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Robert Shet

PLAYED BY: Daniel Sulman

CHARACTER NAME: Robert Shet

GENDER: Male

PRONOUN(S): He/him/his

CLASS: Warrior

AGE: Appears to be in mid-to-late teens. (As of 273)

RACE: Human

HAIR: Light brown

EYES: Blue

OCCUPATION:  Part of a group of bards called “The Bardbarians”.

KNOWN SKILLS: Robert has trained with a sword and shield, and can fight well enough. He is intermediate at the violin.

BIRTHPLACE: Robert was born in the outskirts of Newhope, in the healer’s wagon of the nomad caravan his family lived in.

APPEARANCE: Robert is around 6’0”, with short, straight brown hair and blue eyes. Usually wears simple armor, and when he doesn’t, simple clothes.

NOTABLE TRAITS: Is missing one eye. Slight pyrophobia, as fire has destroyed his life more than once. Honorable, yet jaded and cynical, despite being only in his late teens.

RELATIONSHIPS: Other members of the Bardbarians; Ivar Shattered Spear; Bjorn and Astrid Shattered Spear; villagers of Lowestoft.

RUMORS: He’s missing an eye. Why would a half-blind swordsman join a group of bards?

BIO:

I was born into a group that never stayed in one place for long.

They were the Few That Traveled Together, a group of nomads, and they went around Mardrun (and Faedrun before) trading, exploring, and whatever the hell they wanted. Soon after the flight from Faedrun, I was born.

My mother died birthing me, and my father stopped caring about me once that had come to pass. My uncle raised me, but when a fever took him, I was left with only my fathers ruthless and plentiful beatings. Once, he beat me so badly that I ordered a sword made, and the Few’s blacksmith, a kindly Syndar man, gave it to me free of charge. I trained with it near every day. When I came of age, I chose to apprentice under Fret, the caravan’s bard. At seven-and-seventy, he was the oldest of the group. When my father learned of this, he beat me even more and harder. The only reason I got was that my mother had sung in life, and this fact made him hate all music, apparently enough to beat his only son over it.

One night, when he was red-faced and drunk out of his mind, my father returned  to our wagon to find me playing the violin Fret had gifted me. In his rage, he beat me mercilessly. At the peak of his fury, my father grabbed the knife with which he cut his steak and cut out my eye. I remember the pain, the hellish feeling as the knife slashed over my eyeball. The helplessness I felt had half my vision was stolen in a matter of moments. My father went off to his curtained off part of the cart, and I passed out from the pain. When I woke, Torlan, the healer’s apprentice, saw me lying on the floor of the wagon. He swore and turned. He returned with the Few’s healer, and she fixed me up.

When I was strong enough to leave her wagon, I returned to my wagon to gather my things. As I was preparing to leave, my father stumbled in, drunk to hell and back. He murmured something and passed out. I left the wagon for the last time. From then on, I slept outside, carrying all my possessions. That might be why I was the first warned when everyone and everything I knew was torn away overnight.

I know that the Few had camped somewhere in Grimward territory, far from any major settlement, but a few hours walk from a respectably large town. I couldn’t sleep, and was studying the stars. I heard low voices off to the side, and what sounded like many feet stepping over the grass. Then a scream, and all hell broke loose.

A voice near me called out something. Battle cries echoed through the night. I got to my feet and belted on my sword. I ran to Fret’s wagon as I saw Ulven with crude weapons attacking and burning. Just as I approached his door, a brute broke the window and threw a torch on the ground. Before I could do anything, the wagon erupted in flames. I stabbed the bastard who’d done it and looked around. Torches were being tossed at wagons, and Ulven with pitchforks and shovels were doing the throwing. The flames quickly engulfed the brush, trapping most of the Few in a circle of fire. I knew what I had to do. I ran back to my bedroll and gathered my things. I ran into the countryside, tears streaming down my face, and didn’t stop until the sun pierced the sky.

Soon after dawn, I hit a creek, where I refilled my waterskin. I continued through the wilderness until I ran into a small dirt road. I followed that until I came to a small town. I was ushered into the inn by a plump Ulven woman, who brought out a large bowl of stew. Did I really look that hungry, that she would bring food without my asking for it? As I greedily ate, a strong hand grabbed my shoulder. I turned to see an Ulven man holding an axe.

“These are bad times, son. I won’t have any who wish us ill in my village. Do you fight for us or against us?”

Perplexed, I said, “I fight only for myself.”

The man furrowed his brow. “Bare your teeth.”

I did, and a grin spread across his face. “We haven’t seen humans for years! You’re welcome here in Lowestoft, son. And don’t worry, none of us will try to kill you. We all think it’s good to get more people to help out, even if they’re from another continent!” The man’s name was Ivar Shattered Spear, the leader of the village.

I stayed in the village that night. I meant to leave the following day, but I talked, and soon enough, the sun was setting. Rather than sleep in the inn, as I had last night, a farmer named Bjorn offered his hospitality. He had a daughter named Astrid, who was around my age and had long, black hair.

After we supped, Bjorn offered me his bed. I went to sleep almost instantly.  A noise in the common room woke me in the middle of the night. I clothed myself and headed out to see what it was. Astrid was sitting at the table, gazing at the stars. She turned and saw me, and pulled out the chair next to her. I sat. Astrid leaned her head on my shoulder. We stayed like that for the rest of the night.

Before I knew it, I had become a villager of Lowestoft. I would work beside Bjorn in the field during the day, and play music in the inn at night. Astrid and I grew closer, until we affirmed our love for one another. Life in Lowestoft was perfect. I preferred it infinitely to life with the Few.

Until that day. There’d been no rain for a week or two, so everything was dry. A lantern must have been knocked over in the bakery. I was heading over to the tavern after the day’s work when I saw it coated in fire. As I looked, to my horror, the roof collapsed just as the baker was running out. A burning wall fell onto the ground, just close enough to spread the flames to the building next to it, a butcher. I ran to the tavern, where everyone was sure to be in the evening. I called out, “Fire, fire!” People were only on their first tankard, and sober enough to get up and rush to the well. By then, three or four buildings were in the blaze. Just as Bjorn was running into our house to find Astrid, the thatched roof caught a spark and went up in a burning crescendo. I heard Bjorn yelling from inside, and saw Astrid burst through the door just as the front wall fell inward.

“No!” I cried. “Bjorn,” I said quietly, tears beginning to stream down my face. I slapped myself, clearing my head, and ran to the well to help fight the fire. As the sun grew low, the fires did as well, until all that was left was the ruined ash of Lowestoft. Left standing were only the well and tailor’s, and even that was missing a roof. I picked through the wreckage of my house, finding my sword and nothing else. My violin was safe, as I’d set it by the well before the inn collapsed. Deep in my heart, I wanted to stay, and help these people I’d known for months, but I knew I had to go. So I said my goodbyes, swearing to all that I’d return. Astrid begged me not to, but I kissed her and left.

I went south-east, to Bladehome and Shieldhaven to get to wherever I was going. To earn money for food and board, I would play for the inns and taverns in the town and villages. Thrice during my journey, I sold my sword, once to defend some rich person or another, once to dispatch some bandits, and finally to escort an overland shipment to Aylin’s Reach. From there, I saved up coin until I bought cheap passage upon a cargo ship to New Vandregon. In New Vandregon, I did much of the same, performing in taverns or getting my allegiance bought for a day. One day, though, a lad around my age named Drake approached me. Him and his father, Tor, were traveling to Newhope, and he wanted to know if I would go with. I had heard stories about the city, and figured I could make a nice living there. I accepted. On the road to Newhope, I learned that both were good singers. Upon our arrival in the city, Drake asked if I would be interested in joining the group of bards he was trying to assemble. I agreed. After we’d been in Newhope a few days, I spied a drummer playing on the curb. He joined up with us, and that’s how the Bardbarians were formed.

I was born into a group that died out. My father beat me as a child, and I began training under a bard. My father took one of my eyes from me. Everything I knew was burned overnight by angry villagers, angered only at our existence. I fled, and found a life and love in Lowestoft. When that too was taken from me, and I made my way to the south shore, I met people I could trust. Now I am part of a group of bards, and I can play without fear of losing an eye. I may seem like a dishonorable man, but I am anything but. I fight to stay alive, and I fight for honor and justice. However, I’ve seen my fair share, and am jaded enough. I may often bloody my sword, but I won’t turn it on one without. I’ve seen the world through many lenses, both good and bad, and still have some hope for it.

My name is Robert Shet.

I fight for honor. I fight for the world.

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Byrkit Bloodhawk

PLAYED BY: Bryan Richmond

CHARACTER NAME: Byrkit Bloodhawk

GENDER: Male

PREFERRED PRONOUN(S): He/him

CLASS: Mage

Birthyear: some thirty odd years ago, around 240, but who keeps track?

RACE: Ulven

HAIR: Salt and pepper, with a darker beard

EYES: brown

OCCUPATION: Pack Bloodhawk falconer

KNOWN SKILLS: Hawk breeding, training, and handling, jerky making, negotiating.

BIRTHPLACE: Pack Bloodhawk lands

APPEARANCE: usually wearing black, browns, and greens. His attire might a bit fancy for a Steinjotunn

NOTABLE TRAITS: Byrkit is always willing to contract out work for his hawks, seeming to enjoy the process of negotiation.

RELATIONSHIPS: Pack Bloodhawk, some traders, any contracted client (for the duration of the contract, anyways), falconers of Clan Steinjotunn, his brothers

Muki and Chiko

RUMORS: Byrkit seems almost flippant towards Clan Steinjotunn’s stated neutrality. He wants to see how far his Clan’s declaration of being “open for trade” goes.

He’s an ambitious one, that Byrkit. Its like he wants to be a hersir or something. Hear he’s a mage. Weird.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Another summons by the Falconers of Pack Bloodhawk. This happened almost daily now, since this new war started, since Steinjotunn declared neutrality. Reminders turned to arguments almost every time. Byrkit was getting tired of all this, all the words and no action. His hawks had not flown under contract in months and they were getting ornery in their idleness. Byrkit felt as caged as his hawks.

Byrkit paused as he approached yet another round of admonishment, his brothers Muki and Chiko beside him noticing his tense hesitation. “Brother, it is now or never,” Muki whispered. “Best not to get riled too soon, eh.” Slowly breathing out his frustrations, he nodded to his brothers and pushed through doors to Pack Bloodhawk’s Falconer Hall. After years of training with his brothers and raising dozens of hawks, Byrkit knew the ways of Pack Bloodhawk falconry as well as any other. He realized he had spent most of his life in this hall. Raising and training both messenger hawks and the hunting bloodhawks, hawks that could chase down and retrieve messenger hawks, Byrkit had surpassed so many others in his way with the birds. Walking through the entryway as he had since his youth, he wondered when exactly the joy of being here amongst the hawks had changed to this frustration, this feeling of being trapped.

His younger brothers followed Byrkit’s lead as they had since they had all been pups learning the secrets of Pack Bloodhawk’s prized falconry. “What fate you follow, we follow, brother,” they said in unison.

Surprisingly, the three elder hersirs were not at the hall table sternly awaiting Byrkit’s attendance with the other falconers of his Pack as Byrkit had come to expect. Instead he and his brothers found them alone around a small brazier

passing around a drinking horn laughing and joking. For a moment, with the emptiness the hall seemed so large, like it was when he was a child learning how to guide and handle his first hawk. He brushed the feeling away,

“Well this is a change of pace. Have I dropped so low in your esteem I am now but an afterthought to your entertainment?”

Byrkit’s brothers failed to stifle their groans. Turning back, he retorted, “They know I jest. Do better at hiding your disappointment in my lack of decorum brothers.”

“Spoken like those colonists you cavort with. Don’t think we do not see who you spend your time with, Byrkit,” Hersir Ibonek snorted as he passed the horn over.

Byrkit took the drink and sipped before he responded.

“They took their time to come to our lands and speak to our leaders. I would fail our pack if I did not at least try to find out what goes on beyond our borders.” Byrkit tried to come off as unconcerned but failed.

“Oh, so your curiosity is for Steinjotunn? Nothing else? No trying to find others to boost your magic knowledge? Or for possible clients for your hawks in this time of neutrality for the Clan?” Hersir Ecam’s words caused him to choke on his mouthful of ale.”Come now, Byrkit, no need to act like a whelp. In truth we do not judge you. Not too harshly anyways!”

The burst of laughter made Byrkit hesitate. “Fair enough.”

“But…?” Hersir Ecam impatiently waited for Byrkit’s often repeated protest to begin.

“But we sit here, wasting our hawks, our skills, our TRADE! We spend years, YEARS, training our hawks to be the best messengers on all of Mardrun and

more than that! Our hunting bloodhawks take down messenger birds as other hawks would a slow hare! We can keep to our honor, keep to the rigid negotiations we have trained for. It is our trade, is it not?!? Despite the clan’s declaration of neutrality, are we not open for trade? Pack Bloodhawk is not esteemed for archery or as great as Fleetfoot at scouting. The aid we could bring as falconers, our hawks are second to none and should be put to good use. Our names would be heard and spoken wide, may the Great Wolf hear them, our Pack’s honor and prestige would grow greater, and yet we do NOTHING.The Great Wolf tests us and we do NOTHING.”

Byrkit, falling into the same argument as he had for weeks if not months, was more than surprised when instead of being put into his place the Hersirs laughed all the louder.

Ecam, as usual, responded to Byrkit’s outburst. “And by that you mean your name and prestige. Do not keep taking us for naive, sheltered fools pup. And do not think you know what is better for Pack and Clan than our Clanleader. We stay neutral in this war, despite whatever idiotic notions of personal glory you hold.”

Before another round of arguments could begin, Ibonek interrupted. “Calm yourself, Byrkit. A wise hawk may see far on an open field, and a brazen pup may not see past his nose-”

“-But the Great Wolf sees all.” Byrkit passed the drinking horn to Hersir Yoad. He had heard the saying so, so many times through his training and well into adulthood, every time his vigor surpassed what Ulven honor would tolerate. The words, often attributed to Hillevi Steinjotunn, were a common reminder of the expectations put upon him. The expectations of Pack and Clan that weighed him down like chains.

“So seriously you take things young falconer, such fervor! Patience and respect, these you lack.” Hersir Yoad took a sip from the horn. “Still, much to learn. But not here.”

At Yoad’s words all went quiet, the hersirs’ mirth dying. Byrkit stared, confusion creeping across his face. Hersir Ecam was the first to break the silence.

“We have watched you all these years, and you have lived up to much of your potential. But you chafe at any authority, any decision you do not agree with since your parents died to the Mordok. This must change. You must change. But, as Hersir Yoad has said, this will not happen here.

We three Hersirs, hawk masters of Pack Bloodhawk, of Clan Steinjotunn, accept you into our circle as a journeyman yet to earn your title . You will-”

“Wait. So I am on this council, but you do not grant me the rank of Hawk Master?” Byrkit balked.

“This is outrageous, it is unfair.” Ibonek exageratedly rolled his eyes and laughed once more disarmingly, the laughter spreading to Byrkit’s brothers.

Ecam stared daggers at his fellow hersir until silence fell once more.

“We are giving you an opportunity, Byrkit. Do not let your pride get in the way of it.” Ecam continued. “You will go out of our lands to seek this change. You are allowed to accept work for your messenger hawks but no hawk hunting. You know our craft like few others, so strike a hard contract but STAY OUT OF THE WAR. Keep to our advice and to the honor of Pack and Clan. And before you start again, let me be clear. If you cannot keep to this, your hawks will be taken and you will be Severed from Pack and Clan.”

Both Muki and Chiko started at this, for once stepping in to argue themselves, but Byrkit silenced them with a hand. The words of the hersir left him without words, his mind racing to understand what he was hearing.

“Great risk perhaps,” Yoad croaked. “Great reward as well. Act with honor, you must.”

“We trust, Falconer Byrkit, such ‘freedom’ is acceptable to you? After all, as you say, we are open for trade. Excluding anything tied to the war. In this you must be clear to those who hire your hawks. Do not overstep. Come back to us wiser and tell us how far the hawk can see. Then, maybe, just maybe, you will have earned the title of Hawk Master,” Hersir Ibonek stated deadpan, the barest hint of his

amusement and approval showing through his beard.

After a long pause, longer than his brothers would like, Byrkit nodded in agreement. “Some work is better than none. I can agree to this. May His ears ring with your names, hersirs.”

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Saldis Stormjarl

Name: Saldis Stormjarl

Played By: Cerise Pipson

Age: 28 (as of 273)

Race: Ulven

Class: Warrior

Bio:

Saldis Stormjarl was born and raised in the capital settlement of Jotunvik. The daughter of two established merchants, she lived a traditional if well funded life as a Stormjarl youth. As a girl she learned the skills of a merchant and trader. Traveling with her parents to many different packs and clans, and occasionally to the human settlements for trade. She enjoyed her life in Jotunvik. The economic prosperity, and the more accepting view within the clan on trade with the Humans and Syndar granted her a life of variety and progressive ideas. She wanted for little and her most daring adventures were in books from colonist lands that told stories of far off quests. During the Ulven Civil war her parents shared the clans want to remain neutral. And she, not one who longed for glory, was unbothered at her parents’ efforts to keep her far from the fighting. The war always remained several steps removed from her life, though it seemed to be the only thing on the minds of her people. They continued to make trade and would donate money and goods to the clan for the war effort. The closest she ever was to the fighting was when it all but reached Jotunvik. She remembers when word broke through that Grimward had been held at bay, but at the cost of many lives. The years of peace after the war were appreciated by her family. Their business prospered and much was as it had always been. All things must end though, and as tensions between the clans rose again with the rumors of Grimward raiders and speculation that Stormjarl was the true culprit trying to blame their rivals, her family began to question if they were true. Saldis was certain her clan was not responsible and wanted to set out to prove it to her family. Through a series of old friends and associates from her years of work as a merchant, a bit of luck, and no small amount of social courage. Saldis secured a place within the retinue of the Stormjarl delegation at the Ironmound Moot. Serving as an apprentice representative of the Einherjar of the Stormborn Coast, she attended the moot and learned much of the rumors surrounding the raiders and the larger workings of Ulven politics. It was here she truly learned what she had been spared from in the Ulven Civil war. As Grimward revealed their hidden plan to renew their war against Mardrun she witnessed the brutality of it all. The severed head of Haygreth Grimward carried through the assembled representatives, and the brutal murder of Branthur Nightriver. These events burned themselves into her memory and made her feel fear she had never felt before. In spite of the daunting circumstances of the betrayal, she saw courage in the various groups that had gathered to make peace. She saw colonists stand with Ulven and she saw the determined hope of her own clan as the Einherjar rallied those willing to fight to the bitter end in the face of certain death. She will always remember how it felt to face her fear and ready herself to die. They were spared that fate as Nightriver warpacks charged in to avenge their fallen kin. In the chaos that followed she made her escape with the Einherjar. The relief that she was spared such an unwelcome death was weighed down with the guilt that she herself was not able to help defend them. Being told to run as her people pushed forward and risked their lives did not sit well with her. Seeing new acquaintances cut down as they ran and as they fought their way to safety made it all come into sharp relief. Saldis promised herself and her people that day that she would not be unprepared again. Since that day she has stood with the Einherjar. Moving her life to Ulvesal and training hard to fight for her people. She will stand with her kin, she will save them or die trying.

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The Shepard

PLAYED BY: Tony Hunter

CHARACTER NAME: The Shepard

GENDER: Male

PRONOUN(S): He/Him

CLASS: Cleric

AGE: Older than he looks

RACE: Human

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Brown

OCCUPATION:

Itinerant Cleric/Healer. Former Shepherd

KNOWN SKILLS:

Healing, Preaching, Mediation, Negotiation, Marriage Counseling, Sarcasm, Occasional Banishment of Undead

BIRTHPLACE:

Southeastern corner of the May’Kar Dominion.

APPEARANCE:

Middle-aged non-descript guy. Black hat with a flower.

NOTABLE TRAITS:

Who’s asking? Did they say who was asking?

RELATIONSHIPS:

He barely managed not to get killed during the convoy runs to Grimsendir. In the aftermath, he joined up with an aspiring healer as a traveling companion.

RUMORS:

“Wasn’t there some preacher going around with some crazy ideas about all the different gods a few years ago? He had the same sort of hat I think…”

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

“Arik” breathed a sigh of relief as they passed through the lines of the Clan Shattered Spear rearguard. His tiny flock lost, his worldly possessions reduced to the clothes on his back, he staggered to the ground and caught his breath. The painful memory of the wound to the chest as the Grimward came within a hair’s breadth of ending his life. His fourth life.

Al-Raaei. His first life largely consisted of weeks spent alone in the scrub grasses at the eastern edge of the desert. The flock of his father grazing, drinking, drifting with the sun and wind and dust and, sometimes, even rain.

Al-Raaei. He’d forsworn that first life and began a second, but the first name stuck. As a mockery at first, but then as a mark of respect. There had been a lot of blood, and many wolves had met their end under his knives. Unfortunately, many lambs had been led to slaughter.

Kahinon. He’d forsworn that second life as well. There were debts to pay and redemption to be earned. He recalled his journey back to the scrublands of his youth. Not to tend sheep, but to tend to those who tended the sheep. The shrine to Illyara still stood where he remembered it, and the Western Wind granted him her divine aid in the time of his newfound flock’s need.

Kahinon. When the Undead drove through his home, his new lambs were slaughtered. He nearly was too, but the goddess – or maybe all the gods – had other plans for him. At first, their plans seemed to be mostly concerned with removing any Undead he found. But then those plans led him to a distant land, away from their unnatural touch. His new home, filled with new people, required a new name. One that felt more natural to the new flock he would tend.

Shepherd. As he traveled this new land, he taught any who would listen about the unity of the gods, and hoped people understood that this required the unity of all who worshipped. But no matter where he went, there were always those who separated and segregated. Those who guarded their ways and refused to consider that maybe no one had a monopoly on truth. Who are we to say that Sol and Solara, that the Great Wolf and the Sea Hound, that Sialig and Gaia are all different “people?” And if one of them is listening, who are we to say that no other can hear?

The Shepherd had angered the villager. His prayers included any and all gods who might listen, who might aid in cleansing the infection. Al-Khara, we beseech the Sea Hound, Lunara, and the Great Wolf, have Saint Borim bring blood and bone! But he lacked the strength. This sickness was beyond him. The villager wasn’t convinced. It seemed more likely, in the villager’s eyes, that at least one of the gods took offense at being invoked alongside all the others. The villager’s wife died in the morning. He absentmindedly massaged the scars of the wounds he received that night on the highway. Boots, sticks, the occasional rock. As he crawled away, he didn’t bother to call to the Northern Storm, the Eastern Fire, the Southern Dust, or the Western Wind for aid. He’d failed in his divine mission, and he ended his third, and longest, life.

“Arik.” The name never felt right. It was a crude amalgamation of his first two lives, but one that blended with the Ulven who were his neighbors. He returned to his first flocks, the four-legged ones who needed only the most basic of guidance. Tending the flocks of others led to a small flock of his own. He’d found an oasis of calm in the desert of strife that frequently boiled this new land. He could live out this fourth and final life, and earn his well-deserved final rest. Until the horde from the south took that fourth life away.

“Arik” had answered the call for volunteers for the supply run. He had no desire to start another life. Four was more than enough for one man, while others barely had a chance at one. He pulled a cart. He lugged crates, He spotted wounded men in the forest and enemies on approach. He warned them about the ambush site he found, and nearly died when he was caught in it. And he’d been saved by divine power and human skill.

“Arik” looked toward the setting sun and realized that he’d probably live to see another dawn. As he brushed the dust from his hat, he saw the Flower. That Flower. Still as fresh as the day he lifted it from the grass near the shrine. It had weathered the Undead, the trip across the sea, the years of wandering Mardrun. All that time, he had thought it a sign that he had the blessing of Illyara and all her brother and sister gods. After his failure, he saw it as the idle whimsy of a mighty but detached immortal. As he looked back at the gathering dusk, he felt the wind – the Western Wind – touch his face.

The Shepherd put his hat back on his sweat-damped head. As he began his fifth life, he felt the wind shift from the west to the north. A storm was coming. It would wash away the dust of the day’s struggle. Then the dawn would come, and its heat and light would drive away the damp. The circle would continue, as circles tend to do.

The Shepherd heard the approach of one of the other refugees and turned to see a bald fellow with a full red beard hold out a cup of water. He accepted it with a nod and gestured to the ground next to him. The redbeard accepted the invitation and collapsed in exhaustion. As the younger man righted himself, he spoke to the Shepherd. “Thanks for hauling me to the healers back there. Thought I was a goner.”

“Someone did the same for me earlier in the day. It felt right to return the favor.”

“Looks like a storm’s coming. We should probably find shelter.”

“So say we all.”

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Einharr Blackmane

Player Name : Nicholas Knight

Character Name : Einharr Blackmane

Gender : Male

Preferred Pronouns : He/Him

Race : Ulven

Path : Path of the Great Wolf

Class : Warrior

Pack / Clan : Pack Grimward of Clan Grimward.

Age : Born in the Winter of 245

Hair : Black

Eyes : Red

Birthplace : Small village within Grimward territory near Hadrborg.

Appearance : Often seen in decorative leather armor, average height and typically scowling.

Occupation : Warrior of Pack Grimward

Rumors :

“He’s a warrior who has no fight left in him, his name falls on deaf ears.”

“He lost his fangs in the war!“

“All of his family has died fighting in the war, he will follow in their steps. “

“He’s often close with the Daughter’s asking for guidance and all the nonsense.“

BIO:

Kneeling before a flickering fire, with the haunted visages of those who have fallen to my blade hanging in the flames, The weight of our recent battles pressed heavily on my mind. This war was supposed to forge me into a warrior, but instead it feels as if I’m becoming a monster in these fires of war. I was meant to fight warriors, not artisans and farmers. I turn away from the fire to the darkness of the night, and as my eyes adjust, I gaze upon the desecrated land we’ve come to know as Haygreth’s scar, a place where even the land remembers loss. There is where it will be decided whether this bloody war will come to a close or if we will continue defiling the earth beneath us with the blood of our kin. Gaia wouldn’t want this.

My thoughts were interrupted by a gruff voice: “Einharr, your watch is over. Get some rest. We need to be at our best for tomorrow.” Hurdur, as I’ve come to know him, was right; we both were eager to see how this meeting would turn out, though our reasons were as different as night and day. Hurdur seemed to be hoping for more war, and I wanted it all to end. Our difference in opinion has brought us to blows before, and while I typically claim victory, he has spread his views of my “cowardice” to others within the clan. I’ve had to defend my honor through strength of arms one too many times, but thankfully, with the tense atmosphere, I am able to rest easy tonight.

As sleep eventually took me, the next thing I knew, my eyes shot open once more to a metallic clang echoing in my head, the dull throbbing competing with a cacophony of shouts and clashing steel. I start to blink against a harsh sun; the world is blurry at first. Then, the stench hit me. It’s a brutal mix of sweat, mud, and something altogether more acrid but familiar: blood. A groan escaped my lips, followed by a wave of dizziness as I sat up. My body aches, protesting every movement. I glance down to see that I’m in my old armor. With the realization of what’s going on slowly setting in, panic soon followed. Where am I? I look around in an attempt to get a feel for my surroundings, but all I see is a battlefield stretched before me, an expanse of mud and trampled grass with banners with all too familiar crests in the distance. I begin to rub my eyes in disbelief, only to reopen them to see forces meeting in battle in the distance. I attempt to stand only to see the ground around me is littered with the fallen—friend or foe; it didn’t matter, for all I could feel was a sickness brewing in my gut as I laid eyes upon so many of my fallen kin. It was then that I realized where I was—no, when I was. I was back at the battle of Black Wolf Creek.

Just as quickly as I came to realize this, my eyes opened once more with a frantic gasp to see the ember touched sky as morning had come. That dream again… No, not a dream, but a recurring nightmare that has plagued me for weeks now. I could feel my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, echoing in my ears. Sweat clung to my skin, cold despite the warmth of the blankets. I fight to orient myself, preparing for an attack as if I were still in danger, but there are no sounds of combat nor the smell of blood. Relief eventually washed over me, a wave that left me shaky and breathless. Yet, the aftertaste of fear lingered. I fall back to rest a little longer, hoping my body calms before I need to get ready, but as I lay there, a dull ache settled within my chest, proof that the dream had taken its toll. Soon after I could feel the rustling of others rising from their slumber, it was time to get ready for battle. 

I strapped on my leather armor, each piece a familiar weight against my skin. But unlike the usual thrill of anticipation, a dull ache settled in my gut. I began to run my hand over the chipped hilt of my shortsword, a weapon that has tasted victory countless times. Today, though, it felt foreign, heavy with the weight of a battle I didn’t want. The polished surface mirrored the flicker of doubt in my eyes. A soft prayer escapes my lips. “Gaia, let this be the end.” I tightened the straps on my greaves, the rhythmic rasp a counterpoint to the frantic drumming within my chest. Every action felt mechanical, a desperate attempt to push down the rising tide of despair. I am not a coward, not by any stretch. But this war felt different, fueled by greed and ambition, not the noble defense of my homeland.

A calloused hand landed on my shoulder. I looked up to see my friend, Borin, a gruff warrior with a warm heart hidden beneath a scarred face. Borin’s gaze held a silent understanding, a shared burden of duty amidst a war neither desired. In that look, I found a sliver of solace, a reminder that I wasn’t alone in my dissent. With a heavy sigh, I lift my shield, the splintered wood painted with the symbol of our clan. I may not believe in the cause anymore, but my loyalty to my brothers-in-arms remained unshaken. Today, I will fight for them, if need be, for the men and women beside me. I couldn’t help but hope for this bloody war to end today.

As delegations from both sides of this conflict met at the chosen location in Haygreth’s Scar, we were positioned nearby, along with the rest of the warpack, should anything turn south. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that this would come to a close the first day, but alas, that was not the case. We would repeat this cycle of preparation and standstill for several days until, finally, thanks to the presence of Branthur Nightriver, a peace treaty was agreed upon. The mixture of reactions spread across the warpack, but due to a common respect for Haygreth, none spoke out openly. I, for one, felt as if my prayer had been answered; after all this time, I’ll be able to return home. While many of our opinions varied, we were all unified in our desire to return home and perhaps the comfort of our own beds. This alone inspired us to quicken our return.

The closer I got, the more nervous I became. It’s been so long since I’ve been home. As I crested a familiar hill, my once-proud posture, etched with the weariness of a long journey, began to falter. My armor, once spotless, is torn and scarred, a testament to the battles I fought; so much of me has changed since I first departed. My face, weathered by the sun and wind, held a mixture of emotions. Relief flickered within my eyes at the sight of my village, my home nestled in the valley below. The sight of smoke that once caused grief and regret is now a welcomed sight as it curls from chimneys like promises of warmth and peace. Yet a deeper tension lurked beneath the surface. The weight of unseen battles etched on my brow. I began to worry: could I return to such a life after seeing so much? After taking the lives of so many others, robbing them of the same experience of returning home. I scanned the village as I made my way through, with one thought constantly arising: Would they recognize me? The boy who left, full of bravado and youthful dreams of glory, had become a hardened warrior, etched with the lines of hardship. 

My calloused hand, used to gripping a sword, hesitated before reaching for the familiar wooden gate of my home. The life I left behind felt both distant and strangely foreign. Would my place still be there, waiting for me, amidst the laughter of my mate and the clatter of cooking pots? Or would I forever be a man out of time, haunted by the ghosts of war? I, a warrior who is now a survivor of the civil war, who has faced down Stormjarl and Nightriver warriors, am frozen with fear at my own doorstep. There was no warrior behind this door, but I would gladly face Haygreth himself over what was behind it. My mate, the reason I kept fighting, the reason I never lost myself in despair.

Astrid.

Her name forms a prayer on my lips. I still remember our parting, what feels like a lifetime ago, her tear-streaked face etched into memory. I still carry a single wildflower, pressed and brittle, tucked within my breastplate—a token she claimed would guide me home. As I went to open the door, it swung open, and there she was. Time seemed to slow as my gaze met hers, the weight of my armor suddenly oppressive. I wanted to reach for her, to bury my face in the familiar scent of wildflowers that clings to her hair, but I couldn’t help but hesitate. Astrid’s breath catches. Then, a smile, hesitant at first, blooms on her face. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve seen in a long time. The horrors of war almost entirely washed away, and before I knew it, I was embracing her.

“I’m home,” I whispered gently into her, words I longed to say and even more wanted to feel. 

From there, time passes by ever so quickly, where before every day felt as if it stretched for an eternity. At first, I found myself enjoying the simple pleasures, whether it be tending to a long-forgotten garden kept in the care of my beloved or crafting myself a new set of armor to put on display. The calluses on my hands, once maps of battles fought, begin to soften. I often wake without the familiar ache of old wounds, and a strange kind of peace begins to settle in. Yet nights held a hollowness. Dreams echo with the battlefield, with the taste of victory and the sting of defeat alike. Often forcing me to go without sleep, though this too shall pass as life continues on peacefully for the next few years. Some evenings are spent once again by a flickering fire, almost as if it were a new ritual in my day-to-day life, watching the embers dance. Each flicker a memory—the roar of battle, the camaraderie of brothers-in-arms, the sting of a bitter defeat, the sweetness of a hard-won victory. All told within the flame that swayed before me and each memory prodding at a restlessness that never seems to relent.

I often found myself staring at my armor those nights. But one night after hearing the news of the mordok pressing into Shattered Spear, sleep evaded me, and I found myself standing there deep in turmoil, wondering if I should don it once more. As my fingers traced the familiar ridges of the breastplate, calluses whispering against the leather. It was a second skin, once bearing the weight of countless battles. Memories flooded my mind, vivid as fresh blood. The clang of steel, the guttural roar of battle cries, the metallic tang of fear. But alongside the glory, the shadows crept in. The vacant eyes of fallen foes, the stench of death clinging to the battlefield, the hollow ache of a friend lost. The true reasons as to why I left that life behind. I begin to pull away from the armor, retreating to the light of the hearth as my chest tightens in response to the memories.

The flickering firelight of the hearth seemed to dance across my face while also casting long shadows across the rough-hewn wooden walls of the longhouse. As I sat hunched by the hearth, the weight of needing to choose what to do on my shoulders. These calloused hands, once a weapon of great skill, now rested limply on my knee. Einharr Blackmane, warrior of Pack Grimward, was a shadow of the warrior I once was. Across the way, Astrid knelt. Her raven hair, usually adorned with braids woven with ribbons, was unbound and cascaded down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Her eyes, the color of a summer sky, held a depth of love and concern that mirrored the crackling flames.

“My love,” Astrid began, her voice a soothing melody against the snap and pop of the fire. “You sit with what seems like the weight of the world on your shoulders, yet the fire in your heart seems to have dimmed.”

I let out a ragged sigh. “The fight has gone from me, Astrid. I have seen too much bloodshed and tasted too much ash. What good is a warrior without the will to fight?”

She reached out, her touch as light as a falling leaf. She brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, her fingers lingering on the harsh lines etched there. “There is more to a warrior than just the battlefield,” she said softly.

She gestured toward the hearth. “This fire, it burns because we tend to it and nurture it. It brings warmth, light, and the promise of a meal shared. It is the lifeblood of our home, just as you are the lifeblood of our people.”

I met her gaze, a flicker of something akin to defiance sparking within my eyes. “But the fire doesn’t need to fight,” I countered, my voice low.

Astrid smiled with a knowing glint in her eyes. “No, but it protects. It keeps away the encroaching darkness and the chill that would consume everything it touches. You, Einharr, are the protector of our hearth, the one who keeps the darkness at bay.”

She stood then, her slender frame silhouetted against the flames. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders, her voice ringing with quiet strength. “The Mordok threaten the very hearth we share and the life we have built together. Will you let it be consumed by the shadows?”

I watched the flames dance in her eyes, a reflection of the warrior spirit rekindled within me. The weight on my shoulders seemed to lessen, replaced by a familiar resolve. I rose to meet her, my frame casting a protective shadow over her.

“No,” I rumbled, my voice firm. “I will not.”

Astrid reached up, her hand tracing the curve of my jaw. “Then fight, my love,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she knew what the risk of me going off to fight would be. “Fight for our home, for our people, and for the fire that burns between us.”

I met her touch, my calloused hand finding hers. As their fingers intertwined, a spark of defiance ignited in my heart, mirroring the flames dancing in the hearth. “I will return to you again, my Moonflower.” With that, the night ended, and soon after, the morning came. 

The rising sun cast long shadows across the training ground as I hefted the weathered practice sword. Its weight, once comfortably familiar, felt alien in my grip. The training ground, a patch of hard-packed earth surrounded by a ring of stones, held the silent echoes of a thousand battles. Each nick in the wooden practice dummy, each dip in the ground, spoke of countless hours spent honing my craft. As the sun climbed higher, casting a harsh glare down on the clearing, I pushed myself further. My muscles whined in protest, and my lungs burned, but I wouldn’t yield. Each wince, each bead of sweat, was a defiance against the whispers that I had lost my fangs in the war. I would be ready to go out again; I would not be a burden, or so I thought. To our surprise, the orders were to hold position and patrol our territory, avoiding the Mordok entirely except for defending our own. What was Haygreth thinking? Since when do we cower behind our borders? It defied every instinct, but I obeyed along with the rest of the pack and clan.

The days bled into weeks, weeks into months—an agonizingly slow passage of time in these winter months. News trickled back to our camp: Morty, the leader of the Mordok, was dead. It figures, a colonist leading those monstrous creatures. But amidst this grim news, rumors of a moot surfaced. Unease gnawed at me at first, but a seed of hope sprouted. Perhaps at this gathering, we Grimwards could finally show our innocence, silence the accusations, and find the true culprits behind the raids. Together, for the sake of peace, we could root out the problem.

Maybe it was just naive optimism on my part, clinging to the hope of peace despite the accusations we faced. All that hope shattered as news of Haygreth’s death and the declaration of war echoed throughout the land. With the call to arms, old memories I’d tried to bury flooded back. Doubt gnawed at me as we journeyed south toward Stormjarl lands. Who were these Stonetooths we’d thrown our lot in with? Were we truly shielding ourselves from the Mordok threat or simply masking our own motives? So many unanswered questions swirled in my mind. As we marched, eventually Haygreth’s Scar came into view, a familiar landmark that marked the gateway to their territory. Stepping into it, a wave of memories washed over me, vivid as if I were reliving them. The past I thought I’d buried clawed its way back—a tangled mess of emotions that threatened to drown me. As the inevitable clash erupted, I hesitated. The thought of adding more ulven blood to the stains on my hands felt unbearable. Could I fight another war?

We pressed on fighting until our mission became clear: to cripple the Stormjarl’s docks and their seafaring capabilities. However, as we advanced, we encountered many farmers, artisans, and other villagers. Memories of the war flooded back. We were ordered to kill anyone in our way, even villagers, but I refused. This time would be different. While others cut down everyone they found, I tried to guide any survivors away, giving them a chance to escape. As darkness gave way to a gray dawn, the fires sputtered and died. The sight that greeted me was horrifying—bodies everywhere—women, children, and the elderly. No one had been spared the carnage. A wave of nausea washed over me, but it was the crushing despair that brought me to my knees. Rain, mirroring my own tears, streamed down my face. In that moment, it felt like the very earth itself was weeping. “Gaia grieves,” I thought solemnly, “as her children tear each other apart in another pointless war.”

A single, terrible question echoed in my mind: Are we the monsters?

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Ash

PLAYED BY: Eloise Helgestad

CHARACTER NAME: Ash

GENDER: Woman

PRONOUN(S): She/Her

CLASS: Cleric

AGE: Seems to be middle aged.

RACE: Syndar

HAIR: Black.

EYES: Eyes are constantly hidden.

OCCUPATION: Cleric of the Mahsai.

KNOWN SKILLS: Skilled in divine magic and religious practices.

BIRTHPLACE: May’kar Dominion.

APPEARANCE: Always seen in black robes accented with gold chains. A golden blind mask adorns her face, hiding the features from above her nose. A hood covers the rest of her head, leaving her mouth exposed.

RELATIONSHIPS: Often can be seen accompanying Eden.

RUMORS: A collector of odd religious artifacts and trinkets. They seem to have themes of death.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Ash was orphaned from a young age, found as one of the few survivors of a burned diplomatic caravan in the May’kar desert. Two women took her in after finding her while tending to the dead. They raised her, teaching her their own faith and as much as they could of the Syndar people’s. As she grew she began to study in the order that her mothers were a part of. This order was dedicated to the funerary rites of an old religion. In the halls of that small temple she began to learn how to care for the dead. Cleaning the bodies with herbs and oils. Wrapping them in cloth wraps bathed in the waters of the Lagdhu Deva. She became devout to this work.

When the undead threat became more prominent their work became harder and harder. As more and more undead rose to terrorize the people of Faedrun more bodies were simply burned. The risk of funerary rites was too great. Her beloved order that had given her a home was now dying. This culminated when the city guards exhumed the bodies of those buried in the halls, burning them in an effort to prevent a potential catastrophe in the small catacomb.

When the Penitent started preaching in the streets of Saresh some of her order began to join them, outraged with the current state of the city. She was thankful her mothers had passed before they were able to see the conflict that erupted within the small order. Friends turned to enemies as the assembly hall became a circus. Arguments and sometimes violent disagreements became a regular sight. Ash had decided it was enough. She departed her order and the city of Saresh.

Some time later she learned of the May’kar’s betrayal of the Grand Alliance and how they joined the Penitent cause. She couldn’t help but wonder how much of her order survived in the Penitent now.

Eventually she made her way to Mardrun, meeting the Celestine Eden on the boat. She now works to collect artifacts and scriptures from her homeland.

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Ford

PLAYED BY: Jacob Pelot-Veldhuizen

CHARACTER NAME: Ford

GENDER: Male

PRONOUN(S): He/Him

CLASS: Rogue

AGE: Born 242

RACE: Who wants to know? Why all the questions?

HAIR: Blonde with a red beard

EYES: Blue

OCCUPATION/KNOWN SKILLS: A jack-of-all-trades, Ford can sell, buy, and transport goods. He also has modest blacksmithing skills and will fix it if it broke. Not afraid to get his hands dirty to finish the job. Hangs around UCUM and is often seen with Lady Marrah Faile in the Brown Chicken Brown Cow.

BIRTHPLACE: Unknown

APPEARANCE/NOTABLE TRAITS: Tall and lean with a striking red beard, Ford’s attire attests to his background as a sailor, including the multiple tattoos covering his body.

RELATIONSHIPS: Has strong ties to Lady Marrah Faile, the BCBC, and the UCUM crew.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Aegir of Pack Seastorm and Clan Stormjarl, is born in the year 242 to a family of fishermen and traders.  Invited to go on his first trading voyage at the age of eleven, Aegir knows little of the colonist’s ways and is excited by the adventure.  When a sudden Wolf’s Wind hits his pack’s longboat, Aegir is swept off the boat and lost at sea.  Found unconscious by a returning merchant near the shores of New Oarsmeet, Aegir is delivered to the home of a wealthy businessman for whom the merchant works.  Nursed back to health, Aegir finds himself in debt to the businessman with no way to pay.  The man’s once generous nature flips to abusive manipulation as he convinces the young Aegir he has dishonored himself and his family.  Aegir is forced into slavery to pay back his debt.

It isn’t long before the mud and stone cell where Aegir and other slaves are kept is broken into by a band of irascible street rats, who’ve come to rescue their friend.  In the ensuing escape, Aegir meets a Syndar girl named Marrah, with whom he becomes fast friends.  She suggests he pick a new name to go by, one that won’t immediately reveal him to be Ulven, who are still distrusted in the colonies.  He chooses the name Ford.  Over the years, Ford and Marrah’s relationship develops into one of romance and dreams.  The pair find themselves working odd jobs on the edges of decent society.  Ford’s shame at what he’s become and had to do to survive prevents him from making contact with his lost family.

Growing and maturing, Ford and Marrah’s eyes begin to focus on their futures.  Ford’s experience sailing and smuggling captures his imagination.  He saves what little he can in hopes that he can purchase a boat of his own.  Marrah also longs for her own life of freedom and wealth, though her patience for it does not match Ford’s, and he is blind to it.  The Ulven Civil War breaks out, and Ford pushes his Ulven self deeper into seclusion.

Ford wakes some years later with a sword to his throat.  Marrah has stolen the silver of every crewmate aboard their current ship.  Ford is forced to take on the debt to prevent the pirates from hunting down and killing Marrah.  Crushed by her actions, Ford loses his trust in others and realizes there is no honor in people.  In the ensuing years, Ford works off his debt, acquiring skills and knowledge of the world along the way.

When the last silver piece is paid off, Ford leaves his crew in search of Marrah.  He will get answers and the silver he’s owed.  Then, finally, he can have the life of freedom he’s always dreamed of.

RETIREMENT:

In the years since, Ford found Marrah and the two made peace with their tumultuous past. That this peace came after his steel found its way to her throat… was quickly forgotten. Especially after he was knocked unconscious by one of Marrah’s girls during the incident. Ford worked for Marrah for many years, helping her build UCUM into a place of prosperity. As UCUM grew, so did their relationship and trust. When Marrah singlehandedly purchased a sea-faring vessel out of the money from her own pocket, it was Ford who was made captain. The dream of his youth was finally realized. Wealth, success, and freedom were everything Ford had hoped it would be. And yet, the half-forgotten and hidden name of his birth tugged at his soul. From time to time, Ford found himself daydreaming of his family, of his birthplace.

One day, the pull could no longer be ignored. Ford told Marrah of his decision and thanked her for her love and generosity. As he kissed her hand goodbye, Ford told her she could always call on him in times of need. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, Ford took his first tentative steps back into the unknown world of his beginnings. A salt-laden breeze swept across the path. Aegir smiled wide. A true freedom and truth now sat light in his heart.

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Nyx

Played by: Alex Pelot

Character name: Nyx

Gender: Female

Pronouns: Any

Class: Rogue

Age: Born 258

Race: Syndar – Serous

Hair: Brown

Eyes: White

Occupation: Traveler, professional pest, scout, animal whisperer, eater of strange plants

Known skills: Being annoying

Birthplace: Small homestead just outside Newhope

Appearance: legs, looks like themselves

Bio:

Born just outside of the fledgling Newhope, in 258. Nyx’s parents raised her amongst the plants and animals of this foreign land. To Nyx, however, the birds, squirrels, donkeys, lizards, bugs, and worms of this world were as familiar as the wanderlust in her Syndar veins. Her parents couldn’t keep Nyx in one spot for longer than it took to say her name. Every time her parents went into market, Nyx would tag along. As soon as allowed, she would dash off into the burgeoning city to explore. Tales of a wiry and mouthy Syndar child would slowly make their way back to Nyx’s parent’s stall, to their mixture of concern and amusement. At day’s end, her mother and father would wait and call, but only for so long. They knew Nyx would show up back home in a day or two. Dirty, hungry, half-crazed, but full of stories from her wanderings. A half day’s nap and she would be back to her buzzing and busy self. Delighted by her clear call to adventure, her parents let her travel farther and farther. She soon found herself witness to and part of many of Mardrun’s greatest events. So it went and so it goes to this day.

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Rain

PLAYED BY: Rachel Hannes

CHARACTER NAME: Rain

GENDER: Female

PRONOUN(S): She/Her

CLASS: Mage

AGE: 74 in year 273

RACE: Io’Lorian Syndar

HAIR: Strawberry Blonde

EYES: it’s difficult to tell under the mask… maybe green. Perhaps blue.

OCCUPATION: She seems to do what she wishes or what is convenient.

BIRTHPLACE: The Kingdom of Lairthuduil, Faedrun

NOTABLE TRAITS: She dresses in all black and red and wears a mask over her eyes.

RELATIONSHIPS: Sister- Eden

RUMORS: She seems obsessed with finding her sister- does she have her own identity?

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

For so long,  I have waited.

So long that I almost became just a stoic statue, fit for nobody.

But that ends now. I will find her.

———

The Calavera are a well traveled people. My family spent my first years in Lairthuduil, enjoying the beauty of the vibrant flowers and plants, learning how best to pick and preserve their properties.

When my mother fell pregnant with my younger sister, we were overjoyed. In our family, we pride ourselves on travel, my parents wishing for each of us to have the experience of an upbringing in different Kingdoms. Feeling drawn to the sea and Lunara, my parents decided we would travel to Karindren for this child’s birth and formative years.

It was a very difficult birth, but successful. Something unexpected, though- this child was born with a metallic glow, her skin kissed by the sun god Sol. A rare honor among the Io’Lorian. Our parents were sad to not have the chance to raise her, but handed her over to the Enlightened with pride when called to. I made a promise to myself that I would see her again some day. That made the parting easier. I didn’t realize at the time that I would spend my whole life clinging to this promise.

Our parents tried to conceive another child, but were unsuccessful. Mother became obsessed with the attempts, so much so, that she saught out a healer to examine her, fearing that Eden’s difficult birth may have made her struggle to bear another. But it was worse than that. Unbeknownst to them, Karindren has a strict policy that families are limited to two children. And the healer and midwife who attended her birth made sure that would be the case. This was not standard practice, but with such rampant prejudice against “Feral” Syndar, cruel actions like this were not unheard of.

Mother was devastated. She turned her obsession toward reconnecting the family with Eden some day.  She tried desperately to discover where the Enlightened were keeping her, and where she had gone after “graduating” from training.  No luck. We did learn, however, that Eden had chosen the colors red and black for herself, so we all adopted them as well, tying ourselves to her in some way.

When the undead plague struck Faedrun, we had been in Tielorrian. We rallied with the other Calavera and made the tumultuous journey to Mardrun.  But our ship was blown off course.  The island that we landed on would become our new home for the next many years.

Many Calavera rejected the tradition of being travelers and now called this place their permanent home. I yearned to find my sister, but feared attacks on the seas. After some time, I began to give up. Not just on Eden. But everything.

Until I heard that there was a chance- a silver Celestine who had come from the mainland and connected with our people. Although we were not her heritage, she made a deep bond with us and earned a place as an elder in our community.  Although she could not be my sister, she brought news that the continent would be safe enough to travel. And with that news, the hope reignited in my chest that I may finally fulfill the promise I had made to myself. I could feel my shadow dissolving.

I needed to go to the mainland. I spent months working to earn enough silver to support myself in travel, not knowing how long it would take to find her. I sold things, I poured drinks, I offered services as a personal assistant, and I sang to earn what I could.

Finally satisfied that I would have enough, it was time. The husband of one of our elders often ferries people to the mainland. But when I approached him he was hesitant and issued a warning that war had broken out among the Ulven people. It would be crazy to go to the mainland now.

But I replied simply, “I would travel far beyond the path of reason. Take me back to Eden.”

Take me back to Eden.

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Paldo Larpapadom

PLAYED BY: Bryan Richmond

CHARACTER NAME: Paldo Larpapadom

GENDER: Male

PREFERRED PRONOUN(S): He/him

CLASS: Rogue

AGE: 54

RACE: Human

HAIR: grey, mostly

EYES: hazel

OCCUPATION: Artisan, occasional guard, regular at the taverns of Bladehome

KNOWN SKILLS: alchemy, the gathering of reagents, drinking the little britches under the table

BIRTHPLACE: Valinate

APPEARANCE: Portly, bespectacled, just a bit of a jolly ol’ guy dontcha know

NOTABLE TRAITS: Paldo is fairly gregarious and eager to help. Paldo occasionally gives off “dad” vibes.

RELATIONSHIPS: The many members of the Larpapadom family, other common folk of Bladehome, the Broken Blade, a handful of Shattered Spear drinking buddies, a few ex-wifes and perhaps an ex-husband (buy him drinks for a night and maybe he’ll tell that tale), them lads and lasses at the Busty Bosom Chateau

RUMORS: The Larpapadoms in general, and Paldo specifically, hold the traditions of Richtrag and of their home Valinate in high esteem. Paldo will go to great lengths and spend a lot of silver to recover artifacts of his homeland.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Once farmers-turned-merchant folk in Cul’Claimete, the Larpapadom family moved to Valinate nearly two centuries ago. At that time Paldo’s ancestors embraced many paths to improve their lot. More than a few became Íoclaochra in the Valinate tradition. Eventually the Larpapadoms earned a small reputation as artisans, guards, and merchants eager for travel. This turned to their favor with the outbreak of the undead plague as many of the family were aboard a variety of merchant vessels when Valinate fell. The remaining Larpapadoms gathered and, with the stubbornness only those from Richtrag can muster, drank their way to safety.

After an elder Larpapadom found the journal of a long-thought-lost uncle hidden in a barrel of grog, their fate, and that of a young Paldo, was set. Scrawlings marked with spilled booze detailed a trip across the seas to a new land “for them strange Syndar, poor wretches lost the other boat.” Using clues left in The Book, the Larpapadoms were amongst the first to land on Mardrun. Not the first mind you, drunk Richtcrag scribblings make little sense to drunk Richtrag eyes, and drunk Richtcrag mouths belted out directions that made even less sense to any ear, but they arrived amongst the first wave of refugees nonetheless. That being said, Paldo was the first Larpapadom to lay foot on foreign soil, eager to embrace a new world and perhaps a local drink. Alas, to be so headstrong and cocksure now as he was in his thirties. The grog doesn’t go down like it used to.

Paldo and his brethren kept close to one another, working what trades and caravans they could in the new lands of the Colonists and, occasionally, Ulven territories as well. The Larpapadoms had perhaps a bit better luck with life on Mardrun than some, thanks to an insular nature and a variety of skills on hand. Always keep family close and a whiskey closer, as they say. Valinate shrewdness may have added some spice to Larpapadom success as well.

By the time a much older Paldo heard rumors of Bladehome, he was all too eager to set aside his spear and forge a proper home for the remnants of

Richtcrag. While some of his younger relatives took to the excitement of joining the Broken Blade as warriors and merchants in those early days, Paldo took his own path. Let the little ones earn their feathers, eh. Laying stone and cutting wood made for a long day, a good drink sitting on a bridge just built beside others made for a nice end to it. Sorting out minor cuts, bumps, and bruises, along with other tinkered small fixes to tools and the occasional armor kept things interesting, and was a sure way to make time for an extra sip or two. And if some brigands needed a lesson for interrupting such fine work, well Ol’ Paldo wasn’t one to shy away from providing an education, no sir. For the most part though, Paldo was eager to make friends with Shattered Spear villagers, share a drink or two, concoct a potion when able, and wander off searching for reagents when he could.

Then, after seemingly forever, Bladehome was alive. For a moment, familiar Richtcrag smells and celebrations brought Paldo back to his first, and last, Masquerade. Such joy and wantonness bubbling up out of Richtcrag hardiness. It was when he heard Volrock speak to the people of Bladehome that Paldo knew his heart would never leave. Here was a place for his people. A regular at the Busty Bosom Chateau, he has all but accepted Belterra as a surrogate daughter, a “feisty Larpapadom if there ever was one” by his estimate.

With recent events unfolding, Paldo has decided to take a more active role. It doesn’t sit well with him that the Grimward killed their own clan leader, and another Ulven leader in such a vulgar display, from what he was told. Making war in such a way seemed underhanded, and someone ought to teach those pups some etiquette. Despite many protests behind closed doors in the Larpapadom household, Paldo has taken up his old caravan guard armor (hey, it still fits!) and has fully offered his skills, trades, and service to Bladehome, the Broken Blade, and to Volrock himself.