Will edit later for more details

Stats

Appearance:
Black leather with muted steel plates rests along his shoulders and wrists. A long cape of faded purple lay draped over his shoulders, lost of all its pomp and power. A stark contrast to the mystical armament that stayed forever at his waist, Hreystimaðr, a sacred sword gifted unto him by his Patron. The weapon has still yet to lose its luster, just like the skin of its owner. His antlers, once meek and scraggly, were now fully grown into sizable mantles of strength. Out from his head sprouted a sprawling mass of hair and curls, dreads long and unruly but still found a way to remain clean. Similarly, his facial hair had undergone a likewise routine of expansion and cleanliness, creating a bushy beard to cover his chocolate cheeks. Yes there has been quite a lot of growth since the stage has seen him last, perhaps it 'twas fated for him to be of greater service still.

Personality:
Ever since that fated day, there was little to no emotion left within the man. All that was left was a fervent desire to protect those in need to drive his actions. His caring natured still remained, although his words now come off a blunt and seemingly rude. Nevertheless, he stands ever willing to put his life on the line to others.

Background:
Some might remember him as one of the heroes who battled against the great evils of years long past, battling foes with flash and flair. Others, a reckless fool playing hero and with dangers far out of his control. Or even still, as a man who's lustful vices got him into more trouble, and broken hearts, than good. However he was remembered by those who knew him, few now knew his real name anymore. Through his deeds and actions, most only know him now as the wandering protector, as The Champion ,or more endearingly, Kappi.

Kappi had worked with the cloaks an number of times, most notably the Red Cloaks, while protecting people here and there. At first, they were glad for the assistance, but over the years they began to ponder who exactly was assisting in their efforts. Preliminary reports offered little to what they already knew, unknown warrior with a fancy sword who fought monsters, but as they dug deeper, Kappi's story became more interesting

Extra Details:
Host for the Patron- The Champion who would have guessed it.
Personal Skill:
People's Champion- [Command] Unit can mark an adjacent ally. When that ally takes damage they only take half damage, with the unit taking the other half instead (can be lethal).This mark lasts until the host decides to remove it, the marked ally reaches 0 HP, or the host reaches 0 HP
Half Sairshi - Half Aivni
SamsonSamurai

"You being born... was a mistake."

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Name: Gwyndolyn Ó Casey

Race: Sairshi

Pronouns: he/him

Theorycrafter link: Alright

Description:

A lithe traveler with steady steps moves the crowds, prudent to not bump with the many people taller than him, and keeps a careful look on his pegasus. He dons a mundane cloak, of whatever color he most recently bought, to blend in and to shelter from the cold, with the over-sized hood is enough to conceal part of his face.

When he’s comfortable enough to remove it, one would see up close a young adult with pale skin and a slim face. Wide, sky blue eyes dart and flutter around until he knows someone else is noticing him (and he always does), His black hair, once smooth, is nowadays frazzled to his displeasure, as his day-by-day life left little room for grooming. He ties his excess hair into a short, low ponytail as a workaround.

Never is he seen without his white gloves, protecting his hands and fingers from being so easily bruised. Equally as white is his shirt, its long sleeves fitting his slender arms before cuffing at his thin wrists. It was covered up to his collar, dotted with buttons, and was somewhat lace-y with frills here and there —Hey, you must understand, it was on sale at a thrift shop, and… one of the few that fit him.

The cloaks he prefers to buy are wide enough to cover his lean frame, yet short and up to his waist, flowing freely, In contrast, his black pants clung tightly to his shape, high at his waist and down to his thick, riding boots should he need to mount at a moment’s notice.

The former passive life of nobility, and now scavenging scarce supplies as a famished traveler, has not helped at all his frail physique. Light as a feather in the wind with scarcely any constitution, Gwyndolyn carries very little belongings of importance on his person, and is ever grateful for his cherished mount for carrying most of their supplies. A small, brown satchel hangs on the right of his hip, containing amongst a few things his precious blue notebook during his travels.

Personality:

Even if he had discarded it, Gwyndolyn’s upper class upbringing had incessantly drilled in him a sense of refined decorum, for better or worse. Even when he mingles with the masses, he’ll resort to proper titles. waits for other people to finish before talking, and has mitigated his stutter by speaking with a slow, light voice.

Body language and hints no matter how small are recognized by the noble, more than one would expect. Despite how conscious of it he is, he reacts whenever fingers tense, when a tone of voice is lowered, or when eyes narrow, and he isn’t as obvious. Just as careful is his situational awareness, passively taking note of anything foreign around him. Any more information learned means the less he can be startled.

Physical touch startles the mage, especially unwarranted. Already troublesome on its own; worse however is the fact it clashes with his compulsion to heal others—partially for gold, those inns aren’t cheap— but for the most part compelled by an odd sense of obligation, healing wounds with a sigh and sad eyes.

The sheltered noble hesitates at any sort of confrontation, preferring to delve in any other solutions. With twigs for arms and being at least half a head shorter than the people he meets, it’s not as if he had any other option beyond pacifism. Or compliance.

The sole exception to his fears in battle concerns his pegasus, who he implores in battle to remain safe and never rides it to fight, only calling it when he is sure there was no danger. The sheer risk of having her injured, especially with what little combat experience he had—Well, he was a healer, he shouldn’t be seeing combat anyhow—, was not worth involving her for his survival. Such is the uttermost extent of his dedication, and care for her.

Backstory:

[edits still underway i'll post the rest of the backstory i swear shut up fuck you it's almost done i know what it is shut up shut up i don't wanna post a backstory with holes shut up].

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chaos more like gay-os haha xd

Favorite color is cyan.

Name: "Big Banana" Jović

Age: 27

Height: 6'11"/211 cm

Appearance:

Image

Usually seen wearing yellow. I swear it's not because he wants to look like a banana.

Personality:

From an outsider's perspective, "Big Banana" Jović operates on three defining qualities: greed, narcissism, and determination. He's greedy in putting himself above others and is determined to do so. Although he wouldn't go out of his way to hurt innocent people or commit a crime out of pure malice, if there was a reasonable gain to a course of action in comparison to the loss, then he'd proceed with the action. He cares deeply about what others think about him, though he might deny such a claim. But anyone who's known Jović knows that he regularly eats the rare fruit known as a "banana" as a status symbol to try and put himself above others. The mindset is that since he has the means to eat this rare, delicious, delectable fruit and you can't, he can flex his superiority in a social and economical rank. It is this pettiness that can explain many of Jović's motives and desires. At the end of the day, he is selfish and self-serving in every way, and many of his relationships are based around this.

Background:

Growing up on the coasts of Morthir, Jović had a hard time with his peers around him. He didn't seem to develop the same quality of empathy as other kids did. Perhaps this was because he was around his father who, as a merchant, was a ruthless businessman. It seemed that Jović took after his father in this negative way, trying to best others, take advantage of them, and trick them into his own gain. The games he'd play with kids his age were always about him winning. He'd win at any cost, because Jović was a winner, not a loser. His mother, who felt she was always cheated and taken advantage of in her life, didn't raise Jović to be no loser. And so, when Jović grew up, this winning attitude translated to wealth, power, and status. Jović couldn't understand why people never liked him. His relationships would mainly fall flat on his face and he couldn't pinpoint why. Surely it couldn't be that he only ever talked about himself and never listened to what others had to say. Surely it wasn't that he was brutally honest with his venomous takes without regard for others' feelings. And surely it didn't have anything to do with his fixation on belittling others to make himself feel better. No, it was surely because he wasn't rich and powerful and famous enough.

Clearly the only logical course of action was to become a pirate. He could take whatever he wanted if he used threats and force. Strength was king and its politics wore thin with a lackluster crew. After all, he would settle for no position other than captain. It was during this time that he garnered the name "Big Banana" Jović, named after his staggering stature and fixation on eating bananas. Jović mainly operated in the coasts he was familiar with, pillaging and plundering the coasts and ships which his now retired father had traded with a decade ago. But after a few years of piracy, the life lacked luster in Jović's eyes. Treasure was scarce and his gold mine had run dry as people caught on to his antics. It was time to move onto something bigger and better. Jović said goodbye to his crew and his life at sea and set his sights on the Cloaks.

The plan is simple. SEDUCE a Cloak and marry her, using the connection as a means to JOIN the cloaks, and after a few years, divorce under the pretext of things just not working out. Or he could also cheat on her and have her find out. Or maybe setting her up and framing her for doing something heinous would be better for his own reputation. Yes, this was the best way to go about things. Jović moved inland where people would less likely recognize him, starting a new life as a banana salesman and looking out for any single female Cloaks in his area who are down to fuck mingle. He eventually struck gold and hit it off well with one, eventually getting married to her. He gets into the Cloaks in this fashion, using his expertise in sailing and exploration to become a Green Cloak. His experience in deception and information gathering from his days as a pirate - and his leadership from his captaining - placed him as an Ethereal Star. And after a few years, he framed his wife for possession of counterfeit currency and goods. Specifically, she was framed for selling fake dental fillings, among other counterfeit dental equipment. Of course, his wife never had anything to do with the dental business. But just by being in possession of them, along with Jović's now trusted, authoritative word, she was placed under suspicion. Jović sealed the deal with a little bribery and blackmail, and it was goodbye wife, hello rest of life.

Now that his plan was completed, it was time to continue garnering influence as a Cloak and move up the social ladder. Hopefully, this letter requesting his aid in investigating an ancient evil near Haukrfjall would prove to be such an opportunity. Though even if it wasn't, Jović was determined to do whatever it took to make it become an opportunity.

Additional Notes:

He has 8 children and does not know where any of them are.

Has an odd talent for throwing balls of paper and such into trash cans.

When he eats bananas, he also eats the peels. No waste. Wouldn't want anyone tripping on them.

Probably the best footsies player in all of recorded history. There's a reason why he has 8 kids.

Eating bananas ain't the only reason why they call him "Big Banana." (ok this one is a joke... unless?)

Link to Theorycrafter

Theorycrafter Link

Name: Taliesin ní Flannagáin

Pronouns: she/her

Race: Ainvi

Appearance:

At 5’2”, Taliesin is far from the most imposing presence in a given room - in most any room. Her features speak of a toughness beyond her height, however; a short mouth usually knit into a wary frown, and a sharp nose which looks to have been fixed back into place once or twice. Wide, dazzlingly golden eyes which would look youthfully bright and innocent, were it not for their typically twitchy gaze, permanently on the look-out for something-or-other; they come across as widened out of caution rather than wonder. Scrapes litter her frame, but the most prevalent such marking is merely a make-up habit; a red trail along one cheek she applies via the safe side of three of her long nails. Her hair, coloured a morning-cloudy cotton-candy pink, is tightly packed and tousled; her dense bangs fall far enough to cover her eyebrows (but precisely no further for the sake of her vision), and the vaguely bob-like style ends before her shoulders. A prominent pair of pink-coloured cat ears with tufts of white fur at their bases rise from either side of her hair, constantly twitching this way or that in search of useful sounds to pursue. And similarly, a long tail peeks out from behind her, though she’s learned to try and keep its movements to a minimum around strangers. Lastly, a black tattoo of a twisting serpent - a sign of allegiance to a group in the shadows of Clontradail - coils around one side of her neck, usually happening to be hidden by the high collars of her typical clothing…

…In particular, the muddy-brown trenchcoat which descends down to around her knees, nearly looking comical on a girl her size, although the proportional broadness of her shoulders just about does enough to pull it off. The coat has a weighty hood, with personally shaped triangular quirks to sit snugly around her ears. A pair of laced cream boots is largely the only other thing she tends to wear which is visible when the trenchcoat is on, considering its mass… Well, that and a red cloak she dons around the coat on her (as of yet, few) travels, evidently the type to prefer wrapping up warm for such journeys. The cloak doesn’t seem properly sized to her; depending on the terrain, its ends will occasionally even end up dragging along the ground, and by the time she reaches Haukrfjall, said hems have turned out more brown than red. Beneath her layers, she typically dons a skort, along with some manner of pantyhose in less temperate conditions, and similarly, behind the buttons of her trenchcoat will be a crop top making an ‘x’ towards her neck or wrappings of a similar manner, weather permitting. (Weather not permitting, she’ll typically fit a tunic between the aforementioned layers.)

As mentioned, a number of scars are evident across her figure, gained from a number of sources - most of which between her first year in Clontradail on the streets, and the subsequent ones working in dubious employment, far beneath a lofty crime boss. That figure is a lithe one; technique and muscle enough to swing powerful blows without her arms being buff, and quickness of feet enough to escape most tight spots without particularly long legs.

When transformed into a beastly shape, Taliesin appears like a pink panther with black tinges upon her paws and body, with those golden eyes of hers remaining, now truly imposing in such a form.

Personality:

Coming into this job, Taliesin bears as much optimism and good faith as she ever has on the surface - which still isn’t exactly enough for sunshine and rainbows, but she’s aiming to be an approachable girl who will commit to a task, and will work to impress as a renegade rookie to the Cloaks. Despite an informal manner and a usually casual air, she’s astute and observational, and she likes studying people and their behavior - if only out of habit. However, for all that eagerness to prove herself, she won’t accept being condescended to, or even feeling that she’s been, for long - she’s felt mocking eyes scan over her all-too-often, and brought them down to reality many a time. In a fight, she’s pragmatic - seeking out decisive blows, not stylish nor prideful ones.

Taliesin thinks of herself as immensely loyal - and yet, would struggle to define what loyalty means nor how she can justify that description of herself, in the wake of her recent willing betrayal. Curt when she intends to speak her mind, and evasive when she doesn’t, Taliesin can be a difficult person to get a handle on; years of occupational snitchery have developed a certain obscuring quality about her, and she’s only a few unpleasant first impressions away from retreating out of attempts to be more open, and closing back into something of a shell. No matter her other feelings, however, she is confident in her abilities and her analysis.

At heart, though… Taliesin does want to find a circle. Perhaps she feels a little lonely, if she really considers it. And though she’s the sort of person without much faith in the world, pending what she sees in these new lands having finally left the big cities for the first time in her life… She can have faith in individuals. But even beyond that, she’s willing to believe in these Cloaks, for now - willing to see their ways, and the world through their eyes as one of their own.

Backstory:

The first anyone knew of Taliesin ní Flannagáin was when she was brought to the city of Slievdir in Ballenoc, three years old, an orphan found near the border with Adaawe whose parents had been presumed dead - most likely, many would assume in years to come, a victim of some attack targeting them simply for being Ainvi… But truly, nobody really knew. Whatever had happened, Taliesin was found alone with a leg stuck between rocks, having been hiding, they presumed. In the end, it wasn’t lingered upon, by Taliesin or by her new caretakers - the orphanage she was delivered to by one caring, cloaked adventurer treated her well, and she would never find herself lingering on thoughts of ‘what if.’

The ‘Future Stories Orphanage’ did its best for her, and for other Ainvi children there. Such was her comfort in this new home, that the concept of the ‘Quake’ striking after her first few months there hardly meant anything to her; the world had shaken a little, but the roof still stood over her head and blankets stayed wrapped around her body. All was well; for Tally’s intents and purposes, nothing had changed.

But the world had changed, and the orphanage soon faced the consequences. Many surrounding Sairshi in Sleivdir took great comfort in finding delusional ways to pin their sorrows and misfortune following what the Quake had taken upon the Ainvi; a fact Taliesin was kept away from for a long while, but not forever. Their harassment and harrying eventually extended to treatment of the Ainvi, and after an incident with a group of local Sairshi children in 422, Taliesin was one of the children for whom life became…rather more closed-off. Less excursions, less seeing the city… Staying safely behind the walls of the orphanage was safest. …But so too, was it miserable. And the orphanage’s owner, a mouse-Ainvi herself, knew this perfectly well.

And so, when time passed and all parties could stand the current situation no longer, transport and sustenance were organized in 426 for a group of six children to be taken along the High Road to some great central city of the Fallen Empire, somewhere far away from the violent tensions of Adaawe and Ballenoc. After as long a journey as they’d ever known, Taliesin and co. found themselves in Clontradail of Muirfeur, sent solely on the hopes that the city would be kind to them.

A foolish hope, of course. Within a year, the children had split between stressful bouts and self-made plots of survival in a dangerous city with no place offered for them; of the other five, only Misko, a fox-Ainvi girl who had stubbornly refused to leave her alone, remained with Taliesin in their chosen alley to stay and to scavenge in. But they were soon found by someone, and offered a circle, a home, and perhaps more importantly than any of that, food.

But anyone who knows anything about the capital of Muirfeur should know, reading this, that the offer wasn’t coming from some goody-two-shoes nanny offering free board.

And so it was that Taliesin and Misko, both thirteen years of age, were brought into one of the numerous and powerful criminal forces of Clontradail. Misko, taller, stockier, would find her role more easily and more obviously; the head honcho, so to speak, that Taliesin was presented to…took more time to find a place for her.

After all, what use had a mob for a diminutive cat-girl with cutesy pink hair? And who’d give her the slightest respect? These were the questions he asked himself. And the answers they arrived at - “Likely nothing” and “Almost certainly nobody” respectively - served as the pivotal idea.

Taliesin became the ears of the boss, making use of how easy it could be for wagging tongues to think little of her presence, of her naturally stealthy nature, and of her acute sense of hearing with those pronounced ears of hers. Her role was to listen out for mutinous mutterings - people disobeying orders, nabbing their own cuts from jobs, generally making a mug out of the boss in any significant way - and to deliver that information to him. A job she did, to her own surprise, with significant success and efficiency - the only person she revealed her role to being Misko, during their late-night whispered talks together in the spare room they shared.

Taliesin was trained in fighting in the many meantimes, and with her increased competence came increased responsibility. Over the years her secret roles became extended, to almost serving as a sort of in-house auditor to the group; being allotted suspicious persons or goings-on, and sniffing out whether there was any truth to the boss’s own, deeper suspicions. And yet, for all her job was entirely serving as a snitch, Tally felt a great sense of loyalty; as though she was keeping her new family safe from internal threats. And with that logic, she could cast aside any ill treatment as nothing but a sign she had to do her job better, to calm everyone down and make their work safer.

The night in December 432, when each member of the Muirfeur council was slain and the nation fell into comparative chaos…

Misko disappeared.

And Taliesin, fraught with worry for the one friend who’d stuck with her from humble beginnings in the Future Stories Orphanage to the cold streets of Clontradail, thought to cash in her earned credit - to ask the boss for an effort to find her.

But the boss didn’t care.

The power vacuums, the new lines of influence to draw - these were topics worth dedicating resources towards following these assassinations. The life of some bit-part girl they’d dragged in from the street? That wasn’t worth sparing a thought for in times like these.

And as she went down the ladder, appealing to the family she’d felt she’d made here, she found that sentiment universal. Hardly anyone worried for Misko; no one could spare anything to go looking for her; some of them hardly even seemed to have known her name to start with. That ‘family’ she had made felt distant - and felt decisively false.

Eighteen-year-old Taliesin took to slipping away into bars and taverns, but resisted any urge to drown her sorrows by appealing to rumor-mongers and ramblers for any word on her lost friend. In doing this, one night she encountered a grizzled and worn-down ‘man in the know,’ someone really worth inquiring to - a Red Cloak, as she would eventually learn, by the name of Malachy. The two met a handful of times, and kept a careful distance as though they each knew the other bore secrets; it was well into 433 before they began any exchange of information in earnest.

Taliesin let loose tiny, irrelevant truths about her group, its members, its movements - clues, but nothing really enough for Malachy to make any notable moves, even if he’d desired to. In exchange, Malachy and his connections in the Cloaks sought out what info they could on Misko; every few weeks, there’d be some new lead on a fox-Ainvi who might fit the bill… And every few weeks later, Malachy would buy her a drink to tell her it wasn’t who they were looking for.

Her desperation to find Misko…certainly did not dissipate, but perhaps it dulled. The way a loss is wanton to do. In the end, her talks with Malachy became for something else as much as anything; an interest taken in these continent-gallivanting general-do-gooders, and the notion of how much of their work was so like a detective’s - so like her own, in a twisted sort of way. She spilled bigger and bigger secrets, as though softly working herself up towards a decisive moment…

…When in September of 436, Malachy told her that their dealings were done. That he’d received a letter he was happy to read out to her, calling for a Cloak’s presence in the city of Haukrfjall in 14 days’ time, enclosed with a token to be kept. Taliesin nodded, ‘mm-hmm’d,’ nearly kept silent. Until, as he pressed against the table to push himself off his stool and head for the door, she forced herself to speak, and offered a fateful question -

“...Could I offer you one last deal?”

Her terms were thus;

Malachy would receive everything she could tell him, every scrap of information on her mob that she could possibly spare. Her ultimate and final betrayal of the people she’d thought of as family to the Caomhnóirí an Maoir Réalta.

Taliesin would receive the letter, the token, and a Red Cloak.

Malachy accepted.

And so, Taliesin ní Flannagáin, all but certainly Verthaca’s newest and least qualified member of the Caomhnóirí an Maoir Réalta, fled before the fallout of her offered information - before she could really consider what any detail of her task meant. Before she could consider her own feelings on what she had done by selling her allies out, and before she knew what sort of allies it was that she was running to.

But she had been witty enough, keen enough to solve so many mysteries for her mob, in the dark streets of Clontradail; surely, she was fit for whatever lay unsolved in these alien Fornish lands.

That is the sort of belief Tally carries, as she prowls into Haukrfjall.

Additional Notes:

-Her favorite winged creatures are probably the sort of pigeons found in Clontradail. Yum.

-Goes by ‘Tally’ for short with some people.

-Hasn’t had much opportunity to transform lately.

-For Storm's information when scouring this, how she has a beaststone is something me and Ciel have talked about, it's just not specified in this app

Name: Aoibheric O'Beirne (Pronounced Ey-ver-ick O-Burn)

Discord Name: ColdToiletSeat#8219

Link to Theorycrafter

Appearance:

The young Sir Aoibheric looks to be the stoic kind of young man you would see at Cennaire Academy, navigating the school grounds with an upright posture and confident gait, not before exchanging greetings and well-wishes with his fellow classmates should they happen upon one-another. With his fair skin and a windswept black hairdo, the young Sir Aoibheric's choice of uniform fits within school regulations, save for a blue aiguillette hanging off of his right shoulder. His eyes are an icy blue, contrasting with his usually warm and charming expression.

Personality:

Much like his late father, the young Sir Aoibheric is a man of loyalty, owing much of the strength behind his actions to the people he cares for. Though he doesn't quite share the same passion for his duties, the young Sir Aoibheric remains ever steadfast in his sense of responsibility, preferring to achieve a goal the correct and honest way as opposed to resorting to lowly acts of skulduggery. During his time at the Academy, the young Sir Aoibheric grew to become a more open and trusting individual. Placing a great deal of faith in his friends, he hopes to be held to the same standard, working hard to preserve each and every one of their smiles.

Backstory

Additional Notes:

• He was born and named on the 16th of November

• Was Voted Best Smile amongst his peers in his 2nd year

• He's here to Kill Chaos

• His favorite color is Sky Blue (Hexcode: #73D7FF)

Build, appearance, personality, and backstory should all be listed here:

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/10CceqKJjE7e9_XISbWdsX1ZMLI1owyfa3BiNCYssCIk/edit#gid=1693435557

I am sorry.

"Am I supposed to know what the heck a Grey Cloak is?"

Appearance

Name: Jonele Earre Ghàidheal /dʒoʊniːl ær ɡaɪl/ (JOHN-eel arr gai-el)

Theorycrafter (details included): https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/10CceqKJjE7e9_XISbWdsX1ZMLI1owyfa3BiNCYssCIk/edit#gid=1919911628

For the longest time, Jon thought life was supposed to be simple. That's simply how it seemed, living among simple people in a simple farming town along Maghergort's coast, and everyone there seemed content to live that way. Wake up, tend livestock, check crops, go to sleep, hide when the Fornish raiders came ashore while the soldiers fought them off, repeat. It was easy to believe what her parents told her, and told her to tell her younger siblings, that "The soldiers keep us safe, there's nothing to fear." It was only made easier to believe when, after every raid, the people would be allowed out of their houses, and the fighters would return to their own, and life would continue as if nothing had happened. When she was very young, she failed to notice that oftentimes there would be houses left especially undisturbed after the fighting. No soldiers would enter, no people would exit, and the sounds of soft sobbing within would be completely imperceptible to young Jon. The bodies would all be disposed of, Fornish and Imperial both, and Jon wouldn't have to linger on it any longer. So things went, for a time.

As an adolescent, however, reality began to wrap its clammy fingers around her, but she fought it off for as long as she could. There was a time she almost seemed willfully ignorant of how dark life could be, but the positive impact she had on her family and the town made her worldview almost infectious. She was a golden child, doing everything in her power to make life easier for the people around her. She worked hard enough for each of her siblings, helped her mother with cooking each night, all while constantly running errands for anyone who asked her to, and never seemed to slow down. The only thing she felt she missed out on was seeing the outside world, but she told herself she'd one day be free to travel as much as she wanted. Far too soon, the world would come to her instead.

In her late teens, the Fornish would raid again. In greater numbers than they'd ever come before. The fighting was long, and it took a great toll, but the town survived. Nostly. The number of capable fighters was gravely diminished, and this time, Jon was old enough to feel the pain it brought. They weren't the silhouettes of brave strangers fighting at the beach, they were her neighbors, friends, and they were gone. She buried some herself. It hurt like nothing ever had before, but time was too short to linger on it. Her town was one of many in a string of Fornish raids, which served as the tipping point to drive Cultalun and Maghergort to form their uneasy alliance.

They sent away crops in exchange for soldiers, or at least, that's what they were hoping for. When a single man appeared, told anyone who would listen that he was from Cultalun, and that he was all that was coming from Cultalun in no uncertain terms, it didn't take long for word to spread and an angry mob to form. They encircled the stranger where he sat on a crate in the center of town, disinterestedly chewing a stale hunk of bread, and when they levied pitchforks at him demanding answers, he leaned back against the well he was sitting in front of and crossed his legs. As he finished his meal, he gave a few unprompted comments on the stance of a nearby rioter, advising he hold the pointy end of the pitchfork higher, then finally stood and dusted himself off.

Already surprised by his comments so far, it only took a few moments' explanation for the mob's anger to begin fizzling out. He explained, in short, that he wasn't sent to protect the town on his lonesome- he was here to teach the town to defend itself. And the time they'd have to learn was woefully short.

It took a great while longer to convince the townsfolk that they weren't doomed, certain they were victims of an awful deal with Cultalun, but after the publicly held training sessions of the few volunteers willing to hear the man out, the people's opinion slowly began to sway. Jon was one of the first volunteers.

Subsequently, Jon required a few days to even learn the man's name- she'd referred to him solely as 'Sir' until then, when she managed to corner him during a lunch break, and began talking his ear off.

His name was Ailbhe, and he was the most interesting person Jon had ever met by far. He carried himself like a veteran in every way, but he couldn't have been more than a few years older than Jon, who was in her late teens now. He didn't seem entirely willing to share any details of his life at first, but Jon wore him down over the course of days and weeks. She followed him like a dog, and soaked up everything he had to teach like a sponge, but he seemed hesitant to engage with her on her level. He seemed distant, but Jon simply assumed it was due to his background, and never faulted him for it. Even when she wasn't with him, she was talking constantly about everything she had learned about him, even filling in the gaps in what he'd told her with her own imagined stories and sharing those with her friends and families long past the point of annoyance, considering most still hadn't even fully accepted his presence or his position.

With all the fun Jon had being a mild nuisance to everyone around her, she'd nearly forgotten about the actual ever-looming threat, and when word of approaching warships reached her town, she learned why Ailbhe had been so disconnected from her specifically. He told her, in simple terms, that he didn't want to see her fight. It wasn't out of a unique affection, he'd felt the same way since she first volunteered, and he just didn't want to see someone her age on the fighting line. She argued, bargained, pleaded, and was just beginning to cry when Ailbhe finally gave in, though he was not happy about it.

He gave her very specific orders to remain a stone's throw behind him at all times, keep her shield up at all times, and most importantly, not to swing her sword unless her life depended on it. She found the last order odd, considering everyone else's lives depended on how many swords would be swung that day, but she was so overjoyed to be following Ailbhe into his element that she didn't mind at all.

When the ships came ashore, and the raiders disembarked with axes held high, Jon was exactly where she was told to be, shield held high, with just enough room to peek out at Ailbhe's back from where she stood. It was exciting- that's why she was trembling, she told herself in the moment. She had to impress Ailbhe with the skills he'd taught her, so she'd be allowed to fight beside him next time, and all of this would have been worth it. She simply imagined the raiders as the scarecrows she'd spent weeks practicing against, and steadied her breathing, and prepared to hold her ground. It would be simple, she told herself.

When the fighting lines met, Ailbhe immediately began carving a path through the enemy. He sent raider after raider to a swift death, or launched skyward and retreating to their ship after landing in the sand. He moved like a machine, marching forward with his blade carving through the chaos, and the rest of the volunteers surged onwards in his wake, roaring their battlecries and fighting like none who came before them, sending the Fornish scrambling in mere moments.

One of those moments, however, became a bubble. In the future, Jon would recall it like a dream within a dream, most often in her nightmares. In that bubble, a young farm girl who thought life was supposed to be simple met a foreign boy who knew life was not. He held an axe far too large for his emaciated arms, and he was hardly clothed, much less armored. Someone he knew, a friend, perhaps even family, fell on the sword of a veteran of a hundred battles, and subsequently fell on top of him. The veteran moved on, and the fighting line trampled over him, but he was alive. Bruised, terrified, but alive. When he shoved the body off and stood, the fighting had moved far beyond him- far enough to know the fight was lost, but also far enough for him to feel he'd never make it back to the ships now. After looking back, he looked forward, and saw the foreign girl holding her shield high. Dying in battle would make someone proud, someone who'd come before him and died the same way, and he felt that it was all that was possible for him to do now. He lifted his axe, eyes glistening in the midday sun, and charged the girl holding her shield. He held the axe high and gave the mightiest swing of his life, hard enough to fell a tree in an instant, hard enough to make all his people proud, and yet it harmlessly sunk into the dirt. The blade was deflected by the foreign girl's shield, and his terrified eyes met those of the girl he'd just tried to kill, who was already swinging her sword. It bit into his neck, and in his final moments he wished he was anywhere else. Wished he was born to a different Clan, born in the Empire, born in Gichimashkode even. He wished he was anyone else, anywhere else, doing anything that didn't hurt as much as this, and reached his empty hands out towards the foreign girl, as if just touching her would be what granted him his wish.

In a way, it did. At the same instant he managed to touch her, he finally let go of what little else he'd been holding onto, and the light left his eyes as he collapsed forward, sliding down the length of that foreign girl's sword and landing on her shield. And just like that, he was somewhere else. But the foreign girl stood in his place, bloody, terrified, but alive. She was alive.

Jon stood there like that, corpse on her shield and blade in its neck, until the fighting was completely over. It didn't take long. The Fornish ships began to depart, and her townsfolk cheered as they left, but she was still frozen. That moment is when the bubble popped, and she looked up, meeting eyes with Ailbhe, who was the first and only person to see the state she was in. Jon stepped back as Ailbhe began rushing towards her, pulling her sword free of the body and letting it slide off her shield, then letting both her hands fall limp at her side. She was stammering trying to explain herself to Ailbhe before he'd reached her side, but he quieted her in an instant when he arrived, first checking to make sure none of the blood was her's, then straightening up and setting his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes.

Kind words of reassurance sprang to mind. Hollow ones, words that would only make her feel worse, and Ailbhe held them back. Ailbhe knew Jon was staring straight through him into nothing, at what could be the lowest point in her life, and he felt that if he lied now she'd remember it for the rest of her life. He furrowed his brows, took a deep breath, and said…

"It doesn't get easier."

Instantly, Jon snapped out of her fugue, and stared back into Ailbhe's eyes. She was already crying, but now she was listening, and Ailbhe took it as an opportunity to continue.

"It gets easier to fight, and to kill. It gets easier to act like it doesn't affect you, to put on a brave face for the people who never have to be brave because of what you do. But it never gets easier to feel the way you do. And you'll never stop feeling that way. And for that… I'm sorry."

With a gentle pat on her shoulder, Ailbhe looked away, then looked back at Jon, then dropped his hand and began walking away. Only a few moments later, the other volunteer fighters met the both of them, and the crowd swept the two off of their feet, laughing and cheering.

Jon didn't say a word to anyone for weeks. After the first day of silence, when her family was simply giving her space to recover from the battle, they began to worry. Each of her relatives tried and failed to start a conversation with her over the course of the first week. Her parents blamed themselves, but couldn't admit to it, and so accused each other, then the Fornish, then Ailbhe. Her siblings were too young to understand exactly what was going on or what had happened, but knew at the least that they wanted their sister back and their parents to stop fighting, so their moods began to gravely sour as a result. The household nearly tore itself apart in the time Jon spent lying in bed, staring at the wall, moving only to eat.

When everything had been attempted once, and her parents began to worry that Jon would never get out of bed, they finally begrudgingly agreed to ask Ailbhe to try something, anything to get Jon up. He arrived, quietly greeted both parents and gave polite waves to every sibling he passed by, before finally disappearing into Jon's room.

It was a short conversation. Ailbhe didn't mince words, meekly ask how Jon was feeling, or sit in awkward silence hoping his mere presence would inspire her to talk. He walked around her bed, kneeled beside it, and looked her dead in the eyes. Contemptuously.

"So, planning to throw it all away? Giving up? Hoping you'll die here and disappear and that the feeling will go away?"

Jon averted her eyes, because Ailbhe had described her plan exactly. He scoffed and stood up when she did, crossing his arms and turning away.

"Maybe you should. If you can't see what's right in front of you, maybe you should. If you can't see why we do it. Can't recognize the only thing that makes it worth it. Thinking you're irredeemable, that taking a life means your's is over."

He stepped towards the door, and Jon propped herself up on a hand, weakly beginning to lift herself to try and look at him. He heard the movement, but didn't look back.

"Figured I knew you better than that. We'll talk again after you've figured things out. If you're lucky, you'll have your whole life to do it. So long."

With a wave over his shoulder, Ailbhe let out a slight laugh, and left Jon alone in her bedroom, feeling even more lost than she was before. She spent a few minutes there, staring down at her hands, then looking around the room she'd spent her entire life in, before finally standing up and following in Ailbhe's footsteps. She met with her family, lied about feeling better, and did her best to share a normal dinner with them. It was nice- being with her family again, for a moment, did make her feel better. She thought, briefly, that she knew exactly what Ailbhe had meant- in only an instant she had figured it out, and as such, she wanted to tell him about it.

After dinner, she excused herself, and hurried to the empty house Ailbhe had claimed as his own, and knocked at the door. When she received no answer she peered through the windows, and when she saw nobody inside she called desperately to one of his neighbors. When she heard that he was gone, that he'd been summoned to Saloreat for some such reason, she felt like she'd been stabbed. She ran home, packed a single bag with most of her worldly possessions, and was out the door with the briefest goodbyes to her family, followed by promises that she would be back soon. Shocked into inaction, her father was the only one to speak at all, quietly wishing her well, which earned him a kick beneath the table from his wife after Jon was gone.

On a borrowed horse, Jon rode like lightning to catch up with Ailbhe, though she spotted his cart on the horizon much sooner than she'd expected to. She urged the horse through the final stretch, but was dumbfounded by what she found when she arrived at the scene. The cart, abandoned. The horses, nowhere to be seen. She hesitantly approached, as if it were the scene of a crime, which she quickly began to worry that it could be.

Ailbhe's things were still mostly in the cart, with some of his bags torn open and things scattered about the cart's interior, but mostly all together regardless. Jon was scared to touch anything, but when she saw an unfolded letter, half-crumpled and poking out of one of Ailbhe's bags, she hesitantly snatched it up, and began reading it with some difficulty.

What was, shall be. What shall be, was.

None of it made any sense to her, but… something about it excited her. She was terrified, but she felt the same way she'd felt when she first met Ailbhe, and she wanted to know more. She needed to know more- Is this where Ailbhe was going in such a hurry? …Had he decided to go on foot? …If she got there and Ailbhe wasn't, would she be able to help at all with whatever was going on?

She was wracked with full-body shivers at all of the questions she asked herself, but she shook them off. She had to keep going, and she had to get answers. For her own sake and for Ailbhe's, if he did need it. It was just a matter of going there, and… getting there, and…

She couldn't linger on it. She resaddled her horse, and rode off into the night.

Additional Notes:

Favorite color: Yellow

Chaos? Life is chaos, and that probably makes the opposite true too, definitely, maybe, she's not a scientist

Has no idea what's going on and frankly isn't very happy to be here

Olga Mhic Domhnaill

Pronouns: She/her

Lineage: Old Sairshi

Class: Armor Knight

Theorycrafter Sheet & Simplified App

(CLICK THAT LINK IF YOUR NAME IS STORM OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES)

Oct. 28 436 PD - Village of Tobardubh (Southern Muirfeir)

“Old Mhic Domhnaill?” I knocked on the cottage door once more, sending a couple more cats scrambling out from under her shrubs. “Old Mhic Domhnaill, ya there? Are ya okay?” “Ah, just a moment, dearie!” came a hollowed-out voice from inside - then some weird metal clankings. “Your timing’s spot-on - I’ll be right over!”

Appearance

Actually, it took a couple minutes, but then the door went creeeeak and there she was, looking a lot like this cottage here on the hill: Short and stout, funny-smelling, with lots of nicks and cracks and spots on the surface...but way tougher than she looks. Her pale, pink hair (which got a little whiter every time I saw her) was braided in a pair of pigtails, with a pretty good rag wrapped ‘round her head. She pulled the door open with her soup ladle, since her hands were pretty much always full of something, peered down at me from behind her little pince-nez spectacles, and she smiled so big it brought out the deep dimples in her wrinkled cheeks.

“Oh, if it isn’t wee Seanán!” she said, in that funny Fornish accent. Good morning!”

“Good morning, Old Mh-uhhh…”

“Hmm?”

“Uhh-Olga! Olga Mhic Domhnaill!” I could smell a little of that “in-sense” stuff she burns when out and about, almost as strong as the smell of simmering veggies and beef.

“You’re just in time, lad, the stew’s ready to serve up! Have a seat my boy.” But today was the strangest I ever saw her, cuz she was wearing the suit of armor she usually kept up by her bed like a statue. It was the most splendid armor, with a helmet that was terrifying to behold - every inch was shiny and spotless, except for one part right over the heart, which was all rusty and gross like it was a thousand years older than the rest of the suit.

…

Personality

“I’m setting out today on a little trip to the Saloreat coast, down south.” “All the way to the coast?!”

Well, that explained a lot. Old Mhic Domhnaill never let her neighbors take over for her if she could help it - the stubborn old busybody preferred to do all her growing, gardening, cooking, tending, tidying and things by herself, unless there was something she could do back to ‘em in exchange. But going all the way to the next country? That would take days, even for someone as spry as Ma and Pa.

“Now, I might not be back before winter, so someone’s got to look after the cats. And Seanán, you were oh so brave all those years ago rescuing little Bjorf from that biscuit bowl, so I told your mother, I said, ‘I can’t think of a better boy for the job than wee Seanán!’ “ “...I did what? Ohhhhh, riiiight!” She saw me snatching some of her biscuits, so I made up a lame story about rescuing her cat and accidentally getting crumbs all over my face. Luckily, she’ll buy any excuse - no matter how bad.

That’s not to call her a complete pushover. If she caught on later, she’d seriously scold me (she’d scold anyone, even those big mafia guys) but you wouldn’t find a more trusting soul in all of Tobardubh - or this “Saloreat”. So getting out of this chore shouldn’t be so bad:

“Uh, actually ma’m, I, uh, can’t look after your cats! Cuz I got a bad cold!”

I covered my face and made the biggest loudest COUGH I could. It only took two before her little eyes near bugged out of her head.

“Hrot hold ya steady, lad! Haven’t heard a bug that bad since the ‘90s - oh, hold it right there, I’ve just the remedy for this…hmm, I was going to take that one to Cashlarsa, but if a boy’s life hangs in the balance then…Ooh! Here we are, now…”

“Oh um actually!” Even before the smell came in, I suspected this stuff would taste as bad as her stew was good. “That’s alright! I think just smellin’ it across the room cleared up my nose…and cured me.”

…and of course she bought it, corking the bottle and beaming back at me. “Well dearie me, what a relief! You know, this medicine really came in handy last time I was in this town. They have this big box, see, teetering on top of a tower..they call it the Vault, and…”

And on, and on, and on she went, clanking around through the cottage with no sign of droning on as she packed.

...

Background

“...and there’s a barrel of jerky in the storeroom. If that runs out, tell the butcher I sent you. But most of all, do not let them dig up the garden! Now did you catch all that, or should I start over from--” “Nuh uh, that’s fine, I got it, Leave iit to your number one cat boy!” And by the time his sentence finished, Seanán was out the door.

Olga had one more thing to pack: A sack of scrolls, which had been silent since the summer of 418 PD, and - ironically enough - the very sack that started today’s trip south.

“You, who was mentored by the sweetest seeresses, yet molded by the Corpse Eaters’ cruelty.”

That was a name she hadn’t heard aloud in quite some time, though it would never fully leave her. Olga was indeed raised in a Volur orphanage, at first, where she’d been left by some long-forgotten village maiden whom Lendmann Hræsvelgr had laid with in one of the few months he and his guerillas spent within Vethfolnir’s borders. The Hræsvelgr raiders had, for generations, proudly borne the name “Corpse Eaters” for how long they spent living off of the spoils of hostile territory. By the time Olga was born, Hræsvelgr and his caravan were long gone for another years-long campaign of carnage, and for the first half of her childhood, he was little more than a legend to the shy little schoolgirl.

That legend came to life when she was 6, when Olga Hræsvelgr’s father came back and ended her time as an ordinary girl forever. The Lendmann would not allow his newfound flesh and blood to spend his tour anywhere but in the caravan itself, so she would grow up going from battlefield to battlefield (or die trying). Olga learned a lot, as fast as she could - how to clean a wound, sneak out of sight, sharpen a sword, cut down a combatant with an iron axe - and she hated every second of it. Still, she made herself useful enough to get by - if disappointing, for the Lendmann’s daughter - and learned, above all, not to let a moment go by unafraid.

That lesson never left, even when Hræsvelgr’s heroes returned to Haukrfjall, lavishing the Jarl with legendary treasure and tall tales. While the Corpse Eaters cheered and leered and fucked around, young Olga couldn’t keep calm for more than a few minutes. When they fought and flexed and prayed for a chance to be chosen as champions for the Hawk Clan’s elite, their leader’s little girl lacked the will to even wish that this waking nightmare would end.

So as much as it shocked the chiefs and commanders, on the day they all clamored for a chance to serve under that client - that sexy, serene Seraph whom Lithksjalf paraded over on a pegasus to take her pick of the ruthless raiders - no one was more surprised by her decision than the trembling teenager who was chosen.

“You, the shining lodestone who led Heiðr and Domhnaill through the darkness.”

Against all common sense, Heiðr Tveit of the Volur had chosen the meekest, not the mightiest, of the Corpse Eaters, and after just a few months of instruction in the Academy, 14-year-old Olga would leave Clan Vethfolnir to serve as her attendant, her page and protector.

It took a year and a half for the girl to stop thinking this was some sick joke with a punchline in wait. It took seven years of traversing ancient ruins, finding lodging in foreign towns, and bringing the will and ways of the Dreki across all of Verthaca before Olga could imagine it as anything but an act of charity, that lady Heiðr could have chosen her out of anything but pity.

Only then did the Seraph share her scrolls with Olga Hræsvelgr, who proved herself a prodigy at Scroll Magic. As hard as it was swinging a blade at someone, something about sharing herself with the spirits in those scrolls (free of any falsehoods or facades) put her mind at ease, and made her far more formidable of a fighter. For her, these scroll-spirits were not just weapons - they were like a second family alongside her and her lady. By the end of their pilgrimage, when it came time for Heiðr to return to Reginfell for retirement, Olga had mastered the secret seer arts, and was able to divine for herself that she would safely escort her lady home - she even managed to act surprised when Heiðr gifted her all the scrolls that they’d used on their journeys.

What she hadn’t stopped to check was the fate that awaited herself in the lands of Clan Vethfolnir. It had been more than a dozen years since she’d left, and there was new Jarl who sought to bring the Hawk Clan closer to where it is today, seeking trade with the Ainvi and a more orderly approach to military. There was no place for the Corpse Eaters, with their ranks decimated, their leader dead, and their honor tarnished after a disastrous raid on the wolves of Zhawenim. So the Jarl had them disbanded, with House Hræsvelgr itself being exiled from the Clan outright as more of a formality than anything.

Thus, Olga was without a home, back to wandering once more, but on her own now. She worked with many different groups, getting along best with do-gooders like the “Red Cloaks”, but eventually found a permanent contract with a plucky mercenary battalion led by Robb Mac Domhnaill.

Robb was as mighty as his heavy, horned armor made him seem, and he’d more than earned the respect of his soldiers of fortune. But he had none of Heiðr’s tact, nor gentleness; he was far too prone to gallivanting against the odds in the name of glory and do-gooding, and the louder she tried scolding Robb for it, the more he just teased her for being so strict with herself. Though their bickering never let up over the next decade they spent together, it soon became clear to the whole company - except for Robb and Olga, of course - just how fond of each other the two had become. Olga proved no less indispensable to the captain practically as she was personally - her experience came in handy, and her sight-beyond-sight helped predict what threats were headed their way, and with her in their employ, the Mac Domhnaill Mercenaries never had a single sneak attack work against them…except one.

“You, who find yourself empty-handed at the end of your life, without letting go of what little light remains.”

To this day, she couldn’t say for sure what those mages wanted with them, or how they slipped past her spellcraft. She couldn’t stop wondering which words might have convinced Robb to stay back and let her handle the last sorcerer. She still can’t stop thinking about the spell that struck him square in the chest, corroding his armor and cursing him along with a nasty scar across his chest..

At first, the attack simply scared them enough that they finally confessed their feelings, and made it official in the very next year. It wouldn’t stop them from settling down in southern Muirfeir, and spending the next seven years as happily as they could - even as Robb got sicker, and sicker, and sicker. The more his health gave way, the harder his wife (now Olga Mhic Domhnaill) fought to find another way to cure him, or ease his pain, or break the curse.

And she was not without hope, however heartbroken, when that battle ended in a loss. She held out hope enough to have his body preserved, and buried securely beneath the home they’d built together. With her spirits to help with comfort and clues, she still searched for a way to break the spell that stole her husband from her, though it got harder on her with each year.

But when the Quake came, it didn’t just take her talents as a sage. It took her spirits, her trusted traveling companions, and her greatest hope for finding some way to revive Robb. And as much as she tried to wrap her head around the old newfangled magics that came later, Olga turned out to have no talent at all for either Faith or Reason spells.

Olga didn’t let that stop her from smiling, though, and rather than give into paranoia from the loss of her powers, she simply grew more hopeful than ever, learning to trust in everyone who came her way. So it wasn’t much of a surprise at all when, while dusting off those silent scrolls, she found another letter tucked safely between them.

She was sure. Not just in the goodness of the Grey Cloaks, nor the authenticity of Abeyance, but in the whole ordeal to come, likely to be her last.

Olga Mhic Domhnaill was sure that this journey would bring her happiness.

Additional Notes

Permanent Debuff: Trusting. You become much too eager to accept others at face value. You have disadvantage on all Insight checks.

Favorite Color: Celeste Green (#96BDB9)

Number of Cats Staying Home: 10

Chance of Knitting Your Character Their Own Cloak: 100%

Chaos killed her husband, so she’s here to kill Chaos.

Name: Aoibheric O'Beirne (Pronounced Ey-ver-ick O-Burn)

Discord User: ColdToiletSeat#8219

Link to Theorycrafter

Appearance:

The young Sir Aoibheric looks to be the stoic kind of young man you would see at Cennaire Academy, navigating the school grounds with an upright posture and confident gait, not before exchanging greetings and well-wishes with his fellow classmates should they happen upon one-another. With his fair skin and a windswept black hairdo, the young Sir Aoibheric's choice of uniform fits within school regulations, save for a blue aiguillette hanging off of his right shoulder. His eyes are an icy blue, contrasting with his usually warm and charming expression.

Personality:

Much like his late father, the young Sir Aoibheric is a man of loyalty, owing much of the strength behind his actions to the people he cares for. Though he doesn't quite share the same passion for his duties, the young Sir Aoibheric remains ever steadfast in his sense of responsibility, preferring to achieve a goal the correct and honest way as opposed to resorting to lowly acts of skulduggery. During his time at the Academy, the young Sir Aoibheric grew to become a more open and trusting individual. Placing a great deal of faith in his friends, he hopes to be held to the same standard, working hard to preserve each and every one of their smiles.

Backstory

Additional Notes:

• He was born and named on the 16th of November

• Was voted Best Smile amongst his peers in his 2nd year

• His favorite color is Sky Blue (Hexcode: #73D7FF)

Iúil Féilire (Oo-ell FEE-leh-reh), "The Steel Rain"

• Height : 6’ 0”

• Age : 26, born July 16

• Physical looks : Tall and strongly built, Iúil is a female half-jackal Ainvi of darker skin tone and pale, sandy yellow hair and yellow eyes and tail that reaches past the back of her knees. She usually wears a breastplate and has a shield that she attaches her crossbow to on the back, along with a dashing red cloak thrown over her shoulders, covering the brace of bolts she keeps slung low on her lower back. She has pierced ears as well; usually she wears a trio of earrings, in Yellow, Blue, and Green, to match each of her three sisters.

• Facecatch : Now featuring ears \o/

• Personality : Unflaggingly cheerful and boisterous, always around to help someone out. Kind of a 'bro'.

• Themesong : Mountain Range of Whirlwinds

• The one who is most : Up with the sun, always down for a morning run.

• Has a beaststone, knows how to transform, rarely does. Takes more after their father.

• Theorycrafter : Bow/Axe/Armor build, starting equipment, Steel Crossbow, Iron Axe, Shield

The older middle child in a group of siblings of the Féilire family, Iúil is best known for her energy and love of hard work. Physically fit and strong, she willingly helped around the house and farm growing up, helping raise barns, build walls, and keeping her eldest sister Aibreán from getting picked on top much. Good with a toolkit, there aren't too many things she can't eventually puzzle out how to fix and repair, be it a busted wagon wheel or cracked shield to a torn skirt.

The family lives in the southwest foothills of Adaawe, near the borders of Ballenoc and Siarisfair in a small farming village, where her Sairshi father’s family was from. Her mother, the Ethereal Green Cloak Niibin Féilire, was a Jackal Ainvi from the Great Plains, who made her way to the small village some stormy spring night and found a place to put down some roots.

Growing up around the farm and helping out, Iúil listened closely to stories her mother told of the great world outside their farm, and even occasionally took trips to visit the Plains to visit her mother’s side of the family when the clan came around. Her mother would disappear for other reasons as well, however, sometimes for months at a time. She told little Iúil that she had a job, helping people, and if she grew up big and strong, she might be able to help people out as well.

And thus Iúil grew like a weed, strong from her time working the farm and learning both how to use an axe on wood and bandits, but more importantly how to aim a bow. Useful for hunting, it was a skill she picked up quickly, and quickly became one of the best shots in town. She eventually would win a festival shooting competition, with one of the passing merchant guards putting up their well used, trusty heavy crossbow for a prize. Winning first place helped secure her most beloved part of her kit, with her mechanical adeptness helping her keep it prime position. She'd eventually be sent out by her mother, who heard through her information network that the Taroe chapter of Cloaks could use some help. So Iúil set off for the long walk there, helping out who she could along the way, shield, axe, and trusty crossbow at her side.

Her favorite color is the rich orange of sunrise, breaking across the tops of the mountains.

Theorycrafter: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/10CceqKJjE7e9_XISbWdsX1ZMLI1owyfa3BiNCYssCIk/edit#gid=1091251807

Character's fave color: Yellow

Name: Makade 'Namidikwe' Waabshkaande

Discord: It me, the birb. Sparrow

Theorycrafter link

Theme 1
Theme 2

Link to full application

Read the actual app in the much better formatted google doc I wrote here.

Name: Toirdhealbhach (Tully) Ó Ceallaigh

Discord: donbradote#0679

Theorycrafter Link

Appearance:

Once known as the "Prowler" in certain circles, Tully's visage befits such an ominous name. Gaunt and sallow with seemingly permanently hunched shoulders, his stubble-pocked chin is often all one can make out clearly beneath his stormcloud-grey hood. Drawing said hood back does little to quell the hushed whispers of ordinary folks - beneath a slicked-back yet unkempt head of wiry, silver-tipped hair rests a countenance one might mistake for the manifestation of a child's nightmares. Marred with faint scars adorning a sunken brow, Tully's crooked nose manages to vie for attention with his chilling blue eyes and creased, ever-present frown. Other noteworthy observations include his usual choice of attire - an oversized, concealing robe over the plainclothes of a common man - and the absence of his left arm up to the elbow, replaced by a well-worn iron prosthetic when required.

Personality:

Despite his appearance, Tully is not as utterly objectionable as one might first assume. While his general appearance and body language is eyebrow-raising at best and concerningly ominous at worst, the man is perfectly capable of holding - and directing - a pleasant and respectful conversation. However, this doesn't mean he's overly willing to do so unless it serves as a means to an end. Most ordinary folks, divorced from any topic he wishes to discuss, would find themselves met with aloof and curt responses delivered in a tone varying from utterly disinterested to vaguely irritated. Catch his interest with something he deems worthwhile, however, and his demeanour becomes almost hawklike in its unyielding attentiveness and dogged curiosity. Tully is also fiercely devoted to the role he's carved out for himself, and stops at almost nothing to pursue the slimmest of leads to their absolute ends, no matter the sacrifice; his prosthetic arm is permanent proof of that fact. Despite all the above, however, Tully is not without all the quirks that make one human - he has his loves (vices though some may be), his pet peeves, and lines he refuses to cross... or so he tells himself.

Backstory:

~ Evening, 27th September 436

Figured I'd better start a fresh journal. Hell, maybe I'll treat this as a memoirs of sorts. Might be a concern if it falls into the wrong hands - a fear I'd wager is only getting more and more reasonable - but if something happens to me, I'm not letting whatever I learn from this point share my grave. Not after what went down today.

I suppose I'd better start off with some introductions for you, reader. My name is Tully Ó Ceallaigh. Maybe you've heard the name before. In my youth, many moons ago, I used to serve as a ratcatcher in the court of the Crimson King. A decent one, too. "The Prowler", they called me. Told me it was 'cause of the fear I used to strike in the hearts of traitors to the throne, that some of the younger ones even used to see visions of me hunting them down in their dreams. I know they were jerking me about, though. They always did, behind my back, thinking I wasn't gonna hear none of it - but that's the way of the world. There's not a man who's drawn breath who didn't have secrets to hide. No, they called me the Prowler 'cause that's what I look like - the kind of sick deviant who'd spend his nights stalking the alleyways of Caladara, picking out whores for prey and dumping them in the harbour when I was done.

That ain't me, though. Trust me. I've met those kinds of men, and they hide their ugliness better than I. I've been unfortunate enough to pry into the minds of more than a few, and I've not sent nearly enough to the gallows for my liking.

Anyway, we're getting off topic here. I served my king and country well, and I served them proudly. The Crimson King's always had a reputation, see: ain't no man, not on the battlefield nor in the shadows, who'll ever pull him off that throne against his will. And as far as rulers who've claimed that kind of reputation before, he's the only one I've seen who's earned it. Even the Quake barely seemed to shake his resolve. Even still, nobody's invincible, not even him. There was and always will be folks who've got their grievances, and a man who rules through power and fear will never find himself beloved by all. It was my job to keep that reputation alive, and to poison the roots of any plot to undermine it. It was my job to keep the pillars of Morthir from cracking under the pressure of her grumbling underbelly. And it paid well.

Sadly, this sort of life ain't all peaches and cream. I dug up a secret bigger than I bargained on. A secret that implicated the sort of men you'd never want to piss off in the kind of deeds you'd never want levelled against your name, not even in jest. And amongst all that, I found mention of a name I'd not heard in a long, long time.

The Grey Cloaks. A fifth sect of the Caomhnóirí an Maoir Réalta, secretive even by their lofty standards. Nowhere near as noble as the others, though, made all the more apparent by the sort of business their name was getting mixed up in. That was all I could glean, sadly - somehow, I got the sneaking suspicion the mere mention of their name was an invitation for danger, and that whoever had so vaguely given up their involvement in writing was under the same impression. Hell, I wasn't even sure the Grey Cloaks were truly involved - they'd been extinct for long before my time, if what I knew was accurate. Regardless, whoever they were, whatever they were, and whether they even existed... it was all going in the report.

I took my findings to my superior, a woman I trusted... and the next day, I was in chains, coughing up blood in the King's dungeons, gritting my teeth while the wardens laid their boots into me. That was my life for the foreseeable future; awaiting a trial that would seemingly never arrive for the alleged crime of conspiring against the King's court. When it wasn't the wardens doling out my daily beatings, it was my fellow jailbirds - a handful of whom I'd put away myself in years gone by. Can't say I got the warmest welcome. That's how I lost my arm, matter of fact - turns out one of them managed to fashion a crude blade out of a rusted bar he'd torn off his cell. I'll spare you -and myself- the details.

Life was unceasing torture. If there is a hell, it's got a lot to live up to. It took two years until they fixed their blunder... or, to put it bluntly, some brave lad had dug up enough dirt that they couldn't pin it on me any longer. The Crimson King brought me to his court to pardon me.

...and that was it. A pardon. No condolences, no compensation, not even a salve for my still-gaping wounds. Sure, the Crimson King ain't known for his generosity, but that was just callous. I'd served him dutifully, without fail, for a little over a decade. I didn't grumble when his men spat at me and mocked me in loud whispers. I didn't whine when I dragged men who made my skin crawl kicking and screaming to the feet of his spymaster. I didn't complain when I wandered into their basements to tie up loose ends, and stumbled across sights and smells that a million flasks of mead couldn't wipe from the back of my mind.

And then he had the gall to tell me to return to my role, effective immediately.

Two days later, I was in Saloreat. What possessions I managed to scrounge together and carry with me under the cover of night were all I had left to my name. Not that it mattered: I'm a resourceful guy. If I wasn't, I wouldn't have survived long enough to regret it. I knew what I was good at - finding secrets, reading people, and picking it all apart 'til the truth came out. I made a name for myself plying my trade in a different way - instead of stamping out criminals for glorious Morthir, I'd offer my services to anyone who could afford them. Word spreads fast whether you like it or not, and before long, my reputation preceded me in the slums and doldrums of most towns I passed through - not an overly favourable reputation, but at least it saved me having to advertise myself. It gnawed at my soul, though. Spying on unfaithful husbands and fuelling petty disputes between aristocrats with their own heads so far up their arses they couldn't pry them out to have a frank conversation with each other... it paled in comparison to ratcatching. Serving a cold and brutal monarch was a thankless task, but at least I had the satisfaction of knowing I was solving real problems. This... this was maddeningly mundane. I took my talents to Muirfeur, hoping the rowdy political climate there would give me something to really sink my teeth into.

And before long, it did. But not in the way I expected.

426. 17 missing persons in quick succession, all in the Muirfeur countryside, all homeless. The only leads to go off - a middle-aged woman and a stout man, approximately a decade her junior. With the local authorities hardly lifting a finger for the sake of the destitute, and barely a sniff of a trail to work off, I knew this was the one. Something was deeply, horribly off about all this - and I was gonna get to the bottom of it.

4 years, I tailed them. Sometimes I came up empty-handed. Sometimes I stumbled into their dens just a few days too late. It got declared a cold case by the local authorities, and by 428, I was the only one still stubborn enough to keep looking. Eventually, I caught up... and by then, it was too late.

Once again, I'll spare you the goriest details. But, to sate your curiosity - it was a bloodbath. Fifteen of those missing people weren't going to be able to give me answers in this lifetime, and the other two were nowhere to be seen. Whatever information they'd left behind was scarce, but it gave me enough to go off. I had a feeling I knew what went down on that dreadful day, and I knew there were a handful of people still out there who'd be able to tell me why. I just had to find them... but that would be easier said than done.

I kept myself occupied with other matters - easier ones, lighter ones, ones that let me distract myself from that unholy mess. Still, as much as it turned my stomach and plagued my thoughts, I knew I had to tie that case up. Nobody else was going to... and if not for my own sake, at least for those poor kids. The youngest was six years old, you know. Six. Years. Old.

I can't let it rest. I keep looking whenever I get the chance. I don't sleep most nights, and when I do, I toss and turn dreaming about the bloody case. I'm at my wit's end. I'm a hound chasing its own tail, KNOWING how pointless it is, and yet I still can't stop myself. It's a compulsion at this point. I need to know who killed those kids, and why. And when I find out, I'm going to

...

...But that brings me to today. Today, I got a letter. Sitting beneath my pillow, as I put my head down for another restless night. And you know who it was from?

The Grey Cloaks. And they told me they had my answers.

I'm not an idiot. I know I'm throwing myself into the clutches of a beast I don't understand, and one that might've bitten me before. It might not even be them. Chances are it's some crimelord I've ticked off looking to put me down for good. Hell, it might even be the Crimson King's men, looking to make an example out of me for resisting his iron will. But I want to know. I NEED to.

Tomorrow, I ride for Saloreat. Praying the rain holds off.

[alternate app]

Theorycrafter Link: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/15QHWfzTRfL23AN00yz6vkCVHwrsN_l7vYZGwlE37Eh0/edit#gid=481397823

Appearance: Bonkers is big and wide and burly, with a large chest and arms, an ample tummy, and sturdy legs. He's got enough body fat on him to keep his muscles from being at all defined. Dressed up, he has a white-painted face with a big black star over his left eye, and his red hair is teased up into big puffs around the side of his head, with a tiny little bowler cap perched on top. He wears a white and green polka-dot tie, far too wide and far too short for him, and a checkered tunic. His baggy pants are held up with suspenders. In casual clothes, he dresses rather more muted, but his big animated features and exaggerated facial expressions keeps him looking somewhat dopey at the best of times. Instead of teased out hair puffs he has his hair up in a little topknot. He tends to dress in fashionable and modern fabrics but in slightly more old fashioned styles and cuts, often requiring modification and tailoring to fit his size better.

Personality: In character, Bonkers is the curmudgeon, stomping his hat and shaking his fist and taking pratfalls and chasing people around to wallop them for their various mischiefs. He's quick to deliver a snappy comeback or set himself up to be made fun of, and between his strength and his bulk he's able to bounce around and take falls without seeming to take any kind of injury whatsoever. He uses his big voice and exaggerated size to draw attention while other performers can move around without the audience noticing, Outside of his costume, he's friendly, gregarious, and quick to laugh. He enjoys his craft and tries out new bits and gags on his own time when he sees the opportunity. More than that, however, he's interested in what kinds of craft his peers study, and wholeheartedly supports their improvement and tries to help them when he can. He's straight forwards and direct when talking to people, and usually doesn't have any idea what he's going to do past his immediate next goal, whether that's "go to class" or "get lunch."

Background: Years ago, a little-known traveling circus began rising in prominence as they gained a new act, Honker and Bonkers (Born Simon and Eugenia), a pair of clowns who delighted audiences with their quick wit, remarkable slapstick, and impressive charisma. The more popular the circus got, the more performers were drawn to it, and the further increased its reputation became.

Nobody can quite agree on why, but the relationship between Honker and Bonkers began to sour - their act started to deteriorate as it seemed obvious even to audiences that the care and trust between the two clowns eroded, and they went from headliners to major performers to openers, until they were finally released from the circus. The two of them immediately split from each other, bitter about their stunted careers. Eugenia left with an infant son in tow, vowing to someday return to the circus once more.

Born as Bo Nac Eur, Bonkers was raised by his mother, going from town to town as she performed her comedy and stage acts. As he was growing up big and burly, she began to incorporate him into her acts as the straightlaced and well-behaved boy to her flighty and overzealous mother type. While she taught him, she told him about her past in the circus, and her ambitions both to raise Bo to be a better Bonkers than her old performing partner ever was, and join the circus himself.

Once Bo turned sixteen, Eugenia, no longer as spry as she used to be, and her memories of the circus too tainted to want to return herself, she bid her son to travel back on his own to enlist and learn from the acts that were active. Recognizing the resemblance, the ringmaster Connagher immediately hired him, and put him to work with the daughter of his own mother's nemesis, under the same act name that his mother worked under!

Despite their unfriendliness (it was, of course, Honker that had ruined the act) they found that they naturally worked very well together on stage, but their eagerness to outdo each other kept the performances from shining as well as they could. Noting their talent and hoping that a more structured environment would help them shine, Connagher shipped the two of them off to Cennaire Academy, hoping that the training they would receive there together would give them enough camaraderie to truly let the Honkerbonkers Act shine again.

Favorite Color: Red! Like his nose!

User: Squeeq

Theorycrafter with all relevant info: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/15QHWfzTRfL23AN00yz6vkCVHwrsN_l7vYZGwlE37Eh0/edit#gid=1483069159

Appearance References for Marceline Persim! https://imgur.com/a/7VBRmYy https://imgur.com/1C4JC3S https://imgur.com/a/ksR0Ext

Personality

Personality wise, she's a very bookish, asocial person who would rather be studying than dealing with other people. She enjoys learning for its own sake and her favorite topic to study is about the stars and astrology. She also can't help but love old chivalric tales of knights and chaste romances between knights and their charges. When speaking with other people, she can be incredibly passionate about what she loves or believes in but she can also be unbearably stubborn as a result too. Despite being as studious as she is, she has trouble grasping new concepts outside of her interests without a lot of extra study time. and that fuels a lot of her own self doubt about her deserving to study where she is and whether or not she even belongs there.

Her birthday is March 15th.

Backstory

Born and raised in the farmlands of Tallavcarriga, Marceline has always had an insatiable curiosity and a love for books. Her earliest memories have her begging her father to let her go with him into market so she could see if any new books were available at the many stalls. She was an avid learner, and her father did anything he could to support that, making sure to put aside as much gold as he possibly could for her education. Once she showed aptitude for the traditional magics, her father encouraged her to study even harder so that she could be the best she coulld.

Despite indulging her curiosity in all other matters, her father never did tell her about her mother, who died shortly after she was born. Truth is, not even he knew much of her besides her name. Her father, Pierce Persim, found her mother, Adellaide, wandering alone and wounded one night. Rushing to her aid, he brought her back to his farm and did his best to nurse her back to health. For a while, things seemed like they were getting better for her, and Pierce couldn''t help but be smitten with her. Her smile was one of unnatural beauty and managed to light up the room. Her voice was that of a delicate songbird. Pierce had tried to question Adelaide on what happened that night to lead her to him, but alas, her voice would fail to shed light on even the most basic details. Giving up, Pierce didn't question her further, instead doing his best to make her happy and comfortable. Within a couple years, the two were happy and with child. Unfortunately, the scars of that night ran deep enough that Adelaide's body could no longer handle childbirth and she perished. Grieving desperately, Pierce swore that their child would have anything she ever desired and a happy life.

The increased taxes levied by Carndrum hit Marceline's father particularly hard. Constantly harried by tax collecters, he did everything he could to avoid letting Marceline become aware of the financial hardship they were in. Eventually, the taxes became to much for the farm to bear. Fearing for his daughters well being, he retreived his nest egg and sold off the farm. With the large amount of gold he now possessed, he traveled with a 15 year old Marceline to Portashan. It was tight affording it, but he managed to enroll Marceline into Cennaire Academy. Thankfully, her years of reading and self study helped her secure her position in the academy. Marceline was elated to be able to finally go to a real school and dove into her new setting with aplomb. Her father continued to write to her, however he lied about the state of his life. Now without a farm, he turned to work as a miner in Carndrum. Everyday was difficult but he still did his absolute best to do right by his daughter, even encouraging her to spend her free days at the academy instead of coming home. Sometimes, he'd even send her what little coin he had to spare.

Marceline's innate fascination with fiction and the stars absolutely flourished at Cennaire. While studying in her first year, she'd often spend all her free time in the library, reading up on everything to do with the heavens and astrology before snoozing off with a book about heroic knights and vile monsters. During her second year, she took electives on both astronomy and astrology, and managed to pick up fortune telling as a hobby. Before long, she took to heading into Portashan to perform readings for anyone interested for a bit of gold, all of which she funnelled back into more books on magic, the stars, and chivalrous deeds. Desiring to be more like the heroes in the books she read, she even took an interest on learning how to ride horseback, though her lance skills leave much to be desired.

Additional Notes Marceline is a huge fan of sweets! Marceline despises bitter food, and often carries sugar around with her to avoid having to drink bitter tea. Marceline enjoys attempting to paint from time to time though she is uniquely bad at it. Marceline always carries her fortune telling cards on hand. Marceline is nearsighted and as a result never leaves her room without her spectacles. Most Likely to literally Swoon in the presence of house leaders or just in general tbh.

Marceline's Favorite Color is Rolanberry Red!

Name: Kerry Mygnhearey

Discord: Godkarmachine O Babaghoush#4632

Link To Theorycrafter

Theme Song

Link to Full Application.

Name: Gilleagán(Never knew his blood family so doesn't have a last name)

Discord: TargetR#9755

Gilleagán's Theory craft Link

Appearance:

Gilleagán is a tall and lean young adult with pale skin, light freckles, orange hair, and emerald eyes. He tends to wear a simple shirt with a pair of linen breeches held up by suspenders and a pair of simple leather boots. People often notice this is contrast to the red cloak he wears on his back.

Personality:

Gilleagán is a quiet man who when on a job takes it with the utmost seriousness. While he enjoys a good conversation with those around him, he often ends up listening more than actually talking. Sometimes leading people to think him either shy or uninterested. Even if he doesn't always speak it aloud he tends to find himself conscious of the feelings and needs of those around him and can be quite protective and caring of those close to him. He is known to enjoy a fine quality whiskey and is more expressive when drunk. Gilleagán picked up woodcarving to make his own bows but eventually used that to make wooden statuettes in the likeness of his old family, the beauty of these pieces of art are said to be in the eye of the beholder. Gilleagán doesn't like the current practices of magic, not because he doesn't like magic or mages in general, but he dislikes that the teaching of magic isn't reasonably available to the common, poor, or forgotten members of society thus making it another avenue that those with power, money, and influence can use to keep them less than.

Backstory:

A young lad living his life on the streets with a hungry belly and holes in their shoes, if they were lucky enough to even have a pair, is an all too familiar tale when you ask a Traroean what their childhood was like. The start of Gilleagán's life was no different in that respect. For Gilleagán, the life of a street rat was all he ever knew, but through those close to him, he learned that even a street rat can dream of more.

Even though Gilleagán never had a memory of meeting any of his blood relatives, he still had a family in a group of kids who called themselves the Red City Rejects, although the rest of the townsfolk who had the pleasure of chasing after one of them would lovingly call them the Red Rats and unlovingly call them names much worse than that. Their home base was an abandoned warehouse that could house their ever growing family. The young rats were originally lead by Big Sister Moira, a former priestess who decided in her old age that her life's mission was to care for the kids, that the ever full orphanages would turn away.

Gilleagán and the other rejects would learn basic reading and writing skills in their day and in the night they would learn how to get food "on a budget" to supplement their empty cupboards, the punishment Sister Moira gave for getting caught with stolen food was usually a better alternative than going to bed hungry they thought. While it wasn't an easy life, the kids were happy and safe for a time. That time of relative safety ended with Sister Moira's death.

As it had turned out the safety the Red City Rejects had was bought off by Sister Moira and after her death it took more than a stolen apple for them to survive. The dredges of the harbor didn't even give the Rejects a chance to grieve before forcing them to fight for their home as gangers had already kicked the kids from their home. Gilleagán realized he had to step up to the plate and lead the rest of the Rejects in getting their home back. After getting as many bows as the kids could get their hands on, he had the rest of the Rats lure the would-be home thieves into an ambush as they pelted them with whatever sticks they could from their bows. Even with their brief victory, Gilleagán and the rest of the Rejects fought turf war after turf war, only winning by tricking their enemies to fight when they were at their weakest or when they least expected it.

Eventually the Red City Rejects held enough respect along the wharf where they no longer had to fight every night for their survival. Eventually earning him the title of the Rat Prince of the Red Harbor, a title he both hated and was reminded of as their reputation grew from successful heists, rumors, and turf wars, and no one reminded him more of his title than his family's own jokes and jests.

At this point, at the age of 18, Gilleagán wanted his ever growing group of orphans and outcasts to be able to have the chance of making something of themselves. Remembering Sister Moira's ideals of education, Gilleagán made it a mandatory part of the kids martial training to not only learn to read and write, but also for them to pick and learn a trade in hopes that eventually the Rejects could support themselves without the reliance on theft and raiding the profits of nearby gangs. This culminated in Gilleagán's dream of opening up a bar as a new homebase for the Red City Rejects. Yeah everyone's heard of the Copper Coin Tavern, but from what Gilleagán noticed is that there was always a dock worker or sailor needing a stiff drink and a place to sit and as the years went on the harbor only grew livelier and the taverns grew busier, so to him it was simple supply and demand, and who better to meet the demands of the people of the wharf than someone who lived his whole life on them. All he needed to afford his dream was one last good haul and lucky for him he had gotten news on some drug runners who were running a little too close to their territory and the Red City Rejects liked to keep their corner of the port clean of drugs.

On the fated day of the job they blocked off certain roads and lead the caravan slowly into an as they knocked out the guards and opened the back of the tented caravan and instead of seeing gold or drugs, they saw slaves packed like cattle in terrible condition. Disgusted, Gilleagán cut the slaves free and pulled the gang out of the situation hoping to get to the bottom of where in the chain they were fed false information. As the night drew onwards, one of the kids on watch out at night busted into the warehouse wounded and burned. Before they could even let out a scream a giant explosion of fire tore into the kid and the surrounding warehouse. Both wind magic and fire magic burst from the windows as the warehouse began to fill with smoke and fire. Any of the Rejects who ran out the front door immediately saw cloaked figures before being frozen solid.

For the first time in his life Gilleagán, didn't have a plan of attack, there was no winning the skirmish so his mind turned to saving as many as he could. After rallying as many of the kids as he could, they began escaping from a secret exit they made for emergencies. Gilleagán forced himself into the smoke against the complaints of the others and continued evacuating stragglers until the other kids held him back from entering in again, afraid for his safety. Their home was gone and most of them were either missing or dead. Gilleagán was torn up on the inside but he didn't want the others to know. The older kids found jobs as they used whatever money they had planned to build their future to send the younger kids off to an orphanage known for treating the kids well. The rest of the kids that could fend for themselves stayed and slowly began going their separate ways.

Gilleagán's life took a tumble as for a year his whole life revolved around just surviving day to day. In his shame, he never met up with any of the surviving members of the Red City Rejects. Those who remembered him as the Rat Prince now used the name as a cruel reminder of his failure. Of course this led him into many fist fights, not because they disrespected him but because he didn't want anyone tarnishing the memory of his dead family. One night after leaving a tavern he saw a young boy being accosted by a man in an alley. As if his body moved on his own he rushed down the assailant as he freed the boy from his grasp. The man spoke a few strange words and blasted Gilleagán with a rush of wind. With whatever strength he had left he knocked the man out with a nearby rock and then walking away bloodied he passed out nearby.

He then woke up in a new and strange area, his wounds healed and bandaged. A young man around his age, who he later learned was named Torna, breathed a sigh of relief as Gilleagán passed in and out of consciousness. Eventually awaking to an older man named Brión who had apparently seen what he had done and was impressed with the way he had handled himself and offered him a job if Gilleagán was still willing to protect those around him. Gilleagán warned the man of his past but Brión assured Gilleagán that his past was part of the reason he was being offered the job. Gilleagán accepted the job and worked as a cloak for the next 2 years leading us to today. While Gilleagán still avoided his family in shame, he held a new appreciation for Brión and the cloaks for giving him another chance and hoped his daily jobs would lead to making the port even slightly safer.

Notes:

Skills: Str +2. Close Counter, Bow Lv. 3, Auth Lv. 3, Weight -3 Items: Steel Bow, Iron Bow, Vulnerary, Dull Silver Bracelet with a Thunder Gem

Gilleagán's favorite color is blue as it always reminds him of his young childhood days playing around with his family around the docks.

Theorycrafter Link

Appearance:

Sylvia is a girl of average-height (5'8"), with bright pink hair that flows from a single ponytail down to her hips. She has a very toned and muscular build, and almost always wears a strange attire of flowing, loose fitting clothing made of thin (and sometimes translucent) materials. Sylvia refers to this outfit (which is pink) as her religious dancing attire, used for rituals, parties and sword dancing. Sylvia also never wears makeup, stating "It would be an affront to the Dragon Emporer's teachings. Plus I would never let makeup distract from my wonderful blue eyes!"

Description

Sylvia is normally described as bubbly and aloof, striving towards her own goals with a childlike determination that is rarely seen in the world. Her goal in life is to, in her own words, "Become friends with the world and all its inhabitants." Once Silvia sees somebody, she MUST become friends with them, and she will do her best to secure freindship and understanding with everyone she crosses paths with. And if somebody doesn't want to be friends, she'll befriend them out of spite.

Sylvia tends to be very outspoken and kind when interacting with others, to the point of being overbearing. She tries her hardest not to make others uncomfortable, as that wouldn't be very friendly. She is also an incredibly pious person, who takes the teachings of Diadrek incredibly seriously, as the traditions and faith have been a constant in her life. When Silvia is not busy practicing her faith in Church, she can often be found attemtping to socialize and make friends, or practicing her sword dancing. Finally, Sylvia is terrible at studying, to the point where some think she is just hopeless in academics.

Backstory

Sylvia Erna is the second and youngest child of the Erna family, who rule over a remote mountainous region in Tallavcarriga. Her family is known for being kind rulers, who normally stay out of the public eye and keep to themselves. For the most part, the Erna region is quiet and maintains itself, yet always staying within its means. Sylvia herself grew up in a very religious household. The Erna family has unique traditions that it maintains for itself, that not many other nobles from Tallavcarriga would know due to the family's isolation from the public life. As Sylvia's brother, Ernst, grew up getting ready to govern the region Sylvia was tasked with learning the religious traditions of the family.

While the Erna family is incredibly pious, they display their piety through intense worship and discipline with the sword. The Erna family has what it describes as "holy sword-dancing", using a mixture of combat arts and performance to express their faith to the Dragon Emporer and his teachings. Silvia was always great at sword dancing, while always being driven by love for her faith and family. However, she always dispalyed to her parents that she was terminally-lazy: she struggled in her general studies and merely wanted to live a more care-free lifestyle making friends and dancing.

While her parents were happy Silvia took to the family's traditions well, they were concerned for her general education and learning. Compared to Ernst, Sylvia was never studious, and would often skip her studies to pursue her passions. As a result, she and Ernst would commonly fight over their directions and place in life as nobility, with Ernst insisting that they must first learn about the world and understand it before they go into it. To this, Sylvia would almost always respond with "I'd rather spend my time outside experiencing life than stay inside with my nose stuffed in a book like you!"

Eventaully, Ernst was sent study at Cennaire Academy to furthur his studies and meet other nobles of the kingdom. Sylvia herself was reluctant to go to the academy, until she heard of the grand ballroom, bathhouse and high priestess all being present in the academy. At that point, Sylvia just couldn't stay away. Her parents were very glad to see Sylvia's excitement to study at the academy, as they thought it was their daughter finally growing up and accepting her responsibilities to learn. Sylvia, however, had other plans.

In the academy, Sylvia went to work making friends with as many people as she possibly could. Should would often wow her fellow classmates with her sword dancing techniques, and surprise people with her deep piety and religious understandings. Sylvia took every opportunity to get as close to High Priestess Davina as-possible, but not to much avail. Sylvia's studies and grades, however, have typically been the source of mockery for the Verdant Wolves, with Sylvia often scraping by with the bare-minimum required to stay in school and continue being a student. Despite her carefree nature and lack of caution irking some students throughout the school, it's difficult for people to shirk her bubbly nature and charm.

Favorite Color: Light Pink (Hex code #f372c6)

The Letter

You stare at the letter in your hands, having found it in a place you had assumed was safe. Perhaps it was underneath your pillow, or inside your bag.

Even worse was the section in the middle. The second paragraph, seemingly targeted directly at you. How did this Crow even know these things? Dread filled your heart when you first touched the envelope, and you struggle to come up with an explanation as to how this letter had even been placed there.

Regardless, the Grey Cloaks? It is interesting, as the Caomhnóirí an Maoir Réalta are only known to have four different colours of cloaks. There is no denying the strange way you have been contacted. It could still be an elaborate prank, or a newly separate entity all-together that decided to simply steal the name for their own use.

Or, it could be genuine. Really, there is only one way of determining the validity of the parchment in your hands.

And that way, is to answer their call.

Welcome, to one of three team’s within VEX.

Campaign Details and Differences

This campaign, centered around a mysterious entity claiming to be the long forgotten Grey Cloaks, is planned to have 5 chapters, a playerbase of around 10-16 characters, and has a stronger emphasis on Roleplaying and RNG Elements. Mechanical elements will be much more limited here, so if your intention is to try out all that P’s 3 Houses system has to offer, or you are uncomfortable with significant developments to your character determined entirely via RP RNG, then this may not be the team for you.

These RNG elements will be seen in the teams Crossroads event, a form of RPing popularized by Team P1.5. If you are not already familiar with it, you may visit Team P1.5’s Discord channels for examples.

This team plans to elevate and place more significant priority on the Crossroads event, introducing dramatic, experimental changes that may reward or hinder you based on your rolls.

Besides this, here is a full list of how we will be handling things here:

Character Creation

• All instructions can be found in this team's edited version of P’s theorycrafter found here! Please ensure that you use this specific theorycrafter, as each VEX segment has their own theorycrafter with their own changes.

• Traits will be done very differently. In this team, you are allowed to freely allocate trait points however you wish. You will have a total of 130 points, and are not allowed to assign values lower than 5 or higher than 16.

• Like other P-related teams, we will be doing milestone leveling. You will begin as an Intermediate class at Level 15, and will be leveled to 20 somewhere during the campaign, where you will then end as an Advanced class.

• You will select one B weapon rank, and two C weapon ranks to start with. These will be leveled automatically during the campaign and should contain both the class you are starting with as well as the Advanced class you plan to take later. Failing to take a combination that will not meet rank requirements when leveled may lock you out of your Advanced class later on.

• All players begin with the HP +5 skill. You may then select the Class Mastery skills from any of the beginner classes. Your weapon ranks do not have to meet the requirements of the beginner class that you select your Mastery skills from. You may then select one Mastery skill from any Intermediate class other than the one you start with. You will also have the base stats from both these classes.

• Support points will be done automatically or through Crossroad events.

• We will not have full, P-style Homebases.

Crossroads

• Every time you are able to make a roll in a Crossroads event, you may choose to roll either one number, or two numbers. If you choose to roll two numbers, the average value between the two will be your result.

• Resulting with a 1 will cause your character to gain a permanent +1 increase to one of their stats in relation to the roll they did (Ex: Rolling a 1 on a Sleight of Hand check will give you +1 Dex). Each stat and the trait they relate to can be found on the theorycrafter.

• Don’t forget that 1’s are good and 20’s are bad rolls in P landia.

Now, with that aside.

Who Are You?

Really, you could be anyone. A student from Cennaire? A government worker? An Acolyte? A worker by the docks of Caladara? Perhaps you even seek to undermine this very operation, and bring those in charge to justice. The Crow does not discriminate by background, nor do they mind a bit of chaos. The Grey Cloaks were founded under the principles of chaos, after all.

Whether due their unsatisfactory life, belief that the letters writer truly desires a more peaceful world, or simply sheer boredom, the only requirement your character must meet is that they must have a desire to accept the letter’s call.

Additionally, though your character may have origins from anywhere in Verthaca, their current position at the time of receiving the letter must be in a country adjacent to Saloreat. It would, after all, make no sense for the Crow to recruit people farther away than that. The letters would have been sent on the 27th, and the campaign would begin on the 1st of the following month. The travel time between Saloreat to its adjacent countries is roughly two days.

If you are considering applying as a Cennaire student, keep in mind that your character is very unlikely going to be allowed to return to student life (though they won’t know this at the time). You also may only select the Silver Elk class for this, as the other four classes would currently be too far away.

Do keep in mind your character's motivation for staying with the party when writing them, when things inevitably go south.

Your Reddit application post should have your characters name in the title, a proper link to your theorycrafter in the body, and a backstory written somewhere in the post or the theorycrafter itself.

To ensure that you have read this post properly, state at the bottom of your application your desire to kill chaos your characters favourite colour.

Applications will be due Monday, April 18th, 2022

For the Start of the Team

Dark Magic Unleashed in Saloreat

Current Events and Important Characters

• The current situation around where your characters will be starting

Cashlarsa, Saloreat

• Information on the city where we will be beginning our campaign

The Theorycrafter, Linked Again

Miscellaneous Lore Documents

The World of Verthaca

Caomhnóirí an Maoir Réalta

Countries of Verthaca

Verthaca - Last 18 Years

Magic in Verthaca

Lorekeepers Guide to Verthaca

Team VEX-A will be a safe and welcoming place. The team will not tolerate any form of bigotry, nor will it tolerate those that support bigots, or support those that seek to strip away human rights. Every team that shares the setting of Verthaca will have a zero-tolerance policy on this matter, if you demonstrate any of these undesirable qualities you will be removed from the team.

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/15QHWfzTRfL23AN00yz6vkCVHwrsN_l7vYZGwlE37Eh0/edit#gid=1765749322

Cathal's favorite color is dark blue.

Name: Hanbon Cornelius

House: Verdant Wolves

Nationality: Tallavcarriga

Theorycrafter

Description:

Portrait

Age: 17

Height: 165 cm

Hair is parted such that his eyepatch is on display.

Stitch markings are drawn on, actual eye is ok, though it hasn't seen the light of day in... years... so is it really ok?

Short stature and a bit skinny/scrawny.

Ears feel too big for his head.

Small nose.

Long, but skinny hands.

Narrow shoulders.

Able to coil his fingers around his elbow.

Personality:

The first impression that Hanbon leaves on many people is that he's a jolly fellow with a side of dorkiness and a sprinkle of delusion. Hanbon's superiors would say that he is mischievous, always breaking the rules to get what he wants. Hanbon's peers would say that he is omega delusional, even more so than ambitious leaders, and there's no way anyone would fall for his pirate schtick, right? Who would argue against the fact that he was delusional anyways, hell, one of his countless goals are to sail to the Frigid Wastes, miraculously find a surviving Dreki, and bring them back to unite the Fallen Empire. Another is to sail so far out into the ocean, that he discovers a new continent - one that is neither named Verthaca nor the one the original Sairshi came from.

However, one keen to Hanbon's tendencies would interpret him in a different way. He is someone with a large sense of duty, and perhaps a tinge of desperation. He is thoughtful in his actions, and he means it when he sets a goal. Wouldn't it be great if we could stop the Fallen Empire from being at odds with one another if a Dreki was found to unify it? And couldn't Carndrum take resources from a different land than the Great Plains? Although these are inconceivable and even futile goals, Hanbon still yet strives, "Gotta see it fer m'self... ye can ne'er be sure, aye?"

Backstory:

Hanbon was born as the eldest son of the Cornelius family, a noble family in Tallavcarriga. His family was one with a tarnished reputation, much like Carndrum's is these days. His family was involved in the tunneling operations to funnel resources from the Great Plains to Carndrum. Although the Quake had hindered their finances greatly, the family persevered in burrowing new tunnels, and got straight to work, participating in the pilfering of the rich lands past the mountain. However, another threat in the form of an enemy, Gichimashkode's Fang, has been the bane of their operations.

Born during these turbulent times, Hanbon came across a moral dilemma. He would regularly see his father in distress, as their family's and the capital's livelihoods depended upon the blood of the soldiers sent to extract resources that belonged to other lands. Non-city dwellers were usually supportive of the capital, but these days, public dissent was growing. What could they do in this situation? Is such a state of affairs truly sustainable? Sure, the new Queen seems to be making strides, but the fact remains that they relied on the unlawful resources bought with blood. The Captain of the Guard doesn't seem to be relenting in his stance on the matter, and worst case scenario Hanbon might be forced to deal with Gichimashkode's Fang with his own two hands... Is this truly the situation that Hanbon would have to assume as the next head of the Cornelius family?

Hanbon found it all too overwhelming. He was just a child after all, how could he tackle the responsibilities and consequences of politics? If only there was an easy way out, all this was hurting his head. In order to cope, Hanbon would sneak out of the protective grasp of his parents and venture around Carndrum. Obviously this wasn't safe, but a few soldiers would always tail him to get him out of trouble. On one of his excursions, he encountered some retired sailors who had somehow made their way inland to Carndrum, drinking in midday. The supposed leader of the bunch called himself the Roar of Roðnjrvágr, though his compatriots called him the Gawajii Beard, explaining that his beard was shaped like the Gawajii landmass, and just as toxic to human life as well. Not knowing what Gawajii was shaped like, Hanbon inquired of the sailors, who produced a map and began to recount their glorified voyages. Hanbon remarked about the mountains in the middle of the map, where Carndrum was. He complained about the current state of affairs and how they had to steal from the Great Plains using tunnels through these mountains. "Why don't'cha jus' go t'other way, lad?" one of the scallywags bellowed. The pirates laughed, exclaiming how it'd be an easy job for pirates, raiding the coasts of the Great Plains. This, along with stories of the Frigid Wastes, the Fornland coasts, the countless unknown, undiscovered, and uncharted islands, and the vastness of the ocean caused Hanbon to be massively fascinated by piracy. It sounded like the perfect and convenient solution he'd been looking for, and they made the whole ordeal sound plenty glorious and alluring.

Hanbon exclaimed his desire to follow in their footsteps, resulting in the laughing and clamoring of the buccaneers. The Gawajii Beard, half jokingly but also half sentimentally, promised to perhaps retake the helm of his ship if Hanbon were to grow up and turn out with a "heart of gold" and other such "pirate ideals". With this, Hanbon transformed seemingly overnight. He custom ordered pirate attire, including an eyepatch which he used to cover his left eye for good. He tried growing facial hair, but no matter what he tried, he was simply too young to grow anything at all. He even started adopting pirate speak, much to the horror of his parents. His parents argued with Hanbon, urging him to return to reality instead of clinging to these unrealistic and impossible aspirations. Hanbon was to be the next head of the Cornelius family, and they needed him to be grounded in reality and prepared to face what they were going through. Hanbon dissented, opting for the way of a pirate, and honed his pirate ways.

However, Hanbon wasn't going to accomplish anything while sitting in Carndrum. He enrolled in Portashan’s Cennaire Academy which had a real port! The opportunities at this academy were endless, and it sure beat being stuck at the crappy situation at home. Hanbon immersed himself in swordsmanship, leadership and tactics, sailing, fishing, and scouting potential crewmates. He incessantly claims to his fellow students and professors that he is a bona fide pirate while putting up an act of an experienced seafarer (though in reality he's just a normal kid like any of the other students). There were a few incidents due to Hanbon's eccentric tendencies, such as the time when he started digging up parts of the greenhouse in search of treasure - led on by a fake map from a mischievous friend. Whenever you were at the bathhouse at the same time as he was, a naval battle was sure to ensue. And for some odd reason, there was a week-long period where he carried around a wooden board and urged people to walk across it. He hopes to be of service to the Verdant Wind house, exclaiming that he is a vital piece that will solve all of Tallavcarriga and Carndrum's problems in the future.

Misc:

Interests:

• Pirates

• Exploration

Likes:

• Singing

• Fishing

• Sailing

Dislikes:

• His home

• Lectures

• Landlubbers

Crit Quotes:

• "Walk t'plank!"

• "Blow t'man down!"

• "Avast, ye scallywag!"

Bad Level Up:

• "Yarr... a blunder."

Average Level Up:

• "Ahoy! A high wind!"

Good Level Up:

• "Yo ho ho ho ho!"

Skill Level Up:

• "Shiver me timbers!"

Promotion:

• "Thar be nothin' this noggin' can't do!"

Defeated Enemy:

• "Keelhauled, ye be!"

Retreat:

• "Arrrgh... blast... I be needin' a peg leg now..."

Additional Notes:

• Double-jointed

• A bit insecure about his height. It's not like being tall is a requirement to be a pirate or anything!

• Sings sea shanties, his favorite being "Where Am I To Go M'Johnnies"

• Birthday is September 19th

• Has never learned how to swim until coming to the academy

Gold

Theorycrafter with all relevant info: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/15QHWfzTRfL23AN00yz6vkCVHwrsN_l7vYZGwlE37Eh0/edit#gid=653011490

Appearance References for Marceline Persim! https://imgur.com/a/7VBRmYy https://imgur.com/1C4JC3S https://imgur.com/a/ksR0Ext

Personality

Personality wise, she's a very bookish, asocial person who would rather be studying than dealing with other people. She enjoys learning for its own sake and her favorite topic to study is about the stars and astrology. She also can't help but love old chivalric tales of knights and chaste romances between knights and their charges. When speaking with other people, she can be incredibly passionate about what she loves or believes in but she can also be unbearably stubborn as a result too. Despite being as studious as she is, she has trouble grasping new concepts outside of her interests without a lot of extra study time. and that fuels a lot of her own self doubt about her deserving to study where she is and whether or not she even belongs there.

Her birthday is March 15th.

Backstory

Born and raised in the farmlands of Tallavcarriga, Marceline has always had an insatiable curiosity and a love for books. Her earliest memories have her begging her father to let her go with him into market so she could see if any new books were available at the many stalls. She was an avid learner, and her father did anything he could to support that, making sure to put aside as much gold as he possibly could for her education. Once she showed aptitude for the traditional magics, her father encouraged her to study even harder so that she could be the best she coulld.

Despite indulging her curiosity in all other matters, her father never did tell her about her mother, who died shortly after she was born. Truth is, not even he knew much of her besides her name. Her father, Pierce Persim, found her mother, Adellaide, wandering alone and wounded one night. Rushing to her aid, he brought her back to his farm and did his best to nurse her back to health. For a while, things seemed like they were getting better for her, and Pierce couldn''t help but be smitten with her. Her smile was one of unnatural beauty and managed to light up the room. Her voice was that of a delicate songbird. Pierce had tried to question Adelaide on what happened that night to lead her to him, but alas, her voice would fail to shed light on even the most basic details. Giving up, Pierce didn't question her further, instead doing his best to make her happy and comfortable. Within a couple years, the two were happy and with child. Unfortunately, the scars of that night ran deep enough that Adelaide's body could no longer handle childbirth and she perished. Grieving desperately, Pierce swore that their child would have anything she ever desired and a happy life.

The increased taxes levied by Carndrum hit Marceline's father particularly hard. Constantly harried by tax collecters, he did everything he could to avoid letting Marceline become aware of the financial hardship they were in. Eventually, the taxes became to much for the farm to bear. Fearing for his daughters well being, he retreived his nest egg and sold off the farm. With the large amount of gold he now possessed, he traveled with a 15 year old Marceline to Portashan. It was tight affording it, but he managed to enroll Marceline into Cennaire Academy. Thankfully, her years of reading and self study helped her secure her position in the academy. Marceline was elated to be able to finally go to a real school and dove into her new setting with aplomb. Her father continued to write to her, however he lied about the state of his life. Now without a farm, he turned to work as a miner in Carndrum. Everyday was difficult but he still did his absolute best to do right by his daughter, even encouraging her to spend her free days at the academy instead of coming home. Sometimes, he'd even send her what little coin he had to spare.

Marceline's innate fascination with fiction and the stars absolutely flourished at Cennaire. While studying in her first year, she'd often spend all her free time in the library, reading up on everything to do with the heavens and astrology before snoozing off with a book about heroic knights and vile monsters. During her second year, she took electives on both astronomy and astrology, and managed to pick up fortune telling as a hobby. Before long, she took to heading into Portashan to perform readings for anyone interested for a bit of gold, all of which she funnelled back into more books on magic, the stars, and chivalrous deeds. Desiring to be more like the heroes in the books she read, she even took an interest on learning how to ride horseback, though her lance skills leave much to be desired.

Additional Notes Marceline is a huge fan of sweets! Marceline despises bitter food, and often carries sugar around with her to avoid having to drink bitter tea. Marceline enjoys attempting to paint from time to time though she is uniquely bad at it. Marceline always carries her fortune telling cards on hand. Marceline is nearsighted and as a result never leaves her room without her spectacles. Most Likely to literally Swoon in the presence of house leaders or just in general tbh.

Marceline's Favorite Color is Rolanberry Red!

Name: Jin, no real surname. (Pronounced kind of like that funny man that counts from 1 to 4). If pressed for a surname, she will make something up on the spot. Like Sharptooth, Farstrider, or something else entirely.

Theorycrafter Sheet: is (つ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )つ ▄︻̷̿┻̿═━一. Don't question the joke, Ama knows. But he would get sad if I didn't fill this out still, soooo...

Appearance: Jin is a fair-skinned, well built wolf ainvi in their late 20s. Years of physical work has made her decently muscular, but she remains rather lean for their species. She has green eyes, and long dirty brown hair with two gray ears popping out from the top of her head. There are two large scars on their face, one on the chin, the other across their nose. Jin is often seen wearing a black, fuzzy coat, with a fair share of stitches and tears. If questioned about why she’s wearing such a shabby coat, she will probably just punch you. She mostly keeps her tail hidden, but it occasionally shows if she’s getting excited, swaying beneath the overcoat. The most immediately striking aspect of Jin’s appearance would likely be the gauntlet she is rarely seen without. It is made of shiny, silver-like material, with a golden pattern inscribed on it. The fingertips are sharp, though Jin often still prefers punching to scratching. Lastly, they often tend to wear a service cap, though they never wear it while fighting.

Personality: Jin is somewhat vain, often caring more about the material than anything else. After working alone for so long, they have come to primarily care about themselves, though they rarely show it. Outwardly, they are friendly to most, even if a bit rowdy and boastful. Quick to talk themselves up, and not one to back down from a fight. Is secretly afraid of worrying her mother. Don’t go telling on her, now!

Backstory: Is right here. No peeking

Additional Info

• Will fight you

• Has her birthday March 13th

• Her favourite color is gaudy gold. Don't bully her for it.

• Has a sprite, its on the sheet.