Fantasy (Open) Willow Witches and The Faceless-CS

[Foolish Ghoul]

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"The world is fire and plague, and we are a madness that roams this desolate land like sheep without a shepherd. That’s all we are when it comes down to it, just squabbling cattle, living life in a familiar home turned slaughterhouse. We; the Faceless and Willow Witches alike, wander the rotting carcasses of our once proud civilization, living only because that’s what our primal instinct tells us to do, living in spite of all that has happened…

Of course, things weren't always like this, we weren't always slaves to our own fear and broken minds. We used to have great kingdoms and powerful heroes who fought back the darkness. I was told that at a young age, of course, and I’ll admit I didn’t believe it at first – you probably wouldn’t either if you lived through the shit I have – but when my village was attacked by the Skin Dancers and I began my life as a Faceless vagabond, I saw the signs of it everywhere. Old husks of the great monolithic structures we once built still stand tall to this day, and the massive expanses of tamed wild land they accompany are a welcome sight. I oft seek these structures and rotted cities out, as they are a welcome departure from reality. It’s so easy there, to step from this world to the next. I can close my eyes, for but a moment, and picture myself in the world before the age of Stardust..."

The Cataclysm

It started with a tear in the very fabric of our planar system. When it began it was small, but was still large enough to grab the attention of the Gods. In turn, each of the Celestial Commanders examined the rift, and when none were able to explain it’s existence, they simply wrote it off as an anomaly that would close before the end of the planetary cycle. They were wrong, and they were fools…

As that cycle passed, and the proposed hypothesis proved false, one of the gods – a master of logic and law – decided to traverse the tear in search of answers and discovery as to what may lay on the other side. Sadly, before any of the other’s could testify his rash behavior, he crossed the threshold of the impossible rift, vanishing into the beyond. He did not return, and now he lay nameless and unworshipped.

Another cycle passed, and the tear still lay open, its unwavering shape taunting the Gods with malice and the promise of death. In panic, the Celestial Commanders sealed the divine bridges that connected their planes from the others, shutting the material planes out.

Cycles passed and the rift still lay open and ever impossible. Many Gods became paranoid, fearing what this rift might mean and what might happen next. However, in time it lay ignored and undisturbed. It posed no visible threat as long as it lay unmolested, and so for a time there was solace. Or so, they thought.

Twelve cycles passed, and finally the prophet of doom emerged. Cathael, mother of the Skin Dancers, first Emergent from the Plane of Stardust, devourer of Gods. She was alien and bizarre, an exotic creature of captivating beauty. She danced an astral dance that promised ruin and death, and slew two Gods with in moments of her arrival, consuming their forms. They now lay forgotten and unworshipped.

Cathael left the celestial planes and passed the divine bridges with ease, venturing towards the Prime Material Plane, home of the God’s creations. She made landing in Tu’thull, first city of Emoreale, and dug deep into the soils. From there she made her nest, and birthed the first of the Skin Dancers; abominations of unspeakable horror that lurk inside men, controlling their bodies like simple puppets.

Before the Gods could react to the sudden devastation Cathael had wrought, a slew of rifts emerged within the planar system, spewing forth the abominations that had been lurking just beyond the void for so long. Gods below were they hungry.

I would hesitate to label the ensuing battles a war, as slaughter seems to be a more appropriate title. Most of the Gods now lay forgotten and unworshiped, and the few that live went into hiding so that they may sleep off their wounds.

The Three Gifts

Truly we hang on by a thread, and things seem grim if not certain, but there is some glimmer of hope still. You see, the Gods did not forsake us entirely in their death. Upon their departure they gave us three last gifts

Willow Witches

First were the Willow Witches. Creatures much like that of the humans, but with certain talents useful in fighting the abominations from the Plane of Stardust. They protect the few remaining cities and towns of Emoreale, and when those inevitably fall, they join the Faceless and wander the world in search of purpose.

Willow Witch Characters:
Born from a willow tree, these holy warrior's first thoughts are of their purpose; protect. They slide out of their trees fully grown, and walk to the town or city they have been summoned to guard. A Willow Witch guardian will do anything they can to keep their chosen land safe, even at the expense of their own life.

Sometimes a Willow Witch is born to a town or city that has already been destroyed, or the guardian fails to protect their mark and lives on despite the destruction. In these rare cases, the Willow Witch becomes a wanderer and a hunter, traveling the world until they die fighting the beasts they were meant to destroy. In some cases, a wandering Willow Witch will find a group of traveling Faceless and join their ranks.

Holy Physicality:
As a Willow Witch you are naturally stronger and faster than the Faceless. You have been given this strength to combat the Skin Dancers and other denizens from the Plane of Stardust. Because of this, weapons that might feel cumbersome to a Faceless are simple for you to wield.

Solar Powered:
The warming touch of the sun's rays fills you with vigor and energy. When exposed to sunlight, you heal wounds faster and are imbued with holy strength beyond compare.

Rune Writers:
Willow Witches are born with the understanding of the ancient runic language known as celestial. They come with full understanding of the Wards of Eld and a few of the much more rare Attack Runes. A Willow Witch should also have a greater understanding of about three Wards of Eld, allowing them to use them as utility in combat.

Star Iron

The second gift, Star Iron, is a metal that repels the touch of Skin Dancers. Unfortunately, humanity is in short supply of Star Iron and there hasn’t been a pure Star Iron helm made in the last hundred years or so.

During the pinnacle of the calamity, Star Iron rained from the sky, alight in holy fire set by the gods. When the holy metal struck down, it bore itself deep into the earth waiting ready for those of in need of it's protective properties.

Wards of Eld

Finally, there is the third gift; the Wards of Eld. Ancient writings that only the Willow Witches understand and can write. This is the only reason any town or city goes unmolested, as these wards repel naked Skin Dancers.

For the most part, Wards of Eld are very delicate. In order to work, they need to be linked together within a delicate and specific fashion, even the slightest error can cause the magic to wither away.

Specialization:
When a Willow Witch works with Eld Wards, they eventually gain a scholarly understanding of about three wards. When this mental ability becomes thoroughly practiced, a Willow Witch will find that they can write these wards in the air, activating them on command.
Wards of Eld available for specialization:
A'Tea: Ward of displacement
Cur'Ar: Ward of disruption
Doch: Ward of healing
Gea: Ward of defense
Kel: Ward of locating
Siel: Ward of silence
Ule: Ward of binding
Teh: Ward of shielding
Attack Rune Families:
Aliel: Runes of air
Bliel: Runes of shadow
Pesin: Runes of water
Resin: Runes of earth
Teine: Runes of fire
Ter: Runes of lightning

Faceless

The Faceless are humans existing now in the age of Stardust, they wallow in filth and plague, and hide behind helms of iron, cowering from the abysmal creatures that seek their destruction. It is because humans wear these helms that they have taken on the name "Faceless". They don't show their face, they don't mark their towns or cities on maps and they quietly accept their fate.

Faceless Characters:
Playing a Faceless character means that you have a terribly tragic history. Most likely you were born in a town or city, behind the comfort of the Eld Wards until – at some point – that town/city was brought to ruin. Whether it be because of plague, a Skin Dancer infestation, other various monsters, starvation, cultists, etc., that place no longer exists, and most likely nobody even noticed.

You now live life as a wanderer, doing your best to survive the harsh world. You may have found companions along the way, traveling in groups is usually the safest way to travel, but no matter how many friends you surround yourself with, you will eventually die out here.

Mutation:
Though not all Faceless suffer from this, you might.
The material planes and the Plane of Stardust were never meant to be connected, their building blocks are just too different. Because of this connection, the Plane of Stardust has warped Emoreale and the creatures that inhabit it. Mutation isn't common, and it's effects can be disastrous, but there are some who have learned how to tame it's effects and even use the mutation to their advantage. Through the use of mutagens (substances that can be harvested from creatures of the Plane of Stardust) a Faceless can enhance their own physical abilities.

Magic Specialist:
Though Faceless may not be able to wield runes such as the Willow Witches, Faceless do posses their own magics. When it comes to wielding the arcane arts, there isn't anyone better than the Faceless.

Namers:
The power of names is only available to Faceless.

Helms

A helm – simply put – is any covering for ones face. Originally, back when the calamity was at it's zenith, helms were made entirely of Star Iron, but since most of the world's supply has been used up and lost to the piles of plague infested corpses, Blacksmith's have to make do with regular Bold Iron, or a mix of the two. In some towns, the populace has had to resort to more common materials.

Sample List of Materials Used for Helms:
- Arcanite - Rare
- Bold Iron - Common
- Cloth - Common
- Flesh - Rare
- Leather - Common
- Pure Star Iron - Legendary (impossible)
- Silver - Uncommon
- Star Iron/Bold Iron mix - Rare

Relics

Relics are strange and mysterious items that come from before the age of Stardust, either during the calamity or during the age of Gods. Relics are scattered throughout this desolate world, buried underneath the rot and decay of what once was a mighty civilization.

There is much mystery shrouding the discovery of these items, but their usefulness is without question.

In order to discover a Relic, a Relic must want you to find it. This is a strange anomaly that many wanders have come across, as it seems that certain types of Relics will tend to only be discovered by a creature they deem worthy of their discovery. For instance, if one is to lead a life of violence and war, blazing a path of destruction upon their travels, they are more likely to find a Relic that's use is befitting a life of violence. Alternatively, if one lives life in the shadows, avoiding detection and slinking past their enemies, a Relic used for stealth may appear.

Cathael

Not Much is known of Cathael. She is one of the many gods that descended upon the Prime Material realm, and seems to have the most influence. Her nest is said to be in the lost city of Tu'thull, but the information on that location is no longer available. She is a mystery and a horror one does not want to encounter.

Skin Dancers

"...I have been following the two Skin Dancers for sometime now, and it seems I have managed to go undetected, though how much longer before they take notice of me is unclear.

...Getting as close as I have, I have begun sketching these creature's terrible visages and taking thorough notes on their behavioral patterns...

...Peculiar, It seems that even after a Skin Dancer's suite dies, they continue to wear it's corpse, almost as if their collecting the rotting remains of the poor souls they have bested. It is to be assumed, of course, that this is due to the terrible solar affliction all Skin Dancers poses, but I can't help and wonder if Dancers collect suits for sentimental value, or possibly, even as symbols of status. Just morbid curiosity of course.

It also appears that my two specimens have some sort of bony projections protruding from their heads, horns or antlers of some sort it seems. I ponder the possible uses for such growths, but find I can only hypothesize...

...I continue to follow my two specimens, and find that they do not seem to require sustenance, or at least I have not bared witness to any sort of consumption. Perhaps the rotting corpses they reside in provide nourishment."

- Passage taken from 'Sir Felguard's Tome of many Beasts'

​

Skin Dancers appeared hundreds of years ago, birthed forth from the god Cathael. They are terrible creatures of deception and corruption, and were the main force behind humanity's annihilation.

The Power of Names

Names are strange and powerful things, and to have a name is wonderous.

At birth, a Faceless is given a name by their parents. While a Faceless' birth name does have some power (if a person calls your name, you turn your head to see who is calling you, they were able to make you act with the power of your name) it is miniscule in comparison to the power of a true name. A true name is that person's very being, it is what defines them. It is said that that when a Skin Dancer enters a body, they learn that person's true name, and that is why they have full control over them.

Naming is a discipline where one perceives the true name of a person, place or thing, and through that understanding gains absolute control over the subject. This power can be used by a Faceless in a variety of ways. For example, natural forces like the wind can be called upon to do the Namer's bidding, solid rock can be commanded to crumble into dust, and living beings and people can be forced to do whatever the Namer desires. That being said, learning a name, truly understanding it, is a long and difficult process.

How It Works (Sort Of)
Oh I'm sorry, does this not make any sense? Well fuck you! You try and explain literal magic.

So the True Name of things is admittedly a very hard subject to explain. To know the True Name of something means you understand that thing to its very core. This might seem impossible to you, after all how could one ever hope to understand something that is forever shifting, such as wind or light, even wood or fire? These things are always changing, and therefore their names are never the same from this moment to the next, it should be impossible to understand them absolutely, right? Surprisingly, it isn't. You see, this understanding doesn't come from your conscious mind, the thing that you normally use to comprehend or analyze the world, the thing you're using right now to try and understand this complex concept. The understanding of a thing to the point of knowing its True Name comes from a subconscious portion of the mind – we'll call it the Sleeping Mind – that awakens briefly to become aware of the True Name of something.

"How does the Sleeping Mind work?", I hear you ask. Think of it like this:

Let's say you and me were in a room. In my hand is a stone. If I showed you this rock, and told you I was going to toss it, could you tell me right now where it was going to land with absolute certainty? Go ahead tell me. Picture that room in your mind. Picture you and me, no more than ten feet apart, a smooth skipping stone in my hand. Take as much time as you need, draw it out if you would like, and then have that answer in mind.




***




Have your answer? Yes? Well are you certain you know that's exactly where it's going to land?

No. Of course not. You could never tell me for certain where that stone would land. First of all, I didn't give you the rock, so its mass is a mystery to you. For all you know I was lying and it's not a rock at all, simply papermachette painted to look like a rock. You don't even have tools to measure the wind speed or atmospheric pressure of the room. Second of all, even if you did have all that information, I never told you which direction I was going to throw the stone. In short, there's no way you could figure that problem out.

Now picture that room again. Me and you, stone in my hand. I've just asked you this seemingly impossible question, for which you can not provide a definite answer. I then call my little brother into the room. He's six years old. Without a word, I toss the stone in a high arc towards his direction, and he snatches it from the air before it impacts the ground. Holding it in his hand, he examines the stone confused. I excuse him from the room and he leaves.

I turn back to you, smug grin on my face. How could my six year old brother, in mere seconds, figure out where that stone would impact, before it impacted, when you could not do it with your more experienced and intelligent mind in however much time you needed or wanted? How could my six year old brother calculate the distance that stone would travel, and how much time it would take to get there, when you could not?

Though not a perfect analogy, that is essentially how the Sleeping Mind and Naming works. A Faceless has the ability to awaken their Sleeping Mind for brief periods of time, so they might fully understand something to the point of learning it's true name at that exact moment (most things are in a constant state of change or decay, so a True Name is never the same from what it was seconds ago).

Magic

There are eight types of magic. They are as follows:

Abjuration: Spells that protect, block, or banish. An abjuration specialist is called an abjurer.
Conjuration: Spells that bring creatures or materials to the caster. A conjuration specialist is called a conjurer.
Divination: Spells that reveal information. A divination specialist is called a diviner.
Enchantment: Spells that imbue the recipient with some property or grant the caster power over another being. An enchantment specialist is called an enchanter.
Evocation: Spells that manipulate energy or create something from nothing. An evocation specialist is called an evoker.
Illusion: Spells that alter perception or create false images. An illusion specialist is called an illusionist.
Necromancy: Spells that manipulate, create, or destroy life or life force. A necromancy specialist is called a necromancer.
Transmutation: Spells that transform the recipient physically or change its properties in a more subtle way. A transmutation specialist is called a transmuter.

Religion Now

After the gods were slain, or chased into hiding, religion had died out almost completely. However, there are some who still seek out the gods to this day. They travel Emoreale in search of answers as to where the remaining deities may have fled to, in hopes that they may provide aid.

Any remaining religions are generally cults worshiping one of the Astral deities from the Plane of Stardust. It is said that there are even some worshippers of Cathael who willingly allow Skin Dancers to wear them. These cults tend to form in areas that have lost all sight of hope and have nothing no other option but to worship. These cults can be problematic for many obvious reasons, but also have been known to destroy the Eld Wards of a town purposefully.

"Civilization lays buried under the corpses of it’s own creators, the ashes of our ruin blanket this world and we wither and squirm until death takes us. We cling to life so pitifully, our cold hands gripping the cloistered veins of vitality, and for what?"

​

***​

In short, the point of this RP (if you’re still clueless) is that you’re either a Faceless (human) or Willow Witch, and you wander this desolate post apocalyptic landscape just doing your best to survive and possibly discovering the truth behind the cataclysm. This will be a super brutal RP, probably with a lot of death, so if your chill with that, let me know.

Links:
OOC:
(Open) Willow Witches and The Faceless- OOC
Questions:
Willow Witches and The Faceless - Questions
IC:
(Open) Willow Witches and The Faceless

Character Sheet
(IMAGE HERE)

(FULL NAME)
​

Race:
(Faceless or Willow Witch)

Gender:


Orientation:


Age:
(no younger than 18 please)

Personality:
(Detailed paragraph)

Likes:
+ (Like)
+ (Like)
+ (Like)
+ (Like)


Dislikes:
- (Dislike)
- (Dislike)
- (Dislike)
- (Dislike)


Quirks:
*(Quirk)
*(Quirk)
*(Quirk)
*(Quirk)



Appearance:
(Give me a few short sentences describing how they look)

Clothing/Armor:
(Describe what your character wears. Images help)

Helm:
(What type of helm do they wear? Describe it and, if you can, include a picture)

Weapons and Gear:


History:
(2 paragraphs minimum. Talk to me about your character in as much detail as you feel you can muster, I want to get to know them intimately)

Relics:
(Once I've accepted your character, I'll PM you for Relic discussion)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
School of Magic (pick a school of magic)

Names Known (Pick a name your character has discovered. Something simple such as stone, iron, lightning, fire, etc.)

Mutations (if applicable)

Powers and Abilities For Willow Witches:
Eld Ward Specialization (Pick three from the list of Eld Wards)

Attack Runes Known (Pick one from the list of attack runes)
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[Berries]

Eva Harbinger


Race: Faceless
Gender: Female
Orientation: Bisexual
Age: 27

Appearance
Standing at 5"10, Eva likes to feel like she's taller than other people and will often stand on steps and inclines whenever available to promote her height. Possessing heavy eyebrows and light-colored eyes, her stare can be incredibly intense if she puts her mind to it. Despite the fact that her build veers more to the side of lanky rather than stocky, she still has a lot of condensed upper-body muscle as well as powerful legs. Her dark hair is kept permanently braided so that it stays out of her face but is presumed to be straight if she would let it loose. It is hardly seen from underneath the hood of her cloak. Eva has two prominent scars; one which is on her lower torso and horizontally cuts through her stomach area, and the second that is shaped like a "V" stretched horizontally across her lower neck.

Personality
Generally, Eva doesn't like to waste time and is very practical. If she doesn't need it, she doesn't take it. Abstract concepts such as 'wants' and 'dreams' never enter the equation. She is steady and calm under pressure and never feels the need to impress other people. The only notable emotion that she shows consistently is curiosity along with the occasional spurt of sarcasm. Her way of thinking is very simple without any flare; she achieves her goals in the fastest, most efficient way and doesn't like detours or unnecessary add-ons. She is very goal-oriented and unless she sees the point of an action or how it is beneficial to her she tends to disregard things.

In her world, kindness is only used when somebody wants something from her, and indifference is a norm. Everybody has a job to do and she understands that, meaning she stays out of other peoples' ways and expects them to do the same for her. She is hard to provoke because she couldn't care less what people think of her and doesn't have "thick skin" as much as she just doesn't care what other people might think. She likes to take advantage of anything offered to her and always looks for ways to get herself a leg up. Eva is very well aware that teamwork is essential to any successful endeavor and therefore is good at collaborating with others, be it through words or simple glances.

Likes

• Self-Control
• Clean-Cut Wounds
• Warmth
• Alcohol

Dislikes

• Debt
• Animals
• Cold
• Hunger

Quirks

• Scratches the scar on her neck when worried or when thinking. Oftentimes, those two criteria are met simultaneously.
• Is meticulous about keeping her helm clean.
• Sleeps in her breast plate with her scythe in hand, usually with the weapon on the bed.
• Localized disassociative amnesia - repressed memory. Eva has repressed all memories of her father after the shock of losing him. Whenever topics about him or her past come up, her thoughts seem awfully disjunctive but she never pursues the fact.

Clothing/Armor

Eva's armor is mostly constructed of cloth and leather. The cloak and all constructs of the armor are cloth except for a leather breastplate, gloves and boots. The cloak is mainly to protect her from the cold and she does not often wear it into battle due to its tendency to tear. It is already visibly patched with miscellaneous pieces of cloth. Her normal clothing is not much different from her armor, as all she does is remove the breastplate and gloves. Most of her clothes are torn and crudely patched up with any fabric she could find.

Helm
Silver/Bold Iron/Leather: Eva's helm is smooth with a slight round shape to encase her nose in it. It cuts off just above her forehead but stretches down an inch below her chin. The helm is attached to hear head through four sturdy leather straps that she has to replace every few weeks due to tear and stretching which makes the helm slide off her face. The majority of the helm is made of bold iron but there is a thin silver coating over the top of it to give it a more metallic glow. The helm has wide spaces for her eyes but no space for her mouth, meaning that when she speaks it tends to be muffled. There is a small slot where her nose is in order to allow her to breathe easily.

Weapons & Gear
Weapons
- A scythe with a long, thin blade. The handle is five feet tall and stands just below her shoulders when beside her. The blade itself is around two feet long and curved. It is her primary weapon as her combat style prefers her to be close to her enemies but nevertheless out of reach, which is afforded by the weapon's long handle. When not in combat she keeps the weapon strapped across her back.
- A metal one-handed longsword with a leather grip. The blade is nicked but kept well enough sharpened that it still has a bite to it. It is her secondary weapon and is kept in reserve for combat situations where her opponents are too close in to use her scythe, or if her scythe is inoperable for some reason. When not in combat she keeps the weapon in a sheath attached to her belt.
- A small hunting knife not often used for combat and primarily for cutting food or materials but she will use it in a fight if necessary. When not in use she keeps it in a small sheath on her belt.

Gear
- A water canteen that hangs off of her belt (and is filled with alcohol rather than water more times than not).
- A sling bag that contains:

• Basic medical equipment (bandages, some disinfectant alcohol, needle and thread for stitching injuries).
• A small container of salt for salting/preserving food.

History:
Born as the daughter of a carpenter in a large town, Eva grew up as an only child. Her mother, Clara, was a kind and compassionate woman who loved to play with her young daughter and was also a wonderful housewife. Her father was from a family of renowned carpenters who eventually married a village woman named Clara. They got married two years after Eva was born. Her father, Evan, was a successful carpenter and the entire town knew him and came to him for all their wood-based needs. In order to obtain wood to use, however, he often needed to venture outside the town's limits and outside the protection of their Willow Witch's Eld Wards.

For this reason, he was a hardened warrior in addition to a carpenter. He also became rather close to their Willow Witch and the two got along well. Seeing as the plan was to have another child after Eva, hopefully a boy to pass on the carpenter trade to, the parents were dismayed when Clara's second child was a miscarriage. Devastated, the woman sank rapidly into depression. Once a happy, lively woman, she was now even less than a husk of her normal self and nothing seemed to lift her out of it. Eva was seven at the time. The family started to strain as Evan tried to keep up looking after Eva but also make a living for them all.

In order to balance it all, and to take precaution if Clara never returned from her depressed state, he began to teach Eva both the ways of the carpenter and a warrior. The young girl was confused and always wondered why her mother never wanted to play with her anymore - feeling at fault herself - but took solace in the work. Throwing herself into the job, Eva learned quickly and vented out all her sadness and anger through fighting. Two years later, Clara died. She had gradually started rejecting food until she ate nothing at all and passed away due to starvation. Eva and Evan were sad, but they had seen it coming for months now, so buried her without a tear and took solace in their small family unit.

For years Eva worked closely alongside her father. Their relationship was not only that of father and daughter, but had stemmed into friends and also coworkers. Eva had matured quickly and at thirteen acted like a twenty year old, so the two spent nearly all their time together through both laughter and tears. They were inseparable: it was a known saying that when one Harbinger was near, the other was close behind. Eva, too, got to know the town's willow witch and now often ventured outside the town limits to collect lumber with her father. The first weapon she had been taught was the longsword, but she had picked up the use of a scythe after discovering one laying unused near a farmstead.

Disaster struck for a second time sometime after Eva turned nineteen. She and her father had gone to visit their willow witch, Kathan, not knowing that he was in the process of resetting the town's Wards of Eld, and had disrupted him. Assuring them it was fine, he had continued his work and the three had left to talk. The interruption had caused a slight offset of one of the wards. It took only minutes for the Eld Wards to whither away. Skin dancers ran rampant over the town, slaughtering everything in sight. Nobody was prepared. Throwing themselves immediately into battle, the trio of Evan, Eva and the willow witch strove to fight the skin dancers off.

They fought for a full day and night, but the skin dancers never seemed to stop coming. The town had burned around them, and most of the townspeople were already dead. Resolving to run, the trio made a sprint for it. They had nearly made it out, but in her exhaustion Eva had failed to see a skin dancer lunging from her back. She had begun to turn around, but it was already too late - until Evan jumped in between the creature and his daughter. The skin dancer latched around his neck and head. Screaming, Eva started to run back, only to be stopped by the willow witch. Kathan had latched around her shoulders. She had struggled, but the willow witch overpowered her, knocked her out and threw her in a ditch.

The last thing Eva saw before waking up was her father's mauled face and flailing body. Upon waking, she was greeted with the sight of two dead bodies before her. While she had been unconscious, the skin dancers had left. The first body belonged to who she could only assume was her father, but with his body torn to shreds and face torn off. The second was Kathan. She could only assume he had attempted to intervene, but now he was little more than a gnarled, twisted figure. She wasn't sure how long she stood staring, but when she came back to her senses, all she saw were two fallen figures.

Her memory of her father had been erased, and along with it Kathan. Seeing her destroyed village seemingly for the first time, Eva pillaged every dead corpse or fallen house she could find before setting off on her own. She was torn and heavily injured, but without anywhere else to go she set herself to wander.

Relics
Toyah (slumbering)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless
Evocation: Spells that manipulate energy or create something from nothing. An evocation specialist is called an evoker.

Names Known: Wind

Mutations: N/A

 

[C.DEX]

Abel Aine​

Race: Faceless

Gender: Male

Orientation: ?

Age: 30

Personality:
Abel is a curious person, and seemingly content to the life of a drifter. Wandering from place to place, he takes pleasure, even beauty in seeing the world, even as decrepit as it is now. He speaks in a curious tone, though there seems to be an underlying contemptuousness to his words, however few they are. Those who don't take them at deeper meaning will often find them innocent or innocuous, while those who do might even find him irritating or sarcastic. It isn't clear whether he's here or there, and he doesn't like making his true opinions known. In fact, he's so elusive about subject matters that it can be irritating.

However, this discludes when things get serious. A bit too mature to be joking and riddling all of the time, Abel is able to calm down when it comes to intense situations, even able to take the reigns as far as leading when it comes down to it, though would much prefer others to do so before it happens that he has to. He is not one to try to hurt others, preferring to end an argument with word rather than sword. In fact, it's hard for a person to evoke much anger in him, though it's not impossible in the slightest.

Preferring to take on a 'brave face' (of course, that's a very liberal term - as he'd rather not show his face at all), Abel is more closed off to others. He's uncomfortable with talking about his own emotions, althoug he isn't closed off to travelling with others at all. As he never considers it a permanent arrangement - having a travelling partner - he would much rather keep himself at a jovial distance, wearing a mask emotionally ... and physically.

Likes:
+ Hand-crafted objects
+ Humor, in a bleak world
+ Displays of strength and bravery
+ Stories

Dislikes:
- Violence as an unnecessary means
- Those who lament
- Fighting, in general
- Becoming attached

Quirks:
* Scavenges the world, taking oddities with him
* Spends downtime handcrafting objects, many of them useless
* Gets tired quickly from conversation
* Falls into silence when conflicted

Appearance:
Abel falls at around 5'11", of average height. However, most of his body is covered from head to toe in either wrappings, clothing, or armor. He actually prefers the secretive, quiet life of the Faceless, never truly having the urge to reveal more than he already does. His posture is a bit lax, and never prim or proper. His walk isn't strained, and there is the impression that he may be a bit gaunt underneath his clothing, simply by how it falls on his body.

Clothing/Armor:
Abel handcrafts his own clothes. He prefers not to lay in societies - or the remnants of them - and instead modifies and appropriates from what he scavenges. That said, he's got a slew of handcrafted garments adorning him; most notably is his Helm, which he'd repaired after evidently being damaged in some way or another. In addition to his helm, he covers his head, hair, and neck with a reddish hood. He wears a cloth-and-leather tunic, fastened by twine wool. His hands and arms are wrapped to the wrist, leaving the skin of his gnarled hands to view, and acting as the only part of his body that he leaves uncovered. He wears a tooth necklace, teeth collected from some sort of beast, and ties cascading cloth around his waist. He wears cloth pants, the front of them adorned with leather, though that's rarely seen in light of the cloth robes he wears around his waist. Finally, his feet are in sandals, though his feet themselves are wrapped, again, in cloth.

He carries a backpack with him, with oddities and small pieces of art attached to it, along with a length of rope that he has laced around both his body and mounted on his pack.

Preferring not to resort to violence, but knowing that it's necessary in a world such as this, Abel also carries a blade on his side. Only the pommel peeks up from his cloth waistband, preferring also not to show it. For hospitality reasons, of course.

Helm:
Abel's Helm is a Bold Iron helm. The base is not of his own design, and there's chips and wearing on it from use throughout the years. It seems to have been originally made skillfully, though now there is a dent in it, and even a piece of the horn missing from the top. The front seems to be not of the caliber of a Knight; there is more room for him to see out of than a traditional helmet. There are lined engravings traveling from the ear to the chin, as well as the nose to the chin, and two simple aesthetic triangles jut from the top. The metal is covered by some sort of white paint. However, only the front piece remains. Instead, the back is fastened with a fire-hardened leather, and his hair wrapped in cloth. It has seen heavy modification.

History:
Abel, though not particularly old or wisened, certainly has been through enough for it to be interpreted as such. But then again, who hasn't? It's never wise to travel in such a world with others, but time and time again, in his youth, he grew attached. Time and time again, friends and family fell, what little friends and family there are left in this world. But he enjoyed the company, regardless, still knowing well that to be attached is to be unwise.

Abel started off as most humans do; in the arms of his mother. He recounts as thankful for the fact that he remembers her - meaning, of course, they were with him through childhood - though for how long he can't exactly remember. It was like a light switch; for a while, he had been with her. Then, as she disappear into the woods to forage for food, he had never seen her again. He wonders if perhaps he will, someday, again. Perhaps she had gotten lost, or simply was unwise to the stress of having a child in such a cruel world, and saw to it that he could defend himself before she finally left him - in the forest, no less. But she did. And now he's looking.

After that, he grew bitter. Living as a drifter in a world full of them, what little humanity he did see, he had to be cautious of. And so - and wisely so - he kept away from the Faceless for a long time. He strayed away from what little society had been left, instead only walking through a sea of masked faces, wondering if he'd even recognize his mother's voice, let alone her helm. But he never did. And so he grew older without her, and though he was angry, he never truly did give up hope for the last family he'd had.

After years of traveling alone, he began to look outwards. He knew that he wouldn't survive if he'd continued his streak of isolation and unhappiness - if not dying by his own hand, he'd die by another's, or worse; one of the wretched abominations born from the rifts that plagued them. So, he sought out others. And he found them. He had found that they were just as miserable as him. And finding that, he also decided from then on not to be like them. After all, there were beautiful places in this wretched world. As long as he looked at them sideways. He'd found joy in traveling with others - listening to their stories instead of lamenting on his own. He had lost them, of course, many times, and developed the habit of leaving before he could do so.

But perhaps that could change.

Powers and Abilities:
Abjuration - Abel focuses on Abjuration. While not particularly versed in banishing, he's a protector of sorts. This developed out of his own need to protect himself, though he isn't averse to using it for others' wellbeing as well.

Mutations:
While Abel keeps most of his body covered, his hands seemed to be gnarled into sharp points at the ends of his fingers.

Relics: Gelia (slumbering) - A small brooch of gold and turquoise. There seems to be a faint, easily unheard, ethereal hum that emits from the jewelry. It's a lovely tune.

Names Known: Cotton

 

[darth]

Callith Flay

Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Heterosexual

Age:
37

Personality:
Callith is the type of person you'd find sitting alone in the corner of a tavern or wandering around in a quiet forest. To put it simply, he prefers to keep to himself most of the time but that's not to say he shies away from a conversation. Despite his introverted shell, Callith is protective in nature. He will tend to try and keep close friends out of harm's way and will make sure anyone who wishes to injure him or his companions is swiftly dealt with. Protective instincts aside, Callith is a logical and responsible person. Callith deals with situations in a literal fashion, making decisive decisions on the spot. He can be dependable and honest as well. Callith will try to help where he can, and his companions know they can depend on him. A final aspect of Callith is he doesn't like to express his feelings or those of others. Callith will be apt to wither away when confronted with strong emotion.

Likes:
+ Reading
+ Drinking at local Taverns
+ Hunting
+ Fine-tempered steel


Dislikes:
- Confined spaces
- Arrogance
- Cowardice
- A dull blade


Quirks:
*Slight Insomniac
*Frequently gets lost in thought
*Alcoholic
*Extremely loyal to close friends



Appearance:
Callith stands at 5'11", with a stocky build. His hands are rough from a life's worth of work. Callith's face bears the same worn and rugged. His face is partially covered by a brown, scruffy beard. Callith's hair is short and unkempt. His eye color is a light grayish green color. Callith's body bears little scarring apart from minor burns on his lower arms. The only noticeable scar is from a previous puncture wound below his left shoulder. The wound went clean through so he has similar scarring on his backside.

Clothing/Armor:
Callith wears a chainmail hauberk under his cloth tunic, along with

Helm:
Callith's helm (shown above), is rounded and covers most of his skull. It also features a face guard with eye slits and holes near the nose and mouth to allow unrestricted breathing.

Weapons and Gear:
Callith typically wields two weapons. His primary is a one-handed axe which he forged himself. Callith's secondary is a compact short sword, sheathed on the backside of his belt. Callith also has a small leather pouch on his belt containing small items.

History:
Callith was born to a peasant family living on the outskirts of a small town. Callith and his family made a meager living working the land as farmers. Callith's parents often had very little business in bartering, so the majority of their tools were homemade. Shovels, hoes, and plows were made from materials they had to spare. This is where Callith first got his taste of smithing. Callith's father was able to create a stone furnace and used it to forge several tools, when they had the materials of course. One, in particular, was a small hunting knife. The knife would become one of Callith's proudest possession. This was the first item Callith forged by himself. Callith's life was fairly routine until he met an old blacksmith while trading goods in town with his father. The blacksmith was quite impressed with Callith's untapped skills in forging. In time this man offered Callith an apprenticeship, to which he eagerly accepted. In a matter of months, Callith moved out of his parent's cottage and into the small town.

In the next few years, Callith had become a renowned blacksmith. He perfected his technique and methods. Eventually, after his old mentor passed on, Callith was able to take over the smithy. Though Callith rarely found good trade, he enjoyed his life. One night while drinking at a local tavern, he met a young woman; Nira. To Callith, she was beautiful. She had long, silk-like brown hair. She was tall and thin. Callith couldn't keep his eyes off her. At first, Callith had trouble. But time and persistence proved victorious. Callith and Nira lived together for some time, though never officially married. They had a child together, a daughter; Marielyn. Callith's life seemed to turn out perfect in his eyes. Callith couldn't ask for anything more.

Callith's life was destroyed the day the town was razed by Skin Dancers. It was a cold autumn night, and the clear starlit sky was blocked out by the thick, black smokestacks. The entire town had been lit ablaze by desperate villagers trying to smite the abominations. The local garrison and Willow Witches were either dead or routed, and the town was at the mercy of the infestation. Debris had trapped Callith's family inside, as the fire burned through their home. The entire family held their breath as they heard steps and shuffling on their roof. To Callith's horror, a Skin Dancer crawled through the window. Callith leaped into action, lunging at it with a dagger. The Dancer overpowered him with ease. It then pinned Callith to a wall and skewered him through his shoulder. The Skin Dancer dug into Callith's flesh with its knarled hand, then let out a horrifying shriek. Nira wished to help, and she stabbed the dancer with the dagger Calith had dropped. The Dancer responded with a pained groan. To Callith's dismay, the Skin Dancer spun around and roared. It made a hissing growl as it stared ominously. Nira took a single step back before it rushed towards her. The Dancer thrusted it's arm and impaled her through the torso. Callith screamed as the Dancer threw Nira's limp body across the room. It then turned to face Callith. Its eyes were black and cold. Callith was enraged and gritted his teeth. As it lifted its arm to finish him, a wooden beam, blazed with flame fell upon the Skin Dancer. The beam crushed the life out of it, and Callith could hear the breath expel from its lungs. Callith rose from the ground, his shoulder bled profusely. Callith held a cold stare at Nira's lifeless body through the raging fire. As tears clouded his vision and the smoke grew heavy, Callith realized that Marielyn was still hiding in her locked room. He knocked open Marielyn's door, and black smoke came rushing out. Callith found his daughter lying on the floor. He lifted her up, pain surging through his shoulder. Callith ran through the fire that cut through the floor. Callith ducked his shoulder and dashed through the front door. Callith carried his daughter out of the burning village, and into the near by woods. He laid Marielyn on the damp grass. It seemed Callith's sorrow was not done, as Marielyn's body refused to draw breath. Callith sobbed quietly, as the fire from the village turned the sky a bright orange.

Callith now roams the realm, alone and broken.

Relics:
(Leave Blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
School of Magic - Abjuration

Names Known (leave blank for now)

Mutations (if applicable)

Powers and Abilities For Willow Witches:
Eld Ward Specialization (leave blank for now)

Attack Runes Known (leave blank for now)

 

[Napoleone the Kiwi]

Spoiler: Varys Rhoyne

Varys Rhoyne


Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Bisexual

Age:
22

Personality:
A formerly ill-tempered and impulsive Knight, Varys is was an intelligent if hot-headed member of his Town watch, so much so that he wasn't accepted till his 17th nameday. He lacked a degree of sociability, more temperamental than necessary due to a more rough childhood. His preference is more towards playing cards as opposed to going to war, though in the current world, it simply isn't to be. Hard working at what he puts his mind to, Varys' determination to complete tasks often leaves him to be vulnerable to his own well being or the well being of others, a task becoming all consuming the longer he lingers on it. After the tragedy, his temperamental nature was drowned, as a sword is after forging, leaving behind a far colder and more focused passion with the diligent focus simply being sharpened. Though the temper still simmers beneath the surface.

Despite his hardships, he still maintains a polite though dour persona to those on the roads however, determined to maintain civility despite the collapse of civilisation around him. Charitable to those in clearly worse situations, Varys' often can be far too unforgiving of slights despite his intelligence and logical understanding of an apocalypse, simply put, he loathes those that betray his good will.

Likes:
+ Playing cards
+ Eating food
+ Order
+ Human decency


Dislikes:
- Lack of integrity
- Liars
- Death
- Thieves


Quirks:
*Keeps a deck of cards on his person, no matter the situation
*Practices his sword play and spear-craft daily
*Often mumbles his misgivings to himself
*Likes to lie on the ground and stare at the sky



Appearance:
With long silver hair, well shaped purple iris'd eyes and an a well structured jawline, Varys is a handsome specimen indeed. as 1.95 cm tall, he is of a venerable height and lithe build, predisposed to speed and stamina in battle against ponderous and over muscled veracity. His hands are quite unblemished due the quality of his gloves, giving him a very pampered aura despite an inclination to helping where he can. Though slightly feminine in looks, he is clearly a man in mannerisms.

Clothing/Armor:
Dark Bold Iron armour with a scaled theme. The Arcanite pauldrons fashioned in the shape of dragon wings with pointed tips and splashing of red at intersecting points. His chest plate continues with red bands connecting the dragon wings to the motif of a pouncing dragon on his chest. With a variety of buckles at the hips and an armoured hauberk and further Leather-Bold Iron knee guards, shin guards and leather-Bold Iron scaled boots.

Underneath, he wears an Iron Bold chain mail shirt and a white tunic, a pair of black breeches accentuating his musculature. Spare clothing is a mix of red, blue and white tunics, with breeches brown, red, and blue.

Helm:
A Bold Iron dark helm with a rearing dragon, the face completely hidden but for the eyes. With a pair of stylised wings where the ears are and a sneering dragon head at the crown of the helm, it is nought but a terrifying visage.

Weapons and Gear:
The aforementioned armour, riding gear, a travel pouch with enough for provisions for a couple of days, a Bold-Iron tipped spear with straps, his Uncle's Bold-Star Iron long sword, Oathkeeper, a stylised dragon shaped hilt with the wings forming a guard and a bedroll, and his horse, Breygon.

Spoiler: Varys in Full Plate

History:
Varys was born to a decently well-off family in a coastal city, the same day as the death of his grandfather and father in a magical experiment. As a child he often ran from the responsibilities of his household, to the point that jests were made about his habits. However, records his grandfather describing the horrors of the outside kept from before his family made it to the city, encouraged Varys to protect the peace of his city. Though he was educated by some of the finest magicians of the city, finding a degree of skill in the arts of Evocation, combustion being one of his specialities, he left the stuffy second-hand mysticism, escaping to the City Watch where his uncle ruled.

At the age of seventeen, Varys was knighted by his uncle, the ancestral blade of his great-grandfather being used said to be wrought from Star-Iron. His uncle told him later it was, in part. Bold Iron made the rest, however. He grew into a highly skilled and capable fighter, always distinguishing himself well in the training pits, although he seldom entered the lists - the men who fought there tended to lose at the card table, he didn't feel like dying.

Unfortunately the love for his cards did little to dissuade the enemies of the peace. After the tragedy at the mages tower and the weakening of the wards, break down of law would grow on in the outer districts while even darker forces were at work niggling at the Kingdom's magical defences to the North. Joining on patrols to pacify the outer districts, Varys and his uncle moved with the most well equipped guard troop to have ever been assembled. First moving from the city centre to the outer township, they put down the dissidence brutally. Though often too late to save the Willow Witches who the brigands seemed to target. Through out crime wave, the weary patrols found more and more evidence of something darker moving in the shadows. More than mere gangsters, but whole streets left with no survivors, coming to manor houses with corpses twisted and maimed as unholy monuments to cruelty, some people still alive despite being mashed and sown together.

Crossing the river that flowed through the city, they reached the town's north edge at one of the great warded gates, the patrol stopping for the night. In the outer districts, not even the patrols were safe in the streets these days. By midnight, an eerie silence had fallen, as if the world was waiting for something with bated breath. The Mage's tower, his family home and the tallest building in the city, exploded suddenly and without warning. A towering conflagration that likely could be seen for tens of leagues erupted into the night sky, a sickly emerald flame, great bolts falling around the city and causing larger fires in their wake. Even as distant as they were from the city centre, they could see the square had been lit, along with all the surrounding guild halls and city administration buildings, centralisation and years of progress gone. And then with a great crack, the wards on the south side failed, the east following quickly. The North and West seemed to hold, but we were already running. The unholy screams followed us into the night, the various members of the patrol breaking, any hint of discipline gone as worry for family, friends and self overrode their sense of civic unity.

Uncle ended up getting speared by his lieutenant after the man went mad. Though it didn't seem to be a normal madness. The man fought as if he was possessed, but was brought down by a swing of my uncle's sword as he stood, a spear through his gut. The scream the man let out was simply inhuman. My uncle had me burn his body while we set his horse free, taking the provisions. We were going to leave the city. We supposed to, but uncle knew he wouldn't make it. He bid me to take the provisions and Breygon, then ride North. He'd heard tell of a settlement from some claiming to be travellers. No one travelled these days, it was probably a false lead, but the South wasn't something I was willing to risk, the East as well. North was the only way. I didn't know if Skin Dancer's could swim, I idled as I looked at the boats fleeing in the bay, but I wasn't going to stick around to find out.



Relics:
Hierophant (slumbering)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
Evocation

Names Known: Vermillion

 

[The Gunrunner]

Bayan Teutogen​

Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Heterosexual

Age:
28

Personality:
Life in the wasteland is for the hardy or the crazy, and Teutogen has bits of both. Despite the extreme dangers of the road, he loves the freedom it brings with all he has. He sees cities and towns as safe havens or resource points than homes, though begrudgingly understands their necessity. Still, he abhors the authority they advocate for - An instinctive antagonist to hierarchy and most forms of law, often enough to make his stay a little less welcome than most travelers. However, he is easy-going and cool-headed, often curious of new people and locations - The latter something he will consistently insist on learning all he can. In survival matters he has become apathetic to the necessities over the years, able to do what the unfamiliar can't with barely a second thought. He is an open conversationalist, and clings tightly to those who get close to him.

Likes:
+ Exploring
+ Reading
+ Singing
+ Good company


Dislikes:
- Compact cities
- Bandits
- Nobles
- Bland food


Quirks:
* Tendency to tattoo new locations, roads, mountains, or other geographical notes to the back of the hands, shoulder, arms, or chest depending on the find.
* Chews his fingers when uncomfortable or bored.
* Loves taking souvenirs from ruins, people, and even corpses that he finds interesting.
* Finds difficulty sleeping, often jolting awake in the night.



Appearance:
Bayan is about what would be expected from a city-avoiding scavenger; Medium-length tattered dark-brown hair stuck and tangled by grease and dirt, tied back by twine into a short tuft of a ponytail. A beard that is surprisingly well trimmed, but just as dirty as the hair. A scar trails from his left ear nearly to the left side of his mouth, thin and clean without the usual jaggedness marking the attack of an animal or abomination. He is as well built as possible with the lack of food, a mix of lean and athletic with an average height. Finally, one can not know Bayan - Or any outrider - without knowing the many tattoos; they're in various areas covering the backs of the hands, shoulders, forearms, upper arms, and chest. Each marking shows a map of some sort; the hands mapping the roads, the arms the elevation and mountains, shoulders rivers and forests, and so on. The tattoo on the chest is clearly unfinished, though one can see all the areas he has been to literally by viewing it. Each map has its own strange markings - Unfamiliar symbols dotting from the sides of mountains, points near the roads, points near rivers, areas in the middle of forests, etched paths not seen or noted on a cartographer's map. Emblems are used repeatedly, but not all are the same - A language kept for the people he hails from.

Clothing/Armor:

(General clothing picture seen at the top.)
Bayan wears what he can scavenge, make, repair, or steal. The end result isn't terrible, but it can be less than pretty. His clothing is a mis-matched arrangement of layered patch-work clothing, some parts clearly torn from other attires to make an addition. Over the frankensteined attire, he wears a reasonably comfortable and presentable long-coat - The right sleeve has been torn away, neither it or the shirt underneath covering the maps presented on the arm. In times of cold, he keeps a muddy-green scarf and - his personal favourite - a crimson red cloak. The latter is well maintained, though the bottom line is somewhat tattered. A travel pack is kept to the back using thick rope. Different necklaces dangle from his neck, holding a variety of trinkets collected from old ruins or people.

His armour is scavenged from the dead and dying, though the end result is still something sturdy that he can be proud of. The Bold Iron mail is battered and scratched, but clean and unbroken - The arms are of different lengths; the left arm reaches down to the wrist, while the right arm halts at the shoulder - The latter leaves the arm free for the most movement, with little weight to tire him out on that side. The protection of the chest is more than appreciable, and reaches to just over the knees. A belt wraps around the waist to keep the mail against the chest, with a rather exquisitely designed buckle depicting a simple battle scene.

Helm:
(Seen above.)
An exotic type of norman helm, made out of a Star Iron and Bold Iron alloy - A facial mask protects and hides the front, the material wrapping around to the back to enclose the helmet. The helmet has been personalized in multiple ways; while the crown of pieces shows a craftsmanship signifying it was included in the design, the hair attached to the tip of the helm and the extended frown of the 'mouth' are clearly his own doing; the hair itself is tied with twine, while the frown seems to be an intentional extension to a dent sustained in battle. It was a rare find indeed, and is cared for as the extension of himself it is recognized to be.

Weapons and Gear:

Spoiler

On the belt is arrayed the majority of his combat equipment: Metal cross-guarded saber in wooden scabbard, three throwing axes arrayed on the right side in hoop-sheaths, two leather pouches on the left side - one filled with an amalgamation of dirt, rockdust, and peppers while the other is a collection of custom-made war-darts. On the back of the belt is attached an animal-fur sheath horizontally following the belt, wherein his dagger is housed.
Otherwise, his primary weapon is a short-spear kept slung to the back. It rests beside his backpack, which holds his survival equipment; twine, bedroll, kindling, herbs, food, waterskin, twine, trinkets, climbing gear, paints, maps, and so on.

History:
As said, life in the wasteland is for the hardy or the crazy - But they need not suffer alone. Faceless may form into groups, find their own collective beliefs, or form their own culture. Though rare, there are bands which find their life in the wasteland - Some of these more notable than others. Bayan was part of one such group, faceless who refer to themselves as 'outriders.' Scavengers, scouts, survivors, warriors, and nomads. They are formed of the lowliest or unluckiest of society,with no homes to go back to or comforts but what they can find in the wastes. Despite this, they are not a sour people; their culture has developed to make the most of their situation. They are generally a very social people, though close-knit and suspicious of strangers. What an outrider can expect will depend on the area: Some view them as ruthless leeching bandits, some see them as useful if greedy mercenaries, and by some an unnerving sign of bad luck. It varies, but there is one consistency known to them: Their knowledge of the land. While to an outrider it is only one aspect of their culture, albeit a very important one, to those locked in cities or recently made wanderers Outriders can be an immense wealth of information. Their very bodies are tattooed to mark out the deeper meanings of the terrain; not merely elevation and density of forests but the abundances of food, where to find shelter, areas to defend oneself or hide, where to find certain herbs, untapped ruins, and so much more. Outriders who fall in battle often have their skins collected for the maps - A practice that hasn't done anything to change their isolated nature.

Bayan was one of the rare members not to be born into it; a child lucky enough to be found in the wastes, a singular survivor of the city's brutal civil war. The blood was washed off of his body, but his mind constantly retreated him to the atrocities and horrors he witnessed then - Men and women piled in hills, displays of brutality meant to frighten the factions, spilled organs and rolling heads. It ended not when the bodies piled so high the flies brought plague, but when their Willow-Witch itself was struck down in the heat of melee. When the city was compromised, the people evacuated. They formed separate groups, whether loyalists, rebels, or those neutral to the conflict. Though each went their own way, none got very far; starvation, dehydration, infection, poisoning, and skin-dancers whittled their numbers day-by-day. However, while they fell and died, Bayan lived long enough to learn from their mistakes. The coddling of children can have its benefits indeed, and it gave him the time it would require to learn the wasteland.

It was to his luck that he didn't have to survive long; he was found by a scouting party of outriders, scavenging from the city and its dead. He distinguished himself in his ability to survive, giving enough note to be brought into the band. He was viewed with suspicion at first, sure, and it would take time for him to be accepted. However, he lived long enough for him to be viewed as a brother. For years he traveled with the Outriders, soaking in their knowledge of survival like a sponge. With them he learned to use the 'survivor's magic', as they called it: Illusion. He learned to use it in a variety of means - To misdirect, distract, and confuse. He was taught to use it in abundance, whether fighting or escaping, and he'd come to find it greatly effective. Of course, learning is not only done through talk and reading - Especially in the Wasteland. The Outriders were anything they needed to be to survive; mercenaries, bandits, thieves, scavengers, scouts, they were everything and anything they had to be. The best moments in his memory were when they hired themselves out to cities and towns; the risks were there, but the rewards were the greatest then.

His last moments with the Outriders was in following a mercenary contract; it was a bloody, glorious fight. He can still remember the smell of bitter-sweet copper as they hacked through the enemy line. Were they bandits, mercenaries, or guards? That much can be hard to remember, though it's true they may have never been told at all. It mattered little; the contract was failed. The Outriders retreated with heavy casualties, leaving the target and contract behind them... along with Bayan. He was kept in custody with his other comrades, their skins evidently the only reason for their survival. Though that promised to be quite temporary. Bayan was lucky; there were few skilled in the appropriate art, making the process excruciatingly slow - Done day-by-day, hours spent removing the maps one man at a time. To his joy, he would not be one of the men hanging from a tree, a body red from bared muscle tissue.

His capture was many years ago now. His hope for finding the band has waned heavily, and he has come to terms with the fact that he is alone. That is, he was alone; he has since made an unlikely friend out of a cynical, mutated faceless. Despite the personality, he's kept the partnership and hasn't regretted it. They continue to work together today.


Relics:
Tiresias (slumbering)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:

School of Magic: Illusions.

Names Known: Soil

Mutations: N/A

 

[Moritz]

Lutolf Franziska Adelhardt​

Race: Faceless

Gender: Male

Orientation: Asexual

Age: 36

Personality:
Lutolf is a man with an uncertain personality. A confusing box of emotions held together beneath the tattered stitching of malformed skin and tortured nerves. Occasionally a ticking time bomb, and at some points a man resigned to the life of the dead or dying - Pessimistic, Morose. There are moments, however, of pure clarity - where the gears of the man's mind truly begin to turn again, and it is at these points where he shines, moments where he adopts the appearance and mannerisms of a true being. During these moments he becomes a straightforward individual, one whom dislikes having little to do - and one who absolutely loathes free time. If he finds he has nothing to do - he will occupy himself; Training, reading, crafting, repairing - Anything and everything to keep his mind active, and distracted - lest he sink back below the thick mire of pain and madness he so often finds himself in.

He once thought himself a man of companionship - but his current state has put those thoughts to the test. Very few are ever willing to deal with him - and if they do, they do so for naught but a short time.

Likes:
+ Anything he can do to occupy his both mind and hands, an effort to distract himself.
+ Puzzles
+ Eating, exactly what matters very little
+ Numbing agents, medication, The act/art of healing

Dislikes:
- Physical self awareness
- Passive action, Idling
- His actual, Physical existence
- Past Life - Being unable to remember any concrete information about his past, Lutolf absolutely despises being asked - or even
trying to think about - his former life. Infuriation and despair abound.

Quirks:
* Occasional bouts of self-inflicted injury, most of which are light in severity.

* Madman's rambling - The man's pain-induced madness occasionally results in him speaking - sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly, to himself.

* Morose, Pessimistic - The man's current state has corrupted his attitude. He makes very poor long term company for those unadjusted to his personality, and 'way' with words.

* Memory lost to Madness - Lutolf has lived far too long for a man constantly existing in such a pained state. Both his name, and most of his memories are lost to the depths of his mind as the pain continued on, and on, worsening as the infection - or mutation - spread. However, every so often memories will come to him in twisted, confusing flashes - most detail lost to the agonizing fog infesting his mind. What he may remember varies - Be it good, be it sad - They hold a strong sway over both mood and attitude.

Appearance:
Lutolf stands at an average height of Six feet.

Nobody has ever seen what the man looks like, beneath the armor. No matter who had taken him in, what he had been doing - He never removed it in the presence - or even in the vicinity of - company. However, if one had managed to catch a glimpse, what they would see is a man's flesh, wrought by what looked to be some horrible disease. Portions of flesh are frequently missing from various locations around his body, exposing the muscle and sinew beneath. Because of this, his appearance is rarely - if ever - uniform. At one time, half of his face may have been eaten away, only to regrow whilst the skin covering his arm withered to dust. Massive lines and patches of scar repaired tissue line his body, giving him a slightly patchwork appearance - with each cycle of loss and regrowth leaving behind its own, individual mark. There are many limited forms that the man's body may take - none of which are pleasant to gaze upon.

As a result, his armor and clothing have become his preferred self image.



Clothing/Armor:
Lutolf is clad in an aged and battered suit of plate armor. It is built from - like many others - Bold Iron. His helm completes the man's ragged appearance, and that which is not cloaked by metal, is covered by tattered cloth between which one can occasionally catch a glimpse of the tortured skin beneath.

Helm:
A helm built of Bold Iron, designed to provide a fair amount of visibility, whilst still maintaining a somewhat unique appearance. The slits within the helmet - whilst offering the user a decent view - do a fair job obscuring the head, and face, beneath.

What was once a helm treasured and maintained as any other, has been withered by time and brutality to something one might expect to find littering a battlefield.

Weapons and Gear:
Originally opting for a Sword, and shield, Lutolf soon found the combination to be completely lacking when paired with his aggressive, sometimes overtly brutal fighting style. As such, he disposed of them, instead opting to take on a 4'5" Poleaxe - One end housing a large spike, intended to break through armor - and the other housing the blade of an axe, of which has only the intent to cleave and maim. A thick, lengthy spearhead completes the weapon - emerging from the center of the pole-arm's 'head', placed between the opposing weapons.

Other than his choice of weapon, Lutolf carries very little. A sizable pouch has been looped to his uniform's withered belt - something in which to carry food, items, and other knick-knacks of varying worth and use. A waterskin hangs idly by the pouch, for the short moments where the man can remind himself to stay as hydrated as possible.



History:
Lutolf was a broken man, that much was rather obvious. A broken man with a broken past, memories lost to the fog of pain that had been driving him ruthlessly forwards, at some moments driving him towards civilization - and during other, more frequent moments, sending him clawing - insane - in wide, useless circles. A mad rat in a tattered maze. Why would fate ever curse him so - what had he done to deserve such a horrifying fate? He had asked himself that questions for hours, during those first few horrible months, as his skin was eaten away by some strange, foreign power. Agony, nothing but agony - day in, day out.

He was no longer completely aware of his situation. When his skin began to shift, as it was eaten away - the pain had driven him to madness, and in turn that madness had burrowed into his mind and devoured his all but the most basic of memories. It was after his fifth bout of madness - the fifth since his existence had manifested into a personal hell - that the lapses in memories became totally apparent. His friends- Family, perhaps... Their faces had been eaten away, becoming nothing but a blurred image drifting through now-absent thoughts.

Over time, his situation worsened. The memory of his home became naught but a leaf trapped in a mental hurricane. Had he always been like this?- Certainly not, right?- The odds of him being born, homeless, were astronomically low - He had been given a helm, had he not? Or... had he stolen it from some poor soul..? It was thoughts and moments like these, where he pondered what had been lost - and when he attempted to pull his mind from the brink - that he found himself at his lowest.
What kind of damned fool could not remember their home, their family, their friends?! What kind of person could forget these things?!

Day after day, he would repeat this cycle. Questioning his past, questioning his purpose - and thinking, when he could muster the ability to do so without driving himself into a fit of rage. His sleep was restless, filled with the ghosts of his fractured past. Many nights, he would wake screaming - fingers clawing helplessly at the metal mask adorning his scarred face.

He had considered killing himself - many times over, in fact - but the fear, the possibility of what lay beyond, horrified him - and so, he walked onwards, drowning in a sea of self-loathing, pain, and madness. As the months went by, and those months turned to years, Lutolf adopted the life of a true recluse, doomed to a life of insanity and solitude. Very few of those he could find during his 'waking hours' could tolerate his situation for long. There was only so much the others could tolerate - everybody had their limits, and unfortunately Lutolf had met his own long ago.

Time soon began to blur together; Days, Nights, Weeks, Months, and even more years - he kept wandering, he kept walking - and when needed, did his best to scrape together the materials needed to survive. Moving on some form of twisted autopilot,
until the blessed day fate chanced upon him to meet the Outrider, an oddball of a saint - someone willing to help him try and claw his way out of his damned, maddened stupor, piece by piece.

Relics:
Hadar (slumbering)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
School of Magic: Evocation

Names Known: Bone

Mutations: Lutolf is unfortunately afflicted by what was first thought to be an agonizing, flesh-eating disease - with portions of his skin frequently wasting away to nothing - revealing the exposed muscle and sinew below. This, however, was quickly proven to be an incorrect assumption, for after each period of painful decline, comes a time of growth - the missing flesh reforms, scarred and misshapen. There are moments, though few, where the man's skin has managed to completely heal over his damaged form, and it is during these times that the flesh seems to occasionally move and shift of its own accord, the meaning of which is a mystery. Whether or not this happens to be both a blessing, and a curse, is up to debate - He cares not, his focus is on the pain, and doing what he can to find relief - now matter how temporary.

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[Blank Pages]

Warren of Geisler

FACELESS - MALE - BISEXUAL - 30

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Personality

Some might scoff at being labelled a pessimist, explaining they're simply a realist. On the other hand, Warren’s devil-may-care attitude often earns him the title of an optimist. Really, you ought to take his word for it when he says he's simply, well, a realist.

Survival in the wasteland is tough, and for someone like Warren -- who is lacking in physical prowess, or combat awareness -- it’s nearly impossible. He’s learned early on that he will need to depend on other people if he wants more years to his life. As such, he’s always hard at work trying to gain his companion’s approval. Though never overly boisterous, he’s always ready with a joke or a warm remark, avoiding confrontation and going to great lengths to keep the peace within the group -- although, knowing better than to get attached, he makes it a point to never stay with the same people for too long.

Everyone’s main objective is to avoid skin dancers, but Warren’s specialty is people. As long as his companions can keep the group safe from Cathael’s wrath, he’ll do his best to take care of everything else. He can negotiate. He can lie. He can swindle. He would never do that to the group he’s currently travelling with, but at the end of the day, his first priority is his own survival.

LIKES

• Gambling
• A warm bed
• Good food / Even better drinks
• Lively music / Lots of dancing

DISLIKES

• Violence. Gore. Weapons. There’s simply more elegant ways of settling things
• Authorities / Law
• Winter / The cold
• People who take themselves too seriously

QUIRKS

• Fidgets with a small, old handkerchief when nervous
• Very light sleeper

Appearance

His own vanity being one of his greatest weaknesses, Warren grooms himself well, sometimes even to a fault. At the very least, he makes sure to be mostly free of the grime and dirt that comes with traversing the rough landscape beyond the Wards of Eld. Despite a strong jaw, his facial features are delicate and leaning towards androgynous. His build does not deviate from this pattern; at 5’10”, he is tall with a svelte figure -- not muscular, but not lanky either.

CLOTHING/ARMOUR

• Light, spider silk armour allowing maximum flexibility/mobility, and some protection.
• Wears a heavier coat when appropriate (as in winter)
• Not at all opposed to wearing all sorts of disguises

HELM
Bold Iron/Silver Mix -- Consists of two parts: The upper part is a darker, iron kettle hat resembling a capotain with a shorter crown. It is fused to top part of the second component -- a silver, theatre mask depicting a smiling face. Leather straps run down the kettle hat, and along the sides of the mask to keep the helmet in place.

WEAPONS AND GEAR

1. Obsidian dirk. Mainly decorative. Don’t expect him to use it, and when he does, don’t expect him to be able to do much with it
2. Lock-picking tools
3. Small mirror
4. Pack of cards
5. Pair of dice
6. Harmonica
7. Liquor flask

History

hello big blocka text incoming

Abilities

RELICS
To be discussed

SCHOOL OF MAGIC
Illusion

NAMES KNOWN
Sound

 

[LocKeii]

Roster Menu

Raven - Main Character

Phantom - Background Character

⚔ R A V E N ⚔

"Of the Slain."

B A S I C

True Name: Valravn
Monikers: Raven (Phantom), Blitz

Race: Willow Witch
Gender: Female
Orientation: ???

Age: 1 year
Biological Age: 19 years

A P P E A R A N C E

"Hair bleached bone white and eyes like moss covered gold, her soul is still young and unbridled. Foolish enough to wear her face as a mask..."

Clothing || Armor: The focus on speed and offensive agility had naturally lead to a preference in light, flexible garb. In this case a simple, white cloth tunic and leather armor had been more than suitable for the "Blitz" fighter. The thick gloves however were a recent addition in order to protect herself from her own reckless fists. Even the pair of thigh high boots, while pleasing, were for practically when it came to trekking miles of open marshland.

Helm: From the time of her birth Raven had remained adamant in her decision not to become "faceless". That being said she still owns her own helm out of both practicality and the insistence of her companion. All polished iron; thick, durable, and entirely suffocating (in her muttered opinions). Despite her apparent dislike towards wearing it she still admittedly admires the craftsmanship. The smooth strokes of silver and the strange but beautifully drawn symbols speak of ages long past. No matter how many times she had questioned Phantom about it's origins the man had unsurprisingly remained tight lipped.

Weapons & Gear: A dark bladed sword that had once belonged to Phantom before he'd relinquished it's ownership to Raven. The slender frame and light weight requires both a firm control yet a flexible hand. Even now she hasn't completely mastered it but her own technique, as flawed as it is, balances out inexperience with skilled aptitude. Upon her insistence she carries the pack of essentials for both her and Phantom. It's light considering their nomadic lifestyle and consists of a thick rope, two blankets, a battered pot, and a sharpened skinning knife.

D E P T H

Personality:
Despite her apparent age Raven has only truly experienced a year within the Material Plane. Her ability to adapt and change has aided in this regard but there is still much she needs to learn. She herself doesn't deny this but it doesn't make it any less irritating when others underestimate her capabilities. For this reason she genuinely puts in the effort to improve and learn from others if the opportunity arises. Perhaps the most difficult aspect is that she has little in manner of patience and becomes easily fickle towards those that don't catch her interest. The moment her passion is sparked however it's difficult to dampen and even more difficult to otherwise change her mind.

When it comes to sociability she has always been highly perceptive of others emotions. It frequently makes things a lot easier to discern what someone may be thinking and to perhaps even predict their motives. While this can undoubtedly be helpful it also runs the risk of misplaced empathy. There's enough naivety in her fresh eyed countenance to leave a window wide open for manipulation. Not enough however to repeat the same mistakes twice.

Personally Raven is an amicable person by heart. She's more than welcoming when it comes to forging new relations and perhaps even kinship where it counts. Unless otherwise provoked or suspicions alerted she will more than likely give others the benefit of the doubt. She does not however take deceit lightly and cannot and will not forgive those that harm the very, very sparse few she's come to care for.

Likes:
✓ A challenge, a mystery, the unknown.
✓ Thunderstorms; preferably dry.
✓ Beads & Charms
✓ Fall
✓ Extremely high elevations. The closer to the heavens the better.

Dislikes:
✘ Losing ones sense of self
✘ Rain or anything wet and soggy for that matter.
✘ Loneliness
✘ Being underestimated
✘ Large & deep bodies of water.

Quirks:
♢ Has the urge to climb high structures or really the highest thing in the immediate vicinity.
♢ Prefers to sleep 'above' the ground. With that in mind she will either set up a makeshift hammock or sleep in a tree.
♢ Mutters out loud when deep in thought.
♢ Has the instinctual compass of a teaspoon ie. she is not good with directions.

H I S T O R Y

Cold, afraid, and plagued with an aching sense of loss Raven's first days of existence weren't something she'd rather dwell on. If given the choice however she would remember every last minute. Especially the day of her birth. Although she'd rather recall it as the day she had first met a bandaged man with no name and eyes like amethysts. In those days their relationship had been tentative, both in part to her initial timidness and a serious lack of conversation on his end. As time passed and days turned into weeks she had shed her meekness like a broken shell. By the end of the month she had unceremoniously dubbed him Phantom and he in turn gave her the name Valravn. Something she had taken the liberty to shortening to Raven.

Looking back she's become more than aware of how much of a luxury she was given. To have the time and peace, no matter how sporadic, to acclimate to the world that was abruptly thrust upon her was a rarity. A willow witch who'd been born to safeguard a land that had long since fallen to violence and bloodshed. It was tragic by it's own right and no matter how much time passed or where they traveled it grew like an unwanted weed. At first it had been easy enough to ignore, to wallow in denial until all the unwarranted grief and sorrow clung to her in a suffocating embrace. The confusion eventually gave way to a dizzying number of questions that no one, not even her silent guardian could answer. What was her purpose? Why did she exist?

Those questions stemmed into a dangerous line of thinking and it made her reckless. She sought danger like a life line, needing the constant precipice of death to remind her that she was alive and breathing. The fact that she remained so was largely due to her companions interventions. Back then she had been petulant and in her grief she lashed out at the one person who she'd grown close to. Despite it all he never left her side and for that she was truly grateful. The catalyst of reality came from the near loss of that very constant. The experience in itself had been overwhelming; it eroded away all the cluttered emotions and hazy wants until her mind was left as clear as glass.

The clarity was simultaneously both a blessing and a curse. While it did help her to come to terms with a great many things it also forced her to realize the consequences of her actions. At that point she was done running and instead used the hardship and labor to learn and to grow. Of course turning over a new leaf isn't as easy as the sentiment suggests. She struggled that was for sure but with a new found resolve and the help of a friend she was able to overcome the challenges.

As she truly began to settle more and more days were spent sparring, honing her powers, and generally just surviving. As time passed and the ache lessened something tentative and new blossomed in it's place. In the beginning she had been unsure and more than puzzled with the development. It didn't come quickly either; it was slow like the lapping of the tide and as the sun set and the waters rose realization finally washed over her. This was her life, her existence and at the end of the day it was her choices that defined her not a purpose. She knew then that the path that she would take would be forged by her own two hands.

P O W E R

Power & Abilities:
☫ Eld Ward Specialization
⤗ A'Tea: Displacement(?)
⤗ Kel: Locating
⤗ Siel: Silence

☬ Attack Runes Known:
⤗ Aliel: Air
⤗ Teine: Fire
⤗ Ter: Lightening

Relics: N/A

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☾ P H A N T O M ☽

"In the shadow of God."

B A S I C

True Name: Bezaleel
Monikers: Phantom (Raven), Phan, Wanderer, Stranger, "Ghost"

Race: Willow Witch
Gender: Male
Orientation: Pansexual

Age: ---

A P P E A R A N C E

"Others see a shadow, some see a ghost. A few may glimpse a flicker of vivid purple before it's once again obscured by darkness..."

Clothing || Armor: Strange but not dissimilar to the faceless, Phantom has taken to concealing his entire body in wrappings. They hang as sullied strips off his tall, sinewy frame yet remain intact despite years of apparent use. A weather beaten cloak, black and worn, seem to be the only other piece of clothing or "armor", apart from his helm, that he owns.

Helm: Reminiscent of metal scrap, black rust had spread and cemented itself onto its once metallic surface. Despite the numerous fractures that line both the hood and mouth guard it still remains unbroken.

Weapons & Gear: A scabbard dagger encased in old battered leather and a large sword wrapped tightly in white gauze. Both blades are secured onto his waist by hefty linked chains.

D E P T H

Personality:
A man of few words, Phantom prefers letting his actions speak for him. Unfortunately this often leaves others feeling alienated whether that's due to his inscrutable mannerisms or sparse dialogue that leaves far too much to the imagination. A saving grace is that he is fairly straight forward when asked the right questions and rarely feels the need to lie unless circumstances dictate it. This also applies the other way around; if he doesn't want to answer then he won't.

The silence, his silence, can also vary. When he's in a crowd of strangers for example it takes on a sense of emptiness. Hollow and barren, the disconcerting cord of nothingness effectively deters the most curious passerby. Out on the wastelands where it's nothing but him and nature and the skin walkers it rings of freedom. Not quite wild and untamed but subtle, like the beating of hooves or a flock of ravens taking flight. Among friends and occasionally towards the rare lone wanderer it settles like a blanket, tranquil and soft with flecks of open companionship. In those moments it's easy to forget how easily it can become suffocating. How it can coil and wrap around the soul in deceptively wistful strands, crushing and choking until only fear is left.

With his appearance it isn't very hard to elicit intimidation and for some even fear. As time passes the notion flickers and dims in light of his actions. Their cautious yes, honed by years of survival in a world that does not forgive easily, but they are also feathered with burning empathy. Even as the land he was created to protect had been long since lost the need to shelter and support remains. Yet his kindness and selflessness should not be mistaken for naivety. Just as quickly as he extends his help he can just as easily destroy those who seek it's darkness.

Likes:
✓ Simple pleasures
✓ Rain; whether it's a monsoon or a gentle spattering of morning mist.
✓ Whittling
✓ Spirit

Dislikes:
✘ Prejudice
✘ Exploitation
✘ Lack of purpose
✘ Loss

Quirks:
♢ There's never been any indication that he removes the wrappings around his body. Even during hygienic routines such as showering and bathing.
♢ Sporadic bursts of meticulous perfectionism fortunately paired with an abundance of patience.
♢ Oddly in tune with animals, both wild and domesticated.
♢ Doesn't hover and makes himself sparse but easy to find in case his company or help is needed.

P O W E R

History: N/A ~ "Raven's Perspective"

Power & Abilities:
☫ Eld Ward Specialization
⤗ Doch: Healing
⤗ Teh: Shield
⤗ Siel: Silence

☬ Attack Runes Known:
⤗ Bliel: Shadow
⤗ Resin: Earth
⤗ Ter: Lightening

Relics: N/A

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[Foolish Ghoul]

Eva Harbinger


Race: Faceless
Gender: Female
Orientation: Bisexual
Age: 27

Appearance
Standing at 5"10, Eva likes to feel like she's taller than other people and will often stand on steps and inclines whenever available to promote her height. Possessing heavy eyebrows and light-colored eyes, her stare can be incredibly intense if she puts her mind to it. Despite the fact that her build veers more to the side of lanky rather than stocky, she still has a lot of condensed upper-body muscle as well as powerful legs. Her dark hair is kept permanently braided so that it stays out of her face but is presumed to be straight if she would let it loose. It is hardly seen from underneath the hood of her cloak. Eva has two prominent scars; one which is on her lower torso and horizontally cuts through her stomach area, and the second that is shaped like a "V" stretched horizontally across her lower neck.

Personality
Generally, Eva doesn't like to waste time and is very practical. If she doesn't need it, she doesn't take it. Abstract concepts such as 'wants' and 'dreams' never enter the equation. She is steady and calm under pressure and never feels the need to impress other people. The only notable emotion that she shows consistently is curiosity along with the occasional spurt of sarcasm. Her way of thinking is very simple without any flare; she achieves her goals in the fastest, most efficient way and doesn't like detours or unnecessary add-ons. She is very goal-oriented and unless she sees the point of an action or how it is beneficial to her she tends to disregard things.

In her world, kindness is only used when somebody wants something from her, and indifference is a norm. Everybody has a job to do and she understands that, meaning she stays out of other peoples' ways and expects them to do the same for her. She is hard to provoke because she couldn't care less what people think of her and doesn't have "thick skin" as much as she just doesn't care what other people might think. She likes to take advantage of anything offered to her and always looks for ways to get herself a leg up. Eva is very well aware that teamwork is essential to any successful endeavor and therefore is good at collaborating with others, be it through words or simple glances.

Likes

• Self-Control
• Clean-Cut Wounds
• Warmth
• Alcohol

Dislikes

• Debt
• Animals
• Cold
• Hunger

Quirks

• Scratches the scar on her neck when worried or when thinking. Oftentimes, those two criteria are met simultaneously.
• Is meticulous about keeping her helm clean.
• Sleeps in her breast plate with her scythe in hand, usually with the weapon on the bed.
• Localized disassociative amnesia - repressed memory. Eva has repressed all memories of her father after the shock of losing him. Whenever topics about him or her past come up, her thoughts seem awfully disjunctive but she never pursues the fact.

Clothing/Armor

Eva's armor is mostly constructed of cloth and leather. The cloak and all constructs of the armor are cloth except for a leather breastplate, gloves and boots. The cloak is mainly to protect her from the cold and she does not often wear it into battle due to its tendency to tear. It is already visibly patched with miscellaneous pieces of cloth. Her normal clothing is not much different from her armor, as all she does is remove the breastplate and gloves. Most of her clothes are torn and crudely patched up with any fabric she could find.

Helm
Silver/Bold Iron/Leather: Eva's helm is smooth with a slight round shape to encase her nose in it. It cuts off just above her forehead but stretches down an inch below her chin. The helm is attached to hear head through four sturdy leather straps that she has to replace every few weeks due to tear and stretching which makes the helm slide off her face. The majority of the helm is made of bold iron but there is a thin silver coating over the top of it to give it a more metallic glow. The helm has wide spaces for her eyes but no space for her mouth, meaning that when she speaks it tends to be muffled. There is a small slot where her nose is in order to allow her to breathe easily.

Weapons & Gear
Weapons
- A scythe with a long, thin blade. The handle is five feet tall and stands just below her shoulders when beside her. The blade itself is around two feet long and curved. It is her primary weapon as her combat style prefers her to be close to her enemies but nevertheless out of reach, which is afforded by the weapon's long handle. When not in combat she keeps the weapon strapped across her back.
- A metal one-handed longsword with a leather grip. The blade is nicked but kept well enough sharpened that it still has a bite to it. It is her secondary weapon and is kept in reserve for combat situations where her opponents are too close in to use her scythe, or if her scythe is inoperable for some reason. When not in combat she keeps the weapon in a sheath attached to her belt.
- A small hunting knife not often used for combat and primarily for cutting food or materials but she will use it in a fight if necessary. When not in use she keeps it in a small sheath on her belt.

Gear
- A water canteen that hangs off of her belt (and is filled with alcohol rather than water more times than not).
- A sling bag that contains:

• Basic medical equipment (bandages, some disinfectant alcohol, needle and thread for stitching injuries).
• A small container of salt for salting/preserving food.
• A small money purse.

History:
Born as the daughter of a carpenter in a large town, Eva grew up as an only child. Her mother, Clara, was a kind and compassionate woman who loved to play with her young daughter and was also a wonderful housewife. Her father was from a family of renowned carpenters who had grown up in another village but had moved to their current town in order to be with Clara. They got married two years after Eva was born. Her father, Evan, was a successful carpenter and the entire town knew him and came to him for all their wood-based needs. In order to obtain wood to use, however, he often needed to venture outside the town's limits and outside the protection of their Willow Witch's Eld Wards.

For this reason, he was a hardened warrior in addition to a carpenter. He also became rather close to their Willow Witch and the two got along well. Seeing as the plan was to have another child after Eva, hopefully a boy to pass on the carpenter trade to, the parents were dismayed when Clara's second child was a miscarriage. Devastated, the woman sank rapidly into depression. Once a happy, lively woman, she was now even less than a husk of her normal self and nothing seemed to lift her out of it. Eva was seven at the time. The family started to strain as Evan tried to keep up looking after Eva but also make a living for them all.

In order to balance it all, and to take precaution if Clara never returned from her depressed state, he began to teach Eva both the ways of the carpenter and a warrior. The young girl was confused and always wondered why her mother never wanted to play with her anymore - feeling at fault herself - but took solace in the work. Throwing herself into the job, Eva learned quickly and vented out all her sadness and anger through fighting. Two years later, Clara died. She had gradually started rejecting food until she ate nothing at all and passed away due to starvation. Eva and Evan were sad, but they had seen it coming for months now, so buried her without a tear and took solace in their small family unit.

For years Eva worked closely alongside her father. Their relationship was not only that of father and daughter, but had stemmed into friends and also coworkers. Eva had matured quickly and at thirteen acted like a twenty year old, so the two spent nearly all their time together through both laughter and tears. They were inseparable: it was a known saying that when one Harbinger was near, the other was close behind. Eva, too, got to know the town's willow witch and now often ventured outside the town limits to collect lumber with her father. The first weapon she had been taught was the longsword, but she had picked up the use of a scythe after discovering one laying unused near a farmstead.

Disaster struck for a second time sometime after Eva turned nineteen. She and her father had gone to visit their willow witch, Kathan, not knowing that he was in the process of resetting the town's Wards of Eld, and had disrupted him. Assuring them it was fine, he had continued his work and the three had left to talk. The interruption had caused a slight offset of one of the wards. It took only minutes for the Eld Wards to whither away. Skin dancers ran rampant over the town, slaughtering everything in sight. Nobody was prepared. Throwing themselves immediately into battle, the trio of Evan, Eva and the willow witch strove to fight the skin dancers off.

They fought for a full day and night, but the skin dancers never seemed to stop coming. The town had burned around them, and most of the townspeople were already dead. Resolving to run, the trio made a sprint for it. They had nearly made it out, but in her exhaustion Eva had failed to see a skin dancer lunging from her back. She had begun to turn around, but it was already too late - until Evan jumped in between the creature and his daughter. The skin dancer latched around his neck and head. Screaming, Eva started to run back, only to be stopped by the willow witch. Kathan had latched around her shoulders. She had struggled, but the willow witch overpowered her, knocked her out and threw her in a ditch.

The last thing Eva saw before waking up was her father's mauled face and flailing body. Upon waking, she was greeted with the sight of two dead bodies before her. While she had been unconscious, the skin dancers had left. The first body belonged to who she could only assume was her father, but with his body torn to shreds and face torn off. The second was Kathan. She could only assume he had attempted to intervene, but now he was little more than a gnarled, twisted figure. She wasn't sure how long she stood staring, but when she came back to her senses, all she saw were two fallen figures.

Her memory of her father had been erased, and along with it Kathan. Seeing her destroyed village seemingly for the first time, Eva pillaged every dead corpse or fallen house she could find before setting off on her own. She was torn and heavily injured, but without anywhere else to go she set herself to wander.

Relics
(Leave blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless
Evocation: Spells that manipulate energy or create something from nothing. An evocation specialist is called an evoker.

Names Known: Wind

Mutations: N/A

This is a great character. A few things I would like to mention though.

There is no currency in this world, so a coin purse is ultimately pointless (I talk about that here). Also, it is very rare that towns ever actually interact with each other. Civilization is so rare that most towns or cities will be a thousand, if not, thousands of miles away from each other. However, there are always exceptions to these things so I will let it be a special case.

Other than that, you're all good. I'll send you a list of Relics that suit your character best sometime soon, and you can pick which one you would like to keep for your character.

Daniel Mneme Race: Faceless
Gender: Male
Orientation: Bisexual with preference to makes
Age: 24
Personality:
Daniel is certainly no brave hero. Always preferring to avoid violence, he has a very cautious nature. Sometimes he comes off as nervous and jumpy. When caught in violence, despite his best efforts, Daniel is unreliable and will most likely try to hide and find safety. While he is skittish, Daniel is willing to lend an ear or impart advice. He isn't super trusting, if someone is willing to protect him, Daniel would love to have them around. When it comes to decision making, Daniel is all about logic, making sure that his choices are well-supported by logic, fact, and sound reasoning.
Likes:

• Learning something useful
• Protectors
• Salty Foods
• Quiet

Dislikes:

• Recklessness
• Violence/Conflict
• Sour Foods
• Useless Knowledge

Quirks:

• Extremely Good Memory/Logic
• Fine Attention To Detail
• Quick Reaction Speed
• Medical Knowledge

Appearance:
5'9" with a slouch but actually 5'11", Daniel's appearance doesn't exactly instill confidence. Often messy hair and an almost tense body, he wears a borderline grimace as if an unsure danger lurks being a nearby corner. Under his clothes, scarring decorates his left shoulder, stopping before the clavicle and ending half way down his bicep. Clothes themselves barely cling to his scrawny body.
Clothes:
Daniel usually wears light cloth garments and at the most, a leather chest plate. Not being the strongest Faceless to walk the plane, Daniel can't wear much before movement becomes exhausting.
Helm: A leather helm that isn't simple nor flashy. Once again leather being the choice material for Daniel, it has padding inside along the top of the head for cushioning blows.
Weapons and Gear:

• Medical Supplies
• Steel Dagger - Not adept at using it
• Notebook and Writing Utensils

History:
Born in a small city, Daniel was always a skinny child. The exercise he did and the diets his parents put him on, he simply did not gain muscle not weight. His parents stoned loved him though. What Daniel lacked physically was made up mentally. He would go through volumes of books at the library, easily memorizing and learning the content. With such a knack for absorbing knowledge, Daniel was encourage to study medicine and help the such out injured. Once Daniel had learned a solid amount of medicine, his curious brain also turned to the arcane. There were few magic scholars in the city, but Daniel learned Divination.

With his knowledge, Daniel went about helping people in the city. When he was 18, he met a handsome citizen his age. The young man, named Adam, had gotten into a scuffle with some other young adolescents. Daniel was tending to the couple of scratches Adam had sustained. While doing so, the two of them socialized and Daniel found himself fond of Adam. They complemented each other; Adam was protective and ready to defend those he cared for while Daniel was knowledgeable and collected. Both enjoyed the other's company and grew close. But in this age, comfort and safety was not guaranteed.

Somehow, the Eld Wards had fell and Skin Dancers were infesting the city. Adam and Daniel had packed a few belongings and were running to meet up with a group of refugees to flee the city. The two turned a corner where a Skin Dancer clawed out. Daniel want quick enough as the abominations claws sunk into his right shoulder. He let out a scan of burning agony before Adam had stuck the Skin Dancer with a stray brick. Daniel was on his knees, pressing his hand against a majority of the wounds on his shoulder while Adam grappled with the snarling Skin Dancer.

"Run!" Adam yelled as he tried his best holding the Skin Dancer at bay. Injured and weak to begin with, Daniel knew he didn't stands a chance against the Soul Dancer. "Daniel! Run!" With the second shout shaking Daniel out of his shock, he got up and bolted away with tears in his eyes. As Daniel ran to the rendezvous point with blood trickling down his arm, he took a second glance back. The Skin Dancer overpowered Adam; Daniel looked away before he could see the finishing blow.

Daniel now roams the wretched plane no longer as an innocent young boy, but as a Faceless. While skinny and weak, Daniel's knowledge still earns him a place in the Faceless caravan. The scars from that encounter forever remind Daniel of the guilt he lives with. Knowing that a friend died saving him and that he was too weak to help. All he did was run away. In sleepless nights, Daniel often questions the worth of his life. Feeble-bodied and cowardly; does he deserve to survive? Pray, when the release of death comes that it is quick or painless.

Relics:

Powers and Abilities:
School of Magic: Divination
Names Known:
Mutations: None

(If I have misinterpreted some of the information/lore or something in the CS requires further editing, please PM me or tag me in the OOC.)

Hey mate, so I had a bunch of people express interest in this RP through an interest check which has caused the spots for this RP to fill up. I should have put "closed" in the thread title earlier, but I also wish you asked me if there were spots available before making a character. I can't accept it, just because there are people who have already expressed interest and I've had to turn down/put on waiting list. However, if you would like I can put you on that same waiting list?

(WIP for now) ​

​

Catha​

Race:
Willow Witch
Gender:
Female
Orientation:
Asexual
Age:
She appears to be in her early to mid 30's, but she's not clear on her true age.

Personality:
Despite her imposing appearance, Catha is far from the brutish thug one might peg her as. Compassionate and gentle, Catha's one purpose in life, like any Willow Witch, is to protect. She will fight with everything she has if it is to protect someone or something she deems worth protecting, even if it means her own demise. When it comes to matters beyond fighting, Catha can come across as childish due to her inquisitive nature. Having emerged from a tree already an adult not all that long ago, and with little knowledge beyond combat, there is much about the world that Catha doesn't understand. She struggles with social manners and norms, and is always asking questions.

Likes:
+ Looking after or helping others
+ Combat
+ Learning new things
+ Being outside in the sun
Dislikes:
- Betrayal
- Being without her armor or weapons
- The dark
- Thug/brutes/evil people in general
Quirks:
*Fiddles with the straps on her armor when idle
*Snores and sleeps restlessly
*Shockingly good singer
*Very quick to trust people who aren't outright hostile

Appearance:
At 6'5", Catha towers over most, and her broad figure only adds to this. She is built for combat, with powerful muscles capable of hefting even the heaviest of weapons with ease. She keeps her helm on almost constantly, but the few who get a glance at what's underneath will see a broad, scarred face with a nose that's been broken countless times and cloudy brown eyes that seem to see everything. Her coarse brown hair is choppily cut close to her scalp and she is missing a chunk out of her left ear. While her whole body is covered in scars, the most notable is the one running down the length of her back, where the flesh is puckered and distorted.
Clothing/Armor:
Befitting a warrior that likes to be up close and personal in a fight, Catha wears a suit of heavy plate armor that she has owned all her life. It's tarnished and dented all over, but has saved her life on many occasions and she would never part with it.
Helm:
Catha's helm (as seen in the above image) is made of Bold Iron. It extends down just past her nose in the front, with a slit for her eyes, and flares out in the back.
Weapons and Gear:
Catha's primary weapon is a two-handed longsword covered in nicks. It's not the sharpest of blades, but Catha can swing it strongly enough to make sharpness irrelevant. She also carries a shortsword as back up, but prefers the feel of her longsword. Her other gear includes a light leather pack that stores her meager supplies.

History:
While Catha's first memories are of the day she woke up, she has always felt as though there was something hidden in the swirling mess of darkness that preceded her first gasp of breath.

Relics:
(Leave Blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Willow Witches:
Eld Ward Specialization:
Doch, Ward of healing
Gea, Ward of defense
Teh, Ward of shielding

Attack Runes Known:
Resin, Runes of earth

Looking good so far. I enjoy your choice of helm. Very scandalous.

Abel Aine​

Race: Faceless

Gender: Male

Orientation: ?

Age: 30

Personality:
Abel is a curious person, and seemingly content to the life of a drifter. Wandering from place to place, he takes pleasure, even beauty in seeing the world, even as decrepit as it is now. He speaks in a curious tone, though there seems to be an underlying contemptuousness to his words, however few they are. Those who don't take them at deeper meaning will often find them innocent or innocuous, while those who do might even find him irritating or sarcastic. It isn't clear whether he's here or there, and he doesn't like making his true opinions known. In fact, he's so elusive about subject matters that it can be irritating.

However, this discludes when things get serious. A bit too mature to be joking and riddling all of the time, Abel is able to calm down when it comes to intense situations, even able to take the reigns as far as leading when it comes down to it, though would much prefer others to do so before it happens that he has to. He is not one to try to hurt others, preferring to end an argument with word rather than sword. In fact, it's hard for a person to evoke much anger in him, though if it comes down to sheer carelessness, he isn't immune to it.

Preferring to take on a 'brave face' (of course, that's a very liberal term - as he'd rather not show his face at all), Abel is more closed off to others. He's uncomfortable with talking about his own emotions, althoug he isn't closed off to travelling with others at all. As he never considers it a permanent arrangement - having a travelling partner - he would much rather keep himself at a jovial distance, wearing a mask emotionally ... and physically.

Likes:
+ Hand-crafted objects
+ Humor, in a bleak world
+ Displays of strength and bravery
+ Stories

Dislikes:
- Violence as an unnecessary means
- Those who lament
- Fighting, in general
- Becoming attached

Quirks:
* Scavenges the world, taking oddities with him
* Spends downtime handcrafting objects, many of them useless
* Gets tired quickly from conversation
* Falls into silence when conflicted

Appearance:
Abel falls at around 5'11", of average height. However, most of his body is covered from head to toe in either wrappings, clothing, or armor. He actually prefers the secretive, quiet life of the Faceless, never truly having the urge to reveal more than he already does. His posture is a bit lax, and never prim or proper. His walk isn't strained, and there is the impression that he may be a bit gaunt underneath his clothing, simply by how it falls on his body.

Clothing/Armor:
Abel handcrafts his own clothes. He prefers not to lay in societies - or the remnants of them - and instead modifies and appropriates from what he scavenges. That said, he's got a slew of handcrafted garments adorning him; most notably is his Helm, which he'd repaired after evidently being damaged in some way or another. In addition to his helm, he covers his head, hair, and neck with a reddish hood. He wears a cloth-and-leather tunic, fastened by twine wool. His hands and arms are wrapped to the wrist, leaving the skin of his gnarled hands to view, and acting as the only part of his body that he leaves uncovered. He wears a tooth necklace, teeth collected from some sort of beast, and ties cascading cloth around his waist. He wears cloth pants, the front of them adorned with leather, though that's rarely seen in light of the cloth robes he wears around his waist. Finally, his feet are in sandals, though his feet themselves are wrapped, again, in cloth.

He carries a backpack with him, with oddities and small pieces of art attached to it.

Preferring not to resort to violence, but knowing that it's necessary in a world such as this, Abel also carries a blade on his side. Only the pommel peeks up from his cloth waistband, preferring also not to show it. For hospitality reasons, of course.

Helm:
Abel's Helm is a Bold Iron helm. The base is not of his own design, and there's chips and wearing on it from use throughout the years. It seems to have been originally made skillfully, though now there is a dent in it, and even a piece of the horn missing from the top. The front seems to be not of the caliber of a Knight; there is more room for him to see out of than a traditional helmet. There are lined engravings traveling from the ear to the chin, as well as the nose to the chin, and two simple aesthetic triangles jut from the top. The metal is covered by some sort of white paint. However, only the front piece remains. Instead, the back is fastened with a fire-hardened leather, and his hair wrapped in cloth. It has seen heavy modification.

History:
Abel, though not particularly old or wisened, certainly has been through enough for it to be interpreted as such. But then again, who hasn't? It's never wise to travel in such a world with others, but time and time again, in his youth, he grew attached. Time and time again, friends and family fell, what little friends and family there are left in this world. But he enjoyed the company, regardless, still knowing well that to be attached is to be unwise.

Abel started off as most humans do; in the arms of his mother. He recounts as thankful for the fact that he remembers her - meaning, of course, they were with him through childhood - though for how long he can't exactly remember. It was like a light switch; for a while, he had been with her. Then, as she disappear into the woods to forage for food, he had never seen her again. He wonders if perhaps he will, someday, again. Perhaps she had gotten lost, or simply was unwise to the stress of having a child in such a cruel world, and saw to it that he could defend himself before she finally left him - in the forest, no less. But she did. And now he's looking.

After that, he grew bitter. Living as a drifter in a world full of them, what little humanity he did see, he had to be cautious of. And so - and wisely so - he kept away from the Faceless for a long time. He strayed away from what little society had been left, instead only walking through a sea of masked faces, wondering if he'd even recognize his mother's voice, let alone her helm. But he never did. And so he grew older without her, and though he was angry, he never truly did give up hope for the last family he'd had.

After years of traveling alone, he began to look outwards. He knew that he wouldn't survive if he'd continued his streak of isolation and unhappiness - if not dying by his own hand, he'd die by another's, or worse; one of the wretched abominations born from the rifts that plagued them. So, he sought out others. And he found them. He had found that they were just as miserable as him. And finding that, he also decided from then on not to be like them. After all, there were beautiful places in this wretched world. As long as he looked at them sideways. He'd found joy in traveling with others - listening to their stories instead of lamenting on his own. He had lost them, of course, many times, and developed the habit of leaving before he could do so.

But perhaps that could change.

Powers and Abilities:
Abjuration - Abel focuses on Abjuration. While not particularly versed in banishing, he's a protector of sorts. This developed out of his own need to protect himself, though he isn't averse to using it for others' wellbeing as well.

Mutations:
While Abel keeps most of his body covered, his hands seemed to be gnarled into sharp points at the ends of his fingers.

Relics:

Names Known:

As you already know, I'm in love with our mutated wise wanderer here. Should you need help with picking a known name let me know and I'll lend a hand. That aside, he is accepted.

Callith Flay

Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Heterosexual

Age:
37

Personality:
Callith is the type of person you'd find sitting alone in the corner of a tavern or wandering around in a quiet forest. To put it simply, he prefers to keep to himself most of the time but that's not to say he shies away from a conversation. Despite his introverted shell, Callith is protective in nature. He will tend to try and keep close friends out of harm's way and will make sure anyone who wishes to injure him or his companions is swiftly dealt with. Protective instincts aside, Callith is a logical and responsible person. Callith deals with situations in a literal fashion, making decisive decisions on the spot. He can be dependable and honest as well. Callith will try to help where he can, and his companions know they can depend on him. A final aspect of Callith is he doesn't like to express his feelings or those of others. Callith will be apt to wither away when confronted with strong emotion.

Likes:
+ Reading
+ Drinking at local Taverns
+ Hunting
+ Fine-tempered steel


Dislikes:
- Confined spaces
- Arrogance
- Cowardice
- A dull blade


Quirks:
*Slight Insomniac
*Frequently gets lost in thought
*Alcoholic
*Extremely loyal to close friends



Appearance:
Callith stands at 5'11", with a stocky build. His hands are rough from a life's worth of work. Callith's face bears the same worn and rugged. His face is partially covered by a brown, scruffy beard. Callith's hair is short and unkempt. His eye color is a light grayish green color. Callith's body bears little scarring apart from minor burns on his lower arms. The only noticeable scar is from a previous puncture wound below his left shoulder. The wound went clean through so he has similar scarring on his backside.

Clothing/Armor:
Callith wears a chainmail hauberk under his cloth tunic, along with

Helm:
Callith's helm (shown above), is rounded and covers most of his skull. It also features a face guard with eye slits and holes near the nose and mouth to allow unrestricted breathing.

Weapons and Gear:
Callith typically wields two weapons. His primary is a one-handed axe which he forged himself. Callith's secondary is a compact short sword, sheathed on the backside of his belt. Callith also has a small leather pouch on his belt containing small items.

History:
Callith was born to a peasant family living on the outskirts of a small town. Callith and his family made a meager living working the land as farmers. Callith's parents were often low on funds, so many of their tools were homemade. Shovels, hoes, and plows were made from materials they had to spare. This is where Callith first got his taste of smithing. Callith's father was able to create a stone furnace and used it to create several tools when they had the materials. One, in particular, was a small hunting knife. This was the first item Callith forged by himself. Callith's life was fairly routine until he met an old blacksmith while selling crops in town with his father. The blacksmith was impressed with Callith's untapped skills in forging. In time this man offered Callith an apprenticeship, to which he eagerly accepted. Callith moved out of his parent's farm and into the small town.

For the next few years, Callith became a skilled blacksmith. He perfected his technique and eventually was able to take over the blacksmiths business. Though Callith still made little money, he enjoyed his life. One night while drinking at a local tavern, he met a young woman; Nira. To Callith, she was beautiful. She had long, silk-like brown hair. She was tall and thin. Callith couldn't keep his eyes off her. At first, Callith had trouble. But time and persistence proved victorious. Callith and Nira lived together for some time, though never officially married. They had a child together, a daughter; Marielyn. Callith's life seemed to turn out perfect in his eyes. Callith couldn't ask for anything more.

Callith's life was destroyed the day the town was razed by Skin Dancers. It was a cold autumn night, and the clear starlit sky was blocked out by the thick, black smokestacks. The entire town had been lit ablaze by desperate villagers trying to smite the abominations. The local garrison and Willow Witches were either dead or routed, and the town was at the mercy of the infestation. Debris had trapped Callith's family inside, as the fire burned through their home. The entire family held their breath as they heard steps and shuffling on their roof. To Callith's horror, a Skin Dancer crawled through the window. Callith leaped into action, lunging at it with a dagger. The Dancer overpowered him with ease. It then pinned Callith to a wall and skewered him through his shoulder. The Skin Dancer dug into Callith's flesh with its knarled hand, then let out a horrifying shriek. Nira wished to help, and she stabbed the dancer with the dagger Calith had dropped. The Dancer responded with a pained groan. To Callith's dismay, the Skin Dancer spun around and roared. It made a hissing growl as it stared ominously. Nira took a single step back before it rushed towards her. The Dancer thrusted it's arm and impaled her through the torso. Callith screamed as the Dancer threw Nira's limp body across the room. It then turned to face Callith. Its eyes were black and cold. Callith was enraged and gritted his teeth. As it lifted its arm to finish him, a wooden beam, blazed with flame fell upon the Skin Dancer. The beam crushed the life out of it, and Callith could hear the breath expel from its lungs. Callith rose from the ground, his shoulder bled profusely. Callith held a cold stare at Nira's lifeless body through the raging fire. As tears clouded his vision and the smoke grew heavy, Callith realized that Marielyn was still hiding in her locked room. He knocked open Marielyn's door, and black smoke came rushing out. Callith found his daughter lying on the floor. He lifted her up, pain surging through his shoulder. Callith ran through the fire that cut through the floor. Callith ducked his shoulder and dashed through the front door. Callith carried his daughter out of the burning village, and into the near by woods. He laid Marielyn on the damp grass. It seemed Callith's sorrow was not done, as Marielyn's body refused to draw breath. Callith sobbed quietly, as the fire from the village turned the sky a bright orange.

Callith now roams the realm, alone and broken.

Relics:
(Leave Blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
School of Magic - Abjuration

Names Known (leave blank for now)

Mutations (if applicable)

Powers and Abilities For Willow Witches:
Eld Ward Specialization (leave blank for now)

Attack Runes Known (leave blank for now)

Looks really cool so far. You just have a few more things to fill out and then you arer done. I would like to point out that when Calith's family was low on "funds" that would be because "funds" don't exist. Again, no money in this world (info is here), it's just barter and trade. You could say instead that they didn't have much success in growing crops, so they were low on goods with which to trade. Outside of that, looking good so far.

Colie: Hug'led Mikans

• Basics
• Looks
• History
• Powers

• 
  View attachment 340829
  Name: Hug’led Mikans
  Race: Faceless
  Gender: Male
  Orientation: Asexual
  Age: 27
  Personality: A kind fellow who normally keeps their feelings to themselves. He is shy and has stage anxiety. He lives alone in the wastelands and the only creatures he's seen are the Skin Dancers.
  Likes: + Silence. + Literature. + Baked goods. + Nature.
  Dislikes: - Fighting. - Killing. - Snakes. - Enclosed Spaces.
  Quirks: * Knows how to cook amazing foods. * Can fall asleep anywhere. * Is a great listener. * Can read incredibly fast.
  
• 
  Appearance: A chubby, and strong man who has grey hair and dark blue eyes. His hair covers his ears and most of his forehead, that is if you see him without his face mask on. He wears a face mask because his face is partially burnt off (see mutations). His arms and legs are large but his stomach is much larger.
  Clothing/Armor:
  
  
  
  He wears old romanesque armor. By now it is rusted and flimsy. To fit it around himself he has to tie a rope in between the two sides of the belt.
  
  
  
  He wears old biking boots and gloves which, surprisingly aren’t too bad. The gloves have ripped a bit and the boots are over streched but Hug’led still uses them.
  Helm:
  
  
  
  While not really being a helm this mask helps shield the world from Hug’led’s true face. The mask is strapped to his face but it is padded on the front so it doesn’t hurt.It also protects him from hard blows to the face.
  Weapons: Hug‘led has his dad‘s trusty rapier and frying pan as weapons. The rapier is used to kill and the frying pan is used to make killer pancakes.
  Equipment: Hug‘led has a decent sized backpack which can store a lot. He normally fills it with books and his cooking supplies. Occasionally he does find something interesting and brings it along with him.
  
• 
  History: Hub’led’s story starts off a couple years after he was born. Hub’led’s early life was spent in and out of different towns, visiting his mother in war. She fought strong for three years but eventually she was murdered in combat. Hub’led was devastated. He had only his father who never was home. He also only had one friend, but this friend shaped Hub’leds life. It was an old Willow Witch. Hub’led found the witch as a way to vent his problems. He would say what was happening, how his day was or even what he ate for breakfast and the Willow Witch would respond with silence. That’s why Hub’led learned to love silence. Sadly when Hub’led’s town came under attack the Willow Witch was slain. Once again Hub’led found no one to talk to. That is until he discovered his real best friend.
  
  Reading.
  
  Books would be his get away world. He would open one up and get lost in literature. He read all sorts of books, magic, folk tales, cookbooks, biographies and even dictionaries. His favorites were cooking and magic. He learned the art of both. Since his dad was rarely home, Hug’led cooked often. This worked well with his magic because he was able to use energy to create and conjure ingredients and cookbooks from everywhere. His life became better, he didn’t even need to talk to anyone to feel happy. Everything was good, until the second attack came. This attack weren't bandits though, it was the skin dancers. They came in packs, murdering whoever they saw. It just happened that Hug’led’s dad was home when this happened. His dad rushed him into the bedroom and opened a secret door. “Stay here until it’s over, I love you.” His dad closed the door. The door was kicked down. Hug’led could hear a creature squeal then another one and another. Sadly he soon heard his own fathers yells. His father was dead. Hug’led spent days there surviving off the food and water he conjured up. He came up days later to see that his beloved village had become a wasteland. He walked into the main room in his house and saw 5 dead skin dancers, and one dead human. Hug’led knelt over his father's corpse and slowly took the armor off of him. Hug’led took the armor and put it on and then fastened the a sword into its sheath. He glanced at his dad again and shed a tear. Then left the house and never came back.
  Relics: TBD
  
• 
  Powers and Abilities For Faceless: Evocation, he uses it to get new books and ingredients for his cooking.
  Names Known: Cooking
  Mutations: His entire face is a flesh wound. It was burned off by the deadly waste land but for some reason didn’t cause lethal damage.
  

Okay, at no point should you think I dislike Hugs (which is my new nickname for this guy), he's basically a dad and that's rad. However, there are a few easily correctable things that need fixing.
1) You said he lives alone in the personality section, but Hugs is in a group with other wanderers, is he not?
2) Biking isn't a thing. Like, there aren't bikes, so biking gloves and boots aren't a thing. You could say instead, leather fingerless gloves and leather boots.
3) I need to know what Hugs' helm is made of.
4) There haven't been wars for hundred's of years. After the calamity people just bunkered down in their towns and cities and kept to themselves, hoping death would pass them by. For the most part, towns and cities don't/ can't communicate. Plus, there aren't any kingdoms around to go to war with.
5) People don't hop from town to town. Travel between one place to the next could take months at best. Plus, without maps having markers for towns and cities, it's impossible to be sure of where anything is. Double plus, stepping outside the Wards of Eld either means you're desperate, mad, or madly in love (referencing Berries ' character's father).

There are very few who can live even a day outside the wards, if the Skin Dancers don't get you, there is plenty of other shit that will.
6) I will admit that the description I wrote for Evocation was a little confusing. When I said "create something from nothing" I was still referring to energy. (How it should have been written: Spells that manipulate energy or create energy from nothing. An evocation specialist is called an evoker.)
As an evoker, you can not conjure cookbooks and edible ingredients. You can, however, create heat/flame at will, which can be helpful when cooking.
7) A horribly burnt face does not count as a mutation. Mutation would have to be either a birth defect or something that slowly began to take shape after exposure to the wasteland the world now is. Doesn't mean your character can't have a disfigured face, though.

Spoiler: Prince Varys Rhoynari

Prince Varys Rhoynari


Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Bisexual

Age:
22

Personality:
A calm and methodical Knight, Varys is a highly intelligent person who loved to read, so much that he was late into his decision to take up swordsmanship. He lacks a degree of sociability, colder than necessary due to a more isolated childhood. His preference is more towards playing his harp as opposed to going to war, though in the current world, it simply isn't possible. Hard working at what he puts his mind to, Varys' determination to complete a task often leaves him to be vulnerable to his own well being or the well being of others, a task becoming all consuming the longer he lingers on it.

He still maintains a polite though dour persona to those on the roads however, determined to maintain civility despite the collapse of civilisation around him. Charitable to those in clearly worse situations, Varys' often can be far too unforgiving of slights despite his intelligence and logical understanding of an apocalypse. Sympathy is, as such not much of a strong point. His temper is in a way, very calm and predisposed to keeping his cool and thinking out a situation rather than working impulsively, despite a lack of self-care when dedicated to tasks.

Likes:
+ Reading, especially history
+ Playing his harp
+ Singing
+ Discussing life's happier moments


Dislikes:
- Lack of integrity
- Liars
- Death
- Drunkenness


Quirks:
*Carries his harp into battle, connected to his belt
*Meditates for at least an hour everyday on his past
*Often sings to himself
*Likes to lie on the ground and stare at the sky



Appearance:
With long silver hair, well shaped purple iris'd eyes and an a well structured jawline, Varys is a handsome specimen indeed. as 1.95 cm tall, he is of a venerable height and lithe build, predisposed to speed and stamina in battle against ponderous and over muscled veracity. His hands are quite unblemished due the quality of his gloves, giving him a very pampered aura despite an inclination to helping where he can. Though slightly feminine in looks, he is clearly a man in mannerisms.

Clothing/Armor:
Dark armour with a scaled theme. The pauldrons fashioned in the shape of dragon wings with pointed tips and splashing of red at intersecting points. His chest plate continues with red bands connecting the dragon wings to the motif of a pouncing dragon on his chest. With a variety of buckles at the hips and an armoured hauberk and further knee guards, shin guards and scaled boots.
Underneath, he wears a chain mail shirt and a white tunic, a pair of black breeches accentuating his musculature.

Helm:
A dark helm with a rearing dragon, the face completely hidden but for the eyes. With a pair of stylised wings where the ears are and a sneering dragon head at the crown of the helm, it is nought but a terrifying visage.

Weapons and Gear:
The aforementioned armour, riding gear, a travel pouch with enough for provisions for a couple of days, his long sword, a stylised dragon shaped hilt with the wings forming a guard and a bedroll, and his horse, Brey.

Spoiler: Varys in Full Plate

History:
Prince Varys was the firstborn son of a king and queen long dead. He was born at the summer palace, Summerfort, on the same day as the death of his grandfather and father in a magical experiment. As a child he read obsessively, to the point that jests were made about his habits. However, after coming across ancient histories of his kingdom before the time of hardship, Varys became motivated to become a warrior to bring peace and prosperity to his realm. He was educated by some of the finest magicians, finding a degree of skill in the arts of Evocation. Fire being a speciality. At the age of seventeen, Varys was knighted by his uncle, and from then on grew into a highly skilled and capable fighter, always distinguishing himself well at tournaments, although he seldom entered the lists - he never loved the song of swords the way that other men did. The realm often spoke of how Varys loved his harp more than he loved his lance.

Unfortunately the love for his harp did little to dissuade the kingdom's enemies. After the tragedy at the Summerfort and the weakening of the realm, banditry would prey on the outer villages while even darker forces were at work niggling at the Kingdom's magical defences to the North. Joining an expedition to explore the North, Varys and his uncle moved with a one fo the largest gatherings of men ever seen. First moving from the capital to the outer towns, they put down the banditry. Though often too late to save the Willow Witches who the bandits seemed to target. Through out the bandits campaign, the expedition found more an more evidence of something darker moving in the shadows. More than mere banditry, but villages left with no survivors and nought but a wasteland. Some with corpses twisted and maimed as unholy monuments to cruelty, some people still alive despite being mashed and sown together.

Reaching the foothills of the Greywatch Mountains, the expedition camped for a week. Prince Varys didn't see his uncle after the fourth day, a sudden illness seizing him with the camp holding position until an escort back to the Capital could be organised. It never was as Skin Dancers descended upon the encampment. The Willow Witches moving with them fell to his own men swords as possessed troops from weeks back turned on their comrades, Vary's own uncle drawing his father's blade and cutting down his men, a demonic gleam in his eyes. Varys cut him down, retaking the ancestral sword. Taking to his horse, he abandoned his men, rushing back to the Capital with a few riders joining him as the expedition crashed and burnt in the wake of the Skin Dancers. Coming to a great hill near a few weeks later, they saw the Capital burning. The bodies of Willow Witches hanging from the battlements as fires of many colours left the metropolis to the torch. The Prince left his men at arms that day. An heir to a burning throne, and the Prince of a dead kingdom.


Relics:
(Leave Blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
Evocation

Names Known (leave blank for now)

The same thing I've said with the others is going to be brought up here. (As I'm reading everyones CS I get the feeling I didn't make it clear how shit the world is...)

There are no kingdoms. The largest settlement you will find is a city, and even then a pretty small one. The highest ranking "government official" you will ever see is a mayor or a town elder, and even then they aren't that much well off compared to others. Everyone is dirt in this world, everyone is waste, anything that wanders Emoreale is just a walking corpse.

No government also means no libraries btw. No government funding to run such a luxury (though "schools" are a thing). It's possible that a town or city might have a citizen who collects such things as books though. Also, places don't have names, not anymore. Geographical landmarks might, but cities definitely don't.

I also need to know what material Varys uses for his helm. There is a list available at the top, but you can use other materials as well. Wood, stone, copper etc.

Sorry to kill your characters whole theme

Bayan Teutogen​

Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Heterosexual

Age:
28

Personality:
Life in the wasteland is for the hardy or the crazy, and Teutogen has bits of both. Despite the extreme dangers of the road, he loves the freedom it brings with all he has. He sees cities and towns as safe havens or resource points than homes, though begrudgingly understands their necessity. Still, he abhors the authority they advocate for - An instinctive antagonist to hierarchy and most forms of law, often enough to make his stay a little less welcome than most travelers. However, he is easy-going and cool-headed, often curious of new people and locations - The latter something he will consistently insist on learning all he can. In survival matters he has become apathetic to the necessities over the years, able to do what the unfamiliar can't with barely a second thought. He is an open conversationalist, and clings tightly to those who get close to him.

Likes:
+ Exploring
+ Reading
+ Singing
+ Good company


Dislikes:
- Compact cities
- Bandits
- Nobles
- Bland food


Quirks:
* Tendency to tattoo new locations, roads, mountains, or other geographical notes to the back of the hands, shoulder, arms, or chest depending on the find.
* Chews his fingers when uncomfortable or bored.
* Loves taking souvenirs from ruins, people, and even corpses that he finds interesting.
* Finds difficulty sleeping, often jolting awake in the night.



Appearance:
Bayan is about what would be expected from a city-avoiding scavenger; Medium-length tattered dark-brown hair stuck and tangled by grease and dirt, tied back by twine into a short tuft of a ponytail. A beard that is surprisingly well trimmed, but just as dirty as the hair. A scar trails from his left ear nearly to the left side of his mouth, thin and clean without the usual jaggedness marking the attack of an animal or abomination. He is as well built as possible with the lack of food, a mix of lean and athletic with an average height. Finally, one can not know Bayan - Or any outrider - without knowing the many tattoos; they're in various areas covering the backs of the hands, shoulders, forearms, upper arms, and chest. Each marking shows a map of some sort; the hands mapping the roads, the arms the elevation and mountains, shoulders rivers and forests, and so on. The tattoo on the chest is clearly unfinished, though one can see all the areas he has been to literally by viewing it. Each map has its own strange markings - Unfamiliar symbols dotting from the sides of mountains, points near the roads, points near rivers, areas in the middle of forests, etched paths not seen or noted on a cartographer's map. Emblems are used repeatedly, but not all are the same - A language kept for the people he hails from.

Clothing/Armor:

(General clothing picture seen at the top.)
Bayan wears what he can scavenge, make, repair, or steal. The end result isn't terrible, but it can be less than pretty. His clothing is a mis-matched arrangement of layered patch-work clothing, some parts clearly torn from other attires to make an addition. Over the frankensteined attire, he wears a reasonably comfortable and presentable long-coat - The right sleeve has been torn away, neither it or the shirt underneath covering the maps presented on the arm. In times of cold, he keeps a muddy-green scarf and - his personal favourite - a crimson red cloak. The latter is well maintained, though the bottom line is somewhat tattered. A travel pack is kept to the back using thick rope. Different necklaces dangle from his neck, holding a variety of trinkets collected from old ruins or people.

His armour is scavenged from the dead and dying, though the end result is still something sturdy that he can be proud of. The Bold Iron mail is battered and scratched, but clean and unbroken - The arms are of different lengths; the left arm reaches down to the wrist, while the right arm halts at the shoulder - The latter leaves the arm free for the most movement, with little weight to tire him out on that side. The protection of the chest is more than appreciable, and reaches to just over the knees. A belt wraps around the waist to keep the mail against the chest, with a rather exquisitely designed buckle depicting a simple battle scene.

Helm:
(Seen above.)
An exotic type of norman helm, made out of a Star Iron and Bold Iron alloy - A facial mask protects and hides the front, the material wrapping around to the back to enclose the helmet. The helmet has been personalized in multiple ways; while the crown of pieces shows a craftsmanship signifying it was included in the design, the hair attached to the tip of the helm and the extended frown of the 'mouth' are clearly his own doing; the hair itself is tied with twine, while the frown seems to be an intentional extension to a dent sustained in battle. It was a rare find indeed, and is cared for as the extension of himself it is recognized to be.

Weapons and Gear:

Spoiler

On the belt is arrayed the majority of his combat equipment: Metal cross-guarded saber in wooden scabbard, three throwing axes arrayed on the right side in hoop-sheaths, two leather pouches on the left side - one filled with an amalgamation of dirt, rockdust, and peppers while the other is a collection of custom-made war-darts. On the back of the belt is attached an animal-fur sheath horizontally following the belt, wherein his dagger is housed.
Otherwise, his primary weapon is a short-spear kept slung to the back. It rests beside his backpack, which holds his survival equipment; twine, bedroll, kindling, herbs, food, waterskin, twine, trinkets, climbing gear, paints, maps, and so on.

History:
As said, life in the wasteland is for the hardy or the crazy - But they need not suffer alone. Faceless may form into groups, find their own collective beliefs, or form their own culture. Though rare, there are bands which find their life in the wasteland - Some of these more notable than others. Bayan was part of one such group, faceless who refer to themselves as 'outriders.' Scavengers, scouts, survivors, warriors, and nomads. They are formed of the lowliest or unluckiest of society,with no homes to go back to or comforts but what they can find in the wastes. Despite this, they are not a sour people; their culture has developed to make the most of their situation. They are generally a very social people, though close-knit and suspicious of strangers. What an outrider can expect will depend on the area: Some view them as ruthless leeching bandits, some see them as useful if greedy mercenaries, and by some an unnerving sign of bad luck. It varies, but there is one consistency known to them: Their knowledge of the land. While to an outrider it is only one aspect of their culture, albeit a very important one, to those locked in cities or recently made wanderers Outriders can be an immense wealth of information. Their very bodies are tattooed to mark out the deeper meanings of the terrain; not merely elevation and density of forests but the abundances of food, where to find shelter, areas to defend oneself or hide, where to find certain herbs, untapped ruins, and so much more. Outriders who fall in battle often have their skins collected for the maps - A practice that hasn't done anything to change their isolated nature.

Bayan was one of the rare members not to be born into it; a child lucky enough to be found in the wastes, a singular survivor of the city's brutal civil war. The blood was washed off of his body, but his mind constantly retreated him to the atrocities and horrors he witnessed then - Men and women piled in hills, displays of brutality meant to frighten the factions, spilled organs and rolling heads. It ended not when the bodies piled so high the flies brought plague, but when their Willow-Witch itself was struck down in the heat of melee. When the city was compromised, the people evacuated. They formed separate groups, whether loyalists, rebels, or those neutral to the conflict. Though each went their own way, none got very far; starvation, dehydration, infection, poisoning, and skin-dancers whittled their numbers day-by-day. However, while they fell and died, Bayan lived long enough to learn from their mistakes. The coddling of children can have its benefits indeed, and it gave him the time it would require to learn the wasteland.

It was to his luck that he didn't have to survive long; he was found by a scouting party of outriders, scavenging from the city and its dead. He distinguished himself in his ability to survive, giving enough note to be brought into the band. He was viewed with suspicion at first, sure, and it would take time for him to be accepted. However, he lived long enough for him to be viewed as a brother. For years he traveled with the Outriders, soaking in their knowledge of survival like a sponge. With them he learned to use the 'survivor's magic', as they called it: Illusion. He learned to use it in a variety of means - To misdirect, distract, and confuse. He was taught to use it in abundance, whether fighting or escaping, and he'd come to find it greatly effective. Of course, learning is not only done through talk and reading - Especially in the Wasteland. The Outriders were anything they needed to be to survive; mercenaries, bandits, thieves, scavengers, scouts, they were everything and anything they had to be. The best moments in his memory were when they hired themselves out to cities and towns; the risks were there, but the rewards were the greatest then.

His last moments with the Outriders was in following a mercenary contract; it was a bloody, glorious fight. He can still remember the smell of bitter-sweet copper as they hacked through the enemy line. Were they bandits, mercenaries, or guards? That much can be hard to remember, though it's true they may have never been told at all. It mattered little; the contract was failed. The Outriders retreated with heavy casualties, leaving the target and contract behind them... along with Bayan. He was kept in custody with his other comrades, their skins evidently the only reason for their survival. Though that promised to be quite temporary. Bayan was lucky; there were few skilled in the appropriate art, making the process excruciatingly slow - Done day-by-day, hours spent removing the maps one man at a time. To his joy, he would not be one of the men hanging from a tree, a body red from bared muscle tissue.

His capture was many years ago now. His hope for finding the band has waned heavily, and he has come to terms with the fact that he is alone. That is, he was alone; he has since made an unlikely friend out of a cynical, mutated faceless. Despite the personality, he's kept the partnership and hasn't regretted it. They continue to work together today.


Relics:
(Leave Blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:

School of Magic: Illusions.

Names Known: (leave blank for now)

Mutations: N/A

Looks good.

I've said wars don't happen to almost everyone else's character history (and they don't) but a city collapsing in on itself because of rebellion happens plenty, so I'll allow "civil-war".

I like the outriders by the way, very cool idea.

Let me know if you need help with Names Known.

Lutolf Franziska Adelhardt​

Race: Faceless

Gender: Male

Orientation: Asexual

Age: 36

Personality:
Lutolf is a man with an uncertain personality. A confusing box of emotions held together beneath the tattered stitching of malformed skin and tortured nerves. Occasionally a ticking time bomb, and at some points a man resigned to the life of the dead or dying - Pessimistic, Morose. There are moments, however, of pure clarity - where the gears of the man's mind truly begin to turn again, and it is at these points where he shines, moments where he adopts the appearance and mannerisms of a true being. During these moments he becomes a straightforward individual, one whom dislikes having little to do - and one who absolutely loathes free time. If he finds he has nothing to do - he will occupy himself; Training, reading, crafting, repairing - Anything and everything to keep his mind active, and distracted - lest he sink back below the thick mire of pain and madness he so often finds himself in.

He once thought himself a man of companionship - but his current state has put those thoughts to the test. Very few are ever willing to deal with him - and if they do, they do so for naught but a short time.

Likes:
+ Anything he can do to occupy his both mind and hands, an effort to distract himself.
+ Puzzles
+ Eating, exactly what matters very little
+ Numbing agents, medication, The act/art of healing

Dislikes:
- Physical self awareness
- Passive action, Idling
- His actual, Physical existence
- Past Life - Being unable to remember any concrete information about his past, Lutolf absolutely despises being asked - or even
trying to think about - his former life. Infuriation and despair abound.

Quirks:
* Occasional bouts of self-inflicted injury, most of which are light in severity.

* Madman's rambling - The man's pain-induced madness occasionally results in him speaking - sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly, to himself.

* Morose, Pessimistic - The man's current state has corrupted his attitude. He makes very poor long term company for those unadjusted to his personality, and 'way' with words.

* Memory lost to Madness - Lutolf has lived far too long for a man constantly existing in such a pained state. Both his name, and most of his memories are lost to the depths of his mind as the pain continued on, and on, worsening as the infection - or mutation - spread. However, every so often memories will come to him in twisted, confusing flashes - most detail lost to the agonizing fog infesting his mind. What he may remember varies - Be it good, be it sad - They hold a strong sway over both mood and attitude.

Appearance:
Lutolf stands at an average height of Six feet.

Nobody has ever seen what the man looks like, beneath the armor. No matter who had taken him in, what he had been doing - He never removed it in the presence - or even in the vicinity of - company. However, if one had managed to catch a glimpse, what they would see is a man's flesh, wrought by what looked to be some horrible disease. Portions of flesh are frequently missing from various locations around his body, exposing the muscle and sinew beneath. Because of this, his appearance is rarely - if ever - uniform. At one time, half of his face may have been eaten away, only to regrow whilst the skin covering his arm withered to dust. Massive lines and patches of scar repaired tissue line his body, giving him a slightly patchwork appearance - with each cycle of loss and regrowth leaving behind its own, individual mark. There are many limited forms that the man's body may take - none of which are pleasant to gaze upon.

As a result, his armor and clothing have become his preferred self image.



Clothing/Armor:
Lutolf is clad in an aged and battered suit of plate armor. It is built from - like many others - Bold Iron. His helm completes the man's ragged appearance, and that which is not cloaked by metal, is covered by tattered cloth between which one can occasionally catch a glimpse of the tortured skin beneath.

Helm:
A helm built of Bold Iron, designed to provide a fair amount of visibility, whilst still maintaining a somewhat unique appearance. The slits within the helmet - whilst offering the user a decent view - do a fair job obscuring the head, and face, beneath.

What was once a helm treasured and maintained as any other, has been withered by time and brutality to something one might expect to find littering a battlefield.

Weapons and Gear:
Originally opting for a Sword, and shield, Lutolf soon found the combination to be completely lacking when paired with his aggressive, sometimes overtly brutal fighting style. As such, he disposed of them, instead opting to take on a 4'5" Poleaxe - One end housing a large spike, intended to break through armor - and the other housing the blade of an axe, of which has only the intent to cleave and maim. A thick, lengthy spearhead completes the weapon - emerging from the center of the pole-arm's 'head', placed between the opposing weapons.

Other than his choice of weapon, Lutolf carries very little. A sizable pouch has been looped to his uniform's withered belt - something in which to carry food, items, and other knick-knacks of varying worth and use. A waterskin hangs idly by the pouch, for the short moments where the man can remind himself to stay as hydrated as possible.



History:
Lutolf was a broken man, that much was rather obvious. A broken man with a broken past, memories lost to the fog of pain that had been driving him ruthlessly forwards, at some moments driving him towards civilization - and during other, more frequent moments, sending him clawing - insane - in wide, useless circles. A mad rat in a tattered maze. Why would fate ever curse him so - what had he done to deserve such a horrifying fate? He had asked himself that questions for hours, during those first few horrible months, as his skin was eaten away by some strange, foreign power. Agony, nothing but agony - day in, day out.

He was no longer completely aware of his situation. When his skin began to shift, as it was eaten away - the pain had driven him to madness, and in turn that madness had burrowed into his mind and devoured his all but the most basic of memories. It was after his fifth bout of madness - the fifth since his existence had manifested into a personal hell - that the lapses in memories became totally apparent. His friends- Family, perhaps... Their faces had been eaten away, becoming nothing but a blurred image drifting through now-absent thoughts.

Over time, his situation worsened. The memory of his home became naught but a leaf trapped in a mental hurricane. Had he always been like this?- Certainly not, right?- The odds of him being born, homeless, were astronomically low - He had been given a helm, had he not? Or... had he stolen it from some poor soul..? It was thoughts and moments like these, where he pondered what had been lost - and when he attempted to pull his mind from the brink - that he found himself at his lowest.
What kind of damned fool could not remember their home, their family, their friends?! What kind of person could forget these things?!

Day after day, he would repeat this cycle. Questioning his past, questioning his purpose - and thinking, when he could muster the ability to do so without driving himself into a fit of rage. His sleep was restless, filled with the ghosts of his fractured past. Many nights, he would wake screaming - fingers clawing helplessly at the metal mask adorning his scarred face.

He had considered killing himself - many times over, in fact - but the fear, the possibility of what lay beyond, horrified him - and so, he walked onwards, drowning in a sea of self-loathing, pain, and madness. As the months went by, and those months turned to years, Lutolf adopted the life of a true recluse, doomed to a life of insanity and solitude. Very few of those he could find during his 'waking hours' could tolerate his situation for long. There was only so much the others could tolerate - everybody had their limits, and unfortunately Lutolf had met his own long ago.

Time soon began to blur together; Days, Nights, Weeks, Months, and even more years - he kept wandering, he kept walking - and when needed, did his best to scrape together the materials needed to survive. Moving on some form of twisted autopilot,
until the blessed day fate chanced upon him to meet the Outrider, an oddball of a saint - someone willing to help him try and claw his way out of his damned, maddened stupor, piece by piece.

Relics:
(Currently leaving blank)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
School of Magic: Evocation

Names Known: (Currently leaving blank)

Mutations: Lutolf is unfortunately afflicted by what was first thought to be an agonizing, flesh-eating disease - with portions of his skin frequently wasting away to nothing - revealing the exposed muscle and sinew below. This, however, was quickly proven to be an incorrect assumption, for after each period of painful decline, comes a time of growth - the missing flesh reforms, scarred and misshapen. There are moments, though few, where the man's skin has managed to completely heal over his damaged form, and it is during these times that the flesh seems to occasionally move and shift of its own accord, the meaning of which is a mystery. Whether or not this happens to be both a blessing, and a curse, is up to debate - He cares not, his focus is on the pain, and doing what he can to find relief - now matter how temporary.

[/bg]

Fucking love this character, I'm glad we have another mutant to play with. I assume you're partnering with The Gunrunner 's character?

By the way, Evocation is a very interesting choice in magic. An Evoker is able to conjure positive energies to soothe and heal – and while magic is an exhausting process – your character would be able to lessen their own pain with their magic entirely for a short time, or mildly for a long time. Alternatively, you could conjure negative energies to corrupt and destroy.

Anyway, enough of my rambling, let me know if you need help picking a Known Name.

Warren of Geisler

FACELESS - MALE - BISEXUAL - 30

​

Personality

Personality blurb

LIKES

• 
  
  
  • Gambling / Coin
  • A warm bed
  • Good food / Even better drinks
  • Lively music / Lots of dancing

DISLIKES

• 
  
  
  • Violence. Gore. Weapons. There’s simply more elegant ways of settling things
  • Authorities / Law
  • Winter / The cold
  • People who take themselves too seriously

QUIRKS

• 
  
  
  • Fidgets with a small, old handkerchief when nervous
  • Very light sleeper

Appearance

One might take a look at Warren, and be unable to make the connection to his street rat roots. His own vanity being one of his greatest weaknesses, Warren grooms himself well, sometimes even to a fault. At the very least, he makes sure to be mostly free of the grime and dirt that comes with traversing the rough landscape beyond the Wards of Eld. Despite a strong jaw, his facial features are delicate and leaning towards androgynous. His build does not deviate from this pattern; at 5’10”, he is tall with a svelte figure -- not muscular, but not lanky either.

CLOTHING/ARMOUR

• 
  
  
  • Light, spider silk armour allowing maximum flexibility/mobility, and some protection.
  • Wears a heavier coat when appropriate (as in winter)
  • Not at all opposed to wearing all sorts of disguises

HELM
Bold Iron/Silver Mix -- Consists of two parts: The upper part is a darker, iron kettle hat resembling a capotain with a shorter crown. It is fused to top part of the second component -- a silver, theatre mask depicting a smiling face. Leather straps run down the kettle hat, and along the sides of the mask to keep the helmet in place.

WEAPONS AND GEAR

1. 
   
   
   • Obsidian dirk. Mainly decorative. Don’t expect him to use it, and when he does, don’t expect him to be able to do much with it
   • Lock-picking tools
   • Small mirror
   • Pack of cards
   • Pair of dice
   • Harmonica
   • Liquor flask

History

Abilities

RELICS
To be discussed

SCHOOL OF MAGIC
Illusion

NAMES KNOWN
Not even his own lmao

Because I'm incredibly extra I've sort of made two sheets for my main and background character. The spoilers will be removed once I get everything finished.

Note: If the code is too "large" for you unzoom your browser. It's made for those with overall bigger screens.

Character Completion

​

Spoiler: Main character

​

Spoiler: Background character

.

†

P H A N T O M

In the shadow of God

.

BEZALEEL

• ..
• ......
• .....
• ......

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  True Name: Bezaleel
  Monikers: Phantom (Raven), Phan, Wanderer, Stranger, "Ghost"
  
  Race: Willow Witch
  Gender: Male
  Orientation: Pansexual
  
  Age: ---
  
  

  

  
  
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  "Others see a shadow, some see a ghost. A few may glimpse a flicker of vivid purple before it's once again obscured by darkness..."
  
  
  

  

  Clothing || Armor: Strange but not dissimilar to the faceless, Phantom has taken to concealing his entire body in wrappings. They hang as sullied strips off his tall, sinewy frame yet remain intact despite years of apparent use. A weather beaten cloak, black and worn, seem to be the only other piece of clothing or "armor", apart from his helm, that he owns.
  
  
  

  

  
  Helm: Reminiscent of metal scrap, black rust had spread and cemented itself onto its once metallic surface. Despite the numerous fractures that line both the hood and mouth guard it still remains unbroken.
  
  
  
  Weapons & Gear: A scabbard dagger encased in old battered leather and a large sword wrapped tightly in white gauze. Both blades are secured onto his waist by hefty linked chains.
  

  

  
  
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  Personality:
  A man of few words, Phantom prefers letting his actions speak for him. Unfortunately this often leaves others feeling alienated whether that's due to his inscrutable mannerisms or sparse dialogue that leaves far too much to the imagination. A saving grace is that he is fairly straight forward when asked the right questions and rarely feels the need to lie unless circumstances dictate it. This also applies the other way around; if he doesn't want to answer then he won't.
  
  The silence, his silence, can also vary. When he's in a crowd of strangers for example it takes on a sense of emptiness. Hollow and barren, the disconcerting cord of nothingness effectively deters the most curious passerby. Out on the wastelands where it's nothing but him and nature and the skin walkers it rings of freedom. Not quite wild and untamed but subtle, like the beating of hooves or a flock of ravens taking flight. Among friends and occasionally towards the rare lone wanderer it settles like a blanket, tranquil and soft with flecks of open companionship. In those moments it's easy to forget how easily it can become suffocating. How it can coil and wrap around the soul in deceptively wistful strands, crushing and choking until only fear is left.
  
  With his appearance it isn't very hard to elicit intimidation and for some even fear. As time passes the notion flickers and dims in light of his actions. Their cautious yes, honed by years of survival in a world that does not forgive easily, but they are also feathered with burning empathy. Even as the land he was created to protect had been long since lost the need to shelter and support remains. Yet his kindness and selflessness should not be mistaken for naivety. Just as quickly as he extends his help he can just as easily destroy those who seek it's darkness.
  
  Likes:
  ✓ Simple pleasures
  ✓ Rain; whether it's a monsoon or a gentle spattering of morning mist.
  ✓ Whittling
  ✓ Spirit
  
  Dislikes:
  ✘ Prejudice
  ✘ Exploitation
  ✘ Lack of purpose
  ✘ Loss
  
  Quirks:
  ♢ There's never been any indication that he removes the wrappings around his body. Even during hygienic routines such as showering and bathing.
  ♢ Sporadic bursts of meticulous perfectionism fortunately paired with an abundance of patience.
  ♢ Oddly in tune with animals, both wild and domesticated.
  ♢ Doesn't hover and makes himself sparse but easy to find in case his company or help is needed.
  
  
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  History: N/A ~ "Raven's Perspective"
  
  Power & Abilities:
  ☫ Eld Ward Specialization
  ⤗ Doch: Healing
  ⤗ Teh: Shield
  ⤗ Siel: Silence
  
  ☬ Attack Runes Known
  ⤗ Bliel: Shadow
  ⤗ Resin: Earth
  ⤗ Ter: Lightening
  
  Relics: N/A
  

Lookin' good so far folks. Keep up the swell work.

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Also, to everyone who hasn't, join us in the discord for friendly chatter and healthy shit posting.

 

[Napoleone the Kiwi]

The same thing I've said with the others is going to be brought up here. (As I'm reading everyones CS I get the feeling I didn't make it clear how shit the world is...)

There are no kingdoms. The largest settlement you will find is a city, and even then a pretty small one. The highest ranking "government official" you will ever see is a mayor or a town elder, and even then they aren't that much well off compared to others. Everyone is dirt in this world, everyone is waste, anything that wanders Emoreale is just a walking corpse.

No government also means no libraries btw. No government funding to run such a luxury (though "schools" are a thing). It's possible that a town or city might have a citizen who collects such things as books though. Also, places don't have names, not anymore. Geographical landmarks might, but cities definitely don't.

I also need to know what material Varys uses for his helm. There is a list available at the top, but you can use other materials as well. Wood, stone, copper etc.

Sorry to kill your characters whole theme

Would compacting the entire to history to the destruction of a city be good? I understand being poor would have an impact on the wealth of settlement, but not having civic level administration would just make things worse. Or is that a statement on just how far development has dropped? Questions, questions

Should I just edit within the post or right up a new one? I'm just tryna figure out what is okay enough to be salvageable...which is actually quite on the nose considering the RP .>.

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Would compacting the entire to history to the destruction of a city be good? I understand being poor would have an impact on the wealth of settlement, but not having civic level administration would just make things worse. Or is that a statement on just how far development has dropped? Questions, questions

Should I just edit within the post or right up a new one? I'm just tryna figure out what is okay enough to be salvageable...which is actually quite on the nose considering the RP .>.

Go ahead and edit within the post.

As long as you remove any mention of kingdoms or princes, you should be fine. Government structure as a whole is pretty much nonexistent, just so you're aware. Some towns or cities might have a mayoral figure, but outside of that the only thing that keeps a town or city together is the citizens working together for the betterment of their meager society.

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Colie: Hug'led Mikans

• Basics
• Looks
• History
• Powers

• 
  View attachment 340829
  Name: Hug’led Mikans
  Race: Faceless
  Gender: Male
  Orientation: Asexual
  Age: 27
  Personality: A kind fellow who normally keeps their feelings to themselves. He is shy and has stage anxiety. He lives alone in the wastelands and the only creatures he's seen are the Skin Dancers.
  Likes: + Silence. + Literature. + Baked goods. + Nature.
  Dislikes: - Fighting. - Killing. - Snakes. - Enclosed Spaces.
  Quirks: * Knows how to cook amazing foods. * Can fall asleep anywhere. * Is a great listener. * Can read incredibly fast.
  
• 
  Appearance: A chubby, and strong man who has grey hair and dark blue eyes. His hair covers his ears and most of his forehead, that is if you see him without his face mask on. He wears a face mask because his face is partially burnt off (see mutations). His arms and legs are large but his stomach is much larger.
  Clothing/Armor:
  
  
  
  He wears old romanesque armor. By now it is rusted and flimsy. To fit it around himself he has to tie a rope in between the two sides of the belt.
  
  
  
  He wears old biking boots and gloves which, surprisingly aren’t too bad. The gloves have ripped a bit and the boots are over streched but Hug’led still uses them.
  Helm:
  
  
  
  While not really being a helm this mask helps shield the world from Hug’led’s true face. The mask is strapped to his face but it is padded on the front so it doesn’t hurt.It also protects him from hard blows to the face.
  Weapons: Hug‘led has his dad‘s trusty rapier and frying pan as weapons. The rapier is used to kill and the frying pan is used to make killer pancakes.
  Equipment: Hug‘led has a decent sized backpack which can store a lot. He normally fills it with books and his cooking supplies. Occasionally he does find something interesting and brings it along with him.
  
• 
  History: Hub’led’s story starts off a couple years after he was born. Hub’led’s early life was spent in and out of different towns, visiting his mother in war. She fought strong for three years but eventually she was murdered in combat. Hub’led was devastated. He had only his father who never was home. He also only had one friend, but this friend shaped Hub’leds life. It was an old Willow Witch. Hub’led found the witch as a way to vent his problems. He would say what was happening, how his day was or even what he ate for breakfast and the Willow Witch would respond with silence. That’s why Hub’led learned to love silence. Sadly when Hub’led’s town came under attack the Willow Witch was slain. Once again Hub’led found no one to talk to. That is until he discovered his real best friend.
  
  Reading.
  
  Books would be his get away world. He would open one up and get lost in literature. He read all sorts of books, magic, folk tales, cookbooks, biographies and even dictionaries. His favorites were cooking and magic. He learned the art of both. Since his dad was rarely home, Hug’led cooked often. This worked well with his magic because he was able to use energy to create and conjure ingredients and cookbooks from everywhere. His life became better, he didn’t even need to talk to anyone to feel happy. Everything was good, until the second attack came. This attack weren't bandits though, it was the skin dancers. They came in packs, murdering whoever they saw. It just happened that Hug’led’s dad was home when this happened. His dad rushed him into the bedroom and opened a secret door. “Stay here until it’s over, I love you.” His dad closed the door. The door was kicked down. Hug’led could hear a creature squeal then another one and another. Sadly he soon heard his own fathers yells. His father was dead. Hug’led spent days there surviving off the food and water he conjured up. He came up days later to see that his beloved village had become a wasteland. He walked into the main room in his house and saw 5 dead skin dancers, and one dead human. Hug’led knelt over his father's corpse and slowly took the armor off of him. Hug’led took the armor and put it on and then fastened the a sword into its sheath. He glanced at his dad again and shed a tear. Then left the house and never came back.
  Relics: TBD
  
• 
  Powers and Abilities For Faceless: Evocation, he uses it to get new books and ingredients for his cooking.
  Names Known: Cooking
  Mutations: His entire face is a flesh wound. It was burned off by the deadly waste land but for some reason didn’t cause lethal damage.
  

Oh and one last thing. You can't know the true name of cooking, because cooking isn't a name. In order for something to have a name, it needs to be a noun (that's not a rule of this universe, that's just a grammar thing). Plus, someones first true name tends to be something really simple and base. Even learning the true name of something like the wind (wind being the toughest name I'll allow) is really hard, because wind is constantly changing, and so the name is constantly changing.

 

[FrazzledFox]

Ʊ҉ The Nightblossom ҉Ʊ ​

﴾ OOC Information ﴿

Given Name: Diana Blackwell
Race: Faceless
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Romantic Orientation: Heterosexual.
Age: 26

﴾ Personal Information ﴿

Personality:
At first glance it would seem that Diana is a quiet, observant individual, but this would only be a simple façade, made for the sole purpose of keeping herself safe in a world where trust is hard to find and harder to keep. In actuality Diana is a pretty social creature, often times keeping small pets with her in her travels, or lending a hand to any other Faceless nomads she finds. Often keeping small pets when not with other Faceless, Diana tries her best to stave off her horrible, mind wrenching depression with company of any kind. Due to her social nature, Diana often finds herself in a sort of leadership role, even though she does not seek it out. Friendly and personable, Diana tries to embody what she imagines what people were like before Cathael and her ilk invaded the world, helping those she comes across out of the goodness of her heart. Despite being so sociable, Diana never stays in one place for long, wanderlust rooting its self into such a core part of her being that she cannot bare to be in one place for too long.
Likes
δ Small animals (except rodents. Fuck rodents.) δ
δ Jewelry δ
δ Night δ
δ Flowers δ
δ Traveling δ
δ Helping Others δ
δ Ruins of the Cities of Old δ
δ Books/Stories δ
Dislikes
δ Tyrants δ
δ Narcissism δ
δ Rodents δ
δ Townships δ
δ Being Alone δ
Quirks
δ Often Drifts Off Into Her Own Thoughts. δ
δ Runs her hand through her hair when uncertain or anxious δ
δ Makes facial expressions even though no one can see them :/ δ
δ Keeps a sketchbook of her travels, but none are marked of their location. δ
δ Holds a religious like reverence for the night sky and the stars. She does not put a name to it, but she has night rituals and prayers she performs in honor of some nameless deity. δ

​

﴾ Physical Appearance ﴿

Behind The Helm

Description
It would be easy to mistake Diana for a weak wanderer, a mistake that has proven fatal to those that roam the land for the sole purpose of robbing those that are without a home. Tall and lean, Diana's willowy frame has been built by a lifetime of travel and combat against rouges and Skin Dancers. Clothed in a clever mixture of leathers, cloth, and carefully placed plating, her gear is very much tailored to her life, allowing free movement, while still providing protection.
The Helm
Diana's "Helmet" is less of a helmet and more a mask, letting her hazel hair free. The mask is of a simple design, the Silver worked to a smooth, polished finish, interrupted only by two eye holes, her own silvery grey eyes adding a small level of depth to the otherwise unblemished surface.
Weapons and Gear
A few items stick out from the normal supplies a nomad carries, these being:

Night's Fall ~ A short sword given to her when she received her Helm, Diana carries Night's Fall with her wherever she goes, the silver blade serving her faithfully. She named it Night's Fall after her love for the ever fading hours of Twilight and the gentle silver of the moon that dips behind the horizon as a new day begins.

My Land ~ A simple leather-bound book holds surprisingly well done drawings and sketches of animals, plants, and landscapes. While the animals and plants may be named, or even given a small descriptive for their use or habitats, the landscapes hold nothing of where their location may be.
Relic ~ Nymphilia (slumbering)

​

﴾ History ﴿

(This is a rough outline tbh, I just want to get this out before I go to work today, I will get it polished at a later date) Born to a small nomadic tribe of Faceless, Diana grew up as a wanderer, traveling the ruined world. Being that she was the only child in her tribe she was often doted upon, her safety being put before all others. For the first five years of her life she was happy, energetic child, always eager to learn what she could about the world she walked. She got her first sobering taste of reality the day before her sixth birthday when her tribe was attacked by the Skin Dancers. What little she had of her childhood left vanished as the community that helped raise her vanished in a brutal instance, her father dying in the slaughter along with the bulk of the tribe.

Of the 11 people in the tribe, only four survived, Diana and her mother being two of them. A mutual agreement to disband, Diana and her mother, Rose, leaving the other two. Rose until this point had been a good mother, letting Diana have her freedoms while still holding a firm hand in order to keep her safe. But with the death of her husband and the tribe she grew to be harsh and forbidding, the fear of loosing her daughter hardening her heart. She became more a mentor instead of a mother to Diana, teaching her how to properly survive and how to identify possible dangerous situations. When Diana showed signs of becoming a woman by having her first bleeding Rose decided that it was a sign that Diana was ready to have a Helm made for her and for her to have a proper weapon to defend herself with, Diana having used a old iron mace that Rose took from her husbands body. Spending the next year searching, Rose finally was able to gather through theft, barter and looting the proper materials to have a matching Helm and Sword made for her daughter. Trading some of her most prized possessions to a Blacksmith, Rose had the Blacksmith make a Mask of pure Silver of her daughters design.

The next year went by in a blur for Diana as she learned to use her new sword and adjust to having a metal mask covering her face. On the eve of her sixteenth birthday Rose left, leaving Diana alone in the world. This was not particularly good for Diana's mental health as it fed into her growing depression and anxiety. Diana then spent the next several years traveling alone, occasionally joining up with other Faceless wanderers, but never staying, her fear of attracting the Skin Dancers overwhelming her desire to have companions. It was not until a year ago did she try to settle down and live a life amongst others in a small settlement protected by the Wards of El. This proved to be a mistake however when the town was sabotaged by a cult who worshiped the malicious Cathael took down the wards, allowing the Skin Dancers to wreck havoc and death upon the village. Barely managing to escape with what little possessions she had left Diana fled, returning to her vagabond roots.

​

﴾ Combat Style and Magical Prowess ﴿

School of Magic ~ Illusion
Names Known ~ Light
Combat Style ~ Due to her thin frame, Diana cannot pact a lot of punch, instead relying on speed and agility to land multiple hits.

​

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Eva Harbinger


Race: Faceless
Gender: Female
Orientation: Bisexual
Age: 27

Appearance
Standing at 5"10, Eva likes to feel like she's taller than other people and will often stand on steps and inclines whenever available to promote her height. Possessing heavy eyebrows and light-colored eyes, her stare can be incredibly intense if she puts her mind to it. Despite the fact that her build veers more to the side of lanky rather than stocky, she still has a lot of condensed upper-body muscle as well as powerful legs. Her dark hair is kept permanently braided so that it stays out of her face but is presumed to be straight if she would let it loose. It is hardly seen from underneath the hood of her cloak. Eva has two prominent scars; one which is on her lower torso and horizontally cuts through her stomach area, and the second that is shaped like a "V" stretched horizontally across her lower neck.

Personality
Generally, Eva doesn't like to waste time and is very practical. If she doesn't need it, she doesn't take it. Abstract concepts such as 'wants' and 'dreams' never enter the equation. She is steady and calm under pressure and never feels the need to impress other people. The only notable emotion that she shows consistently is curiosity along with the occasional spurt of sarcasm. Her way of thinking is very simple without any flare; she achieves her goals in the fastest, most efficient way and doesn't like detours or unnecessary add-ons. She is very goal-oriented and unless she sees the point of an action or how it is beneficial to her she tends to disregard things.

In her world, kindness is only used when somebody wants something from her, and indifference is a norm. Everybody has a job to do and she understands that, meaning she stays out of other peoples' ways and expects them to do the same for her. She is hard to provoke because she couldn't care less what people think of her and doesn't have "thick skin" as much as she just doesn't care what other people might think. She likes to take advantage of anything offered to her and always looks for ways to get herself a leg up. Eva is very well aware that teamwork is essential to any successful endeavor and therefore is good at collaborating with others, be it through words or simple glances.

Likes

• Self-Control
• Clean-Cut Wounds
• Warmth
• Alcohol

Dislikes

• Debt
• Animals
• Cold
• Hunger

Quirks

• Scratches the scar on her neck when worried or when thinking. Oftentimes, those two criteria are met simultaneously.
• Is meticulous about keeping her helm clean.
• Sleeps in her breast plate with her scythe in hand, usually with the weapon on the bed.
• Localized disassociative amnesia - repressed memory. Eva has repressed all memories of her father after the shock of losing him. Whenever topics about him or her past come up, her thoughts seem awfully disjunctive but she never pursues the fact.

Clothing/Armor

Eva's armor is mostly constructed of cloth and leather. The cloak and all constructs of the armor are cloth except for a leather breastplate, gloves and boots. The cloak is mainly to protect her from the cold and she does not often wear it into battle due to its tendency to tear. It is already visibly patched with miscellaneous pieces of cloth. Her normal clothing is not much different from her armor, as all she does is remove the breastplate and gloves. Most of her clothes are torn and crudely patched up with any fabric she could find.

Helm
Silver/Bold Iron/Leather: Eva's helm is smooth with a slight round shape to encase her nose in it. It cuts off just above her forehead but stretches down an inch below her chin. The helm is attached to hear head through four sturdy leather straps that she has to replace every few weeks due to tear and stretching which makes the helm slide off her face. The majority of the helm is made of bold iron but there is a thin silver coating over the top of it to give it a more metallic glow. The helm has wide spaces for her eyes but no space for her mouth, meaning that when she speaks it tends to be muffled. There is a small slot where her nose is in order to allow her to breathe easily.

Weapons & Gear
Weapons
- A scythe with a long, thin blade. The handle is five feet tall and stands just below her shoulders when beside her. The blade itself is around two feet long and curved. It is her primary weapon as her combat style prefers her to be close to her enemies but nevertheless out of reach, which is afforded by the weapon's long handle. When not in combat she keeps the weapon strapped across her back.
- A metal one-handed longsword with a leather grip. The blade is nicked but kept well enough sharpened that it still has a bite to it. It is her secondary weapon and is kept in reserve for combat situations where her opponents are too close in to use her scythe, or if her scythe is inoperable for some reason. When not in combat she keeps the weapon in a sheath attached to her belt.
- A small hunting knife not often used for combat and primarily for cutting food or materials but she will use it in a fight if necessary. When not in use she keeps it in a small sheath on her belt.

Gear
- A water canteen that hangs off of her belt (and is filled with alcohol rather than water more times than not).
- A sling bag that contains:

• Basic medical equipment (bandages, some disinfectant alcohol, needle and thread for stitching injuries).
• A small container of salt for salting/preserving food.

History:
Born as the daughter of a carpenter in a large town, Eva grew up as an only child. Her mother, Clara, was a kind and compassionate woman who loved to play with her young daughter and was also a wonderful housewife. Her father was from a family of renowned carpenters who eventually married a village woman named Clara. They got married two years after Eva was born. Her father, Evan, was a successful carpenter and the entire town knew him and came to him for all their wood-based needs. In order to obtain wood to use, however, he often needed to venture outside the town's limits and outside the protection of their Willow Witch's Eld Wards.

For this reason, he was a hardened warrior in addition to a carpenter. He also became rather close to their Willow Witch and the two got along well. Seeing as the plan was to have another child after Eva, hopefully a boy to pass on the carpenter trade to, the parents were dismayed when Clara's second child was a miscarriage. Devastated, the woman sank rapidly into depression. Once a happy, lively woman, she was now even less than a husk of her normal self and nothing seemed to lift her out of it. Eva was seven at the time. The family started to strain as Evan tried to keep up looking after Eva but also make a living for them all.

In order to balance it all, and to take precaution if Clara never returned from her depressed state, he began to teach Eva both the ways of the carpenter and a warrior. The young girl was confused and always wondered why her mother never wanted to play with her anymore - feeling at fault herself - but took solace in the work. Throwing herself into the job, Eva learned quickly and vented out all her sadness and anger through fighting. Two years later, Clara died. She had gradually started rejecting food until she ate nothing at all and passed away due to starvation. Eva and Evan were sad, but they had seen it coming for months now, so buried her without a tear and took solace in their small family unit.

For years Eva worked closely alongside her father. Their relationship was not only that of father and daughter, but had stemmed into friends and also coworkers. Eva had matured quickly and at thirteen acted like a twenty year old, so the two spent nearly all their time together through both laughter and tears. They were inseparable: it was a known saying that when one Harbinger was near, the other was close behind. Eva, too, got to know the town's willow witch and now often ventured outside the town limits to collect lumber with her father. The first weapon she had been taught was the longsword, but she had picked up the use of a scythe after discovering one laying unused near a farmstead.

Disaster struck for a second time sometime after Eva turned nineteen. She and her father had gone to visit their willow witch, Kathan, not knowing that he was in the process of resetting the town's Wards of Eld, and had disrupted him. Assuring them it was fine, he had continued his work and the three had left to talk. The interruption had caused a slight offset of one of the wards. It took only minutes for the Eld Wards to whither away. Skin dancers ran rampant over the town, slaughtering everything in sight. Nobody was prepared. Throwing themselves immediately into battle, the trio of Evan, Eva and the willow witch strove to fight the skin dancers off.

They fought for a full day and night, but the skin dancers never seemed to stop coming. The town had burned around them, and most of the townspeople were already dead. Resolving to run, the trio made a sprint for it. They had nearly made it out, but in her exhaustion Eva had failed to see a skin dancer lunging from her back. She had begun to turn around, but it was already too late - until Evan jumped in between the creature and his daughter. The skin dancer latched around his neck and head. Screaming, Eva started to run back, only to be stopped by the willow witch. Kathan had latched around her shoulders. She had struggled, but the willow witch overpowered her, knocked her out and threw her in a ditch.

The last thing Eva saw before waking up was her father's mauled face and flailing body. Upon waking, she was greeted with the sight of two dead bodies before her. While she had been unconscious, the skin dancers had left. The first body belonged to who she could only assume was her father, but with his body torn to shreds and face torn off. The second was Kathan. She could only assume he had attempted to intervene, but now he was little more than a gnarled, twisted figure. She wasn't sure how long she stood staring, but when she came back to her senses, all she saw were two fallen figures.

Her memory of her father had been erased, and along with it Kathan. Seeing her destroyed village seemingly for the first time, Eva pillaged every dead corpse or fallen house she could find before setting off on her own. She was torn and heavily injured, but without anywhere else to go she set herself to wander.

Relics
(Leave blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless
Evocation: Spells that manipulate energy or create something from nothing. An evocation specialist is called an evoker.

Names Known: Wind

Mutations: N/A

Accepted.

Abel Aine​

Race: Faceless

Gender: Male

Orientation: ?

Age: 30

Personality:
Abel is a curious person, and seemingly content to the life of a drifter. Wandering from place to place, he takes pleasure, even beauty in seeing the world, even as decrepit as it is now. He speaks in a curious tone, though there seems to be an underlying contemptuousness to his words, however few they are. Those who don't take them at deeper meaning will often find them innocent or innocuous, while those who do might even find him irritating or sarcastic. It isn't clear whether he's here or there, and he doesn't like making his true opinions known. In fact, he's so elusive about subject matters that it can be irritating.

However, this discludes when things get serious. A bit too mature to be joking and riddling all of the time, Abel is able to calm down when it comes to intense situations, even able to take the reigns as far as leading when it comes down to it, though would much prefer others to do so before it happens that he has to. He is not one to try to hurt others, preferring to end an argument with word rather than sword. In fact, it's hard for a person to evoke much anger in him, though it's not impossible in the slightest.

Preferring to take on a 'brave face' (of course, that's a very liberal term - as he'd rather not show his face at all), Abel is more closed off to others. He's uncomfortable with talking about his own emotions, althoug he isn't closed off to travelling with others at all. As he never considers it a permanent arrangement - having a travelling partner - he would much rather keep himself at a jovial distance, wearing a mask emotionally ... and physically.

Likes:
+ Hand-crafted objects
+ Humor, in a bleak world
+ Displays of strength and bravery
+ Stories

Dislikes:
- Violence as an unnecessary means
- Those who lament
- Fighting, in general
- Becoming attached

Quirks:
* Scavenges the world, taking oddities with him
* Spends downtime handcrafting objects, many of them useless
* Gets tired quickly from conversation
* Falls into silence when conflicted

Appearance:
Abel falls at around 5'11", of average height. However, most of his body is covered from head to toe in either wrappings, clothing, or armor. He actually prefers the secretive, quiet life of the Faceless, never truly having the urge to reveal more than he already does. His posture is a bit lax, and never prim or proper. His walk isn't strained, and there is the impression that he may be a bit gaunt underneath his clothing, simply by how it falls on his body.

Clothing/Armor:
Abel handcrafts his own clothes. He prefers not to lay in societies - or the remnants of them - and instead modifies and appropriates from what he scavenges. That said, he's got a slew of handcrafted garments adorning him; most notably is his Helm, which he'd repaired after evidently being damaged in some way or another. In addition to his helm, he covers his head, hair, and neck with a reddish hood. He wears a cloth-and-leather tunic, fastened by twine wool. His hands and arms are wrapped to the wrist, leaving the skin of his gnarled hands to view, and acting as the only part of his body that he leaves uncovered. He wears a tooth necklace, teeth collected from some sort of beast, and ties cascading cloth around his waist. He wears cloth pants, the front of them adorned with leather, though that's rarely seen in light of the cloth robes he wears around his waist. Finally, his feet are in sandals, though his feet themselves are wrapped, again, in cloth.

He carries a backpack with him, with oddities and small pieces of art attached to it, along with a length of rope that he has laced around both his body and mounted on his pack.

Preferring not to resort to violence, but knowing that it's necessary in a world such as this, Abel also carries a blade on his side. Only the pommel peeks up from his cloth waistband, preferring also not to show it. For hospitality reasons, of course.

Helm:
Abel's Helm is a Bold Iron helm. The base is not of his own design, and there's chips and wearing on it from use throughout the years. It seems to have been originally made skillfully, though now there is a dent in it, and even a piece of the horn missing from the top. The front seems to be not of the caliber of a Knight; there is more room for him to see out of than a traditional helmet. There are lined engravings traveling from the ear to the chin, as well as the nose to the chin, and two simple aesthetic triangles jut from the top. The metal is covered by some sort of white paint. However, only the front piece remains. Instead, the back is fastened with a fire-hardened leather, and his hair wrapped in cloth. It has seen heavy modification.

History:
Abel, though not particularly old or wisened, certainly has been through enough for it to be interpreted as such. But then again, who hasn't? It's never wise to travel in such a world with others, but time and time again, in his youth, he grew attached. Time and time again, friends and family fell, what little friends and family there are left in this world. But he enjoyed the company, regardless, still knowing well that to be attached is to be unwise.

Abel started off as most humans do; in the arms of his mother. He recounts as thankful for the fact that he remembers her - meaning, of course, they were with him through childhood - though for how long he can't exactly remember. It was like a light switch; for a while, he had been with her. Then, as she disappear into the woods to forage for food, he had never seen her again. He wonders if perhaps he will, someday, again. Perhaps she had gotten lost, or simply was unwise to the stress of having a child in such a cruel world, and saw to it that he could defend himself before she finally left him - in the forest, no less. But she did. And now he's looking.

After that, he grew bitter. Living as a drifter in a world full of them, what little humanity he did see, he had to be cautious of. And so - and wisely so - he kept away from the Faceless for a long time. He strayed away from what little society had been left, instead only walking through a sea of masked faces, wondering if he'd even recognize his mother's voice, let alone her helm. But he never did. And so he grew older without her, and though he was angry, he never truly did give up hope for the last family he'd had.

After years of traveling alone, he began to look outwards. He knew that he wouldn't survive if he'd continued his streak of isolation and unhappiness - if not dying by his own hand, he'd die by another's, or worse; one of the wretched abominations born from the rifts that plagued them. So, he sought out others. And he found them. He had found that they were just as miserable as him. And finding that, he also decided from then on not to be like them. After all, there were beautiful places in this wretched world. As long as he looked at them sideways. He'd found joy in traveling with others - listening to their stories instead of lamenting on his own. He had lost them, of course, many times, and developed the habit of leaving before he could do so.

But perhaps that could change.

Powers and Abilities:
Abjuration - Abel focuses on Abjuration. While not particularly versed in banishing, he's a protector of sorts. This developed out of his own need to protect himself, though he isn't averse to using it for others' wellbeing as well.

Mutations:
While Abel keeps most of his body covered, his hands seemed to be gnarled into sharp points at the ends of his fingers.

Relics:

Names Known: Twine

Accepted.

Bayan Teutogen​

Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Heterosexual

Age:
28

Personality:
Life in the wasteland is for the hardy or the crazy, and Teutogen has bits of both. Despite the extreme dangers of the road, he loves the freedom it brings with all he has. He sees cities and towns as safe havens or resource points than homes, though begrudgingly understands their necessity. Still, he abhors the authority they advocate for - An instinctive antagonist to hierarchy and most forms of law, often enough to make his stay a little less welcome than most travelers. However, he is easy-going and cool-headed, often curious of new people and locations - The latter something he will consistently insist on learning all he can. In survival matters he has become apathetic to the necessities over the years, able to do what the unfamiliar can't with barely a second thought. He is an open conversationalist, and clings tightly to those who get close to him.

Likes:
+ Exploring
+ Reading
+ Singing
+ Good company


Dislikes:
- Compact cities
- Bandits
- Nobles
- Bland food


Quirks:
* Tendency to tattoo new locations, roads, mountains, or other geographical notes to the back of the hands, shoulder, arms, or chest depending on the find.
* Chews his fingers when uncomfortable or bored.
* Loves taking souvenirs from ruins, people, and even corpses that he finds interesting.
* Finds difficulty sleeping, often jolting awake in the night.



Appearance:
Bayan is about what would be expected from a city-avoiding scavenger; Medium-length tattered dark-brown hair stuck and tangled by grease and dirt, tied back by twine into a short tuft of a ponytail. A beard that is surprisingly well trimmed, but just as dirty as the hair. A scar trails from his left ear nearly to the left side of his mouth, thin and clean without the usual jaggedness marking the attack of an animal or abomination. He is as well built as possible with the lack of food, a mix of lean and athletic with an average height. Finally, one can not know Bayan - Or any outrider - without knowing the many tattoos; they're in various areas covering the backs of the hands, shoulders, forearms, upper arms, and chest. Each marking shows a map of some sort; the hands mapping the roads, the arms the elevation and mountains, shoulders rivers and forests, and so on. The tattoo on the chest is clearly unfinished, though one can see all the areas he has been to literally by viewing it. Each map has its own strange markings - Unfamiliar symbols dotting from the sides of mountains, points near the roads, points near rivers, areas in the middle of forests, etched paths not seen or noted on a cartographer's map. Emblems are used repeatedly, but not all are the same - A language kept for the people he hails from.

Clothing/Armor:

(General clothing picture seen at the top.)
Bayan wears what he can scavenge, make, repair, or steal. The end result isn't terrible, but it can be less than pretty. His clothing is a mis-matched arrangement of layered patch-work clothing, some parts clearly torn from other attires to make an addition. Over the frankensteined attire, he wears a reasonably comfortable and presentable long-coat - The right sleeve has been torn away, neither it or the shirt underneath covering the maps presented on the arm. In times of cold, he keeps a muddy-green scarf and - his personal favourite - a crimson red cloak. The latter is well maintained, though the bottom line is somewhat tattered. A travel pack is kept to the back using thick rope. Different necklaces dangle from his neck, holding a variety of trinkets collected from old ruins or people.

His armour is scavenged from the dead and dying, though the end result is still something sturdy that he can be proud of. The Bold Iron mail is battered and scratched, but clean and unbroken - The arms are of different lengths; the left arm reaches down to the wrist, while the right arm halts at the shoulder - The latter leaves the arm free for the most movement, with little weight to tire him out on that side. The protection of the chest is more than appreciable, and reaches to just over the knees. A belt wraps around the waist to keep the mail against the chest, with a rather exquisitely designed buckle depicting a simple battle scene.

Helm:
(Seen above.)
An exotic type of norman helm, made out of a Star Iron and Bold Iron alloy - A facial mask protects and hides the front, the material wrapping around to the back to enclose the helmet. The helmet has been personalized in multiple ways; while the crown of pieces shows a craftsmanship signifying it was included in the design, the hair attached to the tip of the helm and the extended frown of the 'mouth' are clearly his own doing; the hair itself is tied with twine, while the frown seems to be an intentional extension to a dent sustained in battle. It was a rare find indeed, and is cared for as the extension of himself it is recognized to be.

Weapons and Gear:

Spoiler

On the belt is arrayed the majority of his combat equipment: Metal cross-guarded saber in wooden scabbard, three throwing axes arrayed on the right side in hoop-sheaths, two leather pouches on the left side - one filled with an amalgamation of dirt, rockdust, and peppers while the other is a collection of custom-made war-darts. On the back of the belt is attached an animal-fur sheath horizontally following the belt, wherein his dagger is housed.
Otherwise, his primary weapon is a short-spear kept slung to the back. It rests beside his backpack, which holds his survival equipment; twine, bedroll, kindling, herbs, food, waterskin, twine, trinkets, climbing gear, paints, maps, and so on.

History:
As said, life in the wasteland is for the hardy or the crazy - But they need not suffer alone. Faceless may form into groups, find their own collective beliefs, or form their own culture. Though rare, there are bands which find their life in the wasteland - Some of these more notable than others. Bayan was part of one such group, faceless who refer to themselves as 'outriders.' Scavengers, scouts, survivors, warriors, and nomads. They are formed of the lowliest or unluckiest of society,with no homes to go back to or comforts but what they can find in the wastes. Despite this, they are not a sour people; their culture has developed to make the most of their situation. They are generally a very social people, though close-knit and suspicious of strangers. What an outrider can expect will depend on the area: Some view them as ruthless leeching bandits, some see them as useful if greedy mercenaries, and by some an unnerving sign of bad luck. It varies, but there is one consistency known to them: Their knowledge of the land. While to an outrider it is only one aspect of their culture, albeit a very important one, to those locked in cities or recently made wanderers Outriders can be an immense wealth of information. Their very bodies are tattooed to mark out the deeper meanings of the terrain; not merely elevation and density of forests but the abundances of food, where to find shelter, areas to defend oneself or hide, where to find certain herbs, untapped ruins, and so much more. Outriders who fall in battle often have their skins collected for the maps - A practice that hasn't done anything to change their isolated nature.

Bayan was one of the rare members not to be born into it; a child lucky enough to be found in the wastes, a singular survivor of the city's brutal civil war. The blood was washed off of his body, but his mind constantly retreated him to the atrocities and horrors he witnessed then - Men and women piled in hills, displays of brutality meant to frighten the factions, spilled organs and rolling heads. It ended not when the bodies piled so high the flies brought plague, but when their Willow-Witch itself was struck down in the heat of melee. When the city was compromised, the people evacuated. They formed separate groups, whether loyalists, rebels, or those neutral to the conflict. Though each went their own way, none got very far; starvation, dehydration, infection, poisoning, and skin-dancers whittled their numbers day-by-day. However, while they fell and died, Bayan lived long enough to learn from their mistakes. The coddling of children can have its benefits indeed, and it gave him the time it would require to learn the wasteland.

It was to his luck that he didn't have to survive long; he was found by a scouting party of outriders, scavenging from the city and its dead. He distinguished himself in his ability to survive, giving enough note to be brought into the band. He was viewed with suspicion at first, sure, and it would take time for him to be accepted. However, he lived long enough for him to be viewed as a brother. For years he traveled with the Outriders, soaking in their knowledge of survival like a sponge. With them he learned to use the 'survivor's magic', as they called it: Illusion. He learned to use it in a variety of means - To misdirect, distract, and confuse. He was taught to use it in abundance, whether fighting or escaping, and he'd come to find it greatly effective. Of course, learning is not only done through talk and reading - Especially in the Wasteland. The Outriders were anything they needed to be to survive; mercenaries, bandits, thieves, scavengers, scouts, they were everything and anything they had to be. The best moments in his memory were when they hired themselves out to cities and towns; the risks were there, but the rewards were the greatest then.

His last moments with the Outriders was in following a mercenary contract; it was a bloody, glorious fight. He can still remember the smell of bitter-sweet copper as they hacked through the enemy line. Were they bandits, mercenaries, or guards? That much can be hard to remember, though it's true they may have never been told at all. It mattered little; the contract was failed. The Outriders retreated with heavy casualties, leaving the target and contract behind them... along with Bayan. He was kept in custody with his other comrades, their skins evidently the only reason for their survival. Though that promised to be quite temporary. Bayan was lucky; there were few skilled in the appropriate art, making the process excruciatingly slow - Done day-by-day, hours spent removing the maps one man at a time. To his joy, he would not be one of the men hanging from a tree, a body red from bared muscle tissue.

His capture was many years ago now. His hope for finding the band has waned heavily, and he has come to terms with the fact that he is alone. That is, he was alone; he has since made an unlikely friend out of a cynical, mutated faceless. Despite the personality, he's kept the partnership and hasn't regretted it. They continue to work together today.


Relics:
(Leave Blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:

School of Magic: Illusions.

Names Known: Soil

Mutations: N/A

Accepted

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Ʊ҉ The Nightblossom ҉Ʊ ​

﴾ OOC Information ﴿

Given Name: Diana Blackwell
Race: Faceless
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Romantic Orientation: Heterosexual.
Age: 26

﴾ Personal Information ﴿

Personality:
At first glance it would seem that Diana is a quiet, observant individual, but this would only be a simple façade, made for the sole purpose of keeping herself safe in a world where trust is hard to find and harder to keep. In actuality Diana is a pretty social creature, often times keeping small pets with her in her travels, or lending a hand to any other Faceless nomads she finds. Often keeping small pets when not with other Faceless, Diana tries her best to stave off her horrible, mind wrenching depression with company of any kind. Due to her social nature, Diana often finds herself in a sort of leadership role, even though she does not seek it out. Friendly and personable, Diana tries to embody what she imagines what people were like before Cathael and her ilk invaded the world, helping those she comes across out of the goodness of her heart. Despite being so sociable, Diana never stays in one place for long, wanderlust rooting its self into such a core part of her being that she cannot bare to be in one place for too long.
Likes
δ Small animals (except rodents. Fuck rodents.) δ
δ Jewelry δ
δ Night δ
δ Flowers δ
δ Traveling δ
δ Helping Others δ
δ Ruins of the Cities of Old δ
δ Books/Stories δ
Dislikes
δ Tyrants δ
δ Narcissism δ
δ Rodents δ
δ Townships δ
δ Being Alone δ
Quirks
δ Often Drifts Off Into Her Own Thoughts. δ
δ Runs her hand through her hair when uncertain or anxious δ
δ Makes facial expressions even though no one can see them :/ δ
δ Keeps a sketchbook of her travels, but none are marked of their location. δ
δ Holds a religious like reverence for the night sky and the stars. She does not put a name to it, but she has night rituals and prayers she performs in honor of some nameless deity. δ

​

﴾ Physical Appearance ﴿

Behind The Helm

Description
It would be easy to mistake Diana for a weak wanderer, a mistake that has proven fatal to those that roam the land for the sole purpose of robbing those that are without a home. Tall and lean, Diana's willowy frame has been built by a lifetime of travel and combat against rouges and Skin Dancers. Clothed in a clever mixture of leathers, cloth, and carefully placed plating, her gear is very much tailored to her life, allowing free movement, while still providing protection.
The Helm
Diana's "Helmet" is less of a helmet and more a mask, letting her hazel hair free. The mask is of a simple design, the Silver worked to a smooth, polished finish, interrupted only by two eye holes, her own silvery grey eyes adding a small level of depth to the otherwise unblemished surface.
Weapons and Gear
A few items stick out from the normal supplies a nomad carries, these being:

Night's Fall ~ A short sword given to her when she received her Helm, Diana carries Night's Fall with her wherever she goes, the silver blade serving her faithfully. She named it Night's Fall after her love for the ever fading hours of Twilight and the gentle silver of the moon that dips behind the horizon as a new day begins.

My Land ~ A simple leather-bound book holds surprisingly well done drawings and sketches of animals, plants, and landscapes. While the animals and plants may be named, or even given a small descriptive for their use or habitats, the landscapes hold nothing of where their location may be.
Relic (Leave Blank For Now)

​

﴾ History ﴿

(This is a rough outline tbh, I just want to get this out before I go to work today, I will get it polished at a later date) Born to a small nomadic tribe of Faceless, Diana grew up as a wanderer, traveling the ruined world. Being that she was the only child in her tribe she was often doted upon, her safety being put before all others. For the first five years of her life she was happy, energetic child, always eager to learn what she could about the world she walked. She got her first sobering taste of reality the day before her sixth birthday when her tribe was attacked by the Skin Dancers. What little she had of her childhood left vanished as the community that helped raise her vanished in a brutal instance, her father dying in the slaughter along with the bulk of the tribe.

Of the 11 people in the tribe, only four survived, Diana and her mother being two of them. A mutual agreement to disband, Diana and her mother, Rose, leaving the other two. Rose until this point had been a good mother, letting Diana have her freedoms while still holding a firm hand in order to keep her safe. But with the death of her husband and the tribe she grew to be harsh and forbidding, the fear of loosing her daughter hardening her heart. She became more a mentor instead of a mother to Diana, teaching her how to properly survive and how to identify possible dangerous situations. When Diana showed signs of becoming a woman by having her first bleeding Rose decided that it was a sign that Diana was ready to have a Helm made for her and for her to have a proper weapon to defend herself with, Diana having used a old iron mace that Rose took from her husbands body. Spending the next year searching, Rose finally was able to gather through theft, barter and looting the proper materials to have a matching Helm and Sword made for her daughter. Trading some of her most prized possessions to a Blacksmith, Rose had the Blacksmith make a Mask of pure Silver of her daughters design.

The next year went by in a blur for Diana as she learned to use her new sword and adjust to having a metal mask covering her face. On the eve of her sixteenth birthday Rose left, leaving Diana alone in the world. This was not particularly good for Diana's mental health as it fed into her growing depression and anxiety. Diana then spent the next several years traveling alone, occasionally joining up with other Faceless wanderers, but never staying, her fear of attracting the Skin Dancers overwhelming her desire to have companions. It was not until a year ago did she try to settle down and live a life amongst others in a small settlement protected by the Wards of El. This proved to be a mistake however when the town was sabotaged by a cult who worshiped the malicious Cathael took down the wards, allowing the Skin Dancers to wreck havoc and death upon the village. Barely managing to escape with what little possessions she had left Diana fled, returning to her vagabond roots.

​

﴾ Combat Style and Magical Prowess ﴿

School of Magic ~ Illusion
Names Known ~ Larël (Light)
Combat Style ~ Due to her thin frame, Diana cannot pact a lot of punch, instead relying on speed and agility to land multiple hits.

​

Accepted after you remove Larël. Just say Light. Other than that, you have a lovely character here.

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Spoiler: Varys Rhoyne

Varys Rhoyne


Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Bisexual

Age:
22

Personality:
A formerly ill-tempered and impulsive Knight, Varys is was an intelligent if hot-headed member of his Town watch, so much so that he wasn't accepted till his 17th nameday. He lacked a degree of sociability, more temperamental than necessary due to a more rough childhood. His preference is more towards playing cards as opposed to going to war, though in the current world, it simply isn't to be. Hard working at what he puts his mind to, Varys' determination to complete tasks often leaves him to be vulnerable to his own well being or the well being of others, a task becoming all consuming the longer he lingers on it. After the tragedy, his temperamental nature was drowned, as a sword is after forging, leaving behind a far colder and more focused passion with the diligent focus simply being sharpened. Though the temper still simmers beneath the surface.

Despite his hardships, he still maintains a polite though dour persona to those on the roads however, determined to maintain civility despite the collapse of civilisation around him. Charitable to those in clearly worse situations, Varys' often can be far too unforgiving of slights despite his intelligence and logical understanding of an apocalypse, simply put, he loathes those that betray his good will.

Likes:
+ Playing cards
+ Eating food
+ Order
+ Human decency


Dislikes:
- Lack of integrity
- Liars
- Death
- Thieves


Quirks:
*Keeps a deck of cards on his person, no matter the situation
*Practices his sword play and spear-craft daily
*Often mumbles his misgivings to himself
*Likes to lie on the ground and stare at the sky



Appearance:
With long silver hair, well shaped purple iris'd eyes and an a well structured jawline, Varys is a handsome specimen indeed. as 1.95 cm tall, he is of a venerable height and lithe build, predisposed to speed and stamina in battle against ponderous and over muscled veracity. His hands are quite unblemished due the quality of his gloves, giving him a very pampered aura despite an inclination to helping where he can. Though slightly feminine in looks, he is clearly a man in mannerisms.

Clothing/Armor:
Dark Bold Iron armour with a scaled theme. The Arcanite pauldrons fashioned in the shape of dragon wings with pointed tips and splashing of red at intersecting points. His chest plate continues with red bands connecting the dragon wings to the motif of a pouncing dragon on his chest. With a variety of buckles at the hips and an armoured hauberk and further Leather-Bold Iron knee guards, shin guards and leather-Bold Iron scaled boots.

Underneath, he wears an Iron Bold chain mail shirt and a white tunic, a pair of black breeches accentuating his musculature. Spare clothing is a mix of red, blue and white tunics, with breeches brown, red, and blue.

Helm:
A Bold Iron dark helm with a rearing dragon, the face completely hidden but for the eyes. With a pair of stylised wings where the ears are and a sneering dragon head at the crown of the helm, it is nought but a terrifying visage.

Weapons and Gear:
The aforementioned armour, riding gear, a travel pouch with enough for provisions for a couple of days, a Bold-Iron tipped spear with straps, his Uncle's Bold-Star Iron long sword, Oathkeeper, a stylised dragon shaped hilt with the wings forming a guard and a bedroll, and his horse, Breygon.

Spoiler: Varys in Full Plate

History:
Varys was born to a decently well-off family in a coastal city, the same day as the death of his grandfather and father in a magical experiment. As a child he often ran from the responsibilities of his household, to the point that jests were made about his habits. However, records his grandfather describing the horrors of the outside kept from before his family made it to the city, encouraged Varys to protect the peace of his city. Though he was educated by some of the finest magicians of the city, finding a degree of skill in the arts of Evocation, combustion being one of his specialities, he left the stuffy second-hand mysticism, escaping to the City Watch where his uncle ruled.

At the age of seventeen, Varys was knighted by his uncle, the ancestral blade of his great-grandfather being used said to be wrought from Star-Iron. His uncle told him later it was, in part. Bold Iron made the rest, however. He grew into a highly skilled and capable fighter, always distinguishing himself well in the training pits, although he seldom entered the lists - the men who fought there tended to lose at the card table, he didn't feel like dying.

Unfortunately the love for his cards did little to dissuade the enemies of the peace. After the tragedy at the mages tower and the weakening of the wards, break down of law would grow on in the outer districts while even darker forces were at work niggling at the Kingdom's magical defences to the North. Joining on patrols to pacify the outer districts, Varys and his uncle moved with the most well equipped guard troop to have ever been assembled. First moving from the city centre to the outer township, they put down the dissidence brutally. Though often too late to save the Willow Witches who the brigands seemed to target. Through out crime wave, the weary patrols found more and more evidence of something darker moving in the shadows. More than mere gangsters, but whole streets left with no survivors, coming to manor houses with corpses twisted and maimed as unholy monuments to cruelty, some people still alive despite being mashed and sown together.

Crossing the river that flowed through the city, they reached the town's north edge at one of the great warded gates, the patrol stopping for the night. In the outer districts, not even the patrols were safe in the streets these days. By midnight, an eerie silence had fallen, as if the world was waiting for something with bated breath. The Mage's tower, his family home and the tallest building in the city, exploded suddenly and without warning. A towering conflagration that likely could be seen for tens of leagues erupted into the night sky, a sickly emerald flame, great bolts falling around the city and causing larger fires in their wake. Even as distant as they were from the city centre, they could see the square had been lit, along with all the surrounding guild halls and city administration buildings, centralisation and years of progress gone. And then with a great crack, the wards on the south side failed, the east following quickly. The North and West seemed to hold, but we were already running. The unholy screams followed us into the night, the various members of the patrol breaking, any hint of discipline gone as worry for family, friends and self overrode their sense of civic unity.

Uncle ended up getting speared by his lieutenant after the man went mad. Though it didn't seem to be a normal madness. The man fought as if he was possessed, but was brought down by a swing of my uncle's sword as he stood, a spear through his gut. The scream the man let out was simply inhuman. My uncle had me burn his body while we set his horse free, taking the provisions. We were going to leave the city. We supposed to, but uncle knew he wouldn't make it. He bid me to take the provisions and Breygon, then ride North. He'd heard tell of a settlement from some claiming to be travellers. No one travelled these days, it was probably a false lead, but the South wasn't something I was willing to risk, the East as well. North was the only way. I didn't know if Skin Dancer's could swim, I idled as I looked at the boats fleeing in the bay, but I wasn't going to stick around to find out.



Relics:
(Leave Blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
Evocation

Names Known (leave blank for now)

Looks great. Once you've picked a name I'll send you a list of relics.

Lutolf Franziska Adelhardt​

Race: Faceless

Gender: Male

Orientation: Asexual

Age: 36

Personality:
Lutolf is a man with an uncertain personality. A confusing box of emotions held together beneath the tattered stitching of malformed skin and tortured nerves. Occasionally a ticking time bomb, and at some points a man resigned to the life of the dead or dying - Pessimistic, Morose. There are moments, however, of pure clarity - where the gears of the man's mind truly begin to turn again, and it is at these points where he shines, moments where he adopts the appearance and mannerisms of a true being. During these moments he becomes a straightforward individual, one whom dislikes having little to do - and one who absolutely loathes free time. If he finds he has nothing to do - he will occupy himself; Training, reading, crafting, repairing - Anything and everything to keep his mind active, and distracted - lest he sink back below the thick mire of pain and madness he so often finds himself in.

He once thought himself a man of companionship - but his current state has put those thoughts to the test. Very few are ever willing to deal with him - and if they do, they do so for naught but a short time.

Likes:
+ Anything he can do to occupy his both mind and hands, an effort to distract himself.
+ Puzzles
+ Eating, exactly what matters very little
+ Numbing agents, medication, The act/art of healing

Dislikes:
- Physical self awareness
- Passive action, Idling
- His actual, Physical existence
- Past Life - Being unable to remember any concrete information about his past, Lutolf absolutely despises being asked - or even
trying to think about - his former life. Infuriation and despair abound.

Quirks:
* Occasional bouts of self-inflicted injury, most of which are light in severity.

* Madman's rambling - The man's pain-induced madness occasionally results in him speaking - sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly, to himself.

* Morose, Pessimistic - The man's current state has corrupted his attitude. He makes very poor long term company for those unadjusted to his personality, and 'way' with words.

* Memory lost to Madness - Lutolf has lived far too long for a man constantly existing in such a pained state. Both his name, and most of his memories are lost to the depths of his mind as the pain continued on, and on, worsening as the infection - or mutation - spread. However, every so often memories will come to him in twisted, confusing flashes - most detail lost to the agonizing fog infesting his mind. What he may remember varies - Be it good, be it sad - They hold a strong sway over both mood and attitude.

Appearance:
Lutolf stands at an average height of Six feet.

Nobody has ever seen what the man looks like, beneath the armor. No matter who had taken him in, what he had been doing - He never removed it in the presence - or even in the vicinity of - company. However, if one had managed to catch a glimpse, what they would see is a man's flesh, wrought by what looked to be some horrible disease. Portions of flesh are frequently missing from various locations around his body, exposing the muscle and sinew beneath. Because of this, his appearance is rarely - if ever - uniform. At one time, half of his face may have been eaten away, only to regrow whilst the skin covering his arm withered to dust. Massive lines and patches of scar repaired tissue line his body, giving him a slightly patchwork appearance - with each cycle of loss and regrowth leaving behind its own, individual mark. There are many limited forms that the man's body may take - none of which are pleasant to gaze upon.

As a result, his armor and clothing have become his preferred self image.



Clothing/Armor:
Lutolf is clad in an aged and battered suit of plate armor. It is built from - like many others - Bold Iron. His helm completes the man's ragged appearance, and that which is not cloaked by metal, is covered by tattered cloth between which one can occasionally catch a glimpse of the tortured skin beneath.

Helm:
A helm built of Bold Iron, designed to provide a fair amount of visibility, whilst still maintaining a somewhat unique appearance. The slits within the helmet - whilst offering the user a decent view - do a fair job obscuring the head, and face, beneath.

What was once a helm treasured and maintained as any other, has been withered by time and brutality to something one might expect to find littering a battlefield.

Weapons and Gear:
Originally opting for a Sword, and shield, Lutolf soon found the combination to be completely lacking when paired with his aggressive, sometimes overtly brutal fighting style. As such, he disposed of them, instead opting to take on a 4'5" Poleaxe - One end housing a large spike, intended to break through armor - and the other housing the blade of an axe, of which has only the intent to cleave and maim. A thick, lengthy spearhead completes the weapon - emerging from the center of the pole-arm's 'head', placed between the opposing weapons.

Other than his choice of weapon, Lutolf carries very little. A sizable pouch has been looped to his uniform's withered belt - something in which to carry food, items, and other knick-knacks of varying worth and use. A waterskin hangs idly by the pouch, for the short moments where the man can remind himself to stay as hydrated as possible.



History:
Lutolf was a broken man, that much was rather obvious. A broken man with a broken past, memories lost to the fog of pain that had been driving him ruthlessly forwards, at some moments driving him towards civilization - and during other, more frequent moments, sending him clawing - insane - in wide, useless circles. A mad rat in a tattered maze. Why would fate ever curse him so - what had he done to deserve such a horrifying fate? He had asked himself that questions for hours, during those first few horrible months, as his skin was eaten away by some strange, foreign power. Agony, nothing but agony - day in, day out.

He was no longer completely aware of his situation. When his skin began to shift, as it was eaten away - the pain had driven him to madness, and in turn that madness had burrowed into his mind and devoured his all but the most basic of memories. It was after his fifth bout of madness - the fifth since his existence had manifested into a personal hell - that the lapses in memories became totally apparent. His friends- Family, perhaps... Their faces had been eaten away, becoming nothing but a blurred image drifting through now-absent thoughts.

Over time, his situation worsened. The memory of his home became naught but a leaf trapped in a mental hurricane. Had he always been like this?- Certainly not, right?- The odds of him being born, homeless, were astronomically low - He had been given a helm, had he not? Or... had he stolen it from some poor soul..? It was thoughts and moments like these, where he pondered what had been lost - and when he attempted to pull his mind from the brink - that he found himself at his lowest.
What kind of damned fool could not remember their home, their family, their friends?! What kind of person could forget these things?!

Day after day, he would repeat this cycle. Questioning his past, questioning his purpose - and thinking, when he could muster the ability to do so without driving himself into a fit of rage. His sleep was restless, filled with the ghosts of his fractured past. Many nights, he would wake screaming - fingers clawing helplessly at the metal mask adorning his scarred face.

He had considered killing himself - many times over, in fact - but the fear, the possibility of what lay beyond, horrified him - and so, he walked onwards, drowning in a sea of self-loathing, pain, and madness. As the months went by, and those months turned to years, Lutolf adopted the life of a true recluse, doomed to a life of insanity and solitude. Very few of those he could find during his 'waking hours' could tolerate his situation for long. There was only so much the others could tolerate - everybody had their limits, and unfortunately Lutolf had met his own long ago.

Time soon began to blur together; Days, Nights, Weeks, Months, and even more years - he kept wandering, he kept walking - and when needed, did his best to scrape together the materials needed to survive. Moving on some form of twisted autopilot,
until the blessed day fate chanced upon him to meet the Outrider, an oddball of a saint - someone willing to help him try and claw his way out of his damned, maddened stupor, piece by piece.

Relics:
(Currently leaving blank)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
School of Magic: Evocation

Names Known: Bone

Mutations: Lutolf is unfortunately afflicted by what was first thought to be an agonizing, flesh-eating disease - with portions of his skin frequently wasting away to nothing - revealing the exposed muscle and sinew below. This, however, was quickly proven to be an incorrect assumption, for after each period of painful decline, comes a time of growth - the missing flesh reforms, scarred and misshapen. There are moments, though few, where the man's skin has managed to completely heal over his damaged form, and it is during these times that the flesh seems to occasionally move and shift of its own accord, the meaning of which is a mystery. Whether or not this happens to be both a blessing, and a curse, is up to debate - He cares not, his focus is on the pain, and doing what he can to find relief - now matter how temporary.

[/bg]

Accepted.

Ʊ҉ The Nightblossom ҉Ʊ ​

﴾ OOC Information ﴿

Given Name: Diana Blackwell
Race: Faceless
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
Romantic Orientation: Heterosexual.
Age: 26

﴾ Personal Information ﴿

Personality:
At first glance it would seem that Diana is a quiet, observant individual, but this would only be a simple façade, made for the sole purpose of keeping herself safe in a world where trust is hard to find and harder to keep. In actuality Diana is a pretty social creature, often times keeping small pets with her in her travels, or lending a hand to any other Faceless nomads she finds. Often keeping small pets when not with other Faceless, Diana tries her best to stave off her horrible, mind wrenching depression with company of any kind. Due to her social nature, Diana often finds herself in a sort of leadership role, even though she does not seek it out. Friendly and personable, Diana tries to embody what she imagines what people were like before Cathael and her ilk invaded the world, helping those she comes across out of the goodness of her heart. Despite being so sociable, Diana never stays in one place for long, wanderlust rooting its self into such a core part of her being that she cannot bare to be in one place for too long.
Likes
δ Small animals (except rodents. Fuck rodents.) δ
δ Jewelry δ
δ Night δ
δ Flowers δ
δ Traveling δ
δ Helping Others δ
δ Ruins of the Cities of Old δ
δ Books/Stories δ
Dislikes
δ Tyrants δ
δ Narcissism δ
δ Rodents δ
δ Townships δ
δ Being Alone δ
Quirks
δ Often Drifts Off Into Her Own Thoughts. δ
δ Runs her hand through her hair when uncertain or anxious δ
δ Makes facial expressions even though no one can see them :/ δ
δ Keeps a sketchbook of her travels, but none are marked of their location. δ
δ Holds a religious like reverence for the night sky and the stars. She does not put a name to it, but she has night rituals and prayers she performs in honor of some nameless deity. δ

​

﴾ Physical Appearance ﴿

Behind The Helm

Description
It would be easy to mistake Diana for a weak wanderer, a mistake that has proven fatal to those that roam the land for the sole purpose of robbing those that are without a home. Tall and lean, Diana's willowy frame has been built by a lifetime of travel and combat against rouges and Skin Dancers. Clothed in a clever mixture of leathers, cloth, and carefully placed plating, her gear is very much tailored to her life, allowing free movement, while still providing protection.
The Helm
Diana's "Helmet" is less of a helmet and more a mask, letting her hazel hair free. The mask is of a simple design, the Silver worked to a smooth, polished finish, interrupted only by two eye holes, her own silvery grey eyes adding a small level of depth to the otherwise unblemished surface.
Weapons and Gear
A few items stick out from the normal supplies a nomad carries, these being:

Night's Fall ~ A short sword given to her when she received her Helm, Diana carries Night's Fall with her wherever she goes, the silver blade serving her faithfully. She named it Night's Fall after her love for the ever fading hours of Twilight and the gentle silver of the moon that dips behind the horizon as a new day begins.

My Land ~ A simple leather-bound book holds surprisingly well done drawings and sketches of animals, plants, and landscapes. While the animals and plants may be named, or even given a small descriptive for their use or habitats, the landscapes hold nothing of where their location may be.
Relic (Leave Blank For Now)

​

﴾ History ﴿

(This is a rough outline tbh, I just want to get this out before I go to work today, I will get it polished at a later date) Born to a small nomadic tribe of Faceless, Diana grew up as a wanderer, traveling the ruined world. Being that she was the only child in her tribe she was often doted upon, her safety being put before all others. For the first five years of her life she was happy, energetic child, always eager to learn what she could about the world she walked. She got her first sobering taste of reality the day before her sixth birthday when her tribe was attacked by the Skin Dancers. What little she had of her childhood left vanished as the community that helped raise her vanished in a brutal instance, her father dying in the slaughter along with the bulk of the tribe.

Of the 11 people in the tribe, only four survived, Diana and her mother being two of them. A mutual agreement to disband, Diana and her mother, Rose, leaving the other two. Rose until this point had been a good mother, letting Diana have her freedoms while still holding a firm hand in order to keep her safe. But with the death of her husband and the tribe she grew to be harsh and forbidding, the fear of loosing her daughter hardening her heart. She became more a mentor instead of a mother to Diana, teaching her how to properly survive and how to identify possible dangerous situations. When Diana showed signs of becoming a woman by having her first bleeding Rose decided that it was a sign that Diana was ready to have a Helm made for her and for her to have a proper weapon to defend herself with, Diana having used a old iron mace that Rose took from her husbands body. Spending the next year searching, Rose finally was able to gather through theft, barter and looting the proper materials to have a matching Helm and Sword made for her daughter. Trading some of her most prized possessions to a Blacksmith, Rose had the Blacksmith make a Mask of pure Silver of her daughters design.

The next year went by in a blur for Diana as she learned to use her new sword and adjust to having a metal mask covering her face. On the eve of her sixteenth birthday Rose left, leaving Diana alone in the world. This was not particularly good for Diana's mental health as it fed into her growing depression and anxiety. Diana then spent the next several years traveling alone, occasionally joining up with other Faceless wanderers, but never staying, her fear of attracting the Skin Dancers overwhelming her desire to have companions. It was not until a year ago did she try to settle down and live a life amongst others in a small settlement protected by the Wards of El. This proved to be a mistake however when the town was sabotaged by a cult who worshiped the malicious Cathael took down the wards, allowing the Skin Dancers to wreck havoc and death upon the village. Barely managing to escape with what little possessions she had left Diana fled, returning to her vagabond roots.

​

﴾ Combat Style and Magical Prowess ﴿

School of Magic ~ Illusion
Names Known ~ Light
Combat Style ~ Due to her thin frame, Diana cannot pact a lot of punch, instead relying on speed and agility to land multiple hits.

​

Accepted.

 

[ThaDruid]

"Ser Deacon Of Elderwick VII, The Leper"​

Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Heterosexual

Age:
37 Years of age

Personality:
Very similar to how a knight of legend would act. A half-succeeded attempt at acting like a wise protector of the people. Truthful, honor-bound, righteous and a zealot to the point of it seeming an act. Any word from this man can be taken for guaranteed. Under this shining personality, however, still lay traces of the scourge that he once was. Being terribly judgemental of whoever does not follow a code much like his own, or those who would rather save themselves before others. He tends to be very vocal about this, calling them vile and guided by sin.
In truth, the knight is nothing more than a wrathful soul encased in a body that is destined for glory. A glory, however, that will never be his own.

Likes:
+ Honor in arms
+ Cleanliness
+ Austerity
+ Organization

Dislikes:
- Dirt, blood and grime
- Dishonest behaviour
- Excess, of any kind
- Waste of knowledge or potential

Quirks:
* He removes his mask only twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening, when washing his face.
* He always dedicates a great amount of time time to keeping his weapon sharp and his armor polished.
* He considers all of the other Deacons that came before him as saints, offering a prayer to them every night for good luck.
* He carves small trinkets of wood in his spare time.

Appearance:
Not much is known about Ser Deacon's precise appearance, besides the fact that he is quite tall and has a body fit for battle. Few have witnessed the horrific sight that is his face, contorted and decayed by leprosy. Fewer still have seen his body of creased, almost grey skin, exposed pink tissue and yellow pustules. It is usually kept covered by a white shroud, along with the knight's armor. The only real defining trait that one may glance at behind his helm is a pair of green eyes, Bright with passion and zealotry.

Clothing/Armor:
The armor of Ser Deacon is an ancient suit of bold iron, masterfully crafted seven generations ago. Even if old, it is kept in an almost perfect condition by its owner, always polished and smooth. Altough time and use can bring on scars that no amount of grease or cleaning may fix. Dents and cuts are present all around, making it obvious that the armor has seen its fair share of fighting, and not exclusively against human folk.
Being an ancient suit makes it rather heavy, and sometimes it shows on the knight's body, especially when he has to run or move quickly. This is made up for by its formidable resistance.
When not wearing his armor, Ser Deacon may be seen with a white shroud upon his shoulders, and a thick layer of bandages covering his body, keeping it from infection. It is also obvious that he never removes his helm and mask.

Helm:

The knight's helm is a fine piece of armor, said to have been created four generations ago by Ser Deacon of Elderwick III,The Blacksmith. Its main structure is made of pure Bold Iron, with leather fittings on the inside to make it comfortable and easy to wear. It is finely decorated, with a thin layer of silver over the Bold Iron, giving it a powerful sheen in the sunlight. The most particular feature of this helm, however, is the mask. Shaped in the form of a man's face with slits for eyes, nostrils and mouth, this second skin of Iron is the symbol of the knightly line of Elderwick.

Weapons and Gear:

Along with his light traveling Pack (containing a lenght of rope, flint, enough dried food for one man, a waterskin and some carved pieces of wood), Ser Deacon's equipment consists of:


- A gladius shortsword, quick to draw and mainly used for rapid attacks from behind his shield or powerful thursts into the less armored parts of the enemy's body. It also has an edge, in case cutting is required. In the hands of a trained fighter, this weapon is a deadly stinger.


- A round shield made of bronze. Offering a great defense, and used to redirect the enemy's hits, this shield is what Ser Deacon's fighting style revolves around. In his hands it is not only a defense, but also a weapon. Utilizing it as a blunt instrument, the knight is able to deal brutal blows to his enemy, breaking into its defense before thrusting in with his shortsword, ensuring a possibly lethal hit.
During a charge it is also invaluable, being used as a "ram" to rush into the enemy and crush its bones.

- "Seven inkwells worth of loathing": A parchment written by Ser Deacon himself, before he became a knight. The Tome details his anger and despair, and directs it mostly onto the world around him and its inhabitants. From time to time, the man will open it again, read it, and add something to the scripture.

History:
The Leper had always lived within his city as an outcast. Forced in quarantine since he had been diagnosed with Skin-rot a long time ago, this living corpse of a man spent his time envying and loathing the other faceless of the town. He spat down on the ground every time someone passed his house, living his days wrapped in a white cloth that hid the frightening show that his body had become. The Leper hated everything with his cold heart, from the soil upon which he walked to the buzzing insects who never let him sleep in peace, uttering blasphemies in his dreams because of their incessant noise.

When not conveying his hate onto the world outside, The Leper conveyed it into himself. It was only his primal rage against this unfairness he was subject to that saved him from succumbing to the weight of his own mind. In quarantine, he studied the flesh, discovering its true name from his own decaying tissue. Aside from this practice, The Leper wasted his time away in a cramped study at the light of a candle, writing an endless tome in which he detailed the numerous moments of despair brought on by his condition, and prophesized a slow and painful death for the world and all of its inhabitants, wishing for the earth itself to grow a mouth and swallow them whole.

Had The Knight not visited his town in time, The Leper would have probably ended his miserable existence with a swift self-inflicted stab to the jugular. Instead, when the hateful man saw The Knight in shining armor, he leaped into the air, vicious blade glinting with evil intent. The Knight was everything that he was not. That would have changed soon. Unfortunately for him, The knight was also trained in the use of a blade, having the means to quickly dispatch his assailant.
The Leper found himself disarmed, on the ground, with a sharpened blade at his neck.

But he was not killed. He was offered a chance. A chance at glory, a chance at making a name for himself. A chance at everything The Leper wished for. The knight offered to train him in the art of combat. Perhaps he saw, in The Leper, a man with nothing to lose. Perhaps he saw a fervor in his eyes. Perhaps he saw a lack of purpose. Whatever the reason, Ser Deacon of Elderwick VI, The Ancient, took this man as an apprentice. Teaching him how to fight like a warrior to protect other Faceless, how to survive in the harsh wilderness away from the commodities of his home, and, most importantly, how to focus his unending hatred for a good cause.

The Leper, finding new purpose in life, became dedicated solely to his knighthood, pushing his rotting body to its limits during training. His scornful behavior was still ingrained within his personality, but he took on a philosophy based on honor and righteousness. He had become a knight, and vowed to protect any Faceless that he would meet, to the end.

This vow would soon be put to test, as the town was endangered by vile cultists, seeking to prepare a feast for the Skin Dancers they so revered. Buildings were set aflame, and citizens were gutted in the streets. The local Willow Witch died performing its sacred duty. Rivers of blood flowed as The Leper and The Knight fought valiantly, side by side, in a desperate attempt to save whoever they could.

The Knight was killed by an arrow that pierced his neck. The Leper knew when a battle was lost, and quickly fled the town, carrying only his master's corpse along with him.

And, as it happened for ages in the knightly line of Elderwick, the weapons and armor of one Ser Deacon, along with his name, went over to another knight, worthy of this honor.
With his hometown ablaze, kneeling over the corpse of his mentor, Ser Deacon of Elderwick VII The Leper was knighted. Now, he wanders the lands, keeping true to his vow of protection. Fearless and stalwart, knowing that when his death comes another Ser Deacon will take his place, with the line of Elderwick going on in eternity.

Relics:
- Heylel (slumbering)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:

School of Magic: Enchantment

Names Known: Flesh

Mutations: Ser Deacon is afflicted by a strange strain of mutation. From his decaying flesh, buzzing flies are continuously born. These insects, named Blighters, nest within the creases of his skin during the day. During the evening and through the night, the flies move, clouding around ser Deacon's body, illuminating his form with the pale light that they exude and buzzing with glee. So far nobody has backed these claims, but the knight declares that at times, during the night, he hears the Blighters utter whispered words inbetween their constant buzzing.
From time to time, the man will heat up an Iron needle over the fire and run it along his skin, killing some of the Blighters to ensure that they do not overflow his body.
​

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Spoiler: Varys Rhoyne

Varys Rhoyne


Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Bisexual

Age:
22

Personality:
A formerly ill-tempered and impulsive Knight, Varys is was an intelligent if hot-headed member of his Town watch, so much so that he wasn't accepted till his 17th nameday. He lacked a degree of sociability, more temperamental than necessary due to a more rough childhood. His preference is more towards playing cards as opposed to going to war, though in the current world, it simply isn't to be. Hard working at what he puts his mind to, Varys' determination to complete tasks often leaves him to be vulnerable to his own well being or the well being of others, a task becoming all consuming the longer he lingers on it. After the tragedy, his temperamental nature was drowned, as a sword is after forging, leaving behind a far colder and more focused passion with the diligent focus simply being sharpened. Though the temper still simmers beneath the surface.

Despite his hardships, he still maintains a polite though dour persona to those on the roads however, determined to maintain civility despite the collapse of civilisation around him. Charitable to those in clearly worse situations, Varys' often can be far too unforgiving of slights despite his intelligence and logical understanding of an apocalypse, simply put, he loathes those that betray his good will.

Likes:
+ Playing cards
+ Eating food
+ Order
+ Human decency


Dislikes:
- Lack of integrity
- Liars
- Death
- Thieves


Quirks:
*Keeps a deck of cards on his person, no matter the situation
*Practices his sword play and spear-craft daily
*Often mumbles his misgivings to himself
*Likes to lie on the ground and stare at the sky



Appearance:
With long silver hair, well shaped purple iris'd eyes and an a well structured jawline, Varys is a handsome specimen indeed. as 1.95 cm tall, he is of a venerable height and lithe build, predisposed to speed and stamina in battle against ponderous and over muscled veracity. His hands are quite unblemished due the quality of his gloves, giving him a very pampered aura despite an inclination to helping where he can. Though slightly feminine in looks, he is clearly a man in mannerisms.

Clothing/Armor:
Dark Bold Iron armour with a scaled theme. The Arcanite pauldrons fashioned in the shape of dragon wings with pointed tips and splashing of red at intersecting points. His chest plate continues with red bands connecting the dragon wings to the motif of a pouncing dragon on his chest. With a variety of buckles at the hips and an armoured hauberk and further Leather-Bold Iron knee guards, shin guards and leather-Bold Iron scaled boots.

Underneath, he wears an Iron Bold chain mail shirt and a white tunic, a pair of black breeches accentuating his musculature. Spare clothing is a mix of red, blue and white tunics, with breeches brown, red, and blue.

Helm:
A Bold Iron dark helm with a rearing dragon, the face completely hidden but for the eyes. With a pair of stylised wings where the ears are and a sneering dragon head at the crown of the helm, it is nought but a terrifying visage.

Weapons and Gear:
The aforementioned armour, riding gear, a travel pouch with enough for provisions for a couple of days, a Bold-Iron tipped spear with straps, his Uncle's Bold-Star Iron long sword, Oathkeeper, a stylised dragon shaped hilt with the wings forming a guard and a bedroll, and his horse, Breygon.

Spoiler: Varys in Full Plate

History:
Varys was born to a decently well-off family in a coastal city, the same day as the death of his grandfather and father in a magical experiment. As a child he often ran from the responsibilities of his household, to the point that jests were made about his habits. However, records his grandfather describing the horrors of the outside kept from before his family made it to the city, encouraged Varys to protect the peace of his city. Though he was educated by some of the finest magicians of the city, finding a degree of skill in the arts of Evocation, combustion being one of his specialities, he left the stuffy second-hand mysticism, escaping to the City Watch where his uncle ruled.

At the age of seventeen, Varys was knighted by his uncle, the ancestral blade of his great-grandfather being used said to be wrought from Star-Iron. His uncle told him later it was, in part. Bold Iron made the rest, however. He grew into a highly skilled and capable fighter, always distinguishing himself well in the training pits, although he seldom entered the lists - the men who fought there tended to lose at the card table, he didn't feel like dying.

Unfortunately the love for his cards did little to dissuade the enemies of the peace. After the tragedy at the mages tower and the weakening of the wards, break down of law would grow on in the outer districts while even darker forces were at work niggling at the Kingdom's magical defences to the North. Joining on patrols to pacify the outer districts, Varys and his uncle moved with the most well equipped guard troop to have ever been assembled. First moving from the city centre to the outer township, they put down the dissidence brutally. Though often too late to save the Willow Witches who the brigands seemed to target. Through out crime wave, the weary patrols found more and more evidence of something darker moving in the shadows. More than mere gangsters, but whole streets left with no survivors, coming to manor houses with corpses twisted and maimed as unholy monuments to cruelty, some people still alive despite being mashed and sown together.

Crossing the river that flowed through the city, they reached the town's north edge at one of the great warded gates, the patrol stopping for the night. In the outer districts, not even the patrols were safe in the streets these days. By midnight, an eerie silence had fallen, as if the world was waiting for something with bated breath. The Mage's tower, his family home and the tallest building in the city, exploded suddenly and without warning. A towering conflagration that likely could be seen for tens of leagues erupted into the night sky, a sickly emerald flame, great bolts falling around the city and causing larger fires in their wake. Even as distant as they were from the city centre, they could see the square had been lit, along with all the surrounding guild halls and city administration buildings, centralisation and years of progress gone. And then with a great crack, the wards on the south side failed, the east following quickly. The North and West seemed to hold, but we were already running. The unholy screams followed us into the night, the various members of the patrol breaking, any hint of discipline gone as worry for family, friends and self overrode their sense of civic unity.

Uncle ended up getting speared by his lieutenant after the man went mad. Though it didn't seem to be a normal madness. The man fought as if he was possessed, but was brought down by a swing of my uncle's sword as he stood, a spear through his gut. The scream the man let out was simply inhuman. My uncle had me burn his body while we set his horse free, taking the provisions. We were going to leave the city. We supposed to, but uncle knew he wouldn't make it. He bid me to take the provisions and Breygon, then ride North. He'd heard tell of a settlement from some claiming to be travellers. No one travelled these days, it was probably a false lead, but the South wasn't something I was willing to risk, the East as well. North was the only way. I didn't know if Skin Dancer's could swim, I idled as I looked at the boats fleeing in the bay, but I wasn't going to stick around to find out.



Relics:
(Leave Blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
Evocation

Names Known: Vermillion

Quick question. By Vermillion, are you referring to the color or Mercury Sulfide?

View attachment 342472

"Ser Deacon Of Elderwick VII, The Leper"​

Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Heterosexual

Age:
37 Years of age

Personality:
Very similar to how a knight of legend would act. A half-succeeded attempt at acting like a wise protector of the people. Truthful, honor-bound, righteous and a zealot to the point of it seeming an act. Any word from this man can be taken for guaranteed. Under this shining personality, however, still lay traces of the scourge that he once was. Being terribly judgemental of whoever does not follow a code much like his own, or those who would rather save themselves before others. He tends to be very vocal about this, calling them vile and guided by sin.
In truth, the knight is nothing more than a wrathful soul encased in a body that is destined for glory. A glory, however, that will never be his own.

Likes:
+ Honor in arms
+ Cleanliness
+ Austerity
+ Organization

Dislikes:
- Dirt, blood and grime
- Dishonest behaviour
- Excess, of any kind
- Waste of knowledge or potential

Quirks:
* He removes his mask only twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening, when washing his face.
* He always dedicates a great amount of time time to keeping his weapon sharp and his armor polished.
* He considers all of the other Deacons that came before him as saints, offering a prayer to them every night for good luck.
* He carves small trinkets of wood in his spare time.

Appearance:
Not much is known about Ser Deacon's precise appearance, besides the fact that he is quite tall and has a body fit for battle. Few have witnessed the horrific sight that is his face, contorted and decayed by leprosy. Fewer still have seen his body of creased, almost grey skin, exposed pink tissue and yellow pustules. It is usually kept covered by a white shroud, along with the knight's armor. The only real defining trait that one may glance at behind his helm is a pair of green eyes, Bright with passion and zealotry.

Clothing/Armor:
The armor of Ser Deacon is an ancient suit of bold iron, masterfully crafted seven generations ago. Even if old, it is kept in an almost perfect condition by its owner, always polished and smooth. Altough time and use can bring on scars that no amount of grease or cleaning may fix. Dents and cuts are present all around, making it obvious that the armor has seen its fair share of fighting, and not exclusively against human folk.
Being an ancient suit makes it rather heavy, and sometimes it shows on the knight's body, especially when he has to run or move quickly. This is made up for by its formidable resistance.
When not wearing his armor, Ser Deacon may be seen with a white shroud upon his shoulders, and a thick layer of bandages covering his body, keeping it from infection. It is also obvious that he never removes his helm and mask.

Helm:
View attachment 342471
The knight's helm is a fine piece of armor, said to have been created four generations ago by Ser Deacon of Elderwick III,The Blacksmith. Its main structure is made of pure Bold Iron, with leather fittings on the inside to make it comfortable and easy to wear. It is finely decorated, with a thin layer of silver over the Bold Iron, giving it a powerful sheen in the sunlight. The most particular feature of this helm, however, is the mask. Shaped in the form of a man's face with slits for eyes, nostrils and mouth, this second skin of Iron is the symbol of the knightly line of Elderwick.

Weapons and Gear:

Along with his light traveling Pack (containing a lenght of rope, flint, enough dried food for one man, a waterskin and some carved pieces of wood), Ser Deacon's equipment consists of:

View attachment 342806
- A gladius shortsword, quick to draw and mainly used for rapid attacks from behind his shield or powerful thursts into the less armored parts of the enemy's body. It also has an edge, in case cutting is required. In the hands of a trained fighter, this weapon is a deadly stinger.

View attachment 342805
- A round shield made of bronze. Offering a great defense, and used to redirect the enemy's hits, this shield is what Ser Deacon's fighting style revolves around. In his hands it is not only a defense, but also a weapon. Utilizing it as a blunt instrument, the knight is able to deal brutal blows to his enemy, breaking into its defense before thrusting in with his shortsword, ensuring a possibly lethal hit.
During a charge it is also invaluable, being used as a "ram" to rush into the enemy and crush its bones.

- "Seven inkwells worth of loathing": A parchment written by Ser Deacon himself, before he became a knight. The Tome details his anger and despair, and directs it mostly onto the world around him and its inhabitants. From time to time, the man will open it again, read it, and add something to the scripture.

History:
The Leper had always lived within his city as an outcast. Forced in quarantine since he had been diagnosed with Skin-rot a long time ago, this living corpse of a man spent his time envying and loathing the other faceless of the town. He spat down on the ground every time someone passed his house, living his days wrapped in a white cloth that hid the frightening show that his body had become. The Leper hated everything with his cold heart, from the soil upon which he walked to the buzzing insects who never let him sleep in peace, uttering blasphemies in his dreams because of their incessant noise.

When not conveying his hate onto the world outside, The Leper conveyed it into himself. It was only his primal rage against this unfairness he was subject to that saved him from succumbing to the weight of his own mind. In quarantine, he studied the flesh, discovering its true name from his own decaying tissue. Aside from this practice, The Leper wasted his time away in a cramped study at the light of a candle, writing an endless tome in which he detailed the numerous moments of despair brought on by his condition, and prophesized a slow and painful death for the world and all of its inhabitants, wishing for the earth itself to grow a mouth and swallow them whole.

Had The Knight not visited his town in time, The Leper would have probably ended his miserable existence with a swift self-inflicted stab to the jugular. Instead, when the hateful man saw The Knight in shining armor, he leaped into the air, vicious blade glinting with evil intent. The Knight was everything that he was not. That would have changed soon. Unfortunately for him, The knight was also trained in the use of a blade, having the means to quickly dispatch his assailant.
The Leper found himself disarmed, on the ground, with a sharpened blade at his neck.

But he was not killed. He was offered a chance. A chance at glory, a chance at making a name for himself. A chance at everything The Leper wished for. The knight offered to train him in the art of combat. Perhaps he saw, in The Leper, a man with nothing to lose. Perhaps he saw a fervor in his eyes. Perhaps he saw a lack of purpose. Whatever the reason, Ser Deacon of Elderwick VI, The Ancient, took this man as an apprentice. Teaching him how to fight like a warrior to protect other Faceless, how to survive in the harsh wilderness away from the commodities of his home, and, most importantly, how to focus his unending hatred for a good cause.

The Leper, finding new purpose in life, became dedicated solely to his knighthood, pushing his rotting body to its limits during training. His scornful behavior was still ingrained within his personality, but he took on a philosophy based on honor and righteousness. He had become a knight, and vowed to protect any Faceless that he would meet, to the end.

This vow would soon be put to test, as the town was endangered by vile cultists, seeking to prepare a feast for the Skin Dancers they so revered. Buildings were set aflame, and citizens were gutted in the streets. The local Willow Witch died performing its sacred duty. Rivers of blood flowed as The Leper and The Knight fought valiantly, side by side, in a desperate attempt to save whoever they could.

The Knight was killed by an arrow that pierced his neck. The Leper knew when a battle was lost, and quickly fled the town, carrying only his master's corpse along with him.

And, as it happened for ages in the knightly line of Elderwick, the weapons and armor of one Ser Deacon, along with his name, went over to another knight, worthy of this honor.
With his hometown ablaze, kneeling over the corpse of his mentor, Ser Deacon of Elderwick VII The Leper was knighted. Now, he wanders the lands, keeping true to his vow of protection. Fearless and stalwart, knowing that when his death comes another Ser Deacon will take his place, with the line of Elderwick going on in eternity.

Relics:
To be determined

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:

School of Magic: Enchantment

Names Known: Flesh

Mutations: Ser Deacon is afflicted by a strange strain of mutation. From his decaying flesh, buzzing flies are continuously born. These insects, named Blighters, nest within the creases of his skin during the day. During the evening and through the night, the flies move, clouding around ser Deacon's body, illuminating his form with the pale light that they exude and buzzing with glee. So far nobody has backed these claims, but the knight declares that at times, during the night, he hears the Blighters utter whispered words inbetween their constant buzzing.
From time to time, the man will heat up an Iron needle over the fire and run it along his skin, killing some of the Blighters to ensure that they do not overflow his body.
​

Accepted.

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Roster Menu

Raven - Main Character

Phantom - Background Character

⚔ R A V E N ⚔

"Of the Slain."

B A S I C

True Name: Valravn
Monikers: Raven (Phantom), Blitz

Race: Willow Witch
Gender: Female
Orientation: ???

Age: 1 year
Biological Age: 19 years

A P P E A R A N C E

"Hair bleached bone white and eyes like moss covered gold, her soul is still young and unbridled. Foolish enough to wear her face as a mask..."

Clothing || Armor: The focus on speed and offensive agility had naturally lead to a preference in light, flexible garb. In this case a simple, white cloth tunic and leather armor had been more than suitable for the "Blitz" fighter. The thick gloves however were a recent addition in order to protect herself from her own reckless fists. Even the pair of thigh high boots, while pleasing, were for practically when it came to trekking miles of open marshland.

Helm: From the time of her birth Raven had remained adamant in her decision not to become "faceless". That being said she still owns her own helm out of both practicality and the insistence of her companion. All polished iron; thick, durable, and entirely suffocating (in her muttered opinions). Despite her apparent dislike towards wearing it she still admittedly admires the craftsmanship. The smooth strokes of silver and the strange but beautifully drawn symbols speak of ages long past. No matter how many times she had questioned Phantom about it's origins the man had unsurprisingly remained tight lipped.

Weapons & Gear: A dark bladed sword that had once belonged to Phantom before he'd relinquished it's ownership to Raven. The slender frame and light weight requires both a firm control yet a flexible hand. Even now she hasn't completely mastered it but her own technique, as flawed as it is, balances out inexperience with skilled aptitude. Upon her insistence she carries the pack of essentials for both her and Phantom. It's light considering their nomadic lifestyle and consists of a thick rope, two blankets, a battered pot, and a sharpened skinning knife.

D E P T H

Personality:
Despite her apparent age Raven has only truly experienced a year within the Material Plane. Her ability to adapt and change has aided in this regard but there is still much she needs to learn. She herself doesn't deny this but it doesn't make it any less irritating when others underestimate her capabilities. For this reason she genuinely puts in the effort to improve and learn from others if the opportunity arises. Perhaps the most difficult aspect is that she has little in manner of patience and becomes easily fickle towards those that don't catch her interest. The moment her passion is sparked however it's difficult to dampen and even more difficult to otherwise change her mind.

When it comes to sociability she has always been highly perceptive of others emotions. It frequently makes things a lot easier to discern what someone may be thinking and to perhaps even predict their motives. While this can undoubtedly be helpful it also runs the risk of misplaced empathy. There's enough naivety in her fresh eyed countenance to leave a window wide open for manipulation. Not enough however to repeat the same mistakes twice.

Personally Raven is an amicable person by heart. She's more than welcoming when it comes to forging new relations and perhaps even kinship where it counts. Unless otherwise provoked or suspicions alerted she will more than likely give others the benefit of the doubt. She does not however take deceit lightly and cannot and will not forgive those that harm the very, very sparse few she's come to care for.

Likes:
✓ A challenge, a mystery, the unknown.
✓ Thunderstorms; preferably dry.
✓ Beads & Charms
✓ Fall
✓ Extremely high elevations. The closer to the heavens the better.

Dislikes:
✘ Losing ones sense of self
✘ Rain or anything wet and soggy for that matter.
✘ Loneliness
✘ Being underestimated
✘ Large & deep bodies of water.

Quirks:
♢ Has the urge to climb high structures or really the highest thing in the immediate vicinity.
♢ Prefers to sleep 'above' the ground. With that in mind she will either set up a makeshift hammock or sleep in a tree.
♢ Mutters out loud when deep in thought.
♢ Has the instinctual compass of a teaspoon ie. she is not good with directions.

H I S T O R Y

Cold, afraid, and plagued with an aching sense of loss Raven's first days of existence weren't something she'd rather dwell on. If given the choice however she would remember every last minute. Especially the day of her birth. Although she'd rather recall it as the day she had first met a bandaged man with no name and eyes like amethysts. In those days their relationship had been tentative, both in part to her initial timidness and a serious lack of conversation on his end. As time passed and days turned into weeks she had shed her meekness like a broken shell. By the end of the month she had unceremoniously dubbed him Phantom and he in turn gave her the name Valravn. Something she had taken the liberty to shortening to Raven.

Looking back she's become more than aware of how much of a luxury she was given. To have the time and peace, no matter how sporadic, to acclimate to the world that was abruptly thrust upon her was a rarity. A willow witch who'd been born to safeguard a land that had long since fallen to violence and bloodshed. It was tragic by it's own right and no matter how much time passed or where they traveled it grew like an unwanted weed. At first it had been easy enough to ignore, to wallow in denial until all the unwarranted grief and sorrow clung to her in a suffocating embrace. The confusion eventually gave way to a dizzying number of questions that no one, not even her silent guardian could answer. What was her purpose? Why did she exist?

Those questions stemmed into a dangerous line of thinking and it made her reckless. She sought danger like a life line, needing the constant precipice of death to remind her that she was alive and breathing. The fact that she remained so was largely due to her companions interventions. Back then she had been petulant and in her grief she lashed out at the one person who she'd grown close to. Despite it all he never left her side and for that she was truly grateful. The catalyst of reality came from the near loss of that very constant. The experience in itself had been overwhelming; it eroded away all the cluttered emotions and hazy wants until her mind was left as clear as glass.

The clarity was simultaneously both a blessing and a curse. While it did help her to come to terms with a great many things it also forced her to realize the consequences of her actions. At that point she was done running and instead used the hardship and labor to learn and to grow. Of course turning over a new leaf isn't as easy as the sentiment suggests. She struggled that was for sure but with a new found resolve and the help of a friend she was able to overcome the challenges.

As she truly began to settle more and more days were spent sparring, honing her powers, and generally just surviving. As time passed and the ache lessened something tentative and new blossomed in it's place. In the beginning she had been unsure and more than puzzled with the development. It didn't come quickly either; it was slow like the lapping of the tide and as the sun set and the waters rose realization finally washed over her. This was her life, her existence and at the end of the day it was her choices that defined her not a purpose. She knew then that the path that she would take would be forged by her own two hands.

P O W E R

Power & Abilities:
☫ Eld Ward Specialization
⤗ A'Tea: Displacement(?)
⤗ Kel: Locating
⤗ Siel: Silence

☬ Attack Runes Known:
⤗ Aliel: Air
⤗ Teine: Fire
⤗ Ter: Lightening

Relics: N/A

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​

​

☾ P H A N T O M ☽

"In the shadow of God."

B A S I C

True Name: Bezaleel
Monikers: Phantom (Raven), Phan, Wanderer, Stranger, "Ghost"

Race: Willow Witch
Gender: Male
Orientation: Pansexual

Age: ---

A P P E A R A N C E

"Others see a shadow, some see a ghost. A few may glimpse a flicker of vivid purple before it's once again obscured by darkness..."

Clothing || Armor: Strange but not dissimilar to the faceless, Phantom has taken to concealing his entire body in wrappings. They hang as sullied strips off his tall, sinewy frame yet remain intact despite years of apparent use. A weather beaten cloak, black and worn, seem to be the only other piece of clothing or "armor", apart from his helm, that he owns.

Helm: Reminiscent of metal scrap, black rust had spread and cemented itself onto its once metallic surface. Despite the numerous fractures that line both the hood and mouth guard it still remains unbroken.

Weapons & Gear: A scabbard dagger encased in old battered leather and a large sword wrapped tightly in white gauze. Both blades are secured onto his waist by hefty linked chains.

D E P T H

Personality:
A man of few words, Phantom prefers letting his actions speak for him. Unfortunately this often leaves others feeling alienated whether that's due to his inscrutable mannerisms or sparse dialogue that leaves far too much to the imagination. A saving grace is that he is fairly straight forward when asked the right questions and rarely feels the need to lie unless circumstances dictate it. This also applies the other way around; if he doesn't want to answer then he won't.

The silence, his silence, can also vary. When he's in a crowd of strangers for example it takes on a sense of emptiness. Hollow and barren, the disconcerting cord of nothingness effectively deters the most curious passerby. Out on the wastelands where it's nothing but him and nature and the skin walkers it rings of freedom. Not quite wild and untamed but subtle, like the beating of hooves or a flock of ravens taking flight. Among friends and occasionally towards the rare lone wanderer it settles like a blanket, tranquil and soft with flecks of open companionship. In those moments it's easy to forget how easily it can become suffocating. How it can coil and wrap around the soul in deceptively wistful strands, crushing and choking until only fear is left.

With his appearance it isn't very hard to elicit intimidation and for some even fear. As time passes the notion flickers and dims in light of his actions. Their cautious yes, honed by years of survival in a world that does not forgive easily, but they are also feathered with burning empathy. Even as the land he was created to protect had been long since lost the need to shelter and support remains. Yet his kindness and selflessness should not be mistaken for naivety. Just as quickly as he extends his help he can just as easily destroy those who seek it's darkness.

Likes:
✓ Simple pleasures
✓ Rain; whether it's a monsoon or a gentle spattering of morning mist.
✓ Whittling
✓ Spirit

Dislikes:
✘ Prejudice
✘ Exploitation
✘ Lack of purpose
✘ Loss

Quirks:
♢ There's never been any indication that he removes the wrappings around his body. Even during hygienic routines such as showering and bathing.
♢ Sporadic bursts of meticulous perfectionism fortunately paired with an abundance of patience.
♢ Oddly in tune with animals, both wild and domesticated.
♢ Doesn't hover and makes himself sparse but easy to find in case his company or help is needed.

P O W E R

History: N/A ~ "Raven's Perspective"

Power & Abilities:
☫ Eld Ward Specialization
⤗ Doch: Healing
⤗ Teh: Shield
⤗ Siel: Silence

☬ Attack Runes Known:
⤗ Bliel: Shadow
⤗ Resin: Earth
⤗ Ter: Lightening

Relics: N/A

​

​

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These are dope. Accepted.

Seeing as a couple people dropped off the RP, if you want to make Phantom your second character, give him a history and such, I'd allow it.

Also, a Willow Witch only knows one attack rune to start.

 

[Napoleone the Kiwi]

Quick question. By Vermillion, are you referring to the color or Mercury Sulfide?

Mercury Sulphide for the colour. And the properties of Mercury Sulphide as Cinnabar. I was just kinda idling on stuff and so I chose it then learnt it worked quite well afterwards.

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

(WIP for now) ​

​

Catha​

Race:
Willow Witch
Gender:
Female
Orientation:
Asexual
Age:
She appears to be in her early to mid 30's, but she's not clear on her true age.

Personality:
Despite her imposing appearance, Catha is far from the brutish thug one might peg her as. Compassionate and gentle, Catha's one purpose in life, like any Willow Witch, is to protect. She will fight with everything she has if it is to protect someone or something she deems worth protecting, even if it means her own demise. She is particularly drawn to the fighting of Skin-Dancers, loving the rush of combat against these unatural creatures with all her being.

When it comes to matters beyond fighting, Catha can come across as childish due to her inquisitive nature. Having emerged from a tree already an adult, and with little knowledge beyond combat, there is much about the world that Catha hasn't a chance to learn about or understand. She struggles with social manners and norms, and is always asking questions. It might seem peculiar to some, how the woman can go from gleefully slaughtering her foes in combat to gazing in childlike wonder at a sunset, but Catha has never thought it to be odd.

Likes:
+ Looking after or helping others
+ Killing Skin-Dancers
+ Learning new things
+ Being outside in the sun
Dislikes:
- Betrayal
- Being without her armor or weapons
- The dark
- Skin-Dancers
Quirks:
*Fiddles with the straps on her armor when idle
*Snores and sleeps restlessly
*Shockingly good singer
*Very quick to trust people who aren't outright hostile

Appearance:
At 6'5", Catha towers over most, and her broad figure only adds to this. She is built for combat, with powerful muscles capable of hefting even the heaviest of weapons with ease. She keeps her helm on almost constantly, but the few who get a glance at what's underneath will see a broad, scarred face with a nose that's been broken countless times and cloudy brown eyes that seem to see everything. Her coarse brown hair is choppily cut close to her scalp and she is missing a chunk out of her left ear. While her whole body is covered in scars, the most notable is the one running down the length of her back, where the flesh is puckered and distorted. Additionally, her entire form is splotted with burns, primarily on her lower legs and upper body.
Clothing/Armor:
Befitting a warrior that likes to be up close and personal in a fight, Catha wears a suit of heavy plate armor that she has had almost her whole life. It's tarnished and dented all over, but has saved her life on many occasions and she would never part with it.
Helm:
Catha's helm (as seen in the above image) is made of Bold Iron. It extends down just past her nose in the front, with a slit for her eyes, and flares out in the back.
Weapons and Gear:
Catha's primary weapon is a two-handed longsword covered in nicks. It's not the sharpest of blades, but Catha can swing it strongly enough to make sharpness irrelevant. She also carries a shortsword as back up, but prefers the feel of her longsword. Her other gear includes a light leather pack that stores her meager supplies.

History:
Catha's first memories are of the day she woke up in a world of fire. She remembers taking her first gasping breaths and inhaling only smoke. Lungs burning, she opened her eyes and saw her first sight - the flaming tendrils of the weeping willow above her. Naked and confused, she had scrambled to her feet amidst a sea of flame and stumbled away from the tree. The wilow's branches brushed her bare form, yet Catha felt no heat nor pain. Her entire being was focused on the sight she saw before her.

It might have been a villiage once, had it not been engulfed in flame, but now it was only a ball of fire. Something in her, at that moment, was consumed by the desire to protect the pitiful collection of burning shacks and whoever dwelt within, even if she had no idea how to. She charged into the blaze, all senses alert for some sort of sign of life. But despite her searching, she found none. Charred corpses littered the earth, but no living souls dwelt within the fire alongside her. Still, she searched on, complelled by a force she could not explain and oblivious to the flames licking her skin.

It was nearly sundown when she emerged empty-handed from the village, and by now the fire had all but ceased, leaving her body blackened by soot. Catha was overcome by an incredible sense of emptiness, as if she was solely responsible for the ruin. She knew nothing of the people there, yet she felt as though she had held some sort of loyalty to them - a sort of oath to protect them. And she had failed that oath.

But a thought then broke through the swirling mess of dispair in her head. A small voice telling her to travel back into the village and find something. What, she couldn't say, but the urge was irresitable. So she went, delving back into the smoudlering remains in search of whatever was calling for her. She found it in the form of an armor-clad body trapped under fallen debris. Her mind called for her to take the armor and the weapons next to it and Catha obeyed the thought. With a strength that surprsied her, she pulled the body free and clear of the wreckage then went at the task of removing it's heavy armor. Beneath she discovered a man's bloodied and soot-covered body, and while she was sure she did not recognize his pock-marked and weathered face, something in her told her she did.

Once the man was stripped of his armor and clothes, Catha once more followed her instincts and donned them for herself. While they had clearly been forged for a man, they somehow fit her form perfectly. It felt strange to be clothed, but as she pulled the helm over her face Catha felt almost complete. But something was missing. She suddenly remembered the weapons she'd found next to the body and rushed back to grab them. The longsword and shortsword immediately felt right in her hands when she bent to left them up, pulling her lips into a smile. There were the missing pieces.

Night had fallen by then, drawing to a close Catha's first day alive. She left the villiage's ruins not long after, drawn away by the urge to find a new purpose, and would eventally come into contact with the answer to her search - skin dancers. Her first encounter had been late one night while she rested, when she had seen strange figures moving in the distance, iluminated by moonlight. Immediatly her body was filled with the desire to slaughter them, and Catha's hands moved to the hilt of her longsword almost of their own volition. The creatures got closer, clearly aware of her presense, and wtih a great cry Catha charged at them. Although she had never fought before, her body moved as if it had done this a thousand times. There were only two of the creatures, and cutting them down had filled Catha with a satisfaction that told her she had found her purpose.

In the time since, Catha has traveled far and wide, occassionally coming across others along the way and learning more about the world and herself.

Relics:
(Leave Blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Willow Witches:
Eld Ward Specialization:
Doch, Ward of healing
Gea, Ward of defense
Teh, Ward of shielding

Attack Runes Known:
Resin, Runes of earth

Are you still working on this or not? It looks finished, but it says WIP at the top.

Callith Flay

Race:
Faceless

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Heterosexual

Age:
37

Personality:
Callith is the type of person you'd find sitting alone in the corner of a tavern or wandering around in a quiet forest. To put it simply, he prefers to keep to himself most of the time but that's not to say he shies away from a conversation. Despite his introverted shell, Callith is protective in nature. He will tend to try and keep close friends out of harm's way and will make sure anyone who wishes to injure him or his companions is swiftly dealt with. Protective instincts aside, Callith is a logical and responsible person. Callith deals with situations in a literal fashion, making decisive decisions on the spot. He can be dependable and honest as well. Callith will try to help where he can, and his companions know they can depend on him. A final aspect of Callith is he doesn't like to express his feelings or those of others. Callith will be apt to wither away when confronted with strong emotion.

Likes:
+ Reading
+ Drinking at local Taverns
+ Hunting
+ Fine-tempered steel


Dislikes:
- Confined spaces
- Arrogance
- Cowardice
- A dull blade


Quirks:
*Slight Insomniac
*Frequently gets lost in thought
*Alcoholic
*Extremely loyal to close friends



Appearance:
Callith stands at 5'11", with a stocky build. His hands are rough from a life's worth of work. Callith's face bears the same worn and rugged. His face is partially covered by a brown, scruffy beard. Callith's hair is short and unkempt. His eye color is a light grayish green color. Callith's body bears little scarring apart from minor burns on his lower arms. The only noticeable scar is from a previous puncture wound below his left shoulder. The wound went clean through so he has similar scarring on his backside.

Clothing/Armor:
Callith wears a chainmail hauberk under his cloth tunic, along with

Helm:
Callith's helm (shown above), is rounded and covers most of his skull. It also features a face guard with eye slits and holes near the nose and mouth to allow unrestricted breathing.

Weapons and Gear:
Callith typically wields two weapons. His primary is a one-handed axe which he forged himself. Callith's secondary is a compact short sword, sheathed on the backside of his belt. Callith also has a small leather pouch on his belt containing small items.

History:
Callith was born to a peasant family living on the outskirts of a small town. Callith and his family made a meager living working the land as farmers. Callith's parents often had very little business in bartering, so the majority of their tools were homemade. Shovels, hoes, and plows were made from materials they had to spare. This is where Callith first got his taste of smithing. Callith's father was able to create a stone furnace and used it to forge several tools, when they had the materials of course. One, in particular, was a small hunting knife. The knife would become one of Callith's proudest possession. This was the first item Callith forged by himself. Callith's life was fairly routine until he met an old blacksmith while trading goods in town with his father. The blacksmith was quite impressed with Callith's untapped skills in forging. In time this man offered Callith an apprenticeship, to which he eagerly accepted. In a matter of months, Callith moved out of his parent's cottage and into the small town.

In the next few years, Callith had become a renowned blacksmith. He perfected his technique and methods. Eventually, after his old mentor passed on, Callith was able to take over the smithy. Though Callith rarely found good trade, he enjoyed his life. One night while drinking at a local tavern, he met a young woman; Nira. To Callith, she was beautiful. She had long, silk-like brown hair. She was tall and thin. Callith couldn't keep his eyes off her. At first, Callith had trouble. But time and persistence proved victorious. Callith and Nira lived together for some time, though never officially married. They had a child together, a daughter; Marielyn. Callith's life seemed to turn out perfect in his eyes. Callith couldn't ask for anything more.

Callith's life was destroyed the day the town was razed by Skin Dancers. It was a cold autumn night, and the clear starlit sky was blocked out by the thick, black smokestacks. The entire town had been lit ablaze by desperate villagers trying to smite the abominations. The local garrison and Willow Witches were either dead or routed, and the town was at the mercy of the infestation. Debris had trapped Callith's family inside, as the fire burned through their home. The entire family held their breath as they heard steps and shuffling on their roof. To Callith's horror, a Skin Dancer crawled through the window. Callith leaped into action, lunging at it with a dagger. The Dancer overpowered him with ease. It then pinned Callith to a wall and skewered him through his shoulder. The Skin Dancer dug into Callith's flesh with its knarled hand, then let out a horrifying shriek. Nira wished to help, and she stabbed the dancer with the dagger Calith had dropped. The Dancer responded with a pained groan. To Callith's dismay, the Skin Dancer spun around and roared. It made a hissing growl as it stared ominously. Nira took a single step back before it rushed towards her. The Dancer thrusted it's arm and impaled her through the torso. Callith screamed as the Dancer threw Nira's limp body across the room. It then turned to face Callith. Its eyes were black and cold. Callith was enraged and gritted his teeth. As it lifted its arm to finish him, a wooden beam, blazed with flame fell upon the Skin Dancer. The beam crushed the life out of it, and Callith could hear the breath expel from its lungs. Callith rose from the ground, his shoulder bled profusely. Callith held a cold stare at Nira's lifeless body through the raging fire. As tears clouded his vision and the smoke grew heavy, Callith realized that Marielyn was still hiding in her locked room. He knocked open Marielyn's door, and black smoke came rushing out. Callith found his daughter lying on the floor. He lifted her up, pain surging through his shoulder. Callith ran through the fire that cut through the floor. Callith ducked his shoulder and dashed through the front door. Callith carried his daughter out of the burning village, and into the near by woods. He laid Marielyn on the damp grass. It seemed Callith's sorrow was not done, as Marielyn's body refused to draw breath. Callith sobbed quietly, as the fire from the village turned the sky a bright orange.

Callith now roams the realm, alone and broken.

Relics:
(Leave Blank for now)

Powers and Abilities For Faceless:
School of Magic - Abjuration

Names Known (leave blank for now)

Mutations (if applicable)

Powers and Abilities For Willow Witches:
Eld Ward Specialization (leave blank for now)

Attack Runes Known (leave blank for now)

You planning on finishing this guy?

Warren of Geisler

FACELESS - MALE - BISEXUAL - 30

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Personality

Some might scoff at being labelled a pessimist, explaining they're simply a realist. On the other hand, Warren’s devil-may-care attitude often earns him the title of an optimist. Really, you ought to take his word for it when he says he's simply, well, a realist.

Survival in the wasteland is tough, and for someone like Warren -- who is lacking in physical prowess, or combat awareness -- it’s nearly impossible. He’s learned early on that he will need to depend on other people if he wants more years to his life. As such, he’s always hard at work trying to gain his companion’s approval. Though never overly boisterous, he’s always ready with a joke or a warm remark, avoiding confrontation and going to great lengths to keep the peace within the group -- although, knowing better than to get attached, he makes it a point to never stay with the same people for too long.

Everyone’s main objective is to avoid skin dancers, but Warren’s specialty is people. As long as his companions can keep the group safe from Cathael’s wrath, he’ll do his best to take care of everything else. He can negotiate. He can lie. He can swindle. He would never do that to the group he’s currently travelling with, but at the end of the day, his first priority is his own survival.

LIKES

• 
  
  
  • Gambling
  • A warm bed
  • Good food / Even better drinks
  • Lively music / Lots of dancing

DISLIKES

• 
  
  
  • Violence. Gore. Weapons. There’s simply more elegant ways of settling things
  • Authorities / Law
  • Winter / The cold
  • People who take themselves too seriously

QUIRKS

• 
  
  
  • Fidgets with a small, old handkerchief when nervous
  • Very light sleeper

Appearance

His own vanity being one of his greatest weaknesses, Warren grooms himself well, sometimes even to a fault. At the very least, he makes sure to be mostly free of the grime and dirt that comes with traversing the rough landscape beyond the Wards of Eld. Despite a strong jaw, his facial features are delicate and leaning towards androgynous. His build does not deviate from this pattern; at 5’10”, he is tall with a svelte figure -- not muscular, but not lanky either.

CLOTHING/ARMOUR

• 
  
  
  • Light, spider silk armour allowing maximum flexibility/mobility, and some protection.
  • Wears a heavier coat when appropriate (as in winter)
  • Not at all opposed to wearing all sorts of disguises

HELM
Bold Iron/Silver Mix -- Consists of two parts: The upper part is a darker, iron kettle hat resembling a capotain with a shorter crown. It is fused to top part of the second component -- a silver, theatre mask depicting a smiling face. Leather straps run down the kettle hat, and along the sides of the mask to keep the helmet in place.

WEAPONS AND GEAR

1. 
   
   
   • Obsidian dirk. Mainly decorative. Don’t expect him to use it, and when he does, don’t expect him to be able to do much with it
   • Lock-picking tools
   • Small mirror
   • Pack of cards
   • Pair of dice
   • Harmonica
   • Liquor flask

History

hello big blocka text incoming

Abilities

RELICS
To be discussed

SCHOOL OF MAGIC
Illusion

NAMES KNOWN
Sound

How's the history coming along?

 

[Mephistophelian]

Edael, though he is only known as "John" to all but the most intimately trusted

Race:
Willow Witch

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Asexual

Age:
68

Personality:
John is a quiet man. If thinking happens behind the mixed metal of his helm, it is silent. When John speaks, he speaks because his birth-given duty requires him to do so; there are few other reasons for him to part his lips. Such is the way John works, and such has been the way he has worked since his birth. That said, there is far more to John than a hulking, wordless willow witch. The man has an inbuilt hatred for all things unnatural, and this extends to the Faceless that seek to harm others to survive, instead of offer help as a group. It is for this reason that John travels as he does; no one area is ever safe from the corruption of human hatred. It is for this same reason that John carries with him a simple, bold iron sword; often times, men can be as monstrous as skin dancers. Whilst it is a willow witch's duty to protect the Faceless, John has been cursed with a terrible aversion towards groups and the loudness they bring, though he will force himself to protect them as best he can, should the need arise. Few have ever befriended John, though the handful that have done so are privy to the Edael he hides from the world. A pensive man at heart, Edael is more likely to talk to those close to him, sharing his otherwise deeply hidden musings and even trusting them to hear of the old scars of his past.

Likes:
+ Meditating in the sun
+ Silence
+ The hunt; tracking and killing anything worth defeating
+ Cool or cold water
+ Animals

Dislikes:
- Noise
- Skin Dancers (duh)
- Groups
- Faceless without morals; those who rob other faceless or seek to harm them
- Unkempt weapons
- Children and babies
- Small talk

Quirks:
* John has almost never revealed his true name to anyone, and as such gives the false name away almost too easily
* He carries out his duty of protection to-the-T, though he will remain as silent as possible throughout. Unless an idea or course of action is likely to put the Faceless in danger, he will not bother to speak up, even if he agrees.
* Meditation is a must for John, and he will often pause directly after battle to think over what had just occurred. It is due to this reflection that John has survived as long as he has, as meditation allows him to pin-point errors or mistakes he had made. If he has not battled for a while, John will meditate regardless, ensuring to do so during both dawn and dusk.
* John has never removed his mask since the day he received it, and cleans his face with a small wet cloth on the end of a stick, and his teeth with the simple use of his wards. His armour is only removed at night, privately, so as to clean more difficult-to-reach spaces.
* John will try his best to repair his equipment in such a way that it appears similar to how it was when given to him, ceremonial symbols and all.

Appearance:
Towering at a mighty two meters in height, John is not only tall but incredibly muscled. Whilst he was born without his mask, it has now become his identity, and he does not know or remember what his face looks like. Scars riddle his body, telling a tale of the many battles this behemoth of a willow witch had faced, though they do not seem to have sunk deep enough to permanently affect his movements. Of the occasional glimpses one has of John's eyes, they might notice a cold grey staring back out, flecked with bits of brown here and there. If John were ever to remove his armour, one would find a mass of pale skin, ironically untouched by the sun. Indeed, the only tanning our willow witch will have had is around his eyes, where small slits of sunlight are occasionally allowed to pass.

Clothing/Armor:
John's armour (above picture) matches his helm (below picture) in terms of the detail and obvious ceremonial importance. Unlike the helm, however, the armour has obviously taken far more damage, with many parts appearing to be from an entirely different set or added on due to the loss or ruination of a similar piece. Additionally, the armour is made entirely of bold iron; whilst they might have been able to sacrifice some star iron for the helm, the entire set of armour was not so lucky. It would appear that John is very familiar with the inscriptions and designs of his original armour, however, as every new piece he wears has had said inscriptions engraved in, albeit with a far lower level of craftsmanship than the original. Over the entire set of armour is a thick, water and wind resistant leather cloak, seemingly made of the patched skins of multiple skin-dancers and other infernal creatures.

Helm:

(It is a mix of the above helmets)
John's helm is an odd thing; fashioned for ceremonial purposes, it seems to have been designed exactly for his face. The eye-holes, tiny as they are, are placed at exactly the correct height and width to allow John to see without much obstruction, but it is designed in such a way that finding his eyes amongst the intricate designs is almost impossible. Those familiar with the material properties of star iron might notice that the helm is partially made of this substance, though it is clear by the extravagance and the assumed ceremonial importance of this helm that they were once constructed entirely out of the miracle material.

Weapons and Gear:
A longsword of bold iron is always carried on John's right-hand side, ready to be unsheathed at a moment's notice. It is long enough to reach up from the floor to the bottom of John's arm, should he extend it horizontally, and appears remarkably simple for a weapon purely designed to slay men.

To John's left, positioned over his shoulder, is a single, small battle axe the size of a hand axe. The head is made of pure star iron, and it is set firmly into a hard, wooden shaft (my reason for making it pure star iron is that one would need the same amount of star iron to make a star iron and bold iron sword, so I figure the trade-off of having a less-deadly axe instead of a sword is that this axe is more capable of killing monsters). The axe is just as simple as John's sword, save a few, faded ceremonial markings that match those of John's helm; it would appear that John received the axe at the same time as his helm, though the axe clearly went through far more use than its counterpart. Along the shaft of the axe is a small tally (卌 卌 卌 卌 卌 卌 卌 卌 卌卌卌卌卌 lll) that appears to match how many years he has lived.

John also carries with him a tough leather satchel, containing a variety of herbs and potions used for a multitude of purposes. Be it healing or masking scents, John can often rely on his satchel to contain a few of the reagents needed to carry out the task. In addition to alchemical ingredients, the satchel also contains all the required materials to maintain and repair armour; something John sees as more important than food.

History:
John was born in a city of massive proportions, though he was unknowingly destined - or cursed, as he would put it - to watch it fall. It was the tradition that willow witches were given a set of armour the moment they came to be, and John was no exception. Thrown into a ceremonial set that perfectly suited his size, John was then educated and trained by the greatest the city had to offer, which often included a few visiting willow witches that had survived the ruination of their city, in one way or another. The man was trained to find, to kill, to protect and to heal, and a perfect student he was in every way. Truly, the gods had sent down the perfect guardian, to the perfect trainers.... But the training proved no match for the evil that took John's city.

For a being designed to seek and kill the vile skin dancers that had begun to infest this plane, John was understandably blind to the corruption spreading through the hearts of the otherwise healthy Faceless he guarded. Anger, strife and starvation made for a terrible mix, and whilst John was preventing skin dancers from killing the citizens of his beloved city, those very same citizens began killing each other. With a few cunning skin dancers to catalyse the process, our willow witch watched, helpless, as the evil of man and monster tore a hole through the large town he had once called home. This was the first time John experienced the monster that man can become.

Having lost both his city and the faith he held for the Faceless, John was left to wander the world with a purpose he dreaded; to protect those so capable of harbouring evil in their hearts. It was not long, however, before he found a way - be it by force of his nature or by his own intuition - to serve out his duty... to kill the monsters, evil Faceless included, that threatened the few remaining 'pure Faceless' (as he took to calling them) of the world. At first it was difficult, to kill those he felt duty-bound to protect, though it slowly became easier when John witnessed the effect his 'purgings' had; without men of evil intent, the skin dancers had trouble penetrating the ranks of a group, and so it was easier for the 'pure Faceless' to defend themselves. John would carry out this duty for many years, protecting those worthy of protection and eliminating both evil men and skin dancers along the way. Though path was full of bodies, of both man and monster, the living Faceless he left behind had learned a valuable lesson; the evil without is only half as dangerous as the evil within.

Relics:
Pridwen (slumbering) - A strangely weightless heater shield. It appears to be forged from steel, though the front is a reflective mirror, yet nothing seems to scratch or crack it. Painted on the mirror is the face of a fiend, whose expressions change when you are not looking.

Powers and Abilities For Willow Witches:
Eld Ward Specialization:
A'Tea - Ward of displacement
Ule - Ward of binding
Siel - Ward of silence

Attack Runes Known:
Aliel - Rune of air

 

[Foolish Ghoul]

Edael, though he is only known as "John" to all but the most intimately trusted

Race:
Willow Witch

Gender:
Male

Orientation:
Asexual

Age:
68

Personality:
John is a quiet man. If thinking happens behind the mixed metal of his helm, it is silent. When John speaks, he speaks because his birth-given duty requires him to do so; there are few other reasons for him to part his lips. Such is the way John works, and such has been the way he has worked since his birth. That said, there is far more to John than a hulking, wordless willow witch. The man has an inbuilt hatred for all things unnatural, and this extends to the Faceless that seek to harm others to survive, instead of offer help as a group. It is for this reason that John travels as he does; no one area is ever safe from the corruption of human hatred. It is for this same reason that John carries with him a simple, bold iron sword; often times, men can be as monstrous as skin dancers. Whilst it is a willow witch's duty to protect the Faceless, John has been cursed with a terrible aversion towards groups and the loudness they bring, though he will force himself to protect them as best he can, should the need arise. Few have ever befriended John, though the handful that have done so are privy to the Edael he hides from the world. A pensive man at heart, Edael is more likely to talk to those close to him, sharing his otherwise deeply hidden musings and even trusting them to hear of the old scars of his past.

Likes:
+ Meditating in the sun
+ Silence
+ The hunt; tracking and killing anything worth defeating
+ Cool or cold water
+ Animals

Dislikes:
- Noise
- Skin Dancers (duh)
- Groups
- Faceless without morals; those who rob other faceless or seek to harm them
- Unkempt weapons
- Children and babies
- Small talk

Quirks:
* John has almost never revealed his true name to anyone, and as such gives the false name away almost too easily
* He carries out his duty of protection to-the-T, though he will remain as silent as possible throughout. Unless an idea or course of action is likely to put the Faceless in danger, he will not bother to speak up, even if he agrees.
* Meditation is a must for John, and he will often pause directly after battle to think over what had just occurred. It is due to this reflection that John has survived as long as he has, as meditation allows him to pin-point errors or mistakes he had made. If he has not battled for a while, John will meditate regardless, ensuring to do so during both dawn and dusk.
* John has never removed his mask since the day he received it, and cleans his face with a small wet cloth on the end of a stick, and his teeth with the simple use of his wards. His armour is only removed at night, privately, so as to clean more difficult-to-reach spaces.
* John will try his best to repair his equipment in such a way that it appears similar to how it was when given to him, ceremonial symbols and all.

Appearance:
Towering at a mighty two meters in height, John is not only tall but incredibly muscled. Whilst he was born without his mask, it has now become his identity, and he does not know or remember what his face looks like. Scars riddle his body, telling a tale of the many battles this behemoth of a willow witch had faced, though they do not seem to have sunk deep enough to permanently affect his movements. Of the occasional glimpses one has of John's eyes, they might notice a cold grey staring back out, flecked with bits of brown here and there. If John were ever to remove his armour, one would find a mass of pale skin, ironically untouched by the sun. Indeed, the only tanning our willow witch will have had is around his eyes, where small slits of sunlight are occasionally allowed to pass.

Clothing/Armor:
John's armour (above picture) matches his helm (below picture) in terms of the detail and obvious ceremonial importance. Unlike the helm, however, the armour has obviously taken far more damage, with many parts appearing to be from an entirely different set or added on due to the loss or ruination of a similar piece. Additionally, the armour is made entirely of bold iron; whilst they might have been able to sacrifice some star iron for the helm, the entire set of armour was not so lucky. It would appear that John is very familiar with the inscriptions and designs of his original armour, however, as every new piece he wears has had said inscriptions engraved in, albeit with a far lower level of craftsmanship than the original. Over the entire set of armour is a thick, water and wind resistant leather cloak, seemingly made of the patched skins of multiple skin-dancers and other infernal creatures.

Helm:

(It is a mix of the above helmets)
John's helm is an odd thing; fashioned for ceremonial purposes, it seems to have been designed exactly for his face. The eye-holes, tiny as they are, are placed at exactly the correct height and width to allow John to see without much obstruction, but it is designed in such a way that finding his eyes amongst the intricate designs is almost impossible. Those familiar with the material properties of star iron might notice that the helm is partially made of this substance, though it is clear by the extravagance and the assumed ceremonial importance of this helm that they were once constructed entirely out of the miracle material.

Weapons and Gear:
A longsword of bold iron is always carried on John's right-hand side, ready to be unsheathed at a moment's notice. It is long enough to reach up from the floor to the bottom of John's arm, should he extend it horizontally, and appears remarkably simple for a weapon purely designed to slay men.

To John's left, positioned over his shoulder, is a single, small battle axe the size of a hand axe. The head is made of pure star iron, and it is set firmly into a hard, wooden shaft (my reason for making it pure star iron is that one would need the same amount of star iron to make a star iron and bold iron sword, so I figure the trade-off of having a less-deadly axe instead of a sword is that this axe is more capable of killing monsters). The axe is just as simple as John's sword, save a few, faded ceremonial markings that match those of John's helm; it would appear that John received the axe at the same time as his helm, though the axe clearly went through far more use than its counterpart. Along the shaft of the axe is a small tally (卌 卌 卌 卌 卌 卌 卌 卌 卌卌卌卌卌 lll) that appears to match how many years he has lived.

John also carries with him a tough leather satchel, containing a variety of herbs and potions used for a multitude of purposes. Be it healing or masking scents, John can often rely on his satchel to contain a few of the reagents needed to carry out the task. In addition to alchemical ingredients, the satchel also contains all the required materials to maintain and repair armour; something John sees as more important than food.

History:
John was born in a city of massive proportions, though he was unknowingly destined - or cursed, as he would put it - to watch it fall. It was the tradition that willow witches were given a set of armour the moment they came to be, and John was no exception. Thrown into a ceremonial set that perfectly suited his size, John was then educated and trained by the greatest the city had to offer, which often included a few visiting willow witches that had survived the ruination of their city, in one way or another. The man was trained to find, to kill, to protect and to heal, and a perfect student he was in every way. Truly, the gods had sent down the perfect guardian, to the perfect trainers.... But the training proved no match for the evil that took John's city.

For a being designed to seek and kill the vile skin dancers that had begun to infest this plane, John was understandably blind to the corruption spreading through the hearts of the otherwise healthy Faceless he guarded. Anger, strife and starvation made for a terrible mix, and whilst John was preventing skin dancers from killing the citizens of his beloved city, those very same citizens began killing each other. With a few cunning skin dancers to catalyse the process, our willow witch watched, helpless, as the evil of man and monster tore a hole through the large town he had once called home. This was the first time John experienced the monster that man can become.

Having lost both his city and the faith he held for the Faceless, John was left to wander the world with a purpose he dreaded; to protect those so capable of harbouring evil in their hearts. It was not long, however, before he found a way - be it by force of his nature or by his own intuition - to serve out his duty... to kill the monsters, evil Faceless included, that threatened the few remaining 'pure Faceless' (as he took to calling them) of the world. At first it was difficult, to kill those he felt duty-bound to protect, though it slowly became easier when John witnessed the effect his 'purgings' had; without men of evil intent, the skin dancers had trouble penetrating the ranks of a group, and so it was easier for the 'pure Faceless' to defend themselves. John would carry out this duty for many years, protecting those worthy of protection and eliminating both evil men and skin dancers along the way. Though path was full of bodies, of both man and monster, the living Faceless he left behind had learned a valuable lesson; the evil without is only half as dangerous as the evil within.

Relics:
For you to decide, Foolish.

Powers and Abilities For Willow Witches:
Eld Ward Specialization:
A'Tea - Ward of displacement
Ule - Ward of binding
Siel - Ward of silence

Attack Runes Known:
Aliel - Rune of air

Accepted. You will be receiving a relic shortly.