Sex – Male=1-49; Female = 50-100 [dice] 1d100[/dice]
Race – Human= 1-70, Elf= 71-80, Half Elf= 81-85, Dwarf=86-90, Half-Orc=91-96, Gnome/Halfling=97-100 [dice] 1d100[/dice]
[spoiler=Ali]'How long since they found me?' For Ali, time never really mattered, days merged into seasons as he was born and lived in the wilds.
His thoughts go back;
Finally being able to go on no more, awaiting death the the bole of the old oak. Then they came along, he knew death would not be slow sleep into but a quick thrust of steel and pain. His life-blood gushing out, to feed the forest floor.
Ali wanted to live, feebly his batted the rough hands away as the searched his emaciated form. But as the flesh contacted he felt the man's life essence and instinctively he threw his being into it. The healing powers rolled over the assailant and the last thing Ali heard was an exuberant cry "The scrawny lads a healer, boys..."
A sharp yank on the rough hemp rope about his neck brought him back into the present. Ali tries to block the pain, where it has rubbed the skin raw. The sour smell of the captors' roiled in his stomach, trying to force the meagre food to rebel. Though none too clean himself at least he was the fresh smell of dirt, not stale beer and sweat.
Mathrael, Matt, the third child of the House Cotteryll of Land *X*. Over the past few generations the family has fallen into decline, never an expansive family. Once they were an exuberant, outward thinking innovative house. But they have slowly become decadent and insular; wasting money, investing badly and all meeting untimely ends. The family name still holds some regard amongst some of the older councillors, but by most of the populace it is regarded as a joke and a folly.
It seems that the scions of the family all meet with bad ends further disgracing the family name, none even reaching old age. Matt as the third child of the Head of the House knew that he would not inherit, though this did not bother him his parents knew not what to do with him.
Seeking advantage in their child Matt’s parents sent him to a Seminary of *God*, the prestigious school was barely within their income. Thus they used one of their connections to place him as the ‘whipping boy’ of the scion of a powerful family. This connection not only established Matt’s place and tuition but also enabled them to retain the social import that the House Cotteryll deserved. The slightest in his class, he was shorter than but a few. His school days were hard and though he was devout; the calling of faith never really stuck. Others in his class had dreams of Knighthood or joining the Ecclesiastical Orders, Matt just dreamed of avoiding his destiny, through gaining power.
As Matt grew into adolescence; his older brother had already sired a bastard, by a human manipulative merchant’s daughter. Ensuring even if Matt was in a position to ascend the throne there would be a dynastic war. The other effect of this coupling was that she had put out word for assassins to ensure that her child would be the next Lord.
After third prayers, Matt was hurrying towards afternoon lessons across the courtyard. A dark figure struck, a thrown blade hitting the gangly youth in the chest. He goes down but reaching to his signet ring/holy symbol, a brilliant flash of light erupts; momentarily dazing the attacker. An old professor looks out the window to admonish the boy for his tardiness, seeing the assailant he starts to raise the alarm causing the assassin to flee. Matt learns of his powers, though at a cost. Forced further out of favour in the school, the priests believed this manifestation to be a sign of his fall from grace. Shunned by most at the monestary, only the ancient librarian gave him a second look. The old sage helped young Matt learn the complexities of wizardry, though in secret and at night.
Since then Matt used his wits to locate the assassins’ source. A cut-throat, he found it was his soon-to-be Sister-in-laws doing. Ever since then he has been wary of his family. His parents passed in a fire as they inspected a warehouse. Matt was forced to leave the seminary after another assassination attempt. He wandered the desert/ice plains, seeking knowledge, scrolls and mapping the area. Joining caravans where he could or living rough where he must. Constantly on the look-out for his 'sisters' thugs. His brothers both died within a short period of time; the elder poisoned. The younger of a pox from a doxy house. Thus Matts 'Sister' inherited the House acting as regent for her son until the time he would reach the age of maturity (past her natural life).
He wishes to not suffer as all the men in his family have. Or if possible create his own dynasty, return his familial name to good graces.
The night descended upon peaceful fishing village of Smutholt like a velvet veil. Galvert walked the street in high spirits; he had managed to get 5 bushels of dead wood from the cursed forest, the blacksmiths would pay well for that. As he started to approach Gwen's place his loins stirred, 'Yes, this is a very good day.'
He had know her since they were kids, running around the docks on errands. Or course it all changed, slowly at first, once adolescence arrived Galvert was kicked out of the house for stealing again and Gwendoline started to act funny talking to people who weren't there. Soon it escalated and she started to have bouts of insanity, followed by lucidity. Her parents had died and having always been drawn to her beauty Galvert took her in.
Sir James leans back upon the fountain, favouring his injury to his side. The pale marble being stained red, James turns to conceal this illiciting a slight grimace. The remnants of the shadows drift away as smoke.
"Angel" his voice holds disregard "Angel, you know our lives are bound. Can you not feel it?"
"Answer our questions, else I will break that bond. I know you are immortal, but I will take your, it will not return to your Master except on my whim. Think on this, you will not be spun on the wheel of Fate..." James puts a note of hungry anticipation into his voice.
"I can see you are injured and how grievously! Tell me your master and I may let you return to him."
Lyssa, or Elssandria de Tuanan, to give her the full elven name. From birth she was marked to her tribe, she was obviously bloodied by the fey and her connection to their world - "The First World" was strong. The elemental nature of the beauteous svelte elf ensured that she was singled out even amongst the scant children of the elven people. The leaders of the nation took her in and they taught her how to control her gifts. Her apitude she picked up the woodlands skills quickly seeming to be as agile in studies as she was naturally gifted.
They taught her the worship of Callistra, the goddess of the elves.
Son of an Adri-Sword-lord.
Karl was a bright kid, he knew that his quick tongue would get him in-trouble before long so he decided he needed to quicken his blade arm. Coming from a long line of Aldori Sword-Lords, with their stoic resistance to banditry and might-makes-right philosophy. Karl saw through such sophistry, the sword-lords were a defeated people, despite being the greatest duelists in the world they were no match against a concerted force.
So Karl studied hard at the Aldori-schools, though his blade was quick in his noble blood flowed something else coursed through his veins... an ancient pact or dalliance from his ancestors.
It was upon his twentieth birthday that he came into contact with a cad and hedonist, de Livre. After catching him in a indiscretion with a notable wife, Karl thought it his duty to quip about this unbecoming behaviour. De Livre immediately challenged him but lost, the great artist died in a gutter. Karl was forced to move south, finding employment and enjoyment with Lord Mayor of the Free City of Restov.
Here Karl watches sardonically as other Scions relive the lost glories of the Aldori-sword-lords all the while knowing that he if given the chance could be something greater than what these pretenders wish they could be...
A tough man from the Grozni Forest, he has lived in the wild cold forest since a young age. Like most of the Brevic people he was born a commoner to two loving parents, they enjoyed the simple things in life. They lived upon the edge of the forest, logging and hunting sparingly as they were the providence of the nobles.
However each year Thom's father needed to go further and further into the forest to get a decent amount of goods for market. One cold winters night he didn't return. Thom could see the love and heart-break in his mothers' eyes, the realisation of the future hit him like a vision - 'his mother would slowly waste away and die pining for her childhood sweet-heart.' Despite having a scarce dozen years under his belt, Thom had the height and breadth of chest of a man, he made up his mind...
He walked into the forest, as his mother cried furiously by the hearth. The cold bit at him bitterly, the short day had past and the long winter night was upon him. The snow piled thick at his soles as he made his way on chilled feet. Having learnt well Thom knew the impossibility of his task, in these conditions it was certain death. However a small voice called to him luring him onwards giving him motivation and keeping his slowing mind ticking over.
He found his father by a fallen tree, exploded from the cold. The mans leg crushed, Thom knew they would die of exposure he dragged his father into the bole of a tree and awaited. The voice grew louder more insistent as his conciousness faded...
Thom awoke to find the tree devoid of snow, the dawns light breaking. He picked up his father and started to leave... then he saw a small silver anklet in the grass. As he pocketed it he thought in his delirium that he heard a voice "we'll meet again, when you're older..."
When he returned home his mother exploded in cries of happiness, scolding them both but the love she had for both was true. They both had severe pneumonia, even the fey that saved the pair could not completely protect them from Winter's wrath. Thom's father lost his leg, severely crippling his woods-work. Though it gave him more time to be at home.
Thom took over his fathers' duty to head into the woods, glad to be out from under the love-birds feet. He learnt his craft well and spent as much time in the woods as he could, although he never heard the tree speak whenever he passed it he thought he felt it watching him.
Years passed and he grew into an expert ranger and game-keeper. A local lord, hired him to stop poachers, bandits and the occasional fey that plagued the few roads to his estate. Now Thom finds himself in Brevoy, tales of his craft fore-shadowing his arrival.
Ricketty man hobbles around Cassie; "Good, good." He knocks his stick at her legs whilst checking her expressionless face. "Best catch them when they can be moulded."
'Don't lose your smile.' echo's in her head.
"It'll be tough, difficult, painful, exhilarating. You might find yourself thrown into a world of turmoil, up against your fathers' enemies. Making enemies of your own. Reclaiming your birthright will be nearly impossible."
"One question. Do you want this?" there's an ambivalent catch to his voice; both filled with hope and despair.
'To live a simple life, Though not vengeance, though that