Effervescent

|| Perpetual GM ||
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences


|| Interest Check || OOC || Lore || Sign Ups || IC ||


The Aberrant Vaults - Sign Ups



In a world where magic can only be written, a group of powerful magic users known as Scribes have long existed in neutrality to write and manipulate magic for the benefit of all humanity. Generations ago, when the first Great War split the land into two factions, the Scribes were forced to choose sides, and it was only until after the treaty of peace were they able to return to their neutral state. In times of peace, they are allowed to cultivate and grow their magic in peace, but in times of war, by law they must answer to their leaders.

Every four years, the presiding rulers of each faction gather within the Osceli halls to affirm the peace between the factions. But peace would become fragile when nefarious and underhanded plots are revealed. War is on the horizon, and while it has not completely come to pass, both sides will race to gain the upper hand.

They call for their Scribes and their elite Order Agents to take up their lawful duties, which in turn requires them to forfeit neutrality and fight against their own kind. Having gone so long without war, it is a reluctant act, with some branching off in rebellion against the rising conflict.

This rebellious branch will be tasked with hunting down the true interests of each faction: powerful magical artifacts crafted by an ancient civilization that can be wielded by any human, even those without magic. These artifacts must be found before they are placed in the wrong hands. Can there be trust in such troubling times?

OOC


What I'm looking for:
  • Intermediate to advanced writers
  • 2+ paragraphs per post
  • 4-6 players
  • Collaborative players
Players will either be playing a Scribe (Magic User) or an Agent of the Order (Non Magic-ish Fighter). All player characters will be above the age of 20. This is a fantasy adventure, but there will be only humans as a race. Please look at the Lore section before submitting a character sheet. If you have any questions, please feel free to PM me at any time.

This adventure will not start until January 2023. Please take your time with the sheets. You can reach out to me via the OOC section or via DMs. Do not use this section for anything OOC.

Anyone submitting a character sheet that is not a Scribe or an Agent must speak to me via PMs before submitting, otherwise there will be no acceptance. This would be very special circumstances for a character to be outside of the Scribes or the Order, and therefore would require collaboration. I'm not opposed to it, however, bear in mind it will be difficult to put your character in the plot. Our discussions via PM also do not guarantee your place in the plot as well. It is only to help you build a character that could fit, but I will still be reading through your full app.

List of players greenlit to app their non Scribe or Agent character concept:
  • Pupperr
Any characters who may struggle with working with others towards the goal of finding these artifacts may not work well in this plot. For the best experience, the group needs to stick together. Try to think of how your character would fit in, even if a little aloof or on guard.

A discord server will be in place for OOC discussions and collaborations for approved players.

Character Sheets


All character sheets must contain the following. You may code how you like, or just provide the information in basic format.
  • Name
  • Age (20+)
  • Profession and Status (Scribe or Agent, their rank or status within their profession is in the Lore section)
  • Description of Appearance and Personality
  • Realistic artwork or picture of appearance
  • 3 strengths, 3 weaknesses
  • IF YOU ARE A SCRIBE - you may choose out of the following: 5 large scrolls with 5 unique "major" spells, or you can split a large scroll into 2 small scrolls and have 2 unique "minor" spells. If you are building a book at the start of the game, you can have either just the book with 5 spells within one focus (refer to Lore), or you can have 4 focus spells with one scroll that is outside of the focus. And so on. If you wish to have a fully formed book, you need to DM me and explain to me what the book is and how your character received the book. Characters over the age of 50 can potentially have a completed tome that they built on their own. If you have any issues thinking up of spells, D&D has a lot of good ideas!
  • IF YOU ARE AN AGENT OF THE ORDER - please either describe your character's mask or provide a piece of artwork that you feel illustrates the look best. Please refer to the Lore section about masks if you're unsure. Please also detail in your backstory how your character feels about the Order. Please also provide a Call for your character.
  • A list of secondary weapons, if any.
  • Backstory (please be thorough, but you don't need to write a novel. I'm expecting at least 3 paragraphs)
  • Link to your best RP post from any iwaku plot
Fill out the following and DM it to me. Do NOT post it in your public sheet!
  • Conflict (who or what does your character fight or fight for?)
  • Challenges (what limits your character?)
  • Mystery (what doesn’t your character know?)
  • Passion (what drives your character?)
  • Secret (what does your character NOT want others to know?)
  • Rumors (come up with two rumors about your character (things others may have heard - NPCs or PCs) - one is true, one is false)
@Elle Joyner @ze_kraken @Verran @Pupperr @Toogee @Ur Degaton @Luther @Red Thunder
 
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DESDEMONA of PELLEMOND
Scribe | 32 | Reavenhall, the Dominion

Name:
Desdemona Pellemond

Nicknames:
Des (close friends only)

Class:
Scribe

Age:
32

Home Territory:
Reavenhall, the Dominion

Profession:
Scribe, Professor, Diplomat

Description:

It was counted a great pity among the nobility of Reavenhall when Desdemona remained committed to a life of study at Osceli. A natural beauty since girlhood, Desdemona's features make for a striking portrait of elegance and composure. Dark brown hair, tinged with faint traces of mahogany in the sun, frame a proud face with piercing blue eyes and a sturdy jawline. Slender shoulders give way to a lithe body that once was sought after for its novelty among the nobility, but has in Desdemona's more recent years grown wiry and stripped of the traditionally expected feminine physique.

Desdemona herself dresses to accentuate this lack of outward typical femininity, opting for dark, serious colors. Though she does not typically wear trousers, her cloaks and gowns all have a habit of widening or sharpening her shoulders, with sleeves that allow for ease of motion. She has also taken to adorning her outfits with small, patterned scrollwork, usually in silver thread, and uses spare pockets in her dresses to store small scrolls for mundane spells used on a daily basis such as heating the air or locking a door.

History:

The House of Pellemond was, prior to the Great War, a mighty house renowned for its storied military service to the forerunners of the modern Dominion state. Its patriarch in the lead up to the Great War, Leopold, died of illness and left four children in potential succession to the house's seat without a clear preference. The children took to fighting among themselves, tearing the house apart into four. How the House of Pellemond has kept its name at all through the long decades to follow stems from the bravery of Urien Pellemond in battle, earning his branch of the surviving family members the final rights to the Pellemond name.

Still, the damage done to the house was near irreparable. Its allies were split amongst the splinters of the original family, many of its prominent administrators, generals, and other great minds were slain in the Great War, and for a house whose reputation was built upon prowess in battle the long peace to follow was stagnating for the house's potential. The Pellemond name faded from prominence, and before long it had ceded much of its ancestral land to continue to afford a noble house's lifestyle if on a less grand scale. No later than a century after the Great War, the House of Pellemond was relegated to twice-annual campaigns along the border between the Covenant and the Dominion as glorified border patrolmen. There, it harkened back to halcyon days of glory on grand battlefields by fighting minor skirmishes with Covenant troops and clearing the mountain passes of Reavenhall from brigands when off-duty.

It was into this echoed glory that Desdemona was born, the youngest of four surviving children and a girl besides. When she was young, the gift for Script presented itself and her parents sent to have her tested immediately in the hopes a Scribe in the family would unlock the path to political relevance once more. Desdemona was sent to Osceli without much choice in the matter and began training as a Scribe. During that time, two of her brothers were slain in a border skirmish and the third was taken prisoner by brigands and slain before the family could pay ransom. With all their hopes dashed but Desdemona, her parents leaned heavily on her to further her education and rise to some higher noble's court or perhaps even a monarch's, but in seeing two of her brothers slain and realizing what the horror of a full war might bring about, Desdemona had already dedicated herself instead to leveraging her position at Osceli to maintain peace and order.

With Osceli serving as the ceremonial grounds for reaffirming the peace between the Dominion and the Covenant, Desdemona found a niche in maintaining a professorship at the University that kept otherwise closed doors open. At the small expense of teaching first years and a token amount of time spent advancing progress on various other projects at the University, Desdemona could finance her lodging at Osceli and use it as a base for tapping into the vast political webs of both the Dominion and the Covenant. Much of her adult life has been spent in pursuit of arranging minor deals between opposing nobility, building small hurdles to all out war in the hopes of ascending to a higher form of diplomacy should tensions continue to rise beholden to her established network.

Strengths and Skills:

  • Scholarship - Desdemona is a trained Scribe with a keen interest in the history and politics of the Dominion and the Covenant, especially as it pertains to the role of Scribes in both societies both in times of peace and war
  • Talented Orator - even before lecturing had become part and parcel of Desdemona's life as a professor, she always had a knack for public speeches and political speech that sways commonfolk and nobleman alike
  • Accomplished Writer - often jesting that "plain words have a power of their own", Desdemona's main body of work as it pertains to her role as a diplomat has been through writing and publishing treateses. Consequently, she has also become renowned for her ability to, in essence, grammar-check aspiring Tome projects and has an intimate knowledge of the syntax of Script as a result
Scrolls:

  • Lock/Unlock Doors - Minor - Though she has yet to use it for mischievous ends, Desdemona has a habit of making scrolls to trivialize certain tasks, and this Spell allows her to lock/unlock simply locked doors
  • Light Object - Minor - This Spell can be used to create small blazes for candles, torches, fireplaces, campfires, etc. but has very little additional use
  • Ghost Quill - Minor - This Spell allows a single quill to be bound to Desdemona's hand, mirroring her writing and doubling her output of documents, though curiously is incapable of processing Script. The symbols may be written, but produce nothing even when the right precautions are taken
  • Erase - Minor - Mistakes are common in writing, and this Spell expunges none-Script ink from a page and can funnel it back into an inkwell
  • Influence - Major - Desdemona keeps this scroll for public speeches, and uses it to make her crowd more open to suggestion. Its effects are limited, and often indistinguishable from the results of good oration but can make a differnce on particularly tough audiences
  • Sense Emotion - Major - When striving towards diplomatic ends in more personal settings, Desdemona can use this Scroll (often tucked into a hidden dress pocket) to sense the general mood of her audience and react as necessary
  • Ward From Harm - Major - This Spell is meant to provide a small barrier to deflect minor blows, working better at a distance than close-up after an attempted assassination via crossbow

Weaknesses and Vices:

  • Stubborn - Desdemona often believes she is right, and any obstacles to her ideal world are simply arrogant, pig-headed, malicious idiots who must be dealt with - this rarely manifests when she must wear her political masque, but once she has taken on a task she will pursue it even unto serious harm long after it would be wise to change course
  • Walled - Ever since the death of her eldest brother, Desdemona has found it difficult to develop emotional intimacy with anyone, and views personal attachments as vulnerabilities that must be minimized
  • An Old Wound - Were it not for the quick-thinking of one of her bodyguards, the assassination attempt on Desdemona would have done more than sever several tendons in her right hand. She now struggles to flourish correctly, limiting her maximum potential as a Scribe

 
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Cordelia Briggs
Twenty-six| Female | Scribe [Apprentice]




APPEARANCE
Inside and out, Cordelia Briggs is an unusual beauty. Of average height and sculpted with gentle curves, she carries herself with an air of fluidity, every motion carefully composed and intentional, though never severe or sharp. There’s a nobility there, a practiced charm, crafted and honed. Her hands are kept impeccably, meticulously clean. Her wardrobe is at times a little ostentatious and flamboyant, but outside of what’s on her person, Cordelia carries very little beyond what is absolutely necessary: Her scrolls, a cloak, two ornate stiletto blades and a silver necklace she believes once belonged to her birth mother, stolen off the man who raised her.

Her features are delicate, canvas a pale foil to the dark brown hair worn in loose waves, falling well past her waist. Gaslight blue eyes, wide and eerily bright, are set beneath thin, arched brows and thick, dark lashes. Cordelia's voice can be both soft and commanding, depending on what the circumstances call for.

“It's gonna cost ya..."


"It's not the future most folks are afraid of, darling... It's whether or not they can change it. Thing about fate is, half the time what we're tryin' to avoid ends up being the very thing that sets it all into motion. Better to look it in the eye, then let it stab you in the back..."




HISTORY
Tell your fortune for a copper, love...
Fortune favors those with a fortune to favor… or so she was taught. Having experienced the underbelly of society's lowest, Cordelia is well acquainted with the notion that peace is little more than a glistening bandage slapped over a festering wound. Looks are often deceiving for anyone who lacks the vision to really see, and sight is not something she has ever lacked. Born and orphaned on a starless night, she came into a broken, damaged world more tool than child and for this, the first several years of her life were quite hard.

Thieves. Grifters. Killers. This was the family she came to know. The world of darkness became a way of life to Cordelia, that underbelly a home. By her earliest years, her adopted father had honed her into his partner in crime. The girl took to conning like a fish to water, and made of herself a valuable enough commodity to survive. And so she existed for the next several years, her father picking pockets, while Cordelia balanced on the marginally more sophisticated edge of fortune telling. It was during one of these dalliances, however, that her own fortune changed. It was a simple drawing… a part of her production that caught the attention of the Scribe. A spell, written instinctively… no question otherwise. The next several weeks would see her life turned on its head, while her father sought to keep from her the nature of her gift and the fate that it would bring. But in time, that fate reared, when in a violent outburst, her true nature was unveiled by the very man desperate to keep it a secret. Outraged by her father's deception, Cordelia left with the scribes the following morning to begin her education at Osceli.

For the next several years, Cordelia poured herself into her studies, focusing all of her energies on learning, adapting and growing in her skills as a Scribe. Eventually, after finishing off her initial instructions at Osceli, Cordelia was approached about an apprenticeship, which she pursued without hesitation.



INTUITIVE | FOCUSED | ENCOURAGING
GUARDED | EMOTIONAL | WARY


SKILLS & SPELLS
Weapons | In her youth and during her education at Osceli, Cordelia was trained to wield both a solitary blade, as well as daggers. She is also quite proficiently versed in many applicable uses for poisons and herbs.


Spells |

Magic | SOUL |

The ramifications of overuse of this magic are two fold - physically, Cordelia suffers from violent headaches, dizzy spells and most frequently, bleeding from the nose. Mentally, Cordelia can be challenged by nightmares or insomnia, usually brought on by disturbing memories or thought patterns.

Telepathic bond ||

A temporary link between minds, allowing for silent communication akin to telepathy.

Identifier | Soul; Mind

Descriptors | Connection. Thought. Link. Communication. [NAME]

Flourish | A small spiral at the temples with crossed pointers and middle fingers, leading down the jaw and to the lips before drawing outwards.

Spike of Discord |

Causes an illusory sound, within the mind, disorienting and distracting. This can be done on multiple targets at a time, but will expend considerably more energy with each assault.

Identifier | Soul; Mind

Descriptors | Disharmony. Affliction. Cacophony. Illusion. Disorient.

Flourish | Palms and fingers extended outward, swiftly curled - one fist over the other before the inner hand is extended again, forced outward.

Detection of Thoughts|

The ability to read thoughts, memories or emotions through a mental link established through a complex flourish. For a deeper connection, physical contact must be made between the mage and link.

Identifier | Soul; Mind

Descriptors | Memories [Emotions; Thoughts]. Reveal. Vision.

Flourish | Pointer and middle fingers of both hands cross separately, pinky tips touch thumb tips, then ring fingers join while pinkies release, all fingers pointing towards the intended target. (for a deeper pull, physical contact must be made with target)

Restful Mind |

Allows for a calming of emotions, to a particular extent. This spell only works on emotions of a simple context – deeply rooted emotions [an aggregate of two or more emotions] cannot be so easily calmed and calming a crowd over a solitary person is considerably more draining.

Identifier | Soul; Mind

Descriptor | Suppression. Rest. Calm. Emotion

Flourish | Hands extended outward… ring and middle finger crossed, pinky and pointer fingers extending outward. Slowly, hands lower towards floor, thumbs coming together first, before palms meet.

Echo |

Allows for a brief connection with an object, revealing small bits of history about the item.

Identifier | Soul; Object

Descriptor | History. Vision. Reveal.

Flourish | Thumbs and rings fingers of both hands create a link together. Pointer crosses with middle finger, then this and pinky extend, pointing left hand to self, right hand towards intended object.

PERSONALITY
Cordelia is a simple creature, with a very complex code of morality. In a general sense of survival, whatever is necessary is usually acceptable by her standards, but in everyday life she exists within a strict parameter of self control seen pertinently in the way she approaches the world around her. Most particularly, Cordelia will not 'read' anyone that she has any sort of deeply rooted emotional attachment to, nor will she utilize her talents [those magic related and from her life as a grifter] on children or widows. She has also taken a vow to never read an Agent of the Order - an oath required of her, to pursue her particular branch of studies.

She can be exceptionally guarded, where her own feelings are concerned, but is nevertheless a warm, open individual, quite easy to talk to, promoting a sense of trust and reliability in most she interacts with. When working, Cordelia is extremely focused, tackling every job with the uttermost attention to detail. She can be a bit of a magpie, collecting odd trinkets here and there, largely for strangely sentimental reasons.

Because of the sensitive nature of her magic and admittedly a bit of paranoia on her part, Cordelia is extremely cautious, when it comes to her past - usually restrained with more than her basic identity with almost any she comes in contact with. Despite this, she manages to come across as candid and genuine, quite easy to talk to and often a source for advice.

Conversely, her complicated upbringing and the strained relationships with the members of her family has done little to afford Cordelia with a great deal of trust in others. This makes it exceptionally complicated to create lasting relationships. Those relationships she does manage to build are indelible - her loyalty, once earned, rarely rescinded.

Skills | Cordelia's talents for conning go without saying. Trained at a young age, she possesses a gift of charming most she meets, and in many instances, manages it earnestly, belying her occupation. Beyond her talents of conversation, she is quite physically capable, nimble and stealthy, quick footed and quick thinking. Lastly, though certainly not least, Cordelia's intuition is nearly inimitable - her instincts calibrated to the slightest hint of trouble. Even without her magic, she is an excellent judge of character.

Deficiencies | So accustomed to conning is Cordelia, that turning it off is oftentimes impossible. Because of the potential dangers her past holds, she keeps a lock on every detail of her life prior to Osceli. Where she grew up, down to the nature of how she grew up has become a treasure to protect, at all costs. At her core, she can tend to be a bit compulsive -- particularly when under pressure or if she's feeling out of control. On the surface, this manifests in a need for cleanliness, most especially her hands.

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Intro post for Riders of Verlendia


 
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Brevik’cor Castline
Call | Brevity

Thirty-Four | Male | Order [Agent]






DESCRIPTION
Brevik’cor Castline doesn’t really know if he would call himself handsome or not. His late wife, Evalyn, would call him smoothly attractive. Like porcelain or ivory. But, then again, she was blind. To eyes that care about such things, Brevik’cor’s face is one of smooth angles that make him nondescript in a line up. Upon close scrutiny, it would seem young or oddly ageless. Despite the fact that a mask hides it most of the time. The hair on his head is either a very short black or utterly utterly missing. Depending on when he last shaved it. The less hair to be left behind at the scenes of his investigations or operations, the less people have to identify him off of. Certainly, the world would have a difficult time placing raven black hair amongst a group of dark-haired men and woman. But if the local population was predominantly blonde however… Well, he’s not one for taking chances. He notices details like that, see. The corner of carpet folded to hide a blood stain. The painting slightly crooked to show that someone had taken it out and replaced it with a fake. It’s the little things in life that makes him pause. Question. And then seek the truth once again. The man is lithe and full of wiry, strong muscle. Easy enough to conceal beneath some clothes. Padded as necessary. Fortunately, wandering the dangers of the Hollows often necessitates such articles. A place where a goodly number of his Order missions take him. However, there is one feature that does stick out in people’s minds, no matter how much he tries otherwise. His eyes are inky black and, if one can pierce their veils, full of steady, careful thought. Weighing all it sees to a nicety upon the scales of knowledge and understanding.

Outwardly, Brevik’cor is a quiet man. Not least because he’s deaf. He has a lot to say, and when he does sign, it’s certainly worth listening to. But he takes his time coming to say it. Brevik’cor likes to be certain of his facts and then gets quickly to the point. Concise, dense, but thorough and well-spoken. The soul of brevity. He enjoys watching conversation. Smiling behind his red mask as people talk and breath joy into the world. Parties and festivals are his favorites. The pulse of emotion is something he can feel in the earth and the entire world seems awash with color. He longs to be able to hear it, but treasures the gifts of sight and touch to bring him these things and plays a pair of drums he keeps on him with surprising and surpassing skill. Death lingers on his mind, though not in a morbid manner. More of the knowledge that all things pass.

Above all are his three drives. To know and understand, to acquire Wisdom by her name. To uphold the virtues of the Order and bring balance to Ruane. His love and care for his daughter and to build a safe world for her. Despite the secretive nature of the Order, the man is a fairly open book about his passions and musical hobby. Though, not his deeds.


“Silence is golden...too cliche?"


"Death comes for everyone. It’s that one inevitable. Accepting this, I can fling myself forward without fear and without hesitation."






HISTORY
"Someone sing us a song and I'll play along! Why are you all looking at me like that?"
Brevik’cor never knew his family.

The man’s origins roll back to an orphanage in the depths of the wandering alleys and botanical wonders of the Scourgewood. From the start, he could not hear a thing. Not the bells in the church, nor the laughter of his fellow children. Not the wails of the undead, nor the death rattles of the devoured. Not the most beautiful strain of music, nor the wails of sundered loved ones. But he was able to touch both. Brevik’cor is forever grateful for these facts alone. That Evalyn was able to bring these to him. For now, in this brief retelling of his life, Brevik’cor is still a child. A baby growing up in streets rightly called haunted. It took his caretakers quite some time to notice his deafness. Deft with his eyes, he was able to pick up cues that the other kids put out. If they heard a door open and they turned to look, he would too. If shouting and hollering from the streets drew them all to the windows, he would meld right with the crowd. If everyone paid rapt attention to tales at story-time, he would dedicatedly look as well. It wasn’t until Master Ofsen’kev Coldbrook saved Brevik’cor’s life that it was driven home to them. A group of the kids were playing in the street in front of the orphanage when all save one heard a carriage approaching from around the corner. Now, most of the children ran, sharp as nails, out of the way. They knew the score. Been taught well by the old Master. Save for Brevik’cor. The ball had just happened to roll out of the circle of children and he had turned his back on the group to chase it. He didn’t notice the group scurrying out of the way. However, despite his age, Master Coldbrook was still as lithe as a cat in his response. A veteran of many a campaign into the undead ridden Hollows, he had created this orphanage after his retirement from the army. A haven for those children whose parents were lost for any reason. And he fiercely protected them as if they were his own. With surpassing agility, Master Coldbrook rushed out into the street, dove, and rolled the toddler Brevik’cor into his arms and out of the way to safety on the other side of the street as the carriage went whizzing past.

From there, it was easy to piece together past chances that were once overlooked and perceive the other signs of Brevik’cor’s lack of hearing. When the children heard the door open, he was always a bit slower than most. The same went for noises from the street. During story-time, he did, occasionally, look around with a puzzled look on his face. Wondering what it was all about. The masters and matrons of the orphanage wondered what to do about it. Perhaps a scribe could heal it, but most were well engaged in other affairs. And even then, this did not seem to be an injury that could be simply healed. He had been born this way. The Order, by many a report, communicated through some esoteric method with their hands. Far more complex than the basic military hand-signs that Coldbrook knew. Still, the old man had a contact or two who may be able to reach the Order’s ears and could, perhaps, help. As the man scribbled and sent missives, the rest turned to the other obvious option. Teaching Brevik’cor to read and to write. They quickly found that this was no easy task! Without classical speech to guide him, it took him far longer to learn the basics of the craft than others. It was through the efforts of Madam Allora’ven Icefren that he succeeded so well. It was she who stayed up many a night to drill him through the concepts. After he had begun to grasp these, tears were brought to Allora’ven’s eyes as, the first thing he wrote was a simple, tragic question: “why are you all moving your mouths so much?”

The lad had, of course, realized that something was up. He could tell that something was going on. That meaning was being communicated. But, without sound, he had no idea what that was. It became Allora’ven’s painful duty to try, with fumbling words in the form of many crossed out notes, and explain what it was to not hear. And that he may never hear a single sound. Quietly, he cried his eyes out for five days.

Yet that’s where his slowness stopped for, after he began to grasp the concept, mastery rapidly followed. Brevik’cor had been without communication for five years of his life and he was certainly determined to make up for lost time. Writing all that he saw and scribing his words to others. And it became apparent that he saw quite a bit. Gifted with a keen eye that deafness only honed, Brevik’cor displayed an uncanny knack for detail. Picking up on the precise hues of color, rapidly picking up on how to read lips, and becoming rather excellent at hide and seek. It is a trait that served him well throughout life. So it was that Brevik’cor’s early childhood became as boisterous and active as any’s. Though far quieter, for he rarely made a sound. Even when in pain. Most of all, though, he loved attending the festivals held year by year. For, while he could not hear the din, he could feel the excitement through the soft vibrations that the joyous clamor made. And his eyes delighted in the colors and shapes of all the festive gear.

The Order did indeed reply to Coldbrook’s missives saying that they could not teach their language of signs to anyone outside their ranks but promised also to keep at least an idle eye on the boy to see if he may be called to join the ranks.

However, it was not to last. Old Master Coldbrook was not called old as a mere moniker. Time rolled on and, at the close of Brevik’cor’s tenth Winter, he died. It was no great mystery. Age was the cause. The next Master of Brightbreeze Orphanage was not a man of Coldbrook’s quality. Master Ven’domin Bitterbrush felt that, if these kids were about the streets, he may as well make use of the cheap labor. The education that Coldbrook had set up for the children to work to give them a bright future and a fighting chance in the world was radically diminished. In its place, the orphans were sent out into the wilds to seek the herbs and ingredients the apothecaries of Scourgewood craved to make their renowned tinctures.

Despite the destruction of formal education, his life was far from being devoid of learning. Extreme care and caution was needed to scurry about the wonder and horrors of the Hollows. Without ears, Brevik’cor relied heavily upon his eyes to pick out minute signs of danger and to feel the land shiver and quake underneath him when the undead shambled close. His knowledge of root and herb bloomed. Death was, sadly, a now constant companion in this new, hard world. Friends became bloated corpses in mires or rent and devoured by undead monsters. Others turned hard and unfriendly under their change of fortune, shunning anything that could be seen as weakness that could lead to death. Unspoken trauma built upon the boy. Earning him hardening scars that stretch into today. And the Order watched.

Brevik’cor never forgot his fifteenth birthday. Although, at the time, he didn’t know he was fifteen. The lad had developed a strong, lithe frame that was, nonetheless, too thin from having only just enough to eat. The day was at its end and, as was his want, he lay on his back of the orphanage. Staring up at the stars and plotting his escape. He knew the ingredients to sell to the alchemists. He knew how to write. He could even do math. He was a fit as could be. And knew that he could make a far better living as his own master than under Master Bitterbrush selling the ingredients for himself. When, suddenly, the masked Agent seemed to meld out of the night shadows next to him.

Brevik’cor scrambled to his feet, prepared to fight or flee. Wondering if this was a new, powerful undead abomination for the expressionless mask before him was as like a skull as anything. But he paused, curious. His instincts told him that the individual before him was dangerous. Just not dangerous to him. Then the Order Agent did something simple yet remarkable. It kindled a hungry light in his eyes. The hunger for knowledge, comprehension, communication. For the Agent merely made a short series of hand signs. Brevik’cor, of course, had no idea what it meant. But he could tell this was no mere gimmick. It was a language. One that, if he had the chance, he could learn to speak. There was no question. When the Agent beckoned him to follow, the young man did not wait.

Training was hard for the young man, as it was for everyone involved. Certainly, the first half of the first step, Silent, was easy enough. After all, he had never spoken. Awake or asleep. Coughing and sneezing was a breeze to control. But walking, picking up and replacing objects, and not causing a breeze to move were quite the challenge. True, while his adventures into the Hollows had taught him stealth, there was a still a far cry between stealth and utter silence. Especially to Brevik’cor, Now, more than ever, the man’s natural diligence and hunger for knowledge and skills served him. It pushed him through any roadblock in his way and gave him wings to fly on as each and every concept was practiced and gradually mastered.

Of course, Quiet was a rush for him just as writing was. A language that he made his own. His elegance with it is one to be admired for he rapidly picked up on how to say what he intended in a quick and concise manner. Long before it became is call, Brevity fit him to a T. Rushing about as he read, trained, and talked and talked in the Order’s specialized communication. All other lessons flowed into him with him showing particular aptitude towards surveillance, investigation, balance, self-control, and patience. Perhaps it was his own silent nature that led to the mastery of Patience.

Perseverance was easily followed. Brevik’cor had already displayed strong dedication to learning all the lessons of the Order and this one followed as naturally as all the others. Utilizing his natural attention to detail to hone excellent precision in shooting and finding uses for his natural environment. The Initiate ascended as the needle drove the image into body. Reflecing on his new duties. New purpose. This higher Order that he now served. He had to admit, it hadn’t been expected. From planning his life forward at Brightbreeze to suddenly following the footsteps of becoming an Order Agent. It was…painful in some ways. To be fully shut from whatever life he might have had. All his choices and decisions leading to this point. To be forever sundered from all alternatives. Just as the needle, it created an intricate and unique pattern. One that could never be perfectly repeated. However, all led to that same morbid conclusion. In death. After then, who could say save ghosts and spirits? Brevik’cor embraced this pain and, just like that, he became an Agent.

Most of Brevik’cor’s operations as an Agent are thoroughly classified and are, therefore, redacted from this summary from his life. However, it is known that he served with quiet distinction. Given his condition, it was not common that he served in most diplomatic events, but Brevik’cor worked tirelessly behind the scenes to ensure that the ideals of the Order. Balance and its namesake. Wielding his spear, bow, and mace to serve his keen vision into completing Order objectives.

The years rolled by and a now twenty-two year old man was wandering the wastes of the Hollows. His mission for the while was complete with satisfaction when meandered out of wooded lands to the shore. Naturally, he wasn’t lost as, down the coast ahead of him, Port Daumoore lay. The timing was perfect as Winter was drawing to a close and the first festival of Spring was at hand. Awash with color lay the whole port. People pulsing with motion. It was there that Brevik’cor found what he did not expect right in front of him, though she could not have seen it. Love. Evalyn Delmoor of the Delmoor minstrel family. Blind as a bat the drummer was. With auburn hair and bright, milky eyes. Yet the beat she struck moved something in his heart. Perhaps it was her passion and fire that she brought to his quiet world. Touching his soul as deep as the sweet melodies do when they move audiences to tears.

Few tales even touch upon this courtship for he told few friends. Strange though it was. Yet akin were these two. Thoughtful in their passions. Driven in their arts. Ruanites in their ideals. It is believed that they learned to communicate through the beating drum of their hearts. We ask our readers to forgive such romantic license and we will forebear from further ruminations besides this last: whatever the truth, it is evident that Evalyn taught him the drums. For Brevik’cor displays masterful skill with a pair that he carries on all his travels ever since he met her.

Their romance did not escape the eye of the Whispers but, as such a thing was not strictly forbidden, they did not stand in its way. It was one year and a season before Brevik’core plucked up the courage to ask for her hand. This was granted, though not without reservation. For, while Evalyn cared little that she couldn’t see her husband-to-be’s face, the Delmoor’s were not sure how they felt about an Order Agent being in their lives. Still, they gave their permission and, on the Spring Solstice they were wed under the new moon. His vows exceptionally silent. Hers, absolutely explosive with joy. It wasn’t long before she became heavy with child.

They knew the rules. The Whispers deployed an Agent and the newly christened Elva’gaustra Castline was whisked away. Hidden in the depths of the continent. Unfortunately, Brevik’cor was deployed on missions and was not at home for a full year. The Dark Winter of that year was uncommonly cruel. Evalyn passed quietly away. Unmarked and unheralded. It drove a quiet rift between himself and his in-laws. Still, they are able to, at the least, visit Evalyn's grave without argument.

Brevik’cor was left alone. Still, he carried out his duties without hesitation. If there was a noticeable change is that he had become a shade quieter and a step more distant. A step more…fervent in his duties. Few thought to question it. After all, the man had just lost his wife and, even with all the Order’s efforts in training and discipline, such things had an impact upon a person. It would be far more concerning if it had none at all. So long as Castline’s work continued to be up to standard, there was no need to worry.

Time passed, five years in fact, and it did seem that Brevik’cor had recovered. Certainly, he still seemed a shade more…bold in his actions. But appropriate social ties had been reforged with other Agents. However, on a rotation of duty at Osceli, Brevik’cor saw her. A small girl who appeared to be six with auburn hair and black eyes. Gaily talking with a strong hint of nerves behind her shifting eyes. One used to an unstable world. It was this and a single detail that held Brevik’cor’s expensive attention for exactly five seconds. She wore a strap as an absurd headband. Childish. But the strap was very familiar. It was the one his late Evalyn carried her drums with. It was simple, black leather with extensively thick embroidery. It looked cheap to a merchant’s eye. Of course, none of them would have considered that the stitcher had been blind. Choosing such design to give a rich texture. The colors were completely mismatched. Again, Evalyn hadn’t cared. All in all, it was both utterly worthless to even those in an orphanage. Easy to keep track of and secure. And utterly distinct. Thinking back, he couldn't remember seeing it after Elva'gaustra had been taking away.

Two years passed since Brevik’cor met this child who may just be his daughter. War now looms on the horizon. Growing in Brevik’cor’s mind. Joining the rebellion, he now seeks a way to prevent it from happening as the ideals of the Order and for his daughter propel him forward. He will find a way, at any cost, to keep the peace. To ensure that balance and order are maintained for all of Ruane and for Elva’gaustra.



INTUITIVE | EXTROSPECTIVE | NOSTALGIC
MORBID | WARM | LEARNER



SKILLS, DEFICIENICIES, WEAPONS, AND ONE RED MASK
Weapons | A strong recurve bow with goose feather arrows. A stout, two-handed spear. A single-handed steel mace. A leather shield. A knife. Knowledge of herbs from his youth and years across the Hollows, compounded with training in the Order.

Skills
  • Brevik’cor has a striking skill of visual discernment. Often able to pick out minute details from a far greater distance than most would believe.
  • When combined with his vision, his extraordinary extroverted intuition allows him to build rapid conclusions based upon the patterns that layer the world around him. This has made him one of the more excellent investigators the Order has produced.
  • Lastly, his wilderness survival skills builds atop the honed physique of the Order’s training. Brevik’cor is capable of surviving in the wilderness for indefinite periods of time as he treks, or tracks, his way to the next mission.

Deficiencies
  • One cannot overlook the fact that Brevik’cor is deaf. While he has adapted marvelously to his circumstances, there is no doubt that it leaves him lacking whenever the job calls for a careful ear. He cannot listen at keyholes or around walls. A fast asleep Brevik’cor will hear nothing to disturb him to awakening.
  • Second, when the man was but a lad, he absorbed significant trauma as many of his friends perished in the Hollows. Deafness mixed with the oppressive environment in the latter half of his childhood meant that he struggled to express that trauma. “I have no mouth and I must scream.” As he gradually processed it in his quiet way, it has developed into a sense of reckless fatalism. Death awaits all and nothing can be done to absolutely stave it off. Nor should it when the time comes.
  • While brevity is a trait that can be applauded, Brevik’cor often takes it all the way to bluntness. Even in situations when a level of tact or diplomatic guile would be of better service. How he sees it is that life is finite and he doesn’t have time to bandy compliments. Get to the point and make them see the point. Then move on.

Mask | A smooth piece of ivory. Dyed a crimson hew save for the brilliant white runes etched upon it representing blood. Despite the grim nature, Brevik’cor celebrates it as a mask of life. The pulse of all living things, for even plants have sap. Its eye sockets have two engraved lines leading up to a circle in the middle of the forehead. Representing Balance and Order along with the center of knowledge and wisdom: the mind. Fortunately, unfortunately, the basic grimness of the mask has given Brevik’cor a rather sinister appearance. He doesn’t feel the need to object to it.


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Under " A Chronicler's Collection of Published and Unpublished Works" Specifically: “It Takes a Village”


 
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DESDEMONA of PELLEMOND
Scribe | 32 | Reavenhall, the Dominion

Name:
Desdemona Pellemond

Nicknames:
Des (close friends only)

Class:
Scribe

Age:
32

Home Territory:
Reavenhall, the Dominion

Profession:
Scribe, Professor, Diplomat

Description:

It was counted a great pity among the nobility of Reavenhall when Desdemona remained committed to a life of study at Osceli. A natural beauty since girlhood, Desdemona's features make for a striking portrait of elegance and composure. Dark brown hair, tinged with faint traces of mahogany in the sun, frame a proud face with piercing blue eyes and a sturdy jawline. Slender shoulders give way to a lithe body that once was sought after for its novelty among the nobility, but has in Desdemona's more recent years grown wiry and stripped of the traditionally expected feminine physique.

Desdemona herself dresses to accentuate this lack of outward typical femininity, opting for dark, serious colors. Though she does not typically wear trousers, her cloaks and gowns all have a habit of widening or sharpening her shoulders, with sleeves that allow for ease of motion. She has also taken to adorning her outfits with small, patterned scrollwork, usually in silver thread, and uses spare pockets in her dresses to store small scrolls for mundane spells used on a daily basis such as heating the air or locking a door.

History:

The House of Pellemond was, prior to the Great War, a mighty house renowned for its storied military service to the forerunners of the modern Dominion state. Its patriarch in the lead up to the Great War, Leopold, died of illness and left four children in potential succession to the house's seat without a clear preference. The children took to fighting among themselves, tearing the house apart into four. How the House of Pellemond has kept its name at all through the long decades to follow stems from the bravery of Urien Pellemond in battle, earning his branch of the surviving family members the final rights to the Pellemond name.

Still, the damage done to the house was near irreparable. Its allies were split amongst the splinters of the original family, many of its prominent administrators, generals, and other great minds were slain in the Great War, and for a house whose reputation was built upon prowess in battle the long peace to follow was stagnating for the house's potential. The Pellemond name faded from prominence, and before long it had ceded much of its ancestral land to continue to afford a noble house's lifestyle if on a less grand scale. No later than a century after the Great War, the House of Pellemond was relegated to twice-annual campaigns along the border between the Covenant and the Dominion as glorified border patrolmen. There, it harkened back to halcyon days of glory on grand battlefields by fighting minor skirmishes with Covenant troops and clearing the mountain passes of Reavenhall from brigands when off-duty.

It was into this echoed glory that Desdemona was born, the youngest of four surviving children and a girl besides. When she was young, the gift for Script presented itself and her parents sent to have her tested immediately in the hopes a Scribe in the family would unlock the path to political relevance once more. Desdemona was sent to Osceli without much choice in the matter and began training as a Scribe. During that time, two of her brothers were slain in a border skirmish and the third was taken prisoner by brigands and slain before the family could pay ransom. With all their hopes dashed but Desdemona, her parents leaned heavily on her to further her education and rise to some higher noble's court or perhaps even a monarch's, but in seeing two of her brothers slain and realizing what the horror of a full war might bring about, Desdemona had already dedicated herself instead to leveraging her position at Osceli to maintain peace and order.

With Osceli serving as the ceremonial grounds for reaffirming the peace between the Dominion and the Covenant, Desdemona found a niche in maintaining a professorship at the University that kept otherwise closed doors open. At the small expense of teaching first years and a token amount of time spent advancing progress on various other projects at the University, Desdemona could finance her lodging at Osceli and use it as a base for tapping into the vast political webs of both the Dominion and the Covenant. Much of her adult life has been spent in pursuit of arranging minor deals between opposing nobility, building small hurdles to all out war in the hopes of ascending to a higher form of diplomacy should tensions continue to rise beholden to her established network.

Strengths and Skills:

  • Scholarship - Desdemona is a trained Scribe with a keen interest in the history and politics of the Dominion and the Covenant, especially as it pertains to the role of Scribes in both societies both in times of peace and war
  • Talented Orator - even before lecturing had become part and parcel of Desdemona's life as a professor, she always had a knack for public speeches and political speech that sways commonfolk and nobleman alike
  • Accomplished Writer - often jesting that "plain words have a power of their own", Desdemona's main body of work as it pertains to her role as a diplomat has been through writing and publishing treateses. Consequently, she has also become renowned for her ability to, in essence, grammar-check aspiring Tome projects and has an intimate knowledge of the syntax of Script as a result
Scrolls:

  • Lock/Unlock Doors - Minor - Though she has yet to use it for mischievous ends, Desdemona has a habit of making scrolls to trivialize certain tasks, and this Spell allows her to lock/unlock simply locked doors
  • Light Object - Minor - This Spell can be used to create small blazes for candles, torches, fireplaces, campfires, etc. but has very little additional use
  • Ghost Quill - Minor - This Spell allows a single quill to be bound to Desdemona's hand, mirroring her writing and doubling her output of documents, though curiously is incapable of processing Script. The symbols may be written, but produce nothing even when the right precautions are taken
  • Erase - Minor - Mistakes are common in writing, and this Spell expunges none-Script ink from a page and can funnel it back into an inkwell
  • Influence - Major - Desdemona keeps this scroll for public speeches, and uses it to make her crowd more open to suggestion. Its effects are limited, and often indistinguishable from the results of good oration but can make a differnce on particularly tough audiences
  • Sense Emotion - Major - When striving towards diplomatic ends in more personal settings, Desdemona can use this Scroll (often tucked into a hidden dress pocket) to sense the general mood of her audience and react as necessary
  • Ward From Harm - Major - This Spell is meant to provide a small barrier to deflect minor blows, working better at a distance than close-up after an attempted assassination via crossbow

Weaknesses and Vices:

  • Stubborn - Desdemona often believes she is right, and any obstacles to her ideal world are simply arrogant, pig-headed, malicious idiots who must be dealt with - this rarely manifests when she must wear her political masque, but once she has taken on a task she will pursue it even unto serious harm long after it would be wise to change course
  • Walled - Ever since the death of her eldest brother, Desdemona has found it difficult to develop emotional intimacy with anyone, and views personal attachments as vulnerabilities that must be minimized
  • An Old Wound - Were it not for the quick-thinking of one of her bodyguards, the assassination attempt on Desdemona would have done more than sever several tendons in her right hand. She now struggles to flourish correctly, limiting her maximum potential as a Scribe


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Cordelia Briggs
Twenty-six| Female | Scribe [Apprentice]




APPEARANCE
Inside and out, Cordelia Briggs is an unusual beauty. Of average height and sculpted with gentle curves, she carries herself with an air of fluidity, every motion carefully composed and intentional, though never severe or sharp. There’s a nobility there, a practiced charm, crafted and honed. Her hands are kept impeccably, meticulously clean. Her wardrobe is at times a little ostentatious and flamboyant, but outside of what’s on her person, Cordelia carries very little beyond what is absolutely necessary: Her scrolls, a cloak, two ornate stiletto blades and a silver necklace she believes once belonged to her birth mother, stolen off the man who raised her.

Her features are delicate, canvas a pale foil to the dark brown hair worn in loose waves, falling well past her waist. Gaslight blue eyes, wide and eerily bright, are set beneath thin, arched brows and thick, dark lashes. Cordelia's voice can be both soft and commanding, depending on what the circumstances call for.

“It's gonna cost ya..."


"It's not the future most folks are afraid of, darling... It's whether or not they can change it. Thing about fate is, half the time what we're tryin' to avoid ends up being the very thing that sets it all into motion. Better to look it in the eye, then let it stab you in the back..."




HISTORY
Tell your fortune for a copper, love...
Fortune favors those with a fortune to favor… or so she was taught. Having experienced the underbelly of society's lowest, Cordelia is well acquainted with the notion that peace is little more than a glistening bandage slapped over a festering wound. Looks are often deceiving for anyone who lacks the vision to really see, and sight is not something she has ever lacked. Born and orphaned on a starless night, she came into a broken, damaged world more tool than child and for this, the first several years of her life were quite hard.

Thieves. Grifters. Killers. This was the family she came to know. The world of darkness became a way of life to Cordelia, that underbelly a home. By her earliest years, her adopted father had honed her into his partner in crime. The girl took to conning like a fish to water, and made of herself a valuable enough commodity to survive. And so she existed for the next several years, her father picking pockets, while Cordelia balanced on the marginally more sophisticated edge of fortune telling. It was during one of these dalliances, however, that her own fortune changed. It was a simple drawing… a part of her production that caught the attention of the Scribe. A spell, written instinctively… no question otherwise. The next several weeks would see her life turned on its head, while her father sought to keep from her the nature of her gift and the fate that it would bring. But in time, that fate reared, when in a violent outburst, her true nature was unveiled by the very man desperate to keep it a secret. Outraged by her father's deception, Cordelia left with the scribes the following morning to begin her education at Osceli.

For the next several years, Cordelia poured herself into her studies, focusing all of her energies on learning, adapting and growing in her skills as a Scribe. Eventually, after finishing off her initial instructions at Osceli, Cordelia was approached about an apprenticeship, which she pursued without hesitation.



INTUITIVE | FOCUSED | ENCOURAGING
GUARDED | EMOTIONAL | WARY


SKILLS & SPELLS
Weapons | In her youth and during her education at Osceli, Cordelia was trained to wield both a solitary blade, as well as daggers. She is also quite proficiently versed in many applicable uses for poisons and herbs.


Spells |

Magic | SOUL |

The ramifications of overuse of this magic are two fold - physically, Cordelia suffers from violent headaches, dizzy spells and most frequently, bleeding from the nose. Mentally, Cordelia can be challenged by nightmares or insomnia, usually brought on by disturbing memories or thought patterns.

Telepathic bond ||

A temporary link between minds, allowing for silent communication akin to telepathy.

Identifier | Soul; Mind

Descriptors | Connection. Thought. Link. Communication. [NAME]

Flourish | A small spiral at the temples with crossed pointers and middle fingers, leading down the jaw and to the lips before drawing outwards.

Spike of Discord |

Causes an illusory sound, within the mind, disorienting and distracting. This can be done on multiple targets at a time, but will expend considerably more energy with each assault.

Identifier | Soul; Mind

Descriptors | Disharmony. Affliction. Cacophony. Illusion. Disorient.

Flourish | Palms and fingers extended outward, swiftly curled - one fist over the other before the inner hand is extended again, forced outward.

Detection of Thoughts|

The ability to read thoughts, memories or emotions through a mental link established through a complex flourish. For a deeper connection, physical contact must be made between the mage and link.

Identifier | Soul; Mind

Descriptors | Memories [Emotions; Thoughts]. Reveal. Vision.

Flourish | Pointer and middle fingers of both hands cross separately, pinky tips touch thumb tips, then ring fingers join while pinkies release, all fingers pointing towards the intended target. (for a deeper pull, physical contact must be made with target)

Restful Mind |

Allows for a calming of emotions, to a particular extent. This spell only works on emotions of a simple context – deeply rooted emotions [an aggregate of two or more emotions] cannot be so easily calmed and calming a crowd over a solitary person is considerably more draining.

Identifier | Soul; Mind

Descriptor | Suppression. Rest. Calm. Emotion

Flourish | Hands extended outward… ring and middle finger crossed, pinky and pointer fingers extending outward. Slowly, hands lower towards floor, thumbs coming together first, before palms meet.

Echo |

Allows for a brief connection with an object, revealing small bits of history about the item.

Identifier | Soul; Object

Descriptor | History. Vision. Reveal.

Flourish | Thumbs and rings fingers of both hands create a link together. Pointer crosses with middle finger, then this and pinky extend, pointing left hand to self, right hand towards intended object.

PERSONALITY
Cordelia is a simple creature, with a very complex code of morality. In a general sense of survival, whatever is necessary is usually acceptable by her standards, but in everyday life she exists within a strict parameter of self control seen pertinently in the way she approaches the world around her. Most particularly, Cordelia will not 'read' anyone that she has any sort of deeply rooted emotional attachment to, nor will she utilize her talents [those magic related and from her life as a grifter] on children or widows. She has also taken a vow to never read an Agent of the Order - an oath required of her, to pursue her particular branch of studies.

She can be exceptionally guarded, where her own feelings are concerned, but is nevertheless a warm, open individual, quite easy to talk to, promoting a sense of trust and reliability in most she interacts with. When working, Cordelia is extremely focused, tackling every job with the uttermost attention to detail. She can be a bit of a magpie, collecting odd trinkets here and there, largely for strangely sentimental reasons.

Because of the sensitive nature of her magic and admittedly a bit of paranoia on her part, Cordelia is extremely cautious, when it comes to her past - usually restrained with more than her basic identity with almost any she comes in contact with. Despite this, she manages to come across as candid and genuine, quite easy to talk to and often a source for advice.

Conversely, her complicated upbringing and the strained relationships with the members of her family has done little to afford Cordelia with a great deal of trust in others. This makes it exceptionally complicated to create lasting relationships. Those relationships she does manage to build are indelible - her loyalty, once earned, rarely rescinded.

Skills | Cordelia's talents for conning go without saying. Trained at a young age, she possesses a gift of charming most she meets, and in many instances, manages it earnestly, belying her occupation. Beyond her talents of conversation, she is quite physically capable, nimble and stealthy, quick footed and quick thinking. Lastly, though certainly not least, Cordelia's intuition is nearly inimitable - her instincts calibrated to the slightest hint of trouble. Even without her magic, she is an excellent judge of character.

Deficiencies | So accustomed to conning is Cordelia, that turning it off is oftentimes impossible. Because of the potential dangers her past holds, she keeps a lock on every detail of her life prior to Osceli. Where she grew up, down to the nature of how she grew up has become a treasure to protect, at all costs. At her core, she can tend to be a bit compulsive -- particularly when under pressure or if she's feeling out of control. On the surface, this manifests in a need for cleanliness, most especially her hands.

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Intro post for Riders of Verlendia



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Brevik’cor Castline
Call | Brevity

Thirty-Four | Male | Order [Agent]






DESCRIPTION
Brevik’cor Castline doesn’t really know if he would call himself handsome or not. His late wife, Evalyn, would call him smoothly attractive. Like porcelain or ivory. But, then again, she was blind. To eyes that care about such things, Brevik’cor’s face is one of smooth angles that make him nondescript in a line up. Upon close scrutiny, it would seem young or oddly ageless. Despite the fact that a mask hides it most of the time. The hair on his head is either a very short black or utterly utterly missing. Depending on when he last shaved it. The less hair to be left behind at the scenes of his investigations or operations, the less people have to identify him off of. Certainly, the world would have a difficult time placing raven black hair amongst a group of dark-haired men and woman. But if the local population was predominantly blonde however… Well, he’s not one for taking chances. He notices details like that, see. The corner of carpet folded to hide a blood stain. The painting slightly crooked to show that someone had taken it out and replaced it with a fake. It’s the little things in life that makes him pause. Question. And then seek the truth once again. The man is lithe and full of wiry, strong muscle. Easy enough to conceal beneath some clothes. Padded as necessary. Fortunately, wandering the dangers of the Hollows often necessitates such articles. A place where a goodly number of his Order missions take him. However, there is one feature that does stick out in people’s minds, no matter how much he tries otherwise. His eyes are inky black and, if one can pierce their veils, full of steady, careful thought. Weighing all it sees to a nicety upon the scales of knowledge and understanding.

Outwardly, Brevik’cor is a quiet man. Not least because he’s deaf. He has a lot to say, and when he does sign, it’s certainly worth listening to. But he takes his time coming to say it. Brevik’cor likes to be certain of his facts and then gets quickly to the point. Concise, dense, but thorough and well-spoken. The soul of brevity. He enjoys watching conversation. Smiling behind his red mask as people talk and breath joy into the world. Parties and festivals are his favorites. The pulse of emotion is something he can feel in the earth and the entire world seems awash with color. He longs to be able to hear it, but treasures the gifts of sight and touch to bring him these things and plays a pair of drums he keeps on him with surprising and surpassing skill. Death lingers on his mind, though not in a morbid manner. More of the knowledge that all things pass.

Above all are his three drives. To know and understand, to acquire Wisdom by her name. To uphold the virtues of the Order and bring balance to Ruane. His love and care for his daughter and to build a safe world for her. Despite the secretive nature of the Order, the man is a fairly open book about his passions and musical hobby. Though, not his deeds.


“Silence is golden...too cliche?"


"Death comes for everyone. It’s that one inevitable. Accepting this, I can fling myself forward without fear and without hesitation."






HISTORY
"Someone sing us a song and I'll play along! Why are you all looking at me like that?"
Brevik’cor never knew his family.

The man’s origins roll back to an orphanage in the depths of the wandering alleys and botanical wonders of the Scourgewood. From the start, he could not hear a thing. Not the bells in the church, nor the laughter of his fellow children. Not the wails of the undead, nor the death rattles of the devoured. Not the most beautiful strain of music, nor the wails of sundered loved ones. But he was able to touch both. Brevik’cor is forever grateful for these facts alone. That Evalyn was able to bring these to him. For now, in this brief retelling of his life, Brevik’cor is still a child. A baby growing up in streets rightly called haunted. It took his caretakers quite some time to notice his deafness. Deft with his eyes, he was able to pick up cues that the other kids put out. If they heard a door open and they turned to look, he would too. If shouting and hollering from the streets drew them all to the windows, he would meld right with the crowd. If everyone paid rapt attention to tales at story-time, he would dedicatedly look as well. It wasn’t until Master Ofsen’kev Coldbrook saved Brevik’cor’s life that it was driven home to them. A group of the kids were playing in the street in front of the orphanage when all save one heard a carriage approaching from around the corner. Now, most of the children ran, sharp as nails, out of the way. They knew the score. Been taught well by the old Master. Save for Brevik’cor. The ball had just happened to roll out of the circle of children and he had turned his back on the group to chase it. He didn’t notice the group scurrying out of the way. However, despite his age, Master Coldbrook was still as lithe as a cat in his response. A veteran of many a campaign into the undead ridden Hollows, he had created this orphanage after his retirement from the army. A haven for those children whose parents were lost for any reason. And he fiercely protected them as if they were his own. With surpassing agility, Master Coldbrook rushed out into the street, dove, and rolled the toddler Brevik’cor into his arms and out of the way to safety on the other side of the street as the carriage went whizzing past.

From there, it was easy to piece together past chances that were once overlooked and perceive the other signs of Brevik’cor’s lack of hearing. When the children heard the door open, he was always a bit slower than most. The same went for noises from the street. During story-time, he did, occasionally, look around with a puzzled look on his face. Wondering what it was all about. The masters and matrons of the orphanage wondered what to do about it. Perhaps a scribe could heal it, but most were well engaged in other affairs. And even then, this did not seem to be an injury that could be simply healed. He had been born this way. The Order, by many a report, communicated through some esoteric method with their hands. Far more complex than the basic military hand-signs that Coldbrook knew. Still, the old man had a contact or two who may be able to reach the Order’s ears and could, perhaps, help. As the man scribbled and sent missives, the rest turned to the other obvious option. Teaching Brevik’cor to read and to write. They quickly found that this was no easy task! Without classical speech to guide him, it took him far longer to learn the basics of the craft than others. It was through the efforts of Madam Allora’ven Icefren that he succeeded so well. It was she who stayed up many a night to drill him through the concepts. After he had begun to grasp these, tears were brought to Allora’ven’s eyes as, the first thing he wrote was a simple, tragic question: “why are you all moving your mouths so much?”

The lad had, of course, realized that something was up. He could tell that something was going on. That meaning was being communicated. But, without sound, he had no idea what that was. It became Allora’ven’s painful duty to try, with fumbling words in the form of many crossed out notes, and explain what it was to not hear. And that he may never hear a single sound. Quietly, he cried his eyes out for five days.

Yet that’s where his slowness stopped for, after he began to grasp the concept, mastery rapidly followed. Brevik’cor had been without communication for five years of his life and he was certainly determined to make up for lost time. Writing all that he saw and scribing his words to others. And it became apparent that he saw quite a bit. Gifted with a keen eye that deafness only honed, Brevik’cor displayed an uncanny knack for detail. Picking up on the precise hues of color, rapidly picking up on how to read lips, and becoming rather excellent at hide and seek. It is a trait that served him well throughout life. So it was that Brevik’cor’s early childhood became as boisterous and active as any’s. Though far quieter, for he rarely made a sound. Even when in pain. Most of all, though, he loved attending the festivals held year by year. For, while he could not hear the din, he could feel the excitement through the soft vibrations that the joyous clamor made. And his eyes delighted in the colors and shapes of all the festive gear.

The Order did indeed reply to Coldbrook’s missives saying that they could not teach their language of signs to anyone outside their ranks but promised also to keep at least an idle eye on the boy to see if he may be called to join the ranks.

However, it was not to last. Old Master Coldbrook was not called old as a mere moniker. Time rolled on and, at the close of Brevik’cor’s tenth Winter, he died. It was no great mystery. Age was the cause. The next Master of Brightbreeze Orphanage was not a man of Coldbrook’s quality. Master Ven’domin Bitterbrush felt that, if these kids were about the streets, he may as well make use of the cheap labor. The education that Coldbrook had set up for the children to work to give them a bright future and a fighting chance in the world was radically diminished. In its place, the orphans were sent out into the wilds to seek the herbs and ingredients the apothecaries of Scourgewood craved to make their renowned tinctures.

Despite the destruction of formal education, his life was far from being devoid of learning. Extreme care and caution was needed to scurry about the wonder and horrors of the Hollows. Without ears, Brevik’cor relied heavily upon his eyes to pick out minute signs of danger and to feel the land shiver and quake underneath him when the undead shambled close. His knowledge of root and herb bloomed. Death was, sadly, a now constant companion in this new, hard world. Friends became bloated corpses in mires or rent and devoured by undead monsters. Others turned hard and unfriendly under their change of fortune, shunning anything that could be seen as weakness that could lead to death. Unspoken trauma built upon the boy. Earning him hardening scars that stretch into today. And the Order watched.

Brevik’cor never forgot his fifteenth birthday. Although, at the time, he didn’t know he was fifteen. The lad had developed a strong, lithe frame that was, nonetheless, too thin from having only just enough to eat. The day was at its end and, as was his want, he lay on his back of the orphanage. Staring up at the stars and plotting his escape. He knew the ingredients to sell to the alchemists. He knew how to write. He could even do math. He was a fit as could be. And knew that he could make a far better living as his own master than under Master Bitterbrush selling the ingredients for himself. When, suddenly, the masked Agent seemed to meld out of the night shadows next to him.

Brevik’cor scrambled to his feet, prepared to fight or flee. Wondering if this was a new, powerful undead abomination for the expressionless mask before him was as like a skull as anything. But he paused, curious. His instincts told him that the individual before him was dangerous. Just not dangerous to him. Then the Order Agent did something simple yet remarkable. It kindled a hungry light in his eyes. The hunger for knowledge, comprehension, communication. For the Agent merely made a short series of hand signs. Brevik’cor, of course, had no idea what it meant. But he could tell this was no mere gimmick. It was a language. One that, if he had the chance, he could learn to speak. There was no question. When the Agent beckoned him to follow, the young man did not wait.

Training was hard for the young man, as it was for everyone involved. Certainly, the first half of the first step, Silent, was easy enough. After all, he had never spoken. Awake or asleep. Coughing and sneezing was a breeze to control. But walking, picking up and replacing objects, and not causing a breeze to move were quite the challenge. True, while his adventures into the Hollows had taught him stealth, there was a still a far cry between stealth and utter silence. Especially to Brevik’cor, Now, more than ever, the man’s natural diligence and hunger for knowledge and skills served him. It pushed him through any roadblock in his way and gave him wings to fly on as each and every concept was practiced and gradually mastered.

Of course, Quiet was a rush for him just as writing was. A language that he made his own. His elegance with it is one to be admired for he rapidly picked up on how to say what he intended in a quick and concise manner. Long before it became is call, Brevity fit him to a T. Rushing about as he read, trained, and talked and talked in the Order’s specialized communication. All other lessons flowed into him with him showing particular aptitude towards surveillance, investigation, balance, self-control, and patience. Perhaps it was his own silent nature that led to the mastery of Patience.

Perseverance was easily followed. Brevik’cor had already displayed strong dedication to learning all the lessons of the Order and this one followed as naturally as all the others. Utilizing his natural attention to detail to hone excellent precision in shooting and finding uses for his natural environment. The Initiate ascended as the needle drove the image into body. Reflecing on his new duties. New purpose. This higher Order that he now served. He had to admit, it hadn’t been expected. From planning his life forward at Brightbreeze to suddenly following the footsteps of becoming an Order Agent. It was…painful in some ways. To be fully shut from whatever life he might have had. All his choices and decisions leading to this point. To be forever sundered from all alternatives. Just as the needle, it created an intricate and unique pattern. One that could never be perfectly repeated. However, all led to that same morbid conclusion. In death. After then, who could say save ghosts and spirits? Brevik’cor embraced this pain and, just like that, he became an Agent.

Most of Brevik’cor’s operations as an Agent are thoroughly classified and are, therefore, redacted from this summary from his life. However, it is known that he served with quiet distinction. Given his condition, it was not common that he served in most diplomatic events, but Brevik’cor worked tirelessly behind the scenes to ensure that the ideals of the Order. Balance and its namesake. Wielding his spear, bow, and mace to serve his keen vision into completing Order objectives.

The years rolled by and a now twenty-two year old man was wandering the wastes of the Hollows. His mission for the while was complete with satisfaction when meandered out of wooded lands to the shore. Naturally, he wasn’t lost as, down the coast ahead of him, Port Daumoore lay. The timing was perfect as Winter was drawing to a close and the first festival of Spring was at hand. Awash with color lay the whole port. People pulsing with motion. It was there that Brevik’cor found what he did not expect right in front of him, though she could not have seen it. Love. Evalyn Delmoor of the Delmoor minstrel family. Blind as a bat the drummer was. With auburn hair and bright, milky eyes. Yet the beat she struck moved something in his heart. Perhaps it was her passion and fire that she brought to his quiet world. Touching his soul as deep as the sweet melodies do when they move audiences to tears.

Few tales even touch upon this courtship for he told few friends. Strange though it was. Yet akin were these two. Thoughtful in their passions. Driven in their arts. Ruanites in their ideals. It is believed that they learned to communicate through the beating drum of their hearts. We ask our readers to forgive such romantic license and we will forebear from further ruminations besides this last: whatever the truth, it is evident that Evalyn taught him the drums. For Brevik’cor displays masterful skill with a pair that he carries on all his travels ever since he met her.

Their romance did not escape the eye of the Whispers but, as such a thing was not strictly forbidden, they did not stand in its way. It was one year and a season before Brevik’core plucked up the courage to ask for her hand. This was granted, though not without reservation. For, while Evalyn cared little that she couldn’t see her husband-to-be’s face, the Delmoor’s were not sure how they felt about an Order Agent being in their lives. Still, they gave their permission and, on the Spring Solstice they were wed under the new moon. His vows exceptionally silent. Hers, absolutely explosive with joy. It wasn’t long before she became heavy with child.

They knew the rules. The Whispers deployed an Agent and the newly christened Elva’gaustra Castline was whisked away. Hidden in the depths of the continent. Unfortunately, Brevik’cor was deployed on missions and was not at home for a full year. The Dark Winter of that year was uncommonly cruel. Evalyn passed quietly away. Unmarked and unheralded. It drove a quiet rift between himself and his in-laws. Still, they are able to, at the least, visit Evalyn's grave without argument.

Brevik’cor was left alone. Still, he carried out his duties without hesitation. If there was a noticeable change is that he had become a shade quieter and a step more distant. A step more…fervent in his duties. Few thought to question it. After all, the man had just lost his wife and, even with all the Order’s efforts in training and discipline, such things had an impact upon a person. It would be far more concerning if it had none at all. So long as Castline’s work continued to be up to standard, there was no need to worry.

Time passed, five years in fact, and it did seem that Brevik’cor had recovered. Certainly, he still seemed a shade more…bold in his actions. But appropriate social ties had been reforged with other Agents. However, on a rotation of duty at Osceli, Brevik’cor saw her. A small girl who appeared to be six with auburn hair and black eyes. Gaily talking with a strong hint of nerves behind her shifting eyes. One used to an unstable world. It was this and a single detail that held Brevik’cor’s expensive attention for exactly five seconds. She wore a strap as an absurd headband. Childish. But the strap was very familiar. It was the one his late Evalyn carried her drums with. It was simple, black leather with extensively thick embroidery. It looked cheap to a merchant’s eye. Of course, none of them would have considered that the stitcher had been blind. Choosing such design to give a rich texture. The colors were completely mismatched. Again, Evalyn hadn’t cared. All in all, it was both utterly worthless to even those in an orphanage. Easy to keep track of and secure. And utterly distinct. Thinking back, he couldn't remember seeing it after Elva'gaustra had been taking away.

Two years passed since Brevik’cor met this child who may just be his daughter. War now looms on the horizon. Growing in Brevik’cor’s mind. Joining the rebellion, he now seeks a way to prevent it from happening as the ideals of the Order and for his daughter propel him forward. He will find a way, at any cost, to keep the peace. To ensure that balance and order are maintained for all of Ruane and for Elva’gaustra.



INTUITIVE | EXTROSPECTIVE | NOSTALGIC
MORBID | WARM | LEARNER



SKILLS, DEFICIENICIES, WEAPONS, AND ONE RED MASK
Weapons | A strong recurve bow with goose feather arrows. A stout, two-handed spear. A single-handed steel mace. A leather shield. A knife. Knowledge of herbs from his youth and years across the Hollows, compounded with training in the Order.

Skills
  • Brevik’cor has a striking skill of visual discernment. Often able to pick out minute details from a far greater distance than most would believe.
  • When combined with his vision, his extraordinary extroverted intuition allows him to build rapid conclusions based upon the patterns that layer the world around him. This has made him one of the more excellent investigators the Order has produced.
  • Lastly, his wilderness survival skills builds atop the honed physique of the Order’s training. Brevik’cor is capable of surviving in the wilderness for indefinite periods of time as he treks, or tracks, his way to the next mission.

Deficiencies
  • One cannot overlook the fact that Brevik’cor is deaf. While he has adapted marvelously to his circumstances, there is no doubt that it leaves him lacking whenever the job calls for a careful ear. He cannot listen at keyholes or around walls. A fast asleep Brevik’cor will hear nothing to disturb him to awakening.
  • Second, when the man was but a lad, he absorbed significant trauma as many of his friends perished in the Hollows. Deafness mixed with the oppressive environment in the latter half of his childhood meant that he struggled to express that trauma. “I have no mouth and I must scream.” As he gradually processed it in his quiet way, it has developed into a sense of reckless fatalism. Death awaits all and nothing can be done to absolutely stave it off. Nor should it when the time comes.
  • While brevity is a trait that can be applauded, Brevik’cor often takes it all the way to bluntness. Even in situations when a level of tact or diplomatic guile would be of better service. How he sees it is that life is finite and he doesn’t have time to bandy compliments. Get to the point and make them see the point. Then move on.

Mask | A smooth piece of ivory. Dyed a crimson hew save for the brilliant white runes etched upon it representing blood. Despite the grim nature, Brevik’cor celebrates it as a mask of life. The pulse of all living things, for even plants have sap. Its eye sockets have two engraved lines leading up to a circle in the middle of the forehead. Representing Balance and Order along with the center of knowledge and wisdom: the mind. Fortunately, unfortunately, the basic grimness of the mask has given Brevik’cor a rather sinister appearance. He doesn’t feel the need to object to it.


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Under " A Chronicler's Collection of Published and Unpublished Works" Specifically: “It Takes a Village”



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Leander Drak
status
First born son of King Grovan Drak; Prince

age
Thirty-one

gender
Male

hometown
Highveil; the Dominion

posting sample
Click here




ABOUT
Even though Leander is a prince, he would stand out in a crowd regardless. Many describe him as beautiful but there have been a few that commented on the hint of pain behind his striking green eyes. He is tall, standing at six foot two, and has an athletic build. His skin always appears sun-kissed and his hair cascades in copper waves against his strong jawline. Women swoon over the prince, for his title and his looks, but it isn't long before their perception of him is soured by his rotten personality.

Arrogant and privileged, Leander knows that he is better than most and he is not above flaunting his title. He demands respect even when he does not deserve it and when challenged, he can be brash and belittling. Leander's unpleasant personality is, more often than not, a shield to protect his desperate need to be accepted and loved and to mask his feelings of inadequacy and fear that he will never live up to the name that precedes him.

Leander dresses as you would expect a man of his class to dress with a few liberties. He wears semi-fitted trousers in darker colours and white pressed button-up shirts with loose arms and the neck open to bare his collar bone. Over top of his shirts, he would wear either a waist-length jacket, a vest, or a tunic-style overcoat. These pieces were often adorned with jewelry or accent patterns in gold. Hanging from his shoulders was either an overcoat that hung mid-calf in a colour to match his trousers or a cape with a golden armoured shoulder for more formal occasions.

Leander favours a one-handed sword that allows him maximum mobility. It rests in a scabbard attached to his hip so that he is able to draw it quickly. Strapped to his thigh opposite of his sword and above his pants is a long dagger in a smaller scabbard. On his ankle on the same side of his sword and inside his boot, the smallest dagger is hidden.

STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES
+ Natural Born Warrior: Leander showed a natural gift for the sword when he was quite young and opted for more beneficial fighting methods over fencing for sport. He found solace in training and did so as much as he could. Leander was even mentored by a well-revered knight that hailed from the Blackened Keep who defected to the Dominion and became part of the King's army. He is also proficient in hand-to-hand combat and is surprisingly agile. Although Leander prefers to fight with a weapon, he is just as lethal without.

+ Cunning and Manipulative: Leander has grown up in a world of politics, niceties, and manipulation. He has first-hand experience in what to say and how to say it to get what you want. He has learned to observe small details about others and gather information to use against them. Leander is not above blackmail and he has worked tirelessly at creating a network of corrupt people to do his bidding should he need them.

+ Determined and Hardworking: For everything Leander is, lazy is not one of them. He is determined and he works hard. Leander is the type to work until his hands are bleeding and although he might take a moment to sulk, he will never give up.

- Distorted Moral Compass: Leander wasn’t raised as a typical child and his sense of right and wrong is heavily skewed because of it. Instead, Leander serves only his own ideals of right and wrong no matter how unorthodox they appear to be.

- “You Arrogant and Selfish Prick!” A slur Leander has heard a number of times resulting from him only thinking of himself and acting irregardless of how it might affect others. Leander thinks highly of himself and his pride can be off-putting.

- Privilege: Although Leander has a traumatic childhood, he has never experienced the hardships of coming from nothing. His family is royalty and he has only known luxury, which results in his lack of gratitude for things. In addition, he has no actual sense of the reality of others and the world itself.
HISTORY
The Dominion celebrated when King Grovan Drak welcomed his first son into the world. Celebrations were held across the land for the weeks to come following Leander’s birth; at last, the Dominion had a Prince to succeed the King. As young as Leander could walk, he was raised with one purpose in mind; one day he would take Grovan Drak’s place on the throne. It was an immense amount of responsibility, pressure, and expectation to put on a child and with it, came many rules. Leander was to attend council with his father to observe the politics of the country, he would have daily lessons on all manners of being a King, and he would have free time only when permitted. He was robbed of his childhood - seldomly allowed to socialize outside of his duties. King Grovan Drak was intent on molding the boy into the perfect image of himself no matter the costs… but it came with grave repercussions.

Leander was just five years old the first time his father struck him. He was playing hide and seek with a young page in the keep when Grovan Drak went to collect him to attend council but he didn’t want to go - he didn’t want to stop playing. His taste of innocence and freedom would be soured when his father struck him for all peering eyes to see… and it would not be the last time that Leander was corrected for inappropriate behaviour.

Grovan Drak would continue on to have two more sons, Andrius and Braegen. The two did not have the same responsibility or expectations thrust upon them simply because they were not firstborn and instead were awarded the affections of their father. As Leander aged, he began to resent them for that and the position he held being the firstborn son. He became more rebellious, always pushing boundaries or making snide remarks and when he was older, he began to dabble in the dealings of the black market. Leander continuously earned the disapproval of his father despite whatever successes he had or promise he showed. Leander would never live up to his father’s name, he would never be worthy, and he would forever live in the shadow of the great King Grovan Drak.



made by zenith
 



Leander Drak
status
First born son of King Grovan Drak; Prince

age
Thirty-one

gender
Male

hometown
Highveil; the Dominion

posting sample
Click here




ABOUT
Even though Leander is a prince, he would stand out in a crowd regardless. Many describe him as beautiful but there have been a few that commented on the hint of pain behind his striking green eyes. He is tall, standing at six foot two, and has an athletic build. His skin always appears sun-kissed and his hair cascades in copper waves against his strong jawline. Women swoon over the prince, for his title and his looks, but it isn't long before their perception of him is soured by his rotten personality.

Arrogant and privileged, Leander knows that he is better than most and he is not above flaunting his title. He demands respect even when he does not deserve it and when challenged, he can be brash and belittling. Leander's unpleasant personality is, more often than not, a shield to protect his desperate need to be accepted and loved and to mask his feelings of inadequacy and fear that he will never live up to the name that precedes him.

Leander dresses as you would expect a man of his class to dress with a few liberties. He wears semi-fitted trousers in darker colours and white pressed button-up shirts with loose arms and the neck open to bare his collar bone. Over top of his shirts, he would wear either a waist-length jacket, a vest, or a tunic-style overcoat. These pieces were often adorned with jewelry or accent patterns in gold. Hanging from his shoulders was either an overcoat that hung mid-calf in a colour to match his trousers or a cape with a golden armoured shoulder for more formal occasions.

Leander favours a one-handed sword that allows him maximum mobility. It rests in a scabbard attached to his hip so that he is able to draw it quickly. Strapped to his thigh opposite of his sword and above his pants is a long dagger in a smaller scabbard. On his ankle on the same side of his sword and inside his boot, the smallest dagger is hidden.

STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES
+ Natural Born Warrior: Leander showed a natural gift for the sword when he was quite young and opted for more beneficial fighting methods over fencing for sport. He found solace in training and did so as much as he could. Leander was even mentored by a well-revered knight that hailed from the Blackened Keep who defected to the Dominion and became part of the King's army. He is also proficient in hand-to-hand combat and is surprisingly agile. Although Leander prefers to fight with a weapon, he is just as lethal without.

+ Cunning and Manipulative: Leander has grown up in a world of politics, niceties, and manipulation. He has first-hand experience in what to say and how to say it to get what you want. He has learned to observe small details about others and gather information to use against them. Leander is not above blackmail and he has worked tirelessly at creating a network of corrupt people to do his bidding should he need them.

+ Determined and Hardworking: For everything Leander is, lazy is not one of them. He is determined and he works hard. Leander is the type to work until his hands are bleeding and although he might take a moment to sulk, he will never give up.

- Distorted Moral Compass: Leander wasn’t raised as a typical child and his sense of right and wrong is heavily skewed because of it. Instead, Leander serves only his own ideals of right and wrong no matter how unorthodox they appear to be.

- “You Arrogant and Selfish Prick!” A slur Leander has heard a number of times resulting from him only thinking of himself and acting irregardless of how it might affect others. Leander thinks highly of himself and his pride can be off-putting.

- Privilege: Although Leander has a traumatic childhood, he has never experienced the hardships of coming from nothing. His family is royalty and he has only known luxury, which results in his lack of gratitude for things. In addition, he has no actual sense of the reality of others and the world itself.
HISTORY
The Dominion celebrated when King Grovan Drak welcomed his first son into the world. Celebrations were held across the land for the weeks to come following Leander’s birth; at last, the Dominion had a Prince to succeed the King. As young as Leander could walk, he was raised with one purpose in mind; one day he would take Grovan Drak’s place on the throne. It was an immense amount of responsibility, pressure, and expectation to put on a child and with it, came many rules. Leander was to attend council with his father to observe the politics of the country, he would have daily lessons on all manners of being a King, and he would have free time only when permitted. He was robbed of his childhood - seldomly allowed to socialize outside of his duties. King Grovan Drak was intent on molding the boy into the perfect image of himself no matter the costs… but it came with grave repercussions.

Leander was just five years old the first time his father struck him. He was playing hide and seek with a young page in the keep when Grovan Drak went to collect him to attend council but he didn’t want to go - he didn’t want to stop playing. His taste of innocence and freedom would be soured when his father struck him for all peering eyes to see… and it would not be the last time that Leander was corrected for inappropriate behaviour.

Grovan Drak would continue on to have two more sons, Andrius and Braegen. The two did not have the same responsibility or expectations thrust upon them simply because they were not firstborn and instead were awarded the affections of their father. As Leander aged, he began to resent them for that and the position he held being the firstborn son. He became more rebellious, always pushing boundaries or making snide remarks and when he was older, he began to dabble in the dealings of the black market. Leander continuously earned the disapproval of his father despite whatever successes he had or promise he showed. Leander would never live up to his father’s name, he would never be worthy, and he would forever live in the shadow of the great King Grovan Drak.



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GM PC


Lock
Agent of the Order



Name: Vyseiv Thagne
Call: Lock
Age: 29
Profession and Status: Agent of the Order


Appearance

There's a certain charm hidden under the years of dutiful training. The charm carries no braggadocio or boisterous display. It is contained within the warm gaze he holds to anyone who speaks to him, or the way his lips pull to a smirk in such a mischievous way.

His appearance is a wash of white with a pale complexion fit for a ghost. Upon his head is a mop of bright platinum blond fixed in a short mess not yet long enough to pull back with a tie. His eyes are perhaps the least pale about him with a deep hue of blue. Due to this, he takes great efforts to hide every part of his form when not among just the Order.

He is otherwise a rather average looking fellow in form. His physique carries the toned muscles of one needing to be agile, quick, and capable for a fight. His attire is that of soft leathers and dark cloths with his head wrapped in a cowl for added coverage.

Mask: Vyseiv's mask is incredibly simple in appearance. The structure is made of metal, and is then wrapped in cloth to conceal its sheen. It has a singular horizontal slit for the eyes that spans a length suitable for his peripheral vision.

Weapons: Two katar holstered on his thighs, a bandolier with five throwing knives, a knife hidden within his left boot, a spring loaded blade attached within the top of his right bracer, three blowdarts laced with paralysis poison.

Personality

It is difficult to tell what is his training and what is his true personality. Perhaps it is that he has none unique to him due to how he has lived his life both outside of the Order and within. One thing is certain: he pays attention. Whether or not his interest is personal or business can be difficult to tell.

He melds himself with whatever group he is part of, and is able to discern what makes them comfortable. His chameleon personality has the potential to lose ground if he finds himself among two parties who know him differently.

When in situations he feels he can't work within, he will find a way to exit, and perhaps literally disappear. To this, one could speculate a bit of pride. If he can't perform, he may just wish to avoid the embarrassment.

Peeling back the layers of a façade may prove difficult with Vyseiv. He's not one to easily let someone in and be vulnerable. He's a very guarded man, not just due to his training within the Order, but due to his past experiences. It would be difficult for one to garner the truth from his tightly sealed lips.

Strengths: Adapting to change is quite easy for Vyseiv. Change makes his life a bit interesting, and he tackles it like a puzzle needing to be solved as quickly as possible.

Vyseiv is great at reading people, not just for long term profiling, but in the moment to gauge their thoughts and how they may act or react.

He's very intelligent and forward thinking. This gives him the edge he needs for his life as an Agent of the Order. All of his skills are thanks to his mind, and he perhaps uses his intelligence more than any physical prowess.

Weaknesses: While he is a great liar, lies always come back to bite anyone who spouts them. He has few true friends because of this, and more business-like relations.

He views those around him like a puzzle, and often neglects to remember that the person before him is just like him. He can become too involved with attempting to discern what makes a person tick.

Pride tends to drive him, and is also a considerable weakness for him if he feels his strengths are on the line. He will back out of situations where he feels he doesn't have the upper hand.

History

Vyseiv's secreted truth began in the little village of Sormonet where he was born to two loving, though a bit overbearing, parents. He was the middle child of five, though after a few harsh winters, he became the youngest child. His eldest brother joined his father in hunting for food and pelts, which they would tan the hides to sell for additional profits. And then one day only his father returned, leaving him and his sister as the only remaining children. He was eight.

His rebellious years began soon after. His mother was a bit controlling, mostly due to fear and grief, but that is not something he understood at his young age. He would run off in the night to thrill seek with the other village boys. It started out as pranks to mess with the locals or wildlife, and then escalated to stealing drinks from patrons in the tavern, or pickpocketing valuables as they passed by someone. All for the thrill and glory of not being caught.

Their antics were eventually revealed, and the boys punished, but this did not deter them. While Vyseiv's sister was sent off for a higher education, he was sneaking off for months at a time, often going to Leuvinesce for better gains. He became part of an information ring brokered by a noble looking to move up further in status. Not only would he be paid to gather information, but he'd be paid to… handle a few situations discreetly.

This was a life he lived through his teenage years, only going back home on occasion to drop off coin. He told his mother at first that he got a job in Leuvinesce in the blacksmith's guild, but over the years she became skeptical.

His first kill was around the age of seventeen where he was paid handsomely to remove a nobleman from a position of power. Vyseiv made it appear that the nobleman choked on his food and died of asphyxiation. And for a brief time all seemed to have gone well, and he sent off half of his earnings to his parents before guards were at his door.

Vyseiv was imprisoned for the nobleman's death, and was awaiting trial where he would likely be hung for his crime. In that time, he received only one visitor: his sister. She had been part of the medical team that autopsied the nobleman's body, and in their research discovered he hadn't choked on any food. Their discovery of poison in his system began the hunt for the nobleman's killer. She didn't know it was her own brother until she saw him exit the cart to be hauled into the dungeons.

While he pleaded for her to get him out, she instead decided they needed to come up with a way to break the news to their parents of his demise. While she was part of the royal apothecary's guild, she had no sway in the outcome of his punishment. It was difficult for him to come to terms with his fate that left him awash with inward and outward blame that warred within him. Ultimately, they decided to go with the story that it was a sudden death from being hit in the head while working.

The day of his sentencing came, and instead of being sent off to the gallows, he was herded into a jailer's cart alongside six other criminals. They were to be sent off to the Serpent's Head for the remainder of their lives.

While it should have been a partial relief not to die, rumor has it you would wish it if you had to live within the Head. A few of the men sharing this sentence pleaded for the gallows, one even trying to cause enough chaos on the walk to the cart to incite the guards to use lethal force. But all seven made it onto the cart to head to port.

Young and afraid, he was impressionable to the reactions the adults around him were having. Tears were shared, stories told of their crimes, and some even vowed to have each others' backs. It was a long journey over both land and sea, and by the time they reached the Head it felt like a dream.

His time within the Head was grueling and near constant labor. The memory of it all is hazy, and he barely remembers when Whisper Seek rescued him by bringing him into the Order. The haze lifted on their journey to Osceli, and he was fully recovered by the time he started training.

He isn't sure what age he was at this point due to how his time at the Head caused a lot of memory issues, but he speculates he was at least eighteen when he began with the Order. During the first phase of his journey, when he was to be silent at all times, he was also learning how to read and write alongside basic academics. He wasn't alone in this as an adult as there were others older than him struggling just as much with learning.

He picked up on combat far easier than any other task, and found himself disappointed when the martial lessons were not a primary function of the Order, and only taught as a means for self-preservation. Any information they garnered had to be returned to the Order at all cost for deliberation.

Once he mastered all elements that comprised an Agent, he quite enjoyed his job. He was promoted and tattooed, and when he was able to control his ability to disappear, he was assigned his first task.

Most in the Order have their first task within Osceli to get new Agents used to performing their duties both physically seen and unseen. He liked to position himself within the halls as it had the most traffic and the most people who aren't thinking about the Order's presence. He'd station himself against the wall, completely invisible for hours just to people watch.

Vyseiv is a master at appearing incredibly unremarkable. He doesn't appear outstanding amongst his peers, and performs his duties just as well as the next Agent. His missions have been that of a listener and a snooper, gathering information just by being present in places where people tend to believe they are alone. Over the past year his reported findings have revealed King Drak's paranoia, but the assignment was not supposed to even be in Highveil. He was gone for months, and worked his way into the keep to spy on the royal house directly while still achieving the primary goal. To this, he has been noticed by the Whispers.
 
Poh Cendrik
[street alias-Hym / Call-Wreck]

•Age: 27 years
•Profession and Status: Agent of the Order
•Appearance: Poh Cendrik is enthusiastically and unabashedly average: average height, average build, average weight. His average light brown locks of hair and beard frame the average sun tanned face of a sailor. He prefers the average light colored clothing of Dominion seamen and often can be seen in them as his alias Hym, though he will adjust his garb as needed to blend into a culture.
1b242ab056b35b758f83ce1169e06d9d.jpg
•Personality: A man of ease, so much as can be managed in the Order, Poh is a relaxed man of efficiency. He considers extended effort a bad use of time and resources and will nearly always seek the path of least resistance. His former life, indeed, was never truly forgotten, and accusations of laziness that occasionally are leveled at him are not without merit.
Nevertheless, Poh is also a man of principle and dedication, and "least resistance" can mean different things at different times; he has a talent for "big picture" thinking and can justify most actions by their anticipated outcome. Whatever those actions may happen to be.
•Merits/Flaws: Poh is a natural in +Rhetoric . His ability to stroll up to a person and speak to them as easily as a childhood friend has found him more than once important or timely information needed to conclude a mission. Beyond this, it has also garnered him a handful of reliable informants from whom he can gather news. Regrettably, this means that he has become -Emotionally Attached to people, and often in direct contradiction to the Order's policy. Thankfully, he is also a seasoned +Traveler from Before, which has provided him street smarts concerning some of the seeder parts of the Dominion, and to a lesser extent, the Covenant. He has a severe distrust of anyone even approaching upper class, which has left him -Arrogant and Abrasive. He absolutely shines in the back alleys and darkened corners, however, where his +Preternatural Dexterity has kept him alive without having to resort to skills of the Order. His over-reliance on this and his silver tongue, however, has caused a severe lack of ability in martial variety.
•The Order: Poh oddly finds a great deal of comfort in the rigidity of the Order's policies, in spite of his occasional disregard for them. Leaning into the Rules (as he calls them) allows him to avoid much responsibility (at least, in his mind). Better, the stated mission of the Order, to maintain balance and order, perfectly fits with his own goal of ease; as the Order fulfills its goals, so too does it provide that ease for people generally, and him tangentially. He is not shy about bending the Rules as he feels he needs to, however, and is known by the Whispers to do so.
The mask of Wreck, Poh's chosen Call, is forged of copper, with an interior of leather to pad his face from abrasion. Though painted a cerulean blue, a general fading of the paint mixed with the beginning oxidation of the copper has caused the mask to begin to turn green in places. It is shaped as a stylized skull, its eye holes sunken and the corners of the mouth pulled back in a death's grimace.
048e6016a6692b9e2ea52f0a40518de8.jpg
•Weaponry: As stated, though his training was as rigorous as any within the Order, Poh has become somewhat lax in maintaining a variety of competencies. He prefers the short blades: three daggers, five throwing knives, and two short swords is his battle set up. He has at least maintained and even progressed in his skill with these.
•Backstory: Nearly a decade ago, a boy of 18 had been saved from a perfectly justified swing on the noose. Poh still wasn't sure why, but he knew better than to look that particular shark in the mouth. For a decade prior, he'd served on less than reputable ships all about Ruane; from the Divide all the way to Vyrth, he traveled, jumping crews as necessary to seek better fortune. In time, he became quite skilled in his labors, and he helped lead his fellow sailors to great wealth.
His luck didn't last. One day, he and his crewmates made contact with a merchant vessel enroute from Eighe to Scourgewood and endeavored to lighten their load of expensive goods. Lord Kelphast of Scourgewood had, unfortunately for Poh, sent a few military galleons to meet the merchant ship in order to protect it from the very circumstance it now found itself. The pirate ship was impounded, its crew captured or killed, and all returned to Scourgewood. The survivors were tried expeditiously and executed Poh, his many exploits in uncommissioned privateering well cataloged by the Covenant, was similarly sentenced to a short drop and a sudden stop. That is, until a particular masked figure interceded.
His sudden shift of fortune from captive to Acolyte of the Order was not at first appreciated, Poh seeing it as something of a form of slavery and mental torture. He railed against his tutelage in the beginning, determined to be allowed out, or to find a way out. But one does not flee a clan of invisible assassins, and eventually Poh's sense of self-preservation got the better of him, particularly under the threat of a return to the noose. So he focused his mind to his task.
Poh, Called Wreck in honor of his former wrecked life, was unremarkably average at most his schooling, and he only scraped by achieving Agent. Yet he took to heart the mentality of the mask and adopted a winning smile to accompany an alias by which to speak with the ruffians, ne'er-do-wells, and thieves of the many cities of Ruane. This, he wagered and later found true, was a better mask in some circles than even the Mask of the Order: behind the Mask, he was obviously an agent of change or preservation, a factor not everyone admired. But as a fellow criminal- ah, with a Fellow, tongues would loosen. Thus was he able to aid the Order in surreptitious ways that, perhaps, encouraged his betters in the Order to overlook his less egregious deviations. And for his more flagrant disregards, the punishment of temporary assignment to Osceli was a firm motivation to step carefully.

 
Last edited:
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Poh Cendrik
[street alias-Hym / Call-Wreck]

•Age: 27 years
•Profession and Status: Agent of the Order
•Appearance: Poh Cendrik is enthusiastically and unabashedly average: average height, average build, average weight. His average light brown locks of hair and beard frame the average sun tanned face of a sailor. He prefers the average light colored clothing of Dominion seamen and often can be seen in them as his alias Hym, though he will adjust his garb as needed to blend into a culture.
View attachment 236413
•Personality: A man of ease, so much as can be managed in the Order, Poh is a relaxed man of efficiency. He considers extended effort a bad use of time and resources and will nearly always seek the path of least resistance. His former life, indeed, was never truly forgotten, and accusations of laziness that occasionally are leveled at him are not without merit.
Nevertheless, Poh is also a man of principle and dedication, and "least resistance" can mean different things at different times; he has a talent for "big picture" thinking and can justify most actions by their anticipated outcome. Whatever those actions may happen to be.
•Merits/Flaws: Poh is a natural in +Rhetoric . His ability to stroll up to a person and speak to them as easily as a childhood friend has found him more than once important or timely information needed to conclude a mission. Beyond this, it has also garnered him a handful of reliable informants from whom he can gather news. Regrettably, this means that he has become -Emotionally Attached to people, and often in direct contradiction to the Order's policy. Thankfully, he is also a seasoned +Traveler from Before, which has provided him street smarts concerning some of the seeder parts of the Dominion, and to a lesser extent, the Covenant. He has a severe distrust of anyone even approaching upper class, which has left him -Arrogant and Abrasive. He absolutely shines in the back alleys and darkened corners, however, where his +Preternatural Dexterity has kept him alive without having to resort to skills of the Order. His over-reliance on this and his silver tongue, however, has caused a severe lack of ability in martial variety.
•The Order: Poh oddly finds a great deal of comfort in the rigidity of the Order's policies, in spite of his occasional disregard for them. Leaning into the Rules (as he calls them) allows him to avoid much responsibility (at least, in his mind). Better, the stated mission of the Order, to maintain balance and order, perfectly fits with his own goal of ease; as the Order fulfills its goals, so too does it provide that ease for people generally, and him tangentially. He is not shy about bending the Rules as he feels he needs to, however, and is known by the Whispers to do so.
The mask of Wreck, Poh's chosen Call, is forged of copper, with an interior of leather to pad his face from abrasion. Though painted a cerulean blue, a general fading of the paint mixed with the beginning oxidation of the copper has caused the mask to begin to turn green in places. It is shaped as a stylized skull, its eye holes sunken and the corners of the mouth pulled back in a death's grimace.
View attachment 236414
•Weaponry: As stated, though his training was as rigorous as any within the Order, Poh has become somewhat lax in maintaining a variety of competencies. He prefers the short blades: three daggers, five throwing knives, and two short swords is his battle set up. He has at least maintained and even progressed in his skill with these.
•Backstory: Nearly a decade ago, a boy of 18 had been saved from a perfectly justified swing on the noose. Poh still wasn't sure why, but he knew better than to look that particular shark in the mouth. For a decade prior, he'd served on less than reputable ships all about Ruane; from the Divide all the way to Vyrth, he traveled, jumping crews as necessary to seek better fortune. In time, he became quite skilled in his labors, and he helped lead his fellow sailors to great wealth.
His luck didn't last. One day, he and his crewmates made contact with a merchant vessel enroute from Eighe to Scourgewood and endeavored to lighten their load of expensive goods. Lord Kelphast of Scourgewood had, unfortunately for Poh, sent a few military galleons to meet the merchant ship in order to protect it from the very circumstance it now found itself. The pirate ship was impounded, its crew captured or killed, and all returned to Scourgewood. The survivors were tried expeditiously and executed Poh, his many exploits in uncommissioned privateering well cataloged by the Covenant, was similarly sentenced to a short drop and a sudden stop. That is, until a particular masked figure interceded.
His sudden shift of fortune from captive to Acolyte of the Order was not at first appreciated, Poh seeing it as something of a form of slavery and mental torture. He railed against his tutelage in the beginning, determined to be allowed out, or to find a way out. But one does not flee a clan of invisible assassins, and eventually Poh's sense of self-preservation got the better of him, particularly under the threat of a return to the noose. So he focused his mind to his task.
Poh, Called Wreck in honor of his former wrecked life, was unremarkably average at most his schooling, and he only scraped by achieving Agent. Yet he took to heart the mentality of the mask and adopted a winning smile to accompany an alias by which to speak with the ruffians, ne'er-do-wells, and thieves of the many cities of Ruane. This, he wagered and later found true, was a better mask in some circles than even the Mask of the Order: behind the Mask, he was obviously an agent of change or preservation, a factor not everyone admired. But as a fellow criminal- ah, with a Fellow, tongues would loosen. Thus was he able to aid the Order in surreptitious ways that, perhaps, encouraged his betters in the Order to overlook his less egregious deviations. And for his more flagrant disregards, the punishment of temporary assignment to Osceli was a firm motivation to step carefully.

Approved!
 
(GM PC is changing. I would edit the previous post with my other PC, but I am unable to edit or even quote it. The post is locked for some reason.)


Kvaseir Aman
Scribe



Focus || Cosmic
Name || Kvaseir Aman
Age || 32
Profession and Status || Scribe


Appearance

Severity is ever fixed upon Kvaseir's features. The way he walks or carries himself is with purpose, almost wound with tension derived from the thoughts he does not share. He always looks deep in thought or skeptical, and very rarely finds an occasion to smile. His brow carries a permanent crease from the years of being so tightly knit.

His skin is of a light brown, and his eyes as dark as his curly raven hair cropped just to the nape of his neck. His facial hair is a bit patchy, but otherwise thick. He is a somewhat tall man, though only just a bit above average.

He tends to wear stylish clothes, though they appear to be comfortable above all.


Personality

Kvaseir is a serious man. All his life he has lived under the shadow of his older brother, Davroste, and at every point in his life he has had to prove himself at the same level or better than his brother. He doesn’t fault his brother for being first, and luckily Davroste does not campaign against him, but he feels overshadowed nonetheless. Every avenue he pursues as not just a Scribe but a person is to define himself with enough merit to detach from his brother’s status within Osceli.

Once he puts his mind to a task, he will see it through, and achieve it thoroughly. All his endeavors are typically geared towards personal glory, albeit on a small scale. He is one of the few Scribes authorized to research and develop spells based on Time, and this approval is treasured.

He is not opposed to pushing the boundaries of the rules laid in place, and often looks for loopholes to justify his actions. To him, taking risks is the only option to advance his career and what can be done with magic. He perhaps suffers a bit from an ego as he sees himself a pioneer of the magic not yet written.

Despite constantly being in his brother’s shadow, his brother is perhaps his only friend. His pursuit of knowledge and advancement has left him isolated and abrasive to small talk and ice breakers. If he isn’t networking for some intellectual gain, it almost feels like a waste of time.

Strengths:
Kvaseir has a drive to understand and learn, and through this he has garnered excellent problem solving skills.

While he doesn’t have an eidetic memory, he does have exceptional memory retention and recollection. It isn’t flawless, but it definitely helps with his work.

He understands the importance of when to work as an individual and when to work as a team. His ego won’t get in the way of the end goal.

Weaknesses:
Kvaseir perhaps has issues with taking risks to achieve a goal. If he feels the positives outweigh the negatives, he will pursue the risk no matter the cost.

Making friends is a bit difficult for Kvaseir. He views interactions as a means for advancement or a part of a goal he wishes to achieve. If the interaction doesn’t match business, he’s a bit awkward, and may not even entertain a conversation further.

His desire to be seen as Kvaseir and not Davroste’s little brother is a sore spot. Anything that could potentially point to Kvaseir not having enough merit to achieve something on his own can result in anger, aggression, and irrational risk taking.

History

Kvaseir was born under the shadow of his older brother, Davroste, and to this, his credibility and intelligence were always questioned. When Kvasier displayed an affinity towards magic, even the Scribes sent out to test him were concerned that he was just mimicking his brother, dismissing it out of jealousy or just trying to connect to a prominent figure in his life that was no longer present on a regular basis. It took two years for the Scribes to determine his ability in magic was legitimate, which also involved privately tutoring the boy in proper flourishes so that he could perform not only the basic spells he wrote, but any minor spells the Scribes would bring out to their little home in Dreilphin.

He thought with how excited his parents were over Davroste being accepted to Osceli that they would be even more elated that two of their children were Scribes. It is as rare of an occurrence as identical twins, and so it should have been a point of prestige and pride. But his parents instead were upset as it would leave their household with just them and his younger sister to provide for the family.

It would be a few years attending Osceli when Kvaseir would discover his parents attempted to petition House Drak to exempt Kvaseir from becoming a Scribe. It was luckily never considered by the Dominion, but it turned him bitter towards his family. His brother was held in high regard in his classes, and professors would often accidentally call Kvaseir his brother’s name.

Despite this, he and his brother had a decent relationship. Kvaseir had difficulties faulting Davroste for his own intelligence and achievements, especially when he wanted to be recongized for the same. Davroste received his apprenticeship towards the end of his initial years at Osceli which took him away from the school for long periods of time. He thought this would be his time to make his own name, but he struggled to stand out until the end of his final year when he wrote a thesis on the possible applications of Time magic and its benefits.

It was not incredibly expansive, but the points he made were enough for the Council to allow him to pursue the study in University. Unfortunately, due to his focus, there were no Masters. Time was a branch that Scribes could not actively use, and the few spells that worked were tucked away in the Council’s library. For lack of better phrasing, it was considered a waste of time.

This did, however, warrant approved travel across Ruane and even into the neighboring continents to better research the concept of time and their place within the cosmos. There were some who felt he should pursue a focus of merit and reward, and then some who speculated Davroste pulled strings to allow his little brother to pursue something so closed off. It seemed that the Council was the only people to care for his line of work.

Due to the permissions provided to him on the highest level, Kvaseir is able to access more restricted content. He is not without rules, however, and should he break them he will be met with dire consequences. That does not stop him from taking a risk now and again.