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Audhild Wind Walker

PLAYED BY: Jennifer Schneiderman

CONTACT INFO: jecschne@gmail.com

CHARACTER NAME: Audhild Wind Walker Spiritclaw

GENDER: Female
CLASS: Cleric
AGE: 26
RACE: Ulven
HAIR: Brown
EYES: Blue

OCCUPATION: Truthseeker of Clan Spiritclaw

KNOWN SKILLS: Staff, Divine 1 & 2, Arcane 1, Witch Magic, Weaver Magic, Mana Reserves 1, Lore: Ritual, Lore: Decipher Magic, Meditation

BIRTHPLACE: Pack Wind Walker of Clan Spiritclaw

APPEARANCE: Purple face paint of Clan Spiritclaw, likes to have her hair back.

RELATIONSHIPS: Student of Ravina Spiritclaw. She has worked with all manner of factions and packs, notably The Order of Arnath’s Light, The Ravens, and Pack Longfang.

Audhild stood outside the study of her superior, shifting from foot to foot. In the past weeks she had barely slept and only eaten when she felt unconsciousness creeping at the back of her eyes. It had been a month since she had returned from the field; most of her waking hours had been spent meditating on what she had done.

She had spent years, in fact all her years, training to be a Truthseeker. The pursuit of knowledge was her divine purpose as chosen by Gaia. Through the movement of fate, that purpose, that pursuit of truth had led her to the Dirge swamp, seeking a way to contain the magic of a corruption idol within a living person. She had the necessary ritual, but she could not perform it herself. She needed three volunteers, and through deception recruited those around her to assist including a young pup from Pack Longfang. Audhild told her volunteers that the ritual would remove the corruption from an idol; she did not tell them where the corruption would go. Only three others knew of her intentions, one being a cleric who helped with the ritual, another the mage who took the corruption into his body, and third their companion, all of them members of Arnath’s Light. Audhild performed the ritual and sealed the corruption inside Ezra, the mage. She succeeded in her mission but did so through lies and manipulations. In search of knowledge, Audhild besmirched her own honor.

When she asked Gaia for the power to place an aura of protection on Ezra, he should have been safe, but still after the ritual he siphoned all mana around him and couldn’t cast as he used to. It was unexpected, but otherwise he seemed fine. Within the next months misfortune began to fall on Audhild and her friends in the Order. Ezra’s bones became brittle to the point where he could hardly walk, and violence and political strife placed a chokehold on the Order’s home of Starkhaven. She watched helplessly as each day Ezra wasted away in front of her, corrupted and losing his connection the stream of mana; he almost looked hollowed.

It felt as though Gaia was punishing her deeds, punishing those around her who took part in what some considered a heinous ritual. When she meditated she received no visions. When she asked Gaia for answers she received no response. Could Gaia not hear her? Or did she actively choose not listen?

Lost, but with a sense of duty to keep an eye on Ezra, Audhild followed an Order caravan to Dawntop, home to Pack Dawnrock of Clan Shattered Spear. Every day Audhild was plagued by the same questions with no answers. Gaia had led her to perform the ritual, so why wouldn’t she answer her now? Why would she turn her back on Audhild after she had sacrificed her own honor for the purposes of knowledge and the good of the continent? At her most desperate she saw two Longfang warriors in the middle of a rune reading.

It was primitive, but after much thought, she realized there were no other options left for her. She asked the Runes what to do; she asked how to make things right with Gaia. She asked how to be successful in her pursuit, how to go forward and regain her honor. The warrior, Thrand, cast her runes, and gave her the answer she had been looking for.

Her mission became clear: settle her own heart and heal those who she had wronged. Then, and only then, would she reap the reward of her endeavors. She began with the Warpack Leader, Sigurmon Shattered Spear, but he would not hear her words until she had received forgiveness from all the others that she had damaged through her manipulation. Audhild returned to her Clan in a daze, her mind cloudy and spinning. She had no idea how to even begin to right those she had wronged.

Countless hours of meditation had yielded nothing but the occasional cloudy vision. Though she couldn’t see what they aimed to show her, in every instance she felt the sense of movement, as if the world around her was always shifting. She had come to ask Ravina Spiritclaw for permission to join that movement. She needed to settle her heart and soul and go look for the truth which lies within herself. She would never find her answers here; she needed the freedom to follow her heart. She needed to go on a spiritual journey; one where she would be able to journey and search for what she sought. With an unsteady hand, she knocked on Ravina’s door and took a step inside.

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Abelot Grey

PLAYED BY: Sara Bahr

CONTACT INFO: 123cowner@gmail.com

CHARACTER NAME: Abelot Grey

GENDER: Male

CLASS: Rogue

AGE: 19

RACE: Human

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Green

OCCUPATION: Apprentice

KNOWN SKILLS: Archery, First aid

APPEARANCE: Nothing unusual

NOTABLE TRAITS: Invented the description “glabber fasting” and also has quite the perception when actually trying to use it.

RELATIONSHIPS: Companion to Wren Duncan

RUMORS: “I heard he got robbed three times… in a row?!”

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Well, you see, it all started with my brother. Ever since we moved to this new world and my parents settled down, he would kiss their asses and make me do all the hard labor. Then the two wrote their wills and it got far, far worse. He even had a group of “enforcers” around the farm to make sure I wasn’t able to see my own parents! Then, in a cruel twist of fate, both of my parents died in a “barn fire”. My brother inherited all of the farm (or what was left of it), and proceeded to kick me out and sent me with barely enough supplies to even survive on!
It took three hours. THREE HOURS for someone to rob me. Then a day later, I was mugged again! Luckily they didn’t kill me for being empty handed. Instead, they took my favorite hat. Then, the next night while I was sleeping on the dirty ground, someone stole my fire starters! I was about to just give up. I walked probably a few more miles before I saw yet another shady figure. I was ready to be robbed and probably killed, but apparently I’m not good enough for death. This lady ignored me for a moment, which was kind of insulting as the last few people I have met actually spoke to me. I broke the uncomfortable silence and asked where she was headed after asking if she really wasn’t interested in robbing me. Before I got an answer, I decided to go with her anyways, and we have been travelling together ever since. After becoming a little more (barely) acquainted, the lady turned out to be a Ranger named Wren. She begrudgingly let me follow and even knocked out a bandit trying to steal the little I have left. A week or two after that she noticed my existence due to my complete incompetence at anything relating to violence. Apparently that needed to be changed, so she found me a sword from a poor bandit that was on the angry side of her sword and taught me how to “not die”. Swords aren’t really my style but hey, whatever works.
I eventually got my hands on some poor corpse’s bow and used said corpse for target practice. I missed. All of them. After a month or two of practice with whatever bow was available at the time I was more and more able to carry my own weight by hunting and gathering. Due to said bows being second or third-hand, they wouldn’t last more than two or three hunting trips before breaking.Wren started stockpiling bows. It got really, really monotonous and even more boring so I politely asked about five hundred times for us to go do something. She said no. Every time. So I told her I was going to go on my own anyways. She said no again, but then realized I wasn’t joking and followed just a little grumpily. Just a little.
We helped guard some posh merchant guy and killed and maimed quite a few mordok. It was great. They really are ugly. Like really ugly. Wow. And weird. Sitting down in front of our guards weird. Us being the guards. We held the fort we just delivered supplies to and then Wren got deathbolted. It was scary. More scary than most anything I’ve encountered. Even my brother. So I went and helped kill the shaman. It raged and shoved me into a tree, then died of its wounds. Good. She got dragged to a cleric and healed but it still scared the absolute shit out of me. If she died here I would probably lose it. But she didn’t because that kinda creepy cleric was kinda cool. We held out for the night before saying our goodbyes and walking back down out of the swamp to set up a small camp.

SECRET INFO: If I see my brother, he will die.

BIRTHPLACE: I was born on a prosperous farm in the kingdom of Aldoria, and my parents were wealthy enough to buy their way onto a ship to Mardrun when the undead began taking the borders of the kingdom. Then mY BROT—-

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Kaylek Nightriver – [Hersir] [Renowned]

PLAYED BY: Cody Jackson

CHARACTER NAME: Kaylek Nightriver

GENDER: Male

CLASS: Warrior

AGE: 33 (in 272)

RACE: Ulven

HAIR: Brown/Grey

EYES: Brown

OCCUPATION: Warrior / Hersir of Clan Nightriver

BIRTHPLACE: Clan Nightriver – Pack Bloodmoon

APPEARANCE: Kaylek dresses in muted tones and wears armor with little to no ornamentation. Given his background he does not feel himself deserving of drawing attention.

RELATIONSHIPS: Kaylek has spent the last three years as an honor-bound to Pack Longfang. He has done whatever tasks have been requested of him around the settlement and has taken joy in teaching pups how to hold and swing an axe. He’s a known face around the settlement, if not a known name. (Update: Kaylek is now home in Pack Bloodmoon where he has become a Hersir of Clan Nightriver. He spends most of his time training pups and coordinating a training exchange between the Bloodmoon Warriors and the Ulfhednar of Onsallas)

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Kaylek Nightriver’s Testimony to the Leadership of Pack Longfang: On the Matter of Honor and Service

Reyna, Ranmir, and Bryech in Attendance:

It goes without saying that the world was never the same after the colonists landed on Mardrun. Everyone remembers the bloody and vicious conflict that took place, but not everyone knows of the dishonor of Kragen Bloodmoon. Not everyone knows of the dishonor of his Warpack. Not everyone knows of the dishonor that plagues me. I witnessed with my own eyes Kragen’s defeat at the hands of a colonist woman. I witnessed with my own eyes the hatred and rage that burned inside his lieutenant, Bovna, as she gave us our orders. Under the dead of night we were to move into the colonists’ camp and, without words, kill every single one.

I was young, fool hardy, ready to follow orders and find glory on the battlefield, but there was no honor in our task; no glory to be found. So why was I there? My hands hesitated and my axe hung in the air. Was it too late to go back? My orders were clear, but my mind clouded. My stomach twisted in knots as I looked over my quarry and I was about to walk away when I noticed small movements. The human at my feet began to reach slowly for a knife lying next to their bedroll. My nerves steeled and I dropped my axe on her neck and at that point I knew I had stepped over the edge. My mind was clouded behind guilt and remorse, but my path was chosen and I walked it. We moved silently and purposefully through the camp and we left no survivors and when it was done we were sworn to secrecy so that no one but the Great Wolf would know of our treachery. Soon after that night the war with the colonists came to an end, but the peace was shallow. In short time the flames of the civil war flared.

I spoke with Jovin Nightriver many times between that night and the day that Kragen’s treachery was eventually uncovered. We often spoke at lengths about the nightmares that plagued us. Every night when we closed our eyes we stood before The Great Wolf; every night we were judged unworthy. Jovin is a veteran warrior. He’d been fighting and killing long before I was even born, and yet our actions that night weighed so heavily on his conscience that months later he still had trouble sleeping. There were others that felt as we did, but there were plenty more who still felt themselves in the right. We naturally began to distance ourselves from them. Warriors that we once counted as friends slowly and over time became people that we could hardly look in the eye; in that same vein they could hardly look at us.

One day, three years ago, Jovin informed me of something big that was in the works. He let me know that big changes should be expected and that the secrets were sure to be exposed soon. He made it very clear that we were likely to be punished by Branthur Nightriver himself and that he could not be sure of what that punishment would be. I was not given a lot of detail, but I would be lying if I didn’t say that I felt some relief. A heavy heart weighs more than an axe and I would take any punishment if it meant the beginning of a journey to cleanse my soul.

I stood with Jovin and watched as Branthur Nightriver came to our camp. I watched as he entered Kragen’s tent. I could hear the roars of his anger as our dishonor became known. I was sure that my punishment would be at the least branding, at the worst execution. I steeled myself to be prepared for judgement, but what I was not prepared for was the mercy of Stanrick Longfang. Jovin came to me after the meeting and informed me that a select few of us would be sent to Onsallas to be trained so that we can one day hope to regain our honor. I was choked up by the news, but over the previous several years I had learned to keep a straight face.

You all know the rest. It was three years ago that I came to the Longfangs. I have spent these three years working hard at whatever tasks have been needed. I have chopped wood, built walls, tended to Pineed Sap harvests. I have stood watch on long nights and helped teach the pups how to hold an axe. Through it all, with every free moment I have had, I have trained so that I may one day be found worthy of standing with Pack Longfang.

I do not stand before you today attempting to claim that I have cleared my name and deserve my honor. I stand before you to beg the chance to fight alongside the Longfang in the battles to come and earn my honor. I beg the privilege to stand proud beneath your banner and wear your flag. The true war is on our doorstep and I am ready to meet it head on. I have a long journey ahead. Let me take the next step.

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Noemi

Name: Noemi

Race: Syndar

Class: Cleric

Gender: Female

Age: 23

Hair: Dark Brown

Eyes: Purple

Appearance: skull painted on her face, large horns on each side of her head.

I grew up alongside seven other Syndar who looked like me. Their parents took me in on the condition that I would be seen, not heard, speak only when spoken to, and that I must be sure to make myself useful. When the time came and the other children built their first altar they carved them meaningfully out of stone on a small cliff side surrounded by their friends and family. It was celebrated as it should be with sweets and flowers, music and dancing. When they painted their faces, they did so with beautiful pigments and paints made from the flowers in our mother’s garden.

I built my first altar alone at the bottom of a tree using a plate I stole while doing dishes and some dirty weeds I plucked from the garden. My face was painted as it always been with the ashes and soot of my cooking fires. The other children grew up as children should, surrounded by joy and showered in love. Mother always told me I could have that too, if I could just be better. Father always told me he often forgets I am even in the house.

“Your face. Your clothes. Everything about you is just so forgettable, girl.” He would tell me, after he tripping over my legs while I put away their cleaned clothes.

“How can I possibly remember a thing like you is here, standing behind all my beautiful children?” He would ask me, as we walk away from the family ofrenda, my offering still dangling in my grasp because I could not reach the platform.

“With all that dark paint you just blend into the night, I didn’t even see you had fallen behind.” He would say, stepping out of the doorway to let me into the house after I had to find my way home alone from the yearly parade of the dead.

He can laugh and scoff, but I’ll make him remember me someday.

The only time I’ve ever had for myself is in the garden. I’ve always found peace in the flowers, in their bright colors, in the promises they make me. They show me lifetimes of beauty, from the day they fully bloom to the day they are ground into dust and used to color my family’s faces. Each flower more beautiful than the last, I admire them even as their ground bodies are washed from faces and poured back into the earth. They promise me that even something so small and insignificant can bring joy to the saddest souls. I meditate there often, surrounded by blooms and blossoms. Sometimes it feels wrong to meditate away from my altar, but the amount of time I have spent nurturing the flowers makes me feel like, in a way, the garden is my altar too.

I’ve often looked out to the sea. Its still waters show me the world outside this island and without much effort I can see the land to the north and west. There are times I would swear I can reach out and touch those not so distant shores. I want nothing more than to leave behind what I don’t have here, to find a life worth living on the bigger land. I don’t care if everyone who lives there are all the same as the only outsiders I’ve encountered, the ones who float by past our shores on large wooden boats, the ones our elders say will only bring us harm. They tell us stories about the savages that are native to the bigger land, how they fought the humans that came on the first boats, how they all think we don’t belong here. On that we can agree; I also think I don’t belong here.

I’ll make it out. I’ll touch the shores of the bigger land. I want to. I have to.

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Al-Hassan Ibn Ahmad Al Saresh

CHARACTER BIO: Al-Hassan Ibn Ahmad Al Saresh, or Al-Hassan.

PLAYED BY: Andrez “Peanut” Beltran

CONTACT INFO: Andrez Beltran on Facebook.

CHARACTER NAME: Al-Hassan Ibn Ahmad Al Saresh, or Al-Hassan

NAME MEANING:

Al Hassan – the Handsome

Ibn Ahmad – Son of Ahmad (Much Praised)

Al Saresh – of the City of Saresh

GENDER: Male

CLASS: Cleric

AGE: Late 30’s

RACE: Human

HAIR: Black

EYES: Brown

OCCUPATION: Seeker of Knowledge

KNOWN SKILLS: The ways of the Divine and Arcane arts, though not necessarily a practitioner of it.

BIRTHPLACE: Saresh in the May’Kar Dominon

APPEARANCE: Short; dark skinned; is typically in swathes of clothing and veiled.

NOTABLE TRAITS: Calm, never much raises his voice. Seeks to understand most viewpoints. Focuses on balance.

RELATIONSHIPS: None so much.

RUMORS: An open May’kar from Serai? Probably an Undead worshiper. All the others have been.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Al-Hassan Ibn Ahmad Al Saresh, or Al-Hassan was born in Saresh sometime prior to 230. He grew up in the City for his early childhood, but his recollections of it are sparse. He grew up with his parents who were scholars and teachers of knowledge. Time were hard as the Undead forces surrounded and besieged the Dominion. When the Bishop-King passed away, his parents lost heart. Taking an opportunity that presented itself, they left the Dominion for Vandregon.

When the Bishop-King rose, his parents rejoiced. When the Dominion turned to the Penitent, his parents mourned. They formed with the Mahsai of the True May’kar, but their hearts were broken. Both withered in the years after, becoming shells of their former selves. Al-Hassan was too young to know the Bishop-King, and only empathize with their loss.

When the chance came with the other True May’kar to make their way to Mardrun, his family took it. They followed Lord and Lady Al-Azarma to New Hope. There they settled, working in the community to teach and copy the knowledge saved.

When the settlement of Serai was found, Al-Hassan made the hard decision to make his own way there. The May’kar of New Hope we’re good to him, but were not his own. They were a past he never knew. He hoped to make a new future for himself.

The specters of the past are never far away. The great irony of Serai following their predecessors footsteps was not lost on him. He was Mahsai, and so was not one to outright reject differing ideas. The more he learned, though, the less he agreed with Al-Haddad and Bos Mezar position. He became withdrawn and sullen. The Gods no longer seemed to speak to him. His faith waned as Boz Mesar influence grew.

And then the Order of Arnath came, and his world changed in fire and death.

The Fist were strict but not heavy handed masters. As long as they were on good behavior the citizens of Serai were free to go about their normal lives. And go he did. He learned of this new God of Arnath. It was an interesting Path, but not one that naturally called to him. He listened for the God’s words in his ears, but never heard it. Over the years the words of many of the Gods grew silent to him.

When the Order Civil War occured, life changed again. More outsiders from the Fire Isle. They were an interesting bunch, reminding him of the bustle of New Hope. With that bustle brought news. The outside world had. The Lord Al-Azarma had passed. The Lady went into reclusion in Daven Hold, the Governess Katherine’s new domain. The May’kar influence in New Hope waned.

It took these visitors for Al-Hassan to realize that Serai, much as he had hoped, had not been his path. It was far too reclusive. He needed to return to the mainstream life of the colonies. When a delegation from Serai was set to go to Starkhaven, Al-Hassan went with. He had heard stories of the Order of Aranth’s library, and the Chapter of the Light even had opened theirs. Perhaps he could learn more on his trip there. The Order held no sway for him, but knowledge was good. There was a tradition much loss of the May’kar. One of service and righteousness. The Paladins. Perhaps if he sought their path he could find his way. And what better place to start than the home of Pious Crusaders.

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Martin De Paixetdoucer

PLAYED BY: Gabriel Hellerud

CHARACTER NAME: Martin De Paixetdoucer or Brother Martin of Arnath’s Gentle Path

GENDER: Male

CLASS: Cleric

AGE: 24

RACE: Human

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Brown

OCCUPATION: Brother and scholar in The Order of Arnath’s Light

KNOWN SKILLS: Divine Magic, Resources in Divine, Arcane, Ritual, Lore Ritual, awkward pauses, tripping over nothing, baking cookies

BIRTHPLACE: Aldoria

APPEARANCE: Small, Brown, and un-assuming

NOTABLE TRAITS: Tends to wear a pair of very large spectacles.

RELATIONSHIPS: very dear friends with Brother Dom

RUMORS: Martin would be the last to know!

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Praise Arnath! May His goodness and light guide my hand as I write these words because, honestly, I’m not sure how to start this journal. If I am writing about the Glory of Arnath or translating his manuscripts, then the pen flows quite easily. To write about myself is quite a monumental task!

I suppose I should start at the beginning of my life. Unlike many I was blessed with little memory of my homeland, Faedrun. I was only a toddler when we had left. My parents had been members of The Order of Arnath and as such, had been able to secure passage to the New World for myself and my siblings. I am very fortunate in this respect because some of my siblings are old enough to recall the horrors of that cursed land and I am glad to not have memory of the terrible things they witnessed.

Most of my earliest memories are all of Starkhaven, the building of the keep, and my little family. I learned of the brilliance of Arnath while sitting on my mother’s knee and my father would take me out into the town and point out the “little works” of Arnath. A person sharing their coin with the less fortunate, a child standing up to bullies, a woman giving out food at the market to those who couldn’t afford it were all blessings to be observed and lessons to be learned. “See Arnath’s path in all the good that you find,” My father would say, “For His is the path of righteousness, goodness, and kindness,”

Naturally I was also taught about His blazing justice. I recall seeing the Lions, the Griffins, and the Eagles all in their shining armor and scarlet robes. How could one not love them? How could one not be filled with hope? How could your heart not be set aflame with love for Arnath and His chosen defenders?

…

Forgive me, see how easy it is for me to be carried away when I think of Him? Anyhow, when I reached an age of slightly higher reasoning, I believe it was around the age of six, I asked my parents to allow me to join the order. Naturally, they were thrilled to give one of their many children to The Order of Arnath. I was a fitting gift to the god who had guided them from the blood-stained land of the dead, to the new, green world we all lived comfortably in. Of course, our parting was painful, but it was a sacrifice that both my parents and I happily made.

Upon entering into the arms of The Order of Arnath however, I learned it would be a challenge to find my place. I quickly discovered that combat was not exactly my strongest skill. I nearly killed the bow instructor, the shields were too cumbersome for my frame, I tripped far too often to be remotely successful in stealthier approaches, and without my spectacles I couldn’t even scout very well. After a few years of attempted combat training, I was shuffled off to become a scribe and it was there I found my love of books.

I learned quickly that there is nothing quite as enjoyable as the smell of parchment, the gentle rustle of turning pages, the feeling of ancient scrolls. The moment I stepped into the library I knew that was where I was meant to be. I fell under the wing of a kindly older sister while I was there. It was clear she had been delivered to me by Arnath because in her tender care my love of Our God and His knowledge only bloomed. My love and devotion for Arnath manifested itself the gift of divine magic when I was somewhat older, and it wasn’t long after that I became an official Sister in The Order.

Now for the most part, I spend my days happily pouring over dusty tomes, scouring ancient manuscripts, and squinting at crumbling scrolls. Each day is filled with His Light as I search for a way to bring about an end to the corruption magic and hunt for hidden knowledge of the undead. I really couldn’t be more over joyed. Arnath has blessed me with a wonderful path, a righteous purpose, and a holy family.

Live in His light!

Brother Martin of Arnath’s Gentle Path

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Patty McConnor O’Mulligan McHair O’Sullivan McGee Malone

Player Name: Tyler Dubey
Name: Patty McConnor O’Mulligan McHair O’Sullivan McGee Malone
Gender: Male
Age: 34
Race: Human
Hair: brownish Red if grown out
Facial Hair: Red
Eyes: Hazel
Occupation: Beggar man, hobo, vagabond
Class: Rogue
Known Skills: Lore: Survival (0), Lore: Political (1), Pierce (7), Resource: Gather Info (13), Resource: Spies
(14), Waylay (5), Sap (6), Traps and Devices (13), Break Away (8)
Birthplace: Faedrun
Appearance: Ratty green tunic, sometimes with a black undertunic, pack, and hammock.
Notable Traits: Accent and that lovable charm
Bio:
Patty wasn’t always a wandering vagabond, in fact he was once a well respected member of society back
in Vandergon. During that time, he worked the fields, farms, and helped the elderly, and many more
altruistic actions that never gained him anything other than the smiles of those around him. However,
when the penitent attacked his home village. He was left with nothing but remorse and sorrow, his
heart heavy with the grief of those lost. From there on out, Patty wandered the lands, helping those that
needed it. Whether it was just a small laugh, a momentary smile, moving their belongings, it brought
some small hope to him that the world shouldn’t be forsaken.
It was by his sheer luck and charm that got him on a boat to Mardrun, even if he had to be smuggled.
Once on Mardrun, he took to wandering the land doing odd jobs to earn coin to just eat. Some of those
jobs were to help set up traps for wild game, help a group of bandits steal some coin, help repair a sail
for some pirates, listen to the woe’s of a nobleman, split wood for and elderly couple, and the list goes
on. For during these travels, Patty has procured many wild stories and experiences that he will gladly tell
the willing, and unwilling, around a campfire in trade for some food and good drink.
And when you finally sit down and listen to a story, you too will fall under the most lovable hobo’s
charm.

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Erik Silverclaw

Played By: Soren Daniels

Character Name: Erik Silverclaw 

Gender: Male

Class: Warrior

Age: 23

Race: Ulven

Hair: Brown, with white streak on the right side, cropped short

Eyes: Brown

Occupation: Mercenary/Wanderer

Rumors: There are whispers that he’s a dishonorable coward who killed ten unarmed pups in cold blood. There’s no doubt that he has great combat skill, however, so not many people would dare say that to his face.

Known Skills: Dedicated fighter, wears heavy armor, skilled at using a shield. Also skilled at writing music and poetry, though he keeps that a secret.

Birthplace: Clan Grimward territory

Appearance: Erik has brown hair cropped, single-point fangs, brown eyes, and a white streak in his hair on the right side of his head that he’s had since birth. 

Relationships: Erik respects and is fiercely loyal to Toralf Grimmsvulker, who saved his life and gave him a home and a pack again.

Bio/Background Info: Erik was born to Chieftain Bjornavik Silverclaw, the leader of Pack Silverclaw, a small pack deep within Clan Grimward territory. For the first decade of his life, Erik accepted his parents strong anti-colonist views without question. So did most of the pack– except one. Horth Redaxe was an older Ulven who had suffered a wound to his leg whilst fighting Mordok. He could still walk, but it was extremely hard for him to fight effectively. This, coupled with the fact that he was very open and unashamed about his belief that the colonists could be learned from, led to him being shunned by most of the pack and forced to live in a hut on the outskirts of the village. 

When Erik was 11, civil war broke out between the anti-colonist Ulven and the pro-colonist Ulven. Most of the village’s warriors left to fight on the front lines, leaving behind those unfit to fight and enough warriors to keep the village safe. Erik was left behind– and so was Horth. 

One day, Erik was out gathering herbs for the village healer. He was bending down to pick a plant when a loud roar made him whip around, only to see a massive bear lumbering towards him through the forest! Before he could react, the bear swiped him across the chest with a huge paw, sending him flying to the forest floor, stunned and bleeding. He lay there, waiting for his death to come– but it never did. He opened an eye to see none other than Horth Redaxe, his axe rising and falling with deadly efficiency, despite his wounded leg. Horth drove the bear off and helped Erik back to the village. 

After that, Erik began visiting Horth– at night, so no one would see– to train with him. He began to pick up more and more of Horth’s pro-colonist views. Horth, in addition to being a master warrior, was also a poet and a bard as well, and here Erik found in his heart a burning love for poetry and music– a love he felt great shame for, feeling as though the arts were un-warriorlike and that he would be looked down upon by the other Ulven if they found out about it. 

While all the other pups in the village could talk about was coming of age and going off to fight in the war, Erik felt as though the war was horrible, and that Ulven should not be fighting one another over such a trivial matter as this. Why couldn’t they just leave the colonists in peace? When the news came that the war was over and a treaty had been signed, he felt his heart lift. Not so for the rest of the pack. 

As Erik was walking to Horth’s hut that night to talk and train with his friend and mentor, he heard the sounds of fighting. Rushing towards the sound, he found that five of the older boys, including two of his older brothers, had ganged up on Horth. They had beaten him to the ground and were kicking him, yelling about how he was a “fucking colonist lover” and that traitors like him should be put to death. Seeing red, Erik drew his sword, and before the five knew what was happening, three of their number were dead on the ground. The other two tried to fight, but were no match for the blood-crazed young Ulven. When they were dead, he dropped to his knees next to his mentor.

“When I die,” croaked Horth, “I want you to have my armor and shield. Just… let me keep my axe. I want a weapon in my hand when I meet the Great Wolf.” Those were Horth Redaxe’s last words in this world.

Overwhelmed by shame at what he had done, Erik donned his mentor’s armor and slung the shield over his back. Building a small pyre for Horth– with his axe, as he had requested– Erik fled the village of his birth, never to return. 

Over the next few years, he wandered Mardrun, taking odd jobs guarding caravans and the like. Without a pack to call his own, and the guilt of his past eating at him, he sank further and further into depression and despair. Eventually, he found himself on the eastern end of the Shield of Mardrun. One night, in a flash, he realized that he had nothing left to live for. He resolved to hike into the swamp, find a group of Mordok, and take as many of them with him to the Great Wolf as he could. 

And that’s just what he did. His sword flashed left and right, stained with the blood of his foes, but he knew there were too many. He received wounds– a cut here, a stab there, and he felt himself begin to weaken. He was ready to die. But the Great Wolf would not call his name tonight. Out of the darkness, blade flashing, came an Ulven who Erik would later learn was named Toralf Grimmsvulker, and following him was an Axehound hunting party. Together, they dispatched the rest of the Mordok. 

Afterwards, Toralf praised Erik’s fighting skill, and told him that he was forming a pack and that he could use warriors. And just like that, Erik had a pack. A few months later, he found himself heading south– to home.

Update: Erik traveled with Toralf for a while, fighting many battles and skirmishes against Mordok. One day, while tracking a group of Mordok, Erik, Toralf, and their warband came across the burnt out remains of a village, with only a handful of survivors. After hunting down and dispatching the foul creatures, they returned to the village to take on what few warriors remained and to escort the pups and greybeards to safety.

Among the warriors who decided to stay with the warband was a female named Gyda. She was a fierce fighter, and she and Erik grew close, eventually joining as mates. Once Gyda was blessed with child, however, they agreed that they couldn’t raise a pup in a warband on the march. After much discussion, they agreed to move south near the colonies to raise their family.

Bidding his friend Toralf farewell, Erik and Gyda headed south. Erik found work on a farm near New Aldoria, and for several short months, everything was perfect. However, it was not to last. Tragically, Gyda died in childbirth with their son. Their son, who he named Ivar, only lived for a few hours outside the womb before he, too, went to the Great Wolf.

Heartbroken, the only thing Erik knew to do was to go wandering again. He threw himself into mercenary work, taking odd jobs here and there before eventually falling in with a mercenary company called the Eagle Fellowship. He traveled with them for several years, honing his connections with the mercenary groups and military forces of Mardrun.

Early in the year 273, news reached him of a slaughter at the Ironmound Moot. He also heard a familiar name. The renowned warrior Toralf Giermundson of the Einherjar had been taken captive by the Grimward and Stonetooth forces. Erik remembered the time he had spent fighting alongside Toralf, and resolved to help with the rescue efforts in any way he could. He left the Eagle Fellowship and headed north to Shieldhaven for the upcoming market faire, hoping to find Toralf’s mate, Ylva, or any other Einherjar members, in order to pledge his sword to the efforts to find and recover his old friend.

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Fredrick Zimmerman

PLAYED BY: Jacob Veldhuizen
CONTACT INFO: www.facebook.com/jacob.veldhuizen
CHARACTER NAME: Fredrick Zimmerman
NICKNAMES:
GENDER: Male
CLASS: Cleric
AGE: Born in the year 226 (42 as of 268)
RACE: Human
HAIR: Blonde
EYES: Grey-blue
BIRTHPLACE: Aldoria, Faedrun
NOTABLE TRAITS and APPEARANCE: Tall and lean, Fredrick looked every bit the part of a servant of the Order before his features were horrifically damaged by second and third-degree burns while trapped in the fire in the Keep at Starkhaven during “The Order Civil War”. Outwardly contemplative and gentle with an intensity simmering just below.
RELATIONSHIPS: Sister Josephine (Friend, killed June 267), Brother Hugo (Friend before the fire)
BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:
June 24th, 267
The flames that had consumed Brother Fredrick’s body were now little more than small embers glowing in the early morning light. Dew had formed in areas not scorched by the previous night’s fire and a light fog hung in the morning’s June air. What little Brother Fredrick could feel of the soft breeze caressing his blackened body was sheer pain. Torturing his raw newly exposed skin and nerves, he might have been thankful that most of his body was unfeeling as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Laying trapped under fallen beams Brother Fredrick slipped into memory.
He had been excited, nervous, but he was prepared. Weeks of study and practice had gone into readying himself for that fateful summit. Proud that he had been given this diplomatic mission he stood tall as Brother Oliver walked to the table. He almost felt bad for the man. He was a good servant of Arnath. He just happened to have succumbed to corrupting influences. And that’s why he, why the Chapter of the Fist, were there. To once again make the difficult decision, bare the pain that others could not so that light could find its way in the world. Brother Fredrick was not surprised when he was informed of the Fist’s decision to march on Starkhaven. A corruption of the soul had slowly crept in through the Chapter of the Light who stood poised to take control of The Order. They had become false guides and had blinded the eyes of their leader, Alexandros Makedon, the Hand of Arnath. He needed to be free of their influence. Of that, Brother Fredrick was certain.
As it had throughout the night, pain brought Brother Fredrick’s mind back into the present. He tried shifting his weight under the large oaken slab only to feel an immediate surge of hot pain shoot down his left arm. He knew his left hand had been crushed. Little energy left, he slowly felt down his side with his right hand to itch at an angry red piece of flesh. The fire had long ago reduced his clothing to ash and he now lay naked to fate, slipping into unconsciousness once again.
Brother Fredrick felt similarly exposed when initial dialogs had stalled at the table and the talks spilled into the streets in what had rapidly turned into a very public debate. Lay Order Sergeant Basil Gavras had taken the reins from the more soft-spoken Brother Oliver and used his commanding presence to turn the favor of the crowd to the Chapter of Light’s side. Brother Fredrick had not prepared for such public debate and was shakily holding ground. He knew his arguments to be true but could do little to combat Basil’s loud twisting of the truth. Anger began to cloud his groomed demeanor.
That anger had only grown as Brother Fredrick lay helpless. It had not been washed away by tears of pain, nor wished away on prayers for relief. It had not dissolved when hopelessness began its insidious creep into his thoughts or when exhaustion took hold. His anger burned right on through the night, becoming ever more violent, lashing out at circumstance and suspects to his dying. He screamed with and at that anger. As if to mock his efforts only dry coughing left his burned throat before he collapsed into nothingness.
At the top of his lungs, Brother Fredrick yelled to the Hand to stop the fighting that had broken out between the two chapters. He yelled at the Fist Lions standing watch. He yelled at the Chapter Master who continued to guard the Hand locked in the Keep. Blood was needlessly being spilled and it was on the hands of all present. Only moments prior had an uneasy calm took hold over Starkhaven once both parties left the debate to re-group. Brother Fredrick had assumed they would reconvene and continue negotiations. He was shocked when reports reached him that fighting had started, attempting to dislodge the Fist. He knew it would not work. The Fist was too well prepared and entrenched to be pried out without massive loss of life on both sides. It was this knowledge that caused him to run to the Keep. It was this knowledge that caused him to yell to anyone in power to stop. And it was what caused him to ignore the fire quickly spreading throughout the Keep.
He awoke to shouts for help. Quickly the large beam that pinned him was lifted. The pain and sensation knocked him out. More voices. More debris removed. He was moving when he awoke next. Carried on a stretcher, a healer walking beside reciting prayers. In and out of consciousness again. The healer speaking to others standing around him. Months of healing ahead. Hand lost. Darkness and then soft light. Soothing balms and cool soups. His bandages were changed regularly and he began to remember the days. He was no longer trapped under oak logs but it would still be weeks before he was walking again. He had survived. The fire in the Keep had long since been extinguished but it would long be carried in the heart of Fredrick Zimmerman.

RETIREMENT STORY:

Extremism alights from the dying embers of conquest. So it was for the diplomat, Fredrick Zimmerman. As his surviving brothers and sisters from the Fist were sent to their inevitable deaths at the Shield of Mardrun, Fredrick could do nothing but writhe in the pain of healing. More painful still, were the reports of Fist members who had renounced their allegiance and repented for their “sins” against the Order. Cowards. Spineless worms. Better to die by the hand of a monster in the frozen north that winter than kneel to the traitorous fiends of the Light. When he was finally well enough to move on his own accord, he fled. But only for a time.

In the years since his humiliation, heartbreak, and defeat during the Order Civil War, Fredrick rebranded himself as Verbrandt. A name to match the scars that were burned across his whole body. The assumed name allowed him to return to civilization. He would start small. Taking a lowly clerk position at the offices of the mayor of Silver’s Crossing, Verbrandt would work his way into power. He planned not just revenge, but justice. He promised himself and his fallen comrades that he would rebuild the Order into the great house of old. Alas, his ambition outran his ability, and impatience cost him. The rage that fueled his every move was hard to keep under wraps. Verbrandt’s attempts at financial treachery and blackmail failed to pan out. He once again fled into the shadows. Still scarred, but older, wiser, and darker of soul. The ghost of Fredrick Zimmerman still lurks, waiting for his time to strike.

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Morning Glory

Name: Morning Glory (Glory, for short)

Age: 28

Race: Human

Hair: Dark Brown

Eyes: Dark Brown

Occupation: Bard and Traveler

Birthplace: May’Kar Dominion

Notable Traits: Glory is afflicted with a severe stutter. The only reprieve she gets from her impediment is when she sings.

Relationships: Glory and Zeke are close friends. First meeting in her youth, they have since gone their separate ways. She hopes to reunite with her old friend in the days to come.

Rumors: It was once said Glory was named “Queen of the Rascals” by a band of thieves after gaining favor for herself and her traveling party during an intense hostage situation.

Glory was born of a union of two warriors – two traitors, who fell in love during the betrayal of the May’kar people. Her mother a healer, her father a warrior; they abandoned their duties once they became aware of their child and fled from their homeland to bring her up safely, far away from harm and darkness. Named “Morning Glory” after the flowers her mother loved, she was raised with all the virtues of their home before the betrayal and was instilled with a deep faith in the goddess Ilyara, to whom she is a devout believer. Her mother, being a cleric, was as nurturing and caring as any mother could be. Her father, being a fighter on the front lines of many battles, gave her the means to defend herself should the need ever arise.

Being 10 years old when she stepped onto the boat, Glory was only 17 when she left her parents to learn and ply her trade. She trained with anyone who would take her as an apprentice, and she spent the rest of her time traveling to any place her heart led her. There were a few sticky situations, due to her travelling alone, but she was happy and relieved to find more good people than bad. Many a warm bed and full belly was at the kindness and hospitality of strangers, something which she has never forgotten. Using every opportunity to learn stories and write songs, she spent the next 10 long years plying her craft and traveling throughout the world.

After all this time, however, she no longer felt fulfilled.

As a believer of Ilayara, Glory knows true beauty lies within creation itself. She looked back at all her books and scrolls of scribbled songs and stories and could not find one original work. Despite her best efforts, every time she would sit down and rack her brain, she could not seem to be capable of creating a work of her own. She became increasingly frustrated while looking for answers inside herself, and so, she turned her gaze towards the world. She settled on a new goal: To find a “True Hero”, whom she hopes would inspire her to create her own masterpiece.

During her travels, Morning Glory received a harsh blow to the head from a shield when fleeing from a scuffle. Taking the blow in stride, she kept running to the nearest settlement with almost unnatural focus. Her only goal: safety. Thinking back on the accident, she believes her mind may have already been damaged from the impact for her to have such a simple goal. Her wound, which was once thought small, was in fact grievous and damaging to her body, after the settlement she fled to pointed to her bloodied tunic and a large open wound on her forehead. After being bandaged and treated, Glory insisted that all she needed was water and rest. However, when she awoke the next morning, she was unable to speak without stumbling and stalling on her own words. A local doctor assured her that rest and her body’s natural healing would take of things, despite the severity of the wound.

It has been almost 2 years since the incident, and there has been no change in her stutter. Glory is still struggling with this, though she is happy and relieved her singing has not been affected.