magnumCPA's page

Nicknames: Azar the Djinn-Blood
Race: Human (Kelishite)
Class: Sorcerer 4
Bloodline: Dragon(Blue)
Gender: Male
Hometown: Solku, Katapesh

'Go to Kelmerane, we'll make some new connections.' she said 'Our family business will expand' she said

'Send brother, brother will solve everything. Brother has the blood of the djinn, brother has nothing important to do. Brother loves the heat and the lack of water and being caught between the gnolls and the zealots and unwashed toothless bandits.' Azar said mockingly.

It was bad enough that his sister, as the head of the family business was trying to get him into some cynical sham of a political marriage, but now she saw fit to send him to the wastes around Kelmerane in an effort to bring order to the region and make it fit for trade. Where others see a homeland to save, a chance to get even with beastmen or even a chance to please their god, a member of the wealthy Kalmeralm family sees profit and adventure. Maybe not today, maybe not even tomorrow, it could even take a year, but eventually a Kalmeralm always manages to turn a profit. At least that is what Azar's family always told him.

Description: Azar is a dusky skinned man with a chiseled face, and aquiline nose, and broad shoulders. In some respects he is the aesthetic ideal for a Keleshite nobleman. His eyes are almost black as coals, and his nails are abnormally long and sharp, but he manages to appear refined despite these minor off-putting features. He sports a neat beard and long hair, despite being relatively unimposing he carries himself as though he is much larger, knowing his spells can take down men twice his size. He dresses in the typical attire of a rich bazaar merchant with a colorful headdress and fine linen robes.

Personality: Azar is a jaded man with a mystical aura about him. Due to his powers he cultivates mystery to keep those who would take advantage of him in line. He's humble--for a member of a wealthy merchant family; he's also out of his element. The last thing he wanted to do was leave his home in Solku, but his sense of family loyalty meant he could not protest against the higher ranked family members. As a result, he seems rather grumpy about his situation. He does not care much for religion or fighting when there is nothing concrete to be gained. As his connection to his bloodline grows, he finds he has become more capricious and short-tempered.

Azer is proud of his status as a master of the arcane arts and will sometimes refer to himself as Magi or Djinn-Blooded. This is despite the fact that he is beginning to suspect that he does not have djinn blood at all, but to the Keleshites this has become a ‘catch all’ phrase for those whose arcane powers come from their blood.

Azar still tries to contact his family back in Solku whenever he can. His uncle is ill and has stepped down; his father had disappeared a couple years back, though his mother and sister always demand to know what exactly he is doing. Azar disdains many travelling types for lacking family honor, but those who place importance on it earn his respect.

Str: 12
Dex: 12
Con: 13
Int: 12
Wis: 9
Charisma: 18

Spells Known:
0: Message, Detect Magic, Read Magic, Drench, Light, Spark
1: Magic Missile, Burning Hands, Mage Armor, Infernal Healing
2: Burning Arc

I'm just kidding.......partly.

Backstory:

Ionacu Palaserri (formerly Ionacu Jeggare) is a Wisceri actor of mixed blood and considerable ambition. He has lived in the magnificent Cheliaxian Empire his entire life and knows nothing else. One of the many who pay lip service to Hell and one of the few who would rather play the hero than be the hero. He is the son of a Varisian woman and a diabolist mage of considerable standing in Westcrown. He does not know how his parents met nor did he ever ask, for as long as he could remember he was too enraptured by the drama in other peoples’ lives to notice the problems of his own, specifically, the lives of people who do not exist. Ionacu is an actor, a man who wishes to wear the skin of another person, if only for a brief time. His father tried to dissuade him for this path.

Ionacu’s father introduced him to a world of devils, backstabbing, and arcane experimentation that would make most people from other lands cringe or make their blood boil with righteous fury. From a young age, Ionacu was taught to read, write, and venerate Asmodeus. His father tutored him personally since he could walk, but as much as he tried to keep an eye on the boy, he could not tame young Ionacu’s wanderlust. He didn’t want to memorize tomes of Infernal writings or deal with devils or worse—Wisceri nobles. He wanted to entertain people. This instinct was nurtured by his Varisian mother who came from a land which revered dance and telling tales and life on the open road.

Around the time of Ionacu’s 12th birthday, she disappeared without a clue as to where she was going or why she would leave her son. The only thing that she left behind was a mysterious deck of cards, with the inscription “To my dear Ionacu” written on them. He questioned his father about it, but he claimed to be just as ignorant of what happened to her as he was. His father claimed that she went back to her homeland, but was unclear about the specifics. To this day he is not sure whether his father knew what happened or not. As a result of this experience, he always kept that deck of cards close-by, even though he was unable to acknowledge why.

At 16, he formed an acting troupe as he continued to go to a school run by the church of Asmodeus and assist his father. A year later, he was a fully fledged bard. He completed his training with a poet named Gabradon and his troupe of colorful characters, and through acting, Ionacu, became a proud carrier of the Chelish bardic tradition, and mastered his first spells.

His father, Ursion saw Ionacu’s activities as a betrayal of his trust and completely disowned him. He was cut off from all family resources; include his father’s will and considerable influence in the society. He was even forbidden to use his father’s last name, so Ionacu took his mother’s last name. Ionacu became desperate and began to rely on funds acquired from both friends and distant relatives. In time it almost felt as if his mother’s deck of cards was trying to tell him things. So in debt and cut off from his influential family, he looked for a way to prove himself and get himself out of this hole he’s dug for himself. A few weeks ago he got a letter inviting him to come to Varisia to learn the secrets of a Varisian magic tradition called ‘the Harrow’, which has some connection to his deck of cards. With uncertainty in his heart and a need to put the past behind them, he heads to Varisia to confront the country’s most famous circle of mages—the Cyphermages. Next stop: Riddleport. Who knows, he might even get some inspiration for his own theatrical script.

Persona:

Ionacu values his own freedom to drink and be merry and finds slavery distasteful To him the best way to appreciate what it means to be a citizeis through art and culture. Ionacu considers himself a patriot of Cheliax, though that did not extend to his worship of Asmodeus, not that he isn’t eager to pay lip service to the deity when the right people are around. He actually doesn’t really care for any kind of deity, regarding as the divine as a distraction from the current world. He has a hard time trusting people as a result of recent events, but never shows it. Ionacu acts nice, friendly, even playful, even though he still possesses the scheming, distrustful attitude that has characterized his people for centuries. He built his identity upon deception, which means never letting people know what’s really going on in your head.

Physical Description:

Ionac’s mixed blood is apparent in his facial features. He has dark skin, dark eyes, and black hair but high cheekbones and an almost cocky, devilish look in his shifting, dark brown eyes. His skin is almost as dark as a full-blooded Varisian man’s. His build and mannerisms are more in line with his Chelaxian countrymen’s. He’s of an average height and somewhat slight build, which enables him to play a wide variety of roles (though knowing some illusory magic doesn’t hurt either). His arms are long, spindly, and graceful.

He’s constantly moving his hands as he speaking, making grand, sweeping gestures. His hair is thick, black and wavy, which accentuates the kind of roguish handsomeness he possesses. He keeps it cut short because he feels that people can see more of his face that way. Whenever he moves it is with bravado and showmanship. He even wears a great flowing cape over his expensive garbs. When he isn’t wearing the colorful clothing or nobles or entertainers, he wears dark leather, meant to slow any assassin’s blades that may be lurking behind the corners of Westcrown. Wherever he goes he carries a short sword, a journal, and a strange deck of cards unlike any cards one would find in Cheliax.

Ionacu Palaserri (formerly Ionacu Jeggare) is a Wisceri actor of mixed blood and considerable ambition. He has lived in the magnificent Cheliaxian Empire his entire life and knows nothing else. One of the many who pay lip service to Hell and one of the few who would rather play the hero than be the hero. He is the son of a Varisian woman and a diabolist mage of considerable standing in Westcrown. He does not know how his parents met nor did he ever ask, for as long as he could remember he was too enraptured by the drama in other peoples’ lives to notice the problems of his own, specifically, the lives of people who do not exist. Ionacu is an actor, a man who wishes to wear the skin of another person, if only for a brief time. His father tried to dissuade him for this path. As well respected as actors were becoming in Westcrown, to his father, actors were still people of low standard who cavorted with thieves and whores. Ionacu’s father introduced him to a world of devils, backstabbing, and arcane experimentation that would make most people from other lands cringe or make their blood boil with righteous fury. From a young age, Ionacu was taught to read, write, and venerate Asmodeus. His father tutored him personally since he could walk, but as much as he tried to keep an eye on the boy, he could not tame young Ionacu’s wanderlust. He didn’t want to memorize tomes of Infernal writings or deal with devils or worse—Wisceri nobles. He wanted to entertain people. This instinct was nurtured by his Varisian mother who came from a land which revered dance and telling tales and life on the open road. When Ionacu was 8 years old, his life was changed when he managed to witness the theatre first hand. When he was 8, every day his family would bring him by the theatre building and every day he would ask what was inside. One day, when his father was busy, his mother, ever the free spirit, snuck out with him to the theatre and showed what was inside. Ionacu witnessed an elaborate opera with grandiose music and dark themes; although his mother blocked his eyes when everyone died gruesomely at the end. Everything was larger than life and the themes fit largely into the Chelaxian values that his father brought him up with. Ionacu saw this as the best expression of Cheliax, though his father did not agree. He saw anything that did not directly serve the interests of keeping order as a worthless pursuit. Ionacu was stubborn however. Stubbornness seemed to be the only attribute both his parents shared. He continued pursuing this interest of his when he was enrolled in one of Westcrown’s schools at age 10. There, he became a student of the Church of Asmodeus. He was not well liked at this school. Not being a pure Chelaxian hurt his reputation significantly and the fact that his mother’s people were renowned as thieves and grifters did not help either. His Varisian blood was immediately apparent in his appearance with his dark skin and black hair. For this reason Ionacu made sure everyone in that school thought he was the most devout Asmodean there was. He stood out, making fiery speeches in favor of Cheliax’s own patron deity, reciting quotes from his holy book wherever he could. The priests were pleased. They thought perhaps he would some day join the clergy. His father had a reputation as being a devout Asmodean, and he was quite pleased with what he heard. But it wasn’t genuine. It was acting. That thing his mother told him about; pretending so hard that you buy into your own lies. This was the art form the people in the opera practiced. At a young age, he decided he would use this as his armor against the world, and some day, he planned to go on that stage. His mother was actually amused by this behavior when she found out about it. She knew it wasn’t genuine. His father was arrogant and expected things to go his way, but his mother knew it was an act and actively encouraged it. She even told him of a place where he could learn more: the Temple of Shelyn. The church of the goddess of art is dedicated to all arts after all. Acting, writing, poetry, even brewing, were all considered arts. It was here he met Gabradon, a man with a talent for various different types of performance. Back then, Gabradon was only 19, with Ionacu being 12, but Gabradon looked older than his 19 years, and spoke with an air of authority which made him look like the perfect teacher. Gabradon taught Ionacu the art of acting in secret because both Ionacu and his mother knew that his father would not approve of his son cavorting with actors or worse—Shelynites. Ionacu’s mother was most likely a Shelynite herself, but was too smart to show it. Soon his mother was out of the picture. Around the time of Ionacu’s 12th birthday, she disappeared without a clue as to where she was going or why she would leave her son. The only thing that she left behind was a mysterious deck of cards, with the inscription “To my dear Ionacu” written on them. He questioned his father about it, but he claimed to be just as ignorant of what happened to her as he was. His father claimed that she went back to her homeland, but was unclear about the specifics. To this day he is not sure whether his father knew what happened or not. As a result of this experience, he always kept that deck of cards close-by, even though he was unable to acknowledge why. Since then, Ionacu threw himself into his acting with a zeal unlike ever before. It was around this time father decided to put Ionacu to work in his arcane experiments. Ionacu’s father, Ursion was actually a conjurer and expert in the outer planes in service to one of Cheliax’s noble houses. It was a type of magic that involved dealing with devils. Here he learned the importance of negotiation. Devils negotiated in blood and one could not afford to be sloppy in these dealings. He started working alongside his father and his imp familiar since he was 14. He grew to despise his work, developing an especially potent hatred for his father’s familiar. At 16, he formed an acting troupe with Gabradon as he continued to go to school and assist. A year later, he was a fully fledged bard. He completed his training with Gabradon and his troupe of colorful characters, and through acting, Ionacu, became a proud carrier of the Chelish bardic tradition, and mastered his first spells. These spells became necessary as the further Ionacu got into acting with his troupe, the more often they had to mingle with certain elements of low society; tieflings, half-breeds, adventurers, thieves, whores, and the like. This was mainly to avoid people who had contact with Ionacu’s father, but also as a form of method acting, as he was told that it was best to observe some of these ‘characters’ in their natural environment. His observations made him good at telling people what they wanted to here. Not only did he interact with the common folk in taverns, but as his role as his father’s assistant increased at 17, he became involved in court life. While he disliked court life, it was something he gained an understanding of. Ionacu knew how to play his role in the Chelaxian court as a new up and coming preacher and diabolist. He even dressed the part. Even though he did not care for this life, he saw it as a necessary evil if he wanted to get ahead. One day he finally got a big break. He got the attention of a wealthy noblewoman with connections to the opera. Although he was not the best singer, he more than made up for it with his amazing acting talents and charisma. It seemed as his dream would finally come true. It was at this opera he met the beautiful and talented rising actress Noveria. He was enraptured by her the minute he saw her. They quickly got acquainted and Ionacu felt complete for the first time in his life. It did not last long however. It was soon revealed that Noveria only pretended to take interest in him to sabotage his career before it could get started. She succeeded. In his first big audition, everything that could go wrong did. He showed up late, his lines were replaced, and the theatre just seemed to collapse upon him. His father also found out about his activities and Noveria took the lead role and ran off with another man. Ionacu was devastated and has had issues with trust ever since that incident 4 short years ago. The young actor became more determined than ever to bury himself in his work. Ursion saw Ionacu’s activities as a betrayal of his trust and completely disowned him. He was cut off from all family resources; include his father’s will and considerable influence in the society. He was even forbidden to use his father’s last name, so Ionacu took his mother’s last name. This made life even more difficult for him as this way everyone new he was not of pure Chelaxian blood. And the empire looked down of those whose ancestry was from out of this land. Suffice to say his career hit its lowest point. He rejoined Gabradon and his troupe. Ion was forced to act for pennies and squatted in the abandoned buildings of the slums of Westcrown. He spent his nights drinking in dockside taverns of ill-repute. He went from being surrounded by nobles and sages to spending his time with the dretches of society. For Ionacu this proved to be both a test of his mettle and a learning experience. He started carrying around a short sword and bow for protection and used magic to knock out any would be assailants. Meanwhile, the city was on edge due to recent events. With the shadows and the crime rates of Westcrown having the law enforcement more vigilant than usual, the paranoia began to infect him. Without money or influence, he could not survive long enough in Cheliax to get his career back on track. It was as simple as that. Ionacu began consolidating his contacts in both high and low society. He took a loan from a young woman in one of Westcrown’s noble families, but soon found himself in debt to them, and they did not have a reputation as being forgiving. In debt and cut off from Chelaxian society, and viewed as an outsider by what he saw as his own people, Ionacu became desperate and began to rely on funds acquired from both friends and distant relatives as he spent his time in taverns filled with rough people. As the tension in the districts of Westcrown rose, he could not shake the feeling that it had something to do with him. Even stranger, it almost felt as if his mother’s deck of cards was trying to tell him things. Ionacu knew something odd was going on behind the scenes and he had to find out. So in debt and cut off from his influential family, he looked for a way to prove himself and get himself out of this hole he’s dug for himself. A few weeks ago he got a letter inviting him to come to Varisia to learn the secrets of a Varisian magic tradition called ‘the Harrow’, which has some connection to his deck of cards. With uncertainty in his heart and a need to put the past behind them, he heads to Varisia to confront the country’s most famous circle of mages—the Cyphermages. Next stop: Riddleport. Who knows, he might even get some inspiration for his own theatrical script.

Ionacu appreciates the way of life Chelaxian rule has made possible, even though some of his acquaintances in the taverns harbor bizarre ideals of personal freedom. He sees this as unrealistic. He values his own freedom to drink and be merry and finds slavery distasteful, but a fundamental change in Westrown would go against what he loves about being a citizen of Cheliax. To him the best way to appreciate what it means to be a citizen of Westcrown is through art and culture. Without order, the things he loves dearest are simply would not take place. A revolution is hardly the place for an opera. Ionacu considers himself a patriot, though that did not extend to his worship of Asmodeus, not that he isn’t eager to pay lip service to the deity when the right people are around. He actually doesn’t really care for any kind of deity, regarding as the divine as a distraction from the current world. This is why being disowned has wounded him so much. Not that he is blindly opposed to every kind of change. He has a hard time trusting people as a result of recent events, but never shows it. Ionacu acts nice, friendly, even playful, even though he still possesses the scheming, distrustful attitude that has characterized his people for centuries. He built his identity upon deception, which means never letting people know what’s really going on in your head. Ionacu knows there is something up recently, and fears it may have something to do with him somehow. He is heavily in debt, cut off from his diabolist wizard or his father, and swears that a deck of cards is trying to somehow speak to him.
Ionac’s mixed blood is apparent in his facial features. He has dark skin, dark eyes, and black hair but high cheekbones and an almost cocky, devilish look in his shifting, dark brown eyes. His skin is almost as dark as a full-blooded Varisian man’s. His build and mannerisms are more in line with his Chelaxian countrymen’s. He’s of an average height and somewhat slight build, which enables him to play a wide variety of roles (though knowing some illusory magic doesn’t hurt either). His arms are long, spindly, and graceful. He’s constantly moving his hands as he speaking, making grand, sweeping gestures. His hair is thick, black and wavy, which accentuates the kind of roguish handsomeness he possesses. He keeps it cut short because he feels that people can see more of his face that way. Whenever he moves it is with bravado and showmanship. He even wears a great flowing cape over his expensive garbs. When he isn’t wearing the colorful clothing or nobles or entertainers, he wears dark leather, meant to slow any assassin’s blades that may be lurking behind the corners of Westcrown. Wherever he goes he carries a short sword, a journal, and a strange deck of cards unlike any cards one would find in Cheliax.

playing an elf helps somewhat as far as the plot goes later on for example. To the point where one person running said they should have the chars be elves or at least half-elves

Family is and has been for the longest time what drives Ogrin to do what he does. Some of the things Ogrin did were not very pleasant, but it was all with the higher goal of keeping the family and community safe and together.
Ogrin didn’t always have such a strong sense of community. In fact in his childhood years, he felt like sort of an outcast. He was born prematurely to a tradesman and the Ivory Quarter of Karlsgard, which would have awarded him some kind of status except he never fit quite in due to his small size and little aptitude for the traditions of a traditional Ulfen upbringing. He couldn’t swing swords or sail boats like the rest of them. Eventually the bigger and stronger ones picked on him, so he retaliated by being far more cunning. He hid, he took cheap shots and showed little mercy, though he eventually took things a little too far when he nailed one boy in the eye with a pebble, causing some serious damage. He was brought to the priest of Erastil for disciplinary action. While he expected some form of nasty punishment possibly involving being struck with a big branch or having to scrub chamberpots, they explained to him the importance of having self-restraint for the good of the community. While most of their lectures through one ear and out the other, he began to try and see the good in people. Erastil was the god of family and community; while he didn’t take to his community, he did place high value on family and in a sense some of the members of his community were like family too. He calmed down considerably when he was about 12. He became interested in more scholarly and philosophical pursuits. The followers of Erastil eventually trained him to be quite the shot with the bow. His father was impressed with the work the followers did with the boy, and thought that his only son might make a decent warrior yet. For despite his father’s façade of a humble tradesperson, both him and Ogrin’s mother hailed from a lineage of warriors. His mother may have been an ex-adventurer, but she never talked about it. For his 15th birthday, they gave him a bow with his clan’s coat of arms and motto engraved on it: “First and last in battle”. While proud, Ogrin’s true goal was to enter the priesthood of Erastil. He didn’t in fact believe he could be a real bowman, even if he wanted to—which he didn’t. He still didn’t have the robust appearance of many of the other youths. He couldn’t move with the same speed, master same sword technique or act with same aptitude in the wilderness like some of the others could in his mind. What he did have though, was conviction—or an unwavering stubbornness. As stubborn as he was he didn’t want to publicly go too far against what was the way things were done in his community or bring dishonor to his family through his disobedience. He knew even the oldest preachers would pick up arms and fight if they had to. Nevertheless he ignored this unpleasant fact of life and kept striving to be a preacher, though for whatever reason he was never quite as approachable as the others. There was always a bit of this lingering hostility he had from his perceived ‘otherness’. He threw himself into studying all the intellectual aspects of religion, and even though he gained some understanding of them, he could never quite form coherent arguments as he got angry far too easily. He was simply unwilling to compromise on any of his viewpoints or values most of the time. He learned much about other religions, creatures that Erastil’s warriors would have to combat, the history of his people, and even stranger topics such as the outer planes themselves, but he never quite mastered the art of preaching itself. It became apparent that his knowledge of their enemies and their history wasn’t enough to prove himself as a devotee of his god, so he elected to worship Old Deadeye through actions rather than words. He got his chance to do so, though not in a way that anyone would have wanted. His drunken scoundrel of a cousin had an affair with a strange and foreign woman of low standing, bringing much embarrassment to his family. The woman had expensive tastes and drove his cousin to steal and raid for money. Ogrin tracked down his cousin, unsure of what he would do when he found him. It was still his blood, though as long as he was there, he brought dishonor to his family and disorder to the community, which he could not let stand. He approached his cousin, and told him to leave the city, never to return. His cousin laughed in his face, at which point Ogrin pulled out an arrow and said his cousin could leave town on his feet or crawling on his knees. He was dead serious. And perhaps it was the intervention of Erastil guiding his words or maybe in that moment he truly became a man, but for that reason Ogrin was able to move his own blood out of town through words. He was conflicted by the decision at first, but then he reconciled his actions with the fact that he did it for the greater good, and most importantly, he did it for family. He continued trying to enforce order in the community behind the shadows, and while the church knew and wasn’t entirely comfortable with everything he did, they trusted him to make his own decisions at that point. The young Ogrin continued to police secretly and spy on those he considered enemies of the community using the newfound power granted by his god. Fortunately, he managed to do so without actually using violence. He still had not been exposed to much live or death combat, and was still quite content on continuing his studies with the clergy. That was until, a tragedy struck which showed just how far he would need to go to protect his loved ones.
One rainy summer night, one of his father’s friends told him that some raider from a Land under another King’s jurisdiction had assaulted Ogrin’s sister. While enraged, he managed to remain calm enough to head straight to the church of his god. Rever, the oldest preacher of Erastil and the one he consulted with the most, let out a heavy sigh and told Ogrin “You and I both know the penalty for this crime in these lands. I only pray you will find the temperance to treat your prey honorably.” So Ogrin left, bow in hand and tracked the man to the outer reaches of town. He was a little sloppy that time. He stepped on a twig, but before his quarry could turn around and pull out his blade, he put two arrows in his back and another arrow in the man’s chest just to make sure. In his mind this first kill was not vengeance, but justice. And once again, he did it for family. He made sure the people in charge thought it was bandits, though in time everyone in the district knew the truth. In time his community would call down on him to put down threats. Instead of going to the guard, they would go to the Erastil worshippers. In time, an axe wielding dwarven ex-member of the guard joined him with a strange foreign woman with unusual abilities. He went from hunting elk and rabbit with his comrades in the church to hunting down violent criminals and cultists. Whenever someone in the community was wronged, it was up to Ogrin to right these wrongs in the shadows. An old woman’s son was killed here, a gnome was having trouble with cultists on his land there, all these members of his community would approach Ogrin and tell them their problems while he listened in silence. He eventually gained respect within the violent crowd within the community who shunned him earlier in his life. By his late teens he parted ways with the dwarf and the foreign women, but he was drinking with the rest of the warriors whenever he had a free night from his studies in the church. He would go on to get a position in the town guard, due to some strings pulled by his wealthy family. While this was a great honor, it would mean Ogrin would have to put his dream on hold, but once more, he did it because family and tradition demanded it. This didn’t go as well as he would have liked however as Ogrin was too stubborn to fully follow the way of the guard. He considered the laws of his god about them, but his position lead to a rift developing between Ogrin and his fellow worshipers. He didn’t like his position, but a lot of the members of the community he was born and raised in liked him there, so he persevered because some things had to come above his own happiness. Though one day, out of nowhere, another tragedy struck. His parents were injured in a hunting accident. A wolf got the jump on them and his mother lost so much blood she went unconscious, while his father lost his hand trying to fight it off. They were so badly damaged, even his powers couldn’t heal them. Since then Ogrin has had a particular dislike of wolves.
While he suspected it was not really an accident, it didn’t matter because he hand no leads. He was the oldest son and his elders were incapacitated. In short: he needed money. The other worshippers looked down on him for on the surface changing his goals from protecting the community to the acquiring of gold, but Ogrin knew that he could not support his family of 6 through helping the farmers or his meager guardsman’s salary. He still constantly consulted with Rever, but the old man was too tired to defend him from the others. Not that Ogrin felt that the aging preacher should. He did not do what he did because it made him look good on the surface, but because he was a man now, anyone who did any less was less than a man. Still, at age 19 it was quite a burden put on his shoulders in addition to his regular duties. He began hiring himself out for whatever kind of jobs he could find, around taverns or on the roadways, but he never really ventured too far from Karlgard, as he felt it was his duty to take care of his community even if supporting his family meant venturing away from it. Even if he looked like he was turning his back on what he held most dear. He managed to track down his old companions, Grom the dwarf and Rin the foreign woman. The two had become quite accustomed to the adventuring life, which Ogrin didn’t particularly like or understand, but he trusted them, so he ventured with them into the wilderness along the river where they planned on putting down some raid in the lair of some sort of fey sorcerer rumored to keep a massive treasure. Ogrin managed to skewer quite a few mites, and they managed to reach the bottom of the lair, but the treasure was not nearly as big as they had hoped. They parted ways once again after this. All the venture really did was buy Ogrin time to make some real money. His companions suggested the idea of joining a caravan crew, which he did not take to but he later heard of great riches to be found in lands such as Tian Xia or Varisia from the local foreign population in Karsgard. With jobs drying up and the local populace beginning to distrust him, it became clear he had to leave to support his clan. He tried to avoid venturing too far at first, but ventures to the nearby towns paid meagerly. He returned to his old duties of tending to the farmers and hunters with the rest of his faithful, while keeping his eyes open for new opportunities. His family’s status and well-being were slipping, and in a couple years time Kalsgard would likely become very chaotic due to the rumors of its leader going away to die on some kind of pilgrimage. Despite his intense love of his people, there were times he doubted the merits of a system of government based on Vikings lopping off Linnorm heads. For both his family and community he needed a great deal of gold, and he hoped that perhaps a long journey away would aide him in the future if he learned a new trick or two on this journey. The only solace he would have is that his younger brother, Igar and Rever would take care of things while he was gone—right after he tied a couple of loose ends.
Ogrin is a young man who takes pride in his community and what he does for his community. The fact that his god doesn’t seem as popular in his homeland these days has not dampened his love of both. Worshipers of Erastil are a stubborn lot, having been around for thousands of years, and Ogrin is no exception. He presents a very gruff exterior and seems far more stoic than someone his age should be. He is sometimes a little quick to advocate a forceful solution, he rarely acts smiles, and constantly plays the role of the martyr, sacrificing his own wellbeing for that of his community. These qualities intensify the further he gets away from his people. Inside his community he’s a little less mopey, occasionally known to have the occasional drink and even crack a laugh every now and then. Behind this stern façade beats the heard of a family man. He doesn’t show it, but he is in fact surprisingly sentimental. Whenever he’s away from home, he’s constantly writing letters to friends and family members. He loathes to show this side of him to strangers, as they may take it as a sign of weakness. Ogrin simply doesn’t see himself getting attached to people outside of his community. New things and new places always make him visibly uncomfortable, even if he keeps his mouth shut most of the time.

Ogrin is a pale skinned man just out of his teens with brown hair and big dark, shifty eyes affixed in a constant scowl. The young man always either looks fixated on something and angry, or morose and staring off into the distance. His hair is always long and unkempt and he likes to wear hooded cloaks and leather for practical reasons. His clothing style is surprisingly simple for someone from the well-heeled part of town. Ogrin is short with long arms and small delicate hands which aid in his precision in combat. He has an unimposing build due to his odd stature, but his gaze can send chills down peoples’ spine. Despite looking softer in a lot of ways than most people in the Land of the Linnorm Kings, he has the hard eyed, scowling appearance who is always willing and capable of committing violence.

This is the story of Kano Brahl, avatar of Kukailimoku, the God that Seizes Lands, slayer of the Great Prophet Chief, raider of ships, Prince of Demon's Maw, and Warboss of the Brahl Clan, son of Haku Speaks-With-Fire, son of Ano the Unsulied, descendant of Kaleo, the Thunder Eater. Kano was born into a clan who was lead by a chief who claimed to have visions of the future. These visions granted the tribe victory in battle. His father was the chief's adviser and a shaman who channeled the fire spirits in his mind. The tribe used fire and club to carry out raids on other tribes. Like many tribes in the region they were fine sailors and vicious warriors. Kano was a large boy with a penchant for fighting. Since the day he proved himself a man and got his tattoos he saw himself as a warrior with no equal. One day a hermit who worshipped a different deity witnessed the young Kano's arrogance. This short, feeble looking middle aged man challenged Kano to a duel. Kano laughed, but somehow the hermit came out on top. His spear strikes bounced off him, his strength was used as against him as the hermit took Kano's movements and used him to drive a divinely guided club into Kano's face. This hermit was another tribe's priest who had been banished. He told Kano he had seen the face of the war god, and as long as Kano mistook strength for power, Kano would never beat him in battle. It was not enough to train for war physcially, but one had to understand war on a spiritual level. This is what the old hermit preached to Kano. This is how Kano learned the ways of the great god Kukailimoku; Seizer of Lands. Kano trained with the hermit until he died and the hermit told Kano it was his destiny to serve as avatar of Ku. Kano accepted this destiny joyously, but when he returned to his tribe, he found the tribe in chaos. The Great Prophet Chief burned all those in his inner circle at the stake, and declared himself a god. When Kano confronted the chief, the chief insulted his ancestors, and for Kano that was something he could not abide. He was descended from great warriors such as Kaleo the Thunder eater and great shamans such as Ano the Unsullied. Kano felt obliged to test this claim, and called upon Ku's power and slayed the Great Prophet Chief in front of everybody. When a new chief took over, Kano was given the role of Warboss, and as the tribe grew, he was given dominion over a small, trecherous region called Demon's Maw. It is there he stays when he is not wandering the island spreading the word of Kukailimoku. For the first time in years the tribe stopped fighting, making his role as warboss more symbolic than anything else.

Kano Brahl believes in speak softly and carry a big stick, and when he speaks softly, he gets up close, nearly hissing through his teeth as he leans in to impose over people. He will even do this to anyone taller than him. He carries himself with an aura of importance. Despite his barbaric appearance and foreign manners, he is actually quite inquisitive and curious about the world around him. Kano never passes up a chance to learn about other peoples and never forgets a friend. Although his beligerence is born out of necessity in his mind, he does enjoy a good fight as he sees one as a potential story to pass on to his descendants. Kano seems potentially dangerous to anyone outside of his home in the Obsidian Islands. His ilk actually have a bad reputation that could be partially deserved as raiders and cultists. It doesn't help that his religion used to perform human sacrifice.

Physical Description: Kano Brahl is a large dark skinned man covered from head to toe in tattoos. He's broad, bulky, and even a little bit corpulent. He wears a garmet resembling a kilt and in general shows a lot of skin in his armor. His hair is medium length and dark while his dark eyes are in an intense yet stoic looking gaze.

Thron was born into one of the most prestigious dwarven noble families of the time. Being born the youngest son of a wealthy dwarven nobleman, he was destined for the priesthood, one of the finest honors any self respecting dwarf could ask for. He was tutored by the Abadaran clergy. As the god of commerce, Abadar was the patron deity of Thron's noble house. His father Rohaim, was a powerful merchant of noble birth with a far reaching reputation. His father's prowess in business was legendary, as well as his lust for gold. Eventually this lust for gold would come to be the downfall of young Thron's family. The great merchant king Rohaim's greed escalated into a form of madness. He surrounded himself with gold and suffered from delusions of grandeur. Rohaim declared himself The Merchant King and his sons princes. The leadership grew wary of his increasingly erratic behavior. For years Rohaim's gold controlled the nobility while Thron watched helplessly in his father's shadow. Meanwhile, Thron's own influence was beginning to increase rapidly. Thron aided his dwarven brothers both in the battlefields and in the church itself. He became trained in all manner of combat like all self-respecting Drumans, but he decided that his place was in the church. Nevertheless some church officials implied that Thron was merely a tool of his power hungry father. He dismissed these rumors and cut off contact with the old man, but couldn't help be concerned. One night confirmed his concerns, when he got wind of a plot to take his father out. The old man had simply become too much of a threat. He holed himself up in his makeshift throne and spread corruption throughout the kingdoms. He funded plunders and mercernaries, while bribing every echelon of the society. While Thron had risen to the rank of Bishop, he had turned a blind eye to the problems of his clan, and thus brought disgrace to his people. He ran to his father's headquarters as fast as he can. His father greeted him with open arms, but their reunion was cut short when his throneroom was set aflame to flush him out. Hastily he gathered some of the artifacts his father surrounded himself with. He was outnumbered by these would-be assasins, so he made up for it using the vast number of magical equipment gathered from his father's greed against them. His father handed him his ancestral headware, the crown of swords, passed down from his ancestors. With the crown of swords and his protective rings and cloaks, he faced down the assasins single handedly. Suddenly, the crown glowed and summoned a great shining sword, which acted on it's own and slew the assasins. With a combination of his superior equipment and divine power, he single handedly slew the assassins, and dragged his father out of his burning throneroom as he kicked and screamed. Unfortunately, Thron knew his family honor was irreperably damaged. His father was thrown in the dungeons. Even with all their wealth and power there was nothing he could do. The rest of his brothers and sisters had died in battle or left the country and his influence was waning. But when the Ironmug clan sent out a call for their people to establish a knew community, Thron answered this call. He pledged his life to the Ironmugs, on the condition that they accept him into their clan. Thron had gained his father's skills in negotiation, and thought of it like any other treaty or contract, and after much deliberation, he was allowed in. He knows the hard part hasn't even started yet, but ambition runs thick in this one's blood.

Description: Thron is considered quite well kempt for a dwarf just past his youngest years. Once one can get past his imposing stature, big meaty hands, and elaborately braided beard, is a man with intense blue eyes and noble, chiseled features. Not one for dressing modestly, he's covered in fine clothes, with a golden colored stoneplate armor, a flowing red cape, and even a matching magical crown.

Thron has a powerful, forceful personality, equally suited to powerful sermons, and savvy negotiations. He is ambitious, if sometimes greedy, and prefers not to wallow in the past. He takes his duties as a religious leader very seriously, though he sometimes seems to flip between a politician, merchant, and spiritual leader. In short--he's pragmatic, and lets loose quite rarely.