The Thunderings

[Red Thunder]

Fyréga Grimblade

the Shieldmaiden Gear and Skills Other

• 
  Name: Fyréga Grimblade
  Race: Rohirric Human
  Age: 35
  Height: 5'6"
  Weight: 135 lbs
  Appearance:
  
  
  Fyréga is a perfect example of a Rohirric woman: trim but not skinny, her hands are calloused from long years of sword play, both in practice and in combat, her brown eyes are sharp and keen, and her skin is touched with a ruddy complexion. She will most often wear the court dress, being raised as she was as a lesser noble, but whether in flowing skirts and blouses or in the leather armor of her people, Fyréga stands straight as her blade, familial pride fully evident in the sharp features of her face.
  Personality: Life in Middle Earth can be harsh and taxing, and not many things encourage a cheerful attitude. Nevertheless, Fyréga has managed it. Admittedly, it has often come at the expense of politeness: she can be harsh in her humor, unkind in her jokes, and blunt in her speech. Yet she is steadfast in friendship and loyal to the absolute end, her passion seemingly fueled by a fire that can be seen in the light of her eyes.
  Biography: Fyréga hails from Rohan, where her father manages a rather outstanding herd of fine Rohirric horses. Over the course of time, through training and experience, the woman has been given the important duty of being her family's representative to other kingdoms. There she makes deals, exchanging horses (highly sought after) for goods the Horse Lords otherwise would be unable to obtain. Dale is perhaps a far bit farther than she'd normally travel, but word has come that King Brand wishes to form a cavalry of his own in the defense of his and his allies. Fyréga has therefore gone willingly, seeking to bring advice and council. And perhaps word of the doings in the South...
  
• 
  Weapon of choice: Faestoth, or "Fast Tooth", as shown in her grip in the picture above
  Clothing/Armor: Fyréga is most comfortable in her court attire: a skirt of forest green, an outer garment of earthen red, and flowing white sleeves. When she must needs take up arms, she prefers to wear a light chain mail covered in a leather jerkin. She carries no shield, preferring versatility and mobility over defense.
  Skills:
  - Excellent horsewoman
  - Competant swordswoman
  - Impeccable courtly manners and etiquette
  
• 
  Blaecwine
  
  
  
  Though not a Mearas himself, he may be descended from them. Blaecwine stands a half foot taller than most of his kin, and is besides a sight to behold. His black coat seems to have a perpetual sheen to it, the dusting of white on his rump interrupting what would otherwise be a beautiful flow of jet black coloring.
  Blaecwine is full of spit and vinegar. He doesn't suffer the close presence of unfamiliar males about him and will usually merely trot away in irritation. But Fyréga can usually get him to cooperate and play along.
  

 

[Red Thunder]

Celegóst Randír

the Elf out of Time Gear and Skills

• 
  Name: Celegóst Randír, son of Ecthelion of the Fountain and Riánon the Dauntless
  Race: High Elf
  Age: 6475, born F.A. 457
  Height: 6'2"
  Weight: 205 lbs
  Appearance:
  
  
  Celegóst is strong of arm and long of leg, and his long stride carries him quickly. His face is clean shaven, like most of his kind. The golden locks of his hair hang to his shoulders, and his eyes are as green as Fangorn's leaves.
  Personality: Celegóst has seen much in his life, and so tends toward a dour, serious mood. He enjoys the company of others of unlike him, however, finding that their presence distracts from his memories, and he will sometimes seek such companions out, regardless of race, gender, or creed.
  To such as call him friend, Celegóst is fiercely loyal. He will leap headfirst into battle with no regard for personal safety if he believes it necessary, and can oftentimes allow his recklessness to outweigh good council and advice. He is a warrior to his bones, and while he may not be as socially savvy as others of his race, his battle prowess is generally known and his presence therefore generally tolerated.
  Biography: Celegóst's life is shrouded in much mystery, even to those who might claim to know him best. Much of what he has seen he simply refuses to speak of, and when he is inclined to talk at all, it usually concerns the poor state of the world. He roams from elven kingdom to elven kingdom, as if seeking escape from he memories of his past. The lords of these places consequently request that he bear news as he travels. It always reaches its destination, but thanks in great part to his aimlessness of heart, it often arrives later than it might have. This has yet to have any drastic consequence, but with the whispers of changes in the world, it may well prove ill.
  
• 
  Weapon of choice:
  
  
  
  Celegóst wields a hand and a half sword, Andúnë. It was taken from his father when he died and kept for Celegóst until he was old enough to wield it. Any light that reflects off its blade shines back a deep orange in color, as if it were light from the setting sun.
  Clothing/Armor: He wears the armor of Lindon, a country near the sea, its previous splendor faded and deteriorated with the passage of time. The gold has faded to a dirty bronze and the silver to a weary gray. He wears no helmet and bears no shield but keeps himself covered in an old tattered brown cloak.
  Skills:
  - Unmatched swordsman
  - Competant tracker
  - Novice healer
  

 

[Red Thunder]

Carson Riggins

100

His Person

Name: Carson Riggins
Presumed Age: 28
Species: Presumed human

Height: 6'2"
Weight: 225 lbs
Eye Color: Stormy gray
Hair Color: Straw blonde
Appearance: Much like the cowboys of the old west, Carson has taken to wearing a very utilitarian style: the sleeves of his white shirt are perpetually rolled to his elbows, a brown corduroy vest keeps some of the dust off it while also providing additional pockets, and light brown corduroy pants cover worn boots. Oddly unsympathetic eyes peer out from under the brim of his hat, and his hand rests habitually on his old gun belt. His face is usually like stone, and there is almost always a thin layer of dust covering him. On his left wrist Carson wears a mechanical device bearing a kind of screen or readout on the top that he checks occasionally.

His Way

Personality: Carson is the epitome of the strong silent type: he rarely speaks unless spoken to, and even then in short, curt replies.

Strengths: Many
Weaknesses: None

His Past

Date of Birth: Unknown
Date of Rescue: 12/21/2012
Place of Rescue: an empty church in the ghost town of Ballarat, CA
History: He has some.

His Work

Powers and Abilities: Unconditional love
Employment: Coffins duh

​

 

[Red Thunder]

Alexandrie

100

Her Presence

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Nullam iaculis efficitur vehicula. Sed sodales arcu at urna mattis, quis pulvinar dolor ultrices. Nunc mattis vestibulum ipsum sit amet faucibus. Integer vitae auctor lectus. Sed mauris ligula, egestas at fringilla id, lobortis quis massa. Curabitur velit nisl, aliquet vitae leo a, condimentum condimentum nisl. Maecenas dictum pulvinar hendrerit. Vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curae; Curabitur porttitor nulla luctus est pretium, blandit lobortis nisl porta. Ut bibendum ante nec lorem ultrices suscipit. Mauris congue tellus id nulla sodales suscipit. Mauris eu finibus nulla. Phasellus ligula eros, volutpat in enim a, bibendum volutpat lorem. Curabitur tincidunt leo metus.

Her Manner

Content

Her Path

Content

Her Métier

Content

​

 

[Red Thunder]

Draulin Recontyl

100

Appearance

Age • 32
Height • 5'10"
Weight • 165
Draulin isn't a terribly imposing man. Standing a few inches below the average height of a man, he makes a point of keeping his back stiff in an effort to better his presence as an Obligator. He has however retained most of the physicality he once had before entering the Ministry, and even the loose and flowing robes of his office can't hide the power under them.

As befits his office, Draulin keeps his head and face shaved, though he has been known to slack from time to time, allowing dark brown stubble to peek out. Across the left side of his face are faint if thick lines of tattoos; a badge of position in the Ministry, their faint and minimal presence showing his low rank. Gray eyes look out from under a red hood, itself connected to a fine if antique Canton of Orthodoxy red robe.

Personality

Draulin is a quiet man, pensive and thoughtful. More likely to observe than get involved, he is also a careful man, desiring to study a thing before attempting it. When others encourage him to partake in situations he is unready for or unsure of, Draulin will with few exceptions turn down the offer with a disarming smile and a polite "Thank you, anyway." For he is also polite, perhaps to a fault, and only with close friends does he lose his formal edge.

But underneath this exterior lies fury, carefully bottled and reined in, least it cause unintended damage. It rises to the surface on rare occasion, driving his tongue to harsh language and unconsidered words, and his hands to hasty deeds. More often than not, this anger is in reaction to some perceived affront to him or his valued friends, and whether said affront be true or no, Draulin takes immediate and often disasterous action, rarely considering the impact until long afterwards.

History and Misc.

Roles • Formerly a Haze Killer for Elariel House, he is now an Obligator of the Canton of Orthodoxy for the same House.

Skills • Draulin is a skilled fighter, able to handle himself against most foes. He is trained with both weapons and without, though he certainly prefers the Haze Killer's wooden shield and staff. Notably, Draulin is a Pewter Misting, able to metabolize the metal in his body to grant himself improved strength, speed, constitution, and healing. However, he is completely unaware of this, though he burns it subconsciously in a fight.

History • The Recontyl family was remarkably poor, even for a county noble line, and Draulin knew growing up that it would be his fate to serve a greater House in some manner. As he grew, his parents were careful to give their only child as fine and varied an education as they could provide him. After some amount of hesitancy with each new endeavor, Draulin would fairly throw himself into his learning, his mind apparently eager for the knowledge.

But as the years progressed, it seemed as though his body demanded engagement as well; his increasingly restless nature had begun interfering with his studies. His father, hoping that his son might follow in his footsteps in a more mercantile manner, was saddened when the realization came, as was his wife. Nevertheless, they pooled the resources and funded a tutor of the martial arts for young Draulin. And Draulin took to the training like a fish to water. Not that it was all fun and games; his tutor, sensing his skill and perhaps even his potential status as a Misting, pushed the boy regularly to the breaking point, always without the parents' awareness or approval. But though Draulin would learn from whatever lesson he was being taught, he as yet showed no sign of allomantic ability.

Eventually his twentieth year arrived; he was old enough now to seek his own way. Bidding his father and mother farewell, he embarked to the nearest House and offered his services as a guard. He was put through several assessments, and, his judges being impressed by the show of skill the young man displayed, he was installed within the Haze Killer ranks. He served there for nearly a decade, even being fortunate to save his new lord's young daughter Gabriela from a Coinshot assassin during his fourth year there. He loved his work, and always approached each new day with gusto.

But Draulin knew his career worried his aging parents. Beyond that, his mind grew restless; being a glorified guard did little to exercise his mind. So, with no little amount of regret, Draulin left the Haze Killer ranks and became an Obligator for the Canton of Orthodoxy. His mind, unused to the strain of large amounts of information, grew tired and unfocused quickly at first; the training regimen was as taxing on it as the Haze Killer trials had been on his body. But he pushed himself through, and was approved a year after joining to put in as a House Obligator. As it happened, the Obligator of Elariel had just stepped down for retirement. Draulin had found himself longing after his keep during his training in Luthadel, so he applied and was given the position with the House. He's been there a year thus far, and it's almost as if he is living there again for the first time; his rank garners him a respect he isn't used to. It's difficult, finding his place, but with time and the help of once familiar faces, he is making House Elariel his home once again.

​

 

[Red Thunder]

WIP

Adjoined Discrepancies

the Setting the World the Peoples the Technology the Arcane

• They called it "the Event" in later years, for no other label would do it justice, and every last inch of the planet was effected. The Earth had seen a technological boom in the years before hand, and advances in communications, transportation, and medical sciences had created an ease of life only comparable to that of the Industrial Revolution in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Most notably, cybernetics had given mobility and freedom to those previously denied it, replacing lost or damaged natural limbs and organs with mechanical ones, and most all who needed it could afford some form of artificial instillation, or Art as it was known.
  
  The Event ended much of that. What little we actually know was recorded in the pages of books, a practice seemingly long abandoned, presumably in favor of the digital storage. But they sacrificed permanence for raw storage space, and few if any digital records have ever been located. Not that any device was left to access the Digital; the Event made sure of that.
  
  It was as sudden as it was devastating, the Event. It still isn't known how, but it's thought that from the center of each Fracture came an energy which destroyed the Digital, or at least rendered it useless.
  
  
• The Earth exists in much the same form as it once did, from the geographical boundaries to the political ones.
  
• With the Event came new inhabitants, and we the Earth's original occupants have had to learn to share.
  
• Though the Event left much of Earth's advancements little more than scrap, still some managed to survive. Too, the more ingenious of us have patched together bits of Old Tech and created New.
  
• With the Event came an effect none could have foreseen: an access to the Arcane. Not inherent to any particular individual or people group, the Arcane is another force of the universe, newly introduced, one which anybody can learn to control.
  

 

[Red Thunder]

WENDY 'RED HOOD' PALIN

---

AGE || 19
LOCATION || Elderidge
ROLE || Little Red Riding Hood / Hansel and Gretel

BIO || Purus aptent, odio ligula orci. Aliquam porttitor erat. Lacus tempus neque, metus varius a quam purus fermentum, a voluptatibus dolor turpis turpis, sed malesuada varius nunc lobortis ligula vel. Pulvinar ut libero ut nonummy quisque ultrices, sodales tellus porta felis ac, non sapien feugiat, vel eget eleifend tortor condimentum, mollis accumsan id porttitor odio.

Eget nulla mi sem ullamcorper mollis eu, commodo odio nec, convallis tortor, vestibulum volutpat arcu fringilla pretium elementum sed. Eros suscipit rutrum vitae suspendisse pede duis, quam blandit donec, leo suspendisse massa sed integer, lectus sed, odio quis per nunc leo est. Donec magna fames nisl mus, dolor urna turpis donec arcu sagittis, fermentum metus platea sociosqu, mollis mollis enim.

.

 

[Red Thunder]

Maes Harrow

---

AGE || 25
PROFESSION || Farmer

HISTORY || Maes Harrow was the son of a poor farmer, descending from a line of farmers going back farther than was said there were records for. The eldest surviving child of four other children, Maes inherited his father Kenwith Rissle's land and trade when he married in his eighteenth year, his parents living the rest of their lives with little care in their own home, aiding and training their son. For before marrying or indeed even proposing, Maes had built him and his bride to be a small cottage; quiant and warm, the two room building was furnished well.

For when Maes Rissle married Anora Harrow, he entered into a far more prominent family than his, one with a far reaching and heroic history. She left behind much in the way of easy future behind, but she was devoted to him, and he to her. Together they brought a child into the world after a year, and she was their Joy.

But it was not to last. A year after young Joy entered the world, she left it, victim to a season of strange and bitter cold. He sickness took her quickly, but it was small comfort to her father, and none to her mother. Anora did not linger long after her daughter, and not three years after they had been married, Anora left Maes to wander the shadowy paths of death, seeking Joy.

Little was left for Maes, save for work. And for the lute his wife had left behind. He took to playing it, first as a way to reconnect with his family, but eventually for the sheer enjoyment of the act. It brought him some small happiness back into his life, and he would often sing to himself or those who happened by his front porch where he sat the lullabies Anora had sang to young Joy.

For four years, Maes fell into routine: work the land, play the lute. He needed something to change, for something to happen. It was only a matter of time before it did...

.

 

[Red Thunder]

Earnest Ogden Terrorsby IV

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PERSONALITY

NAME: Earnest Ogden Terrorsby IV || AGE: 23 || RACE: Orc; Male

LOCATION: Kurbad'Duun|| HEIGHT: 7'2" || WEIGHT: 304 lbs.

Earnest is the very spirit of good will and love. Gentle as a dove, if perhaps clumsy as a newborn hippo, this well meaning Orc, or "Orq" as he prefers, abhors violence and shudders at the thought of lifting a hand against any other living creature. He'd just as soon every being he met sit with him in his favorite daisy field and make flower crowns with each other. Such is his devotion to this ideal that he retains it in spite of a severe pollen allergy. Nevertheless, even in the face of puffy eyes and running noses, Earnest bravely undertakes to provide every creature the opportunity, and is firmly rooted in his determination to do so.

​

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APPEARANCE

Earnest wears the clothing of his people, and though the heavy iron shoulder guards, breastplate, and bracers weigh mightily upon his spirit, those things being symbols of war and hatred, he retains them to show his people that he cares. About his head, the Orq wears a flower crown of a variety of colorful blooms, their beauty preserved by a clever mix of oils, and he will go nowhere without it. Short pants made of silk that just reach past his knee stand in stark contrast to his armor, as do the intricately woven leather sandles on his feet.

​

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HISTORY

Earnest Ogden Terrorsby IV saw much in his short life: the bitterness of enemies, the death of allies, and the sadness of his fellows. So when he was called to serve in the Orcish military, he found himself in stark opposition to everything they did. He would not partake in the destruction and conflict. Instead he'd seek out those creatures he'd heard of in Fairy Tales, that stalked the woods and manipulated the fates of every being in the world: the Shae.

Earnest hunted for months, but never saw so much as one of their reputed forked tongues (the "tales" that he got most of his information from were badly remembered bedtime stories from his childhood nanny). So instead he traveled to Kurbad'Duun, hoping to use it as a springing off point to seek for the Shae or some other fairy-creature out in the wide world.

​

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Magical Attunement:

Earnest sees magic all about in, but particularly in the way the daisy seems to welcome the rising sun wig open arms.

Weapon specialization:

Earnest wields no weapon but a rebuke. Even that he is loath to do, and will only do so at the utmost need.

Profession:

Earnest has taken it upon himself to spread good will and kindness across all the lands.

Skills:

Earnest gives the warmest hugs and the best encouragement, and there is no greater weaver of flower crowns in the Four Kingdoms.

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[row][column=span4][border=1px solid #E5CB8E]STRENGTH:

• Loving

• Kind

• Gentle

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[column=span4][border=1px solid #E5CB8E]WEAKNESS:

• Loving

• Kind

• Gentle

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WRITING SAMPLE

It was as sunny a day as any could ask for. By his guess, Earnest still had a few days of travel before reaching his destination. But that was just fine: he'd happened across a lovely field full of flowers, and he knew he just had to stop and admire them. It was as if someone had made a rainbow and shook it out all over the hill. Daisies, sunflowers, petunias, chrysanthemums, all bloomed merrily, both form their own sake and almost as if blooming just for Earnest himself. He stood, slack jawed in awe for unending seconds, until he finally couldn't stand it any longer. With a giggle, the Orq skipped forward, falling to his knees once he reached the ocean of vibrancy.

This must be what heaven's like, he couldn't help musing. Brilliant tones and wholesome scents all about. Yeah, this is heaven.

Sighing heavily in contentment, Earnest fell onto his back, crushing many a delicate blossom into death with his girth. And he smiled, content for the moment despite the sudden fit of sneezing that assaulted his nose. But then he remembered: he had to find a Shae. So he picked himself up with a sad grunt, disappointed that he had no time for flower crowns, and continued on his way.​

​

 

[Red Thunder]

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, no eruditi complectitur eum, commodo gloriatur cu mel. An sea graece iudicabit delicatissimi, vis ex phaedrum oportere necessitatibus. Cibo nostro interesset eam ea, at quodsi eleifend mei, ut mel odio perpetua consulatu. Putent accusamus repudiandae sit et, unum inciderint vix ex. Ullum nostro nonumes pri at, ne error choro inciderint pro, eu quo mandamus mediocrem maluisset.

 

[Red Thunder]

GENERAL

Name: Adrianna the Deft
Pronunciation: [ae-dree-AA-nuh]
Nickname: Annie / Addy
Species: Halfling
Date of Birth: the Nymph
Age: 26
Place of Birth: Northlet, Arora, Orcosea

"Take what you can and give nothing back."

DETAILS

1 Paragraph Character Concept:
Adrianne is the second child and first daughter of a fisherman and his young wife, Adrianna grew up helping support the family. Work was plentiful; money was not. So schooling was forgone in favor of labor, and young Adrianne was all too happy to help in any way she could, all too aware of the limitations her Unattunement brought her. But she was also filled with an insatiable curiosity, and the young girl would always seek and ask for the reason for her difference from her family. So in her 14th year, her parents contracted a Pixy, Rhiannon, one of the small group that lingered about their home, to lead her to keep Adrianna safe and sent their daughter to the Northwood for answers. But though she asked all she came across concerning her lack of Attunement, none could answer her with any amount of certainly. Dissatisfied and unable to sate her curiosity, the girl headed home. Yet she was not to see her family again. They were gone, leaving their house empty and unattended and their belongings picked through by robbers and scavengers. Distraught, she gathered what supplies she could and struck out on her own. And Rhiannon, for reasons unknown to the halfling, accompanied her. In the years since, Adrianna has become a talented and streetwise vagabond, taking what employment she could get, and always finding comfort in the occasional job aboard a ship, reminding her as it did of home. Her one companion has through these long years been Rhiannon, and a strong friendship has formed, built as it has been on trust, respect, and the occasional vague mutual annoyance.

Character Arc(s):
1: Discovering the fate of her family
2: Reuniting with her family
3: Discovering her place within her family
4: Coming to terms with her family's perceptions

Character Plot(s):
1: The chance to learn anything new
2: Growing to trust others
3: Discovering a place to belong

MBTI: ENTP

D&D Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Attuned Element(s): Unattuned

Fleuntia: Luna

Weapons and Proficiency: Adrianna wields a rapier, short by Big People's size but just right for her. She has received a small amount of training with it from fellow sailors too kind to say no, and where her training is insufficient, she makes up for with cunning application of her experience in street brawls.

WRITING SAMPLE

I don't know, Addy. There's a lot of people around.

Adrianna just grinned in acknowledgement of the Pixy's concern.

The halfling crouched behind a rain barrel, her dark green eyes and excessively curly hair peeking above its edge. She squinted; it was nearing noon, and even in the city, the sun beat down through the crowded buildings. It shone now off the collected water the barrel held, some of the glare catching Addy in the face with a gusto she didn't quite appreciate. What she did appreciate, however, was the deep red of the ruby she'd spotted some thirty feet away. It was set skillfully into a woman's hair by some means she couldn't figure out, and Adrianna wanted it. It'd keep her fed for a month, if she could find the right person to fence it. There were two or three that might. Beside her, Rhiannon sat within the barrel itself, legs crossed underneath a knee length dress. The water below her, nearly overflowing from the generous amount of rain the land had received of late, remained undisturbed. Leaning forward to rest her elbow on her knee and her chin into her hand, the Pixy sighed dramatically.

You're going to get caught. And it won't be my fault this time.

"Nah. It'll b' fahn; keep yer pants on."

Rhi sighed heavily, blinking slowly in frustration. Yes, Adrianna was probably going to pull the feat off without a hitch. But that didn't stop her worrying. The girl was making it harder and harder to fulfill this Contract. Beside her, the halfling's eyes roved back and forth, assessing the situation. It wasn't impossible; pared down, it was merely a matter of running and snatching the thing from the woman's head. But it wasn't going to be easy either. Rhi was right: the marketplace was full of people searching for produce or a new scarf or a new edge on their dulled blade. And the occasional guard stomped through, frowning at anything that looked even marginally suspicious. And, too, there was the matter of height. The target was a prime example of human physique, and by Adrianna's estimation, she stood easily twice the height of the halfling. Yet there were stalls nearby, not to mention the occasional passing carriage. It'd be manageable. Grinning even wider, Addy prodded her friend gently in the back.

"Jes' ya watch. I'll grab this righ' fast, and we'll hit the road."

She slipped away, leaving the Pixy to groan and roll her eyes exaggeratedly.

•••​

I won't say I told you so.

"You hush! How's I s'posed to know the thing was weaved through her hair?" Adrianna cut back in short bursts, saving her breath for running. Rhi hovered beside her, wings beating rapidly as she kept pace. Behind them, a guard continued yelling for the thief to stop. She of course did no such thing. Turning a corner, she squeezed through an iron fence before casting a glance back again. The guard, face red from exertion, rounded a corner. He was far too large to fit through the same way; he'd have to shimmy over the top or break the lock. "'Sides, nothin' like a good jog to get the blood a'flowin'! Shame about that rock, though."

She sprinted off again, pausing just long enough to reach into a disregarded hedge and grab her personal rapier. On the way, she flashed the guard a grin, touching her forehead in mock salute before disappearing around a corner and heading back for the ship she called temporary home.

 

[Red Thunder]

Esoterica character​

Tatyana Volkov

• 24 years old • Blonde hair • Blue eyes • 5'4" •

100

Her Presence

• Appearance •
Tatyana Volkov does not draw the eye by her size, being of a thoroughly average 5'4", nor by her frame, what small curves she does have routinely obscured by a habitually worn overcoat, its dulled blue dye testament to both its age and the Volkov family finances. No, if she attracts the eye at all, it's because she wears an exuberant smile, the upturn of which gives her inquisitive dark blue eyes an edge of mischievousness. She keeps her sandy colored hair secured under a warm brown cap, the same color as her well worn boots that peek out from beneath her overcoat. A small pad of paper is regularly in either her coat breast pocket or her hand, with its accompanying pencil either in its opposing hand or shoved under her cap. A cloth satchel hangs across her chest, carrying under its flap a large sketch pad as well as several extra writing pencils and a set of sketching charcoals.

Her Manner

• Personality • Tatyana wears her heart on her sleeve, preferring straightforward honesty over any level of subterfuge. Unafraid to speak her mind, she can be unfeelingly and sometimes brutally tactless, concerned more with what is said rather than how it's said. This overbearing trait has had two opposing consequences: on the one hand, it has served her career as a journalist well, garnering her a begrudging respect from her male counterparts; on the other hand, when not acting in her capacity as a journalist, her mouth has often gotten her into trouble on a societal level, and the financial trouble her father's newspaper is in can in large part be attributed to the fines he has regularly had to pay on her behalf for speaking ill of the Tsar and his family. Yet she is also persistent to a fault, and the idea of letting someone get away with something in secret is completely foreign to her. Though she finds it difficult to control her tongue, Tatyana means well, and the knowledge of the trouble she's caused her father has planted a regret that she can't quite shake.

Her Path

• Biography•
Born poor in a nation of poor economy, Tatyana was nevertheless raised on high ideals. Widowed, Mikael Volkov brought his daughter up alone within the intimate confines of the office of his newspaper, the Narodnaya Pravda. The "People's Truth" was Mikael's passion project, and keeping the Russian people informed of world politics was of utmost importance to him. Mikael would walk any distance, speak with any vagabond, or pay any price to learn the truth of a matter so as to then print it in the Pravda. Though his reach was small and his means of discovering the core of a story meager, he made every effort.

Ana inherited his passion tenfold. When she was old enough to sell the papers herself, the young girl would pace the white streets through the brown slush of melting snow, determined to both pull her weight for her father and to educate the masses in any information she could communicate. For some years, whispers had traveled from cellar to inn, discontent spreading with an abandon that Alexander II's leniency on the freedom of the press only encouraged. By the time Tatyana entered the field of journalism under her father, talk had moved to the streets themselves, though still in whispers, and discontent had begun to spread more openly. Yet it still needed information as fire needed fuel, and the Pravda met that need.

As Mikael grew older, his bones less able to handle the chill of Russian winters, Tatyana took up the mantle of field reporter, attacking her duties with a ferocity that surprised even her zealous father. The smallest rumor of a story attracted her attention, and she followed its scent long past the point most might have found reason to stop. Other journalists, as well as her more regular interviewees, came to call her Gonchaya, the Hound, first in jest then out of respect, though her detractors called her Negodyay, saying that she was only a trouble making rogue. Nor did she mince words once she wrote her articles, and on more than once occasion the Pravda was issued fines for defamation. These became harder for Mikael to pay, and soon they were in deep debt. Tatyana tried to curtail her writing, knowing full well that she was rocking the boat far too much, yet her spirit was too hot, eager as she was to expose the wrongdoings of those in power, and Mikael was too gentle with his daughter to repress her fire.

As Ana was returning to her father's office one morning, the cries of a paperboy caught her ear. 3000 English pounds? For only ten weeks of work abroad? This was an answer to their debt! The source of her father's troubles, Tatyana decided that she would apply; beyond the promise of the money, the allure of travel to learn strange and interesting information to tell of in the Pravda scratched an itch she didn't know she had. The next day, much to her father's deep dismay, she had sent Mr. Charles Green a letter detailing her desire to go, as well as something of a resumé. Now she only had to wait.

Her Métier

• Role •
As a passionate and determined, if in fact still young, newspaper journalist for the Narodnaya Pravda, Tatyana fills the role of Chronicler.

Writing Sample

"Ana…"

"Do you want me to apologize for the truth, Papa? We're not making them take advantage of the poor; we- I am only writing about it."

Mikael Volkov sat at the old family table, reclined back in his seat with his forehead in his hand. On the board before him lay an official notice of fine. Not the first of its kind to find its way to the Volkov house, it was the largest amount yet; he'd be lucky to make the payment in the time given. He as the owner of the Pravda was being charged with publishing seditionist propaganda. Not an unwarranted charge; Tatyana his daughter had been pushing the bounds of acceptability that the Tsar's leniency on the newspapers had allowed, and they would receive a full punishment if it were to continue. His hand traveled down his face to stroke his graying beard contemplatively, his eyes sad.

"And I am the proudest papa, to have a daughter with such a spirit. But Ana, we must work within the confines of what the Tsar allows. If you'd grown up before he'd loosened his grip on the papers, you could appreciate where we are now."

"Papa, I don't need to tell you that there's been serious mismanagement of money in the government." Tatyana sat caddy corner to Mikael, and she leaned on the table in her earnestness as she held her father's gaze. "And that wouldn't be so bad, perhaps, if the Romanov's didn't live so lavishly! People need to know these things!"

"For what purpose?" It felt like they had this discussion every week. Mikael empathized with her, of course; ten years ago, he was speaking much the same rhetoric. But age and parenthood had mellowed him, and other things now seemed more important. Like, for instance, ensuring that neither of them went to prison. "It is noble, but we must think of ourselves. These fines bear down on us like a mill stone on our backs, and what good can we do anyone if we can't print because of them? The Pravda isn't the only newspaper to print as we do."

"You're not a coward, Papa; stop behaving like one."

Again the martyr's path; again the easy way out! Tatyana was absolutely sick of hearing the same excuse time and again. She glanced up at the small clock that hung on the wall. It was time to hit the streets and pursue the gossip. Standing, she stepped to the door and withdrew her coat and satchel from the pegs in the wall. It'd been a harsh thing to say, and Tatyana knew she'd be apologizing when she returned. If she were honest with herself, she knew that her father was right; she knew their monetary situation was her fault. But people needed to know the truth! Their paper had a reputation to live up to. Grasping the door handle, she tugged, exposing the house to the slight chill of the Russian air.

"I'll see you for dinner."

And she left.

​

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[Red Thunder]

Vanrin the Siren

​

Name: Vanrin Lampdew

Nickname: Vanrin the Siren

Age: 32 years

Race: Fallenite

Magic: Van wields no magic, save for the strums of her lute and the notes of her voice.

Appearance: Short for a dock worker, Vanrin barely exceeds 5'3". Lithe and thin as a willow branch, she looks as though a stiff wind would carry her away. Yet the thin form belies an aggressive strength her years of throwing cargo has earned her, and while not as powerful as others, it may still come as a surprise to see her lift a keg of ale with only little trouble. Hair the tone of straw falls just below her shoulders; narrow and cynical green eyes watch her audiences for interest from beneath their strands.

Below a sharp nose is a Mouth always curved up gently in mirth, as if she enjoys some joke not yet clear to others. She is regularly in a stained brown tunic and breeches for work, donning a muted if somewhat ostentatious costume for her nightly endeavors, a mockery of the uniform in which she served her lord.

Personality: Critical and cynical of nearly all things about her, Vanrin rarely trusts the expressed or even assumed motive of anyone around her. She is quick to point out indiscrepancies between word and deed, and has pushed away nearly all who might try to be a close associate for it.

Yet she rarely means poorly for it, seeing her criticism instead as the surest way to address flaws of logic and of lifestyle. Those who manage to push through the rather smartass exterior will find a solid friend, willing to do and say anything on their behalf. She certainly retains plenty of acquaintances, for though a sharp tongue does little to inspire close companionship, it is entertaining as hell to listen to.

History: Early as she can remember, Vanrin served in the house of Lord Malarte. Her days were filled with hours of menial chores to keep up the reputation of the noble she and the other servants worked for. They were never terribly mentally engaging tasks, and her naturally creative mind sought an outlet. Before her twelfth birthday, Van was making snide comments and keen observations to her fellows. The sometimes raucous laughter might have earned her severe discipline, but the others covered for her selflessly. In return, she would sing them songs at night as they lay in their quarters, weaving pictures of far off lands and adventures. None were ever too detailed; not much in the way of rumor of the Outside ever came to her ears. Yet for all that, she brought them a peace that serving in Malarte's house would have rendered impossible.

Lord Malarte managed to overhear one of Van's inappropriate observations one day, and as he was about to hand down punishment, the head maid offered instead that she should sing for him, and if he enjoyed the performance, Van should be let off with the promise of a better reined tongue. The resulting performance netted Van not only a relinquishment of suffering, but a new position as well. Malarte instructed his finest musicians to teach the young woman in the art of music and instrument. She took to the lute with a quickness that surprised her tutors, and before her twenty-first birthday she was entertaining both lord and guest with tongue and tune, with song and snark, and she became popular quickly.

Yet her popularity was not a blank check, and some topics simply should not be broached. Not a year after she began as Malarte's jester, she was released from service with vehemence. It seemed he did not appreciate a song equating his wife to a Tainted's backside, and the convenient wordplay was decidedly inconvenient for both Malarte and his guests. As a mercy for her service to that point, Van was sent away with her lute.

The woman found employ on the Windfeld docks, offloading and onloading crates and barrels from and to ships that came to port. But an itch had burrowed within her mind, and her fingers and throat longed to make music again. So she did, spending her nights anywhere a crowd might gather. Indignation at the position and power the nobles abused crept into her music and her comments, and the audience regularly found humor at the expense of those so far above them. It was a good thing she had, but Van was no idiot, and she knew her songs might bring her trouble some day. So she scrimped and saved and bought a long sword from a blacksmith patron for a reasonable price. In her spare time, she practiced with it, working to gain proficiency. For who could say who might find her in some darkened alley, alone and vulnerable...

Weapons: Vanrin carries a long sword on her hip wherever she goes, whenever she goes out. In an absolute pinch, her lute could be used as a club, but the ache her heart would suffer as a result isn't worth thinking about.

Role: Outcast. Once the personal bard / jester of an affluent lord, Vanrin works on the docks during the day, plying her trade among the whaling ships. By night she frequents temples, taverns, street corners, and other places of gathering, she plucks tunes on her lute as she sings to any ear that might hear of the misdeeds of the nobility.

 

[Red Thunder]

THE MYNOCK​

x

[NAME: Sigwik]
[ALIAS, FOR THE NEW REPUBLIC: the Mynock]
[DEEP ALIAS, FOR SPYNET: Eyes]
[RACE: Bothan]
[BASIC DESCRIPTORS: 34 years old | 1.5m | 165 lbs]
[DISPOSITION: The Mynock has seen his fair share of the Galaxy, up to and including much of the nastiness that seems to be intrinsic to it. He has therefore adopted a rather cynical view of things, rarely taking anything at face value until he is able to verify it himself. Pleasant, and in fact rather jovial in his attitude, he seeks out a quick wit with whom to trade verbal jabs, viewing that a sign of an intelligent mind and therefore worth his time. Those of more serious demeanor, or indeed of any intense emotion apart from levity, the Mynock will go out of his way to bother, looking to break what he sees as a mask covering the true person, for he finds it difficult at best to believe that anyone could be alive for any appreciable length of time and not have in some form or fashion become as he has. In fact, his own levity only breaks when faced with a particularly difficult task, at which point he becomes focused and resents any interruption.
[FACTION: Ostensibly the New Republic, but only so far as his service to them serves the Bothan Spynet, to whom he bears the allegiance]
[RANK: The Mynock is designated Special Agent to the New Republic; in Spynet, he has no designation]
[OCCUPATION: Infiltrator]
[WEAPONS: Defender Sporting Blaster, a number of blast charges with remote detonators, and a scramble key for slicing]
[PLANET OF ORIGIN: Coruscant]
[PERSONAL HISTORY: Coruscant, for all its glamor and prestige, is rotten from the ground up, and the amenities of the wealthy and affluent sky dwellers never trickle down to the streets of the industrial centers below. Crime runs rampant, even under the New Republic, and little has changed in the shifting political clime to better the outcomes of the oppressed. No wonder, then, that even the oppressed should find ways to get back, to avoid oppression. To become a form of lesser oppressors themselves.
Sigwik was abandoned on the streets long before his recollection of the past started, and he grew up as any orphan might: pursuing his survival to the exclusion of all others. And he was good at it: a veritable nuisance, Sigwik was a natural at finding the smallest holes in which to crawl and the most obscure security gaps through which to hack. Nor was he ever located, either by official law enforcement or by criminal enforcers, and his reputation grew.
But he was not clever enough to avoid the Spynet. Ever present and ever connected, the Bothan intelligence network apprehended Sigwik when he was 15 years old and brought him into their fold. They offered him training and opportunity to pursue his own betterment, if he would but work as an infiltrator for them. He was apprehensive until they explained why he fit their qualifications. Satisfied, Sigwik accepted.
With years of experience, Sigwik earned himself a reputation, first with Spynet, then with the New Republic when he joined them on Spynet's orders.
There he remains, working as a spy and covert operative and passing information back to Spynet on the regular. But the work has become mundane, and predictable, and Sigwik craves a real challenge...]

 

[Red Thunder]

Jorge Esteban Villacruz del Rios
El Bandito Guapo
​

His Presentation

Name: Jorge Esteban Villacruz del Rios
Age: 37 years
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 195 lbs
Eye Color: Chestnut brown
Hair Color: Jet black
Appearance: A strapping man of perhaps 5'10", Jorge is a dark man, his skin tanned with years in the sun. He wears his hair long, finding little reason to cut it in the American style, and he wears a ragged goatee. A pistol on either hip, with the capability to shoot equally well from either, Jorge wears a charm on a leather cord around his neck, a memory of his family in the form of his mother's wedding necklace.

His Persona

Personality: Jorge is a sarcastic man, coming across as rough and often brash in a manner that binds people together rather than pushes them away. Though he would not do well in the slightest in more formal settings, he fits in well in the western cultures.

His Past

History: Jorge was born along the Pacific coast of the northernmost parts of Mexico in 1842, when the territory still reached as far north as the redwood forests. He was all of four years old when the United States fought Mexico, and two years later, the loss of both father and way of life at the end of the conflict with the surrender of California and other territories to the Americans was a lot for a six year old to bear. A resentment grew in his heart, for the del Rios had been powerful and influential under the Mexican government, and even at his young age, he understood that things had changed because of his new oppressors.

Jorge harbored that resentment the rest of his life, eschewing any form of legal lifestyle beneath the American government that he could manage. Beginning as a troublemaker before he turned 14, Jorge fell in with the Bandidos Guapos, raiding and thieving from any American establishment that they might. It lasted for years, their knowledge of the California wilderness serving them well through many an attempt at capture, and Jorge earned enough infamy to be given a $200 bounty.

But all good things must come to an end, and US Marshals managed to track down and kill or capture Jorge's entire crew, save for himself. He rode east, fleeing the law, and only recently has come to Highland in Utah. Unsure whether he should progress further or remain, the criminal is holed up in the West Inn, living off the meager $40 he managed to bring with him.

His Profession

Skills: Excellent horseman, decent survivalist, quick draw and sure shot, passable at a poker table, over-confident pugilist
Employment: Professional bandit facing the woes of forced retirement

 

[Red Thunder]

|| Rii'Chii |
AGE || 35 Standard Years | RACE || Och'Nari | OCCUPTION || Assistant Manager of "Versatile Och'Nari In Diaspora" (V.O.I.D.) |
PLANET OF ORIGIN || Ocha | PLANET OF RELOCATION || Neo Earth |CURRENT LOCATION || Ryloth |
​

APPEARANCE || The Och'Nari are historically a large people, a boon in the hostile environment of their planet of origin. But without the pressures of ecological threat, some have foregone their stout physiologies, some purposefully, in order to better adapt to wider society, but most involuntarily, as a steady diet of the proper nutrition to support such a frame can be difficult to come by.
Rii'Chii is one such personage. Though he stands an average height for Och'Nari, cresting on a good day at 5"8', he lacks their strength and power. Keen eyes of a sea-green peer out from the recesses of their sockets, and the corners of his mouth always seem upturned, as if he were considering some joke that he would never tell. He most usually wears a style popular on Earth That Was: the suit and tie, finding the look simple, professional, and direct. A metal case of cigarettes sits in his left breast pocket, and he is never without it. |
POSITION || Ordinary Citizen |
BIO || "Strength is as strength does. If it tears down, it is tyrannical; if it lifts up, it is empowering. Watch, then, your strength. Whatever strength you find yourself with."

Rii'Chii grew up on Neo Earth, a part of an exiled people, feeling no less exiled himself from them. Ocho was dead, and the Och'Nari had to find their place among an established kind, themselves long exiled from Earth That Was. The Och'Nari made their way best they could, but too often they were reduced to squalor, their ancient skills and proclivities forgotten in the struggle to exist.

Mek'Chii wouldn't have it. Through means and ways his son would later be highly embarrassed of, Mek'Chii built first a network, and then a small empire, of artisanal builders and crafters of things glorious. And the Och'Nari remembered their skills, and soon prestige began to return to their small population. And Rii'Chii himself grew into the business side of things, as encouraged by his father, his hands crafting things too brutal and drab too be sold with his kin. And he took to the work, his jovial demeanor and focused mind gaining for the Versatile Och'Nari In Diaspora clout enough even to gain a reputation beyond Neo Earth. In celebration, Mek'Chii gifted his son a cigarette case, a family heirloom from years past.

But Mek'Chii was harsh and demanding, and the V.O.I.D.'s Committee forced an early retirement. Mek'Chii became bitter and heaped his resentment on Rii'Chii. Rii'Chii weathered it initially, but in time, he cut ties, feeling his own demeanor weighed down by his father's. The Committee appointed him in time as Assistant Manager, and though he had began to understand that his father's underhanded business creed was by no means his alone, he took the position, hoping to do good in that place.

And he did, for a time. But Death seems to loom on the horizon, and though Rii'Chii has busied himself of late on Ryloth by trying to expand the business there, he finds it harder to focus. |
TRAITS || (+) Dedicated, perhaps to a fault, Rii'Chii holds to a task once he has decided to take it on. He does allow this focus to exclude other parts of his life, however, and though he would say he is justified, he is without a doubt a (-) Workaholic.
(+) Amiable and friendly, he excels in his work, giving grace and compassion without bias or judgment. It is, however, a front, concealing a deeply (-) Cynical nature he knows would be immediately offensive by any he might meet, engendered by a keen observation of the depths to which people can sink to achieve their own selfish ends. And above all, he is dedicated to his task.
(+) Clever in a way different from his people, Rii'Chii is a businessman through and through, and both his amicability and his good sense has secured many an Och'nari in exile a job, and for good pay, that they would likely have been unable to themselves. But intelligence breeds comprehension, and he keeps himself busy to hide a pervasive (-) Melancholy that has driven him to near suicide, simply to escape the dread of his life. And to escape a deep regret for things done and not done.
Rii'Chii seeks hope, and desperately, of some end to the looming threat against their lives. |
TOKEN || As stated, Rii'Chii carries a metal cigarette case with him. Appearing more glass than metal, it refracts light dustily, as sunbeams do when entering a room freshly aired after years of disuse. On its face is etched a horned serpentine figure entwined about a cylinder of twisting bands; the crest of the House of Chii. |

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[Red Thunder]

Pan Tall-Bones
Goat Aspect | 21 years

Name:

Pan Tall-Bones

Race:

Goat Aspect

Age:

21

Home Territory:

Greece

Profession:

Bodyguard and Skilled Fighter

Description:

Pan towers above his peers at 6'2", and his profession keeps him solid and strong. His exposed skin tone tends to the light tan, while his fur tends toward a walnut brown. Scars shallow and deep etch his skin along with the smile perpetually etches his face

Personality:

Pan is almost a prototypical 'good-ol-boy'. Raised to seek out those in need and aid them where he may, he has lost through tragedy a good deal of his trust in others. That trust comes difficult enough but is re-earned painstakingly, and he has no use for liars, though once earned and proven, his trust is unshakable. His strong sense of justice has more than once prevented him from coming to a point of empathy, and bridges have been burned because of it, and sometimes literally. Mostly uneducated but a hard worker, and with an almost unerring sense of direction, Pan has made himself an asset to his older sister, his only remaining family.

Bio:

From the moment he was born, Pan lived in his older sister's shadow. She was the favorite for traveling to the valley to sell wares. She was the preferred child to hawk the produce to the generally disinterested public. She was the one left in charge when Mother and Father were busy elsewhere.

Pan loved followed her around, however. He tried learning the Business, to be sure, but his mind wandered too often. To tell the truth, he much rather enjoyed the physical labor: climbing or descending, lifting the crates from their stall onto the carts of customers, and generally putting his muscles to work. Their parents encouraged it, for it gave bulk to a frame that was otherwise cedar-tall and willow-thin, and his mere presence was a deterrent to theft.

Yet not forever. People will find anything offensive, should they decide they want to be offended, and the close proximity of the Aspect clan to the valley's villages was unconscionable to them. They attacked one night, and Pan was dragged along by his sister as they fled for their lives. She led him to Constantinople, a sanctuary for them. Heartbroken by the treatment that had thus expelled them from their home, Pan focused on becoming powerful and violent, committed to not losing his sister as they had lost their family. So it was, when his sister took work as a guide for treasure-hunters, Pan was able to aid her in repelling their betrayal, and he destroyed them for it.

The artifact proved very valuable, and the notoriety that came with its successful location allowed them the security to live and work as they pleased. But Pan, for all his amiability, is ever watchful for the next betrayal, and as his sister looks for antiques, he looks for traitors.

Skills:

Pan has adopted to life as it has come, casting aside irrelevant skills in favor of more pertinent ones. He has become proficient with digging equipment in order to help his older sister in her endeavors. Similarly, since he is a rather simple man, Pan has focused on becoming as intimidating a presence as possible to stave off further attacks on the siblings, and he is mightily strong and deadly in combat.

Strengths:

• Strength (literally)
• Versed in most weapons to be found in Constantinople
• Proficient and creative cook

Weaknesses:

• Struggles understanding anything more complicated than a wheelbarrow
• Uneducated and mostly illiterate
• Ignorant of the world beyond his borders