[System]
Nickname: Nat but only certain people get away with calling her that

Species: human/hunter

Age: 24/about to turn 25

Birthday: November 4th

Appearance:

She has long brunette hair that has a natural wave to it as well as always being side parted and hazel brown eyes. Almost always sports a smokey eye look with nude lipstick (or a tinted lip balm). She gets teased for it but she doesn't care. Her outfit includes her beloved biker jacket that is always at least a size too big for her, but it makes it all the more comfortable. She always wears racer back vests with black jeans and beaten up old combat boots that she refuses to replace. She'd rather get them get resolved than change them completely and go through the pain of breaking in new boots. She sometimes wears a couple of necklaces round her neck but not always, depends on the job and her mood and sports an anti possession tattoo on her left collarbone like her brothers do.

Sexuality- straight and single. Relationships get in the way in her mind.

Height- 5'7"

Right or left handed: left

Scars: a couple of large ones on her back, going diagonally across from her right shoulder blade down toward her left side of her natural waist.

Personality: sassy, snarky but loyal to those she let's in emotionally. Quirky at times and old school in her professional life.

Relation to characters (optional): half sister, John is her biological father.

Bio: The younger sister of the Winchester boys whom she only met much later in life. They collided on a hunt that the boys were doing at the asylum she was in, and from there learned they were all blood related via their father John.

Natalia was brought up by her adoptive parents Kara and Harry whom were scared of her by the time she was a teenager. They thought she was insane and put her in a hospital for the insane, as she would have visions in her nightmares of her birth father fighting all things that go bump in the night, making her want to sneak out at night to try and get answers on what they meant. Little did she know it was all a ploy by Hell and a demon named Azazel to get her committed so the wheels would begin turning for her meeting her real family, to play mind games with the winchester boys.

She was ready to escape one night when she was in her early twenties, when Azazel of all people went to break her out by letting her out of her room, setting in motion for her to collide with the brothers in her escape attempt, whilst all hell broke lose in the asylum with a wraith. Her relationship with the boys wasn't plain sailing at first. Dean didnt trust her at all. He was convinced for months that she was a fraud until Sam proved him wrong. She feels this is why she grew much closer to Sam as opposed to Dean, despite having much more in common with Dean. She loves old school rock and roll, she loves to sing and sketch in her downtime if they ever get it or when in the backseat of the impala.

Weapons: firearms of any kind, she's not fussy in the slightest, but likes the convience of handguns as they can be hidden well enough. If it ever calls for it, she enjoys bringing out her compound bow, but it's very rare she gets to use it for ranged attacks. She also likes her arsenal of knives for close melee attacks. She also has the habit of fiddling with her knives if she's restless or impatient over something, or just plain bored. Has left at least two indentations from her knives in every motel room table she's ever sat at.

[User]
Dean Winchester and Bobby Singer

Bobby smirked and shrugged his shoulders as Dean complimented him on the vault that he had built for his own safety, if he was honest. He shifted his eyes to Mika with a proud smile on his face as he stepped into the vault with Dean, allowing him to look around the place.

"Mika's pretty familiar with the place. It's got solid iron walls, coated in salted holy water. Devils traps on the floors. There's warding for just about any thing that we've ever known how to ward against, other than angels. Even the ventilation is a devils trap. From 10 am to about 7 pm, the entire room is a devils trap, due to the shadow."

He explained his handy work excitedly, pointing around at various things as he described them, "And there's enough food, water and medical supplies in here to last a few months at least."

He turned back to Dean who was still smiling brightly, as Natalia stepped into the room as well, seeming excited. For a second, Bobby forgot the reason he had needed to show them the vault/panic room in the first place, as he watched the 'kids' he loved freak out over something HE did. Then it struck him that they were on a time schedule, "I figure we can bring one of the mattresses down, if needed, or a bunch of blankets and pillows. I don't figure many of us are gonna be sleeping in the next day or so."

Dean nodded to him, his smile fading just a bit as he thought of Sam being essentially locked in a cage, waiting for the worst. He ran his finger along the salt crusted walls as Sam stepped into the room and made his comment.

"Yeah, well…this is your home for the next 24 hours.", he responded to his brother, giving him a cheeky smile as Bobby patted Sam on the shoulder, "Let's get started on the prep, I guess. Like Bobby said, this sleepover party is going to need a bunch of blankets, some beer, some food, and maybe something for you guys to do…"

Annabeth

Annabeth smiled softly at Natalia as she passed, appreciating the small gesture of good faith and kindness. She realized at that moment that the understanding of what she had done was slowly sinking in for everyone, which caused her shoulders to not be quite as tight. She glanced up at Sam, listening to him explain that they would figure out the angels. She gave him a sad smile, almost telling him with her eyes that what he was saying wasn't possible.

But she couldn't help go along with his optimism, nodding to him as he at least admitted that this might not work. She sighed, before they turned to go down stairs, "As long as you're realistic, Sam…this might not work. I need you to prepare yourself for that."

She kept hold of his hand, walking down to the vault and stopping at the door, releasing him as they arrived, so he could join Dean and Bobby inside. She peered around the room, noticing how blank it all was, but after listening to everyone talk about the protective properties of the room, she felt instantly safer. As Dean spoke about a sleepover, she couldn't help laugh quietly, and look down at the floor.

"Sam doesn't strike me as the sleepover type…", she spoke up, catching Dean's attention as she did so. For the first time, since they had met, Dean smiled at her. He was amused, and cut his eyes to Sam, and then back to her.

"You have no idea. Sammy used to LOVE sleepovers. Little pillow forts and flashlight stories. Oh the works…", he told her brightly, stepping over to slap Sam on the chest as he finished, and Annabeth laughed.

Cason

Cason kept his hands on Esme's arms as she adjusted herself, sliding them back down to her hands as she got comfortable and asked if he had figured out her secret. He nodded with a small frown, before turning up the corners of his lips into a sad smile.

"Yeah. You could say that. Believe it or not…when I was human, I was a bit of an empath. Being around people like Dean, for example would have put me out for days at a time.", he muttered, as he concentrated a bit of heat into her hands, "To answer the burning question of how I went to Hell, way back in 1785…I sold my soul, like most, to a demon. When talks of revolution started in New York, I was just a 30 year old drunk."

He turned her hands over, happy to see that their hands were a bit connected, as he worked what little magic he had cared to remember, in terms of helping people.

"I met this guy in a pub. He was spouting off about helping with freeing the colonies, but he needed payment. I was too drunk to really know what I was doing, and I signed up. The looks on the faces, when a handful of drunk grown men kissed the stranger…phew. I became one of the fighters on the front line, right along side Alexander Hamilton and the other big dogs.", he smirked, "All was well, the war was won…and then my time came up, and what was it all for? I assume that the nature of why, lead to me being a piss poor demon with a flicker of a soul."

He gave a small laugh, pulling his hands from hers. He placed her hands gently on her lap and pulled his legs up to wrap his arms around them in front of her.

"But yes. I know you're an empath.", he admitted. He then sighed, as he readied himself to tell her his plans for her, in the next 24 hours, "I um…I would like for you to be guarded. I know how most of the people in this house feel about Hellhounds, but my girls answer to me. They would never hurt you. They won't even come near you, if you would rather they stay away. But I would be a lot less distracted when the demons show up, if you were safe with the dogs."

[Assistant]
Esme Stirling

Esme lifted her head from her arm and sat when Cason took her hands again and watched as his frown became a sad smile at her question. As he spoke, her eyebrows went up a little, that's not something she expected to hear from him. Hearing he was a bit of an empath when he was human was strange for her to hear. She was about to say something when she felt the heat in her hands, but he started talking again, so she listened. As he turned her hands over, she looked down at them.

She could feel the little magic he was working, so she let him continue. Any other time, she would have pulled her hands away, but she could clearly see how much he was trying to help her. She looked back up at him as he spoke again, going into a story about his past. Never would she have thought he would reveal his past to her or how he became a demon. When he finished, she had no words to respond with as he laughed and put her hands in her lap.

What was it about her that made him reveal that part of himself to her, other than helping Annabeth? She was pulled from the thought when he made himself comfortable in front of her. Esme pulled both of her legs up and crossed her arms over her knees, then rested her chin on her arms as he confirmed he knew she was an empath. At his sigh, she knew he was preparing himself to say something. As soon as he told her he wanted her to be guarded, she closed her eyes. She should have known that was going to come up.

Esme remained quiet to hear him out. She tensed up when he mentioned the hellhounds. Hellhounds were one thing she had never planned to come in contact with. She was well aware of the stories revolving around them. She sighed heavily as he finished, opening her eyes to look at him. "If I refuse. I'm assuming you'd say you'd like me to join Sam and Annabeth in the vault." she stated. She looked away and to the book on the floor she had been looking at before. She rolled the options around in her mind.

She didn't much like either option, but she didn't want to be locked in the vault feeling like a prisoner. She felt bad for wanting to go with hellhounds, knowing how Dean and the others felt about them, but she really didn't want to go into the vault. "Fine." she sighed. "I'll go with the dogs. I just don't like the fact I can't see them." She turned her gaze back to him. "Knowing there's something there watching me I can't see is a bit unsettling."


[System]
Name

Race | Age | Sex

Appearance
Images are allowed, but I need a description here.

Personality
I'm sure it's a winning one

Background
* Profession (Optional)
* Class. Think of this in terms of a basic D&D game.
* Heritage. Are you lowborn? The son of a noble? Was your uncle the merchant who raised you?

History (Optional)

Reason for Travel
This is important. You need a good reason as to why your character decided to take the Skirmisher south.

Motivation/Goal
This is also important. This is a self serving and/or bloodthirsty roleplay. You need a goal. It doesn't need to be why you came south, it just needs to be something you're working towards.

Capabilities

Equipment
You will leave this blank for now.
*
*
*

Money
0 for the moment

Languages
You know one language. If you added Linguistics as a stat, you can speak an extra language beyond your native tongue.

---

[User]
---

Jacqueline opened her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on her cheek. She blinked a few times to steady her gaze. For a second, she did not know where she was. Once her vision came to pass she noticed she was laying on sand and could hear the water as it lapped on the beach. She began to get up but felt a twinge of pain on her left side. She fell back to the ground, letting the pain subside. She moved to her right side, glancing down to where the pain was, and noticed her clothing torn and a dark cut along her left thigh and up past her hip.

How did she....

And then she remembered.

It was supposed to be a trip. Simple. Or as simple as expected on a voyage over harsh waters. She had looked for the best possible ship to make the trip. Her sisters, her family, begged her not to go. "It's not worth it," they proclaimed, but she knew better. She had to go. The time among her Order was not long and if they had any hope of surviving and prospering, they needed somewhere fresh to start.

And here she was now laying on a beach, wounded and thirsty.

She moved herself up to a sitting position, or what cold best be described as one given the nature of her wounds. She looked around to see if anyone else on the ship was up and about like her. She noted that a few sailors were nearby, but she did not put much faith into them waking up. So what of the other members not a part of the crew? And the Captain?

It would not do her well to sit here and wait. She would need to tend to her wounds if she wanted to continue on. She moved herself to her feet, clenching her teeth as her wound opened up. But she was standing. She gripped her side, looking around for some tools or supplies that survived the crash.

There was a crash, wasn't there? Surely she didn't just wash up on the beach after a drunken night on the ship. Her mind was blurry and she fought for the memories to return. Alas, no luck. Maybe one of the others would stir awake and could let her know what happened. Until then, she would need to find something to help her injuries. And maybe the others, if they needed it. Then she could get to work on figuring out where she was and how to get to where she needed to be.

[Assistant]
Kjetil Svendsen

Kjetil's mind was the first to awaken as he slowly felt two sensations. One was annoying, was it pain that he has grown used to? Maybe and this annoying sensation, he could feel it on his back. The second sensation was an odd one, warmth he felt, and that one was the one that he wondered about the most. "What," he said softly as he opened his eyes and was greeted by the blinding sun. He put his right hand over his face so he could see, and the first thing he noticed was several cuts on his arm. Like one cut over an old scar, Kjetil looked carefully at his arm. "Is that... yeah, that is blood."

Then he looked at his other arm, and it was the same, cuts all over it but small ones. However, the amount meant that something had happened to him last night. "The ship," he said as he tried to remember what had happened the night before. There was laughter and dance, and everyone was in high spirits as they cleared the Peninsula and then... Kjetil remembers feeling a sense of weightlessness and then some odd but terrible sounds that he did not understand what could have caused them. That was it, the rest was fuzzy, and now he is in an unknown place and with who knows who else.

He slowly got halfway up into a sitting position and used his left arm to prop himself up. Now Kjetil had a better view of the bench, and what he saw did not help with the situation. Wreckage, bodies, and it just left him wondering what in the gods' name happened last night. They were home free, now they were wrecked on a bench, and who knows who else survived.

True Kjetil is made of sterner stuff and can handle wounds that would make others bedridden. The pain he feels is just annoying. Bearable but annoying. But there is still a chance that some others survived. Though from what bodies he could see, they did not look like they would be getting up any time soon, especially that one with no legs.

Either way, Kjetil had to try to find someone that was still alive. There is strength and safety in numbers. That and he needs someone to help clean his wounds, bandage them, and see how bad his back is. That is where the annoying sensation is coming from. The last thing he needs is to die of a infection after getting this far in life and surviving what happened to the ship. Such an end is not fitting for a warrior and not one he wishes to die by.

So after getting his bearings and getting up. Kjetil walked down the bench, looking for anything to use to bandage his wounds and for any sign that someone was alive. He can't be the only one that survived, he thought. Otherwise, he would be alone in an unknown land with no direction of where to go. Kjetil simply calmly sighed at the thought and continued on his search. There was bound to be something of use to him. Either makeshift bandages, people, or preferably both.

[User]
Lachlan

---

Something hot made itself felt on Lachlan's back, and as it did he experienced blurry memories of having felt that before, just a bit less intense. For the last two hours or so, the Caelic had been passing in and out of consciousness, generating a very fragmented heap of memories of which each had the sun's rays coming in at a bit of a different angle and intensity. This was no longer below decks, was it ? There was no such thing as sun below decks and the waves sounded very differently, too.

Lachlan battled the resistance his eyelids offered as they had been firmly shut for quite a while and finally managed to open them. Was that sand ? His mind instructed his fingers to move and the feeling coming in return confirmed his visual suspicion, but the arm between these two had become so numb that his hand felt more like a remote part of his body that yet was detached from it.

What he didn't see was a ship, not even that many remains of a ship. Great. So they had indeed crashed... or been crashed ? The overall situation felt a little too sunny, sandy and dry to be situated in the inside of a giant whale's stomach, so to his bewilderment, Lachlan could only suppose that he had indeed survived. Turning his aching head and seeing the unforgiving treeline along with the mysterious statue, the 'yet'-word certainly came to his mind.

The next stupidest thing to do coming to his mind was to turn onto his back, and moments before he had to shut his eyes again due to the blinding sun he could see a familiar figure. "Kje... Kjetil ?" he groaned. He managed to sit up and now take the first real look around: bodies. Whatever kind of predator had haunted them, it had been a very inefficient one. It wouldn't have left so much food behind otherwise.

How sarcastic of him!

"Oh... I see a captain over there." Lachlan muttered more to himself, but still loud enough so anybody in his vicinity would be able to hear it clearly. He shifted his weight onto his feet and stood up, feeling that not only his arms had become numb due to having been static for too long. Lachlan started walking at a snail's pace, but still unstable enough that he might topple over any time again even before reaching the other person.

[Assistant]
Aldrich

"Filthy, worthless slave-thing!"
CRACK!
"How come you don't fight?"
CRACK!
"I will beat you until you obey!"
CRACK!

With each punctuating lash of the whip, Aldrich felt himself slipping further and further away from consciousness. His defiance fading with not so much as a sneer, but a whimper. The gutteral language of his Dwemerlock master remained impenetrably foreign to him, though he could scarcely hear it through his pain. However, the most peculiar thing was that the closer he came to passing out entirely, the pain faded and he felt instead a cool, sloshing sensation suffuse his body. His vision blurred, and he began to splutter, confused as the world began to grow increasingly distant and intangible...

...his eyes opened slowly, things coming into focus one sense at a time. First the stark luminescence of sunlight, then the intermingled sensations of warm air, cold water and gritty sand, then the sounds of waves breaking upon the shore and the breeze rustling leaves, followed by the smell of salt and lastly the acrid taste of salt and sandy grit. Each sensation coalesced at once in a nauseating shock that made him cough and heave as he sat up.
He scrambled for memory, to piece together where he was and just what the hell was going on.
Was on the ship...resting above decks...hate the below...too small, stifling...ship...crashed? Must have...

He laboriously got to his feet, feeling the stiffness of his joints and a sharp sting across his chest. Pressing his fingers to the spot they came away red. Peering down he saw that something had torn a ragged hole in his waterlogged jerkin. He unceremoniously tore the useless thing away, leaving him in only his tunic, breeches and boots. Glancing around he saw the telltale sights of a terrible ship-wreck. Bodies had washed up on the shore, bloated and cold and others stumbled around aimlessly on the shore. His sword and shield he now realised would have likely wound up somewhere on the bottom of the sea. He sighed, feeling the rising panic of being unarmed and unprotected. He fought down the anxiety and looked around to take better stock of the situation.

Immediately he noticed a few of the figures who had been part of the voyage, other travelers and vagabonds like himself. Jacqueline, a woman who reminded him in many ways of Erissia, his erstwhile mentor. Kjetil, the quiet Norgardian and Lachlan, who Aldrich struggled to get a read on during his time on the ship. He hadn't spoken much to any of them, opting to observe from a distance any strangers he met. Not to mention, the bitter look on his face at all times usually kept people at bay.
Aldrich raised his voice, addressing any who may respond.
"The Captain...has anyone seen the Captain?" If anyone among them could restore some semblance of order, it would be that salty sea dog.


[System]
BASIC
Goes By (Nicknames): None currently available.
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Race: Human

APPEARANCE

Face Claim (Actor/Actress They're Played By): TBA / I've yet to find an actor for this character.
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Blue
Skin Tone: Slightly pale.
Height: 6'2
Weight: 170lbs
Build: Lithe, somewhat muscular.
Weapons: Twin swords, multiple daggers and knives hidden on him.

Overall Appearance:

Dark features, Visible, jagged scar that runs down his right eye. Various scars are hidden underneath his clothing.

Ghent is often clad in black or dark grays.
Most of his clothes are made from black leather; his cloak has a hood and a mask to cover the lower half of his face if needed. He has various weaponry concealed; he often wears fingerless gloves, laced up bracers, and boots.

PERSONALITY

Likes: Gold.
Dislikes: Talking, poverty, people in general.
Strengths: Picking locks, leadership, agility.
Weaknesses: Stubbornness, Greed.
Fears: Loss, failure.

Overall Personality:

Stubborn | Calculating | Complicated | Quiet | Incredulous | Shrewd

Ghent's family was very often poor and lived in a lower part of a small, poverty-stricken town. His mother passed away shortly after giving birth to her second son, Garth. Ghent was ten years in age when she passed.

Ghent's father turned to drinking heavily and he came to blame his children for the loss of his wife. Fearing for Garth, Ghent took matters into his own hands; at the age of thirteen, he took his younger brother and left home, never once looking back.

Life on the road was not an easy one, but Ghent was determined to tough it out so that they would not have to return to their father. At first, Ghent began with petty theft; he stole what was needed in order to keep them alive, they took shelter where they could and lied whenever questioned. As the years went on, they moved up in the world. After years of practice, Ghent became a highly skilled thief. This was the start of a life he would live well past his teenage years.

* * *

Ghent has an eerie calmness about him and his emotions are seldom ever shown. Because of this, he is very difficult to read -- almost impossibly so. Ghent handles matters in a diplomatic way and doesn't often resort to violence unless necessary. For the most part, he is quiet and reserved, therefore much of his past is unknown.

Deep down, Ghent does have a heart, though he does his best not to show it. He'd be the last to admit it, but he has a soft spot for those in need.

BACKGROUND

Date of Birth: ? Have to calculate that. ,_,
Place of Birth: Outskirts of Laketown. Not quite within the town, though close.

Family Relations:

- Garth (younger brother)
- Lydia (Mother; deceased)
- Vincent (Father)
- Kaiden (cousin)

[User]
"Fili," Thorin sighed, his breath visible from the cold. Fili speaking out did not come as a surprise; both brothers were incredibly loyal to one another.
"One day you will be king...and you will understand. I cannot risk the fate of this quest for the sake of one dwarf, not even my own kin." Seeing that Fili's loyalties were divided, Thorin put a hand to his arm in an attempt to stop him. "Don't be a fool. You belong with the company."

Further away, Kili shook his head, insisting to Oin that he was fine. Why would no one listen to him? They had no place else to go, he belonged in Erebor, and above all else he needed to help reclaim their homeland.
"Oin...please, speak sense into him." Kili became increasingly lightheaded, the voices around him were making less and less sense. "I won't let this stop me--"
"Lad, enough! You haven't a choice!" Oin started to guide him away from the dock, and Kili's eyes stung with betrayal. Had things been different, he could have helped, but now he hadn't a choice.

[Assistant]
Being stopped by Thorin, didn't stop Fili, unfortunately. All his eldest nephew DD was glare at his uncle, and yank his arm away from his grip. Walking towards Kili, he stood next to him, like he always did during their youth.

The trumpets began to announce the Master as he steps onto a platform and the crowd cheers.

Back in the Masters house, Bofur is passed out drunk under a table when he hears the trumpet. "By my beard, is that the time!?", he shouted with slurred speech before he rises until banging his head on the table. He then rushes out to join the dwarves on the dock. "Wait!"

"Go now with our good will. And may your return bring fortune to all!", the Master announces before the crowd cheers with the company setting off on the barge down the lake. At the same time, Bofur pushes through the crowd, but when he reaches the dock, he sees the rest of the company has left, and is too far down the lake for him to reach. While this was happening, Saeril approached the remaining dwarves, and stood just behind the brothers, placing a hand upon Kili's shoulder, trying to sooth him of his despair.

"I can't believe he would just leave us like that!", Fili growled angrily. Bofur looked to the side, hearing Fili's voice and smiled. "Oh, did you all miss the boat as well?"

[User]
"Aye, we have. We'll need to get this one indoors; I need to treat his leg." Oin was grateful that Fili and Saeril showed up. Kili's condition hadn't stopped him from being stubborn, and he doubted he would have been allowed to get very far in tending to his injury.

"He doesn't care," Kili's voice was low, broken. The fact that Fili had stayed for him meant a lot, though he also pitied his brother. Fili's dream had been to reclaim their homeland too.
Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Kili looked up to his godmother, feeling unworthy of her compassion at this time. "Delva, I'm s-sorry," he tried to apologize for breaking the promise, but he could not finish. With a small moan of pain, he started to collapse. The sickness had set in, he could no longer fight it.

[Assistant]
"Kili?", Fili felt his brother's weight give out next to him, going down to leaning into him. "Kili!?", Saeril saw him fall, and he looked like he was about to pass out. Hurrying to catch him, and before he could fall to the ground, the hooded she-elf cradled him. Moving his ebony black hair from his face, he was in pain. Please, not now, she thought to herself. "Come on", she told the others as she held Kili in her arms, carrying him closely against her chest. Her motherly instincts were kicking in now.

Saeril went to the bargemen's house, knowing that his place was best for sanctuary; Fili, Bofur, and Oin following. Once Bard opened the door, he was not pleased. "Please, bargeman, we need sanctuary", she was now begging. "No. I'm done with dwarves, go away!", he was about to close the door, but she stopped it with a mighty hand. "Bard! Kili needs help, and this is the best place to do it. There's nowhere for us to go", she heard whimpering in pain, and she held her godson close, a sign that she was there with him.

[User]
As Bard finally gave them permission to enter, Oin lead them inside. With Bofur's help, they cleared the table off so that Kili might be set down. Kili was already perspiring from fever; the poison was flowing in his blood and making him deathly ill as a result.

"Set the lad down here," Oin helped Saeril set Kili to the table, which only resulted in the youngest crying out. Face ashen, Kili struggled against them and started to panic when he felt Oin remove the bloodied bandaging around his leg.
"I need herbs, something to bring down his fever." Oin looked to Bard, hopeful that their host might have such items on hand.
Not in his right state of mind, Kili was putting up a fight and trying to get away from the hands holding him down.

[Assistant]
Bard was frantically searching through what he had in a cabinet. "I have nightshade...feverfew...", he was looking fast, and Saeril was trying to keep it together, almost beginning to pace back and forth. "That's not good enough", she breathlessly told him. Her heart was beating quickly; images of Bolg were coming to her, and silent anger slowly boiled within her. All she could do was keep it locked up. However, Kili's cries of pain weren't helping. "Do you have any kingsfoil?", she rushed to say.

"No, it's a weed. We feed it to the pigs", Bard explained while he frantically searched for other medicine. "Pigs?", Bofur then gets an idea. "Don't move", he told to Kili, which Saeril didn't really think it was necessary. She knew how to heal, thanks to her mother, but she wasn't sure if she could do it. She wasn't good at it either, and sometimes, it becomes a disaster. But this was her godson in need; she needed to do this. For him and his brother. The she-elf never felt so conflicted.

[User]
Kili glared at Bofur and started to sit up, teeth clenched. Fili prevented him from getting far, and so Kili gave up midway. The pain was excruciating, and he continued to cry out, whimper, and struggle against the ones helping him.

Oin shook his head as he looked the injury over. In all his years as a healer, he'd never seen an injury quite like this one. There was more to this than a flesh wound, Kili had been poisoned.
"There's little I can do for him until Bofur gets back," he admitted fretfully, then jumped in surprise as Kili nearly kicked him.
"Lad! Hold on, now! We're trying to help!" No amount of talking was getting through to Kili, he was too wrought with pain and fading fast. At this point, he was paler than his godmother.

"Isn't there anything you can do?" Oin turned his attention to Saeril, and he held onto the hope that she may have had abilities where he did not. Elves were known for possessing powers to heal, though not all.
"You must have some abilities to heal...can you take this sickness from him?"

[Assistant] Saeril was looking around, and she moved herself to see Kili's wound on his leg by moving the binding out of the way. As soon as she did, she felt the young dwarf jolt in pain, not to mention that he was almost screaming. Where is the Kingsfoil? It was a nasty wound to see, about two inches. She had to drown the pain before it could get worse, something to delay for the Kingsfoil to come. Taking some of the feverfew, the she-elf worked quickly to stand at his side. "This is gonna string a little bit!", she told her thrashing godson, using her strength to restrain his leg, and place the medicine upon the wound.

[User]
Desperate, Kili looked to his godmother in hope that she might heal him. Rather than relief, she unintentionally brought him more pain. Kili screamed out, and in his confusion he nearly hit his own brother. This wasn't going very well.

Bofur was having better luck. After a through search, he'd stumbled across a pigpen. One of the pigs was chewing on something all too familiar to him -- the kingsfoil. Quickly, he ran back towards Bard's home, the weed clutched tightly in his hand. Unbeknownst to Bofur, he was leading Bolg and several orcs right back with him.

Oin did what he could to help Fili and Saeril. "Where is he?!" Bofur was taking too long. There was a loud thud on the roof, then another on the balcony. Sigrid looked to see if Bard had returned, and she was horrified to see an orc making its way inside. As if things weren't bad enough already, they were now under attack.

[Assistant]
Sigrid left the others holding Kili down as she heard a noise outside. She thought it was Bard or Bofur coming back. "Da? Is that you?" she called, though she screamed suddenly when an Orc appeared, blade swinging. The eldest daughter slammed the door shut, but the Orc only pushed it open again.
Shouting out loud, Oin picked up an empty bowl from the table where Bard had scattered the herbs and threw it at the Orc, having no other weapons to use. With Fili joining in to fight them off, Saeril shielded his brother, clawing an orc in the face with her finger cuffs.

Outside, Bofur is attacked by an Orc, and just as he's about to be killed, an arrow shot the back of the obscene creature.


[System]
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Nationality: Highmen (Miraaheim)

Appearance: Many of the people of Miraheim have an established reputation for their appearance. Varian's appearance doesn't trail too far from the conception of a typical Highman. Like many of the people of the north, he has an imposing stature, standing at a height of 6 ft 4 in, or about 1.93 m. He has fairly pale skin, mostly due to the underexposure of being in the sun, which is rarely seen around Miraheim. His body is well-proportioned. He is not overly muscled, but rather well-toned, neither being too skinny nor too large. He does however, have fairly long legs due to high length, allowing him to make long strides, especially useful in combat, making him not only quite large, but also exceptionally agile for his height.

Varian is usually found with a small beard, a bit different than that of normal people of Miraaheim, who sport rather large beards. Varian dislikes the look, and prefers a smaller, kept one. His skin is generally rough, with a set of three distinct scars going in a line across his cheek, many of which believe he has received from an encounter with a wolf, but Varian would never be the one to tell if that is really the case. His eyes are brown and his gaze appears as if he is always in a foul mood. However, that is just his normal gaze. Varian has relatively long, shoulder-length light-brown hair, which has been slightly combed back, but also chopped a bit to the side, giving him, as he would say, a perfect look for a mercenary.

Varian's clothing isn't exactly traditional, but combines a bit of his cultural background into it. He is found wearing a sleeveless grey leather vest. Around his vest is a baldric which extends across his chest and over his right shoulder, which is used to holster his two hand axes on his back, which are prominently displayed in an 'X' shape on his back. On his right shoulder attached to the baldric is a mass of grayish-white fur believed to originally be from a wolf, perhaps the same one that gave him the scars on his cheek, but again, Varian would never say. Varian also has a belt fitted tightly across his waist, and below that a pair of black pants of common fabric of the time. He wears boots, which are grey in color and reach just above his ankles.

Personality: Despite his appearance, Varian tends to somewhat break the norm of how most people view the average Highman, at least, to an extent. Where most Highmen are loud and rash, many will find that Varian is composed and a bit quiet. At least, compared to the average Highman. When in a group of familiar people, or people he feels more comfortable around, he would usually become more talkative. He does not wish to do so in front of people he is unfamiliar with, especially clients. However, when he does talk, many might notice his rather dark sense of humor. He often finds humorous that which others might believe to be sinister. He would more likely be the one to laugh at other's pain and misery, especially if the circumstance of it is ironic, far-fetched, or unusual. With that is added a second dimension of Varian being slightly critical of others, and rather unsympathetic of their troubles, unless they are clients, in which case he is very sympathetic, especially if the compensation is good. This is to say that Varian may be a bit cold, but he is also practical and smart about it. He knows when he should and shouldn't say certain things, especially if the consequences be the removal of his head. His true feelings, beliefs, and personality would never reveal themselves to anyone but close friends, and because of the very nature of his work, he has few of those.

Although he has mostly attempts o break away from the traditions of his forefathers, Varian finds himself instilled with a few values from his homeland. He is not religious, but still finds comfort in the words and sayings of the ancient tongue in Miraheim, almost treating it as good luck charms. Although he has long strayed from the Highmen tradition of honor and family, some of those views still continue to work its way through his mercenary work, mostly having to do with family. Although he has long since lost any conventional family, he almost treats his mercenary group like an extended family. As their leader, it can almost be said that he could be seen as a head of a family, and as such, it is his job to keep the rest of his family safe, both with conventional and alternative methods.

History: Varian was born in the southern part of Miraheim, in a village called Renvall. He came from a long line of Highmen who defended the Maerrun in the province there. His father is the latest to have taken up the guard of the Maerr, his mother dying in childbirth. It was expected of Varian to one day grow up to become the next guard of the Maerr, and continue the tradition the family held. However, Varian realized even as a child that the life of servitude was not for him. In his opinion, why should he have to pledge himself to someone without getting something in return? The concepts of honor and tradition alluded Varian, even as a small boy. His father would reprimand him in the hopes that he would eventually accept that this was his ordained purpose, but Varian never could say that he did.

However, as he became an adolescent, he was taught in the ways of combat. This part of Miraheim tradition was one he cherished. It was taught in Miraheim that a man who could not fight was not a man at all. Varian learned early on that there was wisdom to these words. But Miraheim weren't particular in terms of what weapons can be used. Varian wasn't particularly fond of the large, single axe that had become common in Miraheim's culture. He preferred to be more agile and moveable in combat. In the end, he chose as his preferred weapon choice a set of hand axes. This allowed him to keep within the tradition of the axe, while still maintaining his agility. Varian learned early on in his life that he had a talent for combat, and very much enjoyed it.

As he grew and became a young man, an event happened in his life that altered his fate. Being from Southern Miraheim, the villages to the south were prone to attacks from orcs and other foul creatures of the mountains. One night, orcs came down from the mountain and attacked the village. Varian's father was among the men who defended the village, but by day's end, he was murdered. In a single night, Varian's life was changed completely. His father had left him everything. His property, his land, his money. Varian found himself for the next few weeks struggling to decide what he was to do. Although he had never wanted to before, he expected he would have to grow up to become a guard of the Maerr. That was his destiny. But that was the destiny his father had laid out for him. Now that he was gone, there was nothing truly keeping him there. So on a whim, one day, Varian packed a few of his belongings, and left Renvall, never to return.

For a while, Varian wandered. It would be an understatement to say that he was ill-prepared for the travels of life in the wild of Miraheim. From the cold, harsh winter to the beasts that roam the country, Varian found himself realizing something crucial: He was taught how to fight, but not how to survive. His was supposed to be the life of servitude in a grand hall of a Maerr, not roaming the wilds. The day came when a large grey wolf had approached him, seeing Varian as his next meal. Although Varian didn't know it that day, the wolf would be his test to see if he could truly learn to survive. A battle occurred, Varian's steel matching against the wolf's fangs and claws. Varian triumphed in a grueling contest, but not before the beast left a permanent mark on his face. He skinned the wolf for his pelt, and wore it with him ever since.

In the following town he visited after the event, he had heard about a merchant who needed passage between towns, and that he would pay anyone willing to accompany him as a guard. Varian heard, and decided to apply right away. It was his first true job as a mercenary. The first of many. His cargo had apparently been threatened by a bandit the day before, and the merchant expected an attack while on the road, which evidently did happen. The bandits came in a trio, but as Varian soon found out, were both quite slow and extremely ill-trained. Varian took care of them fairly easily, and lead the merchant to his destination. It seemed that Varian had finally found his calling.

Varian traveled all across Miraheim for mercenary work. Because of the adaptation to the weather, Varian removed a part of the wolf pelt off of his back, but kept a piece of it embedded on his shoulder, as a constant reminder to him of the day he considers he became a man, a tale he will probably never tell to anyone.

Weapon Preference: A set of hand axes. Varian prefers to move agile through combat, and instead of choosing a single larger axe as his standard weapon, chose two smaller ones which he uses to hash, slash, and bash opponents. Varian constantly maintains the sharpness and quality of the axes, although a chip could be seen on one of them.

[User]
Varian Sigmund - Dalenham, Ethora

Varian scoffed in response to Osmund's jest. The man had said practically the same sentence every single time he did something even remotely tiring. The Highman scanned over his mercenary companion for a brief moment - he was decent enough of a fighter, and didn't annoy Varian as previous companions of his had in the past, which made him tolerable. Varian knew there was more to this man, but he also didn't care enough to find out what that was. In all likelihood, Osmund would either move on or end up dead within the month. That's generally how these mercenary bands played out for Varian.

There was a time when he traveled with a female sellsword where that didn't play out as he predicted. He had found her in southern Miraheim, nearly frozen to death and more drunk than a woman of that size ought to be. The woman, Cassandra, ended up being quite a skilled swordswoman herself, and the two traveled for a few months together, before they separated. Varian wondered for a few moments what ever became of the young woman.

He snapped out of his thoughts as Osmond spoke aloud about the orcs. Varian took another large swig of his ale and shrugged his shoulders. "If they weren't monstrous, we wouldn't have gotten paid as well as we did. Speaking of which..." Varian began reaching in his bag by his chair, removing the sack of coins given to him by Edward. He distributed Osmund's share to him, just as he heard Edon's voice above him.

Varian glanced at the man and cocked an eyebrow and snorted. "Just Varian. Saying 'Commander' won't get you any extra silver," He motioned for Edon to take chair beside him. "The payment. Ten silver for each of us. Job well done. And a good job staying alive." He said to them, before leaning back and grabbing hold of his ale and downing the contents. He let out a satisfying sigh and leaned back as he watched the others look over their payment.

[Assistant]
Edon Wolf
Broken Keg Tavern
Dalenham, Ethora

"I am not asking for handouts," Edon snapped after hearing Varian's jest. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw, taking a moment to calm down and collect his thoughts. It seemed like he had something more to say, however, instead he took a breath and let it out in a soft huff. He seemed to be considering his next action carefully.

"Thank you," he said, his voice formal. Edon was not a man to mumble his words nor was he without manners.

Having visibly come to a decision, he stepped around to one of the seats at the table and stiffly took a seat. Unless stopped, he would reach for one of the pouches of silver and slip it into a pocket without counting its contents.


[System]
Nicknames:
"Puppet Queen"
Age:
27
Gender:
Female
Master of:
Rider
Command Seal Location:
Right side
Origin:
Connection
Appearance:

-
Personality:
Teresa Brannigan is prideful in her work and tends to ignore those who look down on her. Despite this tendency she at least knows how to work with others and can sympathize with those the mage's association dislikes. She can get quite cranky if someone stats dissing her creations and may lash out if infuriated.

Teresa can be somewhat socially awkward as her her magecraft has put her in the company of lifeless objects most of her life. Sometimes she can catch herself talking to her puppets which can only makes things more awkward to anyone catching her in the act. This awkwardness translates over to her relationship with her servant as working with a personality filled familiar that thinks for itself. Since servants often act on their own this can be quite disconcerting to a mage that is used to things obeying her every command.

Despite her awkwardness, she knows how to be calm and collected on the field and has a sharp mind. With her skill set she is naturally tries to stay away from the front lines as she supports with her puppets from afar, which makes her able to analyze situations quickly and decisively. If she finds her life in direct peril it will be harder for her to concentrate effectively however.

Biography:
Teresa Brannigan was born into a unique lineage. A mage family based in Ireland that were adept Alchemists, their unique talents were nothing extraordinary but they had a connection to a somewhat declining art, that of automaton creation. These hybrids of machinery and magecraft are often considered somewhat crude and unrefined, over the years falling out of favor with modern mages. Still the Brannigan family stubbornly stuck to their craftmanship and continued the tradition.

When Teresa was born it was discovered that she had somewhat stronger magic circuits than her ancestors. With a decent capacity for magic, her father rigorously trained her from birth to become a splendid puppet master. After a few years it was found out her strength revolved around consciousness transference magic, which worked quite well with her souless creations for use in the field.

Despite her talents, her family was still considered one of the weaker mage families and their puppetry magic was not held in high esteem. Soon a way to change that perception became the Brannigan goal and Teresa devoted herself to creating stronger and better automata. One day she hoped to reach a level of craftmanship that would make even the biggest skeptic have to acknowledge her family's skill.

Her big break came when one of the top mages in the association saw her work and decided to become a major sponsor. His name was Frederick Isilebaun and he was well known for trying to keep the ancient crafts alive while updating them for the modern mage. Thanks to his tutelage and the added resources, especially of some of the more exotic materials, her work improved by leaps and bounds and members of the association acknowledged her work as being useful in the field.

Some of her automata and puppets were even used by the scouts that went to Poland to find the enemy mages and while they obviously failed to kill the enemy, some data was still able to be recovered through their reconnaissance. Chosen to be one of the masters for the upcoming war, Teresa considers this her chance to solidify her position in the mage's association as the modern day puppet master and to create an automata worthy of being called a masterpiece.

She is under no illusions however that the association still considers her creations more as just scouting tools than as battle instruments. She hopes that by winning the war she will be able to solidify her craftmenship as viable and essential part of magecraft even in the modern world.

-

Magecraft Section:

School of Magecraft:
Alchemy with emphasis on Puppet Mastery and Soul Transference

Skills/Spells List:
Transference of Consciousness - 6 Times
Puppet Creation - 4 Times
Automata Enhancing - 2 Times
Grandr - 20 Times
Rock Wall - 2 Times

Amount of Magecraft Mana:
B

Other:
Because she likes to make her automata look good, Teresa learned how to sew so she could make outfits for her humanoid creations. Her skills got so good that sometimes mages even order outfits from her.
~
Class Name:
Rider

Nicknames:
The Green Knight

Alignment:
Chaotic Good

Servant of:
Teresa Brannigan

Weapon(s):
A Large Battle Axe
Plate Mail Warhorse

Wish:
To test and find out who is 'worthy' in the world.

Abilities:

Skills:
At The Boundary C:
Bravery A:
Natural Body B:
Mana Burst B:

Class Abilities:
Magic Resistance C
Riding Skill A

Base Parameters:

Strength: B+
Endurance: C
Agility: B
Magical Power: C+
Good luck: D
Noble Phantasm: A-

Noble Phantasms:
Name: Bough of Joy
Quote: "May the Joy of our Lord bring peace to your soul."
Rank: A
Type: Anti-Gate
Range: 15 meters long, 3 meters wide
Description: A magnificent axe with dragon designs embedded in its steel; however the true worth is in the bough of holly that is entangled around the entire weapon. While the axe itself is strong enough to stand against high class weapons, the holly has been bestowed with the gifts of nature. When the Noble Phantasm is activated, earth magic pours though the bough of holly, causing rapid growth in the space of a single second.

Massive branches shoot out from the bough, smashing everything in its way. The sudden growth is strong enough to strike through stone and even if something does survive, it will completely surrounded in tough, mana filled branches. Because the Noble Phantasm is a forced growth of nature, the new 'tree' stands in existence and then cuts itself off from the axe, allowing the user to walk away without trouble.

While incredibly powerful the range is rather short though the area it can cover is decently wide. Being a rider class makes the Noble Phantasm easier to use as he can get into position much quicker than normal. After a single use, it will take a long time for the Bough of Joy to be able to be used again however.

True Name:
Bertilak de Hautdesert
Appearance:

[User]
"Even though pride is a sin I feel the need to inform you Mister Thane. There are no men like me. I hope it stays that way no one should be in my shoes." commented Anderson as he straightened his jacket. He looked over to the new Executor and frowned, We as humans are flawed beings. Creatures that are bound to this world to do the work of jesus, and god. We are not so easily able to put aside our weakness. I forgive you for your impertinence in this circumstance since you're willing to see fault. However please keep in mind to walk in god's grace, and treat others as you wish to be treated. As the Lord wills it so it must be especially for us who have dedicated our lives to his divine justice. These mages around us live a different life than us. Be it for the better, or worse do not fault them and accept them as they are. No one ever said they liked it when the Jesuits came knockin' on their door after all." Anderson told the younger Executor with a calm, and fatherly patience as he nodded he turned to Orson.

 "I apologize please continue Director." commented Anderson to his colleague who looked at his watch and nodded in return. "It is time I got started now listen up, all of you; As you all may, or may not know this is a time of dire circumstances. The Family Grey led by their patriarch have taken control of at least several servants. How they managed to do this is unknown since the location of the Greater Grail is unknown, and presumed destroyed, we have the possibility that they altered the current grail in some way in order to summon their current servants. There is precedent as 'fake' grails have started wars in the past." Orson said as he pointed out some of the starting key points. "The war we find ourselves on the precipice of is a Great Grail War of only there have been less than a handful. We can assume that there is a director chosen by the Grail, and thus the Throne of Heroes itself, known as 'Ruler' has likely been summoned somewhere. Great Grail Wars start when a group control multiple servants all under the same banner usually more than four." commented Orson as he brought up some dark photos of what was presumed to be the Grey's Manor. It was surrounded by a forest in one picture, and another was clearly just the mansion itself. "They have withdrawn any representation they had with us here, and have moved their place of residence to a more secure location. When our scouts, and allies got near it they found themselves hounded by some sort of curse magic that made them wander around aimlessly. No doubt the forest has been enchanted. However a few of them were actually killed by unknown assailants. Mauled to death. We can assume this is a declaration of defiance from the Greys. Whatever they intend to do has no place negotiating with us. As such we can also assume further that they have prepared themselves for war. Is there any questions before I continue on? I do not wish to lose everyone." commented Orson calmly as he looked around the group. His professional tone did not waver.

Leon did not say anything sitting still and remaining quiet as he had little to add. The circumstances at hand were going to be difficult but he felt if they summoned strong servants they would win the day. A magical forest would just mean that they would need a specialist to aid them in the matter. Leon figured whoever was being sent with them meant that they would be covered in most areas. He could hold his own...but against a 'servant'? He was unsure.

[Assistant]
August Thane
Headmaster's Office, The Clock Tower

August listened intently as the Director began to explain the situation. The idea of Mage supremacists reassembling such a powerful artifact troubled him, and questions peppered his mind as more details unfolded. Once Orson paused for questions, August spoke up, "This mansion the Greys have moved into... is there a town or other useable location nearby to it but outside of the radius of this forest's misleading curse? Somewhere we could base ourselves that would be effective for combat?" August disliked the idea of attacking the enemy without a place to retreat to and defend if things went wrong, and if their faction's Caster-class Servant worked the way they were supposed to in the stories of past Grail Wars they would need a place to set up territory. "Speaking of the effects of the forest, does this misleading curse and mauling sound like the sort of magic the Greys are known to practice, or is there any chance it's something caused by one of their Servants? In either case, do we have a way to break through or resist it, beyond the powers our Servants might or might not have?" Each question was asked with a methodical seriousness that seemed to imply August had much experience in dealing with issues of breaching locations and bypassing traps and deterrents.

As he waited for the Director to address the issues he had brought up, August looked over his fellow Faction members. His eyes lingered on the odd boy with hair covering his face, but most of all he was still bothered by the absence of one Master. "Apologies, Director, but if I may ask an additional question, who else is it that was meant to be joining us today?"

[User] "There's a small town with no airports, and about a thousand, or so people residing there. I would hesitate to call it a city. If you need to you can use that city as a staging point however remember that the rules of the grail wars would apply there. If you chose to accept my offer this day you will be sent there by plane, and make a car ride there. It shouldn't take too long a few hours. I expect the Grey Family to have eyes there. If not sending one of their cronies out to make sure any new comers are found. The Grey Family want a secure area. Even if it means a death match. Which is why Father Anderson is here. Expect him to do most of the heavy lifting. He insisted on it." commented Orson as he pointed to the Father who gave a rather sadistic grin. "Oh it'd be my pleasure Director. Spilling the blood of traitorous heathens is my business. And I've gotten good at it." Anderson stated calmly. Orson further explained himself as he went along, "The Grey Family is specialized in many arts. I heard their children are especially talented with the mystic art of illusion. It could be their handy work. The father of them, Alistair Grey, is a master of all sorts of magics. One could say he was a prodigy here are the clocktower. Expect powerful magic from him. As for Servants...berserkers....and maybe Casters could be responsible for the maulings. I'm afraid I have no details on the matter further. And as for the rest of our faction. There will be others but you're all here because I want you to be, and they are't here because I asked them not to come. There's a fellow student of mine she will be joining you soon. I already explained much of this none the less she will be instrumental in your ability to take out the Grey's defense." Orson told the group as Anderson spoke up, "When I was referring to a second colleague of mine earlier I meant a partner of mine. They'll be helping us but don't expect them to show their face until they're needed. Unlike me they're not a people person." Anderson said before anyone asked about his previous statement.

[Assistant]
Teresa scowled a bit when the girl revealed herself to be one of the church's attack dogs but refrained from saying anything as there would be no point. Soon, it seemed that most of the masters had arrived except for one which would not join their 'group'. They were a unique assortment of individuals but then again most mages were eccentrics, and members of the church. While they probably would not mesh well together, as long as everyone played their part they could no doubt be an effective team.

What brought Teresa into the conversation was when the director starting talking about the mission itself and the capabilities of the enemy forces as well as what could be their base. The Grey family seemed to be master illusionists which made her particular abilities rather valuable. As a mage who could transfer her consciousness into inanimate objects, because her true body would often be out of range she would be able to see through such trickery much more easily as her 'true' mind would be elsewhere. Her puppets and automatons would also be less effected but such magics as well.

The main problem that had popped up was that it seemed it might be difficult for a lot of her resources to be transported over there since they could only get so close by plane and then had travel by car. However, there was a chance a good number of her work was still stashed away in the area when the scouts had first been sent to take care of the problem.

"Director if I may, a few questions." Teresa started, "First, as you are no doubt aware of my magecraft, how much of my equipment will I be able to transport? Also, I believe some of my equipment from the previous operation may be stashed in the area, if there is indeed a stash still I would request it's location to be sent to me so that I may bolster our forces when we are sent in."

It would be best if both things were true but if neither answer proved to be very positive then she would have to be quite selective to what materials and automatons she could bring for the upcoming war.


[System]
Title Card
Title: The Fifth Apocalypse
Gender: Male
Alignment: Rudo
Height: 6'9"
Weight Class: Super Heavyweight
Wrestling Style: Saliendo Olvido

Theme: Lordi – The Devil Behind Her Smile

Description

-Mask

Rey de la Oscuridad wears a most unusual mask. While most lucha masks conform to the face of a man his contorts to that of a jaguar. Its mouth typically open and its fangs bared at the world, each one a sturdy white blade more than capable of punching through flesh and a predilection for doing just that. Frighteningly enough the mask seems to have a life of its own; though its mouth leads nowhere it reeks of blood and saliva, it is warm to the touch with a layer of soft fur over coarse black leather, and occasional deep throated growls escape from its throat. Purple dots line the scalp, cheeks, and everywhere else that isn't its maw and eyes like pulsating stars glowing against the midnight sky. In stark contrast two pert black ears are set on either side of its skull, they rotate to follow sounds and to express emotion where its face cannot. In short, save for the readjustment of its spinal column, it looks as though a jaguar were decapitated and its head was set upon the shoulders of a man.

Only Rey's eyes are visible behind the mask and even those do not seem human, their cut too predatory and their tone too yellow, not to mention the rage…

-Everything Else

A barrel chested monster of a man with long muscular limbs and yet oddly well-proportioned despite that. He wears a black bodysuit over his frame, obscuring his entire body in a cast of night that is only broke up the same purple pinions that adorn his head. While his gloves and boots are clearly separate from the bodysuit they are also black, with the purple padding around each shin and forearm that ends at the adjacent joint, that being his elbows and knees. The only other break in his outfit is a massive purple eye set in the center of his chest, wide and circular with a vertical slit running down the center, and a tendency to dart about to track the approach of his opponents, sometimes it even goes so far as to blink but it never remains shut for very long.

Outside of the ring he wears fine black business suits, usually with purple undershirts or ties to fit with his color scheme, and sometimes for additional flavor he will come to ring with a cape of jaguar fur drifting in his wake.

Repertoire

-Moves

- Solo el Fuerte: Rey's skinsuit doubles as a suit of armor, lightweight but stronger than any made by man, and capable of turning all but the mightiest attacks. Subversive magics, psionic incursions, area of effect attacks, mundane firearms and probing attacks are but a few of the things that simply cannot harm him. By and large only committed offense can ever cause him to pause, after all, only those who are willing to face the darkness head-on can truly turn fate.

- Poder Apocaliptico: Rey's strength is such that he can reduce armored tanks to pulp and shatter buildings with a single thrust. Rey seems to scale to face any challenge and thanks to his incredible size he is usually stronger than other humanoids. He can be equaled by those of exceptional strength, but the mighty are few and far between, and he has never been outright overpowered by anyone in the same size category. So powerful is he, that he could even grapple the titans themselves if they dared stand across from him in the ring.

- Sombra en la Noche: Though Rey may be a large man he is remarkably fast. More than capable of dodging bullets and leaving race cars in the dust, combined with an uncanny sixth sense it is all but impossible to catch him off guard, instead forcing enemies to rely on their wits if they're to fool him. Some say that he gains such speed by moving as a shadow flits across the wall and that he cannot be caught off guard because his eyes exist in every shadow, but surely those are just rumors?

- Que es un Hombre?: Even tanks take damage from time to time. But Rey's would not flinch even if he were to die again, legend has it that his body is not even alive and this second life is one part mockery and another part vengeance, whatever the case may be Rey does not feel pain. He can stop bleeding by willing it, command his flesh to move even with bones broken and tendons cut, bend at impossible angles and more.

- Garras de Jaguar: Rey is more than raw physical strength, more than a flesh fashioned into machine over a thousand years of training, he is a force of will. When he walks, there is an aura about him that induces a great chill, the lights darken and the weak cower, for without even realizing it even those without a sixth sense realize that the chosen of ferocious Tezcatlipoca stands in their wake. With the god's blessing Rey is the apocalypse made manifest and can freely project it upon all who stand in his ways, either in the form of heated energy blast or shadowy constructs, whatever suits his imagination so long as he has the time and reserves to fashion it. Just as his vicious god draws power from destruction, fear, and darkness; so too does Rey it to make himself into the jaguar's claws. Because this power is based upon his will it straddles the thin line between supernatural and outright magical, with it Rey is capable of striking across dimensions and dealing damage directly to the source of his foe, and in turn his power can only be snuffed out by a force of equal measure.

(tl;dr He's a big angry undead cat man with a lot of anti-cheese powers, who tries to force everyone to fight him in powered melee. Think Lucha Underground meets Dragon Ball Z, lace up your boots, and get ready for a fight.)

-Costume

- Trono de la Oscuridad: Rey does not approve of weapons as he feels that a true warrior should transform their entire body into a weapon. However, he does have one which he brings with him everywhere, a simple black folding chair which he calls the Throne of Darkness. His throne can in turn appear from any patch of darkness of appropriate size. Stronger and harder than any chair has the right to be, the Throne has been used to break everything from bodies to buildings, it is however not unbreakable. The Throne can warp and bend if it encounters a particular strong will, one powerful enough to resist the psychosomatic power that drives its master, and of course will fade away on command.

However, when it is summoned next it will be repaired, for can one truly break the night?

-Finishing Move

- Fin del Mundo: Rey swings his opponent up onto his shoulders, back down and belly up, clutching their throat in one hand and their thigh in the other. After a few seconds of painful back breaking, during which he gathers all of his hateful power, Rey proceeds to drop to his rear. During which he rotates the opponent and drives them head first into the mat below and then in one brutal move he proceeds to compress their bodies(or whatever the equivalent they substitute it with is), breaking them utterly, or at the very least putting them out of commission until the next show.

This move is accompanied by a deep psychological effect that often breaks those who suffer it. For luchadore there is a natural defense against its effects due to the masks they wear, but other fighters will need to find another way to defend against the encroaching madness. If they survive the impact that is...

Hype

It is said that Rey de la Infinita Oscuridad was once poised to conquer the world of wrestling, he'd stripped the greatest lucha of their masks and united the world titles, and even went so far as to defeat the mighty gringo Wrasslor in one on one combat. Nobody was willing to stand up to him, or so he thought, until an alliance of young lucha with nothing to lose confronted him in the eleventh hour. Though many were lost the heroes were able to defeat him with fearless hearts and astounding techniques, until they finally finished off Rey by way of decapitation, and thus the Interdimensional Lucha Libre Alliance was formed; otherwise known as the Luchalliance.

But lo' even decapitation was not enough to end Rey's life, the first members of the Luchalliance knew this and so they locked it away in the deepest vault, never to see the light of day again. Now, the last of the original Luchalliance has died, and with his passing the return of their greatest evil. Nobody knows how he was freed but the vault was empty and a most scared grave desecrated. It is said that Rey stole the body of the one who delivered the final blow, El Rey Macho, and the only reason he has not yet conquered the wrestling world is because that heroic spirit is fighting him. But it is a losing battle and with every passing day Rey grows stronger, and yet the leaders of the Luchalliance refuse to believe it is true. They have declared him an upstart and turn a blind eye to his antics.

Regardless of what the case may be; Rey de la Oscuridad II is a very dangerous man.

[Assistant]
The back pedal would have been almost without force as it was enacted; El Rey had already begun to shove Xavier by the time the back pedal began and Xavier simply managed to keep his feet from being dragged along. With his upper body moving ahead of his legs they would never have been able to strain against the awesome power that was El Rey. Xavier had known already that the tactic was sure to succeed and had instead set about enacting the other counters as his body was shoved at the fully intended speed. Xavier had made no effort to slow El Rey and so the pair would not have been slowed at all during El Rey's shove and thus he would be left unable to cross his and Xaviers arms before Xaviers was slammed into the turnbuckle.

This of course did nothing to stop El Rey in his attempts to elbow Xavier in his head nor were his movements slowed; putting Xavier Midway through his thrust attack as he felt El Reys hands moving through the air. The spikes tore forwards as Xavier's eyes shifted from the spike tips to the metallic gloves upon El Reys hands which were clearly intended to take the hit and again he knew he could do nothing to stop their advance; but he wouldn't need to.

The instant the impact occurred the spikes finished under going a structural change which took away the hard physical exterior that would have caused a blunt force reaction. Replacing it with a loosened structure of liquid metal which possessed a consistency similar to molasses, allowing the spikes to collapse under the force of meeting the metallic gloves on El Reys hands. The gloves fell in quick succession and added to the wave of metal which Xavier willed to stretch and engulf El Reys hands as Xavier pushed it forward.

 Just as quick as the metal had lost its solidity it regained it would regain it around El Reys hands in an effort to encase them in solid Dread Metal for even a moment to throw him for a quick loop. Quick as an action as this was if it we're allowed to sink home El Rey would have to exact immense force to free himself. Meanwhile Xaviers hands were left to palm this metallic mound in a thin liquid layer and free to detach from it at a moment's notice in a blur.

Xavier had to take action as though this mound was going to work and shifted his weight effortlessly to his left foot and began to extend it forward so as to lose the bare minimum of the forward momentum he had established ready. Meanwhile he bent his elbows and rotated his wrists so as to roll his hands with ease from the metal mound while making fists; positioning them back in line with El Reys chest. As Xavier's hands tightened into fists they squished out a thin layer of metal that Xavier had managed to maintain from the mound which quickly created metal spikes upon his knuckles. The spikes we're significantly smaller than his others but their premise would be the same in pinpointing his power.

 With a heave Xavier extended his elbows the instant his hands were clear and aligned so as to fire them at El Rey's abdomen once again. Propelled by his extending left leg so as to capitilze on his follow through so as to shove him back at the very least if this attack we're to hit home. Stopping him from having the time to fire out his ether based attack.


[System]
Race: Elf, darker than usual complexion.
Faction/Unit: Brand's Brood
Location: Bosfryd
Synopsis of Role: A full blooded elf, with an affinity for combat and nature; adopted by brand as a youngling that was was exiled for his appearance.

[User]
"T-t-t-title's g-good in the Company," he pointed out to his 'brother,' "And Myrmith was barking," he explained as he squatted down on his haunches amongst the flowers. His warg there, a truly nasty piece of business that looked like it'd served in a couple campaigns itself, seemed pretty in tune with the orc, who was all long, lanky muscle, hunched over, with a topknot of black hair. He had tusks and it all looked a bit savage and unkempt, but the actual equipment was carefully maintained; immaculate fletchings on the arrows, cord-wrapped knife handles and an axe that was balanced and sized for an orc, handle axed and head sharpened. It was easy for a less observant person to write off the orc as some sort of dimwit.

It was a lesson that a lot of beings didn't survive. Dakgu was a nasty piece of work, after all.

But it was true, an entire company of pissed off orcs tended to respect one of their own that went one to one with a powerful knife-ear ranger and came out on top, but a bunch of elven rangers might not be so happy. On the other hand, Myrmith Tinuviel was genocidal.

They'd have to deal. The truth was that in taking Ceril for their latest employer, the Company did come up against the forces that the Elven kingdom of Torceleblas supported, and killed quite a few of theirs in the process. That was war, and if tuskers took a certain pleasure in it, that was quite natural to them. In any event, the Queen there wasn't anything on Bloody Harold. Once the fighting was done, she was rather intent on running a profitable, peaceful kingdom without exacting bloody revenge on anyone that ever disrespected her.

She didn't know her father at all and wasn't trying to impress him. Bloody Harold? Always trying to impress one of his ancestors or show them up. Dakgu? Grateful he didn't know a father. Well, except Brand and he didn't leave the Nightwood trying to please the old ranger either. Dakgu's life was the one he chose, and he wasn't going to the likes of Harvey dictate that to him.

And perhaps there would be a reckoning with his elven 'kin.' There was never much love lost there in a lot of ways, but Dakgu always held his bargains and gave his word in good faith. The elaborate and bloody vengeance piece? Keeping the world in line a bit.

"Sides, we ain't here," he had to speak carefully, because of his impediment, "to fight each other."

[Assistant]
The Prince was in armour, having just trounced several of his gentlemen on the tilt field, when his constable approached with a stocky, plain-faced spatharios at his back. "My Lord, I think you know Andreas Alcaeus, who has served four years with you as a member of the Guard." He bowed and extended an arm towards the man, who was quite obviously nervous – he fidgeted in place, constantly making minute adjustments to his kit, which he had polished to a mirror sheen.

The Prince smiled warmly, and reached out to clap Andreas' shoulder. "You're leaving, then. I'll miss you – the sight of you always made me feel safe." He admitted, and laughed.

Andreas swallowed a sudden lump in his throat and bowed deeply. "I am needed home, your grace. My…father has passed, and I wish to be there for his burial."

The Prince nodded seriously and frowned in commiseration. "I'm sorry to hear that. Will you return afterwards?" Strangely, in his eyes the Prince spied a steely determination, and no small amount of anger.

Andreas stiffened, then said slowly, "If I am able, your grace."

The Prince leaned close and smiled. "Then I'll expect you back, Andreas." He turned to his constable. "See that his kit is well-stored. I grant him leave, but do not discharge him from my service."

"My Lord!" The constable replied, bowing slightly.

The Prince grinned and turned, calling over his shoulder. "Now get going!"

Andreas bowed again, as ceremony demanded, and walked from the Prince's presence to the guardroom, where he embraced a dozen close friends, drank a farewell cup of wine, and handed the steward his kit – his maille hauberk and his good cote of plates beautifully covered in the Imperial purple; his two purple cotes with matching hoods, for wear at court, and his hose of purple cloth. He went to hand in his badge, too – a cleverly fashioned thing of silver and gold enamel, with the Imperial double-headed eagle as the centerpiece – but the steward handed it back to him. "His Majesty expressly stated that you were to keep your badge, as you are on leave and not discharged from the Guard."

Andreas almost cried.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The apprentice cut the lashings on the sacking, revealing a rounded pommel on one end, ferruled in heavy bronze, balancing a fine sword blade at the other end. The hilt was worked in silver, and the guard made up of two griffin-heads; the fuller extended from the base of the hilt to two-thirds the way to the blade's tip. A tassel of Imperial purple hung from the base of the pommel in place of a peen block.

It was a guardsman's sword, but incomparably finer, made by a master and not by one of the dozens of journeyman smiths under the employ of the Domestikos.

Andreas couldn't help himself, and he whirled it between his hands, the blade cutting the air and the tip not quite brushing the plaster of the low room.

The apprentice flattened himself against the wall, and the master nodded, satisfied. "The sword you brought me was a fine enough weapon," the master said. "Competently made. But the finish," he winced, then shrugged. "And I thought that the balance could be improved."

Andreas just smiled in appreciation. The master added a scabbard – a sheath of wood covered in fine red leather with the Imperial insignia stamped in the center. Andreas counted down a hundred silver marks – a sizeable portion of four years' pay.

Andreas carried his new sword out to his riding horse and put it lovingly into the straps, close to hand. No one watching doubted that he'd handle it a dozen more times before he was clear of the suburbs. Or that he'd stop and use it on the first bush he found growing by the road.

"You ride today, then," the master said.

Andreas nodded. "I'm needed in the north," he said. "My father has passed."

The weapon smith nodded. "Send him my respects, then, and the sele of the day on you."

Andreas embraced the smith, stepped through the door, and walked his horse back up the road.

"There goes a good man," said the master to his apprentice. "I've known a few. And yet as fierce as a lion when his blood's up. A better knight than many who wear spurs."

The apprentice was too smitten with hero-worship to comment. The master tried not to wonder why a man would commission a sword for a funeral.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Nightwood was much the same as Andreas remembered. Same sights, same smells, and in many cases, even the same trees. Why, that tree there was where Brand showed him how to make his first snare, and just over yonder was the tree he had used to climb when he wanted to be alone.

He smiled sadly. There were a lot of memories in these woods. Good ones, mostly. But now they all felt a somewhat bitter, knowing what had happened to old Brand.

Andreas fingered the hilt of the sword at his side. He would bring justice back to these woods. For Brand.

It wasn't long until he reached the barrow. He touched the runes with a nostalgic fondness, and walked inside to greet his erstwhile family.

[User]
Nightwood, Some Time Previous

It was snowing, thick wet flakes that melted quickly into the soggy ground.

The clearing was orderly, with a large, square garden- well planted though Spring was still young- a small barn, and a tidy cottage of wood and clay with a freshly thatched roof. The Barkstead lads had evidently been hard at work for the old man, who'd never been one to allow his charges to wallow in grief.

The gnarled trunks of Nightwood closed around the homestead on all sides, budding branches reaching for the sky like twisted fingers uplifted in prayer. The only way to this place was through woods Brand knew better than any still living.

Anyone who came here was seen well before he arrived.

If the man who emerged into the clearing from the treeline knew that, he did not seem particularly perturbed by it. He was youngish looking -though he was not young- with a lean, weatherworn face, dark eyes, and a little smile that played across the corners of his mouth like he was in on something, some great funny secret soon to be revealed. He wore a simple black doublet and cloak. Snowflakes nested in his ruffled hair.

He was unarmed. And, in spite of the freezing mud, he was barefoot.

"Anyone home?" he called as he strode up the damp path to the cottage, "I think so-oh. Smells like someones just put out a cookin' fire. What're we makin'?"

A bowstring creaked as it was drawn. An old man rose slowly from the tangled foliage of the garden, arrow notched and ready to fire, aimed at the newcomer's head.

The stranger turned, his little smile widening into a lopsided grin, as though the prospect of an arrow in the throat was an unexpected thrill.

"Hello Brand," he said.

"Kadath," said Brand. His rugged face was hard as granite, eyes filled with murder. "What're you doing at my home?"

"You had to know Harry wouldn't let you alone after you spat on his offer," said Kadath, "Why didn't you run? Disappear with the boys into the woods? Too proud? Or just feeling your age?"

"Boys aren't here, they're nowhere you'll find 'em," said Brand.

"I doubt that, my old friend, I'm very good at finding."

A flock of birds erupted from the woods to the south. In the distance shouting could now be heard, the rough voices of hardened men, too many to count.

"Why'd you come ahead of your lackeys, then? Something to tell me?" asked Brand.

"Not my lackeys," said Kadath, shaking his head, "You won't find a Red Fang among 'em. I owe you that much."

Brand snorted, "Why're you here then?"

"Came for the boys, not for you," said Kadath, "More valuable to me alive and stowed away than with their little heads perched on Harry's parapet. Always good to have insurance, no? Specially since the King's starting to lose a step or two. Not handling guilt too well, I guess. Can't stomach it like you and I."

"I spent a lifetime working off the guilt you buried me in," said Brand.

Kadath shrugged and jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the treeline, where the shouting was growing closer. "You'll want me to find the Barkstead lads before they do. Where are they?"

"I'd rather the devils in all six hells find them than you," said Brand.

He loosed his arrow.

[Assistant]
He had been gone a little more than a fortnight, when thoughts drenched in sorrow crept into his mind. He hadn't wanted to leave, but Brand - his General - insisted that he, like many of the others, follow a path only forged by leaving the shelter of his proverbial wings. The Elf had no idea where to go, for he had considered himself the sword and shield of Brand, his eternal protector, his solider.

Still, at his behest, Adinraen Barriurden packed a small rucksack of survival essentials, as well as twin Boneswords, and a similarly crafted Bow, and set off. He headed in an easterly direction, wondering what he would find and why Brand felt it so important that he followed the flock, so to speak. So when the feeling settled in, he almost turned on his heel and raced back, something had to be wrong, right? Yet, the misjudged Elf steeled himself and carried onwards, until the next night when he set up camp on the edge of a clearing, so he could see any potential threats coming from the forward and sides. With the forest to his back, he felt strangely safe.

The night wasn't long born when the news came to him, by chance or by fate, when a travelling party stumbled upon his fire. Like many others, they were taken aback by his appearance, but steady words calmed them down. They brought word from back home with them, perhaps the most jarring of which was that a known ranger from the forest had been killed. They stumbled remembering the name, but Adinraen knew it in his heart. He was quiet the rest of the evening.

For months after, he stalked the forest around his childhood home, not able to bring himself to enter the place where Brand would no longer offer solace or training. He blamed himself, he should have stayed and fought by Brands side, protected him from the unsavory circumstances of his death. What could was a solider, a sword and shield, if it were not there when needed?

The darkness of the forest provided a sinister comfort, embracing thoughts of exacting revenge until they bloomed. Today was the day, heads would become charms of a necklace in honor of his Master. But was that Master the darkness or Brand?

Before he took to setting off, he passed by Brand's house one more time, but something was notably different. The ground around the entrance was disturbed. Had they come back after all this time to rummage through Brands belongings?

Adinraen drew both swords and almost soared through the air as he leapt from a branch. He landed with a little thud, and brushed the rune that would allow entry. His breath almost caught, he was entering for the first time in months. The Sword and Shield had returned home to roost.

With nerves of iron, he stepped through the entrance, his left hand sword immediately coming to a stop right before piercing through the back of Andreas neck. Trained eyes flittered around, the numbers inside were numerous.

What had stopped him? Recognition. Though they were older, different, he knew the faces he saw.

Family.

Is he dead too, Adinraen asked, his voice descending quickly into contempt. He referred to Diē, the one who left long ago to die. As he did so, he lowered his sword and stepped to his left and forward, eying those who had returned. This had to have been due to one thing, the death of Brand.


[System]
Age: 18
Class: Tactition
Weapons: Killing Edge, Elthunder tome, Elixir

Fighting Style: Direct and agressive, uses every trick in the book to win no matter how low.

Personality: Gaius acts upbeat and is quick to laugh. It seems like nothing fazes him. He is very smart and is considered an upcoming tactical genius. However, he is be stubborn and prideful. Gaius is also hardworking and practical. He's skilled at deception and a good liar. Despite his young age, he acts much more mature. He always does what he thinks needs done and screw the consequences. He does not always get along well with others and prefers to spend most of his time alone, studying tactics and philosophy.

History: Born in Bravura and raised in a moderatly wealthy family, Gaius's childhood was mostly normal. Execpt his father, who also was a great tactician, trained him in tactics, swordsmanship, and magic from a very young age. Now that he is old enough to fight, he volunteered to be the official tactician of the Reclamers. This mission is Gaius's first solo stint as a tactition. He was recommeded by his father to the king when the group was being first formed. The king, remembering Gaius's father's talant and skill, quickly gave his approval.

Rational: Gaius wants to follow in his father's footsteps and become a great tactition, and the only way to learn is to get field experiance.

Appearance: He has black hair and green eyes, very tall (6'9") with sharp features and wearing a tactition's outfit.

The lightest sleeper of the group.

(This has been updated. I want to reveal more of his personality as the rp progresses, so the details here are a little sparse.)

Name: Lilith Merdox
Age: 25
Class: Mercanary
Weapons: Steel sword Concoction
Fighting Style: Swift and elegant, yet simple with no wasted movement.

Personality: Lilith's personality is both complex and simple. She fights for money and she does not care about who is paying her or what they want her to do, once it is done and she is paid thats as far as her loyalty goes. Although once she accepts she will not go back on her word even if she will die otherwise. To other people, she is cold, and often rude. But beneath that hard, cold extirior, she is not as heartless as she would acts. She does care a lot about others and sometimes she will go out of her way to help someone in need, even if it could be disastrous for her. She has a soft spot for childern and is known to keep candy on her to give out to them. She has no sense of humor, although she grasps sarcasam and uses it often.

History:
 Lilith was born in Augur to a very poor family. Her father was an abusive drunk and her mother often very sick. They lived in two room shack with little clothing and blankets to ward off the biting cold seasons. Her father beat her often and the other kids made fun of her and threw stuff at her. Dispite this, Lilith never lost hope that one day everthing will turn out all right. Her mother was a good storyteller and often told her tales of kings, knights, and heros of old. Lilith loves to lisen to those tales, and her favorate was the Tales of the Sheperds where a band of corageous men, led by the dashing and Noble Prince Chrom took on a dark dragon and saved the world. She also liked exploring the woods, and she was there almost every day.
 As she grew up, she taught herself how to fight and trained day after day. She also learned to deal with both physical and emotional pain. The other kids soon learned to be wary of her, after she single handedly beat a large group of boys that made fun of her. She also stood up to her father more often. One day when she was fifteen, she wandered farther in the forest then she had ever gone before, she was suddenly surounded by bandits. They captured her then, bound, blindfolded and gagged her. They took her back to her father, and she learned that her father had sold her to the slavers for a very large sum of money. She was taken away. But, as the slavers were traveling a mercanary band called Silver Falcon, hired by the crown to hunt slavers, found that group. They slavers fought rather than give up. The band killed the slavers and freed her. One of the mercanaries , a kind pacifist named Marcon found Lilith and decided to take her in. She lived with the band for many years and they taught her all about the arts of war. Several years later she decided to leave the band and go off as a freelance mercanary where she built a formidable reputation as a very reliable merc. She never forgot about her mother, and she sends half her earnings to her to pay for medican, treatments and so she can live in comfort.

Rationale: Lilith joined the Reclaimers because it pays really really well.

Appearance:

Lilith is very tall for a girl at 5'10". She has fair brown hair and stormy grey eyes. She is known to almost always wearing her armor, no one has ever seen her without it and she refuses to explain why.

[User]
Hugh – Basilmeron Castle Stables

Hugh thought of Jeanne as he passed the convoy to meet the first horse. Her offhanded personality, quick wit, and obvious charisma made her already seem like a larger-than-life figure in his mind. Though perhaps plain to some, the charming thief struck Hugh as more than commonly attractive; there was something about a girl with dimples that never failed to catch his attention. While reaching out a hand for the horse to sniff and get to know him by, Hugh also posited that it was more than the woman herself that fascinated him—it was the archetype she represented. One who committed petty injustices in the name of justice, who vowed to uphold morals whilst behaving immorally...Hugh pictured such a paradigm as intriguingly unrealistic. Such an outlook belonged in the contemporary world as much as a shadow-skulker belonged in open combat. It was the stuff of folk tales and plays. Then again, if an actor could be a knight, perhaps a thief could be a hero.

Leading the first horse toward the convoy, Hugh carefully backed the good-natured animal into position and then attempted to strap him in. Unfortunately, the instant that the knight let go of the creature's reins, it shifted out of place just enough to make attaching the leather straps about as possible as spitting into the wind. Once more Hugh tried before he sighed in amused annoyance. He patted the horse on the head and left it behind, retracing his steps back toward the courtyard.

A few steps into the plaza, he shouted out, "Hey, can someone lend me a hand with the horses? Darned thing's got stage fright, won't stay still long enough to be hitched." While speaking, he plucked out a strand of hay that had magnetized to his scarf and flicked it onto the cobblestones.

Sanguin – Basilmeron Castle Courtyard

Some seconds passed with Sanguin's reddened eyes resting on Gaius's face. Her mouth was poised half-open as if the language had abandoned her just as she began to speak. The nearly seven-foot tactician loomed above her, more like a statue than a person, and intimidating even to a seasoned fighter. Finally, the young woman found her tongue.

"I'm...Sanguin. Pleasure for me too, or whatever." She stifled a yawn, trying not to appear unimpressed when truly fatigue was the cause. "Tactician, huh? That means you use magic...and fight with a sword, huh? All I've got is a sword."

At that moment, a burly man appeared at her side and draped an arm over her shoulder. His coming hadn't been stealthy, for the sheer size and heft of his axe meant that its scraping over the cobblestone could be heard by pretty much everyone, but it seemed Sanguin hadn't been aware. Affixing him with a befuddled expression, as if to say, what's this guy doing here?, Sanguin did little as Ronin began to speak. "Don't belittle yourself, wolf maiden! Yours may be the sword that carries us to victory!" He cast a rueful glance at his own oversized weapon. "As for me, I doubt I'll even be carrying my weapon..." in a flash, his wide, brash grin had returned. "Nevertheless, you can count on Ronin to fight by your side!"

Out of everything said so far, Ronin's declaration seemed to cheer Sanguin up a little. Apparently not minding him leaning on her, she made an approving noise; clearly, fortitude spoke more clearly to her than typical niceties. "Not bad. Hell of an axe, though. Sure you can swing it?"

Ronin burst out into laughter. "Can I swing it! Hah! Can you get a load of this?" He asked Gaius as he nudged an impassive Sanguin. "Sang doesn't think I can swing it."

[Assistant]
Syrena Sinclair - Basilmeron Castle Courtyard

The man seemed to pay no mind to Syrena's demeanor and instead seated himself on the ground quite comfortably, crossing his legs underneath him. He introduced himself as Nickolas. That was a name that wouldn't come easily to Syrena's lips. He proclaimed himself a patron of all magics. Which Syrena took to mean dark mage, it would explain the strangeness of him. Of course that would mean that he could command both shadow magic and anima magic, the darkness and the elements.

Though as Syrena understood it he couldn't master light magic. Since Syrena's sphere of influence was limited solely to fire magic (bad things happened when she tried to use other tombs) she'd not paid all that much attention to the arch mage while he was explaining the complexities of arcane classification. Something about dark and light cancelling each other out. A mage couldn't be capable of welding both at once without undergoing serious and life threatening consequences.

Regardless Syrena didn't trust dark magic users. It was not that there was anything inherently evil in shadow magic itself, it was merely a force like all the rest but it seemed to her from the limited contact she'd had with a few dark mages that had visited the court that there was something strange about those that used that branch of magic.

Tentatively Syrena sat down next to Nickolas. Or Nicki, that would be much easier to say. She didn't really trust him but neither did she have a reason to distrust him and he'd gone threw the effort of speaking to her, something many others wouldn't bother with. Then the topic of conversation turned from Nicki to Syrena herself. She didn't exactly have that much of a story but he started with the simple things her class.

Maybe Nicki had some sort of sense about magic or else he'd recognized the symbols on her tome but he snapped his finger naming her class as anima mage of the fire variety. As he snapped his fingers a small glowing red flame leaped up between them. Syrena stared at it transfixed. "F-f-fire." she muttered staring deep into it's depths. It was like it was calling out to her.

Some instinct inside Syrena bid her touch the flame. She reached out her hand, it felt as though she was in a dream. The moment her skin made contact with the flame it shifted. Blue shot threw it, corrupting and converting it into Syrena's wild flames. It burned white hot and grew to the size of a fist. "N-n-n-no, no, n-no." Syrena stuttered staring at it.

Remembering Brother Malachi's advise she slowed her breathing. I control the fire. The fire doesn't control me. Syrena breathed in deeply then slammed her hand onto the cover of Arma Infernum. The ball of blue fire died in a blaze of sparks. "I-I-I'm s-s-s-so s-s-sorry. I j-just. I'm s-sorry."