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Monster Hunters
Topic Started: Mar 13 2018, 12:46 AM (110 Views)
arg

Marcellian Jankovics, was one of the two knights who helped the Western Strosburgi branch of the Silverbacks, a group of famous monsters hunters in the countries they helped. Along with him, was Attila Lambar, another knight hailing from Eastern Mordhaest, an area not covered in monsters such as this one. Marcellian polished his hound skull bascinet, trying to get his helmet a shining silver. While he was doing this, Attila was in the courtyard practicing with a poleaxe with a couple of the lowborn recruits. As he was finishing up the armor polishing, another member of the Silverbacks clad in a simple gambeson and mail, handed him a letter with a simple "Sir!" before heading off to his position. Marcellian opened the letter, sealed with the Lord Marshall of Western Strosburgi's seal. Reading it to himself, a felt little relief at the words contained in the letter.

Walking towards Attila, clad head in to toe in armor with his visor up, Marcellian called out to his brother-in-arms. "Sir Lambar, some good news for us." Attila lifted up the visor of his sallet and responded with a confused "Oh?" to which Marcellian stated to him, "From the Lord Marshall of the Western Strosburgi Silverbacks, Fábián Lefèvre: It has come to our attention that with the serious threat of monsters located inside the area which you protect, you are seriously undermanned. With this, I have sent several dozen men to help with the resurgence of monsters in the area." Attila walked closer to see the letter for himself. After reading it several times, he looked at the fellow knight. "Do you know what this means, Sir Marcellian?" Marcellian looked back and nodded, "I do. We receive more men." Attila nodded, "And do you know what that means as well?" Marcellian pondered over this for some time before responding with the closing of his visor. "Good." Attila pulled down his visor as well. Marcellian pulled out his sword from his left side. Not the weapon I would like to be using, but I shall use it nevertheless.

Having no use for his left hand as it held not even a buckler, Marcellian decided to go for a better approach with his broadsword, the murderstroke. With no intention of killing his friend, he turned his sword around so that when he swung the part of the sword that would hit Attila would be the crossguard, the grip, and the pommel. Attila stepped forward bringing the poleaxe to a position where he could strike, but would also leave his armpits unexposed. Marcellian, dodged, but only barely. The fight went on like this for sometime, either Marcellian or Attila swinging with the other avoiding a hit by a close margin. Until the duel had raged to the point where the weight of the armor could be felt by both did one get a good swing in. As Marcellian went in to strike at Attila, he overswung, leaving his left portions exposed, which Attila used to swing down hard on his shoulder. Attila looked at Marcellian now on the floor who only said "Good." Attila lifted up his visor, showing his sweating red face. "Do you yield sir?" Marcellian looked at him before exclaimed he will. Attila offered him a hand up, which Marcellian humbly accepted. "Well then I do believe you must look after the fresh recruits, Sir Marcellian." Marcellian took off his bascinet before a simple response, "I suppose you are right, Sir Lambar."



OOC: whoops did i say this is open so you can be a new recruit soz
Edited by arg, Mar 13 2018, 01:03 AM.
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Gadshack
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The recruits were a wide assortment, most from the local country but other's boasting an exotic stature to them in comparison. Tmu in particular hailed from a distant land, not too far but one only dreamed of in fantastical tales in lands like these, likewise it was the same in Tmu's home country about places like Western Strosburgi and Eastern Mordhaest.

He was born in a country known as Quywe, exotic to Tmu himself after being away from it for so long; leaving it for riches and adventure. Learning the common tongue in his travels with fellow Quywean traders. It was only in the past year he separated from his native party to seek more personal fortune without party disputes.

Hired by Lord Marshall after showing off his skill, being a Kokezuai back home, a warrior class of hunters in Quywe, Tmu arrived with the caravan of recruits. To say he stood out among some of the locals was an understatement. His skin was a light brown, having jet-black hair with patches of grey, which was tightly coiled, short and frizzy; irregularly and unevenly cut. Tmu's clothing was diverse, combining local and worldly elements into his armor, a light chainmail. He had adapted greatly to the local climate while carrying himself stylishly and in accordance to his fighting style. On him, Tmu had a short Quywean sword shaped like a curved cleaver, jagged with sharp indents on it's blade. He had a smaller, obsidian blade stowed away as well, the bow on his back was Tmu's most trusted weapon of choice.

As Tmu set down his pack and rested upon arrival, he couldn't help but notice curious glances around.
Edited by Gadshack, Mar 13 2018, 06:26 AM.
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Rix
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Syran Payl had been travelling with the caravan of recruits for weeks without having spoken a word. It was not that he was incapable of speaking common tongue, though admittedly he lacked proficiency in it, but rather his desire not to be drawn in to the inevitable questions about where he was from and then having to deal with the fear or morbid curiosity when he told them.

Syran had learned shortly after his arrival on these shores that the natives of the region viewed his homeland with a superstitious dread. Having crossed the great circle sea and made landfall on the far shore he had attempted at first to find work for himself in the modest trade port. He lasted a mere three days in the town before word got around that a denizen of Midbar was in their midst; he'd awoken on his fourth night to a fearful mob which drove him out of town.

The desert kingdom of Midbar, it turned out, was known and feared far beyond its borders with gruesome tales of the Mad Monks, Blind Scryers and the Screaming God mixed with reports of the horrific punishments dealt out to foreigners for minor infractions of unwritten social rules. It was considered by many this side of the sea to be a cursed land out of which nothing good could be expected to emerge.

Having spent a year struggling to find steady work Syran had stumbled across a recruiter looking for men to join the Silverbacks. The recruiter initially regarded him with amusement when he approached him to sign up, questioning his suitability given his non-martial background. Syran had then explained to the man where he had come from and the horrors that roamed that land after which there were no more questions; so far the only time that Syran's background had worked in his favour.
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Arda Tuluva
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The further he went from Atur the fewer people knew he was Valaerin at first glance. He had the typical features of an Aturan whose decades of arcane use has turned his hair silver, his skin pale, and his eyes a bright orange; though it was the blankness that formed around his eyes from consuming Essence that gave away his origin most clearly. He doubted many this far from Atur knew what that meant, but stories of the atrocities committed by the Empire in their holy crusades always preceded him. Considering the reputation the Elves of Atur had among people across the lands the Valaerin seldom left the comfort – the safety - of their great cities, let alone the Empire.

He found himself in these foreign lands far from home since the Vel’Amyr had exiled him. He had been a rising star in Atur; his knowledge of the arcane vast, his ability with the One Power immense, his influence tremendous. He was only years away from being elevated to an Archon. He had wealth beyond measure. He also had the Dreams. The Visions. He had gone to the Exalted Council to be tested and was proclaimed the Herald to deliver the next Revelation that would lead Atur and guide her for the next few generations. His epiphanies were recorded and attested, he had the gift and the Prophets of Atur announced to the Vel’Amyr that he was the chosen Herald and truly the next Revelation was upon them.

However, the Revelation that he proclaimed challenged the Strictures of the Chantry, disputed the rule of the venerated Archons, put into question millennia of beliefs held so dearly by the Valaerin. The Chantry, the Prophets, and the Vel’Amyr quickly recanted and redacted all record of his Revelations and proclamations of being Herald. He was declared an Apostate, tried and convicted, sentenced to be Stilled. He managed to escape before the ritual to cut his connection from the arcane was carried out. He had been relieved, Stilling was a fate worse than death; it would have left him to yearn for the Power, to feel it but unable to embrace it, unable to channel.

His name had been known among many of the lower classes of Aturan society for his tolerant views on gah’vesh; the ungifted, and the vett’janah, the lesser races. The Aribiters and Inquisitors of Atur quickly went to work to snuff out all record of his name, of his existence. His Clan distanced themselves from him swiftly; his parents officially declared they only had two daughters and never a son. Falling from grace in Atur happened often enough, he knew how fast it was for the fallen to lose all kinship, allies, influence. What surprised him were the gah’vesh that came to his aid. They helped him escape. It had all been a blur but he was smuggled out of Atur and was given enough money to last years outside the Empire. The gah’vesh that assisted him said that he should leave, stay away from Atur for years as they build a Cult around him in secret waiting the return of the True Herald.


Around his neck was a smooth metallic band that shone like silver, the A’dam; the Collar, this accursed invention muted his connection to the One Power, he was inert, useless. Valaerins did so much with their magic on a daily basis, mostly subconsciously, that he did not realize until they put this infernal Collar around his neck. He could not remove it, only a gifted could find the intricate flow of spirit that kept the a’dam locked. He was Valaerin with an a’dam about his neck, any mage in Atur would report him to the Arbiters immediately had he asked for assistance. It had proven even worse outside of Atur, no one dared help him mostly from fear or general hatred of his kind.

The a’dam was connected to his own spiritual essence and locked to it, so he knew that a blacksmith trying to remove it by force would kill him. In some unnamed, remote village he found a shaman and convinced her to remove the Collar, he even said she could keep it to use on her enemies if she so chose. But her skill in finding the flow of spirit in the intricate weaves of the One Power proved insufficient, her inability to work out his captor’s weave had rendered him unconscious. He had woken hours – perhaps days - later in an unknown forest stripped of all his gold and valuables. He was cold and shivering, such odd sensation that he had not felt in decades. The One Power no longer flowed freely through his body to regulate his temperature; he felt cold now and warmth. Sweating was almost worse. And tired. Always he was tired.


He was far from Atur now. Few recognized him as Valaerin this far from civilization. An elf yes; he was tall, graceful in his movements, handsome, and his ears were distinctly elven. He eyed many with such disdain as they called him “knife-ears,” such insolence would have cost them their lives in Atur. He yearned to reach out and seize the One Power so he could bring on them swift retribution and bathe in their blood. But, he had learned long ago since his Exile not to threaten vett’janah, they were easily angered and swift to aggressive acts. He had been beaten more than enough to keep to himself. He had little skill outside of the arcane to make any decent living. Being born in the upper echelons of Aturan society gave him little experience or knowledge in the real world. He was an Elf, he was beautiful, and hunger drove him to succumb to unsavory work that debased him.

He was extremely reluctant to ever speak about the a'dam, and even more reluctant to inquire assistance from mages. There were so few. In the years since his Exile he had met three, maybe four, arcanists in his travels. It shocked him. Why were there so few? None could work out how to unlock the a'dam, they never even saw such inventions. Stilling would have been better, at least then there would have been no hope. This, though, it was insufferable. His lack of channeling the One Power did have a strange adverse affect, he had no need to Essence, the taint was not forming in his mind. That, at least, there was solace, it staved off the paranoia, the maddening. Also, he needn't fear the locals anger from turning one of their own into a Shadow.

It was then that he came across the Hunters in a tavern one evening. Since he was a boy he had a fascination with all things concerning the dai’glaraeth – monsters and beasts – what boy didn’t in Atur? Blood from a dai’glaraeth – among other parts – were highly valued in Atur to be used in various rituals. A Hunter could make a fortune selling the monsters to Aturan mages, the more preserved the more the fortune, as dai’glaraeth were highly valued and had been hunted to extinction centuries ago in the Empire. He knew a great deal on the subject, he knew exactly what an Aturan mage would want from which beast. If he was free from this cursed Collar he could preserve the corpses perfectly, they’d be rich beyond measure. It annoyed him. He needed to be free of it.

He spoke to one of the Hunters, imparting some of his vast knowledge – he was still Valaerin and knowledge was power in the Atur, so he knew what to give. Just enough to prove his value, but kept most to himself to ensure that his value was kept. It was then that they asked him his name. He was taken aback, how long had it been since anyone had asked him that? How long had he been gone from Atur? He had no idea. “Kirendad.” He said to the Hunters, “You may call me Kirendad.”
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