Two (Inactive)

Game Master Me'mori

SunstonePhoenix and I have pretty much finalized our idea and individual backgrounds. We tried to hook up last night to iron out the final details, but it was my weekly roll20 game and we were unable to talk at length. Obviously, the blanks left in my explanations are to be filled in with her character name and faction. The main point we need to iron out are the details about how her faction is discovered as being spies/traitors prior to the fall. Luckily, this is intended to be played out in-game, so there is certainly some wiggle room there. But the bottom line is that when we both fall and have to survive on our own, my character is fully aware that she was a spy and is potentially working with the enemy.

A creature of unspeakable horror escaped from the Darklands into the Undercity and took many Duskwardens down before it was finally defeated. With mass hysteria on the line, the Duskwardens requested that members of the _________ accompany them on their next expedition in order to bolster their numbers should they have the misfortune of running into another one of these monsters. (this is where our campaign will begin.) The agents are in fact spies working for whatever force is masterminding the assault on Kaer Maga. _________ has been assigned to this mission, but she doesn’t have enough sway to know exactly who is pulling the strings. In any case, the expedition discovers that the monster crawled out of a sinkhole and the spies take this opportunity to make their presence known! Unfortunately, in the resulting struggle our two characters fall into the hole and are presumed dead.

Fortunately, Roden and ________ survive the drop, falling into an underground lake. Left with no aid of any kind, the duo have two options: work together to try and make it back up to the surface world, or be at odds and perish beneath it.

A “fish out of water” spy and an underground survivalist working together to make it out of the Darklands alive.

Roden Linvail
LG Human Deep Walker Ranger Duskwarden

Father,

Something is amiss within the ranks of the Duskwardens. When that monstrosity broke through our defenses we were slow to respond, slow to organize, and our usual tactics were all but ignored. We put the beast down, but our losses were significant. We’ve turned to the _________ for assistance and to bolster our ranks for our next expedition. We leave in the morning to locate and seal the breach.

I don’t want to drag you into this, I just want to keep you abroad of the situation. Keep your head low and your eyes and ears open. I hope this letter finds you well.

~Roden

Roden grew up in the relative peace and safety of the Tarheel Promenade. His mother passed away when he was very young and his father owned the Gnarled Root, a small second-story shop that sold all manner of arcane reagent. Roden was happy to help out at his father’s shop when he was a boy, and his father did well and his business thrived. Roden quickly picked up the ability to identify foreign plants and herbs. They would play a game where his father would quiz him on the identity of the items as they stocked the shelves. Things were good. Unfortunately, that didn’t last. The market changed, other shops opened and the competition stiffened. The constant pressure to keep his doors open weighed heavily on his father and he became more of a boss and less of a parent.

This all came to a head one morning when they were cleaning the shop just before opening. Roden was mopping up the stockroom and knocked over a large ceramic jar of extremely rare (and therefore very expensive) powdered verucca root and it shattered on the floor. He watched in stunned horror as the powder absorbed the soapy water, rendering it’s magical properties inert. His father rushed to the back to investigate the noise and lost control. His arm snapped across like a steel trap and hit Roden so hard that he tasted blood. He didn’t cry. He didn’t flee. And he certainly didn’t fight back. He knew that he had done wrong, so he just looked up at his father, struggling to retain consciousness while bracing himself for another strike. Luckily, the strike never came, for his father had realized what he had done. He stormed off without a word, and after a few moments Roden hurried to clean up the mess, but his relationship with his father was never quite the same after that.

Despite that fair setback, the Gnarled Root managed to keep it’s doors open. When Roden wasn’t working at the shop, he would venture off to gaze upon the wondrous Balconies of Bis and the golem-guards of the Ardoc family. He hung around the district so much that he was invited to apprentice with the Lamplighter’s Union who operate the complex system of ropes and pulleys necessary to keep the huge lamps suspended from the high ceiling, making the lighting of Bis a constantly shifting work of art. On top of learning appropriate climbing techniques and ropecraft, he also learned how to appreciate the simple beauty of the mundane world. He took great joy in collaborating with the other Lamplighters on how to best their designs from the previous season.

As if his day-to-day schedule wasn’t full enough, Roden found his true calling in that same district, for it also housed the Duskwarden Guildhouse. He knew they did honest and noble work and he was eager to do his part. He went through a gruelling application process, but after the dust had settled, Warden Hammerfell himself deemed Roden a worthy candidate. He donned the brown and grey uniform with pride and couldn’t help but glance down at the golden arch on a field of navy blue upon his right breast. He was quickly trained to fire a longbow and opted for a two-handed greatsword. He excelled in the various areas of combat and that, combined with his knowledge of local and exotic flora and his skills in ropecraft, had him quickly rising among the ranks. With his duties at the Union and the Duskwardens filling his schedule, he saw his father less and less. Months would pass before he got a chance to stop by the shop, and when he did, his father was distant and often spoke in vagaries.

And then the breach happened.

Whether fortuitous or not, Roden was not on active duty the day of the breach. He was suspended 60 feet in the air, lowering one of the huge lanterns for an upcoming street festival in Bis. The commotion could be clearly heard through the foggy air and Roden wasted no time descending to the ground and dashing off to the Guildhouse. He ran into the barracks and shedded his harness like dead skin, donning his gear and trying to figure out what exactly had happened. Somehow, someway, a tentacled horror had made it into the training compound just beyond the Hole. That huge solid iron screw-plug door was the only thing preventing it from rampaging through the streets of Kaer Maga. By the time Roden arrived on the scene, his guildmates were battling the abomination at the threshold of the Hole. Luckily, the remaining ranks rallied and in their final push they managed to destroy the beast, but many, many lives were lost in the process.

The Duskwardens were not allowed the privilege of a grieving period. If word of this catastrophe got out on the streets, they would be battling mass hysteria. The breach had to be located and sealed. But with the severe losses they had suffered, they would need help. Luckily, Hammerfell had connections with the _________ and secured some allies to bolster their ranks. Roden didn’t hesitate in volunteering himself for the expedition.

Shhh...

That is what the lips of my dear mother read whenever I tried to speak as a young child. That is what their lips always read when I moved my own. Back then, I did not understand. The other elves moved their lips at each other, while Mother told me to speak with my hands. The "sounds" coming out of my mouth were wrong, she said. "Sounds?" I would sign back at her, screwing my eyebrows into the shape that indicated a question. "Sounds," her lips read. Back then, when I was oh so young, I would never even stop to think that there might be concepts beyond my realm of comprehension. I thought that these mystical "sounds" that my mother spoke of were some sort of ploy to keep me from moving my lips, from being normal in the eyes of my peers.

How wrong I was.

Flash forward a few decades; my entire life was a series of slowly unfolding events that I would never understand. The first Change, as I call these events, began when the beings first appeared. I still lived in the slums with my dear mother at the time, as many elves do until they reach their centennial birthday. It was a typical day, I was washing my family's clothes, and all of a sudden, ghastly images of warped celestial beings tearing at each other's flesh and falling to the flames of battle flashed before my eyes. I felt the sensation of the water on my hands turning to a sticky liquid before looking down to see that the wash bucket had turned into a pool of blood. I screamed. The monsters lunging at my throat was the last thing I remember before blacking out.

I woke to the sight of a traveling priest leaning over me, lips moving, though my vision was too blurry for me to catch what he spoke of. Beyond his saintly form hovered the image of a daemon gesticulating rapidly in attempt to pass some unholy message in despite of my deaf ears. As a sight based individual, neither message permeated my retina until I blinked the sleep out of my eyes. The daemon was gone by the time that my eyes came into focus.

Hours later, I was escorted from my home to the traveling priest's makeshift altar where the pious man exorcised me. Considering that his powerful jolts of divine magic coursing through my body caused me nothing but tremendous pain, I never bothered to bring up the fact that a devilish little imp was laughing at his pathetic attempts to bring sanity to my troubled mind the entire time. To this day, the twisted creatures of the beyond continue to make ordinary life appear to be hell on earth, spreading boils and carnage and death through the populous of Kaer Maga.

The second Change was that of the signs. Less than a year after horrid eldritch beasts began their unquestioned reign of terror within my homeland, hand signals sent from seemingly no one begin to fly through my stream of consciousness. Sometimes these signals tell me which people to avoid, which people to hurt, and which people to place my trust in. Sometimes they simply wish to converse. I oblige, of course; it would be rude to leave whatever creature wishes to talk to me hanging. I have learned over the years to feel comfortable with the signs, and they seem comfortable with me.

The final Change occurred a few years after the second, long after I had given up hope for a normal life. Until this third Change, Mother still believed that the right priest, cleric, inquisitor, hell, anyone, could save me from my lunacy. I could not keep my internal delusions from her for long, unlike the traveling priest, and she saw the fear in my eyes and the small, subtle movements of my hands as I signed to the beasts that spoke to me. She questioned me. I fessed up after several weeks of her constant nagging for fear that her moving lips would manifest themselves as yet another mental image. To be honest, at the time I didn't even know if she was real anymore. It panicked me. It made me fear that I, myself, was no more real than the monsters rampaging through Kaer Maga.

Mother knew not what to do but keep sending me to the temples and priests around the city. I went simply to please her.

The realization came one day as I stalked through the thin streets of the Warren. I'd seen all of the "miracles of the gods" work their magic, all of the good priests and clergymen try to cure me of my visions. On that day, I saw a crazed preacher of the apocalypse standing on a corner of the street, getting nothing but nasty stares and curses from the passerby. His lips read of twisted demons plaguing Golarion. Read of death and voices from the beyond. Unlike the other members of the bustling crowd, I stood still for a moment, and I watched the so-called "madman" try desperately to warn the crowd of their impending doom. He reminded me of, well... me. This crippled human man echoed my thoughts, granted them validity. I was not alone in the universe. Someone else experienced the world the way that I did. It was a comforting thought.

In the middle of the crowd that day, I walked toward the man and laid my unsteady hands upon his own, and I looked into his eyes for any sign of acknowledgement. What I felt as I touched his hands was a great divine spark; a godly power passing from hand to hand of two like-minded strangers. The wrinkled, bearded man must have felt it too, for he fixed me with a clear and focused stare of wonder, wonder that someone else in the world knew of his plight. That day, magic coursed through my veins for the first time. I felt the immense power of divine energy and of madness colliding together as two high speed steam engines rocketing towards each other on a single track.

That day, I first experienced the power of the void. The power of the dark tapestry had graced me with its blessed curse, for I now had the power of pure unadulterated madness at my disposal.

That day, I made the decision to relinquish my last hope at a normal existence in order to delve into the understanding of my own insanity.

Atalante works for the Ardoc family, a ruling brotherhood that watches over the district of Bis in Kaer Maga in exchange for high rates of taxation.

The monster that made its way into Kaer Maga found its way to the surface in Bis. Considering how good the Duskwardens typically are at their jobs, having no warning of a creature this large making its way up through the Undercity set the Ardoc family on high alert immediately. When the Duskwardens went into the tunnels again, the Ardocs, who had already hired Atalante as a spy before, sent the lithe little elf into the tunnels after them to make sure that the Duskwardens were not plotting against the district of Bis.

The brothers actually quite like Atalante’s inability to hear things and her delusions. Her vivid visions, while distracting for her at times, are easily separated from reality. Not only has she had over seventy years to practice the separation, but the demons and celestial beings that she sees are so out of the ordinary that it’s obvious to her when one crops up. Her delusions are not subtle in the slightest.

This is exactly why the Ardoc family likes her.

Atalante has a reputation around her community as a friendless schizophrenic who would never in her life function normally. In truth, she has been growing better at the practice, but stories told at local taverns and bars of her younger years keep the stigma alive. No one would ever take the word of Atalante seriously. It makes her the perfect spy. If she ever did lose it and spill the beans on one of the Ardoc’s operations, not a soul would ever believe that such a well known noble family would hire a kook like her.

Her deafness also benefits the Ardocs- if Atalante has been summoned to do some dirty work, and a sudden change in plans has been announced, the brothers need only to cover her eyes in order to discuss even the most grave of secrets.

Atalante is perfectly happy working for the Ardocs for low pay and high stakes. She wishes for nothing more than to keep herself fed and alive, and is already aware of how difficult it is for her to be hired. She’d rather die in her pursuit of understanding the strange world of Golarion, on some dangerous mission from a tight-lipped noble, than die a starving beggar on the street.

A creature of unspeakable horror escaped from the Darklands into the Undercity and took many Duskwardens down before it was finally defeated. With mass hysteria on the line, the Duskwardens came to an agreement with the Ardoc family to secure an honor guard of golems on their next expedition to seal the breach. (this is where our campaign will begin.) Atalante has been assigned to this mission to spy on the Duskwardens, but she doesn’t have enough sway to know exactly who is giving the orders and why. Therefore, their role in this has been left purposefully ambiguous. Given the lore, we don’t think the Ardocs as a whole would plot against Kaer Maga, but a select few influential members might succumb to corruption. In any case, the expedition discovers that the monster crawled out of a sinkhole and around this same time, Atalante is revealed as a spy! Unfortunately, in the resulting struggle our two characters fall into the sinkhole, vanishing into the depths below and are presumed dead.

Fortunately, they survive the drop, falling into an underground lake. Left with no aid of any kind, the duo have two options: work together to try and make it back up to the surface world, or be at odds and perish beneath it.

A haunted and blind “fish out of water” spy and an underground survivalist working together to make it out of the Darklands alive.

Roden Linvail
LG Human Deep Walker Ranger Duskwarden

Father,

Something is amiss within the ranks of the Duskwardens. When that monstrosity broke through our defenses we were slow to respond, slow to organize, and our usual tactics were all but ignored. We put the beast down, but our losses were significant. We’ve turned to the Ardoc family for assistance and to bolster our ranks with their golems for our next expedition. We leave in the morning to locate and seal the breach.

I don’t want to drag you into this, I just want to keep you abroad of the situation. Keep your head low and your eyes and ears open. I hope this letter finds you well.

~Roden

Roden grew up in the relative peace and safety of the Tarheel Promenade. His mother passed away when he was very young and his father owned the Gnarled Root, a small second-story shop that sold all manner of arcane reagent. Roden was happy to help out at his father’s shop when he was a boy, and his father did well and his business thrived. Roden quickly picked up the ability to identify foreign plants and herbs. They would play a game where his father would quiz him on the identity of the items as they stocked the shelves. Things were good. Unfortunately, that didn’t last. The market changed, other shops opened and the competition stiffened. The constant pressure to keep his doors open weighed heavily on his father and he became more of a boss and less of a parent.

This all came to a head one morning when they were cleaning the shop just before opening. Roden was mopping up the stockroom and knocked over a large ceramic jar of extremely rare (and therefore very expensive) powdered verucca root and it shattered on the floor. He watched in stunned horror as the powder absorbed the soapy water, rendering it’s magical properties inert. His father rushed to the back to investigate the noise and lost control. His arm snapped across like a steel trap and hit Roden so hard that he tasted blood. He didn’t cry. He didn’t flee. And he certainly didn’t fight back. He knew that he had done wrong, so he just looked up at his father, struggling to retain consciousness while bracing himself for another strike. Luckily, the strike never came, for his father had realized what he had done. He stormed off without a word, and after a few moments Roden hurried to clean up the mess, but his relationship with his father was never quite the same after that.

Despite that fair setback, the Gnarled Root managed to keep it’s doors open. When Roden wasn’t working at the shop, he would venture off to gaze upon the wondrous Balconies of Bis and the golem-guards of the Ardoc family. He hung around the district so much that he was invited to apprentice with the Lamplighter’s Union who operate the complex system of ropes and pulleys necessary to keep the huge lamps suspended from the high ceiling, making the lighting of Bis a constantly shifting work of art. On top of learning appropriate climbing techniques and ropecraft, he also learned how to appreciate the simple beauty of the mundane world. He took great joy in collaborating with the other Lamplighters on how to best their designs from the previous season.

As if his day-to-day schedule wasn’t full enough, Roden found his true calling in that same district, for it also housed the Duskwarden Guildhouse. He knew they did honest and noble work and he was eager to do his part. He went through a gruelling application process, but after the dust had settled, Warden Hammerfell himself deemed Roden a worthy candidate. He donned the brown and grey uniform with pride and couldn’t help but glance down at the golden arch on a field of navy blue upon his right breast. He was quickly trained to fire a longbow and opted for a two-handed greatsword. He excelled in the various areas of combat and that, combined with his knowledge of local and exotic flora and his skills in ropecraft, had him quickly rising among the ranks. With his duties at the Union and the Duskwardens filling his schedule, he saw his father less and less. Months would pass before he got a chance to stop by the shop, and when he did, his father was distant and often spoke in vagaries.

And then the breach happened.

Whether fortuitous or not, Roden was not on active duty the day of the breach. He was suspended 60 feet in the air, lowering one of the huge lanterns for an upcoming street festival in Bis. The commotion could be clearly heard through the foggy air and Roden wasted no time descending to the ground and dashing off to the Guildhouse. He ran into the barracks and shedded his harness like dead skin, donning his gear and trying to figure out what exactly had happened. Somehow, someway, a tentacled horror had made it into the training compound just beyond the Hole. That huge solid iron screw-plug door was the only thing preventing it from rampaging through the streets of Kaer Maga. By the time Roden arrived on the scene, his guildmates were battling the abomination at the threshold of the Hole. Luckily, the remaining ranks rallied and in their final push they managed to destroy the beast, but many, many lives were lost in the process.

The Duskwardens were not allowed the privilege of a grieving period. If word of this catastrophe got out on the streets, they would be battling mass hysteria. The breach had to be located and sealed. But with the severe losses they had suffered, they would need help. Luckily, Hammerfell had connections with the Ardoc family and secured an honor guard of golems to accompany them. Roden didn’t hesitate in volunteering himself for the expedition.

: I'll be using Issi Flamehair, a gnome and (unknown to her) princess of and heir to the Summer Court in the First World. Oyzar is playing Kasyomnite (generally known as Kas). So a pair of gnomes venturing into the wide world.

Kas and Issi have been friends since child-hood and an otherwise idyllic life is thrown into turmoil when assassins arrive in order to kill Issi. She survives thanks to luck and the timely return of Kas and his eidolon, a spirit possessed white wolf called Zarya. After learning the reason for the assassination attempt and some nebulous clues they set out to seek their destinies in the First World.

We were thinking of a 'gnomes explore their origins in the First World' story which could involve lots of fey politics, scheming factions and wide eyed gnomes causing trouble.

Kas is a gnome summoner with a quadruped eidolon ands the spirit summoner archtype using the life spirit. I haven't actually worked out statistics yet, but that's less important than the story and it depends on the exact level/statistics we start with anyway. Here is a picture of the Eidolon

As the sun turned the last green leaves of summer to brown an old fey lay dying. Curled on her bower of fragrant leaves at the summit of the Queen’s Oak, the Queen of the Summer Court was dying. A mysterious malady had afflicted the queen for some years, draining even her immortal vitality to the point of no return. Around her bed her most loyal subjects gathered, led by her two sons, the crown princes of Summer.

The elder, Tegorian, lent down as his mother struggled to whisper something to him. "Yes mother? What is it?" The fading voice of the Elder Fey barely reached even his supernatural hearing. "You must find your sister, Issiana. The kingdom is hers. My son, you must promise me, find your sister and protect her for me. Please… promise me." Staring into his mother’s eyes the prince bit his own finger and drew a sigil in blood over his heart.

“I swear mother. I will find our sister as you desire. The lost princess will return home." The queen sighed deeply and closed her eyes, slender chest finally stilling. The two princes bowed their heads for a moment before turning to the assembled court.

“Summer is over. Our queen is dead. Let all the court don the garb of autumn as we mourn our beloved ruler. She has named her daughter, Princess Issiana, as heir to the throne. Long live the Queen!" proclaimed Melvar, the younger prince. The assembled court echoed his sentiment and no-one heard a royal voice mutter "Yes… long live the King."

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“Kas!" and "Issi!" were two names capable of striking fear into the hearts of almost every gnome mother or father in Tarn-under-Hill. The most common response to one of those names was to ask ‘oh what have they done now?’ as the villages two resident troublemakers were almost guaranteed to have done something.
Quite how the son of the village chief and the adopted daughter of the village clockmaker had become such good friends was still something of a mystery but the results of the friendship had shaped village life for the past forty years or more. Only in the past few years had the pair settled down enough for the town gossips to begin speculating about when the pair would get married, rather than expressing outrage at their latest antics.

One fine autumn morning found one of the subjects of this rumourmongering, Issi Flamehair, wandering towards the market. Issi was of average height for a gnome (that is to say, just three feet) and possessed two feet of brilliant red hair which cascaded down her back in rippling waves, seeming almost to have a life of its own. She was being chased down the street by her constant companion, a firepelt panther, whose vivid colouring matched Issi’s own and had led to taunting when they were both younger.

Issi swung sharply around a corner before leaping out as her animal companion raced past, the two of them rolling around in a bundle of red and brown before they came rest, rather abruptly, against an unexpected pair of booted feet. Scrambling to her feet Issi brushed herself off and performed an odd bow/curtsey cross. "My apologies sir, please forgive our clumsiness." When no response came Issi looked up at the stranger and found him appraising her with a hard stare. She returned the stare with equal frankness and this standoff continued until the stranger abruptly turned on his heel and strode away.

Issi turned to Trax, who was scratching himself vigorously, and shrugged. "Big folk are very strange Trax." The panther cocked his head in a seemingly inquisitive motion before nabbing Issi’s small bag and racing off towards the market, Issi’s bell-like laughter ringing out across the village as she gave chase.

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There were more big folk than normal at the market Issi noted, a single big folk selling their wares was perfectly normal in Tarn-under-Hill, four seemingly very large men were scattered across the market and Issi noted the man she’d bumped into earlier talking to another big folk a few stalls away. She was happily talking to a friend of her mothers who was selling teapots from his front step when a muted bang drew the attention of every gnome in the market.

One of the big folk cursed loudly as he shook his burned hand, the misfiring pistol lying on the floor in front of him, barrel pointed squarely at Issi. Around the market the other three big folk drew weapons from their belts and closed in on Issi and the teapot seller, their intent clear on their faces. After a moments stunned silence the market erupted into noise. Many gnomes panicked and fled, although a few began bombarding the invaders with assorted missiles. One assassin fell when a particularly dense loaf of bread caught him above the ear but the other three converged on Issi and Trax, who had taken cover behind an ironmongers stall.

Trax, teeth bared leapt at the first man to approach, driving him back from Issi who was frantically searching for a way out. Trax yelped in pain as he was flanked by a second man who delivered a crushing kick into the panther’s ribs, bones cracking under the assault. Issi’s hair suddenly shifted to a blood-red hue as she screamed, a primal sound to match her companions, and flung her arms forward towards her assailants. The entire contents of the ironmongers stall was hurled towards the men who both crashed to the floor as Issi grabbed Trax and fled.

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The lead assassin cursed. Two of his men were down already, one of them permanently to judge by the large knife sticking out of his throat, and the target was fleeing. Yanking his last cohort up from the floor the leader set off in pursuit, heading for the clock-makers house.

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Issi slammed the door shut and bolted it, breathing heavily she glanced frantically around the house for a weapon of some sort she could use against the men who, inexplicably, seemed to want her dead. She only had minutes, but her mother was a genius, mad but still a genius. She could set some traps here.

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The assassin cursed long and low. The little b!!#& and her half sized friends had thwarted him at every turn. Finding the house had taken far too long as they found streets twisting around them and flaring lights blinding them at every turn. Then, when they finally found the house, some sort of animated clock bludgeoned his partner to death as he opened the door. On the bright side that meant all the gold was his once he killed the fire haired imp.

As he forced his way past the clock still blocking the entrance his grin grew large and feral – there she was, and that damned cat of hers, cowering in the corner like rats. Well, he knew what to do with rats…

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The same sunny morning found another gnome many miles away troubled by a nameless worry. If asked, Kas wouldn’t have been able to say why he was troubled, simply that he was and that was unusual in itself. Stretching after a night spent under a large tree he stood and instinctively scanned the area around him for his eidolon, the large white wolf who always accompanied him. She wasn’t there and Kas shrugged to himself before bending over to pack his bedroll and camping gear into his backpack.

“Kas!" The strangely deep voice came from behind him and had Kas leaping round, one hand reaching for his dagger. Standing before him was Zarya, his wolf eidolon. The glowing red swirls adorning her haunches and legs were rippling in a way Kas had never seen before.

“Kas, you have to hurry. Issi is in danger!" Kas couldn’t deny it, Zarya was actually speaking to him in clear, unaccented sylvan. The shock of hearing this voice drove the significance of her words from his head for a moment, until it burst back into his mind with the force of a lightning bolt.

“Issi’s in danger? How? Why? Curse it, we’ll never make it back in time. Zarya - we need to get back, now! You can explain what on earth is going on later!" A few minutes later the only visible sign of Kas’ campsite was a lonely wisp of smoke rising from the fire as the white wolf and its purple haired rider raced across the grasslands.

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Charging back into Tarn-under-Hill Kas arrived to a scene of pandemonium. The market was in uproar, focused on a huge knot of gnomes who seemed to be surrounding something on the floor. Zarya forced her way through the crowd as Kas stood on her back to see what was going on.

In the centre of the crowd, being held down by nearly a score of gnomish bodies was a big folk, clad in dark robes and obviously groggy from a huge bruise on his head. Another body, impaled through the throat, lay nearby.

Zarya nosed right up to the man, paw pressing on to the horrific burns adorning the man’s right hand, teeth bared as Kas growled questions at him from her back. "What are you doing here? Why are you trying to hurt Issi?" Faced with the huge teeth of the wolf and a lynch mob of gnomes the big folk started babbling answers as fast as he could.

“It was a job, some wierd man, looked like an elf, all that pointy ear beauty s*$%. Said there was gold in it for us, lots of gold if we could kill your princess. He described her, red hair ‘like fire’ he said. Told us we couldn’t miss it. Then she got Grok with that knife and I didn’t see any more. Please… please don’t kill me!”

His only answer was the crowd pushing closer as Kas and Zarya turned and raced for the clockmakers workshop - Issi’s refuge as long as they had known her. Bursting through the door with a thunderous crash they bounded over the clock and the mangled body beneath it, causing the remaining assassin to spin around as Issi’s body fell limp to the floor behind him. Standing over the two red haired bodies, his sword dripping blood, the assassin grinned, showing the red stained teeth of a rot-wein addict. "Great, more vermin and you brought your mutt too. Won’t save you little goblin half-breeds. I’ll kill you for free!" Zarya roars as she charges forward. At the same time Kas’ magic struck, a huge pool of grease toppling the bandit down. Zarya’s fangs and claws tears into the off balance assassin, ripping him to shreds.

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Kas’ attention quickly jumped from the battle to the bleeding girl on the floor. With tears in his eyes he rushed forward. "Issi, no! I was too late." His heart clenched in grief at seeing her lying there, so pale, on the floor the colour draining from her hair even as he watched. He knelt down in the blood and held her close as he began sobbing.

“Damn those devils! I knew we should have gotten here faster!" Suddenly he felt something well up inside him. A soothing wave of power, quite unlike his normal wild magic. As Zarya leaned over his shoulder the power poured out of him, flooding into Issi and Trax’s near lifeless bodies. Right before his eyes, her wounds closed up and her breathing eased before finally her eyes fluttered open. Beside her Trax gave a quiet growl as his breathing deepened from the laboured gasps of the dying into a more natural, restful pattern.

“Issi! You are alive!" Kas exclaims and in a spontanous burst of emotion he bent down and kissed her on the mouth. "I’m so thankful." A smile burst through his tearstained face.

“That was well done Kas," Zarya’s unnatural voice came from behind him. "She can’t be allowed to die, not now, not while the Throne is still unclaimed.”

Issi’s face was a mask of confusion and remembered pain. "Kas? What happened? I remember… pain." Her hand fluttered towards her chest "He stabbed me… right in the… how? Why? What did you do?”

“I believe I can answer that question." Both gnomes turned to face the wolf, Issi shifting slightly in Kas’ arms with confusion written all over her face. Eyes, burdened with a supernatural intelligence , stared softly at them both as they waited for an explanation.

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“I can’t tell you much," the wolf began, still speaking its pure, unaccented sylvan. "The passage into this world was… traumatic… and I’m not as strong as I once was. The Queen of Summer is dead and her death was not of natural means. Someone close to Her Majesty killed her, a prospect which has made many of the Court… nervous. The Crown Princes are claiming it was a plot by the Court of Winter but I don’t believe that, not now." The wolf’s eyes narrow as it pads forward to bow, crudely, at Issi’s feet.

“I cry pardon for being the bearer of bad news your highness. Your mother named you heir to the Court and Summer awaits your return. These… men… were sent to kill you, someone at the Court thinks to benefit from your death.”

“Court of Summer? What are you talking about?" Issi’s thought process was still sluggish from blood loss as Kai continued healing her wounds. "Who could possibly want to kill me?" Kas caught on quicker, shock writ plainly across his face. "It’s the Court of the Fey! Your a Fae princess! I’ve read about the Summer Court. The Fae are our ancestors, our creators, and you’re one of them." Grief, relief, shock, excitement and a pang of disbelief chased each other through Kas’ heart so fast he could barely process them. Zarya nodded, "That’s right, you’re a princess of the Summer Court and your mother has named you as her Heir. It is now your task, your duty indeed to return to the First World and claim your throne.”

Issi blinked slowly before looking up at Kas, the question clear in her eyes. "Of course I’ll come with you, you silly hothead," he grinned. "Can’t just let you go wandering off into the world, you can’t even make it to market!" Issi’s smile was the widest he’d ever seen as she sprang up, kissed him hard on the lips and whirled around the room like a dervish, stuffing things into a backpack.

As she reached her foster mother’s desk she stopped in front of a small jewelry stand. Hanging from it was a slender golden chain with an exquisite emerald oak leaf hanging from it. Issi stared at it for a few moments and then gingerly reached forward to grasp it. "I remember. This was my mother’s… she gave it to me and told that one day I could use it to prove who I really am… How could I possibly remember that?”

Kas stepped up behind her, grasping her spare hand. "I don’t know, but how about we find out? Together?

Ian Blank and I currently work as monster hunters of sorts. We grew up together, but we aren't what you would call friends. The only real reason I knew him at all was threw my younger sister Sadie. He was far to rough a character to be hanging around my sister, but I guess that same quality is what makes him so useful now. Regardless, as you might imagine the event needed to push the two of us together wasn't small. Ian killed my sister. To be fair, which I rarely am, it might have been at Ian's hands, but the ones who did it were the Crimson Host. Some freak show religious group that rolled into town one day with their "Miracle Cure." I wish I could wring their necks a thousand times over for what they did.

The night it happened we wound up in one of the churches. I've never been much of a believer but that night I was as devout as anyone. With the help of a few raves souls we managed to hide somewhere safe, but I never imagined some of the people among us weren't safe. Much less that they were Sadie and Ian. I'm still not really sure why they changed so much later. The amount of blood they took, how much time had passed. I don't know, but they started changing right then. I froze up. I honestly didn't know what to do. When Ian and Sadie started fighting I finally managed to move. I found a make shift club and I crack Ian in the back of the head. IT wasn't pretty, but I did what I had to. But it was too little too late. Somehow his nails had managed to tear open Sadie's throat. The last image I have of my sister is her choking on her own blood. I managed somehow managed to convince the others not to kill Ian. To just tie him up, but I'm still not really sure why. I wanted to kill him more than they did. But I didn't. And now he's saved my life more than once. I really don't know how I feel about that.

Once everything was over we tried to move on. To find new lives. But we couldn't escape from our old ones. Ian was changed into"something" by the blood, but he was the lucky one. Every night when I close my eyes I see my sister dying in front of me. Neither of us could let it go. The Crimson Host was already gone, but we needed vengeance. We found it in every person creature and THING that reminded us of that night. We, no, I won't EVER let anything like that night happen again. And there isn't a damn thing that can stop me.

'Dammit, dammit dammit!'
My sword is wet with blood, the girl is screaming, Ian is wounded and her father is lying in a pool of his own blood.
---------
We heard about this particular job from someone who fled the town. A fair number of people had been killed, but every time they thought they found the culprit the culprit themselves were killed. No one in the town could have committed all of the murders, so that leaves an outsider or a monster. This man decided to run. We won't.
---------
Sadie sobs into my chest as we hear the monsters just outside trying to get in.
---------
After arriving in town and examining the bodies it didn't take us long to figure out that we had a shapeshifter. It kills it's target and then takes it's place, killing more people before moving to a new identity. Ian's sure it's a demon. I like to be ready for anything.
---------
I hold Sadie to my chest as I sob over her bleeding corpse.
---------
We tracked down the demon, but it's not going to be pretty. It must have realized we were here. It's taken the shape of the blacksmith's daughter. We try to explain that his daughter is already dead. We try to show him by forcing the demon into it's true form. The blacksmith blindside Ian with a nearby hammer. He turns on me; I put him down. The "girl" starts screaming. The scream turns into a bone chilling howl as it's form begins to melt and change. I don't even have time to retch at it's form before it's on me. I fight, but I don't have the strength to hold back a beast like this. With a swing of it's arm, it tosses me across the room. The air gets knocked out of me as I collide with the wall. Before I can even crawl to my knees it's on me again, clawed hand raised high. Before it can drop, Ian plants his axe into it's head. Seizing the chance I plant my knife as deep into it's chest as I can.
---------
The villagers don't thanks us. They rarely do. It's not why we do this. We collect our pay and move on. We aren't done yet.
---------
I feel cold looking over Sadie's grave. I was told that I was fortunate there was a corpse left to bury. Many weren't so lucky. I don't think I'll ever really like Ian, but I could kiss him for nailing that bastard square in the nose.

In the back alleys of the oppressive city, nestled between rows of buildings of similar size and disrepair is a narrow two story structure. With a tavern on the first floor and rooms on the second story. Above the door hangs a sign depicting a man being hanged with his legs kicking and a large empty mug on the ground below him, At the top of the sign in faded yellow lettering it reads, The Dancing Drunk. On the bottom of the sign is the more recently added, No Dancing Allowed!
From the outside the tavern looks nasty, cheerless and uninviting. Soft wooden planks and oak details make up most of the building's outer structure. It's difficult to see through the dusty windows, but the gloominess from within can be felt outside. In the corner of the window closest to the door is another sign which can hardly be seen beneath the dust which reads,
Discreet Investigations.
No job to big or small.
Inquire within.
A heavy wooden door is the only entrance to the tavern and groans when it opens. Upon entering the tavern it appears as dire inside as it is on the outside. Dark squared, wooden beams support the upper floor with rows of small, molten candles dangling from the beams. The common room is long and narrow the walls are bare with the plaster peeling off in places. The bar is on the left and runs the length of the room with several small tables running along the right wall along with a stone fireplace. Along the far wall are two doors, one leads to the kitchen the other to the basement. The overall layout gives the room a cramped feel.

The tavern is almost completely abandoned the few who are here are dredges of society and lost souls but whoever they are, they give you an uncomfortable feeling of dread. Behind the bar is a large overweight bartender who is coughing into a dirty napkin and makes no effort to acknowledge your presence.

You did hear rumors about this tavern, supposedly it's infamous for something, but for the life of you can't remember what for. Though judging from the smell coming from the kitchen it must be the food that people come for.

Herk lays on his bed in the room he has above the tavern he runs with his brother. No matter how much he tries sleep alludes the man. A storm is raging outside his cramped little room, thunder peals in the distance and rain steadily beats down on the roof as the wind howls trying to find its way through the window. He lays there and wonders, is tonight the night they come for me?
It was a night like this when they came for him and his brother. He doesn’t remember much about that night other than the infernal weather. <Stop lying to yourself. You remember, you’ll never forget,> the other worldly voice inside his head states matter of factly.
He’s right I still remember most of it, Herk concedes. Herk’s earliest memories are of the night he and his brother were kidnapped. It was quick and brutal, one moment they were taking a short cut down a deserted alley the next moment he had a sack thrust over his head and was being carried away by rough hands. He and his brother were soon separated and Herk was put in a small stone room with another boy. The room was bare except for a small barred window about six feet off the ground and a bucket filled with excrement. He could tell by looking out the window that he was in a basement and window led to an alley. As the door closes Hirk could hear one of the men say, “We’ve got a few hours before we deliver this lot. Got a good bunch here we sho…..” the man’s voice is lost as the door closes behind him. In spite of everything that happened Hirk found himself exhausted and soon collapsed into a deep sleep on the stone floor of his cell.
He awoke on a stone floor cold and whimpering, rain down pours outside the window to his cell and lighting flashes light up his cell every so often. He continued to lay there feeling hopeless when the door to his cell is opened. One of his jailors enters the room and grabs the other boy. The jailor says with an evil grin on his face, “Time for me to have a little fun.” You’re next chubby,” his jailor sneers at him as he drags the screaming boy from the room.

Herk stands there frozen not sure what is going on but even his young mind is certain it is something twisted and evil. That is when he heard the voice <stop your sniveling and do something you fool.> Herk looked around but saw no one else in the damp cell. Herk didn’t know what to do but he was positive that he wanted to leave this room before his jailor came back. So he decided to take the voice’s advice and do something.

A bit of inspiration came to him and he moved quickly afraid that his captor would return soon. Without hesitation he removed his cloths, balled them up and threw them out the window to his cell into the alley. Next, he overturned the bucket of excrement and moved it over to the window so he could stand on it. It took every bit of self-control to do what he did next as he bent over and smeared the waste from the bucket on his shoulders, chest, and hips. For lubrication, he thought. Using the bucket he was able to reach the bars on the window and pull himself up. Thanks to the lubrication he was able to painfully squeeze his way through the bars. <You’re a smart one,> the other voice comments.

I am smart, Herk thinks as he picks up his drenched cloths. < I died in this alley,> an otherworldly vice resounds in his head. “Who are you,” the boy asks in a whispered voice as he makes his way out of the mist filled alley into the down poor.

Herk eventually made his way to his uncle’s house who ran an underground pub complete with music and dancing, some of the cities forbidden pleasures. In this environment Herk grew up quickly his uncle saw to it that he was trained him in the art of brewing and mixing of chemicals. In this free thinking enviroment he learned to read and debate philosophy, history, and religion. This is where he grew up and where he spent the rest of his youth looking over his shoulder. That is until they came and took his uncle, closing the pub and forcing Herk to find his own way on the streets of Nisroch.
It was some years after this and Herk was failing at running a tavern in the slums of Nisroch when a broken, scarred, and crippled man approached him saying he was his brother. Unbelievable, Herk thought at first but over time he became convinced that this creature was actually his brother. His brother had a knack for cooking and began working in the kitchen of the tavern.

Tap, tap, tap the crow beats on Herk’s head with its beak while his bloated body lays on the ground in a refuse covered alley. Herk tries to scream but no words come out as his mouth is sewn shut. The crow begins again tap, tap, TAP.
Herk's eyes pop open, his head still pounding, but he sighs with relief as he realizes he is in his bed, safe in his cramped little apartment. He concludes, it’s just that dream again. He lays in his bed breathing erratically with sweat pouring off his body, the sour odor of his unwashed body mixes with the smell of alcohol and his breath creating something noxious. Herk shakes his head as he begins to work his jaw, making sure his mouth isn’t sewn shut. No I’m still alive, he decides as the pounding in his head grows louder. The other voice in his head reminds him as the pounding continues, <true but you're closer to the grave today then you were yesterday.>

It takes him a second to realize that it isn’t just his skull that is pounding but someone is also knocking at the door to his apartment. A voice that is not his own echoes in his mind and warns,<Careful, it could be trouble!>

You always think it’s trouble, Herk rebuts before he realizes what he is doing. I have to stop encouraging him, he admonishes himself. But admits, probably is trouble.

Slowly Herk throws his legs over the side of the bed and sits up. He runs his fingers through his thinning hair as he reaches with his other hand for the mostly empty bottle next to his bed. Greedily he brings the bottle to his lips and finishes off the contents. He tosses the bottle aside and carefully gets up, the bed groans in relief as his considerable bulk is lifted. Sluggishly he makes his way over to the water basin which is sitting on the dresser against the wall. As he splashes water on his face he looks up and catches his reflection in the small dust covered mirror that sits above the dresser.

He scowls at his likeness, it was a look that would make a mother hide her children, a banker clutch his coin purse a little tighter, or a weak man to tremble. He mused that while he was not yet 30 years old the reflection looking back at him seemed older.

<Weary looking,> the other voice inside his head remarks.

He’s right I do look weary, but it’s more than that, he surmises.

As Herk continues looking at his reflection he noticed his eyes, They are same color of the sky right before a storm. <When they’re not blood shot,> the voice in his head adds with a laugh. But it is more than their color that draws Herk’s attention, his gaze appears knowing and penetrating. His eyes are deeply set in a large square head and a puffy pale colored face which is framed by receding dark brown hair. He has long sideburns that connect to his long bushy mustache which hangs below his jaw. His face is highlighted by a prominent chin and a large crooked nose that has been broken one to many times.

Herk is startled from his reverie by the unrelenting knocking on the door. He admonishes himself, stop admiring yourself, there is business to attend to. He shakes his head thinking, probably trouble.

He begins to make his way across the room and the floor creaks in protest as Herk is large framed and stands a little over 6 feet tall. He is broad shouldered, barrel-chested and big bellied with thick legs and arms. He is overweight and a layer of fat covers the muscles beneath. He continues the journey across the small room and he carries himself with an air of confidence. The swagger of a veteran, he thinks.

Another snide comment from the voice, <swagger of a drunkard.>

“Go away,” Herk says halfheartedly not sure if he is talking to the voice in his head or whoever is knocking on the door.

Again his thoughts are interrupted by the other voice, <probably someone here to kill you.> Herk hesitates for a second then makes a fist as he places his other ham sized hand upon the knob as he thinks, you’re probably right.

*********************************************
APPEARANCE
*********************************************
Height: 6’ 2”
Weight: 300lbs
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Gray

Appearance:
Herk is a large overweight man standing over 6 feet tall and built like an ox. He is broad-shouldered, barrel chested, and big bellied with thick arms and legs. A layer of fat covers his body concealing the muscle beneath.

His skin is pale as if he hasn’t spent much time in the sun and is puffy under the eyes. His eyes are gray and deep-set with bushy eyebrows above. He has large pronounced chin, cheekbones and nose, the last appears to have been broken one to many times. His face is framed by receding brown hair with long sideburns that connect to his large bushy mustache. His strong chin is clean shaven and his mustache extends below his jaw.

You can tell by looking at him (and sniffing) that cleanliness is not one of his top priories often he smells of liquor, body odor, and bad breath. The remains of a half-eaten meal frequently stain his shirt.

He can often be seen mumbling or talking to himself and frequently laughs at his own jokes.

********************************************
PERSONALITY
*********************************************
If there was one word to describe Herk it would be paranoid. He believes the world is out to get him (and at times he is right). He is clever and isn’t afraid to let people know it as well as possessing a cutting sense of humor. Both attributes don’t win him many friends. He has a secret passion for reading philosophy .

A crippled man tosses in his sleep, the rickety cot to be called a bed creaking even under his whip-like physique. His brow tenses and he moans, the thready whisper of a full forced noise echoing terror.
Another night, another failure remembered. More pain inescapable
---------------

It starts with a desperate gasp, and a scream of agony. the world whiting out as he still marvels at the acoustics of his own voice after it having been gone so long. Yet another make to his failures.
"Penitent Pedwyn, Awaken, you are to be judged." The labeled man groans and looks through swelled eyelids to the guard looming in front of him. Attempting to wipe at his face with a limb no longer present. Even now the sigil of the shadow court visible in onyx polished to mirror luster on the mans lapel, eyes drifting slowly in stupor. His concussed nature is given no credence, rewarded with a swift kick to the ribs and forcing a exhalation of breath. Nothing more though, to scream was a blasphemy to the midnight lord.
"Up you wretch, The His Umbral Presence Lord Darrow waits on your cursed hide." The guard commands with a predatory smile on his lips. The pointed italics of the title obvious in the mans pronunciation "Perhaps he will be so kind as to let me expand my collection when your carcass is flayed" The unnamed warden mutters as he grabs the prisoner by the arm dragging him from the cell into the gloom of Pangolais.
---------
A faint creaking sounds through the room as Pedwyn seizes a bedpost, equal parts wood and bone as his still working hand grips white knuckled. His face clenches with a second staccato crack of noise both flesh and wood.
----------
A man stands at a pulpit dressed in robes dark enough to radiate a consuming depth to mundane cloth. A gift from the masters of this city to one who knew his proper place, the gavel bearing the midnight lords image slamming once. Its echoing timbre reverberating through the cavernous hall and against the closed door. It was unnecessary though, each and every one of the audience held respectful silence in the court. Wooden benches creaking with weight as all turned eyes on the stand each row packed with placid facades bearing judgmental and eager eyes. Chained, an animal on display, Pedwyn remains as stone faced as he can. A herculean trial with the twin bars running beneath his shins forcing all his weight onto them.
"The accused stands at judgment for a craven act on the integrity of our great city." The gavel bearer booms from his pulpit, limbs unmoving but the glee in his voice and stance making it obvious this was a well made appointment of office.
"Before you my fine citizens stands one who would besmirch the name of our sacred guardians, our shroud which guards us from the tyranny of the light in its merciless glare. The Penitent is accused of such fraudulence and daring to encroach upon the bastion of those shadowed warriors." With that the judge glides closer to Pedwyn's bowed form and gestures to the audience.
"Both these charges bear a heavy sentence but the Umbral Lords in their overflowing wisdom have instead decreed a fitting punishment. This crippled wretch, who could not even find the courage to properly enact the rite of silence all our shroud take will instead be granted a proving. One for each offense." There is a minor tensing, audible in the dead silence of the crowd. Blood spilled in a circle of wolves. "You, his superiors and overseers shall see to it this man receives his due punishment. If he happens to perish from the crucible then it was the midnight lords judgment. If he survives then in that same judgment our lord still has use for him. As always we, his instruments, will abide our dark grace's decision. You will each be given two strikes, choose well." The Judge commands as a gray clad ghost in a billowing shroud steps from the shadow delivering to Judge Darrow the weapon of choice. the same specter gripping Pedwyn by the collar bone and yanking rapidly, legs screaming to keep with the motion or earn a badly broken bone. The agony preventing him from resisting as his limbs are rapidly lashed into place and left entirely exposed.

The punishment is a stately affair as each favored citizen moves forward, with varying imitations of liquid grace. Not only given a chance to mete out justice but to demonstrate to their peers how Zon-Kuthon drove their blows. How with but a fluid flick of the hand and minute exertion they could draw the most agonizing cries from their target. The whipping just one example of where they all fell on the ladder of Power and sense the weakness above or below them.
The subtle political aspect was lost on the recipient though, each blow driven with the full force of polished faith and social pressure. The event becoming a whirl of agony, the occasional crescendo whiting out his vision.
Eventually blessed release, Pedwyn dropped to the ground and drawing agonized breath. A whisper behind him is heralded with a crackling snap and the voice of his accuser returns, near silent in his ear. "Regardless your reasons, know that a crippled hound no matter its loyalty is worth as much to our lord as a dead one. The nature of your return is irrelevant you should have let yourself die when you had the option. Now-"

---------
The world erupts into stark relief again and tilts to the side with a crunch of wood as Penwyn groans on the ground. Lord Darrows last word still ringing in his ear after pain had fully driven him to the waking world.

Suffer.

The brand on his pectoral glowing with a faintly visible light as he looks to his right hand and assesses the damage dealt. Holding it to the ceiling One finger at an off angle and three knuckles split open rapidly dripping blood onto his dry sackcloth shirt.
"More laundry then. And another repair" The man mutters as he looks despondently at his hand and whispers dark words of power. The wounds slowly coagulating and the finger returning to its previous position, healing in stop motion with none of the agony stripped out.
Better than the pulsing rhythm of agony the brand produced.
My life was never my own, but it is funny how something like hurting myself seems attractive after the option is denied.
Penwyn reflects as he looks out the minuscule opening an optimistic man might call a window to see the streets still dark.
"I wonder if Hock is up yet." the man murmurs as he listens for the squeak of timbers in the bar. "It's still such a strange word. 'Brother'" the scarred one states as he moves into the kitchen and begins his day.

Pedwyn looks down and scowls as his apron releases itself from his shoddy knot work and grabs one strand with his teeth to tie it off to the side. The crooked bandana on his head sewn into an easier to tie off form that conveniently hides the left side of his face and the wide burn scars making their way from his cheekbone down to his hip. His whip thin body only exaggerating the damage he had taken to acquire such wounds. Combined with left arm missing at the mid forearm and foot gone to mid calf it might be more reasonable to call him a collection of scars with some leftover man in the middle.
Markings of my cursed rebirth
Never mind the whip scars or the cruel looking brand he bore.
Nothing like the fat man upstairs, that is what they'd always say.
The only thing that truly links us are the eyes. Herk wasn't willing to believe it but I knew at first glance. Pedwyn sighs and looks toward the risen dough calling his name.
Perhaps one day I'l learn why he believed me when I told him that."
work called once more, salty bar food didn't make itself.

Height: 6'
Weight: 160
Hair: Dark brown
Eyes: Gray

Appearance: Pedwyn stands at six feet tall and athletically fit, His thin body hides his well maintained form and simply makes him look emaciated.
He bears a vast collection of scars over his body and lacks his left arm at the forearm and right foot. Shoddy prosthetics take their place but it is hard to tell if it helpful or harmful to the cripples function.

His skin that remains unscarred is of pale coloration, likely due to his past life as one in the shadows. He bears dark rings under his eyes and the right half of his face is heavily burned. The hair on that side growing back in sparse patches, this often is covered up with a bandanna or cap of some variety.
His sharp facial features combined with it all leads to many associations with birds. Owls, hunting hawks, falcons. Often birds but always dangerous regardless the animal mentioned.

Personality:
Pedwyn is attempting to claw his way out of a pit he was pushed into and forced to escape rather than take the easy way out. He would best be described as Desperate, and Discerning. He takes nothing at face value and only speaks up when a necessary question is needed to be asked. The man having long found that a silent stare can get him all he needs in terms of answers. Little of his education is applicable in his new life but occasionally he finds bits that fit. He does his best to maintain it but the world crumbles around him as bits and pieces of his Silent shroud training shake off and realizes how ignorant he truly is.

The rhythmic sound of stone on steel echos through the small room. The last rays of light of the day backlit a figure sitting on the bed, axe in one hand, whetstone in the other. Each slow pass of the stone was taken with purpose and focus. The cadence implied years of practice. The weapon really didn't need it, but it was a soothing sound. In fact, the monotonous tone and motion was relaxing. It was the only way he could recall the past without having nightmares or breaking out into a cold sweat. His life changed in single blood-soaked night of fear and violence. And is all started when they arrived.

The Crimson Host.

---------------------------------------------------------------

They claimed they were vessels for divine beings and that their blood could heal you, or even make you stronger. Of course, everyone was skeptical of such outrageous claims. But when they were proven true, when they healed a persons cut before the very eyes of a gathered crowd, they began to believe. It was a lot easier to believe when they offered the healing for free. Many partook of their unique brand of healing. Ian Black used to be the son of a farmer and a rather energetic child. An accident was only a matter of time, and one of the Host just happened to be nearby. He healed the wound without need for payment or thanks. He said "Just happy to help," with a very toothy smile. No one in the town idea what awaited them a few months later, on the night of the bloodmoon.

It fell on a weekend night. As usual, the Black family went to town to sell their produce and buy supplies until next week. And as usual, as soon as they entered the gates, Ian ran off to find his friend Sadie. Her father owned the apothecary. She had a sister too but, they never got along. Aska was her name. Ian and Sadie ran through the town, playing games, getting into trouble and just generally being children. They even joked about getting married one day as kids sometimes do. They had real understanding of what that meant but they were happy. As the sun set, they went their separate ways, Sadie headed home and Ian to the inn his parents always stayed at. They turned in early, knowing the would need to be up early the next day to head home. They would never get the chance.

Ian awoke to some feeling, some instinct deep in his gut that told him to run. The room was filled with red light. He turned to look out the window, to find the source, only to realize it was the moon, bigger and redder than he had ever seen. It called to him, a violent tone that sang in his blood. A song that conjured images of destruction, mayhem and how...fun it would be. It was ever so faint but it was rising steadily in volume. Before it built too loud, he heard another sound. Screams. First from down in the alley, then from inside the inn, then from the a room across the hall. The panic returned. Little Ian ran from the room looking for his parents, but their room was empty. Blood stained the floor. Another scream, no a feral growl this time, sent him running down the hall and down the stairs.

The first thing he saw as careened down to the first floor was more blood. It splattered the walls and pooled on the floor below. And it smelled. Oh it smelled awful, like carcass left in the sun. He slowed on the stairs and crept down far enough to see the common room of the inn. Violence was the only word to describe the seen. People tore into each other with primal fury. All manner of horrifying things went flying around the room. Things, even now, he tried to forget. The one image that was burned into his mind, the one that refused to be buried, was that of his own mother, looking up from the body of her husband, blood and guts still dripping from her open mouth, with a face he didn't recognize.

He ran. Ran right out into the street where the town seemed to be ripping itself apart under the red light of the moon. Puddles of blood and gore dotted the cobblestone roads, almost black in the twilight. Fear gave his feet wings and panic gave his mind supernatural reflexes. Most people were fighting each other but some strayed toward the vulnerable youth. They clawed as he passed with actual claws. Only now, after analyzing the memories, did he realize he saw the transformation happening. The people of the town were not only acting feral, they were turning feral. They sprouted thick hair all over their bodies. Their nails and teeth elongated and turned sharp. Some people even grew larger and more animal-like. Wolves, tigers, snakes, birds. All kinds of creatures.

Ian dodged through the nightmare that was once his home, unwittingly headed for the only safe haven, the temple of Saranrae. Upon its steps he saw several figures hacking away at any beast that dared to get too close. One of them spotted him and waved him over. "This way! Hurry!" He needn't have added the last part. Ian heard the beasts giving chase and surged faster than he'd ever run towards salvation. A spell and an arrow zoomed over his head and he heard a grunt of pain from behind. The man that saw him rushed to his aid and swing at something just behind the boy. there was a sickening crunch, but Ian never looked back. He run into the temple and collapsed on the floor, right in front of his friend Sadie.

"Ian," she cried as she ran over and hugged him. If he hadn't been so shell-shocked he might have had the presence of mind to feel happy, to hug her back, but his mind couldn't process what had happened. It was stuck reliving the horrifying images he saw on the way here. There was no time to come to grasps with the reality though. No time for a heartwarming reunion. The defenders from the front entered and began ushering the survivors to the back. "All I see is beasts." "I don't think there are anymore survivors. Saranrae watch over them if there are." "Too many out there anyway. Have to get these people to the safety of the catacombs." Ian heard the parts of conversation between screams and howls outside. Something big hit the doors and the faithful of Saranrae turned to it with nervous apprehension. But it held. They moved the townsfolk towards the back and onto the dias. One of them moved to the side of and pressed a hidden switch in a column.

With a jerk and loud, grinding noise, the dais began to descend slowly into the ground. Some people panicked, tried to climb back out. But a calm, strong voice halted escape. "Stay calm. You descend into the most sacred part of the temple. You will be safe there," said a man in white robes and the symbol of Saranrae on his chest. His words seemed to sooth the people. But it wasn't him alone that convinced them. Just before sight of the door disappeared, both were blown off their hinges but a large and terrible beast. It was larger yet than any Ian had seen that night. It's fur waved about as if it had a mind of its own and lightning danced across its body. It howled, long and terrible. Ian's blood froxe in his veins and his heart threatened to stop from fear alone. His last vision before they sank below the floor was of Saranrae's faithful engaging the terrible monster.

The dais ground to a halt and the first thing they noticed was the silence. The world above was a screaming, howling nightmare. Down here it was as silent as death. Torches lit a long tunnel with doors and more paths off to the left and right. "Well, guess were staying here tonight." The group jumped as the words rang loud in their ears and echoed off the walls. But they agreed and moved down the tunnel as one. Thankfully, one of the doors opened into a room with cots and bunks. Without a word, they filtered in and found a place to rest. Some people mumbled, conversed, but not for long. They feared the slightest sound might bring alert the beasts above to their presence. Ian, Sadie and Aska shared a bed in the corner. Sadie lay in her sister's lap and cried quietly as Aska stroked her hair. One hand gripped her older sister's hand while the other rested in her friend's. The touch helped comfort them, left them know someone not a monster was there. But it also anchored them to reality. They it was not just a nightmare. Together they sat in silence until sleep took them.

But it didn't last long. The first thing Ian heard was screaming. A pained coming from right beside him. Sadie. His childhood friend was screaming in pain, hands over her heart and a wild look in her eyes. He and Aska backed away, not knowing what was attacking her or what was happening. "She's changing, into one of them. I seen it," one of the survivors said. And it looked like he was right. Her teeth and nails grew long and sharp as they watched. Thick hair started to sprout along her arms and legs. Within minutes she was nearly unrecognizable. The pained cry turned to angry snarls. She turned. It turned. The hungry, feral eyes that looked at Ian no longer held any resemblance to his friend.

No. Please no. Not her too. His family was gone. He saw that. Saw them tearing into another family. Sadie was all there was left. Now she was turning too. She'd hurt people too. He couldn't let that happen.

Without thinking, Ian charged forward before she could pounce and held her to the bed. "No. Sadie please. Don't turn into them. Please don't be like them. Fight it. Please fight," he cried as he tried to hold her. Maybe if he subdued her, tied her up and waited it out, she'd turn back. But it soon turned into a pipe dream. She was growing stronger by the second. "Help. Please," he pleaded. But no one stepped forward. He looked right at Aska, eyes begging for help. She didn't move though. She stood, frozen in place, the same fear in his eyes mirrored in hers. He didn't blame her. He accepted now that it was a hopeless fight.

Ian was flung off the bed and landed hard against a wooden bed post. It was the last thing he remembered as Ian, as himself, that night. For when he awoke much later, tied to a bed and gagged, he knew he'd done something terrible. The blood on his hands was evidence of that. So was Aska's hateful look.

-------------------------------------------------------

Aska enters the room and pauses in the doorway. Though the light in the room was dim, he could see her perfectly, a side effect of that awful night. He was changed. Cursed. It helped with their new jobs but made talking to people difficult. And forgetting what happened. And he knew it did the same for Aska. He was a constant reminder of their mutual loss, which is why they were here.

She rolls her eyes at him but says nothing about the lack of light. "Come on. Let's go. We got a job," she says tersely. Ian pockets the whetstone and hefts the axe over his shoulder.

"What are we hunting?" he asks getting straight to the point.

"Multiple murders. Different descriptions on suspect. Possession or shapechanger probably."

"Better be sure then. Don't want to kill an innocent. Don't need anymore infamy after last time," he says as they walk own the stairs.

She grunts in annoyance. "We had to burn the church down. Nothing but ghouls left in it. You still good on potions?"

"Good." They exit the tavern and disappear into the darkness. The hunt was on.