The Emerald Spire (Inactive)

Game Master Zesdead

Born on the plane of shadow, Symon was a typical Fletching in form, but not thought. He always wanted to know more; what was beyond the city, what the mayors office was like, who were the other people lived around them? It was this inquisitive nature that lead him into learning the skills of a rogue, to better allow him access to the places he wished to see. This did not go unnoticed by the rulers of the city, and they decided to put the man's skills to use. Symon was assigned to a patrol the swept the nearby lands for any sign of enemies, and as (bad) luck would have it, on his first patrol his group was ambushed by an undead warparty of Zon-Kuthon worshipers. The entire patrol was destroyed and several, including Symon, were captured and sent off back to the lands under the control of Zon-Kuthon. Before they made it to the Dark Prince's lands, the undead were set upon by a shadow dragon. While the two groups battled, Symon was dragged away by the sorcerer that had accompanied his original patrol. The poor woman was badly wounded from the initial encounter with the undead, but had just enough power whisk them between planes. Next thing Symon know, he was standing in a sunlit glade with the dead sorcerer at his feet.
From that day forward, Symon has struggled just to survive in this foreign land. His skills as a rouge have kept him alive, and have even helped him to make a few friends.

Long ago there was a small infant who wandered around the forests that were unknown to most, where he was stumbled upon by an old kind human. The infant was obviously left to die, being the bastard of a Human Nobleman and an Elven Lady.

The old man took him in and fed him. Made him strong and healthy again. Even named him, Zanaver Silverkin.

The Human taught Zanaver all kinds of things. Most were about the warrior way and spirit. He taught him fighting stances and inner serenity. He taught him when and when not to fight. When to kill only when necessary and when to disable if possible.

He spoke to him that he must respect all life, good or evil for it had to maintain an endless balance. That there was a almost unbeatable fighting style called "The Inner Peace" where your movements were matched by your body, mind, and soul in unison.
The old man taught him until he was in his deathbed.
His very last lesson was:
(in old man's words)
"Ive been searching for 'the inner peace' for almost 89 years now, my son. But ive only realized the key to the unbeatable fighting stance but just now. To be in inner peace, you must first ask yourself. What do you fight for.. do you fight to kill? or to protect..Protect my child that is the key to your inner peace. However mine will come shortly. Go to the Emerald Spire, your journey awaits you there. Your destiny is great Zenevar Silverkin, go to the Emerald Spire and claim it"
With that he passed...

Zanaver has a very calm and measured attitude. Never quick to jump to something but never too slow in his timing. He dislikes needless killing. He only kills when he must. His manner is very tranquil and calm

Anger... it had become a companion. The man now known as Grayface was orphaned too young to even remember the name his mother gave him, or even the date of his nameday. All he remembers of his youth was fear, hardship, and exhaustion. The lordmasters that he grew to know as his providers probably killed his parents, but he was always too busy working to ask questions, and wise enough to know what kind of answer he would receive if he dared ask.
...don't look up, don't look at them, keep your head down and they won't pick you today... It was a daily mantra. Whatever the task...be it working the fields, splitting stones in the quarry, mucking out the stables, washing the blood from the tiles...it was always best to keep your head down, don't draw attention to yourself. The wailing of the unlucky ones dragged away were more than enough reason to learn that lesson.

Despite his best efforts, sooner or later nearly everyone was dragged off for one reason or another. He managed to avoid being "chosen" until somewhere in his thirteenth year, if his arithmetic was still accurate. It was a blazing humid day when they came for him. Though his eyes were averted, he could feel their gaze as they approached, nearly as heavy as the summer heat bearing down on him. If he was lucky he would spend the evening in one of the lordmaster's bedchambers, serving as a plaything, a mockery, a disgrace. At least by the end he would be given a hot lord's meal and a featherbed for a night. Bereft of luck he might not survive the night. At the very least he would first be flailed and chastised, though not for any specific wrongdoing or admonishment; he would be punished for the benefit of everyone in ear-shot of his screams.

Had he grown up away from this hell hole, he surely would someday have caught the eye of fair maidens. His blue-gray eyes conjured the image of an icy lake, though with an underlying warmth dispelled the cold.
Those eyes earned him the attention of a certain lord with a craving for young flesh; a lord with a craving for breaking the will of those under his heel.

"You there. Yes you. Rise and approach."

The whipmaster was never questioned. He was to be obeyed. The youth had seen what had become of the disobedient.

The young man received his share of lashings that afternoon, at least fifty licks from a cat-o-nine tails. After a saltwater rinse, he was given a respite... a cool drink and an hour to rest under a shade tree to recover before he would be brought to his lordmaster.
It was the longest hour of his life. The Gods know he had been whipped before, but nothing in his experience could have prepared him for the agony that he endured that day. He was among the strongest of his slave peers yet there he lay whimpering like a child, laying on his stomach across a tree stump not daring to move. The slightest breeze felt like fire across his throbbing back.

When finally the hour had ended he was hauled bodily by the arms, his feet dragging and leaving trails in the dirt on his way to the Lordkeep. In the haze of the trip he couldn't have predicted just how far he had traversed. He was eventually in a room, left alone on a featherbed. He managed the sit up and saw he was in a room more luxurious than he could have imagined; a four-poster bed with gold trim and relief-carved angels and demons dancing up and down its columns, a white-lacquered chest of drawers with a silver-lined piece of glass that showed a perfect reflection of himself, wood and leather chairs, red velvet couches, a bowl filled to overflowing with fresh fruit sitting next to a cutting board with a wheel of cheese and fresh baked bread. He immediately stuffed his cheeks with delicious cheese and bread. this is where the lordmaster's live? He walked to an open window and gasped at his apparent height-- he must have been carried all the way to the Hightower, the home of Lordmaster Trenmair himself. He went back over to the table to slice the skin off of a rare fruit when suddenly two large whipmasters entered the room and grappled the young man, pinning him to the ground. They beat him into submission and bound his hands. The act aggravated his lash wounds, and he lay there holding back tears as he heard the heavy footfalls of the men leave the vicinity.

He either cried himself to sleep or passed out from the pain, because sometime later he awoke to a commanding voice who ordered him to stand. With his hands still bound the youth crawled to his knees and mustered his courage to face what he believed would happen next.
There stood the most fearsome visage the young man had ever known. He recognized Lordmaster Trenmair at once. His face beheld one dead milky eye surrounded by gray scarred skin that ran from his jaw to his widow's peak.

"You will never forget my face, boy. Let it invoke nightmares for the rest of your worthless life!"

Before he could react, the lordmaster's hand thrust toward the youth, a dark liquid erupted from a vial toward his face. The acid sizzled and popped as it burned his face with a pain worse than the salt water had burned his back only hours before. He could feel his eyeball come apart, melting down his face along with what must be curdled bits of flesh.
The youth's pain had given him rage, and his rage gave him strength beyond strength. Hate beyond hate. He took the fruit table knife he secretly held hidden and cut the rope that bound his wrists.

The lordmaster proclaimed "Now you know what it is to be like me. Now you will know what---"

In a fluid motion he flung his cut bindings at the lordmaster and thrust the table knife deep into the captor's neck. A gurgling attempt at crying out was all the lord could manage. He was dead in seconds.

The next several days of the young man's life were a red-tinged blur. The number of would-be slavers that he left in his wake, he would never know. After he took the Lordmaster's bastard sword in hand, he felt like an army of one. All he needed was to stoke his hate a little longer. He would make it to safety. He had to.

Over the following years he grew to become a man. A scarred, grizzled man, but man nonetheless. His hate became his faith. He honed his skill with his large sword, and soon discovered that in this hard world there will always been a need for a strong arm. He found caravan guard duties and mercenary work far and wide. The scars that destroyed his right eye and much of his face earned him the title of Grayface. Not particularly creative, but accurate. He never knew his true name anyway. Grayface it will be then.

Before long he had his emotions under restraint and a pouch full of gold. He developed a sense of duty to those not strong enough to defend themselves, and a driving ambition to snuff out those who preyed on them. There was nothing wrong with making a little coin while you're at it though.
He knew deep in his heart that life would never be good, but it will never be as bad as it was. Not if he and his sword had anything to say about it.

His dreams often led him back to those days in his youth; they led him to one day in particular.
He would never forget that day. He would never forget.

Marian was never a very happy child, but who was? Born to two unfortunate dirt-merchants the infant boy was given the name of his grandmother (On his father's side, naturally), as it was anticipated that he was going to be born a girl. With a mop of curly blonde hair and a thin, long, rosy cheeked face young Marian was constantly mistook for a young lady, adding to his youthful angst. Around his 10th birthday young Mary's parents were convinced by one of the valley's rangers to sell the boy into his servitude, an arrangement to which they agreed. Swallowing down feelings of abandonment our hero tried to make the most of his new life as a ranger's apprentice. After three long years of stalking, sneaking, hunting, tracking, and so on Mary & his master, Theogrim, were ambushed by a cunning ogre. During the melee Theogrim told Mary to run as fast and far as he could, to leave no trace and hide until daylight. As Mary turned to run he heard the Giant howl with fury, the sound of crunching armor and the cries of his master ringing in his ears. Sprinting through the underbrush Mary came across a boy-sized hole in the ground, reaching far down...he swallowed his fear and slowly slid inside, the crashing sounds of the ogre still not far enough away. Losing his grip on the surface Marian slipped down the muddy tunnel before crashing violently into a dank room. A horrible chattering filled his ears as a bevy of goblins gathered around him. Wiping the muck away from his eyes Mary looked at the balloon-headed buggers with horror, clutching a nearby rock firmly, ready to bash in a few skulls. As the standoff continued a few goblins drew their knives, hissing at the man-child, who was rising to his feet, drawing a torch from his belt and lighting it rapidly with a bit of flint and tinder. The glorious blaze left the goblins in awe, they ran from Marian, scattering about the room in an entranced terror. In a broken common Marian made himself known to the greenskins, declaring himself a powerful sorcerer who has come to teach them the secret of fire, and dog killing, if they help him to slay an ogre...

And so, through the wonders of deus ex machina, Marian fell in with a gang of goblins