Wiki Category: Characters

PLAYED BY: Jenn Schneiderman

CHARACTER NAME: Imay Namum

GENDER: Female

PRONOUN(S): She/Her

CLASS: Rogue

AGE: 35 in July 274

RACE: Human

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Brown

OCCUPATION: Brewer/Herbalist in Haven

KNOWN SKILLS: Makes decent potions, her mead needs work

BIRTHPLACE: New Vandregon

APPEARANCE: Pretty Generic Human

RELATIONSHIPS: She knows some folks around Haven, though she isn’t very talkative as she’s mostly found in the kitchen/cellar with her concoctions.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY: Imay couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been interested in plants. Her most consistent childhood memories were wandering the lanes and sidewalks looking for weeds. No one paid them much mind, they grew in the cracks and crannies, taking in just enough to be able to grow where nothing else seemingly would. Being trodden on and plucked didn’t phase them, they grew back anyway. Timeless.

The rhythm of the seasons moved them. Growing, flowering, sleeping, dying, then growing again. They held properties in each of those seasons, many were harmless, coaxing weeds into soothing a burn or numbing small pains was child’s play. In some months, the properties were less known, less desired, less safe. Though, those were reserved for those that truly destroyed the weeds. They deserved more than to be cast aside, to be squandered and forgotten. Just because they grew in undesirable places didn’t mean they weren’t worthy of life, or respect, or examination. Passersby forgot that they were there in the winter, when they took their annual respite to recompose. To breathe, rest, and plan for the year ahead. To spite those that had tried to stomp them out. They didn’t have to grovel and scrap for space, they could move and live on. If not themselves, then in what they made. In their roots spreading and their windblown seeds. In new creations and compositions. Changing their leaves, balancing their properties, finding new ways to survive and thrive. If they couldn’t stay, they would find their place elsewhere.

Knowing where they lay underneath packed snow gave Imay a sense of comfort as she strode through New Vandregon. Leaving them behind for Haven gave her a small sense of loss she couldn’t quite explain. It didn’t matter. She would set down new roots, she would make new friends.

PLAYED BY: David Lambert

CHARACTER NAME: Torvin “Tor” Inazuma

GENDER: Male

PRONOUN(S): he/him/his

CLASS: Cleric

AGE: Don’t ask

RACE: Human

HAIR: Silvery brown

EYES: Hazel

OCCUPATION: A member of the Bardbarians

KNOWN SKILLS: Sailing, Singing, swinging dangerous things

BIRTHPLACE: Small port town in Aldoria

APPEARANCE: Rather disheveled but in a wise and learned way

NOTABLE TRAITS: Has an attuned and practiced sense of humor, remembers the old world, and loves telling stories, especially about his amazing conquests.

RELATIONSHIPS: The Bardbarians, his adopted son.

RUMORS: He has had some pretty crazy adventures with his son.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY: My childhood was an uncomplicated matter. I was born and raised in the beautiful trade port of Ciryndor in Aldoria, the greatest of lands. There was much beauty in my youth. I was raised by the sea, the sun on the water, the lapping of the waves, living off the bounty that the sea provided. While harvesting the sea’s bounty my father would create shanties which my mother and sister would weave into enchanting harmonies. These are my oldest memories.

In my youth I was also taught of the deity known as the Sea Hound, the god of the seas. It fascinated me, and I soon learned the language of his form. My devotion to the Sea Hound meant that I was a favorite of the local dogs due to my tenderness, and perhaps the fact that I always carried something to feed them.  One dog in particular, a black behemoth I named Goliath, adopted me and became my inseparable companion.  The majesty of the sea and my love of the Sea Hound resulted in my joining a merchant ship to explore the world at the age of 15. I am convinced that my connection to the fiercely loyal Sea Hound has guided and protected me during my life journey.

As a swabbie I did things such as scrubbing the deck until my hands were raw, hauling on lines, managing the sails, working on the masts and, if needed, rowing until my back felt it was going to break. It was hard and dangerous work, but I loved it. It was a small price to pay for life with the Sea Hound. For the next two years, with Goliath by my side and my dad’s shanties on my lips, I seemed to be a welcome companion to the seasoned sailors who taught me their tips and tricks of the trade. The captain, Silas Sunsail, a devout worshipper of the Sea Hound, took me under his wing and expanded my worship of the Sea Hound by helping me become well versed in the “barking prayers.”

One fateful day the ship’s minstrel, Jareth Truthweaver, asked to speak with me. He said that he’d heard my singing, saw how hardworking I was, and had gotten permission from Captain Sunsail to offer me a position as his apprentice. I eagerly accepted, and he began teaching me that very day. The next 6 months were quite formative for my future, Jareth provided me with song after song until my throat was sore.

However, one day, after a huge storm, the captain called me to his cabin. At first I thought I was in trouble until he told me that Jareth had fallen from the mast into the water and was swept up in the boat’s wake. I was devastated by the death of my friend and mentor. That night, during an ensuing storm, while most of the crew was below deck, I was atop the mast, lost in my grief. I screamed to the heavens, “Why?!?!?” And the heavens responded. I heard the Sea Hound’s gruff, barking voice in my head, as clear as day: “Be not sorrowful that he has joined me beneath the waves. Now you must fulfill your duty. Sing the song of the Sea Hound across the seas.”

The next five years were anything but simple. I carried the song across distant lands, bore witness to a resurrection, leapt from a tower, took more arrows than I care to count, and at one point had an axe lodged in my arm. I bought a ship. I sank a ship. Just your everyday kind of chaos.

Then one day we were sailing south toward the port town of Silver Cove in Vandregon, hugging the coastline, when I saw her on the lighthouse. Something about her held my gaze. She moved with quiet purpose, tending the great lens with practiced hands. The rising sun caught in her hair which, dark as ink, moved like ribbons in the wind. “She’s new,” said my First Mate, catching my stare. “Took over last winter, I heard. Name’s Ioelenia.”

Ioelenia.

The moment I saw her I knew I loved her and that one day we would marry. I boldly told her as much when we met. She thought I was insane, and to an extent I thought I was too. But the more we spent time together we knew we were made for each other. I decided to leave my ship and tend to the lighthouse with her. Occasionally we would visit the taverns in Silver Cove to sing songs of finding one’s forever love. We spent nearly four blissful years together, before war came knocking at my door once again. Word came from my family in Aldoria that Ciryndor was under siege. They warned me not to come, but thinking of my family being in such danger I knew I had to fight.

There was a small fleet departing that day, and Ioelenia reluctantly walked with me to the harbor. I still remember the last time I saw her. She touched my face tenderly and said, “Stay safe and come home soon.”

As we arrived at the harbor in Ciryndor, the sun was just beginning to rise over the familiar silhouette of my hometown–then came the horns of war. The enemy was waiting. They were waiting for us. Twenty ships entered the bay. Two made it out. The galley I was on was severely damaged when the main mast was knocked down by an undead with an axe. I mustered what little strength I had left and blasted the beast into oblivion. Only seven of us (three of whom were seriously injured) made it to a longboat to escape. We rowed like our lives depended on it. At one point I looked back and saw several ships were on fire, while others were being boarded. Watching my fellow sailors being slaughtered. Some thrashed in the water, others floated face-down. It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.

In the chaos our longboat was somehow able to make it out of the bay and we found sanctuary in a hidden cove a mile up the coast. I did what I could to treat the wounded, but I was exhausted from the previous assault. When we woke the next morning we had lost two men. We continued in the longboat and began following the coast towards home.

We stopped within sight of the docks. What I saw shocked me and will stay with me for the rest of my life. Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, boarding ships. In that instant, I understood—this was the end of all we knew. The fate of humanity was dependent on these people’s lives. Our salvation, our freedom. Our last hope.

I made it onto one of the ships to help those that were sick and dying. Many didn’t make it—I count myself lucky to have gotten the berth I did. From the whispers of the passengers, I learned that Vandregon’s Southern Army had held back the Undead scourge from those docks until they fell. I learned that these ships were bound for a new land: Mardrun. I’d heard the name before, the chatter and rumors of tavern tales, but I had no idea what waited across the sea.

The voyage was long and grueling. My sea-worn skills kept me useful—but I could not sing. Of all the hardships we faced, none weighed on me like the uncertainty of Iolenia’s fate. I didn’t know if she’d escaped. I didn’t know if she was even alive. In my grief—for Iolenia, for my family, for all who had been slaughtered—I had lost my voice, my will to sing.

At last, we reached land. Mardrun. A new world. I found work on the docks of Newhope, hauling crates, so that I could watch for my wife among the disembarking survivors. Every new ship arriving stirred fresh hope—and dread. During the day I asked around when I could, pestering sailors and merchants who might recognize her name or beauty. At night I would have nightmares that she wouldn’t recognize me anymore.

Years passed. Life in Newhope left me with no hope. The sea called to me again and I took a job on a northbound cargo vessel, carrying my grief like a song, always playing in the background. Before I left, I returned to the rented room that had been my home, packed my meager belongings, and stepped away from the only stability I’d found since the Fall.

And so began the voyage that would change everything. A week into the journey, a monstrous storm crippled our ship and as I was swept overboard, I prayed that the Sea Hound would welcome me into his watery embrace. I awoke on a beach with the sun in my eyes and sand in my mouth. It was there, among the wreckage of the ship and my heart, that I screamed to the heavens, “Why?!?!?” And the heavens responded once again. I heard the Sea Hound’s gruff, barking voice in my head, as clear as day: “It is not time yet for you to join me beneath the waves. Your sorrow will deepen your song, not with bitterness, but with truth. You must sing again, sing the many songs of the Sea Hound across the land. Go forth with renewed purpose, and your fortune will find you.”

The next three years were anything but profitable. I wandered from town to town, selling whatever I had on me—songs, stories, trinkets, favors. Most places eventually kicked me out. Some didn’t like outsiders. Others didn’t like my devotion to an almost dead religion.

And then came the boy. It was in a dusty little town deep in Nightriver territory. I’d just been tossed out of the tavern for suggesting the ale could be improved with less mud in it. I was nursing a bruised rib and my pride on a bench when he approached. Thin. Sharp-eyed. Probably fifteen, though he carried himself like someone older. Clothes too big for his frame, hands twitching like he was ready to steal something. I asked him what he wanted.

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at my staff—the one carved with the Sea Hound’s sigil—and said, “You’re the one who sings weird songs.” I nodded in the affirmative. “They say you talk to dogs.” I smiled and nodded again. He sat beside me. “Teach me.” I blinked and asked, “To talk to dogs?” He answered simply, “To matter.”

That was the first time I truly saw him—not just a street rat or a curious kid, but someone adrift. The same way I had been. The same way so many were in those years. I asked him what his name was. “Drake,” he said. “Drake Carrion.”

And so began the second half of my life. Drake became my apprentice and I began teaching him the craft of song. He would become the son I never had, a reason to keep going. He was a quick study–the best, if you asked him. He was impatient, stubborn, cocky beyond his years. But by the sea hound, he had heart. Where I brooded, he joked. Where I hesitated, he leapt. I sang with a voice that had finally begun to return—not the same voice I once had, but something deeper. Weathered. True. And for the first time in years, I laughed like I meant it.

We traveled the width and breadth of Mardrun, surviving on music and mischief. We had our share of adventures, which, if you ask Drake, I’m sure he’d be happy to brag—ahem, tell you—all about them (like the time we accidentally started a small cult in a mountain village). But we also helped people. Our songs gave hope. Our laughter gave light and brought people together—if only for a night—around fires and mead and old stories. That’s what bards do. That’s what I had forgotten in my grief.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

PLAYED BY: Daniel Sulman

CHARACTER NAME: Brother Gerald

GENDER: Male

PRONOUN(S): He/Him/His

CLASS: Cleric

AGE: 17 (in 274)

RACE: Human

HAIR: Short, straight, brown

EYES: Blue

OCCUPATION: Ordained Eagle in the Order of Arnath’s Chapter of the Light.

KNOWN SKILLS: Can fight, in various ways and with various weapons. Can cast divine magic. Pretty intelligent. Is trying his hand at poetry.

BIRTHPLACE: A house in Starkhaven.

APPEARANCE: Around 6 feet tall. Stocky build. Usually wears armor and an Order tabard, and if not, basic clothes and a burgundy hood.

NOTABLE TRAITS: Looks young for his age. Somewhat easy-going, but in a serious situation, drops the light attitude for a no-nonsense one. He is not his father, and will tell you. Believes that his father lost his family’s honor and worth, and now he has to earn it back. You can call him Jerry.

RELATIONSHIPS: Other members of the Order, Lay and otherwise; Brother Carl, a mentor and friend; family: Mother, Father (both deceased); only child; no cousins, aunts, uncles, or other close relations as far as he knows.

RUMORS: Some say that his father was a Griffin of the Order, but when the Lich came to Mardrun, he fled rather than face the threat. They say he was hunted like a dog and hung for cowardice. Jerry doesn’t like to talk about it.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

To the Keeper of the Library at Starkhaven,

You asked for details concerning my life, so here they are.

As far as I know, most of my family has been in the service of Arnath. My mother was a healer, a combat medic, in the Lay Order on Faedrun and then on Mardrun. My father was a Griffin. We lost contact with him around when the Lich came. One of my grandfathers was a captain in the Lay Order, and died in the early years of the war with the Undead. My other grandfather wasn’t in the Order, but my family thinks he was one of the major suppliers of food to it. We don’t know what one of my grandmothers did, but the other was a valiant Lion.

You get the idea.

Now, after all those generations of bravery and commitment to Arnath, comes me. My father was executed (I’ll talk more about that later). As the years went by, especially after my father’s death (which he must have deserved), my mother’s hair grew grayer and she grew weaker. She stayed as active as possible in the Order, vehemently refusing to stop her work. When the fighting between the chapters began, and the Starkhaven keep was taken over, she picked up her spear and joined the fray. She fought for the Fist, believing that strength was the only way we survived. From what I’ve learned, my mothers heart gave out when she was patrolling. Not even the magic of Arnath’s healers could save her. Soon after, a member of the Lay Order militia came by and took me to an orphanage.

So there I was, alone in an orphanage in Starkhaven. It was in the middle of the town, so the Fist and Light’s fighting was never far away. When the fighting finally ended, I was just shy of ten years old. The Chapter of the Light, the winning chapter, was desperate for more members after the losses suffered. I, a child who had just survived a war zone, somehow found myself in front of a Griffin that was testing my magical abilities. To both of our surprises, I was able to cast magic through the power of Arnath. The Griffin mentioned he had known my father, and he hoped I turned out better than him. I thought nothing of it at the time.

Anyways, I joined the Order. I was trained in all sorts of things. Fighting, healing, even cooking. After a few years, I was given to Brother Carl to apprentice under. My father may have known him. Carl was an Eagle, and I inherited a little bias towards the role because of this. Just a few months ago, I was ordained as Brother Gerald Anderson of the Order of Arnath. I chose to become an Eagle.

While Carl was obliged to train me as well as he could in all three roles, he only had experience as a Lion and Eagle, and he had far more in the latter. Due to this, most of my training was in Eagleship.

Now, about my father:

I don’t really like to talk about him. The few memories I have are him, vaguely red with the tabard of a Griffin, cooing at me in my cradle. I remember vividly one time. I saw him staring at the small shrine to Arnath that was in my childhood home. That was the last time I saw him.

When I was older, looking through the Order’s archives, I came upon a few papers detailing Harold Anderson (my cowardly father)’s desertion and execution. Unknown to others, perhaps due to some foul undead magic or a curse of the mind, my father turned on his fellow clerics and then fled, seemingly out of his wits. When he was hunted down, some expected him to be branded or punished in some way… but the judgement handed down by the clerics deciding his fate that day was swift and absolute; they hung him for his actions against the Order. Swift justice was a cornerstone of the Chapter of The Fist, afterall.

Nowadays. I try to stay “in the know,” where things are happening. I keep a journal, writing whatever it is that comes to me. Years ago, soon after I learned how my father died, I wrote down the three aspects of the Path, & how I live them. Here it is:

Duty to the People.

I try to stay just & fair in my life, & keep my word & my honor, & those of Arnath & the Order. I protect those that are weaker than me, & help those that need it.

Duty to Arnath.

I always pray when the time comes. I try to keep to the Path, & honor Arnath in all that I do. After all, I am his Light on this world, & must act accordingly.

Duty to the Order.

In the battle situations that I’ve been in, I always listen to my superiors & respect them. I learn from veterans in the Order, & treat them with the respect they deserve.

(The journal’s over now) I recently learned about Grimward deploying captured civilians into battle. Basil (a commander in the Lay Order) sent news about it. Apparently they threatened to kill the poor soul’s families if they didn’t fight.  It seems to me like that’s just about the worst thing someone could do. I’ve heard through the grapevine that Basil was all for killing them. That’s something I dispute. I know he doesn’t have to follow Arnath, but I’ve been taught most of my life that my duty is to protect those weaker than us. That’s a dilemma there. If I had been there, would I do my Duty to the People, and spare the poor bastards, or my Duty to the Order, and obey my superiors? Ah well, that’s just my thoughts on the matter.

Now before I send off this letter, let me write this: I am not my father. I have honor. I follow the Path. I am of Arnath. I am an Eagle, fighting for Him.  I am, I am, and I am.

.

Signed by my own hand,

Brother Gerald Anderson of the Chapter of the Light

The Tenth of April, of the Year 274

PLAYED BY: Kevin Novy

CHARACTER NAME: Niklaus (Klaus) Devereaux

GENDER: Male

PREFFERED PRONOUN(S): He/Him

CLASS: Mage

AGE: 37

RACE: Human

HAIR: Long hair

EYES: Green

OCCUPATION: Spymaster

KNOWN SKILLS: Skilled in arcane

BIRTHPLACE: Faedrun

APPEARANCE: Tall, dark clothes, long hair, mask over one eye

NOTABLE TRAITS: Nothing of note, blends in.

RELATIONSHIPS: None

RUMORS: He drinks and he knows things.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Klaus felt the rain pour down from the heavens and felt its cool touch run down his face.  How did it come to this he pondered as he held his burnt face.  The rain did little to dull the painful ache that the fire had left  upon him all those years ago.  He stared down at his feet and  rage swelled inside him.  He was so far away from achieving his revenge yet his quarry was so close.  He felt the calm hand of the man on his shoulder.   The man spoke.

” Easy Klaus, easy”

Referring to his white clenched fist.

“Tell me my everything”, he said calmly.”

Klaus tried to calm himself and tell the man what he could.  He was born in Faedrun like most humans were.  In his youth he developed an arcane potential and was sent away to an academy.  He could not recall the name of the academy or the location of his old home.  That part of his life seemed a distant shadow now.  He did remember constantly getting into trouble and often being reprimanded.   But Klaus knew he was different then the rest of the students there.  Klaus spent his time bullying and attacking his fellow students.  It would lead to his eventual expulsion.  He would spend most of his teen years as a grifter, going town to town stealing to survive.   Sometimes killing those who got in the way.  For instance, when the undead arose and forced the denizens off Faedrun, he killed an entire family just to secure space on a boat.  To the detriment of all living species, Klaus would survive his journey and start a new on Mardrun.

The next chapter of his life had him joining a gang of liars and cheats.  A small group of goons called the swamp rats.  They moved from town to town swindling people out of their money but managed to keep themselves small and hidden enough to evade the law.  They went about their business for a good 10 years or so and Klaus came to see the gang as a family.   They looked out for each other and kept each other safe.  Life seemed to be on the up and up for a murdering thief like Klaus, that was until the silver crossing job.

PLAYED BY: Matthew Timmons

CHARACTER NAME: Arthur Tanner

GENDER: Male

PREFFERED PRONOUN(S): He/Him

CLASS: Rogue

AGE: 36

RACE: Human

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Blue

OCCUPATION: Traveler, trader, merchant

KNOWN SKILLS: Useful with a sword, some slight magic

BIRTHPLACE: Faedrun

APPEARANCE: Tall and plain. No bright colors, fairly drab

NOTABLE TRAITS: Nothing unique or special. He is smart and well spoken, but otherwise nothing.

RELATIONSHIPS: Doesn’t remember his family. Was an only child, but was given to a mage at a young age.

RUMORS: Nothing noteworthy. Quiet guy, keeps to himself.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

“You did it wrong AGAIN!” The instructor yelled as the young boy attempted to push the cup of water off the stool. “BOTH hands, extended! Gods, you’re useless!” A resounding slap echoed across the dimly lit hall. He had been doing this for hours. His hands hurt, as the mana coursed through the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t concentrate. He hadn’t eaten in what felt like days. “Get out of my sight.”

He lay curled up in his little cell. The walls around him acrid with the scent of filth and grime, years of mold and mildew caked throughout the stone slabs that housed the young boy. He spent the night, hungry, belly aching in fits of cramps, as he tried and tried to push the little doll he carried with him over. But, no matter how much he tried, he felt unable to muster the mana or the strength.

“AGAIN!”

*SLAP* The man backhanded the boy once more as the morning rays bounced into the long hall, holding the master mage and his apprentice. The boy could feel his ears ringing with blood, as the pain surged through his head. He hated being hit. He hated being weak. His small frame struggled enough to keep itself alive, let along channel mana into some semblance of a spell. He brought himself to his feet and tried again. The tall tower in which they lived seemed to sway within the heavy winds that collided with the sides of the immense structure. The breeze kicked the curtains within the hall to and fro. Shoving both hands forward, he attempted to send the mana from his soul through his fingertips. But alas, the little cup barely moved.

“BOTH HANDS, BOTH FEET! Hands forward, feet planted! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?!?”

*SLAP* He crumpled once again to the floor. This time, he could swear a tooth was loose within his bleeding cheeks. His head panged with bursts of anger and resentment.

“Stop hitting me…” He squeaked, as he brought himself to his feet, rubbing a fresh tear from his eye.

“What did you say to me, you fucking little worm?”

*SLAP* The boy was sent again to the marbled floor, his head colliding with the cleanly polished floor he had buffed barely hours before. As he lifted his body again, he could see the little splats of blood fleck across the carved stone beneath him. He stood, angrily staring at the teacher.

“I said stop hitting me!” He yelled, feeling the blood within him boil. A sense of energy began welling within his core as he began channeling mana, counting to himself silently.

“You impudent little ant, how DARE you!” The man raised his cane high and brought it down with anger upon the boy’s head. But, with a flash of blue light, the weapon bounced off, electricity rippling through the air around the tip of the cane. Seconds later, he felt the force of a thousand winds collide with this torso, as he saw the outstretched hands of the boy and heard the little child explode in an bloodcurddling scream of hatred.

The boy gathered his remaining strength and stood to his feet. The hall was silent, the curtains ripped from the rod that held them above the window, and looking out, he could see the distinct tiny figure of a broken man lying a hundred feet below, in a crumpled heap of shattered bones.

Years later, he wandered the streets. Poor. Destitute. He had no name to call his own, but it meant nothing. His family had long since abandoned him. All he had to his name was a trifling of minor magic and the ability to remain to himself.

UPDATE:

Ras stood near the edge of the great hill that overlooked Shieldhaven, watching the smog-thick tree line and castle-esque walls rustle with activity and preparations for the war. He clutched the dagger in his palm…ornate, fragile, and containing the key to toppling a country. Behind him, the silent chanting from Jaerreth still echoed with whispered strategy, but Ras knew what came next would be his alone.

Jericho had saved him once. From a life of apathy, from a world that watched without acting. They gave him purpose, a cause greater than himself. And now they needed a sacrifice.

To deliver the blade directly to his heart, Ras had to be stalwart. Not sheepish. Not gentle. A discovered body would draw attention away from the covert operatives making the real strike. His death would buy time, suspicion, and confusion. His freedom was the cost.

He walked to the precipice of the rockjagged mountain foothill with no disguise. Eyes closed. A warm hand rested on his shoulder. Soft, reassuring words muttered into his ears about those who would die and those who would suffer.

As he knelt upon the cracked ground and dirt, Ras allowed himself one last breath of crisp, morning air. No regrets, he told himself, as his vision danced with images of what’s to come.

The settlements’ defenses burned from the inside. Mordok and Undead alike emerged from the Great Forest. Faces like his became symbols, omens and drawings of it stenciled on shattered doorways and alleys. No one spoke his name openly. But in the shadows, where whispers sparked turmoil, Arthur…Vincenzo…and countless more names people thought they knew but truly didn’t… no…. RAS AL FARRUK meant annihilation.

And though the walls around him grew cold, juxtaposed by the warm blood that ran down his torso, Ras smiled in the dark. His purpose had outlived his chains.

PLAYED BY: Elias Lambert

CHARACTER NAME:  Born, Ark Trayes; Chosen Name, Drake Carrion

GENDER: Male

PRONOUN(S): He/Him/His

CLASS: Rogue

AGE: 14 (As of 273)

RACE: Human

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Hazel

OCCUPATION: Bard

KNOWN SKILLS: His archery skills are passable although he is more inexperienced then he’d care to admit, a passable singer, can cook… kinda.

BIRTHPLACE:  Darkport

APPEARANCE:  5’7”, short, straight brown hair that’s often untidy.

NOTABLE TRAITS: Hates Syndar. makes dark, sometimes lurid jokes. Ego can get out of hand.

RELATIONSHIPS: He calls the members of the Bardbarians his friends.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY: 

Born into the upper middle class in a house on the edge of Darkport, my father and mother did not want a child. My parents called me Ark, but I hated that name. In my time in the cellar I thought of something better… Drake. Perfect! I faced a life of abuse, neglect, and entrapment in my family home. The one place my parents allowed me to go was to the bakery to buy fresh bread every week. The more money I spent on things in town the longer my parents would lock me in the dark, cramped and dusty coal cellar. That’s how I developed my claustrophobia.

That was my state of existence for the better part of my life until She came.

My savior arrived one fateful night in the form of a burglar. I was in the coal cellar at the time, I heard the screams of my parents above. I immediately started to rationalize, to make up a plausible story for the screams.

Then I felt the heat. The fire spread the smoke threatening to choke me. I ran at the locked door, smashing my shoulder into it. It didn’t give. The fire licked the door, setting the coal infused wood ablaze. The door ignited right as I slammed my arm into it. The door caved in. I ran as fast as I could through the house, I could feel death inches away as I rushed through the door. As I ran I saw a cloaked figure running away. I would learn later that the person who murdered my parents was a petty thief. Her name was Sirayira Arinwen. She’s dead now. I threw open the back door and ran out and didn’t stop, I was awestruck by the fields and valleys laid out before me as I ran by. By the next day I had run so far from home I was astounded by the world I never knew existed. I remember the last thing I did before going to sleep on the side of the road was thinking “ tomorrow is going to be a great day”

When I left home I immediately went to a small town in Clan Nightriver territory where I found a washed-up old adventurer named Tor, who would become the loving father I never had. He was as brave as he was loyal and a great traveling buddy. For a time, we traveled the world. I’m still not ready to reveal what we did or where we went, but I will say this: there is a legend told by the Nightriver Ulven, that two travelers passed through the Great Wolf’s Hackles and escaped a group of 40 Mordok very narrowly. Around the time we got back from our adventures, I met a girl named Astrid in a town in ruins, I’m still not sure which but when I saw her I knew she deserved more. At first she denied my proposal to take her away from this ruin of a town. I remember the second time I tried to convince her I believe my words were “I could give you anything you could wish for and more, a young woman of your beauty should not live in this cartwreck of a town” she responded by agreeing. So we traveled. It was a long road and not an easy one but one night Astrid said she was homesick and having watched me for the duration of the trip she apparently did not feel for me. I was disappointed but I let her go with no trouble. Tor and I continued on.  But great adventures are rarely legal so when the various charges started to stack up I had the bright idea that the best way to escape persecution was to get to sea.

We bought cheap passage on an illegal smuggling vessel. I still remember the first time I saw the sea. It was love at first sight. The boat docked at New Vandregon a month and a half after leaving due to storm complications. The crew were found passed out drunk with cargo missing. Me and Tor had fled with the smuggled goods, which we promptly and stupidly gambled away. In New Vandregon I met Robert Shet at a tavern and our fates were forever changed that day. He intrigued me from the beginning. I approached  Robert and asked if he would like to join me and Tor on a journey to the city of Newhope, and to my joy he accepted. Along the journey to Newhope, I learned many things about my new friend like his talent for the violin and dark and winding past. On the final day of our travels, I asked Robert if he would be interested in joining a group of minstrels that I had been thinking about creating for some time. Looking for an opportunity, he agreed.

Days later in a tavern in Newhope, my companions and I would pick up another member, Rethin Varthrumer, a wayward drummer playing on the streets who agreed to join from the moment we offered food.

I’ve escaped my home, I’ve found a father and I’ve found friends. I am Drake Carrion. I have no limit, I do what I want, when I want, and I will one day be recognized as the greatest individual to walk this earth.