*Warning* I do not own the rights nor ownership of the artwork here, nor do I intend to profit as my intended purpose. It is solely for the reader to picture characters how I intended them.





Almar

Pronounced: Ahl-marr

Personality: architect

Quote: "Life is full of disappointment, and to see futile ambitions blind the mind from its potential: that is the greatest tragedy."

"Time is not a toy. You cannot play with it, you cannot out grow it. It will not wither away and break apart. It will continue on until every part of you is taken away by it."

Backstory: born to the king of N'Farr; heaven's chosen people to guide the others who had fallen to a lesser state of being, Almar began his life well. First named Ambrose, Almar was highly intelligent, even for the N'Farr. His genius outmatched most while still being in his youth.

Almar's heart was pure, to which some would say more pure than even the purist of N'Farr, holding fair justice, love, respect, and kindness to all people.

Dragons held a close bond with the N'Farr, more than a hound to a human. Dragons would vary from their elements. While the N'Farr may not had been able to have the same powers as dragons, they developed their own based on their guidance.

Almar, for instance, learned how to make life based entirely from his mind, through the use of clay.

Many powers, however, were taboo. To manipulate the mind of others, altering the future, or to change appearance into whatever they pleased, to name a few.

Almar's power was something unheard of, and could've potentially led to evil if raised poorly.

When tested whether he could remain a N'Farr at the trials held five years after one's birth, he passed beyond even the trials themselves. He knew wrong, yet did not turn to it. He knew right, yet never went astray from it. He loved, cherished, and met fairness to all things with compassion.

No one questioned Almar since, and as his parents hardly took the opportunity to supervise him, he was given that responsibility to his father's brother, his uncle; though in truth to his guardian, an advisor to the king that Almar often snuck away from beyond their notice.

I would imply his uncle was with him every step of the way, but that wasn't actually the case. His uncle was in his young mind. Outside of Almar's mind he did not exist, for what he knew, and he knew not what had become of the man, why the mysterious figure had chosen him.

Some began to notice his suspicious behavior, to in their eyes speak to himself, seeing him continue to perfect his powers not for the sake of good, but of selfish gain. In response, he was put on the trials once more despite the denial of a reason to by his parents.

Regardless of the suspicion, he went through it without a single error, presenting his perfection once more.

The suspicious N'Farr, by then dumbfounded, destined they would capture Almar in the act of imperfection.

One night, he created under the moonlight's glow a grasp of what would possibly become the future. It was through clay, small figures fighting each other, of humans and dragons alike, with a city burned to the ground. Upon the end of it all, the candle that lit the table blew to darkness, and to Almar's left he spotted an open door, footsteps hastening away to a muffled call.

The risk of Almar's downfall was constantly leading a step above, crawling until the fate was met.

Almar's uncle understood this, and realized he had to act in keeping the both of them safe. The next morning, everyone woke to the sound of many screams; the king and queen had been killed! To Almar's dismay, he was accused of being a member who participated in the murder, and was thus banished from his true home, when in truth he did nothing.

Sent away from everything he knew, he found himself awakened by the sounds of a city, an unfamiliar smell, the feeling of cold and pain in his step, something the N'Farr never felt. His perfection was taken away from him, his powers forgotten.

He was only a child, no more than seven, alone in the human world without a grasp of who he was or where he came from.

Walking the streets alone, many often looked his way and felt sorry for the boy, but held no place for him. Over time, a young couple found him alone on the streets while journeying home at night. They took him in. The wife couldn't bare a child, and thus believed Almar was who she was destined to have: a son.

His new name was given: Almar. He lived his life well, though growing up in a rather poor town home inside the Capitol: Lorlyn. As time went on, he learned more about his past, something he should not had been aware of if punished fairly by the N'Farr. He gained his powers back, though only slightly, and heavily divided by notice. It wasn't until he came of age that he truly grasped what his powers were --- that he was no mere human.

Despite knowing full well that he wasn't one of them, he, when given consent by his adopted parents, decided to travel the country side and show the world his unique gifts, to find a way to help people with it.

Popularity soon struck rich in his favor, so much so that the monarchy of his kingdom became concerned of a possible rebellion. Almar led with his voice, wise and strong willed, and with a heart purer than a child. Those in charge had every right to fear him, as the masses praised his name as though he were a king.

The king of Lorlyn sought his council, and by the lead of both him and his vassals, they aimed to frame him.

They sent out spies to know of his origin, to find out what laws he could've broken, and to use it against him.

They found nothing, yet they discovered where he came from.

Returning home after his long travels across the country, he met his family once more. Resting that night, to once again dream of his past, he felt a weight of fear overtake him.

He saw his true mother being killed by his hand, his father's blood dripping below his feet as his tears fell on top of them, and to see himself fall down into an abyss of darkness from a beautiful place of light: the land of the N'Farr. A group of many holy beings stood around him in judgment as they slowly faded away to the void.

He woke in a cold sweat, fearful, on the edge of his bed.

It was early morning then, the sun was only a faded light in the horizon --- far beyond the mountains. He opened his room door, to meet something he could never had been prepared for. Both of his parents, who loved him dearly and he to them, dead on the floor boards. Their bodies were covered in clay, within their mouths and on their skin.

Almar screamed at the top of his lungs; in shock yet terrified at the same time, wide eyes and running out of his home with a quick pace.

Others noticed him, guards assigned to capture him when witnessing the foul sight. They called for each other to go after him, shouting to be certain the other townsfolk would hear that Almar had killed his family.

He left the city, running to the country side without a clue where to free himself to, accused of a wrong he did not commit.

Armies were sent out to find him, to make him pay for his supposed act. Almar knew not how to control his powers, and thus to every possible threat that surrounded him as he traveled in the wilderness, all were killed in the wake of it.

Running and running, a path with no end. Where could he had gone to be safe, after all? There was no one left for him to turn to, causing him to turn further into madness.

He hid away in a cave below dirt and grass one night, a barren hole to which a bear likely held as a sanctuary prior to him. In the faded light above, he saw feet shading away the light: legs and feet covered in chainmail and leather steel boots, with a spear against the ground; widening his eyes and summoning roaring beats in his heart.

"Down here!" Was their call, sending a fully armored man to take off his helm to see their culprit, pointing a torch down the hole, a blinding light to his horrified face.

They claimed they meant well, to bring him up into safety, but Almar was no fool. The other side of himself struck out into his hands, sending clay shards into the man's chest, past his chainmail and gambeson coat, pushing him back. The clay went deep in the man, choking and drowning him from the inside out; screams of agony a volume sending all the men beside the man to nearly piss themselves.

"Stay back!" Almar had returned, a terrified plead from a dangerous being. "I know not what I am."

The early morning turned to evening, to night and days beyond. The men waited and waited with impatience, having to remind themselves why they were even there. All for the sake of freeing him from that hole, but to no avail. Eventually, as he finally went to rest beyond his power, he was captured.

Waking up in a metallic box sealed without a single glimmer of light and hope from the outside, he was pushed back and forth by cart without a voice to return his pleads of safety and his unfulfilled promise. His "freedom", to just be an act as he thought all along.

He was placed on a boat, for he could hear waves outside with gulls flying above screeching their highly pitched calls. Never to escape the box, he was sent by boat in the hope of reaching the ends of the earth, to extinguish him over its edge with a fall of water and any sight of light.

That however, was not what happened. The people hoped he would be forgotten, never to see life again and never to be spoken of in more than tales as the enemy. He woke one morning weeks later, bumped against a shoreline with unfamiliar voices becoming clear to him. "These voices?" He would question, recognizing the names, the tone and where they originated. He had reached N'Farr, his home!

To his dismay, he could hear them speaking of him, a wretched being they were glad to had seen perish. They laughed, they cheered, perfect beings considering him impure when he in truth never meant or did any wrong.

With that treachery blinding his thoughts came a sudden urge, a burst of fury bottled up with so many isolated days at sea and from love. He escaped his cage, still ignored by a feast he was not invited to partake, leaving the place promising himself he would return.

He made it back to Faulon's shores weeks later, searching for a place he could seek refuge for the time being.

Around him he saw a people of wickedness, a people that rejected love and took passion in its enemy. They raped, they murdered. Songs were sung to mock great people, and songs to praise those who were in power but far from good. Every innocent hand he took to greet all stared and went away in fear of him. Evil flourished, good hid away in terror of the world they lived in.

He stumbled in his heart, swaying to where it should choose its next step. Walking alone with not even a bed to rest on and consider home, he met Zerethia.

A valley unused for its fearful appearance, it was ultimately a misunderstood land that he took as his friend. He continued on in its shadowy abyss unclear where he was headed and where he stood in his heart. His mind soon overtook him in his stay there, powers being trained and reinforced.

Time went on, and his mind soon turned to the very thing he feared.

He created his first man puppet, a copy of himself controlled by his mind. Soon, his knowledge and power overwhelmed his sense of decency, and he recalled his promise to return to N'Farr. Many years had already gone by at that point, and his ever desperate desire overtook him, sending his madness across the sea once more.

He took his first steps on his home once more, N'Farr, with confused and frightened faces seeing Ambrose again. The place held a shield guarding itself from the wicked world, yet Almar crossed its doorway to the inside, a sign saying he was worthy to enter. They called his name in confusion and worry, guilt overtaking them for seeing what had become of him by his punishment, seeing then that it was undeserved. The damage was already done, however, and it was far too late for him to go back simply to redeem and seek their love once more.

He sent with him all his rage, all his pain, his madness, his fear. Within only ten blinks, everyone on that island was dead, bodies left with blood dripping out of them, the light shield from the outside world shattered, letting the elements overtake the perfect domain.

He left that place thereafter, returning to Zerethia for the last time.

A near thousand years went by, and his anger only grew. His powers had overwhelmed him, creating an army strong enough to conquer all the land and people that dwelled in it.

Despite bringing an end to what haunted his dreams, those same dreams only grew, resounding in his mind with an everlasting truth. Each glimpse of himself in a reflection was changed to something in the past, a horrid scene. Each thought of success turned to failure and hatred of the world.

He was free from what threatened him..no longer caged with an iron seal and wicked kings..yet he still remained in shackles...

His heart was made blind, his spirit turned to dust in the wind. What was left of mercy and care held as much worth as a storm's, unpredictable and destructive.

That was his final existence, a pure heart broken into chaos.



Carrion Waverly

Pronounced: Carr-ee-en

Personality:

Quote: "People change...it isn't like everyone will stay the way we want them to."

Backstory: Born of noble birth, Carrion began his life in a minor lord's castle held by his father, Lord Avaren Waverly. Lord Avaren was a man of kindness, taking consideration of the downtrodden; helping the desperate get back on their feet, not caring about social class to determine worth in people. It was, however, that same sense of decency that sprung about an array of oppositions.

It first began with the outrage associated with him pardoning criminals that in his eyes were unjustly misunderstood. Then, to marrying a peasant woman named Alicia.

Alicia was seen in his eyes as nothing short of the perfect woman. She could not so easily be corrupted by wealth or beauty. She only took favor in kindness and care for others, which unfortunately was why she remained in the state she was, empty of pocket and acceptance.

Avaren discovered her in a tavern as he hid his true identity, seeing her nearly get taken to be used by a group of soldiers held in command by another lord, to which he held them back by his own soldiers that kept him guarded. With the then discovered four soldiers fled from the scene, Avaren took a chair by her and asked who she was; this time of course without his guards to discourage her from him and his unknown titles.

She was a tavern performer to men's desires, a maid so quickly consumed as an object, for she had no family aside from her sister Lena: fourteen at the time, and her twenty.

Of course, as their conversation went on she stated she would've much preferred work in anything aside from that, but for a family lost to war and sickness, her only home was bought off by the local lord where she originated. After all, no man supervised it with the discovery of her father's death.

Alicia admitted she went by many names, choosing not to say her true one after multiple attempts to convince him of different names that belonged to her, for he could see in her eyes the insincerity of them.

He claimed he'd take her away from that life then and there, grabbing her frail worn hand. She rejected his offer, swiping her hand away and replying that she could never leave her sister or those she cared for in that village.

Avaren decided to give her one simple plead; bring all of those she cared about to him. Hesitant as first, stuttering with the certainty to her voice and his meaning, fearful to where his request could lead for them...she accepted.... Each one arrived in the same tavern, possibly fifteen at least. He took each one of them on horse back to his home promptly, leaving their things behind and guarded.

As they continued down the road either in a cart or steed, they witnessed his home under an evening sun's shine of late autumn; the stone bricks stable and high above them when entering its gate. Possibly fifty men came to greet him as he continued to his rooms.

Realizing unprepared, he had forgotten to establish things to present them with. After all, they hardly ever bathed. Simply walking into his entrance came a stench of smoke, dirt, sweat, and muck. They were ordered to remove their shoes, sending servants to bathe each one of them in turns. After they were cleaned, they were given perfumes, hair cuts, new robes for similar work, and a gift for each one of them.

Avaren's advisers considered his motives unwise, especially considering those peasants belonged to another local lord, a village west of his own. Avaren rejected all of their pleads.

At the end of their stay, vintage wine taken in decent share along with fine fatty meat and breads with unfamiliar spices from imports, Avaren gave one final remark.

"You must return home. The crack of dawn awaits you."

Above the crowd then devoted to silence, he gave a question.

"What do you seek? A better world, a better home? Might there be one thing I can leave you with, to then know not all nobles are unwilling to give?"

Each one remained mostly silent, talking among each other.

Eventually, decided among all of them, they claimed they wanted nothing, and that his hospitality was already enough to give them hope in such a people beyond their reach. This was enough for Alicia to sway to his favor, and both her and her sister were treated well, not to return home, for her sister begged she remained there.

While Avaren may not had been much of a romantic, he tried what he could to impress her, but discovered simple gestures could be portrayed by even the most untrue of interests, of lying suitors. Thus, he made his way to her heart by understanding her perspective, making all of her needs met and allowing her the freedom and safety she never had before, and trust to someone she hardly knew at the start.

Avaren claimed he would marry her, and while she was difficult at first to persuade, he made his way to her heart, together forming a bond considered taboo of sorts. Other noblemen were outraged at his choice of a wife, as he had been asked countless times to marry high born ladies from local lords, for he was still young and handsome to many young suitors.

Months went by, and eventually it was discovered she was pregnant. It was expected to be Avaren's, and as soon as the baby came to his loving hands after birth, he knew it to be so.

Derek within that time decided he wanted to marry Alicia's sister, Lena. The rebellion in Lorlyn had only recently begun, and Derek already had his eye on her the moment he met her at Avaren's home.

With time Lena grew fond of Derek as well. He was free at heart despite his strict background, always treating her well. Eventually, the two were bound by love's knot: Lena and Derek were made wed. The wedding celebration held little truth to it. An alliance to Paldaron on the outside, but in its core of love to the young lady and honor to the lesser lord he befriended in his youth.

For four years the young boy lived happily and safely, but as the world often works; happiness is but a temporary thing.

Rivalries turned to hatred, and soon vassals of Paldaron were appalled of one another, particularly towards house Waverly. Avaren was often easily persuaded by many beyond his notice, blinded by trust. Thus, when trying to reestablish support from nearby vassals, that "trust" was broken.

The handle of sheathed swords were placed in the grasp of his rivals at his dinning hall. Three high born men, envious of Avaren's favor, snuck their own soldiers to secretly replace Avaren's, preventing him from protection in the case of dueling three men at once with only a Paldar arming sword to defend himself.

Aware of his danger, he raised his voice for the whole castle to hear of his arriving fate, sending Alicia in a panic to take her child out the castle gates on horseback, his servants guiding them on with everything they could need, for they too knew of his danger, for no cry had ever arrived with such terror in volume from him.

While the body was never seen again, she knew his death was already made true. They took a wagon to the sea, to the port of Lindale; a journey north to Frostford, the most northern of all cities of Lorlyn.

It was a two week voyage, and by that point she could not hold back the truth from her son. His father was dead, a battle he fought for the sake of his family, for the both of them.

At their arrival to Frostford, a new life without Avaren was still something the boy could not allow himself to accept. Heart broken, he beat his head with tears struck down his face against a rickety wooden table.

Avaren thought Frostford was a safe haven from his enemies. He held an estate there as well, servants tending to it, and even a guild of craftsmen following under his name. Each day Alicia promised the boy they would be safe, that their new life would hold just as much luxury as the last, but it was too late.

There they stood, a guild trashed and abandoned, nothing but rats and termites to greet their arrival. With knowing of their leader's death, the remaining money was lost through trade, taken by Avaren's enemies. It seemed many took part in turning that place into a ruin in such a small amount of time.

Days went by, money growing ever so thin. She was losing any way to stay in the local tavern, already a place not suitable for both widowed women and little children. After all, the money she was given was meant to be temporary. Food that was once abundant became only scraps, a life the boy was never prepared for. Complaints of hunger went on for days many times, and Alicia knew she had to do something about it.

Then came an introduction of sorts: her body once strong and capable was made crippled and frail. She was diseased. A sickness came their way by the time she wanted to help him. It was too late for her.

The boy knew, taught with the same morals as his father and mother, and would not allow death to strike her so soon. He promised her he would find work for her sake, to be at least an assistant for little pay.

He spent an entire day walking the streets looking for that specific desire, the boy by then being nine years old. It wasn't until nightfall, just before a local shop was closed for the night, that he found the chance he wanted.

It took a fair bit of persuasion for such a young boy, but the shopkeeper was convinced. Not once did he speak of his mother and her sickness, for he feared the man would believe he was lying simply to receive better pay, and the fear of her disease being spread.

From then on came a constant cycle of days unbalanced; the good to shine for a moment, then diverged to another of the contrary.

He worked for the sake of his mother. She told him to leave her be; it wasn't his battle to fight, only her own. He simply could not allow such a horrid fate for such a pure heart. People would come by at the shop he worked at, attempting to grow a connection with him, but he feared anything he did in favor with others would only make matters worse for him and his mother. The risks in his eyes were far too grand a concern.

Days turned to years, and one morning she writhed in agony, with his money spent to help treat her no longer enough. By then he had come to age. He spent far too much of his life for her sake, so much so that he never grew attached to longterm friends, let alone a love interest.

She was his one, his only care in the world then, and to see that his work for her led to nothing was anything but tolerable. It was all for the sake of her, so weak, unable to do more than raise her hand up to rub against his worn face.

In desperation, he admitted to his shopkeeper the truth he held sealed for nine years. In retaliation the man admitted he could not pay him more for her sake. He trusted him greatly, sure, like a son he never had; but it was a sacrifice beyond him to allow.

The boy, then grown up to be a hardworking young man, had no other choice; he had to seek fortune elsewhere, and to no less than one above all the rest: Drakon. Even peasants could become nobles there. Many countries took part in taxing their citizens for members of Drakon's guild to fight their battles.

He left his mother in the aid of his shop keeper, promising for not only him, but for the mother he fought for stability all those years past that he would return soon with what he could provide in full for all their sakes.

After only a year, the young man went up in the ranks rather quickly, for he seemed gifted at the art. Had any member there knew of his true motives, it would be assumed his courage for his mother and his promise made every challenge that much greater an achievement in his eyes, giving him a force of a want beyond what was considered natural. He was by every meaning of the word, unpersuasive, unable to change from his desires. He was determined only to out do himself always for a good no one knew or could understand.

The entire time spent there: through every battle he faced, difficult or otherwise; he only could think of her sake, never to be satisfied with anything people would offer him.

Friendships in his service there, helping people, not once to build a relationship with anyone, just as he had in the past.

A letter came to him two years into the service. In the note it acknowledged the state of his mother. It read that she wished him to see her, for she missed his face and what he's done for her despite her telling him to simply abandon her for the better sake of both of them.

Worried at first glance, then relieved; he struck his path back home, a twenty mile journey south to Frostford. By the time he got there it was evening, the sunset's glow a reflection of the waters of fall cloaked on his bare pale skin, and leaves brushing against the wind to the stone gates and docks of the port. A cool chill ran up his spine in what was the approach of winter.

He knocked on the door of his old master's shop...to no answer.

His eyes were widened. Confused at first, held in disbelief. He knocked once more...then again and again.

He finally gave up on the wait, looking to where she might've gone. The letter said she would be right there, and only a day before had he gotten the letter to begin with. "She couldn't have gone far", he would've thought.

As he rested on the front door thinking where he should turn next, the door was opened, to his disbelief. In a display of happiness, he looked to the greeter. It was his old master.

The man's eyes were filled with dread, as if he saw a ghost. Carrion quickly rushed passed him.

As he entered the man's shop, there the words came pouring out. She was...already buried. An unmarked grave outside the city walls, for no one could afford to grant her any better, for she had no one beyond her son to had loved her.

There he stood, facing a reality he couldn't accept.

"She can't be gone", he thought, eyes widened and full of tears, throat with a soar swallow and pain in his chest. He was...too late.

Haunted by that image, he ran in a panic back to Drakon. In his eyes he feared he'd never see the sight of family again, and was anxious of the thought of even having one.

As a result, he avoided most confrontations, ending with brief answers to curious remarks, such as "I have a question", to which he would reply "Good, I don't have an answer".

Four years went by with the same dangerous tasks, not a single one phasing him, for from then on he felt there was nothing more to live for. To seek happiness would only meet worse tragedies, and thus he become deprived of worth in life...alone....

One early winter, as Carrion returned from yet another tedious fight that children would only dream of partaking in, against many beasts and bandits alike day after day...he witnessed something....

Two children, one looking much more hardy than the other, with blond hair, a dirt covered pale face with determined eyes looking onward to his own. The young frail second child was a complete opposite. An innocent face, looking as though he were but a babe glancing to foreign sights to discover if they were familiar to it, such as the case with many strangers. His brown eyes were large and pure, dark brown hair falling down his face neatly kept despite their supposed situation, yet made wet by melted snow. The two stood by a camp fire, in animal hide worn on each to keep them warm. Never before had Carrion seen such a peculiar sight, a true shift to the hopeless life he felt could never be avoided.

He called them over, asking if they spoke the common tongue, to which they nodded silently. While hesitant, the two looked to each other and spoke in a whispering voice to each other over whether or not to join the two men. After all, dragon armor at first sight was surely peculiar.

They went along, and to every question asked by Carrion were left with only brief answers, just as he often did, leaving him worried they had a similar past.

Gradually, Carrion bonded with the two boys, to which he found out were named Zoran and Theodren.

He thought after first introducing them to the place, that would be the end of it. They would simply take a meal by Carrion's pay, then continue on their path to wherever they were headed. However, as life tends to go, what one expects is hardly ever the outcome. They became members; not necessarily the first to offer such a ludicrous request, them being so young and all...no...but the first to despite their offer achieve quite well in training, to levels only hardened soldiers could often manage.

Surely it was joke! A cruel shift of loyalty by other true members to make his act of charity be seen as foolish. After all, no one he worked with seemed all that fond of him. Quiet, keeping to himself; never able to be understood or reasoned with by even the most passionate in that particular desire: curiosity.

The boys followed him around in often cases, not used to the loud noises and large men. They feared approaching each one except...Carrion.... He just sat alone, his own space no one dared to take a second glance to.

They'd call for him as they sat beside him, onlookers from other tables giving strange glances for their decision. They were unfamiliar of his name.

He'd reply, "I've not a name worth memory. Might as well call me by how I'm known, the rotting meat abandoned by all but horrid things."

Carrion's real name remains to this day a mystery. When asked, sometimes he'd say he'd forgotten, other times he'd simply not answer.

Even in silence the two boys would still sit by him, never to ignore him being by them, never to feel without welcoming by him.

Eventually, the boys complained about their instructor. Zoran in particular felt Carrion would be their only worthy provider of said knowledge. The master himself was hesitant by the thought, but considering them being so young yet achieving to such far limits, it was a gamble he was willing to take.

Before heading out the front gate alone on a mission he took from the quest board, the master called to him. It wasn't often the master would call to anyone, so Carrion stood in place with shock and confusion.

"The boys." He'd say. "They ask only for you. Said you're the only one that can bring them to what they are destined to, out from the weak in the dark, as the youngest would say."

Uncertain how to answer, Carrion turned away from the castle doorway, slowly making his way back, a few glances and muffled whispers of nearby members likely remarking many negative comments, such as the fact he was unqualified.

He was bound then by oath to teach the boys, and to do it well. While he didn't like the idea to begin with, still remaining unapproachable, overtime he began to open up a few of his own doors. To ask where they came from, why they wanted him. Zoran would reply that "only time could find your answer", leaving both of them in silence.

For years and years their bond only grew. Carrion had made his first ever friends, no, a new family! Eventually, the brothers left for a destiny beyond his own. While they of course offered he join them, he by their guidance returned meaning to his life there, and wished to find more people like those boys finally grown up to men.

While for many months that sight was not seen, he stayed hopeful. One day an eyru girl barged into the open door, tired yet eager. Everyone else saw her as insane, an aggressive loner. After proving herself in her first training, she sat alone at the guild hall bustling with people, just as it had every day.

One table with only one member, and with a crack in the wooden seat, two members. There sat Carrion, a lifted hand to her in a greeting.



Derek Kriger

Pronounced: Dur-eck Kreye-gurr

Personality: Brave, honest, just, caring , calm, social, normal.

Quote: "I am only a king by my honor...and that honor will be for nought if I never depart from it. It will be a kingdom divided once more, and I'm certain my life won't be spared the second time."

Backstory: From his earliest memories, Derek lived in a life of luxury always in danger of turmoil. King Rickard, his father, ruled Lorlyn with an iron fist; paranoid of those who disagreed with his ideals. With paranoia, Derek was trained hard and educated just as heavily, each day, from as long as he could remember. There was no relaxation in his life. His father was a skilled fighter (one of the best in the land), so Derek was often trained by him rather than noblemen at his assistance.

He learned to read at a very young age, and to fight even younger. By seven years old he cut the head of a lamb, a sign of his ability to take life, in a tradition passed down by kings (though the standard was usually twelve). Most children would remain in shock from the experience, but not Derek. Derek took no reaction, and at any display of weakness, he would harm himself to prevent it. Discipline was key, a lifestyle he continued to follow even after his father's death.

At age fifteen, a rebellion had struck the land. Half of the nation desired to conquer Greymeria for its valued trade, as King Rickard had created a large array of armies of well established soldiers with various skills and purposes without a use beyond his own paranoia of a war.

Longbow men, light armored mounted archers, medium armored cavalry with lances, and the establishment of the High Guard, whose original purpose was solely for his protection. Shield walls of spearman; heavy footmen with a sword, kite shield, and a short spear with a long sharp tip, as well as a new emblem to remember Lorlyn by.

Before the rebellion, an unauthorized navy sailed during the summer to Port Rave, the southernmost city of Greymeria, resting on the second largest island of the country's many. They blockaded the docks from being made to use, disembarking armies on the docks, fighting in an organized position through each step they took. The Greymer were unprepared, and were completely outnumbered. It was a shock to be sure that they would still not give up their position, and fought to the very end, giving a fair punch to the storm of Loylrn's fleet.

The outrage struck across the entire nation, leading to more conflict as people made their choices on which side to fight for.

His father's reign was cut short, stabbed multiple times in the chest by rebellion sympathizers while he rested. They were his own councilman, and they planned to convince Bradley's son to their ideals, as Bradley was far too unyielding. What they had forgotten, however, was that Derek was no fool to so easily be swayed by what he clearly knew to be treasonous scum. The very day he was crowned king, he made his first order clear; to set those five men despite their noble background to be hanged in front of a peasant audience inside the Capitol. It was war they had started, a war he would conquer with one blade to the backstabber, and the other to the accuser.

He did try to reason with the leadership of Greymeria over the faulty state of the conquest that neither he nor his father enacted, but Greymer were far too difficult to reason with. Lives were already lost, the sacrifices were too great to apologize for a misunderstanding resolved by the punishment of dealing with the rebels himself. He had no proof who began the siege on Port Rave, so all fingers led to him.

The war dealt uncertainty, both for himself as well as other truths. He was a great fighter, beating all lords he faced in duals, either injuring or killing them in the heat of the moment. That wasn't the true issue. In reality, his leadership was weighted by a mountain falling down in his hands, and to his strength he barely overcame that which haunted him. The fear of death and a broken country to spring upon the moment of his absence, seeking to thrive in his grave, an unfinished legacy.

Villages he once visited: familiar faces who bowed and praised in his name, cruelly stolen away from life, wealth, and happiness. It was by his love of the lowborn, of the humble peasants, that sprung up his future marriage, a love so young in a war so aged.

Lena, his future wife and queen of Lorlyn, spent most of her young life as an appeaser of men's desires. She was so desperate for a life to live in a dark world; a world that left her to fend only with an older sister who hardly ever understood, let alone reasoned with.

Carrion's father, Lord Avaren Waverly, controlled a small noble house with a humble beginning. Lena's older sister, Alicia (or Ali) as she would call her, was lifted off from her poverty living, and given shelter in Lord Waverly's home. Derek was friends with Lord Avaren from childhood, even though he was much older than him. Through Avaren's decision to marry Alicia when he was ten, he soon searched out for Lena, who at the time was fourteen.

The war took a massive toll on Derek. Once a humble and happy man that through his discipline triumphed over all odds, became a drunkard who would occasionally sit alone on his throne thinking about a life free from his burden.

Even his children: Avaren (first born; named after his friend), Brea, and twins Darius and Kera; later divided from his love and care, and hardly a spark still burned with his Lena.



Theodren

Pronounced: Thee-oh-dren

Personality: entertainer

Quote: "Listen, forget about what happened in the past. Just because the world may seem bad to you doesn't mean it's always that way. There could even be happiness amongst the battlefield.... Please...just find joy in what you do have."

Backstory: raised in a peasant home at a lord's village, a village for Riversedge; Theodren from his very first days was always one for adventure. In many ways, through training, through teaching, he was little more than a tamed beast. As a child growing up, he often got himself into trouble: fist fights with local trouble making children, duels with sticks. Ultimately his actions were all in the best interest. He never meant wrong in his doings, but only to help whoever it was he was facing or protecting. Eventually he was forced to be an apprentice of a friend of his father, a blacksmith.

The blacksmith taught him patience, understanding, and hard work. He was once like Theodren himself growing up, and knew well what would solve his rebellious nature. He trained him all the crafts: to forge armor of various kinds and origin; boiled leather, gambesons, chainmail, and even steel plate occasionally when the local lord came to demand it. Day by day Theodren's tired arms and sore hands brought him closer to the desire in training to improve his strength, a raw talent he already possessed from birth. At twelve he no longer needed a wheelbarrow to carry his heavy loads. Instead, he did it by hand; often times against his teacher's wishes, just in the sake of saving time from carrying the junky wooden contraption around.

Even swords for the army, maces, spears, arrows and bows alike.

He soon mastered the title of being a "jack of all trades", at the same age.

In the highlight of his youth, evil soon gathered to destroy all the good that came up. It was the rise of the rebellion that same year, of a kingdom divided with lords supporting the King as his loyal vassals, and the order of the Iron Bulls, the enemy, formed of many vassals thirsting for power.

One fall evening while working at the forge, the village bell sung in clanging metallic voice. All the occupants went out from their homes in confusion and worry.

All the men in the village were sent out with their own weaponry kept in their homes in preparation for a fight. Unknowing who, Theodren's father went out to meet alongside the group.

While still too young to fully understand what was before him, all the men gathered to take what they could use from the forge Theodren worked at. They justified that the betterment of the peasants outweighed the Lord's demands.

The militia came to reach around fifty members, some wearing Theodren's forged helms made for the Lord's army, some with arming swords. Many could bring no more than farming tools and throwing stones in leather satchels.

His father demanded he stay back with his mother, that he would face the rebels.

They stood, twenty or more on horse. Some held bows, others lances, but what caused the greatest fear were the torches. They all knew what would arrive next with those fiery beacons.

Their armor was either chained or plated, shielded with the same Iron Bull banner, a banner which shined in the dim sunset fear upon the defenders, with solemn pride in those that held it.

Theodren would not hold back, destined to join his father on the battlefield. His teacher went on along with the others, leaving him alone at the smithy.

As his father walked on towards the inevitable, he demanded his son to promise he would protect his mother and brother. That was his last wish. As the two parted ways, Theodren's eyes filled in horror and confusion, watery and pained by what was beyond his child-like reach.

Theodren cried on, calling for his father, yet still, in silent whispers, called back by his mother as he stood so open to a stampede of men and horses cloaked in metal. He stood in the field between the village homes, on a dirt ground with a few strands of grass still on it.

His mother came running on after him, footsteps silent to the screams and cries of both children and mothers. Every eye was locked, seeing their fathers and husbands die to horse kicks, spear thrusts, arrows, and swords. Blood splattered across the grass field like the end of strong rainfall, stained red in the horses hooves as they galloped slowly into the village, taking any valuables in their homes and burning the rest.

Some children were taken, young wives stolen for their personal entertainment. Their laughs almost outmatched the cries and screams as they came closer, as many died in their wake already turned to a burned corpse, families laying dead on the ground in that same field Theodren just stood in.

The chance was made clear. Though the flames surrounded them on every side, with the only opening guarded by the enemy, one door was made clear. The horses left the back end of the village touched only by the flames. While blinded by smoke, heat, pain, and fear; his mother carried both of them over a burning building of that open area.

She climbed over the ledge, protecting them from the flames and heat with all her remaining strength. Within the smoke and heat, they grew to exhaustion, and as her body burned in their place, they lived.

Come morning her sacrifice was made clear. Her body was burned all the way up to her chest, with liquids melting off from her skin, a body dead and rotting as they shook her and held her hand in the hope she lived.

The rebels were long gone, but the memory could not escape them. Peasant children hardly stood a chance without a family.

In desperation, they set out to the roads and through the woods, living off of what they could find. They continued on and on knowing not where they were going, lost in a wilderness of both trees and emotions.

A seemingly young man's voice was heard among the trees one early morning, standing beside another man close behind when they gathered to look and view. They wore peculiar clothing, scales like that of a dragon, the dragon's under skin woven on their arms and legs. Even a steel helm laminated with that same skin that covered all of their face aside from small holes for their eyes.

One took off their helm, revealing a man with short brown hair, a defined forehead holding concern with his well kept brow. A grin came up on his face, positioning his arm to move in a "come here" welcoming sort of greeting towards them. The brothers looked to each other, unclear if they could trust peculiar looking men.

The man introduced himself to be Carrion. The two boys looked at each other once more with strange stares to such an odd name. Carrion admitted it was not his true name, but he chose to forget his real one not too long before.

They shook hands, and Carrion offered they stay with them until they could get back on their feet.

They both were famished, with the only food they could find being occasional small animals cooked on sticks, along with familiar berries, mushrooms, plants, and nuts. Zoran knew which foods were clean and which were not, studying it from books his father stole from the lord. They tried catching fish bare handed, for they had never learned how to fish or fasten traps, only to meet in disappointment.

It had to had been a couple of weeks traveling the landscape with uncertainty before reaching that present place.

Carrion wondered how they survived. With the elements strong, large predators vast in number and cunning, the likelihood of their survival to that point was bound by fate.

They eventually reached the castle gate of Drakon. The two could never had dreamed walking in a stone sanctum without being lashed back to the farmlands outside it, and they still felt worrisome of that.

The castle stood massive to their small bodies, and especially to Zoran; standing only two thirds to that of his brother. Their child-like eyes walked in circles with awe, seeing food that was more than just gruel and the occasional fish, mouth watered by its delicious and exotic scents placed across two long crowded tables on both sides of them.

From then on, their welcoming visit became a permanent stay. Originally the plan was that they would get off to a good start and find work, with a map and horse drawn carriage to guide them, but Carrion soon saw in them something that changed his stone heart.

You'd often consider bringing them there in the first place would be beyond a heart of stone, but that wasn't the case for Carrion. He did those deeds not for the sake of kindness, but to cover his own losses, to find a little bit of happiness in the nearly nonexistent that he had at the time. It wasn't until the brothers finally opened up to tell of their story, or at least in Theodren's case, that his view on them changed.

They both lost a father, promising they would protect their family were he to die. In the end their path broke away from their promise, sending them out into a world they weren't ready for. Carrion, by then realizing their circumstance, would not permit that be their fate. While still often stone cold, a few sparks came about every day that went by with them their.

Soon, they were ready to be trained. They desired to do what he did, to protect humanity in whatever way possible. The guild master provided them a teacher, who wasn't Carrion. Shocked, they were outraged and demanded after multiple failed days of training that Carrion must be their teacher.

Humbled yet unwilling, Carrion was far too young and inexperienced to teach them fully, and questioned why they wished it. After all, in his eyes he wasn't worthy.

Eventually he did become their teacher, and far did their journey lead them through his guidance.

The road ahead became clear, and after mastering the arts, Theodren felt his calling went elsewhere. With prestige from Drakon, he convinced his brother to journey with him to become commanders and generals for king Derek in his conquest to end the civil war's bloodshed, the rebellion. He requested the same for Carrion, but by then Carrion already had his mind made up; Drakon was his home, his only home.

On a separate path, the brothers and Carrion gave their last farewell, being sure to send letters to each other to remember them by, and visit when they could.

Signing up for the army was a difficult task. Without a home the concept of loyalty was far from believable to the eyes of many commanders and generals they often faced on the path to become soldiers.

For the first years in war, people loved them, or at least Theodren. Zoran was often the shadow of his brother, though in reality was many times his unintentional puppet master.

Their first recognition was at a stalemate over a siege. Theodren observed the open areas that went overlooked on the fort's edges. He spent some nights off the camp to seek out how they could assault the fortifications without heavy casualties. Zoran assisted him in his plan, coming up with a strategy that could potentially meet Theodren's demands.

While still low ranking, Theodren was aware of the unrest in the General's small council, whose leadership was held at the time by Armand Malrick. A considered brilliant tactician and battle hardened warrior, Armand Malrick's very first impression of Theodren was poor. None of them could think of an option that wouldn't risk high costs. The wait was lasting far too long, and some scouts proclaimed the enemy was sent to arrive with an army to attack their back end, as they waited for their siege's success, entirely unprepared.

Theodren had eavesdropped countless times over the affairs, sometimes being noticed and getting away unscathed. He waltzed into the tent with a piece of paper, battle plans that he conveniently despite the outrage placed right in front of Malrick, who looked up at Theodren with heavy yet confused scorn.

Armand's authority seemed to had been overlooked by acceptance from the other members over the plan, angering over Theodren for the insult.

That was the start of their longstanding battle of cards.

The siege thankfully due to Zoran's ideas and Theodren's conceiving, was successful. No more than ten out of the at least two thousand were lost on their side of the fight.

Their success continued as a pair, gathering experience and popularity, eventually gaining recognition from the King himself.

King Derek from their very first meeting grew fond of them. Theodren was in many ways like him: brave, a fierce fighter, strong, just, loyal, and was forced to live without parents when young.

While normally dishonorable for a king, King Derek wished to spar with Theodren to know of his supposed worth on the battlefield firsthand.

Although Derek won the fight, it was only just.

Being a man who cared little of titles, Derek granted them both pardon from being lowborn; permitted to openly marry any noble lady approved of in their choosing.

The outrage of their newfound titles further brought away Derek's authority. While he often ignored the pleads of his vassals over such a minor subject, the issue grew with the longer they visited his palace.

It could never had been Derek's choice if not by his vassals that he would have to one day abandon some of his only true remaining friends for the sake of a burden he was poisoned by daily.



Valora Sadorian

Pronounced: Va-lore-uh

Personality: advocate

Quote: "We all deserve a second chance, to find an outcome even when all hope is brought against us."

Backstory: Valora began her life in a rich house, the Sadorians. Aran Sadorian, her father, worked as second in command of all of the Dragon Shores. He was beloved by many, even humans, for his charismatic speeches, diplomatic prowess, and stewardship. Valora, as his believed to be first born from his wife, Elera, her mother; was hoped to one day follow in his footsteps.

She was considerably gifted in reading and art (especially at such a young age, as far back as two years old) just as her father, and was outgoing. However, she, despite her father's dreams for her future success, was mischievous and cared little of her gifts. Breaking valuable art pieces, tearing an unused robe belonging to the king, Malykur, or pouring a bucket of cold water on a smelly servant.

While she failed time and time again to live up to her father, she more and more connected with her mother.

Elera guided her daily through all the things Aran would've disproved. She spoke of stories; legends and folk songs of heroes and heroines, humans and eyru alike, every one of them captivating her little daughter. Valora hadn't even lost her first teeth, but she already by then learned how to throw daggers at a target. Although her mother never told her to do it (as she was far too young), she learned by observing her mother do the same in a cave near their estate. They sparred with wooden sticks and padding (though of course, Elera was gentle with her in that regard). There were only a few times Valora felt divided from her mother, whenever she was advised to follow traditions. Braiding hair with fine jewelry for ceremonies, wearing fine dresses and expensive perfume for meals dined with the King Malikyr or other nobles from around the world. It grew so intolerable that she would avoid going to events all together, to spite her father.

She never fully understood him, as he'd go about his day writing with ink pens in his work room, servants at his attendance, or being gone for entire months for reasons she knew not. Even at the royal meals with other guests, she just felt alone, as her mother and servants were preoccupied, and her father spoke of many things she didn't understand.

Growing up in such a highly acclaimed family, she was rarely ever allowed to leave home. Often times she would sneak out to climb trees in the nearby woods, or found secret places near the mountains to sketch the world around her --- places her mother would similarly use.

Her mother was her only real friend. The servants were always kind to her, sure, but they never meant it truly, and even at that age she knew it.

At age six, Valora's mother left to the mainland to help the humans in the recently begun second rebellion, a civil war between the north and south of Lorlyn. While although Aran tried to hide what happened on the mainland just as the first rebellion, Elera found out yet again.

Elera was known for fighting in favor of the helpless (even peasants and criminals), so despite the possible risks, she was willing to fight.

She lead soldiers in charges on horse back or on foot, capturing raiders plundering villages, helping restore villagers from their stolen wealth (though little it was to start). She was truly successful in holding back brutality to the innocent, but it was short lived.

She was betrayed by her own company, paid off despite the great experiences she had with them. With the news, all Aran could do was hold his daughter tight as she asked over and over again what had happened.

It was only years later that she found out of her mother's fate, far too late for the stain of Valora's trust and little remaining loyalty in her father from fading away almost completely.

As an adult, she was haunted by the day she was unaware of her mother's passing, wishing she could've fought with her to hopefully save her.

While forbidden for women in the Dragon Shores, she trained in secret to one day finish what her mother started, to avenge what she could not.

Eventually Aran had caught on to her acts, sending servants to observe her at night, to be certain she snuck out, and to where. She threw daggers at trees in the woods, or even spent time looking into the moonlight on higher ground towards the edges of mountains, just to get at least one glimpse of calm within all the pressuring expectations she continually faced at home.

When she became of age, when all eyru would gain their first titles; marry, and even to go to war, she snuck out. The night before her celebration, she brought all the things that gave her joy in life, and so few it was. Her mother's throwing daggers, her gown woven also by her mother, but was saved solely for when she came of age to fit it. The rest were simple things. Clothes she made herself, a map of Faulon, her remaining money saved for the journey, and food she took extra of from recent meals when unnoticed.

Out the open window of her room was a mighty drop, with a height that certainly rivaled that of twenty grown men. Amongst its drop was a row of well trimmed trees, and above it window ledges that with proper rope and strength could sneak down.

The estate was silent. Aran was far too focused on the events ahead that he remained restless yet distracted by his thoughts to really focus on guarding his daughter.

When morning arrived, she was long gone. She paid a ship leeway to reach Frostford (the closest port to Drakon). From there, she continued up the path across the mountainous yet forested terrain, reaching the castle guild hall.

Relieving herself from her baggage and drained energy from on foot travel, she opened the door entrance after having her travel items confiscated for the time being.

The guild fell silent at her entry. Not simply because they hardly had visitors, nor few new recruits. The doubted reality stood plain, with no rivals. She was a girl, and an eyru girl at that, dressed in finely knitted padded armor she wove herself.

The guild master knew not what he should've made of it. After all, Drakon was known for recruiting the likes of all people around the world to counteract the vile acts of the eldur, bandits, and bargs alike. Left with no apprentice, Carrion was assigned to task with Valora, and to train her just as he had with Theodren and Zoran.

Standing on a tight rope with eyes sealed was one of the first tasks for her, a task which required her to remain on the rope while being battered by wooden sticks. Shockingly, from something to which so few new recruits had ever before accomplished so soon, she overcame it. Carrion's fascination of her felt certainly overwhelming, as many times he put her through difficult training just to see the limits of her potential. They soon discovered eyru had heightened senses humans could never hope to equal, to which kept her place in the guild a little more suitable.

A young outsider eventually found her as well. His name was Sven Coldcloak. Uncertain of his own name's legitimacy, he preferred she just call him the messenger. She laughed at that proposition, grabbing his hand and claiming she felt the same of her own, unsuitable for where her life had become. They eventually came to know each other better.

It was unfortunate, truly however, that with her busy on missions with Carrion, and Sven traveling the world providing messages to guild mates or future members, they hardly saw each other.

With Sven only a rare occasion, she tried other ways to connect. She's get drunk for banquets just as the others did, or even returning with the heads of great beasts she slayed. None truly grabbed their attention, and she remained isolated. Even Carrion didn't fully understand her, but out of all those she experienced, he was the closest, only out rivaled by her mother and Sven.



Steffen Rykel

Pronounced: Steef-in Ry-kell

Personality: Impatient, antisocial, witty, caring, wrathful.

Quote: "Ye see them? They don't fear ye, they don't love ye, and they certainly don't care to hear what ye need to say, but ye gotta fight it."

Backstory: Raised in a home with a father who left to war, Steffen grew up his mother's only remaining child who often supported her. His mother despised how Greymer treated respect, how it was earned and such. She was a Greymer herself, but many thought she was adopted from a human family and she just denied it. Steffen, unlike most Greymer, failed to grow hair on his body to keep him from the cold. While an uncommon trait to have, most Greymer just assumed they weren't Greymer, but humans disguising themselves as such.

His father could not protect him from the discrimination he and his mother faced, as the Greymer and humans were long at war throughout his childhood. No more than a night's return every two years or so would he even get a glimpse of his father's face.

It was eventually evident by the time he became a teenager that his father wouldn't return. The body was never found, but they knew well that he drowned at sea: a dishonor on any Greymer family. With no one to guard their family, Steffen's mother was vulnerable to the sick desires of men. One night, only weeks after the news, he heard her cries and screams rise through the night's wake. Two men walked out of her room, shoving Steffen away as they headed for the front door: cackling as they left. He found her bloodied, dried up with tears, and exhausted. Red marks were struck across her face, and down across her bare body in every area he wished not to see. He quickly clothed her, tending to any wounds and bruises he could, but the damage was already done, to both of them. That...was the only way she could raise her son.

One day, a man cloaked in black came to Steffen. The cloaked man held with him a silver ring molded with a black symbol on top. He put a similar ring on Steffen's hand. Confused, Steffen looked at the ring as he held it in his bare palm in the cold winter as it was, steam on its metallic beauty shining in the faded winter sunlight. He cleaned off the falling snow on it, to reveal the mark clear, to which his mother knew of, yet feared knowing.

She warned him of that man, as well as all others like him. While he asked who they were, she wouldn't answer.

One fateful night, with the city of Yori flocked with activity, Steffen, while returning from buying goods from the markets, heard a faint scream.

He returned home with quickness in his step, dropping a few things while losing balance on the slippery ice and compacted snow.

Swinging open the door, a crash in her bedroom window gave a thud against the snowbank below it.

Blood spilled across the entry to the bedroom, seaping under the doorway.

With wide eyes, shock and tears flowing down his young face (only ten at the time), an unfamiliar hand with an odd scent held on to his mouth and nose.

Quickly, he fell in the hands of a person, blurry vision turned to dark before knowing who had taken away his reality.

He wore the ring, despite his mother's pleads to avoid it. It was the one thing that kept him from being killed, as through the ring they knew he was the one they wanted, as well as the reason his mother ended up killed.

He was awakened to an unfamiliar voice, inside an also unfamiliar place with valuable objects hanging on the walls: unique royal weaponry from lands far away, gold and silver necklaces, crowns, royal goblets and church symbol jewelry.

The boy was greeted upon his wake, resting in a chair with three men sitting evenly split apart, one directly in front, and the other two to the left and right at equal distance from each other and him.

They called him by a name he knew not, but in his state he also knew not who he was or where he came from. Named Steffen, though his true name was something else left beyond memory with his capture.

He asked many questions; where he was, who they were, what they wanted from him, and even who he was; only to be left in silence replaced with their own demands.

Drew was assigned to him at the very start. From then on, he was used as a pawn to them, the Darkcloaks as he grew to know the name of.

While Steffen was far from optimistic about being there, Drew assured him that there was nothing better they could find. They at least had the audacity to let them be members, he would say; to which Steffen giggled to with his child-like grin.

Drew knew of the cruel acts the Darkcloaks were known for, but he always shrugged them off as exaggerated tales. He meant well in every task despite being feared each time.

Many doubted Steffen could be a member with how little intimidation he gave off. It however came to his advantage, that undeniable truth, that he could deceive the eyes of everyone he was tasked to deal with just by his appearance. Steffen through Drew learned how cruel the world was, but within his guidance knew survival was the only way through it, to trust your own motives rather than the corrupted ones of others.

Did the motives combine with another to create a better world, or did it lead to no more than a few cheers left to rot with time? He would always remind Steffen of that, and he in return believed it always. Drew could never had known how wrong he was to feel his motives along with the Darkcloaks would lead to a better world.



Sven Coldcloak

Pronounced: Sfen

Personality: Anxious, kind, just.

Quote: "And so it was: legends turning into truths, mysteries becoming reality.

Chaos was once a word spoken of with no respect, used to mock or react with injustice; but now it's turned the deck from all the edges.

There's nothing left but darkness; fear, the unknown --- the things children cry to their parents from in the night. Yet, humanity enjoys this power, and many wish for the chaos to take hold of them!

Where must we stand? How can I, along with the few who strive against it, keep our feet up? We journey miles from each other, though our beliefs still hold strong to defy the impossible.... We ride forward...."

Backstory: Born to a royal bloodline, Sven began his life in luxury far too young for him to realize. His first home was Greymeria, with a city held under his family's protection; holding its armies, guards, and navies.

His father, Raeden, had a difficult and unstable rule. Raeden's brother, Reed, was just a few steps from being his next heir, as he failed time and time again to have his wife bear a son.

Often times he also failed to please the people; as after trade routes became infested with sea raiders, his navy could not fully counteract it. Greymeria was dependent on trade for much of what they used. After all, fish and short farming seasons were unpredictable to ever find stable food productions from.

On top of all that, he faced challenges with a new war, which started only two years prior thanks to Lorlyn.

He spent much of his time planning; to which routes the enemy might take to approach them, and what areas they could use to their advantage. Greymeria had far fewer people to fight than their enemy, with technology behind by at least two hundred years. The only thing they had going for them was that they knew the land, could survive in it, and were far better fighters; but what is a better fighter to a hundred arrows?

Sven came as a surprise to Raeden as well as his brother. From first glance he looked like a daughter; hairless aside from his head, and a face as feminine as they could be.

Naturally, being a proud father for finally being given a son, he named him a name which meant "young warrior", as in his heart he wished he would one day hold that title, to one day be his young, and worthy, heir.

It could never had been Raeden's dream to know of how sickly a child Sven was, nor what would become of his future that he hoped to be well.

Blood dripped down Raeden's bedchamber one night. With Reed aware of Raeden's son being weak; enough men had finally arrived to support his cause, to end his brother's reign.

His wife knew well the danger she was in by staying in their home, so she journeyed out with whatever she could in a leather bag, holding in her cradled hands her new born son.

Her daughters had fled as well, to anyone she knew they could trust. By night Greymeria was a dangerous place to walk through, especially for the mother and child of a hated king. It would only be by morning that she could meet the docks, to the ship leading south towards Frostford.

She stayed in wait, pained by her sleep's deprive in a cold alley surrounded by a blanket and a hole she dug out from a pile of snow with a piece of an abandoned wood plank. Every footstep was like a piercing dagger on her heart, for each crumble in the nearby snow echoed in her mind with fear of her new and only son's fate, as well as her own.

Near morning's arrival, two sets of footsteps came walking into the alley she hid. Her heart cried mercilessly in her hidden state, fearing Sven's cries to wake the closer they reached them.

The snow had revealed a foot's tip, and one of the men had noticed, bringing both to look her way.

While preventing any movement, one of them stabbed the foot with their spear, sending blood to pour out onto the snow. She bit hard onto her teeth, tears falling from her eyes in agony from the strike, holding as much resistance to be certain her son remained alive until the end of their journey.

The two men had walked on in search, believing whoever it was that was covered in snow had frozen to death, and was not her. It was bad luck to search a dead body by their culture, and especially if by such dishonor as to freeze to death, so seeing movement was the only way they would search.

The stinging pain in her foot lasted the entirely of her hiding, unable to cover it, freezing the blood that dripped to stain her foot.

Light was made clear to the right of her, and she then slowly moved, looking in both directions to empty paths shaded on the sides by walls of town work buildings, and continued on towards the port. Townsfolk began to come out of their homes, noticing her wounded step as she continued on to the port with a bloody trail, with each person providing nothing more than a stare.

The town bell began to sound, its clanging of metal a deep roar in her heart, for she knew well that the docks would be at port, and the guards sent by Reed would check it next.

She ran with agony, fearful, pained, worried. Her breath was sore from the cold air, her legs aching, her wounded foot stinging, and her eyes dried out from tears and the cold wind. Bumping into strangers, people began to recognize her. The guards weren't far behind, and those same strangers were open to speak of her location knowing not the reason of their search.

She arrived at the port, people boarding at the captain's call.

Speaking to the captain with thrown up words, the captain denied her everything. No boarding pass, no husband to protect her, and with them nearly sailing off at her arrival, she had nothing she could do.

A young family looked in sympathy to her while on board, not knowing each other. Sven's mother claimed someone on board was waiting for her, and the wife of that young family claimed they were the ones. The captain hesitantly accepted, but she could not make it on board, unless she wished they both miss the voyage south.

With the sails set free to the wind, and the oars pushing against the icy waters; she witnessed without any remaining tears left to cope with her, pain, with the sounds of guards seeing her stand alone on the port's edge.

Below the docks her blood poured, dripping until it froze to ice. Her skin had turned pale, and her body fallen to the ground with arrows in her back and head. Six arrows, that is what it took to bring her down from seeing her child leave her for a life she could not have.

At the arrival of Frostford, Sven was raised until the age of four by that young family. Without money to support him as he grew older, and with a child finally in his fostered parent's womb, he was sent to be an apprentice to a local merchant. By fourteen he knew the craft decently well, and with Drakon in need of workers, he was assigned to abandon his third home and meet his fourth.

While not accepted at first, being so young and weak, Carrion went to introduce him to Valora. Both were outsiders from the start, and at their first meeting at the dining table, they knew they had to become friends.

In the sake of Valora, he wished to train in Drakon's school to become a warrior just like she was. Sadly, he failed in every challenge that faced him. Carrion told him that perhaps it wasn't something he was destined to be, and perhaps he should try being something else Drakon offered. While hesitant at first for the sake of his by then close friend, Valora assured him she preferred he find his purpose than to seek out solely for the sake of another's, meeting no gains. Therefore, he after multiple failures in other fields of work, became a courier.

From then on he became distant of his friend. With time his diverge from her became his realization: he loved her. He wished they could be together, but knew with how weak he was and how far apart their careers took them from each other, he felt that chance would never become reality. Nothing had changed since.



Zoran

Pronounced: Zoor-in / Zoor-on

Personality: mediator

Quote: "Time of war is not a time of darkness, but a time of change. If you do not wish for that change, then we must find a way to resolve it."

Backstory: From his earliest years, Zoran was a child of mystery. His parents hardly understood him, or at least in his eyes. He found it difficult to make friends in the little village he grew up in along with his brother, Theodren.

He would many times walk out alone into supposedly dangerous places, especially for his age, for the sheer purpose to be alone and to think clearly, with peace in his mind.

Peasants weren't and still aren't known for being readers, but Zoran had read fifteen books, every single one available in the village and the neighboring (some belonging to their Lord and was stolen).

Children would play games, fight with sticks to act like they were soldiers, or to be like adventurers traveling the world and finding new experiences each day. Zoran would rather contemplate over why peasants were given so little worth, to why they lacked any purpose aside from filling the bellies of their Lords. Many would often praise people just for being above them. He was only six when he began his thoughts over the matter, thoughts to which most peasants would only decently comprehend by the time they were old and weak, well beyond the time they could rebel.

Zoran was well mannered, polite to everyone often times more so than his own parents, and in doing so he got beaten a lot by travelers or local children, given no respect. Theodren was often pointed to how his brother acted in the many cases he got himself into trouble, to know what he should be like. One would think Theodren would grow jealous of his brother in that case, but far from it.

Zoran had a hard life on his own, poisoned with knowledge and wisdom only making him more divided day by day as he continued gaining more in his stead.

When the storm of the rebellion struck their home at eight years of age, a curse struck Zoran's heart.

While saved by his mother, and finding refuge in Drakon, the memory of his home burned and the people he knew along with it continued to haunt him. Even in the height of prosperity, he could never truly be happy, only finding slight occasions of joy solely by the encouragement of his brother: Theodren.

From first meeting Carrion, he realized he had a talent for knowing the hearts of people by simply viewing how they acted. He could tell manipulation apart from loyalty, love from hidden hatred. It was through that talent that Zoran knew Carrion was the only teacher they could have.

Taught the many training methods, all more challenging than each before while still being only a child, was truly shocking to Carrion. They succeeded with as little flaws as experienced members. Of course, prior to that success was a tiresome difficulty the both held separately. Theodren knew not knowledge, and Zoran knew not strength. The two had to work on their challenges: Theodren being taught to read and comprehend methods of attack and strategy, and Zoran in exercise. Together, they had to survive in the wild's strongest, with no supplies in the vast elements. Knowing how to remain alive was the first step. The second was learning to use weaponry. Third to enhance the second step with more difficult challenges, such as dueling blind and shooting blind.

Carrion grew to realize that there was only so much he could do to improve what they lacked. He had to come to terms in accepting that they had to work together, no way around it. The two held separate abilities which outmatched his own, intellect and strength, but individually incomplete.

Even after becoming skilled enough to work alone, they worked as a pair for a single man's wage, not to say they weren't rich in the end. Rather, with their newfound wealth, they soon learned it was never what they truly wanted.

Often, much of their pay was either given back to the payer, or to those in need.

Yes, even to Carrion, the humble, their acts of charity seemed illogical to him.

Theodren came to terms after eight years serving in Drakon that he desired to fight in Derek's war. Zoran in response first hesitated over whether Theodren was dreaming blind, where war is an exciting thing better than what they already had.

It was ultimately Theodren's decision to request Carrion join them, though Zoran too felt without them Carrion would be alone again, and he could never wish that upon him.

Carrion made his choice, and felt no hatred in allowing them leave. As Theodren despite learning about literature, Zoran had to write every letter with both their remarks in mind to their old teacher.

Throughout their countless battles and hours of training they together faced, Zoran began to become passionate in writing.

Whenever the armies came to rest at camp, in celebration from victories, on holidays; he would spend time in his group's tent alone, pondering in thought over what he experienced through his soon to be journal.

It became clear as he grew older the haunting that was his childhood's end. Love was a hard to realize concept, hatred a bard singing their awful tunes of death and destruction.

As he experienced the enemy first hand, having to hold captive several soldiers; it was clear to him how evil humanity was against itself. To him the enemy believed in two concepts: blood was wine, and tears of pain a bath to clear away the filth that was their lives. Power was poison, making men lust for what they thought they could not achieve, to stand proud and drink full in all its pain when given the chance of its potential, leading to a slow and merciless death they could never had been prepared for. He often asked himself how they could view such a thing with so much welcome, how they could idolize it like a lowly prostitute, blinded by desire. It was that same grasp of humanity that made him so divided from just about everyone.

If spoken to one on one, Zoran would be a considerate friend worthy to be kept in respect, but more often than not they let him remain alone.

As a captain to a small brigade of a hundred archers, his leadership was ultimately only felt by his brother's influence. People trusted Zoran not because of who he was, but because of his brother. They didn't know him well enough, as he hardly ever spoke without being asked something. When requested to join his remaining army to drink after a successful battle, he would decline and spend his night alone in his tent. Theodren would happily take his brother's place. Had it not been for Theodren, Zoran would hold no leadership and would likely be rebelled by. It was ironic, as beyond their notice Theodren was often times pulled by Zoran's strings, rather than how they often viewed it, the opposite.

Other characters:



Ayda



Armand Malrick



Avaren Waverly



Elera Sadorian



Fenris



Selena Daggry