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Description and Appearance: A man who carries a backpack larger than he is with ease. Weapons of all varieties poke out of the pockets; swords, halberds, books; hanging on loops are several frying pans in addition to the bundles of wands glowing with arcane runes attached. He wears tough but plain clothing that shows signs of years of travel, and the dirt on his face and hands shows that he has come far.
He gave an ancient artifact blade to [unnamed magical boy] for [reason].

Power (Physical) +20
Power (Necromantic) +10
Agility +5
Charisma (Cunning) -10
Charisma (People Skills) +5
Living Bone armor grants +10 to physical power for any defensive checks.
Description and Appearance: A tall, brawny figure in gleaming golden armor inlaid with red, bony designs, Mortanus is an inspiring figure. He has a strong jaw and an almost grey complexion, and his masculine visage is crowned with short but silky bone-white hair kept to a constant length, just to the bottom of his pointed ears and his chiseled jaw. The pauldrons of his armor are large, heavier than most regular men could hope to lift, and his entire set of armor is very ornate- an ancient piece kept in prime condition by generations of knights. The hilt of his ancestral blade shows over his shoulder, a great black bloodstone set in the pommel carved into the form of a rose shifts seamlessly into the black leather of the grip. As the blade comes close, leather gives way to steel as the curved guard springs from the grip, seemingly holding the blade in an eternal embrace. The thick blade is carved, a depiction of roses and ivy stringing its way up the center of the blade until it terminates near the sharp tip. The whole blade is massive; greater than a regular mortal could hope to wield. He bears the great weight on his shoulders with a noble posture, never bowing, never breaking.
Personality: Mortanus holds a regal bearing at all times, and keeps his words in check. Vigorous training has put incredible discipline in his mind, and his dedication to his code of honor keep him from bearing falsehood. Due to these, he tends to be rather uptight and strict, and has a problem relaxing or taking things lightly. As of yet, he has a good heart.
History: His father, Viirum was one of the greatest champions of Viverex, a great crusader of the co-existence of life and death. As such, Mortanus was raised in great esteem, and has been training for his eventual role for his whole life. A lord among his people, schooled in arts both martial and noble from birth, he is an emissary from the secluded city-state to the rest of the world, showing both their power and their pride in the outside world. He shows great potential, even more than his father showed at his age. All hope the T'ma does not infect this young one as it has some of the most powerful knights of Viverex.

Power (Physical) +10, (Geomancy[HIDDEN]) +20
Agility +5
Intelligence (Logic) +5
Charisma (People Skills) -15, (Cunning) +5

Mountain's Edge gives +10 to any check that it can reasonably assist with (Can additionally be used to channel geomancy if/when Pravedan uncovers/learns to use it.)


Backstory: Pravedan hails from King's Oath, a free human village in the Hearth Divide, between the grand desert known as the Fallen Dunes- a testament to the great Querachi empire that sprawled far and wide from the sands- and the Vile Stalk Jungle, known to many as simply "The Vile." As a result, his family and fellows are a hardy people- Oathmen are renowned throughout the land as some of the grittiest, most durable and stubborn folks around- harsh summers and all sorts of beasts from both sides of the Divide mean that the people quickly learn to survive on whatever food they can get and kill whatever might be their food.
Now Pravedan, he was a pretty average boy- neither a brute nor the keenest shot, but acceptable in both aspects. He does, however, have a sharp wit and a great sense of the land, laying traps that outdo some of the most cunning of the Vile's stalkers. Even at the ripe age of 14, he had already mounted heads of three werebeasts and a full set of leathers made from Shard Hound hide- all in the defense of his home.
And then... He couldn't defend his home.
A sizable pride of Stormlions led by an unusually large Pridemaster was on the hunt- and King's Oath was right in their sights. A regular autumn day was setting- watches were watching, children playing or crafting baubles from the Hunts, suppers cooking. Briefly, the air smelled of ozone and all set to guard- but it was too late, and there were too many. A great peal of lightning blasted a hole in the palisade- caught it alight in the dry autumn air. Quick as thunder the lions were in the village, breaking homes to get at the women and children. Before Hryg- the Militia Commander- could even take arms and brace for a counter... the militia was dead... most of the village slaughtered, taken off to feed the pride.
When the flames died down, Hryg took stock- only a handful survived the Wild Hunt. Aside from the farmers, only he and Pravedan (only 15 by now) were capable of defending the survivors. Stubborn as he was, he knew the few of them could not rebuild King's Oath- anything could get in with the palisade in shambles, burst open and charred all around. Homes weren't even there- he knew they would be dead on, if not before the next new moon. He knew... the Oathmen were now a dying breed.

And he'd be damned if they were going to go out in shambles.

The survivors rounded up as many supplies as they could scrounge up from the wreckage and set out at dawn- due East, towards Glasaigne on the Hearth Road. Two days they marched, only stopping for meals- not even a rest. A traveller, many armed and bearing a pack several heads taller than he filled and hanging with weaponry of all shapes and sizes- Ragvous- came to their motley crew, seeking the boy- Pravedan. To the boy he gave something of a value the boy himself didn't even understand- Ragvous barely knew the blade, only knew that the Whispers commanded this of him- Mountain's Edge. Pravedan was staggered when the armorer handed him the blade, but quickly got used to the weight. He looked at the piece before unsheathing the blade- Polished granite spheres set in the pommel and in the silver guard, green-dyed shield bear leather grip- all plain, but servicable. The sheathe was similarly plain- plain grey shield bear leather with very minor tooling- mostly repairs- and a steel ring at the top to ease the act of sheathing the blade. But when the boy unsheathed Mountain's Edge, it was unlike anything he had ever dreamed- even Ragvous had never seen a blade like it before- dimensions of a longsword, but formed from pure polished granite, with a crystal-clear diamond edge, which quickly changed colors from clear to shining yellow- mirroring Pravedan's amazement and surprise. As he became emboldened by this new weapon and determined to use it to see the end of the Stormlions who destroyed his home, the crystals shifted to red, then blue as his determination set in. He sheathed the blade, and attempted to thank the mysterious traveller- only to find that he had vanished, and no-one saw where he went. The rag-tag group kept on towards Glasaigne, and set up camp in the fertile fields outside the city.

Confident in his people's safety, Pravedan ventures forth into the world- seeking knowledge in blade arts and to further his connection with the land. He is determined to face and kill the pride which crushed his hometown. The Pride that almost killed the Oathmen.

Power (T'ma corrupted magic) +35
Agility -5
Intelligence (Memory) -10
Charisma (People Skills) +10

"Bow, sniveling wretches! Let the T'ma infest your mind- unmake you! Give yourself as tribute before the T'ma rots this world!"
- Zlobnosti, prophesying in Bonnlean. 400 converted and sacrificed.

The prophet and physical manifestation of the T'ma, Zlobnosti does not even remember who he was before the T'ma came to him- claimed him. He wanders the world, immune to time's ravages and powerful enough to bat aside most dangers and directed by the T'ma.
He prophesies the T'ma as the blackness within the souls of all men- as the darkness that overtakes the minds of wizards and sorcerers. He sees visions of the T'ma conquering, and he sacrifices new disciples to the Force- increasing its power whilst also appeasing the T'ma's hunger. All practitioners of magic are susceptible to the T'ma, but those who practice dark arts and necromancy are closer to the T'ma- and thus more easily forsaken. In particular, many of the powerful Death Knights from Vivirex have been overcome by the T'ma and never returned, forming a small army following Zlobnosti.
Personality: Overcome by the T'ma, Zlobnosti does everything for its will- and it gives him an air of power (In addition to his own actual air of power). He is very persuasive when he is prophesying for his dark master. His power makes him very arrogant, and he will not take 'no' for an answer if the T'ma wishes it.
Physical description: Zlobnosti is a relatively tall, slim human figure clad in a flowing black robe embroidered with threads made from twisted Umbre and silver. His dark eyes have pure white pupils that leave trails in the air as he moves. They seem to be ancient- his eyes look as though he has seen more horrors than most could count, more years than most can imagine. His face and frame are both youthful, however. His features are sharply chiseled, giving him a beautiful face aside from his piercing, reverse-colored eyes. His sable hair is parted in the center and flows straight down to his shoulders, silky and smooth.
With his raw power and the T'ma behind him, Zlobnosti never sets foot on the ground, maintaining a hover a few feet above the ground and feeding his body with this power- he neither eats nor sleeps.

Power (Magical Music) +20
Agility +5
Intelligence (Logic) -15 (Memory) +10
Charisma (People Skills) +10
Description and Appearance: A relatively tall but slim green-skinned fellow with a feathered cap on his pointed ears and a stylish vest and short cape on. His face looks comparatively more well-formed than others of his orcish heritage, but he still has the tell-tale signs of his lineage- large bottom teeth that stick out of his mouth ever so slightly and a prominent brow. By his side hangs a small drum and there is a strap across his chest holding a lute to his back. His belt has a good number of pouches, and one of them makes a small chatter as coins bounce inside as he walks. His clothing is obviously made to please the eye, but it isn't the highest-quality, either. He definitely takes care to keep himself clean-shaven and well-bathed.
Personality: Herbert is a jolly fellow, well-versed in the lore of the world and a powerful force in the Bardic world. He is slow, but remembers many things and is very good at persuading and leading people. His actions are rarely nuanced as he tends to be straightforward. He is, however, good-natured, and will help most people if they don't seem to have malicious or evil intent.
History: (Need a little setting first)

These two constructs of living tree and coral meet every several years on the beach of Consfortia to discuss the state of the world.

Nicknames: Ace, Gray Streak (a joke of his increasing age), Syyv (title meaning 'veteran ace')
Basic: Auria veteran ace, athlete, and elder
Power (Physical) +5
Agility +20
Intelligence (Logic) +5 (Memory) -10
Charisma (Cunning) +5 (People Skills) +5

Description: Aszbor is a tall, strong Auria- skin of sky-blue and dark hair with streaks of gray held in a long ponytail. His deep, aged eyes shine lavender. His muscles are lined perfectly in slim but strong leathers, protecting vital areas and areas that would have chafing problems, but open at joints for mobility and weight. A slim, long blade hangs rigidly at his left side- strapped to avoid clattering around in flight. Strapped across his body is a recurved bow, with several arrows quivered on his right thigh- tightly bound with a quick release of his own design, fletched with iridescent feathers. With an aim as true as his and arrows as straight, the five arrows bound on his leg are enough for most any threat or prey.
Nearby, his legendary Stormwing- Ylita- weaves through the air nearby- always. She is one of the rare female broadwings- a beautiful creature, feathers iridescent white, shining rainbows in the full sun dimming to shadowy gray in the dark. She's the fastest known creature in the realm, and Aszbor's aim keeps true from her back- five bullseyes from half a furlong each shot in the middle of a top-speed barrel roll in his prime. The pair has been working together for nearly a century- they together were the champions of the Aura grand festival for two decades, one of the greatest champions his people have seen in aeons. The two ended their winning streak when they went off to war- decked in gilded light plate armor, both, they became the Grand Duo, golden general of the Aura and Champion of the Skies, Gilded Lightning. (History to be told, story op.)
Personality: Aszbor holds a strong posture due to his powerful musculature and his years of war and athletics. His years as the Golden General give him a very disciplined and commanding outlook when things need to be done, but his old age has cut his edge when he's idle- his humor runs rampant and he is a patient and forgiving soul.
His age is, however, taking a slight toll on his memory.
Quirks: He always mounts Ylita by swinging under her and flipping himself over back around into the saddle- it was a trick back when he was the showboat champion of the decade, but he refuses to do anything different now.
He's peeved by cockiness, and makes an effort to cut down any braggarts.

Nicknames: Wandering Wise Man, Scholar of the Deep
Basic: Bonnlean scholar/mathematician, living in-between the Caverns of Threig and Bonnlean
Power (Physical) -5
Agility +5
Intelligence (Logic) +20 (Memory) +10
Charisma (People Skills) -10 (Cunning) +10
Special: Quick calculations- in any situation that he could possibly use mathematics to assist in a check, he may add 1/2 his logic bonus to the check.

-He thinks very quickly, and it shows in his complex mathematical skills. This helps with his agility, however, as a scholar by trade his musculature is rather indistinct and weak. He can remember many formulae and bits of information he picks up in the Caverns. He's emotionally distant, but his time in the Caverns of Threig have taught him how to deceive or keep out of the way.

There are many curious folk inhabiting tiny air pockets and smugglers dens in the intricate system of caves and chasms connecting Bonnlean to the hostile and swarming Caverns of Threig - and even, some whisper, to the abhorred Deoterrum, though to admit any belief in this last rumour would be tantamount to treason. The strangest by far of these wandering wisps, traversing the rickety stairwells and bridges beneath the great Bonnlean across chasms and down chutes, living somedays off flourescent fungi from the walls of the lonlier caves, sometimes off barsnacks from the thronged Bonnlean dens of crime and underground taverns and gin palaces, sometimes off the unspeakable inhabitants of the winding and treacherous Bonnlean sewer system, is the man in the greatcoat known as Pelintrades.

  A mathematician by nature, though he teaches not at Grunberg, or any lesser institution, he casts complex augurs to stay ahead of floods of bilgewater in the richest and most dangerous parts of the sewers, and calculates frantically to strip the coin of the inexperienced and uncaring in the racous underground clubs lurking like capilliaries just below the surface of Bonnlean's central market, often bleeding forth a torrent of merrymakers. These thrill seekers emerge bewildered and invigorated by the otherworldly and chic bandits and tavernkeepers that dare not venture into Bonnlean proper, preferring to lurk in the inhabited catacombs choking their sorrows in crawling slitherwines and, when not inebriated by alcoholic lizards imbued wih semi-life and imprisoned in primitive urns, use the life essence they consume on perilous trips below, digging up treasures and secrets nearly as fast as the statesmen, scholars, lunatics and misers of the city can make and bury them.

  When not avoiding the traps of bounty hunters and bandits scornful of the "wandering wise man" of the catacombs, Pelintrades, though tall to dwarven folk an unintimidating fifty year old, prefers to roam the less frequented parts of the catacombs, uncaring if he earns enough to pay for his expedition, as he is able to live off algae and lichens in even the sparsest tombs and passages, having tested this for several weeks one year simply as he had nothing better to do. Pelintrades has survived my attampts upon his life, those seeking coin or reputation, as even the most devious trap or brutal assult always somehow leaves his slight, comfortable frame a means of escape, usually by some arcane mathematical rule or theorem by which the trap is turned upon its maker, or by some unsurvivable fall or climb he endures seemingly by strength of mind, letting his body become limp a second before impact, or sleeping perched on a ledge mere inches thick after a series of gantries have given way explosively to the chasms beneath him.

  Unlike many true travellers of the Threigan-Bonnlean passageways, Pelintrades is not a smuggler or a bandit, robbing none and letting those that attack him come to harm by their own foolish miscalculations. He has been known, however, to carry the odd item back and forth between the obscure Threigan rulers and some high end alchemical establishment or royal tailor, in exchange for vast pecuniary sums from which he steals not even the expected vagabond's share, often forgoing his fee in this way, as he is not often paid through official means. He does this ostensibly only as an excuse for observing the lower Threigan caverns, getting past the hulking guard-ogres and bridge trolls with a thin black sealed Threigan state envelope, a lifeline he handles with the carefree attitude of the dispossessed.

  Why Pelintrades is like this, so uninterested in even mortal peril, and wandering beneath Bonnlean in the dank and gloomy caves and pits when no head-money or sorcerous sigils of the royal thaumaturgical guard prevent his return to the happy sunlit surface, though it appears to have had something to do with Grunberg university, at which he, an impoverished student become janitor for a pittance in order to hear the remainder of the year's lectures, his places at which he was forced to auction off as entertainment for the wealthy and bored when he could not support his dying love with the expensive medicines needed for the prolongment of their life. After this young man died, a great rending in the life of one so young, Pelintrades became reckless, swept the loneliest balconies, the terraces most swiftly decaying and jealously guarded by Grunberg eagles, ignoring any possibility of his own death, overcome by mourning, as the university crumbled and the librarians' siege began. It was soon after this that, with his course unfinished, he left the university hurriedly, carrying a scroll of oddly beautifully arranged ink and paper for one so poor, much remarked on by witnesses as drawing the eye, and charming the sensetivities, whenever it showed through the threadbare and ragged trench coat it had been hurriedly stuffed into. Almost simultaneously, a Mariner's Heretic librarian was found drowned in a well from where Pelintrades had recntly hurried, just outside the main beseiged university building, with a scroll, presumably of infectious insanity and genius, locked securely in his flask, which was at once destroyed. It is possible, one must surmise, though only now will few begin to discuss such a thing, that the librarian had not leapt from the barricaded library in search of a safe landing and drowned, failing to smuggle a Mariner's artifact scroll out of Grunberg, but was instead a willing or unwilling martyr, part of a ruse or distraction, carrying an empty scroll on his corpse, while a certain Pelintrades... but that is just conjecture, and those prone to gossip of the positioning of the mad and puissant Mariner's artifacts soon find themselves in stickier situations than they would have otherwise hoped.