Zink

"-remarkable discovery - a wholly intact Draconid fossil! I wouldn't have believed it myself, but there it was, buried inside the deepest end of the cave, still guarding over its hoard. There's enough gold in here to fund an nation, let alone this expedition! A fortuitous turn of events indeed-" ~Journal entry of Terran Scholar Korvus Gael, recovered postmortem. "I do not loathe these beasts, no more than I loathe the evils of the world. It is a pitiful existence, to be bound by your most base instincts, coveting wealth and dominion without falter. But make no mistake, these beasts deserve no pity - they are ruthless and cunning without peer, and their continued existence to this day is proof of their enduring nature." ~A Dragonslayer's Memoirs, penned by Taendall Swiftwing, retired Dragon-Slayer. General Information. Name: Sierael Pronunciation: [CEE-EHR-AY-EL] Monikers/Titles/Aliases: Dragon (and every mislabeled derivative), Elder Wyrm, Worldspawn, Wyrm Eternal. Dozens more titles exist, due to the inflated ego of the average Draconid, all self-given. Allegiances/Factions: Self-Serving Agenda. Wild theories speculate the Wyrm acts as a force of nature, while following its own pursuits. Religion: Unknown. Race: 'Dragon', despite how far-flung the current namesakes are. Gender: Male. Date of Birth: Estimated to be before 14,000 WT. Indecisive. Age: Roughly >4,000~ Years, though activity is dispersed in short periods amidst slumber. Functionally a few centuries old, at best. Length: 57ft, overall. Height: 15ft. Wingspan: 78ft, wing to wing Weight: 34,500 lbs Eye Color: A burning amber, like hot-coals in a flame. Physical Description: In all their capriciousness and greed, Dragons still carry with them a noble aura - a beast whose appearance is immaculate, deadly as it is stunning, commanding attention and respect. Sierael's form has lost none of its strength and durability over the ages - Where mortals wither with the beleaguering onset of time, Sierael has become strengthened as its lifespan increases. The sheer size of the Wyrm is a telling sign of its advanced age - even with its head lowered, it is as tall as three men, while the Wyrm from head to tail is as long as a battle-line. Whilst still bearing similarities to it's serpentine cousins, the Wyrm's form is more compact, robust, and most importantly - in possession of functional arms, to compliment its existing wings. It's arms, as they were, are like tree trunks in size, tapered off in the form of massive, three-fingered claws, with a thumb to match - large enough to grasp the average man quite comfortably. A massive set of wings, located just above the Wyrm's shoulders, sit comfortably folded and tucked against its form, fully extending to over twice it's length, tip to tip. These wings are crowned with a single claw, used to achieve purchase on hard surfaces, and it is ill suited for anything other than such. The tail, tapered in thick, spiny scales, extends to nearly the same length of Sierael's body - capped with a spade-shaped keratin blade. Draped over the entirety of Sierael's form is his armor, a natural lining of scales, as thick as stone and as strong as tempered steel. The scales are large and ovular, more akin to sharpened teardrops that are smoothed back across it's flesh, like slicked hair across a man's head. These scales are surprisingly pleasing to the eye, and visually appear to fragile - each shining with a crimson luster like precious jewelry - a fact that has undoubtedly deceived would-be thieves and hunters. Crowned atop a serpentine neck is the beast's visage - molded as if carved out of crimson gemstones, with two fiery rubies inlaid in its eye sockets. A crown of enlarged, horn-like scales juts out of the beast's mane, granting it a regality fitting of a king, while many jagged and worn growths protrude from the length of its jaw - like a beard crowning a chin. Its maw, large enough to fit a man laying down, is lined with massive teeth, admittedly dulled from age, but still sharp enough to pierce flesh and armor all the same. The Wyrm's visage constantly bares something akin to a look of disdain, molded into it's very appearance, as the beast lacks the lips to sneer or frown at all. Personality: To Sierael, Might Makes Right. This translates well into their actions, this being a justification for both the destruction and dominion of many. To the Dragon, its strength is proof of its will, and those lacking the will to match his do not deserve to exist. Even his own kind is subject to this dog-eat-dog belief, which in turn has forced the Dragon along the path of accruing power, status, dominion - all to prove the surety of his existence, and his right to exist. But, he does not fear or hate this, knowing that this is part of their nature, and part of his being - being true to his nature is something the Wyrm embraces, for the surety of purpose. Mortals are viewed as a detestable sort, with few notable individuals surpassing the rabble, displaying might equal, or even surpassing, draconid. Having seen millennia of civilization pass in the span of deep slumber, there is both a deep disinterest and burning curiosity with the mortal world, which is both paradoxical and counter-intuitive in nature. New discoveries are always welcome, a burning desire for knowledge - especially regarding his status among mortals - driving him to begrudgingly accept discourse from more learned mortals - should they interest him enough, in course. This hunger for knowledge is most common after awaking from slumber, to which he scours for a trace, however lingering, of the fear and respect he imposed on those long since gone - as well as being quick to re-assert why they should remember him. Incredibly common amongst most Draconic beings, Sierael possesses an intense desire to hoard objects of monetary worth - an expression of avarice in its purest, to be sure, but it is more compulsory than it is voluntary. Such is the intensity of this desire that the Wyrm can amass fortunes in gold, alongside other objects of great wealth - be it works of art, magical tomes, and the finest weaponry - all pilfered from those he deems to be incapable of owning it. Every item is carefully scrutinized for its value, and painstakingly memorized - it is said that a Dragon can spot the absence of a single item from it's hoard, and Sierael is capable of noting even the smallest of discrepancies from a glance. Thievery is something the Wyrm cannot tolerate by any means, and even the slightest insult reaps the same repercussion - the death of the perpetrator. Should they not be found, such raw fury is quenched on those around their lair, equally dooming more lives to end for even the pettiest of thievery. Abilities/Traits Magic Potential: Magic has, for the most part, been an ever present force in the world since it's inception, and it can be manipulated by anyone with the intellect and capacity to understand it. Sierael's existence, to some extent, is intimately intertwined with magic, and at its most basic form is the Wyrm able to manipulate it to a fair extent. Equivalent to incredibly ancient forms of elemental manipulation (Pyromancy, Aetheromancy, Hydromancy, Geomancy, etc), far outdated by modern practices, the age of the incantations and simplicity of these spells are more than made up for by the raw power which is poured into their very casting. These spells loosely obey the modern conventions of casting, but the Dragon's foci, source of power, and cost for spells has yet to be observed - leaving historians to claim it wields magic with no cost or detriment to itself - a theory that has yet to evolve beyond that. Sierael is capable of using magic to excise his will, verbally, enthralling the weak-willed and feeble minded by words alone, to whatever end. Numerous historical references indicate a potential for Polymorphism, an ill-tempered and fickle school of magic - but such references can be attributed to the warping of history into myth. Size: Given the beast's size alone, virtually every action it takes has some benefit or detriment. In combat, its sheer bulk alone can be weaponized, and when tooth, claw, and tail are not enough, it can use its own weight to great effect in dissuading attackers. Inversely, the beast's range of movement is rather limited, and it is quickly encumbered attempting to move erratically, or in any formation other than a straightforward, methodical path. However, its size belies its speed, and the length of its limbs, coupled with the sheer muscle mass it possesses, allows it to quickly gain on fleeing prey - though stopping past a certain point proves to be a challenge. Flight: Despite its massive weight and bulk, Sierael's great wings allow it to propel itself into the air with impetuous ease - capable of staying in flight for hours, or even days, unfettered. Its method of flying is ponderous, and the beast can be easily outmaneuvered by smaller Dragons, or airborne creatures. However, it is no less lethal in the air than it is on the ground, and those who openly flaunt their capacity oft meet a quick end under a gust of flame, or a sudden bite. Given its inability to properly maneuver when being harried, Sierael oft takes to deception and trickery to gain the upper hand - flying high into the air until its opponent begins to tire and suffocate, or taking to clouds for surprise ambushes. Fiery Breath: Stereotypical (and rightly so) of most Dragons, Sierael possesses the innate capacity to spew forth a gout of flame, though not of any magical means. The process is actually remarkably mundane - a natural, oily gel-like secretion is ejected from its mouth, and ignited by a series of rasping plates within its throat. This gel is incredibly adhesive and volatile, sticking to nearly any surface (except those with little friction, or objects magically smoothed to be perfectly flat) and igniting anywhere from a few seconds to minutes after combat - even if it the Dragon does not ignite it, it will eventually react to the very air and set itself aflame. Draconic Scales: Sierael's form is draped in a raiment of scales, which serve as a natural form of armor. Thick as stone and as strong as steel, few weapons can pierce the hide of a Dragon - though it is not an impossible feat, in and of itself. The strongest, most sure strikes against its form can do well to damage it, regardless of the armor it possesses, and magically enchanted - or simply well forged - blades pose a chance of damaging the Wyrm. Magical attacks are somewhat effective in this regard, though the scales seem to be naturally insulant to most forms of magic - especially simple elements. Bares a distinct resistance to flame, to the point where only magically enhanced, or cursed, fires could feasibly be used against it. Indomitable Will: Few beings can hope to meet a Dragon's definition of strength, let alone earn anything short of their respect. Humbling them is a fool's task - they would rather die than destroy their pride, and for one to serve under another - especially a mortal, is a feat that is nearly unthinkable to Draconid. Unless one covets magical artifacts capable of absolute dominion - shackling Sierael to the bonds of servitude, however gentle or harsh they may be, is virtually impossible. Even if this occurs, should the beast be freed under any circumstance, its former master will face the brunt of its wrath, no matter the cost. Misc Abilities: Eidetic Memory (Mostly related to items within it's hoard), High Intelligence. History: Figures of both myth and reality, Dragons (and their derivatives) have struck both fear and awe into lesser races for millennia, ever since their inception onto the mortal planes. It is not wonder, for these beasts, in their prime, commanded both power and will that far surpass most mortal races, and their presence was synonymous with the end. Though these creatures have ultimately been humbled, scattered and diluted in the various beasts, whos intellect and strength vastly ranges from one Genus to another, few Wyrms remain unchanged. They are a sign of stagnancy, a bygone product from forgotten ages millennia ago, but they nevertheless command power and intellect worthy of recognition, if not respect. The number of these beasts is few, and like the many mortal races, they take various shapes and forms, not unlike their lesser descendants, but the arrival of one both heralds caution, and fortune. Many a dragon-hunter and scholar alike skew the world for these ancient, slumbering vestiges - their deaths would mean fame and fortune, and few hunters have been lucky enough to succeed - only stoking the fires of ambition. Sierael is such a beast, a Wyrm whose origins can be traced back as far as four-thousand years, though reports are damaged and sporadic at best. The majority of this vast lifespan, which has yet to be defined, or end, is spent in a perpetual slumber - usually within the bowels of a mountain, though many ancient texts indicate a preference for basking in extreme heat - such as a volcano. Seldom does this Wyrm awaken, and every recorded instance ends in some form of wanton destruction, and subsequent retaliation from those attacked. However, every occurrence ties in with both its discovery, and the pilfering of its hoard - which goes lengths to explain the sudden flurry of activity from such an ancient beast. A total of five times has the Wyrm rose from its slumber under such (recorded) circumstances, with one fragmented report even claiming the destruction of an entire city - with archaeological investigations turning no leads toward's this city's existence, nor it's people. There is only one recorded instance of human contact with Sierael that did not end in violence and bloodshed - a Magi by the name of Vae Tenillus, hailing from the landmass known as Terrenus, came into contact with the Wyrm as it naturally awoke, roughly around 16,438 WT. The Magi conveyed itself to the Wyrm, through both mortal tongues, and the language of the world - Oldspeak. Surprisingly, Sierael responded in kind, and for eight days did they converse - the Magi never pausing in this discourse, enthralled physically and mentally. It was only a few hours after cessation of this discourse that the Magi succumbed to physical need and perished, whatever will that suspended them in the conversation having faded shortly after its conclusion. Unfortunately, the transcript has been lost to the ages, alongside any knowledge and insights that the two beings debated over. The most recent, intact event recorded revolving the Wyrm was at the dawn of 17,000 WT, where a group of Terrenic Scholars, Dragon-Slayers, and Magi tracked down the beast - led by a Braccus Levanton, purportedly a well-reputed hero (at the time). Before the dawn of the new Millennium, the group tracked down the beast to its lair, within the volcanic calderas of Biazo Isle, and a fierce melee ensued inside the labyrinthine caverns the Wyrm had created. As the Wyrm was driven back under heavy losses, the cavern itself was collapsed, a forced effort by the Magi and Scholars, while the beast itself was bound in aetheric chains, dragged down into the molten earth. One-thousand Five-hundred years in, and there has been no sign of the Wyrm. Yet.

Updated some of the sheet, mostly parts with history, abilities, along with some minor typesetting. Still need to find out what the dating convention is, though.

I uh, kinda disappeared for four or so months after arriving, so I've opted to post "Hi, I'm back" here, instead of making a new thread. Not like it's exactly relevant to anyone, but I'd feel wrong just popping out of nowhere in some thread.

Well, writing off an old character is more or less dependent on who they are, not only as a person, but other defining attributes, like species. If they're born from a species that can, ultimately, live for several centuries, they might have a broader perspective on life, and perceptions of time might shift as well. Many human attributes that we use for thinking can't be applied there, so I'll just stick to regular people for the time being. A really, really nice detail in writing an ancient character is that, ultimately, everyone can grow tired of living. If they're a person, like a human, who has somehow exceeded their life expectancy, either by amazing health, magical/mechanical interference, or a gift of 'immortality', the farther they go up the line, the more things they'll see. The more things they'll see/do, the more experiences they'll get. Ultimately, they'll reach a peak, and then come crashing down. Everything will become tedious - boring, even. Sensations will dull, things that were once pleasant provide no sustenance. As they go on and on, if they have no discernible purpose for being, they will most likely try and do more and more brave/stupid/insane activities to either inspire them, bring some entertainment to their lives, or simply kill them. Age is a very important thing to consider when making a venerable character, as while it is kinda limiting, you might wish to consider what person they'd be at that age, rather than making the person first, then slapping on an age. An extremely ancient character who's lived hundreds of years past his natural life expectancy might view the world with some dissatisfaction, personal interactions as 'been there, done that', and they very well could consider everything boring beyond imagination. A character on that path, but not exactly there, would probably start to get bored of some of the more mundane things, their personality still being shaped by their experiences, but it's starting to stagnate. You can see signs, here and there, that they're getting bored, dissatisfied, or simply tired of it all. Not quite there, but it's still a good thing to implement in character development.

'I also like Zink.' delet this Hi wolf

Oh hey, an excuse to post for once, nice If I felt like being lazy, I guess I could say that Letholdus doesn't have very good sight, though I made sure to have him possess plenty of problems and weaknesses. I guess the biggest thing is his desire to 'do good', really. He wouldn't want to inadvertently hurt someone, he always strives for the best possible outcome - and it completely destroys him whenever he fails at protecting others/accomplishing his goals. He's also not exactly good with talking to others, alongside having very little motivation for, well, anything - outside his sense of duty, of course. It is always good to have a character with weaknesses, whatever way they manifest, as it adds more to the slate. Much like asking yourself "How is my character a bad person." If the answer is 'he's not', it's not well constructed. If your character doesn't have weaknesses, it's not a very 'good' character, though that's mostly subjective IMO

https://youtu.be/enkEiD8PC5o When it comes to Dark souls games, Ash lake (Otherwise known as The Ancient Dragon in the ost files) was honestly my favorite. Mostly because it was very soothing, but the real appeal came from how the game executed it. See, it starts playing when you look up after you enter - as in, pan the camera to see the great horizon. Naturally, the way down left me paranoid, so I was looking down for traps and pitfalls, so when I looked up it kinda kicked in and I was left stunned. Really, any of the souls games have great OSTs, except maybe 2? Two was decent, but none really come to me, so I guess that means they weren't the best.

In all honesty, I've considered it one of the more shameful moments of my young life, but I discovered roleplay through facebook, of all things. Mostly half-life stuff, surprisingly, but I moved onto steam a few years later and discovered Warhammer40k's setting. So naturally I started role playing that, found some forums, drifted around forums, and generally just improved from cringy *stabs u* roleplay from my young years to paragraph stuff at the least. And now I'm here, I guess.

"Be without fear in the face of your enemies. Be brave so La'Ruta might exist through thee." "Speak the truth, even if it leads to your death." "Safeguard the helpless and do no wrong." "Remember The Great North. Remember this Oath." This portrait depicts House Lochsaer (Lead by Knight Maximilian Balian, the Central-Right figure) in combat against presumed dissenters to House Beauchene's rule - Roughly Five years before the Great North's slaughter through Orisia. The painting is one of the few surviving relics of House Lochsaer's Legacy. General Information Name: Letholdus Balian Pronunciation: LEH-THOL-DUO-US BAH-LAH-AH-EN Monikers/Titles/Aliases: Heir to House Lochsaer, Son of the Coward, Zealot, Knight-Brother, Brother-Magus, Balian, Letho/Leth Allegiances/Factions: Order of The Black Heart Faction Rank: Knight-Brother, Innate Magus [Tier 3] Occupation(s): Knight-Brother of The Black Heart Religion: La'Ruta (The Path) Culture: Orisian (Mixture of Cobanite and Izabalite teachings) Birthplace: Orisia, Izabal Race: Human Gender: Male Date of birth: Year 18,568, Spring Age: Twenty-eight Height: 170cm, 5'7ft Weight: 84kg, 186lbs, 13st Physique: 'Average', muscular Skin-tone: Pallid Eye-Colour: Dulled blue Hair-colour: Light-Brown, faded. Physical Description: Constantly draped in the Iron mantle that is his armor, Letholdus' form is rarely seen, nor blessed by the touch of sunlight - leaving his skin a pallid white, only a few shades away from being akin to the pallour of a cadaver, or the skin of a Vampyre. His form is bulky - though not too much above what one would consider 'average' of a man his age - His musculature only barely hidden by a thin layer of fat, one born from a life without want - thought it does not mean he is weak. Indeed, the life of a Knight requires a bountiful reserve of stamina and vitality, which allows Letholdus to move with his armor as if it is a second skin. Very little scars or imperfections are present across his body - a testament to the strength of his warplate, no doubt - the only few that cover him seeming to be old wounds, most likely incurred while he was but a young child. Small streaks of raised flesh, along with darkened, sunken holes marr his back - almost disturbingly consistent with wounds of torture, though the man has never divulged to where he acquired them - let alone shown them at all. The most peculiar feature on Letholdus' body at all, no doubt, would be the extremely intricate and complex series of runes, inscribed in a dead language unknown to him, that line his entire form. No part of his body is untouched, the runes overlapping in a way that only few spots of his pallid skin are exposed. All the lines lead directly to his visage, wrapping around his eyes before ending at the deep recesses of his tear ducts, in a remarkably precise finish. His face, which is almost ever-presently concealed behind the Iron casing that is his helm, is soft - as if moulded not from hard rock, but soft clay, gently sculpted into the visage of what one might call a handsome young man. His features are rounded, ever so slightly, while a faint curve of the lip has him almost ever-presently grinning, despite any situation. His hair is rough and scraggly, cut short only out of necessity, but it is more akin to rough wild-grass, rather than a gentle field. His eyes, a dulled blue, were a feature uncommon to his family - said to be inherited from his mother, who was little more than a whore from Izabal. Running up from his neck and along his cheeks are the endpoints of the runic tattoos that drape his form, swirling upwards and under his eyes until they reach his tear-ducts. These runic letters swirl like an iradescent stream, imprinting black, ingrained tears that fall from the base of his eyes and down his pale cheeks. Abilities Skill at arms: Born of noble-birth, regardless of his treatment, he was tutored from a young age on the handling of weaponry, a skill that has thankfully stuck with him throughout the years. While he is adequate with most forms of weaponry, the usage of Halberds, Lances, and Spears has stuck with him greatly, the lattermost being an iconic symbol of his late father, who preferred the weapon for its capacity to strike from afar, as well as slip through the smallest cracks in an enemy's armor. Magic Potential: Assessed soon after the reformation of the Crown, Letholdus was deemed fit as one of the many who were more attuned naturally to La'Ruta and its magics, sequestered away to be instructed and honed in skill. While, in the end, his potential is quite limited, he has found a remarkable number of uses for what he has made available, though his preferred element to use is that of Fire, a rather common, if not stereotypical element to use. The most basic of skills he has available is the usage of his weapon - a halberd, as a Foci for his affinity, the polearm's ends reinforced to withstand the heat that is transferred into them, turning the edges of his weapon red-hot from the focused energies. Such an effect does damage and deteriorate the quality of his gear, and as such, he has gone through many a blade and polearm that had not warped under the heat or turned to ash from exposure. Sight: Though it is difficult to explain, Letholdus has always had an odd affinity towards La'Ruta. Born of some magic potential, the child, while hidden away during the chaos of the Great North's assault, had grown lonesome and bored, and in this time of stillness for him did he notice La'Ruta's presence in the world around him. To the child, La'Ruta manifested itself in the most simplest of ways, burning its magics into his eyes as he was able to, at the very least, vaguely perceive the underlying energies that flowed through every being. While extremely crude, this ability was discovered, and focused, by the Magi who had come to initiate him on the path. Runes were burned into his body, focusing an intricate set of wey-lines across his form and to his eyes, focusing and supplanting his natural sight with that granted to him by the path. Though, the runes purpose is doubled - they are to limit and restrain any sort of influx of energies, asides from the beneficial exchange that grants him sight - for such an occurrence is unheard of, and should the boy's abuse of his gift go unchecked, it could potentially cripple, or outright kill him. Over time, the natural sense of sight he had been born with faded away, being continually worn and replaced by the natural magics that channel through the runes that allow him to maintain such an effort. His armor has come to reflect this as well, the Helmet being completely seamless, only possessing two small indentations of glass for his natural sight, which even then has atrophied to near uselessness. To say that he 'sees' with La'Ruta is misnomer; It is more akin to feeling, if anything, the magic of La'Ruta streaming through every object in the vicinity - from the ground, to the air, even down to the blood that flows through a man's veins. Such perception is still disorienting, even to this day, though the man has adapted rather well. However, this boon is also a curse - costing him most of his natural sight, forcing him to learn the languages of the blind in order to read properly - a fact that he is ill-eager to share. The 'Sight', however useful, also has made Letholdus more easily hindered - viewing the maelstrom of energy that permeates through Orisia, and discerning an object with any clarity is a task he can barely manage - magical attacks that clot the atmosphere can easily blind and obscure his vision, while a lack of magic (such as those who are innately null, or the foreign lands beyond Orisia) will leave him equally impaired. He often travels with, or attempts to, a partner of some kind - be it a serf, a caravan, or a simple travelling guide. For trips out of the island, where duty calls, he is at his weakest - requiring constant guidance, which is a weakness he refuses to admit to, in fear of shame. Faith: Though one might wonder how such could be even considered an 'ability', to Letholdus, Faith alone is what sustains him. His father dead, his bloodline shamed, and his title lost, the man has very little left but the Teachings of The Path. With this alone he (at least tries) to overcome all adversity, knowing that his place in the world is absolute, and that he must do all he can to help preserve the balance and peace. In situations of duress - when his body fails him, when his wounds grow too grievous to bare, when the strength ebbs from his body, Faith alone has pushed the Knight through it all - Rising from wounds that would incapacitate normal men, striking blows when his stamina is all but exhausted, and enduring past the breaking point. He has earned the title 'Zealot' by some, and one would wonder how such a peaceful teaching that is La'Ruta could earn the attention of such a driven individual. Equipment Halberd: A simple, yet deadly weapon, the Halberd allows its user to strike from afar, as both a spear and axe. The bladed protrusion at the rear of the blade acts as a sort of hook, used to impale and bring down mounted knights or riders from their steeds. Letholdus' training with such a weapon allows him to precisely manage his weight while swinging, allowing the blunt, bladed axe to hit with the strength of a hammer. Such an odd weapon, fit for more of a soldier among many in an army, is all the Letholdus has to remind himself of his heritage. His father, Knight House Lochsaer, carved a bloody path across Orisia's nobility during House Beauchene's rule on the throne, and his favored weapons were one such as this. Adorned armor: Though not of his choice, this blackened suit of iron platemail, gifted at his departing by House Lochsaer, is rather beautifully adorned. Sleek in appearance, the Armor's joints seamlessly flow together, exchanging some degree of movement for protection. Swirling, intricate lines run across every inch of the suit's surface - save his helm - almost as if parallel to the Knight's own tattoos which adorn his entire body. Were it not for the blackened finish, the suit might possess some measure of luster, the subtle beauty of the design lost under the darkened shade, unless one takes a closer look. His helm completely conceals his head, as a good helmet should, but this one is much more peculiar than most, in the aspect that it conceals just about everything. Save for two exceedingly narrow vision slits, and a small indent at his neck for breathing, the helmet is completely sealed, almost alien in its appearance. An armored gorget juts out from his neck, covering any exposed neck, fully sealing most, if not all of his armor. He wears this suit always, for it is his shelter, his safety, and he, quite frankly, cannot live without it. Around his waist is a leather belt, lined with pouches that are filled with assorted items of want and need, as well as an aged book, detailing (outdated) practices of La'Ruta. History To understand Letholdus Balain, one must understand the rule of House Beauchene, and the Great North. During the waning, the ending point of House Beauchene's reign on the throne, one Minor Noble house stood out, and soon gained both size and infamy. Proclaiming themselves to be loyal to the Crown, The Reigning Knight of House Lochsaer, Maximilian Balian, imposed it upon himself to seek out and destroy dissenters to the throne, in and effort to curb favor, and prolong the life of his own House. While no open rebellions, revolts, or civil wars occurred, those who had retained some modicum of power and 'honor' still doubted the rule of the Crown, and true followers of La'Ruta could not stay silent about such selfishness and greed, going against the Major tenants of their way. Of course, such words were heard, and the Knight-Lord had sprung to action. His fiefdom, positioned between Corban and Izabal, on the coast of Vortex Bay, allowed his reach to stretch out towards many dissenting Houses, back when such a term was akin to a named band of cravens, commoners, and power-mongers. While his force was small, the man was a remarkably sound tactician, as well as charismatic, forcing Lords and ladies out of their own personal kingdoms, and butchering them and their followers in duels of 'Honor'. Pillaging and absorbing those they quelled, the House only grew in size, and while it was never enough to draw the real attention of the Crown (They cared not for outside affairs, after all), it left them in a fair position at the end of House Beachene's rule - and the beginning of the end. The Great North had come, and slammed upon Orisia like a tidal wave. While a slight distance south more-so than Izabal, the noble house was one of the first to encounter and attempt retaliation at such a threat. They launched themselves at the invaders with fervor, convinced they were to beat the invaders back, and secure safety among the crown's chosen. The notion that they had some sort of 'Chance' was disabused, and quickly, as battle after battle was lost, the Genesarians cutting deep into the land, and subsequently, House Lochsaer territory. Maximilian, knowing full well what awaited them, ordered his forces to press on, leaving command of his 'army' to his loyal knight-captains, who were plucked from the hands of dead lords with no-one to serve. Taking his family, which consisted only of His trusted servants, and his escort, he fled under cover of night for the Areder mountains - knowing well that, if they survived the journey, the Genesarians would not dare approach such inhospitable land. Their betrayal and cowardice was not discovered until the House's collapse, and House Lochsaer was no more, at least for the moment. There the survivors waited, until the Genesarians advance halted, and they withdrew, and emerged back to their burning and ruined hold. Attempting to reform House Lochsaer during the twenty years of madness and chaos across the Island, the Lord had been reported to become more and more unhinged and paranoid, attempting to sire heirs to his 'throne', as he called it, his belief that the Crown had perished alongside everything else. He was only successful in siring one child, a boy born from a woman of ill repute in Izabal, before his past crimes came around once again. Survivors of Maximilian's armies, most notably the (self proclaimed) Knight-Captain Reynold Tedric, came before him in his lands as if they were long lost friends, greeting the Lordwith kindness, and lulling him into a sense of security. Out of nostalgia, and a misplaced trust in his former Knight-Captain, he allowed the men to serve as part of his personal guard - a request they insisted upon, as was their duty in the old days. Several days after the new guard's induction, the Lord was brutally murdered in his chambers - killed by the Captain, who sought revenge for the man's cowardice and betrayal. Assuming command of House Lochsaer, Maximilian's son, Letholdus, was only spared to silence complaints of the more 'Loyal' members of the House - to present them a proper 'heir' to rule House Lochsaer, when the time was right, of course . Truthfully, the boy was to be exiled from the beginning, and the discovery of his magic potential was an extremely convenient excuse to have Letholdus sent away. Barely old enough to fend for himself, he was sent away to be sequestered and trained by the Magic-inclined followers of The Path, in order to properly hone, and make use of, the child's innate talents. Letholdus, left with nothing, absorbed the teachings that were given to him with fervor. While Innate, to be sure, it did not mean that his power was endless. It was rather mundane, in fact, with the only remarkable features to his magical ability being his odd form of vision, and the liking towards fire, despite the availability of so many other options. Many of his tutors jokingly remarked that he is more akin to a Trained Magi, what with his narrow-minded and obtuse view of magic, though they could not deny that the boy's fire was admirable. Growing up among the Abbots and Magi of the temples scattered across Orisia, he absorbed the teaching of La'Ruta, allowing it to dictate his life, even down to manner of thinking. With nothing left, the boy had his faith. It was such that, with the rise of the Black Queen and her Knights, the Black Heart, the young man was drawn to them - almost instinctively. There, he could do good, help restore and preserve the balance of The Path. It was no surprise, then, with such a driven nature and unwavering determination did the man aspire, and reach the heights of the Black-Heart, passing through Squiredom and into Knighthood, and a nobility of its own, rather quickly. His allegiance was pledged to the Queen and Crown alone, rather than one of the Seven lords, and he to this day has served as a wandering Knight, aiding those in need, and following both the Tenants of The Order and The Path had taught him. The rest, as they say, is history. This one was an absolute doozy. Feel free to message me for any criticism/complaints and the like. Big thanks to Saxon, for the with proofreading, conceptualizing, and generally being very supportive during this six-hour writing ordeal I've undertaken. As well, Thanks to Pasion for lore citations and answers to questions I had, which generally saved me a lot of work with ad-libing.

Thanks, actually! I've been browsing that thread and exploring around, and I gotta say it's quite a lot to take in, though I'm slowly tackling the problem one thread at a time. Still don't know exactly how to go about making a character yet - I've never been one who likes to 'impose' on other people's settings, that is to say, create things that aren't mine to create. I'm sure I'll work something out, but I don't exactly want to pester board-leaders with a barrage of questions about their settings (I tend to overthink character creation greatly) that I haven't found an answer for around. Also, the friend was Saxon - he used me as sort a proofreader for some segments of his character, and of course, after a while my curiosity was piqued, and I ended up asking him where he was doing this - and here we are now.

Send help. Hello all! A friend of mine recommended this Forum to me, and I lurked around for a bit until I decided to finally get around to making a profile. I... Really don't know what else to say, to be honest? I'm pretty sure I saw the link to the 'Beginners guide'/FAQ somewhere around here, So I probably won't need that much help finding my way around, asides from more in-depth lore stuff, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there. Glad to meet you all!