lost."
Tyreon continues to walk through the dungeouness maze, infuriated by the sights surrounding him. He makes his way to a stairwell. A round staircase leading upwards towards the main floor of the building. He walks up the stairs passing the main floor and continues upwards to the roof of the building. He stands atop the broken down, crumbling burnt building. He looks outwards towards the landscape. He sees nothing, just a dark night with the absence of the moon's light which is shrouded behind thick overcast clouds. The earth and sky meld as one in an abismal background. As Tyreon stands there, thinking of everyting that has happened, a faint torch lights the the path of two humans. He sees one man carrying the other, screams coming from both, one in search for hope and the other in tears of pain. Tyreon yells at the top of his lungs, hoping his voice will be heard over their own. Tyreon runs down the stairs to the main floor of the building. He pulls one of the entrance doors open. It swings slowly open as the two men approach it.
"Quick, hurry," Tyreon commands as he closes the doors soon after the men enter.
"Down the stairs." He directs them. As they stumble down the stairs, Tyreon takes notes of the ailments of the man on the left. His jaw is broken, arm bends in three places, blood fills the mans shirt.
Tyreon swiftly gets in front of the two men.
"Follow me" Tyreon orders as he runs down the hallway and turns into an empty room. He takes the battered man off of the other's shoulder. He lays him down onto a table. Tyreon looks the man over to confirm his diagnosis.
"What happened?" Tyreon asks the other man standing in the doorway.
"They came after us, they attacked without warning. I ran out of the house as quick as I could be he stayed inside. He said he wasn't going to let them take his family. Three men barged in kicking our door down. My father drew his sword and readied himself for their attack. I watched through the window. The first man lunged at him and my Father evaded his attack. My Father turned around and sliced the man down his back. He turned back around to the other two invaders. One man landed a punch to his face, my Father fell to the floor. The other man came up and stomped his body repeatedly. I couldn't stand watching any more. I ran back into our house and caught their attention. The two men abandoned the assualt on my Father and came after me. One man got my arm with his sword. While they were distracted on me, My Father got up and ran his sword right through the chest of one them, he pulled his sword out and swung his sword fiercly at the other man's head. My Father fell back to the floor. I remember a friend telling me of this place, this sanctuary. I picked up my Father and ran over here, hoping to find this place, hoping to find you."
Tyreon attended to the man's wounds, focusing first on his arm and then moving to his jaw. Ashari tears open the mans shirt and inspects the man's chest.
"Abdura basreyacera" Tyreon chants as a bright golden glow emits from his hands he has placed over the man's chest.
After mending the man's chest, Tyreon wraps the man in badages.
"Your Father is going to be fine." Tyreon insures the man.
"I'll leave you two alone."
Tyreon leaves the room and heads back to his office. Papers and broken glass still lie on the floor. He makes his way through the clutter and sits down in chair with his head hung low.
"I cannot allow this to continue, I will not let this continue."
Tyreon stands back up quickly. He grabs his two rapiers sitting in the corner of the room. He vacates his room and heads for the stairwell. On the way, his partner stops him.
"What are you doing? Where are you going?" he asked Tyreon.
"Something I should have done a long time ago" was his only reply.
Tyreon climbed up the stairwell to the main floor of the building. He made his way to the front door, grabbing the door and pulling it open. He left the building, turning around only once to get a last look, he turned back around and disapeared into the dark night.
Character-Driving Goals: To end the haneous suffering the count has plagued the world with.
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(Playby: Natalie Portman)
Full Name: Farihah Asralia
Race: Asrai
Age: 103
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color/Hair Style: Shoulder Blade Length, Black
Gender: Female
Weapon/Armor Specialization: Very proficient with simple, light weapons and armor (short bows, knives, leather armor, etc).
Personal History:
"I do not know the story of my family's exile from Emraldi, the city of the ancient ones. It was so many ages ago now that I am doubtful whether my father and mother even knew of it. If they did, they did not see fit to tell me before they passed on. Perhaps that is for the best, for I am sure that no good could come of such knowledge. Why dwell on past grievances when so much evil is happening now?
I speak, of course, of the destruction of the lands and peoples all around us. Day by day more is lost. Murder over land disputes, sickness and plague, fire; all of these, which would have once been note-worthy blights of the world, are but trickles in the raging torrent of death that has been brought upon us all with the coming of the man who would call himself our lord. But he is not our lord. Not my lord.
Aboron. A name I both love and despise. For it is the name of the land. The name of the trees, the birds, all the creatures and people who dwell on it. It is life. For this, I love it. But it is also hate, fear, and genocide. For this I despise it. How could we let this happen? How can we now put an end to it? These are the questions we must ask ourselves. For the answer, we must look to our past and remember how it once was..."
***
"When I was young and the world was so much happier than it is now, my mother and father told me of the Old Religion, of the Gods, and of our people's great history. They told me of the difference between we, the Asrai, and Man - the other great race. They told me, too, of the Darka'Numi, the Blackweaves, how they crawled from the dark pits of the earth to choke the life out of the land and the air and the sea. I cannot recall being more frightened than I was then. My greatest fear became the Blackweaves and their frighftul ways. I had no idea then that it would be Man, not the Darka'Numi that would bring this future upon us.
My family has long lived in the outside world, no longer protected by the borders of the old city. It has been this way for generations. We lived a quiet and humble existence, far from settlements of any kind. I grew up with the woods, with the beasts and birds and trees. I had no fear of Man. Would that I had.
When I was still young in the eyes of the Asrai, I began to travel ever closer to the borders of the wood in hopes of catching a glimpse of someone - anyone - else. I did not even fear an encounter with the Blackweaves, for I was brazen and foolish, trusting in my own abilities. It was on one of these journeys that I met a young man. A Human man. He told me that I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. I did not understand. He asked me where I had come from. I told him, the woods. He asked me to show him. So I did. I knew no better. If only I had known then what I know now.
That night, men came with torches and spears. They came to kill us, my family and me, because of what we were, because we were not like them. Aboron's men, back when he was not yet lord. Even then he commanded many men and through them wielded a deadly hatred.
My mother told me to run, so I did, confused and without direction. I reached the outer edges of the forest three days later, bleary-eyed and delirious. Had it not been for a passing caravan, I would likely have died. I... I find it difficult to speak of this.. even to this day. Let it suffice to say that these men were not so wicked. They fed me, cared for me, let me live. They taught me of the world beyond my wood; a world of darkness and fear. I had been so naive before that, it is almost embarrassing to speak of it. My own ignorance led to the destruction, to the death of my...
I am not so ignorant anymore. They taught me many things. How to survive outside the wood, how to fight and fend for myself, and - perhaps most importantly - the ways of the Old Religion and of the power I could wield through it. In their travels they had collected a great deal on it and the incantations they taught me were a good means to block out painful memories. So I learned. I learned and I learned until there was no more to learn, nothing left to dull the pain.
That was not so long ago. And now my heart begs for vengeance. Not just for myself or for my family, but for all those who have been wronged. All those who have suffered. Justice is in the air and it is swift approaching like a storm looming just over the horizon. The world is cold and dying and it is up to us, those who would seek to change it, to kindle revolution in the bodies and spirits around us. I will do my part and, when it is over, I pray my heart can find its peace at last."
Character-Driving Goals: Justice for all those slain and all the nature ruthlessly destroyed by Aboron and those who serve him willfully. All after that remains to be seen.
Full Name: Mentis Fuzojix Race: Asrai - Human mixture Age: 29 Eye Color: Hazel Hair Color/Hair Style: Black, shoulder length straight hair Gender: Male Weapon/Armor Specialization: Proficient in light armor, wears basic leather armor underneath his robes. Especially proficient with his chosen and highly customized weapon, a bladed chain.
Personal History:
"What do you want with me?!"
The screams had resurfaced, he thought he had managed to bury them with the rest of his memories, but the screams always returned.
"I've told you already, I DON'T KNOW!!"
He chuckled darkly, wondering what he would be doing if he had never escaped from that wretched prison.
"Mom, somebody's at the door, I think it's the town guard."
He couldn't help but laugh at this memory, his own mother. His own mother actually sold him out. She had promised that she would keep his gifts a secret, but people always said that money is a terrible thing.
This became completely apparent at the age of 8. The morning after his birthday, soldiers dragged him away from his home, into the depths of the castle dungeons. He could remember the look on his mother's face as he was dragged, kicking and screaming away from the one place he thought he was safe in, his last sanctuary from the rigors of keeping his heritage a secret. That look on her face, utter disgust for the spawn she has birthed as she fondled the new coins in her pocket.
"At least she got what was coming to her." He thought to himself, chuckling once more at the image of his house burning to the ground. The memory of throwing the torch, of the house turning to cinders, of his mothers' cries as she charred in her bed. He hummed the tune he had hummed the night he stood watching his home burn. That tune was the one thing he had kept from his past, the song that his mother used to sing for him as he drifted off to sleep. That one keepsake with him, he left his past behind to strike out on his own.
He couldn't help but wonder what had become of his father at this point, wondering if he had an equally easy time of leaving his mother behind, or if he even knew that his mother had given birth. Asrai and humans very rarely mate, Mentis was one of the few unfortunate to have this mixed blood. The powers of his Asrai father ran rampant, and his human lineage could not contain the raw energy running through his veins. He would spend hours trying to focus this energy, trying to draw it along some discernable course instead of being a mere conduit to the uncontrollable and unpredictable energies that flowed through him.
He always tried to hide it, and thought he had the townsfolk fooled. But as he remembered once more, money is a terrible thing. Without money, he never would have spent those years trapped in the castle dungeons, being inspected and grilled like some lab specimen under a lens. The castle mages were the worst of them, always trying to unlock the power within him, always trying to harness it to fuel their own lust for power. They saw him as a generator, and themselves as the sole benefactors of the power that flowed from this now 12 year old boy.
He remembered the day of his vengeance, his freedom. He remembered strangling the mage with the very chains he was imprisoned with, feeling the life slip from him. He felt no remorse for this act, he knew that they would only increase the already unbearable experiments, he could take it no longer. He took the mages' key, unlocked himself, and dressed in his robes. Looking back upon his cell, he picked up the chain he had been confined with, keeping it as a reminder to cherish his regained freedom. His one keepsake in hand, he ran without looking back, and paid his mother a long overdue visit.
His powers still running rampant, he studied the Asrai people, learning of a thing called "The Old Religion". He would sneak into the castle archives at night, wearing the robes of his oppressors to appear as one of them. Several months of dredging up old tomes in the forbidden castle archives had turned up a rather large vocabulary of words, words of power. Some, he could not say, or even think without endangering his body and mind. But the words that governed the realms of raw energy were at his fingertips, and subject to his every wish.
Now, leaving his past in the back of his mind, he turned his mind back to the current day. He joined his brethren in the field, thrust his now weaponized chain in the air, and bellowed a howl of freedom, of revolution.
Character-Driving Goals: Vengeance for the years he lost, and to find the whereabouts of his father.
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Full Name: Aritius Jesahi (Laist Vakoilem) Race: Asrai Age: 126 Eye Color: Deep Green Hair Color/Hair Style: Dark brown/Shaved Gender: Male Weapon/Armor Specialization (If Any): One-handed swords and knives/daggers. Light leather armor. Personal History:
A young boy watches from under his bed as men ransack his house as the cries of his family fill the air. The sounds stop and the boy crawls from under his bed nervously looking around for his family. Immense heat fills the house and the air around him becomes filled with smoke. Flames can be seen creeping up the side of the house from the boy's window. He runs quickly down the stairs and outside of his house and it becomes fully ingulved in fire. He watches from around the corner of the burning house as his father is loaded into a cage that is on a wagon. The men mount their horses and move off into the night along with the wagon that holds his father. The boy runs after the wagon and the horses, but they are lost into the darkness of the night.
"Be brave," the boy's mother tells him.
He looks over at his mother who is dying on the ground. He runs over to her and falls to his knees holding her as she takes the last of he breathes. With one last look at the darkness that his father drifted off to, the boy hugs his mom crying.
"It's their fault, these humans. It's all their fault!"
***
A man sits at a table reading pieces of parchment with jumbled words and letters on them. As he reads through the scraps as he counts letters, then writes a single letter on another piece of parchment. The man has the letters G, T, H, M and P on his parchment. He turns the parchment of jumbled letters over and starts counting again. He adds an E, T, E, A and S to his letters and arranges the letters which spell out 'GET THE MAPS'. He stands up and pushes the chair he was sitting in back to the table. The candle that burns on the wall flickers brightly as he burns the parchment in it.
He walks down a hallway and stops at a door, knocking lightly on it. With no answer from the other side, he slowly opens the door and walks in. On a table sits lots of unorganized papers and large rolls of parchment. He unrolls one and starts to examine it. Unsatified with its details he rolls it back up and replaces it to its original spot. He then unrolls a smaller parchment and looks over it quickly before he puts it in his belt.
"What are you doing?!" shouts a voice that startles Laist.
"Nothing, Count, my lord," Laist replies.
"You were looking at my maps! You have no business here peasant!" the Count shouts to him.
"No, I was looking for... for my list of duties," pleads Laist.
"LIAR! How dare you insult me in such a way! Who are you?"
"It's Laist Vakoilem, your hired servent."
"I will not stand for this. You are a liar and a insult my ruling upon this land," the Count tells Laist, "Guards! Take this man to the dungeons."
Guards open the doors to the room and grab Laist by his arms to be taken away. Laist doesn't fight it, but they drag him off by his arms regardless. They take him to the lower level of the Counts fortress where Laist is assigned a cell. The guards throw Laist in the cell and slam the large iron door shut and laugh at Laist.
"Looks like you did it now little, man. The Count will have you dead by morning," the one guard tells Laist with a snicker.
"Is that so big man?" Laist asks walking up to the hefty door that seperates the guard and Laist.
"Yeah, it is!" the guard reassures Laist as he grabs his shoulder tightly.
Laist puts his hand on the gaurds forearm and with a quick gesture, breaks his arm at the elbow. The guard falls to his knees with a cry of pain that's lost with the yelling of the rebellion from outside. Laist then grabs the guards head bashing it on the iron bars of the door and breaks his neck. The second guards turns and shoves his sword through the iron bars, missing Laist, who grabs the guards hands holding him to the door. Laist tugs him toward the door slamming him into it as he disarms the guard of his weapon. He twirls the sword and jams it through the guards throat, killing him. He kneels down retriving the keys and opens his cell, escaping.
Laist escapes out of the fortress and sees the masses of people that are revolting against the Count and his rule over the land. Laist joins them in ranks, as he too refuses to let the Count's rampaging continue without any kind of justice be brought upon him.
Any character added after this point will need to be worked in to the story after the initial start. Please PM me, do not respond here or in the OOC thread with any questions regarding this issue.
This thread is for the sole purpose of [highlight]creating the characters[/highlight] to use in the corresponding Role-Play. There are a few [highlight]guidelines [/highlight]I will outline here and a bit of [highlight]extended information[/highlight] to take in to consideration when writing your character's [highlight]Personal History[/highlight] (which will be described below).
Guidelines:
* For your own benefit, please consider the following article on the Asrai: http://daysofamyorne.host56.com/show_art.php?artid=6. Also, humans can use magic, too (if anyone was wondering), but you most obey the same principles. For the most part, race is aesthetic.
** Because of the ruling style for a long time in Aboron, there really is no distinguishing of individual hamlets or such in the county. In his greed for power and wealth, and his fear of his own people, Count Reithwayr Aboron III and many of his predecessors ruled their domain so that no large concentration of people would form at any single point so that resistance would be weak. Nerogi (if you saw the map) is at large an exception to this rule because it is on the far side of the mountains and thus is mostly autonomous though it is still in the boundary of the county.
**(continued) Also, the Old Religion, which I have not unfortunately been able to write anything major up on yet besides what is in the other thread in this forum, is revered by all denizens of Amyorne. It is the base for the magical disciplines and many of the challenges in the world. If you choose to be some kind of aetheist or anti-religion person, well... It won't work very well. You will still have to obey all the magical precepts stated by it and observe the countless performances of its spirituality. Simply put: This is a fantasy- things like ghosts, witches, gods, and magic are all real.
Other things to take in to account:
Race: Human
Age: 22
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color/Hair Style: Deep brown / Short
Gender: Male
Weapon/Armor Specialization (If Any): Short sword / Leather padding
Personal History:
It is the beginning of autumn, cold wisps of crisp air shivering through the drooping eaves and bows of the trees of southern Aboron. All of the county seems to wilt with heaviness, filled to bursting with death and sorrow. Even the sky shows signs of its misery, often rearing only shades of grey and drained blue, the sun casting a white and blazing glare upon everything.
The fields that spread as far as his eyes could see are dried and withered, small bits of weeds and thorny brush cracking the padded earth scarcely. He looks back on his home. He looks back on ruins.
His mother, Morganti Cree, stands by him, her warm but quivering hand, calloused and encrusted with sores, lays on his left shoulder. He can still hear her sobbing quietly. He can feel it. He can barely stand not giving himself over to the same misery.
"It... It will all be all right... We will live on. It will be okay," she whispers, more to calm her nerves and avoid the choking sobs that persist through her parched lips than to admit any reality, for the only reality now is that they have no hope.
His father, Karrel Cree, died last night. He had died when the squad of Aboronian soldiers had arrived at their doorstep. Aidan had watched as he refused them entry. Aidan had watched as they dragged the man outside, stubborn with his passion to protect his family and land, and tied him to a tree.
He remembers himself, his mother, and his sister, Mahra, being brought forcefully from their house to watch as his father was then flayed with a garden hoe, one of the few farm instruments his family could afford.
He remembers Mahra being slapped across the face and beaten until she fell to the cold, dark earth and bound with harsh ropes, dragged off into the night, and never seen again. He remembers the soldiers laughing, fondling and violating her, saying all the while, "The stupid peasant. He should have just listened and let us in. But now we have you to play with tonight, don't we, beautiful?"
He remembers his mother screaming at them, calling them every foul name she could muster, wringing her hands in fury. He remembers her running after Mahra, being beaten with a cudgel, and the soldiers dragging her back, barricading her in the house, and setting it alight with fire, the whole night sky glaring with a vile red.
She managed to get out by smashing a window, her hands and face sliced to bloody ribbons as she dragged herself through the broken glass to the relative freedom beyond.
Most of all, however, he remembers his anger.
And now, his focus returned to the dusk covering the field before him, Aidan remembered his purpose. His tightened his grip on his short sword, his soul burning once more with renewed anger as his home had burned just months before, and stood facing the high walls of Nyord Sardi. Opportunity had come.
With the countless thousands of other peasants around him, the time for revenge had come. Revolution was at hand.
Character-Driving Goals: Freedom and revenge.
Full Name: Tyreon Ashari
Race: Asrai
Age: 212
Eye Color: Green
Hair Color/Hair Style: Dark brown / medium length.
Gender: Male
Weapon/Armor Specialization (If Any): Two rapiers. Light chain mail armor underneathe his robes.
Personal History:
The smell of rotting flesh, the sounds of agony and the sight of crimson coated floors fill the room. Hallway after hallway of room after room filled with bodies, both dead and almost dead. One room at the end of the hall, free of the carnage in the rest of the Dungeon. A man sits in a red velvet chair behind a massive apothecary desk. His head hung low, barley keeping itself up with its own strength. Papers, vials, bottles, and instruments litter the top of the desk. The man's hands move across the desk, contradicting the appearance of the motionless torso, crashing everything on the desk down to the floor. Papers fly upwards as metal and glass crash onto the floor. A brief moment of silence in the, otherwise noise laden dungeon. Another man enters the room as the man in the chair raises his head to look at the man.
"It's useless" is all the man in the chair says.
The other man continues to stare at him, not knowing what to say if anything.
"We can't just keep helping these injured. Most of them come to us barely alive. If we are lucky, we can save a quarter of them. Woman, children, it doesn't matter, all of them come to us beat and battered by the reaches of that tyrant. No place is safe, no place is safe from that man and it is only a matter of time before they find this place. It's useless."
"Tyreon, How can you say this is useless? Look at what you have done." The man says as he looks behind him at the hallways of the dungeon.
"You have saved numerous amounts of lives. You haven given hope to those who have none left. You have given children back to mothers and fathers back to children."
Tyreon stands up pushing the huge elaborate chair backwards. He stands up propping his weight onto his arms that lay on the desk.
"I konw...I know. But it is not enough, not enough for me."
Tyreon walks around the room and joins the man standing in his doorway. They both exit the room and walk down the hallways. They look into each room, some filled with dead bodies, others with people missing limbs, burned, or defiled.
"I cannot accept THIS" Tyreon says as he looks his partner in the eyes. It should never even have to come to this. One man and one man alone is responsible for all of this pain and misery. This one man has strucken fear into those who live and hopelessness into those who have lost."
Tyreon continues to walk through the dungeouness maze, infuriated by the sights surrounding him. He makes his way to a stairwell. A round staircase leading upwards towards the main floor of the building. He walks up the stairs passing the main floor and continues upwards to the roof of the building. He stands atop the broken down, crumbling burnt building. He looks outwards towards the landscape. He sees nothing, just a dark night with the absence of the moon's light which is shrouded behind thick overcast clouds. The earth and sky meld as one in an abismal background. As Tyreon stands there, thinking of everyting that has happened, a faint torch lights the the path of two humans. He sees one man carrying the other, screams coming from both, one in search for hope and the other in tears of pain. Tyreon yells at the top of his lungs, hoping his voice will be heard over their own. Tyreon runs down the stairs to the main floor of the building. He pulls one of the entrance doors open. It swings slowly open as the two men approach it.
"Quick, hurry," Tyreon commands as he closes the doors soon after the men enter.
"Down the stairs." He directs them. As they stumble down the stairs, Tyreon takes notes of the ailments of the man on the left. His jaw is broken, arm bends in three places, blood fills the mans shirt.
Tyreon swiftly gets in front of the two men.
"Follow me" Tyreon orders as he runs down the hallway and turns into an empty room. He takes the battered man off of the other's shoulder. He lays him down onto a table. Tyreon looks the man over to confirm his diagnosis.
"What happened?" Tyreon asks the other man standing in the doorway.
"They came after us, they attacked without warning. I ran out of the house as quick as I could be he stayed inside. He said he wasn't going to let them take his family. Three men barged in kicking our door down. My father drew his sword and readied himself for their attack. I watched through the window. The first man lunged at him and my Father evaded his attack. My Father turned around and sliced the man down his back. He turned back around to the other two invaders. One man landed a punch to his face, my Father fell to the floor. The other man came up and stomped his body repeatedly. I couldn't stand watching any more. I ran back into our house and caught their attention. The two men abandoned the assualt on my Father and came after me. One man got my arm with his sword. While they were distracted on me, My Father got up and ran his sword right through the chest of one them, he pulled his sword out and swung his sword fiercly at the other man's head. My Father fell back to the floor. I remember a friend telling me of this place, this sanctuary. I picked up my Father and ran over here, hoping to find this place, hoping to find you."
Tyreon attended to the man's wounds, focusing first on his arm and then moving to his jaw. Ashari tears open the mans shirt and inspects the man's chest.
"Abdura basreyacera" Tyreon chants as a bright golden glow emits from his hands he has placed over the man's chest.
After mending the man's chest, Tyreon wraps the man in badages.
"Your Father is going to be fine." Tyreon insures the man.
"I'll leave you two alone."
Tyreon leaves the room and heads back to his office. Papers and broken glass still lie on the floor. He makes his way through the clutter and sits down in chair with his head hung low.
"I cannot allow this to continue, I will not let this continue."
Tyreon stands back up quickly. He grabs his two rapiers sitting in the corner of the room. He vacates his room and heads for the stairwell. On the way, his partner stops him.
"What are you doing? Where are you going?" he asked Tyreon.
"Something I should have done a long time ago" was his only reply.
Tyreon climbed up the stairwell to the main floor of the building. He made his way to the front door, grabbing the door and pulling it open. He left the building, turning around only once to get a last look, he turned back around and disapeared into the dark night.
Character-Driving Goals: To end the haneous suffering the count has plagued the world with.
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(Playby: Natalie Portman)
Full Name: Farihah Asralia
Race: Asrai
Age: 103
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color/Hair Style: Shoulder Blade Length, Black
Gender: Female
Weapon/Armor Specialization: Very proficient with simple, light weapons and armor (short bows, knives, leather armor, etc).
Personal History:
"I do not know the story of my family's exile from Emraldi, the city of the ancient ones. It was so many ages ago now that I am doubtful whether my father and mother even knew of it. If they did, they did not see fit to tell me before they passed on. Perhaps that is for the best, for I am sure that no good could come of such knowledge. Why dwell on past grievances when so much evil is happening now?
I speak, of course, of the destruction of the lands and peoples all around us. Day by day more is lost. Murder over land disputes, sickness and plague, fire; all of these, which would have once been note-worthy blights of the world, are but trickles in the raging torrent of death that has been brought upon us all with the coming of the man who would call himself our lord. But he is not our lord. Not my lord.
Aboron. A name I both love and despise. For it is the name of the land. The name of the trees, the birds, all the creatures and people who dwell on it. It is life. For this, I love it. But it is also hate, fear, and genocide. For this I despise it. How could we let this happen? How can we now put an end to it? These are the questions we must ask ourselves. For the answer, we must look to our past and remember how it once was..."
***
"When I was young and the world was so much happier than it is now, my mother and father told me of the Old Religion, of the Gods, and of our people's great history. They told me of the difference between we, the Asrai, and Man - the other great race. They told me, too, of the Darka'Numi, the Blackweaves, how they crawled from the dark pits of the earth to choke the life out of the land and the air and the sea. I cannot recall being more frightened than I was then. My greatest fear became the Blackweaves and their frighftul ways. I had no idea then that it would be Man, not the Darka'Numi that would bring this future upon us.
My family has long lived in the outside world, no longer protected by the borders of the old city. It has been this way for generations. We lived a quiet and humble existence, far from settlements of any kind. I grew up with the woods, with the beasts and birds and trees. I had no fear of Man. Would that I had.
When I was still young in the eyes of the Asrai, I began to travel ever closer to the borders of the wood in hopes of catching a glimpse of someone - anyone - else. I did not even fear an encounter with the Blackweaves, for I was brazen and foolish, trusting in my own abilities. It was on one of these journeys that I met a young man. A Human man. He told me that I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. I did not understand. He asked me where I had come from. I told him, the woods. He asked me to show him. So I did. I knew no better. If only I had known then what I know now.
That night, men came with torches and spears. They came to kill us, my family and me, because of what we were, because we were not like them. Aboron's men, back when he was not yet lord. Even then he commanded many men and through them wielded a deadly hatred.
My mother told me to run, so I did, confused and without direction. I reached the outer edges of the forest three days later, bleary-eyed and delirious. Had it not been for a passing caravan, I would likely have died. I... I find it difficult to speak of this.. even to this day. Let it suffice to say that these men were not so wicked. They fed me, cared for me, let me live. They taught me of the world beyond my wood; a world of darkness and fear. I had been so naive before that, it is almost embarrassing to speak of it. My own ignorance led to the destruction, to the death of my...
I am not so ignorant anymore. They taught me many things. How to survive outside the wood, how to fight and fend for myself, and - perhaps most importantly - the ways of the Old Religion and of the power I could wield through it. In their travels they had collected a great deal on it and the incantations they taught me were a good means to block out painful memories. So I learned. I learned and I learned until there was no more to learn, nothing left to dull the pain.
That was not so long ago. And now my heart begs for vengeance. Not just for myself or for my family, but for all those who have been wronged. All those who have suffered. Justice is in the air and it is swift approaching like a storm looming just over the horizon. The world is cold and dying and it is up to us, those who would seek to change it, to kindle revolution in the bodies and spirits around us. I will do my part and, when it is over, I pray my heart can find its peace at last."
Character-Driving Goals: Justice for all those slain and all the nature ruthlessly destroyed by Aboron and those who serve him willfully. All after that remains to be seen.
Full Name: Mentis Fuzojix
Race: Asrai - Human mixture
Age: 29
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color/Hair Style: Black, shoulder length straight hair
Gender: Male
Weapon/Armor Specialization: Proficient in light armor, wears basic leather armor underneath his robes. Especially proficient with his chosen and highly customized weapon, a bladed chain.
Personal History:
"What do you want with me?!"
The screams had resurfaced, he thought he had managed to bury them with the rest of his memories, but the screams always returned.
"I've told you already, I DON'T KNOW!!"
He chuckled darkly, wondering what he would be doing if he had never escaped from that wretched prison.
"Mom, somebody's at the door, I think it's the town guard."
He couldn't help but laugh at this memory, his own mother. His own mother actually sold him out. She had promised that she would keep his gifts a secret, but people always said that money is a terrible thing.
This became completely apparent at the age of 8. The morning after his birthday, soldiers dragged him away from his home, into the depths of the castle dungeons. He could remember the look on his mother's face as he was dragged, kicking and screaming away from the one place he thought he was safe in, his last sanctuary from the rigors of keeping his heritage a secret. That look on her face, utter disgust for the spawn she has birthed as she fondled the new coins in her pocket.
"At least she got what was coming to her." He thought to himself, chuckling once more at the image of his house burning to the ground. The memory of throwing the torch, of the house turning to cinders, of his mothers' cries as she charred in her bed. He hummed the tune he had hummed the night he stood watching his home burn. That tune was the one thing he had kept from his past, the song that his mother used to sing for him as he drifted off to sleep. That one keepsake with him, he left his past behind to strike out on his own.
He couldn't help but wonder what had become of his father at this point, wondering if he had an equally easy time of leaving his mother behind, or if he even knew that his mother had given birth. Asrai and humans very rarely mate, Mentis was one of the few unfortunate to have this mixed blood. The powers of his Asrai father ran rampant, and his human lineage could not contain the raw energy running through his veins. He would spend hours trying to focus this energy, trying to draw it along some discernable course instead of being a mere conduit to the uncontrollable and unpredictable energies that flowed through him.
He always tried to hide it, and thought he had the townsfolk fooled. But as he remembered once more, money is a terrible thing. Without money, he never would have spent those years trapped in the castle dungeons, being inspected and grilled like some lab specimen under a lens. The castle mages were the worst of them, always trying to unlock the power within him, always trying to harness it to fuel their own lust for power. They saw him as a generator, and themselves as the sole benefactors of the power that flowed from this now 12 year old boy.
He remembered the day of his vengeance, his freedom. He remembered strangling the mage with the very chains he was imprisoned with, feeling the life slip from him. He felt no remorse for this act, he knew that they would only increase the already unbearable experiments, he could take it no longer. He took the mages' key, unlocked himself, and dressed in his robes. Looking back upon his cell, he picked up the chain he had been confined with, keeping it as a reminder to cherish his regained freedom. His one keepsake in hand, he ran without looking back, and paid his mother a long overdue visit.
His powers still running rampant, he studied the Asrai people, learning of a thing called "The Old Religion". He would sneak into the castle archives at night, wearing the robes of his oppressors to appear as one of them. Several months of dredging up old tomes in the forbidden castle archives had turned up a rather large vocabulary of words, words of power. Some, he could not say, or even think without endangering his body and mind. But the words that governed the realms of raw energy were at his fingertips, and subject to his every wish.
Now, leaving his past in the back of his mind, he turned his mind back to the current day. He joined his brethren in the field, thrust his now weaponized chain in the air, and bellowed a howl of freedom, of revolution.
Character-Driving Goals: Vengeance for the years he lost, and to find the whereabouts of his father.
Race: Asrai
Age: 126
Eye Color: Deep Green
Hair Color/Hair Style: Dark brown/Shaved
Gender: Male
Weapon/Armor Specialization (If Any): One-handed swords and knives/daggers. Light leather armor.
Personal History:
A young boy watches from under his bed as men ransack his house as the cries of his family fill the air. The sounds stop and the boy crawls from under his bed nervously looking around for his family. Immense heat fills the house and the air around him becomes filled with smoke. Flames can be seen creeping up the side of the house from the boy's window. He runs quickly down the stairs and outside of his house and it becomes fully ingulved in fire. He watches from around the corner of the burning house as his father is loaded into a cage that is on a wagon. The men mount their horses and move off into the night along with the wagon that holds his father. The boy runs after the wagon and the horses, but they are lost into the darkness of the night.
"Be brave," the boy's mother tells him.
He looks over at his mother who is dying on the ground. He runs over to her and falls to his knees holding her as she takes the last of he breathes. With one last look at the darkness that his father drifted off to, the boy hugs his mom crying.
"It's their fault, these humans. It's all their fault!"
***
A man sits at a table reading pieces of parchment with jumbled words and letters on them. As he reads through the scraps as he counts letters, then writes a single letter on another piece of parchment. The man has the letters G, T, H, M and P on his parchment. He turns the parchment of jumbled letters over and starts counting again. He adds an E, T, E, A and S to his letters and arranges the letters which spell out 'GET THE MAPS'. He stands up and pushes the chair he was sitting in back to the table. The candle that burns on the wall flickers brightly as he burns the parchment in it.
He walks down a hallway and stops at a door, knocking lightly on it. With no answer from the other side, he slowly opens the door and walks in. On a table sits lots of unorganized papers and large rolls of parchment. He unrolls one and starts to examine it. Unsatified with its details he rolls it back up and replaces it to its original spot. He then unrolls a smaller parchment and looks over it quickly before he puts it in his belt.
"What are you doing?!" shouts a voice that startles Laist.
"Nothing, Count, my lord," Laist replies.
"You were looking at my maps! You have no business here peasant!" the Count shouts to him.
"No, I was looking for... for my list of duties," pleads Laist.
"LIAR! How dare you insult me in such a way! Who are you?"
"It's Laist Vakoilem, your hired servent."
"I will not stand for this. You are a liar and a insult my ruling upon this land," the Count tells Laist, "Guards! Take this man to the dungeons."
Guards open the doors to the room and grab Laist by his arms to be taken away. Laist doesn't fight it, but they drag him off by his arms regardless. They take him to the lower level of the Counts fortress where Laist is assigned a cell. The guards throw Laist in the cell and slam the large iron door shut and laugh at Laist.
"Looks like you did it now little, man. The Count will have you dead by morning," the one guard tells Laist with a snicker.
"Is that so big man?" Laist asks walking up to the hefty door that seperates the guard and Laist.
"Yeah, it is!" the guard reassures Laist as he grabs his shoulder tightly.
Laist puts his hand on the gaurds forearm and with a quick gesture, breaks his arm at the elbow. The guard falls to his knees with a cry of pain that's lost with the yelling of the rebellion from outside. Laist then grabs the guards head bashing it on the iron bars of the door and breaks his neck. The second guards turns and shoves his sword through the iron bars, missing Laist, who grabs the guards hands holding him to the door. Laist tugs him toward the door slamming him into it as he disarms the guard of his weapon. He twirls the sword and jams it through the guards throat, killing him. He kneels down retriving the keys and opens his cell, escaping.
Laist escapes out of the fortress and sees the masses of people that are revolting against the Count and his rule over the land. Laist joins them in ranks, as he too refuses to let the Count's rampaging continue without any kind of justice be brought upon him.