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Registration thread: Version 1.1

Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Thalar » Sun Feb 01, 2009 7:11 pm

Durlyn Val'Sarghress:

That oversized claymore seems a bit too oversized when you combine it with an oversized sickle. A claymore is already huge, and personally I would say a broadsword would fit your description somewhat better. (Something like this perhaps http://www.wle.com/media/1012.jpg but with a jagged edge)

Tainting people is -not- a feature of basic mana techniques. It is an advanced summoning application, thus not something your character knows.

Also, keep in mind that golems are completely worthless around demons, since a demon will simply drain its power (compare it to an unguarded, ready-prepared meal) and leave the golem inoperable until recharged.

I do not like your mention of a fight with a Nidraa'chal summoner, mainly because the Nidraa'chal were ridiculously overpowered compared to their contemporaries. It is in fact much more likely that Drizrak became tainted in one of the many tainting-attacks (with hidden and unknown perpetrators) that plagued the city in the 80 years before the Nidraa'chal war, than that he survived a fight with a Nidraa'chal summoner. His work as a bodyguard in that period could also be against angry crowds (there was a lot of public unrest in that time).

As far as we know, the Vloz'ress all live in the fortress, or in the immediate surrounding area, so you unfortunately cannot have your gang based out of an old Dutan'vir fortification. The Vloz'ress isn't a big clan, so they need to stick together, despite their infighting.

As for the assumed Vloz'ress attack on Val'Raveran, that was actually caused by two semi-affiliated player characters, and is possible to read in the old Raveran threads, although the blame fell to the Vloz'ress. So unfortunately you cannot have participated in it. You could have participated in the defense of Vloz'Raveran (the Vloz'ress outpost just outside Raveran), as the Kyorls descended upon this outpost soon after clearing the infestation from their own outpost, but you would have had to have a good reason to be there in the first place, as it takes about three days to reach Raveran. Perhaps your gang was there to collect the precious metals the outpost was known to produce. The Kyorl'solenurn would be attacking with such a ferocity that a defeat was inevitable, and most of the Vloz'Raveran citizens were wiped out, perhaps your gang came upon Vloz'Raveran in its state of attack, engaged the enemy, and had to withdraw after taking serious losses. That would give the summoner's daughter a reason to think of her mother as lacking in tactical talent for sure.

And 7 feet? I.. don't think so. If we keep raising the bar for what is a tall drow, it will never stop. Make it 6'8" and I'll believe you.

Other than these points it's quite good. If you have any questions, please use the newbie school thread, otherwise just adjust your background at the points mentioned and repost so I can have another look :)

Refused.

---

Alric:

Remember that you need a source of fire (a spark will do) to use your fire sorcery. We've gone a long way, but finally, we have reached our destination. Have fun :)

Approved.

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Saby'lene:

You are allowed to use the Val title, since you are a Beldrobbaen, so go right ahead :)

The Magic field should say Shadow sorcery, since that is basically what you describe.

I'm not going to make you change anything, so please keep in mind for your next character what I said about the Magic field. I've locked the post for editing, since it has been evaluated, so don't worry about changing anything. Welcome to the DT rpg!

Approved.
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Thalar
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Location: Tei'kaliath healing station
Clan: Jaal'darya

Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Darthar » Sun Feb 01, 2009 8:16 pm

Name: Dathar Kar’shalu Sulliss’rune

Race: Drowolath

Age: 204

Equipment:
-Dual steel short swords-(One is called Black Fang, the other Testament)
-Steel(Hardened) Zwehiander
-An Iron war-axe(located in his forge, rusted and broken from his encounter with a Nidrachaal warrior)

Armor:
Blue cotton dress shirt
A tattered ragamuffin cloak now reduced to a haggard scarf. The scarf is dyed cerulean blue and bears the emblem of the Kar’shalu symbol.
His own crafted heavy-plate mail dark blue armor set. The armor

Supplies and Misc:
Simple Canteen
Cooking Knife
2 sets of extra civilian clothing
A plain metal compass
A steel shard his father gave to him.
First-aid supplies
Flint and rock
A blood soaked tattered cloth from Ka’latha
Arsha’s golden band
Drow blacksmith tools
Four foot long rope

Magic: Most proficient in earth based magic.


Combat Proficiency: Two-handed weapons, hand to hand.

Beginning city: Chel'el'sussoloth

Clan: Formerly a Highland raider of the Sarghress clan (no political affiliation)
Kar’shalu, sub house of the Sulliss’rune



Background: Dar’thar is a complicated fellow to say the least. He was born to a modest blacksmith in the heart of the bustling marketplace of Chel’el’sussoloth. La’dar was respected as an honest and open-minded merchant to all his patrons and customers. As befitting a commoner’s lifestyle, his parents were bound together for financial and emotional reasons. His father instilled in him a rigorous work ethic that carried over into all aspects of his life. His father crafted from a wide range of products, as it was fitting for a master smith. His provided weaponry ranging from a common iron knife to custom made blades. La’dar, the master smith, was infamously known for his eccentric choice in metals; the man smelted and formed weaponry from blackened steel for higher-tier customers. He prided himself on using blackened steel to forge cruel weapons that did not reflect the smith’s otherwise benevolent demeanor. Dar’thar worked with his father day and night since he was the only child; Dar’thar would ultimately leave his father’s home and seek out his own path as a blacksmith.

The father of Dar’thar, Ladar, was a man of note in his son’s circumstances. He previously was an exclusive contractor for the Sarghress clan. Years before he met Marga, Dar’thar’s domineering mother, Ladar worked within the confines of the Sarghress fortress. It was there he met his master and mentor, Arkan Sarghress. Arkan’s appearance was that of a drow in his early fifties physically due to his years spent above on the surface. He fought alongside the Highlander Raiders for over one hundred years and retired from the arduous and endless skirmishes a century before. Arkan held a general contempt for his newest apprentice, noting Ladar bull-headedness and repeat and fail process made him unfit to be a blacksmith. Ladar refused to take no for an answer, his drive and selfish pride forced him to continue his tutelage under Arkan for over twenty years. Arkan was the one who taught Ladar the blackening techniques used primarily with steel weapons; steel is mendable and stronger than standard iron or foolish obsidian materials, and thus the steel can withstand the seering fires used to black it’s core. Arkan silently chronicled Ladar’s snail-paced but dedicated progress over that time period. When twenty years finally passed, Arkan ended his tutelage of Ladar and told him the blackening technique was his to use; Ladar would continue to return to his master on advice for designing blades and increasing his knowledge of the smith’s exemplary technique. Ladar spent the next few years working with a modest smith as an assistant. The master and his apprentice started off on friendly terms. The master allowed Dar’thar to keep a small commission fee for each weapon he crafted; he earned more ada for the individual weapons he created rather than the co-op products the master and Ladar forged together. During his time as the assistant, Ladar continue to research and improve upon his first master techniques. Ladar managed finally to begin creating usable blackened weapons after countless failures. His master appreciated the new variety in merchandise Ladar had added to his master’s limited stock; this was the turning point of their previously hospitable relationship. The master smith was an average forger at best, and he began to credit himself as the originator of the blackened weapons; when Ladar finally heard of the false boasts of his master, he lost control of his temper and engaged in a heated argument with his master. Ladar was furious at how the swindling smith insulted the years of tutelage Ladar spent with Arkan; it wasn’t even that, but the fact the craven had the sheer nerve to say he introduced the blackened steel into the shop was a sin Ladar could not forgive. Ladar hastily left the hostile smith, and never looked back. The smith shortly afterwards returned to his failing ventures before taking on Ladar, and ultimately fell into poverty. The nameless smith died a penniless pauper and was lost to the annals of Chel’s long history.

Ladar returned to Arkan asking for a favour; he needed an upstart loan to start his own business. He explained to Arkan the events that had transpired the three years since he had left; the elderly master smith simply nodded with the cynical contempt he held for most people. Arkan agreed to Ladar’s life-changing plea, under certain conditions of course. Arkan made Ladar submit to the following conditions: He would have to exclusively work for the Sarghress and it’s sub houses for thirty years. The members of the clan and its sub house would be offered various discounts corresponding to their ranking with the entire clan hierarchy. Also, Darthar would be required to offer minimal discounts and gestures of goodwill to the Sullissin’rune due to the close alliance of the two great clans. Also, Lad’ar would have to pay back the loan with interest. Lad’ar contemplated the options he had, but they both knew what choice he would make: Lad’ar agreed completely to his mentor’s proposition.

Ladar slowly began his smithing business in a shoddy yet suitable shop for his circumstances. Ladar handled the orders from his patrons, forged the weapons; ordered the necessary materials from merchants, calculated his minimal budget. He was juggling an already struggling venture, he knew that he could only persevere since he chose this path. And then he met her, the one who tore apart his reality and was the joy and bane of his life. Marla. It was during a quiet night when their paths crossed. Ladar walked out from his shop during the waning hours of the day, the city slowly beginning to bustle with life. His eyes beheld a wretch and shell of a woman: her hair was in mangled tatters, her luxurious robes now torn and unravelling from weeks of struggle, her left eye was bruised from a hard blow. She sat curled in a miserable state as the simple smith approached her; her ears perked up with his growing steps. Lad’ar blankly squatted down to level his face with hers. The two stayed that way for several minutes, neither taking the iniative to speak the first word. Finally, the silence was broken. Ladar asked the first question “What’s your name?” he questioned her in a deadpan voice. The woman simply shrugged her drooping shoulders in response; Ladar stood up as he knew it pointless to continue. He slowly walked away from the quiet drowolath. She responded with a single muttered word: “Marla” she replied to his previously unanswered question. He tilted his plain white bangs to view her, she stood up with a slightly restored grace. She gazed at the quaint smith with glazed, uninterested eyes. “If you want to come in, I can let you stay the night” He shockingly said, he couldn’t believe the kindness he was showing to this complete stranger. The woman pushed back the oily blue locks as she followed after the smith into the dim and peaceful forge. That night changed his life and hers, it was the start of their uncommon relationship.

Marla stayed more than one night, more than a week. Lad’ar modestly offered her a job as an assistant, he was still paying back Arkan’s debt in full. Marla had no other options, otherwise she would be right back on the streets and possibly die from starvation that plagued so many of Chel’s unfortunate inhabitants. Marla began to surprise Ladar as her skills in handling business, mathematics, and overall negotiating vastly outshined his in comparison. She carried a haughty, shifty, and sly air when dealing with Ladar’s customers. She always had a quick retort to any nonsense spewed at her, a wry smile to a newcomer. Marla clearly was superior to Ladar’s management methods. He didn’t mind it though, females dominated drow society as a whole, it was just another fact of life Ladar accepted. Still, it was his hands that gave the forge its heart and life. If Marla was the calculating mind of the shop, Ladar was the body and heart that pumped authenticity and heart into it. Marla treated Lad’ar with the same jaded and quick-witted tongue she did with other people, she seemed generally distrustful of other people. He knew that her circumstances were not in the least common: something had to happened to cause her to lose her grace. No commoner ever behaved or was this skilled regardless of how long lived they were. Ladar didn’t pry into her past, he couldn’t change it. He merely accepted the present Marla and didn’t mind if she told him or left her past unknown. The next climatic point in their relationship came three years since they met, their shop was beginning to finally see the fruit of their once struggling business. Marla had become the unofficial business partner of Ladar, officially he owned the shop, but most knew it was Marla who had brought the needed component to it. It happened during the early hours of night as Ladar undressed to retire for the night. He found on the top of his wooden drawer the pendant Marla always wore around her neck; he finally saw the symbol that confirmed his suspicions: the Sulliss’rune clan’s symbol. He never forget his early theories about Marla’s background, but he respected her unheard wishes. He felt the fiery and seething air she gave off as he ran his rough fingers over the golden pendant. Her mismatched eyes glowed in the dim room; a tiger watching her new prey was the way to describe her gaze. “You know now who I am…I won’t go into detail. There’s no reason for me Ladar, whatever you think in that tiny mind of yours is probably true. I was once apart of the Sulliss’rune. I had everything provided for me- oblivious to the perils and realities of Chel in that utopian compound. I was arrogant and over-extended myself. I paid the price and was cast out from paradise due to my callousness. I spent weeks trying to reach out, no one answered me. What good am I? Those who passed me by thought as I fell into wretchedness and obscurity. I was nothing more than an outcast, I didn’t matter to the world. I accepted it-until you walked out that night. You could have simply passed bye too, but you didn’t. I don’t know why you stopped, but you did. Don’t think of my words as thanks for your kindness, for I would never had done the same for you.” She finishes her revealing speech. He shrugs his shoulders indifferently as he walks towards her in the darkness. He forcefully wraps his scarred arms around her slender back, smelling her toxic fragrance. He simply replies to her speech with “I’m just a simple man. I don’t need much in the world. Your past doesn’t matter to me Marla, only who you are now…I don’t care.” He finishes. She accepts his embrace with a smug retort “You’ll be damned by Sharess Ladar, to think I fell in love with a man who’s only good with his rough hands”. On that night they consummated their love, and nine months later their son was born into the world: Dar’thar.

When not working with his father in their forge, Dar’thar would explore the exotic, lively market tents and packed merchant stands. The dust filled alleyways were his playground, the chatter and banter of hundreds of citizens the music to which he danced. He was something of a dreamer, an idealist with a kind heart, uncommon for the drow since they were typically loners. It may have to do with his positive and cherished upbringing, but another point was he appreciated what he had every single day. The long and arduous work of a smithery had its advantages over a formal education for the young drow. He learned the process of smelting metals and casting them into templates when crafting blades. The angles and shapes of mathematics needed to shape the smoothest hilt and sharpest axe head. Each separate branch of work tied together perfectly into melding a well-rounded education.

Dar’thar possessed one childhood friend who was very dear to him, Ka’latha Dis’moro; she was the daughter of a up and coming cotton merchant. Dar’thar was stubborn and relentless with everything he committed in his childhood, while Ka’la was humble and accommodating. She often saved the young drowolath’s life from certain peril since he did not know when to hold his tongue. When frightened or threatened by a surly soldier, Dar’thar would foolishly play the role of a vengeful guardian for her. The two were nearly inseparable as children; each was a teacher to the other in some way. Dar’thar taught her about self-pride and standing up for herself; Ka’la instilled patience and logic as best she could, it wasn’t very successful though. One day, Ka’la discovered a unique talent through an accident involving an order: pressure sorcery. At the time she didn’t understand what exactly it meant, she only knew sorcery was something usually found in noble blood. Word spread throughout the district of the Dis’moro child possessing a rare sorcery; like anything, all information reaches the ears of the unmatched nobility. Unfortunately, the clan who heard of the girl’s illustrious talent was the Sharen clan. A representative of a Sharen sub house approached the father of Ka’latha; the cotton merchant eagerly and impatiently sealed his daughter’s fate.. She was whisked away from the commoner’s world, and rose to become a member of the nobility. Ka’latha left behind everything she had known; it was a part of life, the lucky ones always shared the same fate. Dar’thar accepted the bitter truth of losing what some would call his truest friend; other children mocked him as being in love with the newly christened sharen noble. It mattered not to the smith’s son; the end of his boyhood was slowly creeping towards him with each passing day.

At around age thirty, Dar’thar experienced the first of many tragedies he would endure in his seasoned lifetime. His father had in the past few decades earned the name of a provincial and generous merchant; his wares were respected by even the grizzled wolfs of the Sarghress. As any superstitious person knows however, the peak always occurs with a treacherous and unneeded fall. Several smiths began contracting specifically with one clan only. Dar’thar believed in the open door policy, his services would and always were open to anyone who could afford it. The Sharen had kept an eye on the smith’s weaponry, noting its blackened and twisted designs. The Sharen bought from and commissioned custom orders from La’dar in the past. They strategically eliminated competition by buying out the smiths within the districts. They saw La’dar as another simple and greedy merchant, all too ready to sell himself to the mightiest clan at the time. Some call him a madman, others a suicidal death-seeker; he refused them right on the spot. Aggravated but not undeterred by the surprising response, the Sharen agents reinitiated there dealings; each time they were granted the same response: no deal. Perhaps La’dar was not intimidated by the pressure of his colleagues and threats form servants of the oldest clan; maybe he was too full of himself. The dye was cast; his decision would forfeit all he ever cherished.

The Sharen sent two skilled and stealthy assassins in the dead of night. Their mission was a simple one: steal the schematics and sketches of the smith and slaughter his family in the heart of night. Dar’thar was by this time a typical rebellious teenage drowolath. He returned from a bar in the waning hours of morning to discover the grisly sight; his home and father’s shop were lit ablaze as a ferocious fire burnt his entire life to countless ashes . He impulsively rushed into the smouldering ruins to try and locate his father and father. He searched for over ten minutes in the rising inferno; he couldn’t find a single trace of either of them. His home would become his death trap if he stayed any longer. He managed to safeguard his life barely, the building collapsed on itself several minutes after his escape. He slumped sluggishly to the side alleyway, only to discover an even more forlorn sight: his father bleeding out in the dim side street. He bursts forward to La’dar’s side, struggling to support his father who was barely conscious. Dar’thar knew his father would not survive the wounds inflicted upon him. He cradled the pitiful smith’s lacerated body in his burnt arms as the light from his father’s pale eyes gave way. Lad’ar reached out to his son’s tear-drenched face. He simply smiled to him, and spoke one last ambiguous sentence “Don’t be afraid…oh Marla…I couldn’t keep my promise after all” he said to no one in particular; his body slumped and the warmth of his body drained as Dar’thar cradled his battered body. The screaming and horrific wailing of an innocent son was heard throughout the neighbourhood. In the course of an entire evening, the idyllic dream of innocence drowned into the grim reality of the drow’s cruel society.

Dar’thar’s entire livelihood no longer existed. His father’s estate was liquidated and seized by the very agents of death, the Sharen. He was forced out into the streets as an orphan. He had no skills other than what his father had taught him in the thirty odd years. He tried to search for his mother, since she wasn’t in the fire. Nobody had seen her leave the forge that night Still, it was enough information to give him hollow hope. Dar’thar began to knock on the doors of his father’s old colleagues and friends. Each eerily turned him away or made excuses of having no positions available. It wasn’t the fact they didn’t want to help the boy; they knew he was in a desperate situation and would have gladly done so otherwise. The Sharen either controlled or threatened the known associates of Ladar into refusing the boy. He finally managed to find an employer, a run-down smith who didn’t care how or who gave him help-as long as they had some shred of talent. The smith only offered minimum may for the boy’s services, but it was better than dying on the streets Dar thought to himself. Still, he needed more than the misel y ada the smith offered. Darthar took up a job as a bartender at the arena working during the later shifts. He juggled the early mornings of working with the sub-par smith and the late night owl shifts. He gained an understanding of business from the smith and the shady rumors and gossip of the nobility be being an astute observer at the arena. Nobles and high commoners favoured the high quality spirits, while the commoners who came to watch bought the cheap, but bountiful beer available. Dar’thar used his dual position at the forge to improve his craft from what little the unqualified smith could teach, and more importantly his access to the drunken slips and stories of the higher classes. He thought his position would yield any luck with his search for his mother’s vanish. Dar’thar grew tired of the double jobs and the lack of any progress in his life. Perhaps he was doomed to live this shallow existence for the rest of his days…

Fate is often contradictory though, for Dar’thar’s luck once again rose. During a rather peaceful evening in the after-hours of the arena’s matches, a group of rather worldly noble-looking drowolath strolled into the bar. They were giggling like a mass of schoolgirls, their frilly robes swaying with each step they took. The trio approached Dar’thar’s back as he polished an empty opaque glass. One of them called out to him with a slight slur “Hmm hmm, that was a brilliant match. Bar boy, fancy a bottle for me and my friends? On the house of course” the ditzy black haired leader ordered in a teasing tone. Dar’thar tilts his head back to get a look at the pitiful group, immediately he spots the symbol of the Sharen. He quietly tightens his burly hands around the glass handle , and grits his teeth as his anger boiled under the surface. He sighs inwardly as the spontaneous mood leaves him as he realizes his situation though; He cannot afford to destroy his only source of income. Dar’thar puts on a thespian’s cheerful smile, indulging the idiots with their games “Sure sure, the affluent Sharen are always welcomed here with question. What would you like my lady?” He replies with a forced disgust. The female claps her hands together “Ho ho ho, of course. Make it an entire bottle bar-boy.” She haughtily slurs her words. The trio and the silent bar-keep keep each other company for the next two hours. They discuss random meaningless chit-chat amongst each other, only acknowledging him for another round or for him to pour a fresh shot. The entire bar changes from a boring atmosphere to a noisy and boisterous setting with the three woman. Dar’thar watches the ditzy one laugh in shrill bubbly responses to her friend. He notes her seemingly easy-going nature and fun-loving habits. She tilts her head once every ten minutes or so to him; its always that same annoying but lovable laugh. He thinks to himself about his misfortunate as he hollowly wipes the insides of another glass. The leader breaks the awkward barrier between them : “Ehh, so bar-boy…which one of us do you think is the prettiest?” She sly grins with a sensual loose gesture due to her sheer intoxication. Dar’thar’s eyes widen in surprise as the question was so unexpected. He glances at the three Sharen girls and cringes inwardly because his choice will anger the other two he thought. Still, she was the one who seemed the most obvious. The ditzy leader was the one he thought. He replies to her drunken stupor sheepishly while rubbing his index finger against his cheek; “Hrmm…I would have to say..you” he mumbles incoherently to her. The other two feign disappointment as their friend bounces up and down in a shrill cry “Hahaha…of course, I’m the one. Who else would it be? You picked right bar-boy..otherwise I would have broken your nose if you chose wrong Hahaha.” She calmly replies with a bizarre half-threat. “Well bar-boy, thanks for the drinks. You’re a good little boy hmm hmm. Maybe will see you around, next time you can serve me entire round of wine Hahaha.” She shines a crooked smile to the quiet drow male. The trio merge together and gingerly disappear out to Chel’s bustling night. The trio stop dead center at the entrance for a moment, the sharen ditz turns back to the humble bartender. Her previously bubbly personality melts into a twisted chilling omen “Your a lot different then before, there’s no more fire in you. Didn’t you use to hate people like us? I guess your not the guy I thought you were Dar. That fire…you should have just faded away like the ashes.” She ominously chuckles in a disturbing manner. The other two mimic her menacing smile, their red eyes glowing in the doorway. “You can’t escape fate Dar, you never will” she said in an empty monotone. The trio disappear into the embrace of the darkness, the flair of their red eyes is all that remains of their presence. Dar’thar immediately drops the white rag to pursue the group, nothing mattered at this point. Who the hell was she? How did she know about that? Why did she really come? It didn’t matter, only his seering hatred clouded his judgement.

He paced himself as he searched through the sprawling streets of Chel. He saw the trio turn a corner a hundred feet ahead of him. Unnerved and efficiently machine-like, Dar’thar follows the Sharen; he keeps a controlled composure as to not draw attention. The hunter preys behind them at a safe distance, his eyes scanning for them around each bend and twist of Chel. The burning memories scorch his mind as the hatred sinks him into a Sociopathic calm. They turn into a back alley, the bottoms of their robes leaving a clue for his final approach. His pace quickens as he sprints into the alleyway like a wild tiger- he sees nothing but an empty decrepit alleyway. His eyes scope out the alleyway, but nothing remains of the trio. His patience dies as his anger consumes him. He pounds his fists into the hard concrete wall at his failure. He bangs and rattles the inanimate dirty wall; his knuckles begin to bleed from repeated exposure and abuse. Dar’thar finally disengages his useless fury as he slumps against the wall. He had a lead finally, and now it was gone. That girl would never come back, he would never find the answers he wanted. He straightens himself up as he clasps his right hand around another alley exit as a vastly different scene unfolded.


The woman was of aristocratic means, by the lavish and tight fitting clothes she wore. She was surrounded by three female drowolath. Dar’thar crouched behind a wooden crate as he listened in on their conversation “No more Arsha, you’ve tried my patience for the last time. I’m tired of waiting for your answer. Yes or no you Sulliss’rune harlot?” the leader barked bluntly to the cornered noble. The uninterested Arsha venomously replied “Illya, my old friend. Can you never think of anything but ada? Are you such a pathetic worm whom resorts to extortion. I am not intimated by your hollow threats. Begone Illya, else you wish to find death”. The answer was all Illya needed, she roughly slaps Arsha across the face with a stinging hit. Arsha staggers from the blow across her cheek, an imprint is left on left cheek. “I guess there’s no reason to hold back then. I’m tired of you Arsha…you never can keep your promises. Maybe hell will treat you better, so long…old friend” Illya smugly replies to Arsha. Dar’thar’s heart pumps madly as he watches the scene unfold, this woman would be killed. He knew there was no way he could take all three on, but if he tried to leave they’d possibly kill him. He shakes his head and emerges from his hiding spot. He tip toes out from the alleyway into the deserted courtyard. Illya’s right ear perks up as she hears Dar’thar’s approaching steps. Dar’thar pretends to act surprise as his widen eyes meet with hers “Err…wrong way I guess…” he feigns nervousness. Illya raises a brow as she draws her shortsword and walks toward Dar’thar. “Oh dear..what will do with you? Dear dear…we can’t have you going anywhere. I guess you don’t have luck boy- too bad.” She nonchantly says to Darthar, her fingers delicately petting her thirsty blade. Dar’thar raises his hands as to calm the cutthroat “Er..no really, I just took a wrong turn…I’ll be on my way. Please, it was an honest mistake” He squeaks as he backs away. Arsha vigilantly watches the misfortunate newcomer, but she saw an opportunity. Illya’s back was turned away from Arsha, and these two were merely common thugs of Illya’s, nothing Illya hadn’t seen before. Perhaps the boy could serve as a distraction, she only needed the right opening. Dar’thar nervously sidesteps to the right for a moment, Illya glides across five feet and shifts her weight to block him a path “No no boy, there’s no running away. You just don’t get to walk out-you’ll sell me out. I can’t let some trash ruin me. Sorry lad, it’s not personal. Just your unlucky” Illya shrugs her shoulders as she raises her iron blade. Arsha’s eyes widen as she seizes the distraction. She instantly lights the the left thug’s arm into an infernal flame, the second panics as her companion screamed in pain from the seering fire. “What!?” Illya yells in surprise as she twists her back around to see Arsha’s trickery. In that instant, Dar’thar’s seizes his own oppurtinity. He dashes towards Illy’as exposed back and angles his burly clenched fist to the back of exposed head. Dar’thar breaths heavily as the vunerable woman had no time to stop him; the brute force of the punch connects with the backside of her skull. A gruesome crack echoes from the deafening blow, Illya cries out in pain as the blow stuns her. In the ensuing chaos, Illya drops her steel blade to her left side. Dar’thar dives for the fallen blade in the hopes Illya won’t recover it. Arsha struggles with the remaining bandit, the two interlocked in a grapple with drawn blades. Arsha watches Dar’thar attempt for a split-second and returned to her own opponent. Dar’thar rolls with the blade locked in his right hand, he positions himself in front of Illya with her possession wielded by a thief. She stares at Dar’thar with a malevolent set of eyes, her jaw widen in a hideous shape “You think your pretty good, huh kid? Your dead..I’m going to cut you open and skin your flesh from the your bones. I’ll feed your heart to my dog, and your eyeballs to your mother you son of a bitch” She shrieks at him; she draws out a concealed dagger from her belt. “Watch my hands, watch my hand…watch..and DIE!” she charges swiftly towards the young drow. Dar’thar raises the jagged blade in front of the oncoming attacker, his heart pounding as the cold chill of death froze his blood. Arsha finally gains the uphand and overpowers her opponent, the female tumbling to the ground. Arsha angles the blade upwards and pierces her neck cleanly, the blade logged in completely. Illya’s legs pound with each wild step to her enemy, her daggers ready to tear him apart. Illya slashes across at Dar’thar’s chest and aims the other towards his head. Dar’thar hastily lowers himself seconds before Illya’s daggers pierced his body. He had the low vantage point and in her error Darthar plunges her blade into her chest. The blade’s tip slides out the otherside of her back. Illya gurgles and coughs up blood as the blade punctured her right lung. She flails about and chortles in pain as she pitifully dies in the alleyway. Tears stream from her blood-shot eyes as she realized her life was over. Ilya finally falls to her knees, her body collapsing forwards unto the cold concrete floor. Fresh blood pours from her fatal wound. Dar’thar pants haggardly from the extremely lucky opening. Dar’thar turns to Arsha, who raises her right brow in amusement “Hmm, you’re a murderer now lad. There was no reason for you to aid me, but then again I get feeling you didn’t just waltz in. Nobody will find them for atleast twenty minutes; you don’t want the guards to do the same to what you did to Illya. Come on, we don’t have much time.” She beckons to him as they flee the grisly crime.


The woman was called Arsha’Korsu Kar’shalu, a minor noble of the Sullissin’rune clan. She pitied Dar’thar as he related his tragic tale over a warm meal. He told her about his family’s unneeded murder, how he managed to barely survive with his two jobs. She nodded constantly as he finished each new story. He told her about the three Sharen girls, their playful banter, and their cryptic knowledge of his family’s murder. Arsha sipped a small cup of tea as he related the tales of his past. When he mentioned his mother’s name, Arsha lowered her cup. “What?...did you know my mother?” Dar’thar assumes since he mentioned her name. Arsha coyly wriggled her finger back and forth “I knew you mother indeed. She was an old friend of mine; not like “Illya”, a true friend.” She responded to his gaping look. “Hmm, so she had a son..hmm…” She ponders among her memories. “How did you know my mother?” Dar’thar anxiously asked Arsha. “Your mother…was once apart of the clan boy. She was a noble like myself, but her life fell apart years ago. Some nasty affairs happened and filthy deeds. She commited a grevious and embarrassing sin, she fled from the safety of the Sullissi’rune.” She nods while sipping the steaming tea. Dar’thar furrows his brow as the information sunk in. He shakes his head in confusion as to why. “What happened? Tell me please” He begs Arsha for the truth. “Relax boy, you should know of course. Your mother was always ambitious, she never took no for an answer. She had the talent of course, but she over-extended her drive. She couldn’t accept her bliss, she yearned for more power. Your mother foolish challenged her superior for control of her position. Marla overestimated her abilities and lost in a humiliating defeat. The fact your mother broke and disrespected the codes of Sullis’rune in an open act of defiance, she was banished from here. You need to understand something lad, the Sullissi’rune are not hedonists, they have lasted for so long due to complete control and tranquillity. Your mother would have risen had she only accepted her status, but it was never enough for Masira. Her arrogance tragically proved to be her undoing.” She tells Dar’thar as a warning. Dar’thar’s spirit sunk to new lows as he learned about the truth of his mother. He knew his mother could be ruthless and demanding at times, but to be so brazen as to think she could challenge ancient authority. Now he knew why she cried herself to sleep at times, was it bitter memories of her disgrace? Disgust at her predicament as a commoner? He would never know he thought to himself. “I can’t go back to the bar, the fact I ran out…and I can’t stand working in that dump of a forge” he gestures to Arsha bitterly. She rises elegantly from the mahogany chair, a warm fire burning in the fireplace. “Your mother was always good to me-even until the bitter end. What you did was foolish, but brave as well. Even though I could have saved myself, the fact you risked your life for mine means I’m indebted to your family more than ever. You know the truth now Dar’thar. So what will you do? What I saw in you reminded me so much of your mother’s fire, it’s shame you weren’t a girl. Still, you have raw potential. Your still very young by our standards. You reminded me of my older brother as well. Your both stubborn, brazen, and do not accept no for an answer; but what you possess like him is sheer cunning. The way you fooled Illya into a unsecure overconfidence is not a trait learned, it’s flows in your veins. The world you know will never change if you remain as a commoner. I have one daughter who is fully grown and left this home long ago. Hmm…perhaps this is a second chance; maybe you can redeem your mother’s sin.” She vaguely hints at something approaching. Dar’thar blankly blinks as to her indirect suggestion “What are you trying to say?”. Arsha rolls her amber eyes as the boy lacked refined inference “It seems you need more education than I thought…I’ve raised one child already, but I am not a spinster. Dar’thar, I’m willing to adopt you as my own blood. Having a son- may do some good for my boredom” She fills in the dots for him. Dar’thar’s mind goes blank as the words sunk in. A hazy memory tries to project into his mind, the situation seemed so familiar. “Why though?” He asked stupidly to the charitable offer. “I already told you boy. If you can’t get that through your thick skull, I may retract what I just said.” She curves her lips into a teasing smile. Dar’thar looks Arsha directly in the eyes and replies “I accept…mother” the words echoes in the empty room.

Dar’thar spent the next several years honing his incomplete commoner’s education. While as a blacksmith he knew about the basics of geometry, metal forging, and some standard applications of science, he was otherwise unsuited to became a noble. Arsha left Dar’thar in the care of a tutor due to the fact he was somewhat old to attend the halls of Orthobe. Dar’thar tutor and mentor for the next ten years of his life was a valuable and trusted instructor of Sullissirune males, his name was Ralos. Ralos was strict, demanding, and abit of a perfectionist. He didn’t necessarily take pleasure from beating his pupils, but he used physical abuse as a reinforcement to instill failure results in death in his mind. When Ralos first met Dar’thar he noted his impatient and brash attitude as a detriment, but also acknowledged Arsha’s earlier observation about his strong will and cunning tactics. Ralos trained Dar’thar to rely on his raw natural strength he gained from his days a blacksmith to be the basis of his fighting style. Ralos tested him in a multitude of weapons styles, Ralos concluded Dar’thar’s choice should be in either two handed weapons or longswords to specialize in primary style; Ralos also thought Dar’thar should rely on a combination of using his magical affinity with his weaponry. Dar’thar’s elemental affinity test aligned him with earth-based sorcery, reflecting his unyielding , bull-headed nature. Ralos trained the drowolath male vigorously over the course of the ten years. Dar’thar learned to harness his earth magic in conjunction with heavy styled weapons to create unique attacks manipulating the enviorment. The handicap Ralos explicitly told Dar’thar was his choice in weaponary severely limited his natural mobility and agility. Dar’thar also familiarized himself with the customs and nuances of nobility of the Sullissi’rune: who’s title belong to who, the personal differences between classes and genders, the open-minded nature of the Sullissi’rune as a whole as well. Ralos had a lasting impact on Dar’thar’s future temperament: he laid the traits for percievernce, ruthlessness, calcutating patience, and a sharp wit and manipulation of words. When tens years finally passed, Dar’thar returned to Arsha for a personal evalution. Arsha concluded with the following line “It seems I was right about you ten years ago. Ralos agrees you’ve changed much and I can clearly see the results of his strict regimen. Perhaps your future is more eventful than I originally thought. Maybe you’ll live up to my expectations as the shadow of my brother.”

The Sarghress clan had formed an alliance with the Sullissin’rune sometime in the past. Arsha wanted to see how well Ralos’s training truly paid off. Arsha arranged a meeting with a Sarghress representative to the conditions for an exchange between her foster son and an equal member of the Sarghress. The negioatatins at times proved to be fruitless and heated disagreements often became the focal points of the month long arrangements. Finally an agreement was reached by the two respective parties: Dar’thar would be examined by a Sarghress who volunatirly offered to evaluate the competence of the male, and Arsha would promise her adopted son to the servitude of the Raiders for over twenty years at minimum. Also, Arsha would have to educate a Yuhunrir female drowolath who displayed empathic abilities due Arsha’s own unique empathic abilities. The conditions were set and Dar’thar left for the Sarghress’s clan fortress several days later. In constrast with the utopian compound the Sullissi’rune created, Dar’thar felt oddly at home in the rough-neck and collective home of the wolves. Dar’thar asked a local guard as to where he needed to report too. The guard dryly replied with “Old bones will be taking care of you Sullissi’rune, you can find him in the forges over near the armory. Best becareful, Old bones will burn you with his smelting rod if you piss him off to much”. Dar’thar shook his head in resignation as he headed to the booming furnaces and lively corridors of the forge. Making his way through dueragar slave assistants barking at one in another in their native tongue, Dar’thar entered a lonely room with barely any furnitature. Dar’thar scanned cautiously the eerie dim room for any sign of life; a hanging chain-link rattled for a moment before a hand wrapped around Dar’thar’s exposed neck. A scarred and leathery set of fingers held a knife against his threat as a croaking male’s voice boomed: “Already dead lad, your easy prey for a goblin. Better yet, a tikititi has more guile than your stupid arse.” He taunts the unassuming Dar’thar. Dar’thar’s eyes widen as a bead of sweat dripped done the side of his forehead. The hand loosens it’s grip and pulls the blade back. From the shadows steps the one called Old Bones, otherwise known as Arkan Sarghress.

“Old Bones, I presume?” Dar’thar coughs as he rubs the marks left from Arkan’s hand. “Aye sodomist, I’m Old Bones. You’re the bloody Sullissi’rune brat who thinks he’s fit to fight with the most grizzled shit-kickers Chel’s seen ehh? Well lad, let’s see what your scrawny arse can do. Come on, outside in the compound; I’m going to test your mettle and see if you can actually take a hit unlike the rest of the sloths who live in that bubble” He scowls bitterly to Dar’thar. Dar’thar grits his teeth as Arkan disrespected his clan and more importantly his own pride. “Lead the way Old bones” Dar’thar clenches his right hand as his anger illy took control of him. “Got a temper ehh? Let’s see if you can do anything with that fire, otherwise your just full of shit kid.” Old Bones croaks in a half laugh as he exits the forge to the compound’s open space. The two pace towards a rotting wooden practice arena scarcely wider than a single bedroom. Dar’thar vaults over the wooden fence as Old Bones did the same; the two stand directly opposite from each other, in the center of dusty corral. Arkan tosses to Dar’thar a plain iron greatsword as he prepared the same for himself. Dar’thar smooths his right hand over the roughened edge of the blade. “Better than nothing lad, a blade’s just an extension of your own abilities. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Well then kid, your probally wondering why I’m your examiner? This is a personal request of course. I ain’t gonna bloody tell you the reason though, unless you can actually keep up with me poor old bones.” The aged Sarghress smith snaps mockingly while cracking his vertebrae. Dar’thar replies with “The rule of thumb seems to be the older you are, the stronger you really are. I’m not that much of an idiot. Although Senile Bones seems better suited for a fossil kept in the back closet of the wolves’ den.”. “Ho ho, got a tongue on ya young one. Enough talk boy, let’s see what your runty arse is really made of.” The old drowolath narrows his eyes as his mocking manner shifted to a bitter coldness. Dar’thar gulps nervously as the man changed completely, he curls his lips into a slight smile as he raises his blade in front of him “Your move old man” he says to Arkan. Arkan snorts loudly as he slashes at Dar’thar’s elevated blade vertically, an unnaturally powerful blow causing Dar’thar to stagger from the weight behind it. Dar’thar struggles to keep his legs planted in a defensive stance as Arkan forced the pressure from his blade into Dar’thar’s. “What’s the matter Sullissi’rune? Can’t even beat an old senile man, guess I was right. Your nothing more than a tik lizard’s morning shit.” The old bastard sneers in the face of the youth. The battle was one sided. Dar’thar lost to Old Bones, but he was accepted into the Highland Raiders on the recommendation of Arkan’s personal favour, rather than actual merit.

The examiner noted although Dar’thar was rather tall for a male, he possessed adequate strength, and was somewhat quick on his feet; the examiner marked and praised him on the one element he always embodied: his endurance and will to struggle. He was outfitted with the standard armor and uniform of the raiders, and from there stretched out to the surface. Dar’thar led a boastful and colourful life on the surface for over seventy years with the raiders. He raided with vigour and ferocity with each successful raid of jewels, lost artifacts, and bounties scrounged from the forgotten surface. The sights and sounds of the exotic and strange landscape forced Dar’thar to give a sublime respect to the world he never knew. Now he knew why his ancestors regretfully sundered the beauty they once inhabited. The seasoned raider had one particular encounter that brought out the murderous and savage nature he locked away for so long. While on a routine patrol his unit and was outnumbered, but not overpowered in the least. The orcish band foolish headed towards their death. The unit devastated the war cabal using their advance equipment and superior tactics in flanking and routing the warband. Dar’thar overestimated his ability and was injured in the line of duty, after taking matters into his own hands wantonly. He was berated and confined to mess detail for a month in punishment. He learned the importance of working as a unit and from this harsh lesson paved the way for his more tactic, calculated style in combat. The raiders proves invaluable in teaching Dar’thar the qualities of trusting in your superiors, and working together to ensure a near failproof outcome. Dar’thar earned the respect of the High land Raiders as being reliable, resourceful, and never leaving his comrades behind. He often was chided for his lapse into his reckless behaviour, but it stemmed more from his need to keep casualities to a minimum.

The Highland Raiders discharged Dar’thar ten years after the orc massacre. His superiors felt he was an earnest veteran, but he could never rise within the ranks of the Sarghress since he wasn’t officially apart of them. Still, after decades of recognized and endless work, his contribution to the raiders left him with the respect of the Yunhurir commander, Azrillna Yunhurir, the leader of Darthar’s battalion on the surface. He was made an honorary member of the clan; however, it was only in name and spirit. Dar’thar returned to the confines of his adoptive childhood home. For the first time in years he felt purposeless. The raiders were his family, his center of life and now it was nothing but a fragment of the past. Arsha worried about her her adoptive son’s idleness with each passing day. He was not of the Sullissin’rune leisurely lifestyle; he possessed their patience, but was restless and suited for a ever changing landscape. The memories of his childhood lingered and burned freshly into his waking thoughts and sleepless nights. The Sharen had robbed him of everything, and yet gave him another chance at life. Dar’thar settled the matter with his tormented past. He explained to his mother he wished to return restart his father’s long dead smithery. Arsha knew he was most at ease with the earth and his hands, she consented to her foster child’s wish. Once again, the drowolath left for another chapter in his life.

Dar’thar worked up from the bottom of the market’s competitive world. He bought the refurbished , quaint compound his father once used over a hundred years ago. With the small fortune he acquired from his days as a raider and patronage from his sub house, he ventured into the smithing world again. He spent his days in modest means and remained faceless amongst the citizens. He was simply known by the district he inhabited as slightly above average smith. The clanging of metal against moldable casts, the flaring heat of the fireworks, everyone who passed the door of the smithery assumed he was no one in particular. Dar’thar dealt mostly with the Syshlsoune and Sarghress clan since he was most favourable with them. He purchased a dwarf slave in the meantime called Marth. The dwarf despised the drow, but still begrudgingly tolerated Dar’thar’s presence due to his calm, level-headed fairness of the dwarf. Dar’thar lived peacefully in obscurity he hoped. He re-enacted the act of his father’s open door policy. He used the same motto his father once recited repeatedly “If one can afford my craft, they will have my hammer as a friend”. Patronage from the Sarghress and Sullisinsune grew modestly over the course of the next decade. All seemed well for the once nightmare plagued drow.

In the grand schemes of clan politics, the Nidraa’chal clan grew in power at an alarming rate. This new breed of drow, the Ver’drownedar, began to trickle into the population. Citizens were wary and suspicious of the bastardized promises of these so called “children of the Goddess”. Dar’thar observed indifferently this new mysterious and malevolent breed of drow. Several Nidraa’chal visited his shop in the months before the cataclysmic war. They offered him the chance to become apart of something new. The agents noted his weapons were fit for the new breed; the cold and twisted appearance of his steel reflected the heartlessness of these cursed drow. Dar’thar echoed his father’s choice from decades long since past. They swore he would regret his foolishness, and his head would be displayed to all when they returned. The agents never came back. All around the city could feel the tension and hysteria escalating. The Great Clans remained divided and indecisive. As all know, they paid the ultimate price for squandering their precious grains of sand. On the night the Nidraa’chal marched, the city was razed by the burning fires of these harbingers of demons and uncontrolled malice. Chel, the once great bastion of drow society, stood near the brink of collapse. The Sharen made their stake with the entire combined army onto the tiny clan. The culmination of years of tension built up to these terror filled weeks. Dar’thar gazed upon the wreckage of his ransacked and war-torn home with utter horror. He had seen death many times before, but this spelled a sorrowful end for all if something was not done. The drowolath smith returned to the quiet quarters of his ancestral home. The fires of countless battles echoed throughout the city, cries for help and the mercy of a gentle death wailed throughout the night. He felt powerless as the scope of everything forced him to realize he could do nothing; he could not falter, for Dar’thar could protect his district as best his body held out. He couldn’t fight alone against the organized forces of the Nidrachaal, he recalled the situation from his days in the High land raiders. Besides, the entire Temple District had been overrun with demons and disorganized units from the Sharen and other clans would take aim at any. He logically came to the conclusion that he could only shelter and offer aid to those fleeing that area.

He headed out to the streets as countless refugees sprinted away from the district. He raised his hands and beckon to any who needed shelter. One by one , those who heard his pleas hesitantly answered his call. Some left and other accepted his deal; they could seek sanctuary in his forge. He noted that majority of these people had become infected by demons. Still, what shred of honor prevented him from leaving behind these wretched souls. He stood watch as he closed the door and began a vigil in the long night. The nightmare had just commenced.

A week had past since then. Dar’thar was running out of supplies and his refugees were starting to starve. He couldn’t hold out any longer. He fended off several stray demons and spilled their blood when necessary. The Nidraa’chal marched from the temple district into the sanctum of the city. He remained quiet during those patrols and prayed to the Goddess he would come out unscathed. At one point two Nidraa’chal footmen entered his house. He immediately killed them with the aid of four refugees who overwhelmed them. They disposed of the bodies, but Dar’thar opted to keep their blood-stained armor. He kept the deathly mantle as a last resort in the hopes he could use it just in case. Then they came. Nothing was unseen to them, the Kyorl forces strategically headed towards the Temple District to drive out the demonic presence. Dar’thar panicked when he realized several of his refugees were unwillingly tainted. When a split off group arrived, he tried his best to accommodate their needs. They were respectful at first, but their impure presences had already been sensed. They stormed into the forge and wrecked his entire’s life work in mere minutes. They slaughtered several adults and dragged the rest of the tainted and untainted into the streets. They left Dar’thar in his shop. He couldn’t do anything while he heard their cries of agony as each was executed mercilessly. He sunk into his subconscious and headed towards the Nidraa’chal mantle and donned it in silence. Light fitting, and already coated in dry blood he drew his blackened steel Zwhenedier in tow. The small group of six were young, cocky, and overconfident Templars led by a naïve, proud warden and her blade. There wasn’t a chance for error at all. Dar’thar launched his blade across horizontal and cut asunder two templars. Before they could react, he sent out a shockwave of earth to entrench the warden and her blade into a bind. He had to act fast since she would break free in only minutes. The youth were alarmed and surprised by how this vengeful skirmisher killed two of their brothers in a fell swoop. The remaining two encircled him in a snare. He quickly accessed his surroundings and knew it wasn’t good. Still, he couldn’t stop now. They charged together at once, and he answered them with spiked rock. The spires managed to pierce through one of the templar’s shoulder blades. He overexerted himself and paused for a moment, before a templar struck through his shoulder. The blade pierced partially into his flesh; in response he grabbed hold of the youth’s exposed neck and crushed his neck with his gauntleted hands. The lone templar sprinted away in order to rally around his warden and her blade. He didn’t make it. Using the same tactic as beforec, Darthar created a rock barrier and the fleeing youth slammed into it head on. Disoriented he impaled the templar from the stomach upwards in the same manner. The warden and her blade ferociously broke through the rubble and readied themselves. Dar’thar was exhausted. He wasted too much energy and was fatigued. The warden cautiously engaged the skirmisher and raised her blade to impale him. “Demon scum, you will face judgement by my hand. I will.---ahhhhckkk” She screamed as her body burned suddenly. Her warden hadn’t sensed the intruders and was mowed down by a flurry of arrows. In the corner, they waited. A trio of Sharen women. The women from the bar years earlier. The girl had come for him. She had watched him this entire time.



Ka’latha stood feet from Dar’thar’s delirious withdrawal. She lent a seemingly fragile hand out to him. He fumbled towards her gracious help. He barely rose before a tightening pressure built upon him. Dar scrapped across the barren ruins of the recent battle. He stared in complete confusion as Ka’latha harmed him. He transfixed his eyes upon her, her face revealed the answer he sought. Ka’latha’s eyes burnt a blood red in the dim centre. She had fallen to the taint. Dar’thar raised his great sword sluggishly against the fresh Sharen; it was a one sided fight. Ka’latha made child play of the exhausted Dar’thar, his strikes against her utterly useless. She was a master of pressure sorcery and an adept with the seering flame. Defeated and bested easily, Dar’thar collapsed upon his blade for support. Ka’latha stepped in triumphant strides towards her kill. The two met at the crossroads of their intertwined fates. Ka’latha raised her staff to deliver the execution. For a single moment only, she hesitated. In this moment, their lives would change forever once again.

She asked a peculiar question “You don’t know when to die do you? No it seems its in your blood. Your like a scrambling dog who never knows when to keep his nose down. Pathetic, even in battle you show your enemies compassion. Still, at least you have the raw edge that makes you useful to those sodomites” She said to him flatly. Dar’thar mumbled the answer “I’m a commoner your right. I don’t make any excuses about my “low” blood. Have you forgotten too? Where you came from? You and me ended up on the same level, but I can see there’s nothing left of that girl I knew. At the bar years ago, that was….nice.” he coughed as blood trickled from his mouth. Satisfied with his reply, she began to lower her staff to end it “I can’t understand you honestly-you were always too stubborn Dar. Goodbye Dar’thar….I’m sorry” her words rang out in a confusing meaning. He raised his left clawed hand to the staff with the last reserve of strength. Ka’latha’s reaction to his unseen move shocked her and him. The staff split from her grip and Dar’thar slashed with the gauntlet’s pricks across the front of her shirt. The silk tore apart across her abdomen with five horizontal tears. The last boom of strength ricocheted her frail frame into a hard wooden stand. Dar’thar’s body gave out after that. He was at her mercy. In a delusional vision, he watched as an explosion erupted in the distance near the temple district. The outline of Kala stood over him, and he could hardly make out her voice. Simple screaming, or something like that he concluded inwardly. Her form vanished as more of the flames screeched across in the distance.

Dar’thar awoke in the sub house medical quarters were his mother’s servants tended to him. Arsha grimly sighed a mixture of relief and anger as he opened his mix matched eyes. Dar’thar managed somehow to end up back in the shop, and a scout stumbled upon his battered presence a day later. Dar’thar’s body suffered more grievous scars along his arms and legs from the beating. He was alive yes, but nothing would ever be the same.

Dar’thar returned to his home to rebuild from the wreckage. His entire livelihood laid in ruins, but he would remake what was lost. The stains of dried blood still were at the execution spot. His first taste of racial malice took form that day, his distrust of the drowussu and the Kyorl’solenum only solidified his image of their horrific zealotry. He barred trade with the Kyorl’solenurn from that point onwards.



Description: Dar’thar stands at roughly five eleven, above average for a drow male He weighs about a hundred and eighty pounds, give or take a few. He has several significant scars etched throughout his body. On his nose is a horizontal cut that runs from the beginning of both eyes. On his back are three claw marks from the orc raid. On his body are various minor scars and a long jagged diagonal scar. His face is sculpted but not chiselled, his brow protrude lightly outwards. His hair color is black streaks with gold tips. He usually wears his hair in a cropped ponytail. Dar’thar wears simple blue and gold worker’s clothing in his forge; in the streets a common fashionable overcoat and cotton pants are his suited choice. Also, Dar’thar’s right hand was replaced with a golem prosthetic from years of abuse and neglect on his part. Although not from the bloodline of Sullissin’rune, Dar’thar inherited heterochromia from his mother’s genes. His left eye is a pale blue, while the right is a sun-stained yellow. Dar’thar has a crescent shaped blue marking under his left eye; from the middle of his right cheek to partly to his forehead is another blue marking.

Time Zone/Activity: Eastern Standard Time. I post depending on my time openings and the whole nine yards. I’m generally available more in the evenings during the week. On the weekends pretty much free, just send me a pm to let me know what time works best for others.
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Darthar
Nether Spawn
 
Posts: 73
Joined: Thu Oct 09, 2008 6:56 pm
Location: Scrapyard
Clan: Beldrobbaen

Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Thalar » Sun Feb 01, 2009 9:48 pm

Darthar:

I'm going to assume you didn't see my review. You certainly haven't made any of the changes I outlined. So I'm going to post it again, with a few addendums since you did make some changes in your posted background.

Darthar - that's a very nice piece of work, but a lot of your background (the first several paragraphs) are not about your character, but rather about his father, strictly speaking it is unnecessary to go into such extreme detail about your character's parents - detailing the same in one or two shorter paragraphs would've been better (though not such an epic story - it's good, I'm just saying it's not necessary for a character sheet). Also, being on the surface does not induce the aging in drow, unless they are isolated from other drow (and if they are isolated from other drow, the aging process will set in regardless of their location). Just a note. :)

Magic field should say Earth sorcery.
Clan field should say Sullisin'rune.

The Sharen would NOT go to Ka'latha's father, EVER, to "negotiate" to have her taken away. With the only exception being that all Ka'latha's female relatives were dead. You can just change "father" to "mother" in this particular instance and it will be worldsetting appropriate.
I'm pretty sure I mentioned this last time?

Cotton is expensive, as it is imported from the surface. Also just a note. Even beggars wear spidersilk in Chel'el'Sussoloth. :w

The Sharen clan were only tainted 15 years ago (during or right after the Nidraa'chal war, depending on how they fared individually in the war), so your Sharen girl trio in the bar cannot have red eyes.

Also, I do not believe the Raiders would make you an honorary Sarghress, but they would make you an honorary Yurun'hiir (since that is their domain, whereas they can't really speak for the whole clan). So substitute "clan" for "house".

Darthar wrote:He fended off several stray demons and spilled their blood when necessary.

No. Just no. Demons are not something you just fend off. Neither are Nidraa'chal opponents. And the victory of the Sharen was complete, as far as we know, although it also led to their downfall. We do not know how long the battle lasted for, unfortunately, so it is better if you avoid the mention of the passage of time, and simply say that Dar'thar accepted refugees into his house, and that they were then beset by Kyorl'solenurn, avoiding the mention of demons and Nidraa'chal entirely. Surely he would have some kind of armor in his smithy.

I am not too comfortable with the idea of your character going up against several Kyorl'solenurn alone, make it four at maximum and keep them at "young and inexperienced" or it will not pass.

Overall, you don't -have- to take out the long explanation about his father, but the character sheet would not change significantly if you removed those paragraphs either.

You started writing something about your armor, but never finished it.. Unfinished sentences are a no-no.

So, you have several issues to fix, if you have any questions about any of them, please head over to the newbie school thread.

Refused.
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Thalar
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Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Durlyn Val'Sarghress » Mon Feb 02, 2009 3:25 am

Name: Drizril Do’ana Vloz’ress

Age: 116

Gender: male

Equipment: Wears a black and crimson hued version of the demonic looking body armor worn by all soul seekers. The armor covering his shoulders, fists, knees, and feet are studded with sharp spikes which not only add extra protection but can also inflict additional damage to enemy soldiers in melee combat (such as tackling them with his shoulder spikes or inflicting small puncture wounds by punching or backhanding them). His main weapon is an enormous, broadsword with a jagged, tooth like edge for tearing through armor, flesh, and bone to get at the precious souls of his victims, but he also carries an oversized sickle which he mostly uses as a meat hook to hack up or drag off enemy corpses. However, the sickle can also be used in conjunction with his broadsword to stab or slash at the enemy while the broadsword blocks or deflects incoming attacks, or vice versa. He carries on his belt a pouch full of sealing gems to carry the souls of his victims but stores the gems occupied by actual souls within his favored golem “Sweet Tooth” (which clings to his back like a Beldro’bbaen spider). Each gauntlet has a soul seeling gem imbedded in the underside of the wrist (thus protecting them from being damaged during battle and allowing Driz to backhand or tackle his enemies all he wants), which enables Drizril to absorb the souls of his kills directly into them as soon as he's cut deeply enough into the corpse to get at the souls within (these gems can be removed and replaced once full). Another unique feature of his armor is that one of the gauntlets possess the retractable golem blade found in the suits of many Sarghress warriors, a weapon which he salvaged from the remains of a highland raider. However, he rarely uses this concealed weapon except as a last resort, for few adversaries expect a Vloz’ress to have such a feature built into their often piece meal armor (an example of when he’d use it would be when he had his back to the wall and his enemy was close enough to jam the wrist blade into his/her neck). His broadsword looks like this only jagged and serrated like Kessen's, http://www.wle.com/media/1012.jpg

Magic: Possesses all the basic mana manipulation (mana blasts, mana shields), sealing, and nether summoning skills expected of a Vloz’ress soul seeker, but has a special affinity for golem making. Drizril can also produce tainted mana attacks which differ from his normal mana spells in that they can pass through physical objects and mana shields to directly assault and cripple his enemies aura, weakening them for the kill (he usually unleashes these attacks as blasts from his hands or in slashing waves from swinging his blades). When not hunting for souls he’s often hard at work trying to improve his body armor or inventing some nasty new golem to try out in battle. Those souls which he does not hand over to the nether summoners are used to recharge the power stones of his golems. His favorite golem is a metal and stone tiktikki which he has named “Sweet Tooth,” which many believe is due to the golem’s hideous demonic grin and bear trap like teeth and jaws when in reality he named it in memory of a childhood pet. The golem has been upgraded and enlarged countless times over the years as Drizril has grown bigger and stronger and been granted access to better materials. The golem has a whip-like “tongue” which will lash out to ensnare the enemy and drag them toward its razor sharp, chattering teeth, but also has retractable spikes on its back meant to prevent enemy soldiers or mounts from stomping on it. Drizril has other golem creations of course and he often brings one or two along to test out in the field, usually made from scrap metal he’s salvaged or stone, but Sweet Tooth is the one he always takes with him. Drizril also possesses a knack for flesh golems as well, made from the corpses of his enemies, but these creations are usually left behind to guard his gang’s section of the Vloz'ress fortress or sent off on errands with the Do’ana gang’s mercs and scourges.

Hobbies: Salvaging, golem making, blacksmithing, training to become stronger, collecting souls, killing for fun

Starting City: Chel’el’sussoloth

Clan: Vel Vloz’ress

Vloz Gang Emblem: the Vloz'ress Clan symbol with a coiled snake under it

Background: Drizril is a living testimony to the belief that monsters are made not born. Born to a small band of mercenaries who offered their services to the highest bidder, Drizril’s childhood was bloody and unhappy. The merc band’s leader, his mother Dinryna, was a giant of a woman, greedy for ada, and an unrepentant drunk who was prone to violent fits of rage, especially when a job didn’t turn out as planned. Drizril’s father Lymeril was a weak-willed, spineless coward who while talented as a blacksmith and a golem maker to boot, NEVER did a thing to stop his mate’s drunken rampages which often led to poor young Drizril being beaten horribly by his remorseless mother. Drizril was the only child in the mercenary band so he had no kids his age to play with him growing up. His only true friends being his big sister Driskiira, who taught him the basics of swordplay and combat, and the pet tiktikki she’d given him as a gift to keep him company when everyone else would be off on a mission (which he named Sweet Tooth due to the little lizard’s love for sugar). Drizril displayed an interest in his father’s golems, simple creations made from stone and whatever metal they could afford or salvage from the battlefield. Drizril would accompany Lymeril on the merc band’s salvaging missions, a job Dinryna reserved for the group’s weakest members or those who’d pissed her off, and would always have a blast. He was fascinated by the process of rummaging through people’s discarded things and then bringing it back to make something useful out of them. Drizril begged his father to teach him how to make golems too, and Lymeril complied, teaching his son how to work the forge as well as how to make simple, toy like golems from whatever scrap metal he had leftover from making his own battle golems. However, once Drizril reached 20 years of age and started showing signs of having better aptitude for golem making than the man who taught him, actually managing to fix a run down battle golem his father had been slaving over for months without any success, Lymeril turned on him. Lymeril crushed and broke all of Drizril’s golem creations, including one modeled after Sweet Tooth, a scrap metal tiktikki which Drizril had designed to assist his father by gathering salvageable materials for him (it had a whip for a tongue for pulling salvage into its mouth and store it in a stretchy pouch in its body, when completely full it would look like a hump backed lizard). Lymeril feared Dinryna would replace him with Drizril if she learned how good he was getting, less mouths to feed and less ada to split, so he forbade him from ever setting foot in his workshop, a storage tent, ever again or accompanying him on salvaging missions (which broke Drizril’s heart and shattered any faith or respect he’d acquired toward Lymeril during their lessons).

The only thing which kept poor Drizril going through these awful times was the promise made to him by his big sister that things would get better, that once she’d saved enough ada from her share of the pay they received from their jobs that they would run away together to someplace far, far away from their drunken mother and selfish father. It would just be the two of them from then on. Unfortunately, things did not go as planned. Dinryna, emboldened by a series of jobs well done, and having heard of the great Mercenary Queen Quain’tana’s rise to power, decided to join the Val’Sarghress as a new subhouse with her as Dev’ess. Needless to say, Quain’tana had no use for Dinryna’s band of thugs and low lives, especially since they’d done jobs for the Sharen in the past. They never even got to meet Quain’tana or any other Sarghress vals, they were turned away at the gate to the fortress, the bad reputation of Drizril’s mother having spread near and far across Chel.

That same night, Dinryna, enraged by her recent disgrace, went and got drunk once again, only far worse than ever before. In her fury she tore a swath of destruction through her own merc camp, killing and wounding anyone too stupid to stay out of her way. She eventually entered the tent occupied by Driskiira and Drizril, where she then stomped poor Sweet Tooth to death before proceeding to beat poor Driz until he was a swollen mess of bumps and bruises, blaming him for all her misfortune. She would have killed Drizril, if Driskiira had not awoken in time to intervene. Driskiira, though sober, was only a teenager and not as big or as strong as her mother just yet, so she was only able to force her wasted mother back out of the tent before ultimately being overpowered. Driskiira was beaten to death by her own mother, and Drizril was there to watch as the only person who’d ever shown him real love and compassion died.

Drizril was silent for months afterward, completely ignoring everyone in the merc camp, even the few who pitied the poor boy enough to offer their condolences or try to tend to his wounds. Lymeril attempted once or twice to reach out to Drizril, allowing him to accompany them on salvaging jobs once again and even offering to let him back into his workshop, feeling bad for how he’d treated his now only child before but to no avail, it was too little too late to start playing daddy after all that happened. Dinryna on the other hand, while unrepentant for what she’d done, stopped beating on Drizril, though not out of a miraculous increase in maternal instinct. She began to fear the boy, fear how he would silently watch her from a distance with a cold soulless glare one expected to find on a corpse rather than a drowling, judging her like a vengeful spirit. Instead of ignoring her son out of blind, parental neglect like before, she began to avoid him out of fear, going out of her way to evade him whenever she spotted him staring at her. This continued on for several weeks before one fateful night while the whole camp was sleeping after a big job they’d done for a rich merchant, death came to them one by one.

Drizril had spent those days of silence gathering the materials needed to construct several dozen of his tiktikki scrap metal golems, only they weren’t toys anymore, they were killing machines. Powered by mana stones he’d swiped from his father’s workshop and constructed from the armor and weapons of dead soldiers, the “Sweet Tooth” golems were equipped with powerful crushing jaws and row after row of razor sharp teeth for ripping and tearing the flesh from their merc victims. The horrific little machines butchered the mercs, swarming over them while they slept, first attacking their throats so they couldn’t scream for help and then eating them alive. Drizril smiled for the first time since his sister had died when his mother awoke from her drunken stupor to discover her arms and legs had been eaten away and that her mate lying beside her had been reduced to blood stained bones. Dinryna, overcome by terror and pain, begged her son not to kill her, not to let the chattering monsters eat her, his mother. Drizril did indeed spare his mother the indignity of being torn apart by killer golems, rather he impaled her through the heart with his sister’s sword (which he’d kept for himself along with many other former possessions of Driskiira, no one in camp having dared to enter his tent to take possession of them).

With the camp now all to himself, Drizril took possession of everything which once belonged to his victims. He used their armor and weapons to create a larger, more powerful version of his Sweet Tooth golems, powered by the best power stone he could find in Lymeril’s collection, as well as armor and weapons for himself (a sword and some knives). This new golem could cling to his back like a backpack and possessed the added feature of pop out spikes in the back (for impaling the feet of anyone who might try to stomp on it). He remained in the camp until he used up all the food and water before venturing out from the outskirts of Chel and into the city itself. Drizril became a thief and killer, lurking in abandoned buildings, sewers, and alleyways in wait for victims to pass by. As time passed by he grew strong and streetwise from years of fighting other street kids and fending off slavers who mistook him for an easy mark, improving his sword and knife fighting skills and using the ada and equipment of his victims to buy food and materials needed to repair and upgrade Sweet Tooth. Drizril continued to live the life of a murderous bandit well into adulthood and lived through the Nidraa’Chal War, during which he made a profit serving as a mercenary for desperate minor houses in need of troops to defend themselves from the ravenous Nidraa’Chal (he was one hundred years old when the war broke out). However, Drizril, was tainted long before the war broke out, having been caught in one of the mass tainting attacks launched upon the city 80 years before the war began, at that time he'd been working as a body guard to fend off angry crowds as civil unrest in the city grew worse and worse. However, though Drizril survived the war and saved up enough money to feed himself and maintain his golem, the Nidraa'Chal's actions had guaranteed that ver'drowendar would never be seen in a favorable light and thus no one wanted to hire him anymore. Drizril went back to life as an outlaw but now had to stay one step ahead of the Kyorl’solenurn wardens and templars in order to stay alive. To make matters worse, a side effect of his unwanted tainting and living through such a horrendous conflict was that he was now crazier and more bloodthirsty than ever before, deliberately seeking out victims to maim and destroy regardless of whether or not they had anything of value to him (he’d become a monster not unlike the Nidraa’Chal he’d fought against). However, this all changed when he heard word of a new major clan which had arisen in place of the fallen Val’Dutanvir, the Vel’Vloz’ress.

With nothing left to loose and desperate to have some purpose in life, to be among others like himself who would not judge him for being tainted or mad, Drizril traveled to the Vloz’ress Fortress where he was soon accepted into their ranks and given a standard suit of Vloz merc armor. However, Drizril only remained amongst the grunts of the Vloz forces for a year before being promoted to scourge status by the nether summoner Dhaunbreena Do’ana Vloz’ress, having quickly recognized him for his superior skills and snatched him up for herself before any of the other Vloz gang leaders noticed him. Dhaunbreena’s gang, while not high enough in the hierarchy to be close to Kharla’ggen like Sennekha’s group, was certainly one of the larger and more resilient subhouses for having managed to survive several attempts made by the other gangs to destroy or absorb them (a fate suffered by many Vloz gangs even to this day). Dhaunbreena saw much potential in Drizril for a number of reasons, his unnatural size for a drowolath male, his skill with weapons and fighting experience from the Nidraa’Chal war, but she also found him to be particularly appealing to the eye. As Dhaunbreena’s newest scourge, Drizril ran errands for his new mistress as well as killed anyone she commanded him to, but more importantly constructed for her golems to guard her lair within their section of the Vel Vlozress Fortress. Tasks such as salvaging parts for armor and weapons amongst the Nidraa’Chal war ruines, while thought of as chores by the mercs and other scourges under Dhaunbreena’s command, were a pleasure to Drizril, his good attitude and dedication to his work earning him even more favor from his nether summoner. His favorite scavenging grounds are the Nidraa'Chal War ruins, which he claims holds many "fond memories" for him from his youth, and Dutanvir fortresses, often commenting "Say what you will about the Duters, but they sure make great scrap."

Dhaunbreena is unusual for a nether summoner in that she possesses an actual bloodline, having given birth to two sons, the scourges Dhaungos and Nildrin, and a daughter, the young but talented summoner Xunebreena, long before the Vloz’ress clan existed. This gave her an advantage in that her gang is more structured than normal thanks to its family ties, unlike most Vloz gangs which are essentially rag tag teams of strangers brought together by a single summoner, all out for themselves. Though Drizril was favored by Dhaunbreena and served her faithfully over the following nine years of his new life as a Vloz’ress, he had a deadly rival in the form of Dhaunbreena’s soul seeker Xuntar, the father of her children and her personal body guard/enforcer since before they joined Vloz’ress. Xuntar, having noticed Dhaunbreena’s crush on Drizril and fearing for his position as her right hand man, took every opportunity he could to humiliate or beat Drizril during training sessions, sabotage his golems, and even tried to have him killed a few times (though Drizril could never prove it and if even if he could it wouldn’t change things since murder was business as usual to the Vloz). Realizing he’d have to kill Xuntar before he killed him, Drizril trained harder than ever before and waited for an opportunity to slay the mighty soul seeker of Dhaunbreena, but someone else gave it to him in the end.

Approached by his mistress’s daughter, the young 50 year old Xunebreena, she first lured Drizril into bed with her and then offered him a chance to slay his rival, her father, in exchange for doing her a favor later. One day while Dhaunbreena was away on business, her two sons with her as bodyguards and Xuntar left behind to oversee the lair, Xunebreena deceived her father into believing a group of kyorls had infiltrated Vloz'ress territory on a heretic hunt. Xuntar rushed to where his daughter told him the kyorls could be found with a small group of mercs to back him up, only to walk into an ambush set up by Drizril and Xunebreena. Xunebreena used her nether summoning abilities to turn the untainted Vloz mercs into demons and put them under her control, but Drizril demanded he finish Xuntar off himself. The two fought, with Drizril ultimately turning out the victor, thanks to his greater size, some extra mana manipulation training he’d received from Xunebreena, plus a Sarghress wrist blade he’d found on a salvage job (a weapon Xuntar had not expected). When Dhaunbreena returned she was convinced by Drizril and Xunebreena that Xuntar had been slain by a rival gang, which in turn was soon destroyed by Dhaunbreena with her brand new soul seeker and mate by her side, Drizril Do’ana Vloz’ress. Drizril has served as Dhaunbreena’s soul seeker for six years now and has learned all the tricks of the trade, his blood lust now at its peak due to the gory nature of his job. Drizril, never one to waste anything, has taken to incorporating his soul seeking with his golem making. He now uses the souls of his victims to power or simply recharge his golems, those he doesn’t give to Dhaunbreena at any rate. Equally horrific, he taken a liking to flesh golems, using the massacred remains of his victims to create new warriors to serve Dhaunbreena (and which can enter the city without attracting as much attention as his mechanical golems like Sweet Tooth, and serves to instill fear in Dhaunbreena’s less loyal subjects).

Drizril’s hatred for the kyorls and their hypocritical beliefs have intensified over the years and he now hunts, kills, and seals their souls with all the dedication of a collector or a hunter. In his mind the kyorls have no right to look down on or judge the Vloz’ress when they themselves are just as bloodthirsty and violent as they are, only he believes the Vloz are more honest in that they don’t claim to be doing Sharess’s will when they kill someone. Drizril has asked many a warden and templar this question before killing them, “which is worse, a monster who admits he’s a monster or a monster who lives in ignorance of its true nature and makes excuses?" He has slain many templars and stripped them of their armor and weapons for his own clan's personal use or as trophies to hang on the walls of his room. He almost always takes the bodies for use in his flesh golem creations unless there's risk of capture or if he feels the corpses would better serve as warnings to those who'd dare to tresspass in Vloz'ress terriotory or interfere in their affairs (often going so far as to carve taunting messages on the templar bodies for their wardens to find later, such as "Why didn't you save me Lady Warden?" or "Sharess must have blinked" or "Sweet Tooth likes Greymeat" or "Drizzy was here"). However, Drizril has a special animosity for the wardens and judicators, the "ring leaders" as it were, and NEVER passes up the chance to kill one if the opportunity presents itself. He finds wardens to be very valuable as materials for his craft so he always puts more effort into dragging their bodies back home than he does for the templars, for he sees them as being of lesser value (because of this many more of the Do'ana gang's flesh golem guardians are former wardens, often treating his grisly creations as works of art). He has killed 99 wardens to date, and looks forward to killing his 100th warden (whom he plans to make into a golem as well in order to celebrate his accomplishment). He has never killed a judicator before however, but LONGS to do so and make a golem from its corpse, for in his mind it would be his finest work ever, his masterpiece so to speak. The Vloz troops know Drizril by many nicknames, including the "Devil Man of Do'ana," the "Fleshsmith," the "Soulcrafter," the "Corpse Master," and the "Warden Slayer." He admires the Vloz'ress Corrupted Nagas and the bio golems which create them, envying those who know how to make such "magnifient works of art" but sadly (for him) he doesn't know how to make them and no one is willing to teach him (luckily for all of Chel).

Dhaunbreena’s gang, including Drizril and Xunebreena, were on a mission to salvage valuable materials for their personal use when the kyorls invaded Vloz'Raveran. The Do'ana's tried their best to defend Vloz'Raveran, killing many kyorls and sealing many souls but in the end were forced to retreat, they had arrived too little too late to save the outpost and had not been prepared for such an attack. Drizril took their defeat in Raveran personally and has sworn to one day return and exact his revenge on all who dwell there, as well as whoever had pinned the blame for the demon attack in Val'Raveran on his clan in the first place. Xunebreena on the other hand took it as a sign that Dhaunbreena is even less fit to lead their gang than before, believing if she had been the one to lead they wouldn’t have lost. Drizril doubts Xunebreena’s claim, but still enjoys the ambitious summoner’s company whenever Dhaunbreena is not around. As for the sons of Dhaunbreena, Nildrin became a beserker after suffering serious injuries in Raveran and nearly loosing complete control of his seed, and Dhaungos suspects Drizril and Xunebreena of treachery, but is too afraid to make a move against them out of fear of being next if he’s right.

However, Dhaunbreena, despite all her massive strides in the overseeing of her gang, is currently in a state of great vulnerability. She’s become pregnant by Drizril and now depends upon him to run much of her operation, the child growing within her offering her the chance to strengthen her bloodline further but also making her a sitting duck for other nether summoners. Worse still, Xunebreena has approached Drizril and expects him to return the favor she did him before by killing Dhaunbreena so she may take over as the leader of their subhouse, promising Drizril greater power. Drizril must now choose between his loyalty to the mother of his child or the seductive promises of his lover.

Description: Drizril is a giant amongst drowolath men, at a staggering 6ft 8inches in height, and is heavily muscled thanks to years of street fighting for survival and profit as well as handling heavy equipment and materials during blacksmithing and golem making (hence he's deadly even without his weapons and armor, his size and years of fighting experience make him a lethal grappler/martial artist). He has a handsome, flawless face but his arms, legs, back, and chest are covered with scars from all the beatings he took as a kid and the fights he’s been in since then. He also has glowing red eyes (originally ice blue) and red facial tattoos under his eyes plus a Vloz’ress clan symbol tattooed onto his forehead. His hair is long and wild and looks like a spiky lion’s mane thanks to its orange hair dye (think super saiyan 3 if you want an idea of what his hair looks like, lol). When not in his demon sealing armor, Drizril wears black spider silk robes (think samurai style like a kimono). However, he only wears his casual robes when in the Do’ana gang’s lair, and then usually only when working on his golem’s alone in his workshop or when in the company of Dhaunbreena or Xunebreena, never outside. Stone faced most of the time except when working on a new golem, killing people, or in the company of his lovers (in which case he often dawns a small grin which can stretch into a wide, jack o lantern smile when excited or blood thirsty). Drizril’s bloodlust is such that he won’t hesitate to sink his teeth into an enemy’s flesh if the opportunity is given (claims warden's blood tastes sweet).

time zone: eastern standard time

Hope Drizril meets with your approval Thalar, it'll be fun playing a bad guy in Chel while my good guy Durlyn travels to the surface from Raveran, *wee*

P.S. changed his name to Drizril because it suits his character better, for it means "Steel Bandit" or "Unyielding Outlaw" in the language of the drow. He's a golem maker, a salvager, a killer, and a thief, so the name Drizril suits him better than Drizrak, which means unyielding chaos or tempest i think...I'll save Drizrak for a future character, }:3
Last edited by Durlyn Val'Sarghress on Thu Feb 05, 2009 11:00 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Durlyn Val'Sarghress
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Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Aralim » Wed Feb 04, 2009 2:55 am

Name:Aralim

Race:Drowolath

Age: 44

Equipment: 2 Long swords, gauze wrapping

Magic:the Ability to set fire to anything in his grasp

Beginning city:Chel'el'sussoloth

Fighting style:Two bladed fighting style

Clan:Sarghress

Background: Born to a wealthy merchant family Aralim had a smooth childhood up to his tenth birthday. One day his Parent's were killed in a mugging at the market. After that the man with whom Aralim was left with stole his Father's business and kicked him out of his own house, He survived by stealing what little he could to live and when he was old enough he joined Sarghess's Military in hopes of a home and food. They placed him in the Highland Raiders unit with which he acceled in because of his love of the time before the Moonless age and the old ruins in the overworld. Because of his odd fighting syle he had very little Sparring partners and teaches(he is self taught). Unfortunatly on a trip they were attacked by Dwarves and he missed one coming up on him and his ally as a resault his ally was killed and himself injured although the injury (he was hit in the back with a hammer and has a few broken ribs) would have been worse if he haden't had some medical training, when they returned to Chel'el'sussoloth, Aralim was told to stay in the city while he healed so there he is.

Description:
Height: five foot nine
Weight: 137 lbs
Eye Color: Green with a ring of blue
Hair Color:20 inch ponytail the bottom tinged red
Appearance:looks taller then he actually is, always wears his form fitting armor helps with his ribs(helps keep them compressed)

Personality:Quiet but likes to speak his mind, prefers not to fight but knows when he has no other choice

Time Zone/Activity:East Coast
Aralim
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Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Kitsune no arashi » Sat Feb 07, 2009 4:57 am

Voided. New post at end.
Last edited by Kitsune no arashi on Wed Mar 04, 2009 2:21 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Clan: Beldrobbaen

Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby kharnath » Mon Feb 09, 2009 8:11 pm

Name: kharnath the blooded

Race: Human

Age: 21 years old

Equipment: Heraldic axe, patchwork of platemail, and dirt...well mostly dirt.

Magic: This human can’t cast spell, but a faint aura taint his being.

Beginning city: Chel'el'sussoloth

Background: Far to the north of the land of the overworld, far from the nomad tribe of the orc lies the region known as Korchtak or ¨ Realm of change¨. Avoid by most tribe, this broad region is part of the material world but was inevitably tainted by the coming creature of the moon war, which mark the land still to this day.

The lands of the north are, for the most part, frozen wastelands stalked by all manner of gruesome monster and wandering madmen. No crops can survive there, for the ground itself is as hard as iron and the howling winds cuts like daggers of purest cold. A network of fjord and mist-shrouded islands wreaths the coast, and it is here that the Shulkark ,or ¨the damned and the lost¨ in the orc language, build and tether the long ships with which they terrorize the shore of the know world.

Those men who dwell in Korchtak are, for the most part, barbarous and savage compared to those who live in the settled lands to the south. Even the orcish tribes of the land bellow are not as savaged as them. Though typically larger and more physically powerful than their human and orcish counterpart, they are not unlike other men and, in times of peace, traders from the north can be found hawking their wares in the west. Yet in other respects they are a race apart, worshipping outlandish gods and living lives that are altogether harsher and more primitive. Most importantly of all, they live within the shadow of Korchtak as such cannot truly escape its taint.

The men of Korchtak tend to wear their hair long and cultivate great masses of facial hair. Their skin is tough as leather and windburn by the fierce caress of the blizzard. They protect themselves from the fury of the elements with furs cut from the back of wolves, bears or the nameless beasts that roam the wilderness. Upon their heavily-thewed arms they wear crude jewelry and sport tangles masses of scar tissue. The north men of Korchtak are a superstitious lot, they believe in omens, portents and sign in the skies. Even the lowliest of warrior will carry a trinket or two to ward off the evil eye or bring the favor of the gods. These range from traditional charms, such as a rabbit’s foot bong with hag’s hair or rune-etched raven’s beak, to more esoteric talisman that are beyond the reach of normal men. Some tribesmen have their skin tattooed with symbols of dark power or branded with runes of abjuration that some drow spellcaster found rather disturbing to found on one such barbaric creature. Whether these protective measures work or not is immaterial, for the north men find strength in them, and what more can one ask of folklore and tradition?

But what makes the men of Korchtak so special is their faith in the dark and twisted god they worship. Whether those dark gods exist or not have been debated by many human scholar alike, but rumor and speculation are the only true answers they give.

Those north men believe that the gods simply exists, as undeniable as the wind and the night, impossibly powerful entities that mould the clay of human flesh and frozen earth into grotesque new shapes at a whim. The desolate harshness of the northern wastes does not encourage the luxury of introspection and study into matter arcane. To resent this state of affairs would be as futile as resenting the sunset, the moonrise or other forces of natures.

In time of war and strife, many see those north men follow by abomination and monstrosities. Wolf the size of men and fire breathing horse heralding time of conquest and war. But those creatures are only beast, for the dark gods spawn greater beast from the northern wasteland.

What makes the tribesmen dangerous is their spiritual leader, eon old sorcerers that control the wind of magic and dictate the demands of the gods. In truth they are ancient worshiper of those alien gods that almost doomed those lands eon ago.

Stream of mana source tainted by the netherealm are the reason why the tribesmen are sometime affected by nethercreatured. They cannot be possessed, but the presence of the netherworld taint changed those north men, warped and bless by the mysterious nether caster.

Many orcish tribes occasionally fight those north men. They fear those encounter as much as the drow for the Korchtak have little mercy and revel in those conflicts and fight with anticipation. Survivors of a warrior cast are taken away be it screaming and kicking or begging for mercy. Those men are then never seen again, except perhaps on exalted champion shield and armor as trophy and devotional relic for their dark gods. As for the weak, child, woman and the old, they are left to survive without their dead tribe support. They believe that if the land does not claim them, the gods saw them fit to live as they did.

It’s from this land that our hero, Kharnath the blooded, came and was enslaved into servitude. Born from the unwilling participation of a fair maiden of the south and raider of Korchtak, Kharnath grew up with the thirst for blood.

Like most of the village child, very few knew who their mother was. Whether kidnap or just mix up with the numerous family of the tribe, kharnath never knew his mother. But as for his father, he knew him very well. Kharnath had the blood thirst of his father, Torgaz the black, always looking for something worthy to sacrifice in the name of the dark gods. But, as await those who worship the dark gods, Torgaz met his fate when he came back from a fabulous raid.

They never saw them coming, drow slaver from the underworld. They came from the cave, spell blazing and sword in hand, and took the raiding party by surprise. A few men from the raiding party escape with the goods, but the most fought against those strange elves. They fought bravely against those foes, but they’re spell brought the north men end. Taking their bounty and the north men as slave, the drow led them to the mystical city of Chel'el'sussoloth.

Luck would have it that his raiding party became gladiator, dying against exotic and strange foes. Almost all his fellow warrior died with a smile at their lips, shouting the names of their gods. What else could a north man ask then a glorious death? As for Kharnath, death and glory still awaits him as crowd shout his name, asking for more blood. To this Kharnath reply:

‘’BLOOD FOR THE DARKS GODS!’’

Description: Kharnath is a man with a big muscular frame, filled with scare and mark by a red mystical pentagram that some drow arcanist may find familiar. Born bald, he looks at the drow with blue cold eye and a stern expression. He wear most of the time the patchwork of platemail that the gladiatorial staff gave him, and rarely get out without his heraldic axe, a axe that the drow took when they first met and for unknown reason made his way back to him.

Time Zone/Activity: I may be wrong, but at -5. Montréal

Okay, sorry if you see a lot of error in my text, English is not my language. Besides that, I encounter the infamous (character writing?) writer block! Curse you damn monster! Hope it's okay and not too....err bloodthirsty? }:3

And are you still accepting playa? ^^;
kharnath
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Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Thalar » Mon Feb 09, 2009 11:20 pm

We are always accepting new players, just need them to comply to the worldsetting before they can start playing :)

I had a hospital appointment today and will thus be late with the current reviews. I'll be doing them as soon as I can.
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Thalar
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Location: Tei'kaliath healing station
Clan: Jaal'darya

Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Kalandrin » Wed Feb 18, 2009 12:47 am

[ Personal Information ]
Name: Nal'ynrae Vloz'ress
Nicknames: Nal, Naly
Race: Ver'drowendar
Age: Nal'ynrae is an 88-year-old sixth-generation drow that doesn't know her exact age.
Sex: Female ♀
Equipment: Sealing half-plate armour, war scythe, longsword, kukri, sealing gemstones (many of which include demons), belt pouch with 20 ada, jewellery; other equipment and various possessions include various sets of clothing, other everyday equipment, tools and materials she needs for summoning, and her personal savings.
Magic: Nether summoning and many other tainted mana powers
Beginning City: Chel'el'sussoloth
Clan: Vel'Vloz'ress, Nine Shards Gang
Skills:
  • Weapons training: Nal'ynrae is proficient with polearms of thrusting and cutting nature and can fight using both ends of her war scythe. In addition she is very skilled at using the kukri and the longsword in melee combat, and other types of swords to a lesser extent should she be required.
  • High intellect: Nal'ynrae is unusually intelligent, far above average levels, and has very good perception of her surroundings despite the fact she seems barely sane. This latter might be directly related to the former, for all people know and expect.
  • Charming voice: Nal has a good and well-trained voice suitable for singing, having been trained by an ex-Illhardro member of the Nine Shards Gang.
Likes: Pink and/or childish clothes and/or underwear; hair in dreadlocks, braids, ponytails or similar hairstyles decorated with ribbons, beads, etc; carefully researching about nether summoning and tainting; her brother; spicy food; blood; killing Kyorl'solen'urn patrols that target her; reading books.
Dislikes: Being stared at; being targeted by Kyorl'solen'urn patrols; opening uncontrollable nether gates; nobility victimising commoners; being unclean or otherwise filthy; mushroom beer; being forced to kill without wanting it; excessive body art such as unusually many piercings, tattoos or scars.
Fears: Mating with males; being reduced to some sort of slavery; losing Nhil'yraen.
Family: Minerva Vloz'ress (surrogate mother); Nhil'yraen Vloz'ress (twin brother); deceased biological parents.

[ Physical Information ]
Height: 180 cm. (5' 11")
Weight: 70 kg. (155 lb.)
Eyes: Ruby crimson, sapphire green before tainting
Hair: Orange (dyed), naturally white
Skin: Dark chocolate brown
Description: Nal'ynrae is a fully developed adult drowess of just below average height and of normal weight, generally thought to be as such because of malnutrition as a child. She is about 180 cm. (5 ft. 11 in.) tall and weighs about 70 kg. (155 lb.) with dyed orange hair and deep crimson eyes ever since she got tainted.

As a Vloz'ress, Nal'ynrae has bright red facial tattoos that mark her as a clan member and that are identical to her twin brother's. In addition, she has a tattoo resembling snakes coiling around each other at the top of her right arm.

Nal'ynrae also wears six earrings, four hanging from her left ear and two, linked by a light chain, hanging from the right one. Last, but not least, she possesses a small pendant with the clan symbol that hangs from her neck using a similar chain.

You will find this nether summoner apprentice with many hairstyles; with an apparent obsession for anything even vaguely resembling a braid, she often pops up with braids, dreadlocks, pigtails, ponytails, and various other similar hairstyles in various irregular numbers often decorated by usually red or black ribbons, beads, minor trinkets such as crescent moon or pixie pendants, and other.

When seen in public, Nal'ynrae is usually well-bathed no matter the conditions and wears a sealing half-plate armour that guards her legs, arms and shoulders, lower torso and neck. Her armour also includes upper torso segments, which she however generally avoids unless she feels there's a real reason to use it; war, rivalries and the like are some such reasons.

Her armour is worn over everyday clothing of reinforced or regular spider-silk that usually includes either dresses or skirts and always reinforced boots. Its design includes some built-in sealing gems for use with nether summoning; these she often keeps empty in peace-time, however, preferring them as temporary storage and using separate gems for permanent one. Her favoured colours for clothing are deep orange and black, followed by the occasional red tone.

As she is not a full nether summoner yet, she doesn't possess a mask or related ritual scars of her own.

Nal'ynrae is always seen carrying a kukri, a curved knife used both as a tool and as a weapon, and a war scythe whose pole is reinforced by metal rims, a weapon with a scythe's blade extending upright from the pole. It's other end has the tip of a lance, effectively rendering it a double weapon. This can be used to stab the polearm on the ground, though it is also a quite effective weapon of its own. The war scythe is decorated by sealing gems containing demons and a green ribbon tied close to the scythe's blade. In addition, she often carries a two-handed longsword as a side-arm.

[ Background Information ]
An ill omen (Ages 0-20)
Nal'ynrae and Nhil'yraen Vloz'ress were born identical twins to a poor family of scoundrels in the slums of Chel'el'sussoloth. Without any wealth, sorceries, or anything else that could somehow improve their lives they were born and remained commoners, two of those thousands who live where the Great Clans wage their wars.

Her parents never took great liking of them, however. Not only did they consider the arrival of twins as an ill omen, but also couldn't financially support the family, thus deteriorating the overall living condition of them. As a result, the kids took the blame and never had the "happy family" other kids had in their childhood.

Early childhood was not notable; living in poverty didn't prohibit them from having their happy moments, though difficulties were something they got used to from a very early age. Their parents couldn't afford to give them luxuries, after all.

Despite all the issues, however, the twins (and especially Nal'ynrae) grew up with curiosity and excitement. Asking questions whenever they could, exploring whatever they could, they quickly associated themselves with their environment. Since an early age, they were even sent to become kitchen helpers and generate income that would support the family. For a little while it seemed things were improving.

In a particular event where the two curious twins were bugging their mother too much with questions about things related to procreation and the like. Unexpectedly, their mother snapped and literally showed them "where do children come from" in a very inelegant manner.

Nal'ynrae in particular, however, managed to get through the initial surprise even though she still believed her mother was unnecessarily mean.

Twist of fate (Age 20)
It wasn't long before their history changed its course, however. Their mother had returned unwell at home and their father stayed by her side, effectively putting the two kids aside. It was only natural that, in return, the two asked for attention as well, ending up with a harsh line that kicked them out of house but eventually saved their lives.

"Father, why do you care so much about such a mean person? Why do we matter less?"

It wasn't a time for arguments, however, just a time for punishment. Father loved Mother very much, and wouldn't take such ungrateful words from little brats. As such, they were hastily kicked out of house as punishment, and wouldn't be allowed to return for several days.

Nal'ynrae found this abusive, in a sense, but couldn't care less. The brats were their parents, not them; they were mean parents who only wanted to hurt them. When had they last done something good for them anyway!?

Still, she was old enough to know they needed their parents. They were barely twenty by now; all they could do was survive for a few days far away from home by feeding from thrash and stealing, and return when the punishment was over. It was the first taste of the filthy life that would follow.

Nal'ynrae and Nhil'yraen's return wasn't as expected, however. All they found was carnage: their father's corpse in a corner with its guts eaten and blood all over the place. Right at the opposite corner there was a vaguely drowish figure, a monster, that somewhat resembled their mother… a monster with solid red eyes that struck fear to the two little commoners.

Perhaps their lives should have ended there; perhaps they shouldn't have survived at all. The demon should have ripped them apart as if they were paper. However, as footsteps were heard behind them, the monster that had once been their mother turned obediently and just observed.

It was a drowess with red eyes; similar to the demon's but she retained the white around the irides… a kind of drow Nal’ynrae had not even heard about and never seen before. Could drow really turn their eyes red? Was this… abomination some sort of pet to her?

What would they do with her and her brother?

The woman looked at the demonic being as though she were puzzled. “This wasn’t supposed to happen so soon…” she muttered with a frown, and it was as though her eyes were glowing unusually for a moment. The abomination was remaining obedient and quiet as the stranger went past them and approached it. She then struck it down and a gemstone she was hiding in her palm started glowing.

Nal’ynrae stared into the stranger’s eyes with confusion.

The stranger grinned as she eyes the twins. “You know what?” she muttered to herself. “I guess I’ll give you a parting gift” she smirked and seemed to be concentrating again. For a moment, Nal’ynrae felt nauseated, as if somebody was chipping on her very being… and then it somewhat settled, though the nausea never faded away. She blinked, not sure what had happened as the grinning woman left them alone at the scene of the carnage.

The girl turned to her brother with uncertainty, then realizing that his eyes were tainted by the same red colour as well. “Nhil, your eyes—” she went to say and blinked. It took less than a moment to realize that her emeralds had turned to rubies as well.

What was the meaning of this? What had happened in the first place?

Aspiring street urchins (Ages 20-22)
The twins thought it over and quickly decided that they had to fend for themselves now. It would be even more painful than up to now, even filthier and more dangerous… and those eyes, they knew that those eyes could give them trouble because they were different, but how bad could it be? It was just red eyes, like green eyes or grey eyes or blue eyes, right?

Frowning, the two left their home after picking up whatever they thought that was important or could be of use, and went to hide somewhere else. This bloodbath wasn’t something they should be associated with.

It was soon clear that the “red eyes issue” was much bigger than they had guessed. While people had been regarding them as mere street urchins up to then, they had grown more hostile and avoided associating themselves with the twins altogether. The kids were even thrown out of their job, leaving them with no income as well.

They moved around the neighbourhoods, barely escaped soldier patrols with their lives and got closer to the rift, to areas seemingly less hostile to them. Rumour even wanted a small cult of red-eyed commoners like them to live someplace along the rift as well. By now they were far from the drowussu quarters and seemingly somewhere they could survive even if just barely.

This was how two years of their lives passed, and the year 1034 of the Moonless Age came.

But still… the curiosity, the hope for something better and the desire for a home motivated those to look around made them search for the better.

Though they lived off as poorly as life allowed them to, they were just as stubborn and persistent as before, and had grown wicked as well. Their taint had also grown: it wasn’t too much, but they could both tell they were not as cowardly as before, nor did they hurt as much. It was a minor but important difference they couldn’t explain.

Eventually, their makeshift investigation led them to a red-eyed man in some sort of… joke-of-an-armour. Nal’ynrae asked about the red taint in the eyes, Nhil’yraen persisted and the man appeared bugged. He explained anyway, giving them the familiar feeling of just getting rid of them, but in the end, he couldn’t. The kids wanted to know more, they wanted to learn of the red-eyes community and stuff.

This was more or less the time a new clan was being born and, albeit minor, was drawing a lot of focus upon it. It was proclaiming to be “the bastard daughters of Sharess” – the Nidraa’chal, a clan full of tainted people like these. It felt, for a moment, as though Nal and Nhil were less unique and that they could be more accepted, but even so, they picked the nether cult rather than brand new nobility. Why would nobles take them anyway?

And so they asked the man to take them to his group… they insisted, they pleaded, but he seemed uninterested at first. Eventually, with the same bothered look, he told them to shut up and follow him. They blinked and decided to tag along, half-surprised and half-overexcited that they would finally get to meet demon-seeded persons like them that would possibly help them out.

A lifetime in the abyss (Ages 22-26)
All they got, however, was getting locked away in some safehouse and beaten up. The man showed his true face, and Nal’ynrae quickly regretted trusting him; who would care for two tainted street rats like themselves? Even so, she would have never expected what would follow and take place for the upcoming four years.

Securely locked away in a safehouse from where they could not escape, with barely enough provisions to remain moderately healthy, Nal’ynrae and Nhil’yraen faced almost constant physical and mental abuse.

Both, but especially Nal, were commonly raped, forced to have intercourse with one another, beaten up, and used as little more than sex slaves or dolls that the violent cultist could take all his issues out on. Bleeding, scarring and bruising became a daily routine for both, but especially Nal’ynrae, who seemed to volunteer to take this punishment if it meant letting her brother off it.

They were a nothing; they were in a living hell, and the rift’s heat gave the impression that they were in the darkest and most hellish depths of the Abyss.

The situation deteriorated even further. Someday, he didn’t return alone; another day, sicker and more painful ideas came in his mind and they materialised. Nal’ynrae was completely and utterly crushed, almost an empty shell that could only try to prevent her brother, him being of the weaker sex and all, from facing what she did. At the same time, their taint seemed to have grown too, slowly but steadily like some venom that the summoner they had once seen was manipulating. By now it was becoming quite moderate.

This situation could not go on forever, however. Someday Nhil snapped and stabbed that abuser with his own knife as he was vulgarly abusing and raping his twin sister once again. Sharess made it that he missed, though, and only a light wound was generated. Angry, the older man stood up and moved to retaliate, probably aspiring to beat Nal’s brother to death with no remorse.

She just reacted mechanically; she stood up, grabbed the abandoned sword the man had forgotten not far from her, and as she hurt and bled almost casually, she struck against the abuser’s spine. Some divine luck made it such that the first blow was also the finishing one.

Nal’ynrae snapped right then. Her subconscious sought to forget the abuse as she kept stabbing and maiming the corpse before her, sitting in the pool of blood without any hesitation. She then let go of the blade and cried, her fists still trying to crush the dead man’s body just like the very first time she had been raped.

It was tears of joy mixed with tears of remorse and sadness. Nal wanted to die, but also wanted to live on. On the other hand, she felt that it was finally over; she just looked at the dead body with no remorse or regret and sighed.

“Nhil-chan… This man is ugly…” was all she could say and come up with.

Her world had been twisted and reduced to little sanity. The twins the counselled and decided to improve him; they found an old mask and placed it on his face, then nailed it well and without any care as the body twitched. More nails followed, penetrating the skull like a needle penetrated cloth. And only then did they feel content, that this man was punished as he deserved.

They tried to escape but they couldn’t. In the end, they remained locked, living off the dead man’s raw flesh for who knew how much time. Death seemed as though it coming anyway.

Rebirth (Ages 26-28)
It was total darkness with the stink of a decomposing body nearby making the situation unbearable for Nal’ynrae and Nhil’yraen. They hadn’t drunk water for several days, or so it seemed, and had not eaten for half as much… it was a torture they had never felt before, a torture they had never expected. Even Nal’s half-amnesia was subsiding, making her wonder whether rape was better than this dry, hungry death.

The door was opened however, and a group of poorly equipped mercenaries led by a crimson-eyed woman who held an imposing war scythe with her right hand entered the storehouse. They noticed the ill sight immediately, the kids included; instinctively, even at the mere sight of the men, Nal’ynrae crawled to hide behind a barrel with no success.

Words of ill surprise and curses followed. Someone caught her from the back of her neck and lifted her. “I bet these brats did it” the stranger said. The mere touch of the male made Nal twitch and try to run away in fear and terror, something she of course couldn’t do.

She and her brother were going to be raped again and killed right afterwards, weren’t they?

“Put them down. That bastard should have seen it coming.”

Surprisingly the woman ordered the men to let go of the kids. Nal hugged Nhil and cowered in a corner, knowing they wouldn’t be able to face so many grown-ups at once. She knelt before the little drowlings and offered them a smile and introduced herself as Minerva. She then asked what had happened; with reluctance, they explained.

It turned out that Minerva was that male’s mother and a nether summoner herself. She seemed welcoming in general; the moment she saw the two, she quickly realized their taint’s condition and when they explained what had happened she didn’t show remorse for her son’s death, implying that she wasn’t blinded by power but, rather, rather strict with her children.

She extended her hand to Nal, offering to help her stand up. That very moment, Nal felt her nausea surrendering as the seed was suppressed by the more experienced drowess.

They were taken to the cult’s base of operations, bathed, had their hair dyed, dressed, and given rooms in the section where Minerva and her followers (or well-organised gang, more accurately, named “the Nine Shards” as a reference to its membership which included several ex-members of clans) resided. The same night they even had the tastiest and richest dinner of their lives.

After long explanations and discussions and before they realized, they were becoming new members of the cult and Minerva’s circle, who seemed to have grown fond of the twin orphans. Eventually, barely a year after their arrival, they were even formally adopted by the nether summoner.

Minerva was not childless, though all of her children had swayed to more radical circles; hers was more moderate and, in fact, somewhat atypical of what the Vloz’ress would later become.

Consisting largely of level-headed ex-members from major clans, the Nine Shards focus more on studies of tainting and demons than actively practising it and pursuing power. Other goals and projects of the Shards include expansion of magic and technology related to nether beings and summoning.

The first few years passed with Minerva and the rest of the Nine Shards trying to stabilise the twins’ now-twisted and unstable personalities; once this was achieved, the twins began their training to become contributing members of the Nine Shards.

At around this time, an ex-Illhardro member of the Nine Shards began instructing Nal’ynrae how to sing. This capitalised at a natural skill and beautiful voice; the instructing continues to this day.

Schooling and apprenticeship (Ages 28-present)
The Nine Shards, despite being a small-sized group, has various scientific projects rather disproportionate for its size. As it is undermanned (it has only one nether summoner, Minerva) for all these and the other things it wishes to study, the twins were encouraged to group as a Soul Seeker and Nether Summoner in their futures to assist with the realisation of these plans.

Nal’ynrae began being apprenticed to nether summoning at about the age of 28 to 29; her twin brother was chosen to become her soul-seeker and thus colleague and guard; soon they would develop their own aspirations and goals.

Not only as apprentices but as Shards, since they finished their basic (Othorbbae-level) education at about the age of 60, they have been running occasionally errands for Minerva and her Soul Seeker mate, quests and missions given to them for training purposes, as well as side-projects of their own or even simply acting on a whim. Besides her regular summoner training, she has been receiving martial weapons training alongside her brother, especially involving polearms (her hybrid one being the main focus) and the kukri as well as sword-playing with the longsword and other swords to a lesser degree (such as the falchion and the rapier, in the event she needs to use one for self-defence.)

At her sixtieth birthday, Minerva gave Nal’ynrae her present sealing armour, war scythe, longsword and kukri as gifts to mark the end of her basic education and formal raising from student to apprentice. Before that she was virtually unarmed, or carrying a dirk and a staff with her when outside the castle.

When she was about 71 to 72 years old, a Sharen platoon attacked the Vloz’ress tower and the cult barely survived the attack. The Nine Shards also took important losses, effectively being reduced to half their original membership; Nal’ynrae and Nhil’yraen did their best to defend the tower and managed to stay alive. Minerva, by comparison, lost her left eye during combat, forcing her to put on a sapphire in its place.

The manpower losses of the Nine Shards meant that they started behaving in a more typical Vloz’ress manner and took mercenaries with the first opportunity, especially when the Vloz’ress were acknowledged as a Great Clan; the spirit of the old Shards remains, however, albeit very carefully so as to not stand out.

Today she is nearing the completion of her training and is capable of various things a nether summoner can do, including summoning many but the higher-level demons (including sentient ones), controlling her now well-developed seed near its maximum potential as well that of other people, handling nether gates, see auras and ethereal beings with ease, and other.

With various aspirations, ranging from the most deranged to the most hopeful, Nal’ynrae waits for the day she will start completing them. Despite everyone’s objections (for obvious reasons) she is hoping to successfully possess a tiktikki using a Vel’akar and keep it as a companion or pet, among other, more serious and realistic things like herself finding out how to remove demonic seeding and developing technology for a golem to survive nether demons. As she is still an apprentice, she is held fully responsible to her master (Minerva) for her actions.

[ Clan Relations ]
Vel'Sharen: "It's the Imperial clan... What can I add? It's not like those arrogant idiots would listen to somebody like me anyway. To them I am just a commoner with nether summoning (which is exactly what I am, but that's another discussion altogether.)"
Val'Sullisin'rune: "The Sullisin'rune are cute but mean. I do not think anybody wants to mess with them; they might appear silly, but I am confident they know politics better than most. Plus they can cook your mind without even extracting it like I would have to!"
Val'Beldrobbaen: "Too dark for my taste, but I respect them a lot. They are too secretive to make you comfortable; I think they are stronger than widely perceived, which leaves us exposed for a nasty surprise. Still, they are kind of cute, but hostile to us. They blame us for every problem they have like we are evil or something."
Val'Illhardro: "I like them; they have to do with arts and peace and all. Nothing like the hell-hole I live in. Not that they would ever take in someone like me... They're still cocky nobles in the end, just better than others."
Val'Kyorl'solen'urn: "It's a good thing that someone tries to stop people from creating another Nidraa'chal war with hordes of poor people hurt by demons serving clan interests, but these guys are taking it too far. They're after me for seemingly no reason; stupid greyskins!"
Val'Sarghress: "They are a military juggernaut... I think they are pure commoner power. 'The wrath of the commoners is the wrath of Sharess' after all; but still, they're a bunch of commoners playing nobility. They could have had better goals, and I would respect them more if they weren't a clan like they are now."
Val'Nal'sarkoth: "Merchants. Everyone likes merchants, especially if they bring cute pink overworld panties for sale! Of course, nobody takes them seriously either. I think the Nal'sarkoth deserve the attention they get, whatever attention that is."
Val'Jaal'darya: "Either every single one of those man-hating bitches has been gang-raped for years before joining that cause, or I just plainly cannot understand them. Okay, males are mean and hurt... but this doesn't excuse getting rid of them altogether! Okay, maybe it does to a degree, but I still wouldn't leave my precious Nhil-chan in their hands."
Vel'Vloz'ress: "That's us; outlandish demon-worshipping lunatics inhabiting the rift. We're a pretty hot clan, quite literally in fact! Our fortress is hellspawn, our membership is more diverse than the overworld and I don't know what to think about us in general. Why are we a clan anyway!? Clans suck! We were fine and happy as a cult as it was, and we didn't have all those poor mercenary lads coming here just to suffer in the claws of Ver'aku and out-of-control berserkers! Oh well. My clan is still my clan and my home and I wouldn't exchange it for any other clan in the world. We're a big family, and like all families, we've got some issues too... especially in the mind, haha!"

[ References ]
[1] The Othorbbae Library: Drow
[2] World Setting: Vel'Vloz'ress Troops: Nether Summoner
[3] Drowtales Minipod #2: Twins
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Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby blackshade10 » Wed Feb 18, 2009 11:14 pm

Removed for a later use and for revising.
Last edited by blackshade10 on Wed Mar 25, 2009 12:06 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Zahn » Tue Feb 24, 2009 9:34 pm

Time Zone/Activity: Honolulu Hawaii any time after 7:00pm
Name: Zahn'Kika (aka "Zahn")
Gender: Male
Age: unknown (cannot remember)
Professional Experience: Blacksmith and Bodyguard
Mana Skill: Fire Affinity
Martial Skill: unarmed combat (Ember-style Tir'ay - Family taught)

Zahn and his brother, Zow, managed to get through the Fall of the Old City unscathed. However, they lost each other during the Exodus. Zahn stayed with the newly forming Clan Tei'kaliath for a few days hoping that his brother would show up. However, he never did turn up.
A few days after the new "clan" was created he overheard a few other Drow talking about a large city where the far off light was. That night, several Drow departed the Clan and Zahn followed after them, hoping that he would find his brother there. After arriving at the city, Chel el'Sussoloth, he lost track of the Drow he was following. This did not deter him though. He immediatly began searching for his brother, asking any Drowess or Drow that passed by; showing them a dingy portrait of his family, pointing out his brother. (A fairly simple method, but rather typical of the absent-minded Drow).
After several fruitless days of asking around, he realized that he if he was to survive, he would need to eat. Yet, he had no money. Since he was near a marketplace he asked a few of the trader caravans that stopped in if they were hiring bodyguards. Fortunately one of them was, the Trader dealt in Golem Prosthetics, a very "hot" commodity for Raiders due to their high black market value. The days passed by uneventfully at first and Zahn made friends with several of the other Caravan Guards. One of which got him hooked on a rather nasty habit, smoking "special" mushrooms. Though someone did have a fairly new item he called "Tiktikki Dust," it didn't smoke very well... One day the Caravan was attacked by a large group of Raiders, outnumbering them 4-to-1. The Guards fought back and eventually managed to kill the entire group. Zahn took down their Leader in an epic battle ending with him crushing the life out of him with his bare hands. He did not escape without injury though. During the fight he lost his left eye. Out of gratitude (and forgoing Zahn's pay) the Trader allowed the camp physician to replace Zahn's missing eye with one of the Golem Prosthetics. An Azure Blue eye that seemed to glow faintly as it came into contact with his mana aura. After returning to the city, Zahn discovered that the replacement eye WAS his payment (much to his dismay) and promptly layed out the Paymaster.
After a few more attempts at finding his brother (unsuccessfully), he decided to cut his losses in Chel. Lest he starve to death. With nothing but the clothes on his back, his favorite pipe, and his family portrait, he decided to return to the cavern where his journey began. He returned to Tei'kaliath. Or at least, that's what he heard they were calling themselves nowadays (word of the new clan was slowly spreading among the caravans).

Description: 5’10” always happy and helpful. zahn has dark brown hair (dyed of cores) an his real eye is light brown, always wearing his armored work gloves, a brown leather vest with light blue paints, with knee high leather boots and always smoking his pipe,

Time Zone/Activity: Honolulu Hawaii any time after 7:00pm
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Last edited by Zahn on Fri Feb 27, 2009 2:07 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Zahn
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Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Pariel » Tue Feb 24, 2009 11:25 pm

[ Personal Information ]
Name:Nhil'yraen Vloz'ress
Nicknames:Nhil
Race: Ver'drowendar
Age:88, sixth-generation.
Sex:Male
Equipment:Sealing half-plate armour, poleaxe, longsword, bowie knife, sealing gemstones , belt pouch with 20 ada,reinforced silk clothes, cape, demon helmet. Other equipment and various possessions include sets of clothing, other everyday equipment and her personal savings.

Magic:Nether summoning
Beginning City: Chel'el'sussoloth
Clan:Vel'Vloz'ress, Nine Shards Gang
Skills:
  • Weapons Training:Nhil'yraen is proficient with polearms, swords, and knives. He usually fights using a spiked poleaxe. In addition he is skilled at using knives and daggers(with the bowie knife as personal choice) and long blades (with the longsword as choice).
  • High Intellect:Nhil'yraen is unusually intelligent, far above average levels, and has very good perception of his surroundings despite the fact he seems barely sane. This latter might be directly related to the former, for all people know and expect.
  • Aggravating blows:Nhil has been taught by the soulseeker of the Nine shards gang where to hit to cause extra pain or cripple people.
Likes:To pull childish pranks such as wedgies; rare meat (of any kind, even drow!); beer ; researching about nether summoning and tainting with his sister; his sister; EXTRA spicy food; blood; killing Kyorl'solen'urn patrols that target him; defending his sister.
Dislikes:Pink things; people staring at his sister; being targeted by Kyorl'solen'urn patrols; cleaning messes; nobility victimising commoners; non alcoholic beverages; being forced to kill without wanting it; excessive body art such as unusually many piercings, tattoos or scars.
Fears:Females;being reduced to some sort of slavery; losing Nal'ynrae.
Family:Minerva Vloz'ress (surrogate mother); Nal'ynrae Vloz'ress (twin sister); deceased biological parents.


[ Physical Information ]
Height: 178 cm. (5' 10")
Weight: 76 kg. (168 lb.)
Eyes:Ruby crimson, sapphire green before tainting
Hair:Orange (dyed), naturally white
Skin:Dark chocolate brown
Description:Nhil'yraen is a fully developed muscular,adult drow of above average height and of normal weight, even if he suffered of malnutrition as a child. He is about 178 cm. (5 ft. 10 in.) tall and weighs about 76 kg. (168 lb.) with dyed orange hair and deep crimson eyes ever since he got tainted.

As a Vloz'ress, Nhil'yraen has bright red facial tattoos that mark him as a clan member and that are identical to his twin sister's. In addition, he has a tattoo resembling snakes coiling around each other at the top of his left arm.

Nhil's hair is shoulder length and it is usually braided in many ways, that change over the days. It is very likely his sister has to do with this setup. Nhil's only jewelry garment is a simple tooth necklace made with various teeth of hunted prey.

When seen in public, Nhil'yraen wears a sealing half-plate armour that guards his legs, arms and shoulders, torso and neck. His armour also includes a demonic helmet, which he usually wears in top of his head, as if it were a crown. However, should a combat arises, he will slide it down to protect his face.

His armour is worn over scourge clothing of reinforced or regular spider-silk that includes silken trousers and reinforced boots. Its design includes some built-in sealing gems for use with nether summoning and to capture his prey souls; Nhil tries to keep them empty of souls, however, preferring them as temporary storage and using separate gems for permanent one, even if from time to time he forgets to unseal a specimen or two. His favoured colours for clothing are deep orange and black, followed by the occasional red tone.

As he is not a full soul seeker yet, he doesn't possess a full plate of his own.

Nhil'yraen is always carrying a heavy poleaxe, that he uses to chop down enemies. Such poleaxe is spiked in the tips, effectively making it work as a double spear or heavy pick should the need arise. He also favours a bowie knife used both as a tool and as a cutting weapon to use for more fine cuts.In addition, he often carries a two-handed longsword as a side-arm, mimicking his sister.

[ Background Information ]
An ill omen (Ages 0-20)
al'ynrae and Nhil'yraen Vloz'ress were born identical twins to a poor couple in the slums of Chel'el'sussoloth.Living on the limit with meagre resources to palliate their lowlife commoner status, they were quickly seen as a bad omen. It complicated a lot of things, since the sudden arrival of two children instead of one caught their parents unguarded and unable to maintain the twins properly. This created a gap between parents and children, only being sustained not by parental care, but in hopes that after all the struggle they would support their parents back.

Their early years passed in a very unremarkable, bereft ambience, the poverty of their condition was something both endured since an early age, as for even new clothes were seen as a luxury. Usually their parents bought just one set which both would use.

Even so, both children were particulary keen, and this manifested in an ever asking attitude.Both kids gained a grasp of their situation early on, and their parents, knowing this, entrusted them with menial tasks to not put their energies to waste. They did become kitchen helpers, in order to bring more food to the starving familiar house.

The curiosity was not all good sometimes, however. One day, when their mother was particulary in a foul mood, for she had become addicted to drinking ever since both were conceived, snapped at the incesant questions of the twins, and lifting her undergarments, showed them where TRULY did babies come from, going so far as pushing their heads together towards her thigs.

Where as Nal'ynrae was seldom affected by the rudeness of their mother, Nhil'yraen became completely horrified at the image of their mother's genitalia, up to the point he thought all women were monsters and spent a whole day crying in a corner. In the end, his sister managed to settle him down, but as a result he would become very wary of women other than Nal.

Twist of fate (Age 20)
Things could always take a turn for the worst, and in the twins case, it had not been an exception.One day, the toll of the life in the twins family had been too much for their mother, for she quickly became ill and had to be bedridden. They didn't know what caused it, only than their father suddenly switched all of his attention to her. The children were thus neglected, and in one of the many bouts that followed, they questioned about his motives.

"Father, why do you care so much about such a mean person? Why do we matter less?" Nal said, while Nhil nodded silently.

That single comment made their father snap, and in a bout of rage, he kicked both out of their home for several days. He cared too much for his dear one, and too little for such ungrateful hellspawn.

Nhil'yraen meeked after this, thinking on what truly had they done to be cast away like trash. But he shook such thoughts afterwards realising it was them, not him and his sister, who were at fault. But without parents, even if they were this bad, what they could do? They were just twenty years old. They had to resort to steal and rummage through the trash, because no one would give them the so much needed nourishment while the short exile had been imposed. Eventually, after a few days, they returned, in hopes of their parents had cooled down enough to allow them to stay.

What Nhil'yraen and Nal'ynrae's saw was something far from welcome, however. The blood of their father greeted them with a stench, as his corpse laid in a corner, his expression of extreme pain upon his death. His breast and stomach were all open, and the disturbing sight of half eaten innards almost made Nhil puke. Their mother was nowhere to be found. However, something else was in that room. A gory, wretched monstruous frame of a drow, vaguely resembling their mother. A monster of red eyes, with blood dripping down its gaping maw, who casted a paralyzing sight to the helpless children.

Embracing his sister tightly, both because of the need to protect and the utter fear the creature evoked, Nhil awaited its painful death. A death that never came, as the creature insted turned its gaze on an incoming person, becoming all tame and quiet all of a sudden.

Nhil stood mouth agape as a drowess walked towards them, in its eyes a red shade which nhil had never seen then. The most unsettling is that they somewhat resembled the demon beast in its colour, if only the irises were of that color. Nhil didn't know what to think. Was she a woman or a monster? What would she do with the two of them?

She just ignored them, instead focusing on the creature, puzzled about something. “This wasn’t supposed to happen so soon…” she muttered with a frown, becoming much sinister, as it appeared as if her eyes glowed for a moment. The beast had been all this time still, as if it had been some sort of pet to the woman. The red-eyed woman then approached it, and with her weapon, executed the hideous abomination, as a gem in its palm began to glow. What had been this? He looked at his twin sister, only to find she was looking at the woman in utter confusion.

The gaze seemed to have its effect, as the stranger set his sight finally on the kids. Smirking, she addressed them. "You know what? I guess
I'll give you a parting gift". She closed her eyes for a split second, focusing... and then, Nhil'yraen felt suddenly disturbed and ached, even if he didn't know what kind of thing was she doing, his body feeling fine, yet he had a clawing, gnawing sensation he couldn't place on. Eventually, it receeded somewhat, allowing him to look at his sister who was suffering the same, as the woman left the scene.

He saw the same red eyes on his beloved sister, but before he could ask her, she had taken the initiative. “Nhil, your eyes—” she went to say and blinked. Nhil gathered soon that he had been afflicted by the same, as she did to do aswell. What had exactly happened?

Aspiring street urchins (Ages 20-22)
ithout nowhere else to go, the twins quickly resolved to fend off by their own, even if it was more of a lack of options. They would have to live off scraps now, an extension of the past weeks into a lifetime. Nhil had not a good feeling about this, he wondered if he could live up with little more than the company of his sister. Deciding not to cry over milk, he agreed with his sister to scavenge what could still be used , and by her sister's advice, they chose to hide away from such scene. It was best they were not associated with that, and it had been nightmarish enough.

However as they started to roam the streets, what they thought at first to be a senseless change in the eye color, which however creepy, was no big deal, had more implications that they could ever imagine. Prior to this change, they had been ignored as any other street kid, but now they were shunned upon, their red irises disgusting people even more. Their employers in the kitchen were no better, and soon they were left without the meagre mainteinance they could secure.

Feeded by the need to survive and live on, the twins moved around the streets, careful to not be stopped by nasty patrols, and over time they discovered areas in which security was more thin, and thus less hostile. Deciding carefully, they moved in the marginal zone near the rift. It seemed the safest area they could live, albeit poorly, and also the area where rumours of a cult of red eyed people also existed.

During two years they were able to struggle for susteinance, but that did not quench their inquiring spirit. Far from it, the desire to get away of such a tight situation and the childish hope from the better fueled their zeal, and thus they began to seek those of their kin, the red eyed cultists. Although they couldn't explain why, something had made them bolder, and things like minor wounds were nothing that hurt or mattered any more, their minds also became more twisted, able to concoct plans years before they couldn't even bring theirselves to do so.

One day, their little findings were rewarded, in the form of a red eyed male whose garments had seen better days. It was his sister who dared to ask in first place, but Nhil gave her more support, as the man grew tired with their questions and his vain attempts to shake them off. They just couldn't let such a good clue of cultists slip by, and so they literally clinged on him.

It is not really true they were out of options, however. By that time a new clan had taken pride in the red eyes, the Nidraa'chal, who wished to wipe all current clans and stablish theirselves on top. Nhil did not really like their ambitious antics, even as they were people like him and his sister. There was surely a catch on everything, wouldn't it? Out of mistrust, they chose the cultists as option, since they felt no clan would take scoundrels like them.

And they clinged, they clinged for their lives in the cultist, pleading to take them with him. His initial indiference seemed to be shattered, and even if he put the same sour face he had put during the entire conversation, surpisingly, he conceded. They were to follow him silently, in what seemed the start of a bright hope in the end of the tunnel, a hope to meet people like their kin...

A lifetime in the abyss (Ages 22-26)
But in the end, it was yet another deception, yet another slap, all they were shown was a brutal beating and a incarceration inside some murky shack, a sort of safehouse. He should have really expected this, but then again, they had little choice. Nhil did try to ponder what kind of consequences would have this event, and much to his despair, they did come quickly. Locked with little hopes of getting out, both kids were treated as mere ragdolls of the man, as something even lower than pets. They were just given food to survive for another day, for another time the sick cultist needed someone to abuse mentally and physically.

Even though both were abused, it was his sister the one who took the worst part. Their "master" seemed to enjoy breaking in some sort of frustration the stronger sex, and as such she was the preferred of his sick and brutal games. Nhil watched many times her bleeding in the dirt, sobbing, trying to nurse her wounds, yet hinting a broken smile of her own to see himself unscathered. She always tried to protect him, even in that dirt hole, willing to take all the punishment. Yet nhil was nowhere near as lucky as his sister, always being forced to helpless watch each time, or in the worst case, to force himself upon her, in order to avoid beatings for both.

Such was their life in that dark pit, they knew nothing, they were nothing, they soon began to feel nothing.

But it seemed to never stop, it only seemed to become even more and more twisted. The cultist began to concoct more things, and at days he wasn't alone. And most of the times it was Nhil watching, nhil the weak, who saw his sister being broken and tossed all over. But he couldn't weep anymore. Inside him, at some point, perhaps even before the lockup, other kind of sentiments grew inside. Steadily he begun to think of retribution, violence, payback, bloodspill, his now growing seed compelling him to violence, his taint becoming moderate. They had been so many times, there had been too much of "Stop", he had grown sick. He didn't like dying, but the sense of protecting his sister overcame it all. He would make all those beatings and humilliations she had taken from him worth!

First, he simply stole a glass shard from a broken window. He wrapped it in some rags he dipped it in greasy dirt. When the rags were stiff and dried solid, he hid the dirk in his own clothes, and waited.Mentally he repeated the different parts of animals he had learned they existed during his work in the kitchens, and where to stab. He was going to kill that man.

And then, when one day the drunk and sick bastard slammed his sister in his bed and begun to force himself on her, Nhil wasted no time, and revealed his intention. He firmly took the grip of the shard, and stabbed the bastard in the back, in hopes of getting a kidney or so. However the glass proved fragile, as it broke upon the impact, leaving Nhil's hand cut and a light wound on a pissed off abuser, who without hesitation was ready to kill. Nhil lamented himself once on how could he have failed, and awaited death.

A wet cutting sound was hear, then a grunt, and then a slump. Opening his eyes, he saw the sword of the bastard sticking in the center of his back, and then his sister with eyes wide, still getting a grasp of what she had done. The weight of the action finally overcoming her shock, she begun to cry out of pain and rage, but also tears of freedom. Their demon was no more. Nhil approached his sister, wondering if she was okay. It was then when she spoke.


“Nhil-chan… This man is ugly…” And indeed he was. Nhil snickered, his sanity long lost because of such events, just like his sister. They had suffered a lot, now it was time to be joyful. It was time to play dressup, they thought. And so, with several nails and an old, crude piece of metal in the shape of a mask, they embedded the new face of the man to its cranium, paying little attention to the twitchs as his blade was pierced by nails. And then they giggled, mischievously. Truth to be told, he was ugly as hell now! But it had been funny!

But their fun was soon spoiled. With the man dead, they had also lost the hopes of ever opening the door. Sighing, they wondered how much was to be eaten before they would finally give to starvation, the man's flesh included.

Rebirth (Ages 26-28)
Nhil and nal situation became unstable as time passed. With the decay of the corpse having made it largely unedible, the lack of water and starvation kicking in, they both wondered if their joy had been short lived, as this slow-death was becoming much more hard to endure than the constant abuse. In the end, they would die, like some poor tricked, street rats.

They did not, however. By a twist of fate, the door of their prison opened, a troupe of ill-fitted people with weapons entering the stance to inspect it. These mercenaries were led by a red-eyes, a woman of imposing figure with a scyte on her hand. Nhil feared for his life, as the scene that greeted them was grotesque. His sister had tried to hide, but with no surprise. The armored people cursed, and tempers flared up. One of the people caught Nal, to which Nhil tried his best to avoid, but with little success given his weakened body, even as if she twitched, troubled by the aura of that man.

They had done it now for sure, didn't they? The man's words “I bet these brats did it”,were clear.

The woman's answer not so.

“Put them down. That bastard should have seen it coming.”

The woman ordered to leave the kids alone. They at first reacted in fear, hugging each other tightly and cowering, the sight of so many adults at once being something they could not bear. But then, the red eyed woman knelt before them, talking to them, calmly. There was no punishment, no anger in her word. She asked what had happened, and after some disbelief they told her. What could they lose?

Much to their surprise, the woman, named Minerva, explained that their torturer had been one of her sons. She did not feel troubled by his fate however, the explanation given by the kids being satisfying enough. She also explained that she was a nether summoner, and what their red eye condition was about. Finally, at last, a bright light shone upon the kids fate. They had met the cultists they were seeking for. And the reason and relief of their condition.

They also were taken to their base, where they were given care and shelter, bath and clothes, rooms and decent food. After lengthy explanations of what they were and what they sought, the orphans leared they had been taken in by the "Nine Shards", a gang comprised of Minerva and her followers (some of them ex-clan members, hence the name). The gang didn't seem to take the twins in ill accounts, quite the contrary, they were quickly adopted by the summoner herself even though she wasn't childless. It seemed that all of her blood sons and daughters had been swayed to radical circles, and the arrival of the twins was a balm to her maternal worries.

The gang's antics, that emphasized the level-head spirit of its members, consisted more on research than thirst for power. A thirst for knowledge seemed to imbue the Nine Shards, instead. Tainting, nether magic and technologies related to summoning were all objectives they sought to aim, even if ambitious.

The twins personality was a special worry to the gang, as they were broken beyond anything they had seen before. Twisted and jumpy, the twins were taught restraint by the members of the gang, and in time, becoming part of it, contributing to its advance. During that time, Nhil's past experiences had left him a morbid fascination for anatomy, which the members of the gans helped him satiate, if only to make his strikes much more vicious. This twisted form of anatomy persisted until recent days.

Schooling and apprenticeship (Ages 28-present)
There was one reason why the twins arrival was so warm. With projects as ambicious as the gang had, they clearly were undermanned, and they saw the opportunity to expand their manpower exploiting the twins bond in a nether summoner - soul seeker one. Reluctant at first to leave his sister, Nhil finally conceded to accept training in the ways of soulseeker. Never again he'd feel helpless protecting his sister.

At the age of 60, their basic education was finished. As such, they were taken as full fledged Shards of the gang. From that day, they would run errands for Minerva and their fellow members, or perhaps pursue their own goals. Besides their regular training, their bond was so strong they would often exchange words and knowledge of their respective trainings, and spar together in the use of the martial weapons as well as summoning. So far, nhil exceeded his sister in those, which in turn exceeded him in summoning, but because of that, the frontier between summoner and seeker was forever blurred.

At his sixtieth birthday, Nhil was given a full set of half-plate and a fine poleaxe that Minerva's Soulseeker had pilfered in a battleground. He also chose to kept his bowie knife and longsword he had been using up until now, inside and outside the fortress. He would be instructed to protect his twin sister with his life, as his ascension to adulthood.

Several years ago, an attack from the sharen hit hard on the cult, forever altering the balance of the congregation. Nal and Nhil were lucky to be spared, but the attack cost Minerva an eye, and half of the gang was slain as a result. In the turmoil that followed, the cult was ascended to clanhood, and the losses forced the Nine shards to behave more like a gang of the Vloz'ress, seeking to expand their influence by scrapping anything it can be scrapped,even mercenaries who could betray you at the first whim. However, the Nine shards beliefs still stood, even if heavily veiled.

Nhil'yraen is now almost a full-fledge soulseeker, trained in the diverse and gruesome tactics of fighting and soulhunting. He is also capable of nether arts to a lesser degree than a summoner, both as part of his training and his exchange of skills with his sister.

Nhil's aspirations are secondary to the love of his sister. He is content with pleasing his sister, and wishes her to succeed to her best, since he considers her a part of himself. He also wishes to advance in all kinds of projects, more if they're related to his sister. He secretly hopes to one day blur the frontier even more and become a full male summoner,to be equal to his sister, although this is daydream on his part.

[ Clan Relations ]
Vel'Sharen:They HAVE DRAGONS. THEY HAVE DRAGONS. THEY HAVE DRAGONS. But they never lend them, bah"
Val'Sullisin'rune:They make parties in which they twitch. But the thing that most creeps me out is how their moans of pleasure and pain are so alike..."
Val'Beldrobbaen:"Yeech, Spiders, nasty, dark, secretive. They never have us in high steem. My solution, boot in head, and pray they don't have bit you. "
Val'Illhardro:"Pretty. They also sing. But in the end they are perched high and mighty. So much for the adorable birds, bah"
Val'Kyorl'solen'urn: "They're actually PEOPLE!? Wow. All this time I thought they were really well made flesh golems to battle nether creatures and summoners..."
Val'Sarghress:"QUAIN SMASH. Nuff said."
Val'Nal'sarkoth:"It's good to have them around, they always bring exotic weapons. I suppose they're good for me, because frankly I don't see them doing anything really important either."
Val'Jaal'darya:"Even as the prospect of finally being able to swap dresses with Nal-chan is as tempting as it sounds, these people would rather kill me than turn me into a woman."
Vel'Vloz'ress:"A bunch of ragtags united in something as bizarre and as maddening as nether experimentation. We practically grew on it alone and the clan might explode at any time... but, hey we can't really say we get bored!Mom, I'm part of the big nine, be proud!"

[ References ]
[*] Custom Drowtales Role-Play Application template by Kalandrin.
User avatar
Pariel
Sharen Errand Boy
 
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Location: Abandoned
Clan: Sharen

Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Insanity » Sun Mar 08, 2009 8:32 pm

Okay attempt #2. Here Goes... ^^;

Dan'dao Illhar'dro

Race: drowlath

Gender: Male

Age: 130 years

Equipment: A small bag containing 30 ada, two 5m rolls of bandages, the die of possibilitys. A sword much like a katana with a light blueish handle. It is worn around his waist.

Magic: When he was young he could barely create mana flares but he was tought spellsong when he was a bit older

Beginning city: Val'Raveran

Clan: Val'Illhar'dro... of course

Background: Dand'dao was born in the commoner levels of the Illhar'dro fortress in Chel. He never really knew much of his father. He stayed in the fortress with his mother doing small chores to help his mother while his father traveled with caravans through Chel and sometimes up to the surface. the few times he saw him he only stayed for a few days and then he would leave with another caravan. The little bit of information he had about his father was that his name was Zar'end. His childhood was very boring whenever he would help his mother, Tim'ala, around the storage areas where she worked. One day He was waked by his mother in the middle of the "night". (lack of abetter word) That was the first time in years that he had met his father. First he only stood there a bit sleepy wondering who the man was when his mother told him it was his father. Not knowing what to say their conversation started slowly and eventually they had talked for hours about his travels. Zar'end even tought Dan'dao some spellsong that he had learned on his travels. That was what inspired Dan'dao to travel with the caravans. When Dan'dao turned 40 he started to travel with caravans but he would only travel with caravans that would travel near the surface but not on the surface. His superiors said that he needed more experiance to be allowed to travel to the surface.

Eventually he got into a caravan which went to Val'Raveran. He was dropped of at the Ill'hardro fortress there. Seeing as he had no income at the time he searched for a job at the fortress. He was given a job as a worker in the storage area which he hated but for time being would just have to suck up since he had nothing else to do. A few months later he got fed up about lifting supplys all the time and asked for something else. He was given two choices. Either he would continue work in the storage area and wait and see if he ever got a pay raise or he could quit working at the fortress and find his luck in the city.

That was as he saw it "HIs big opportunity". Finally he could see if Val'Raveran would bring him wealth. Using what little money he had left he bought a small appartment in the edge of the city. Not excatly a huge place but still big enough for a bed and a few tables and chairs.

The next week he spent looking for a job. He eventually came by a blacksmith who had just set up shop. The man was looking for an assistant. The blacksmith, Ger'tach, hired Dan'dao only because he wanted to complete a few orders that he had. Dan'dao was as clumsy as you could get with a hammer. One time he fell while carrying a hot piece of metal with some tongs. This gave him a scar on his right hand going from the base of his thumb to the tip of his ringfinger. From that day he became a little more careful.

About tree months ago Ger'tach had some bad news for Dan'dao. He told him that to afford set up shop he had to borrow some money from some "friends" and he was heavly in debt. He had payed off a bit from what he had earned making small accesories and the occasional weapon or even repairing old stuff. But to pay off his debts complety he had to sell his shop. HE still had some items for sale that he hoped someone would buy but customers had been decreasing. One of the swords, a katana with a light blueish handle, cought Dan'daos eye. Ger'tach told him that it was for sale but he didn't want that much for it. HE told him that he had bought it off some traveler a few years before he became a blacksmith. Dan'dao paid him right there full price for the sword and said his final goodbye. He didn't meet Ger'tach after that day. He planed on visiting him some day but never got around to it.

That was when he decided to explore the ruins and smaller caverns of The Underworld. But to that he would need odds and ends to use in his journey. He wandered the Bazaar for about a month searching for some equipment to help him in his quest for treasure. The first thing on the list of stuff in his head was a good place to look for treasure. HE had heard that there was some ruins outside of Val'Raveran but he wanted a place abit farther away from the city. The second thing was a place to sell some of the loot. Naturally the Bazaar would be fine for this but if the loot was a bit .. odd He would need a reliable merchant. Which brings him to this month. He had found a merchant named Kel'dran'ti who was reliable in the sense that he would buy almost anything but the only problem was that he was hard to find. He wasn't a regular trader like most in the Bazaar but more of a backalley merchant. One day he could be on one side of the Bazaar and the next day somewhere on the opposite side. But he only traded items for other items. He used to be a Sarghress but left them after he found their warish ways too disruptive of his money-making schemes. He knew a bit or two about weapon repair so he had some usefullness.


Description
Hair: white with a light blue streak going from side to side downwords
Eyes: left one is light blue whil the right one is greeniblueish
Scars: one on his right hand going from the base of his thumb to the tip of his ringfinger
Genral attire: grey spidersilk pants, his katana at his waist, a blue short sleeved spidersilk shirt and a thick spidersilk grey jacket.
Personality: He's generally emotionless to people he knows well but to strangers he's quite cheery. He likes to be in command when things are going his way but if not he gets depressed really easily.
Edit: :O I forgot to say how tall he is. He's five foot nine

Postage rate/time zone: while I live in the +2 hours zone I post quite a bit if i have the time to check posts. I normally check them around the morning a nd make a few myself then. but my main activity is around the evening and late at night.
Insanity
Tainted
 
Posts: 178
Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2008 1:03 pm
Location: Österbotten!
Clan: Illhar'dro

Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Jalin » Fri Mar 20, 2009 6:05 am

Alright, here's the first try, let me know if anything seems wrong, messed up, or just needs to be changed/expanded upon.

Name: Jalin

Race: Light Elf (slave)

Gender: Male

Age: 35

Equipment: None

Magic: None

Beginning city: Chel'el'sussoloth

Clan: N/A

Background: Jalin grew up in a moderately sized light elf city on the surface. A well know prankster, he and his mottly crew of troublemakers would often go off in search of (mis)adventure that would often get them in danger and trouble. He became a fairly good pickpocket, sneak, and lock pick, and could hold his own in a fist ftight with the other kids (No, I don't expect him to be able to fight anyone with even a hint of real fight training or with a weapon).

As a young man filled with testosterone and masculinity, he and three of his friends went into a cavern that supposubly connected to the underworld on a dare, not actually believing it was. Unfortunatly, it did connect to the underworld, and they were soon lost. They wandered for a long time, lost, tirered and cold... somehow managing to avoid the dangers that could lurk behind every cornor (truly lucky, whether near the surface or not), untill they came across a group of Drow camping in a small cavern. The Drow reacted to the group of young Light Elves as you would probably suspect and attempted to capture the group. Jalin and his friends also reacted to large, armored women trying to grab them the way you would probably suspect and tried to run. But not before one of Jalin's friends pushed him at the kidnappers to slow them down. It worked, but Jalin was captured and his friends abandoned him.

A week later he was sold to an official slaver and now grudgingly waits to be bought.

Description: Light white skin with light brown hair. He's only 5' 6", and has a small build. Clothing would be what ever he was told to wear by his owner.
Jalin
Tik'tikki
 
Posts: 9
Joined: Thu Mar 19, 2009 8:21 am

Re: Registration thread: Version 1.1

Postby Darthar » Mon Mar 23, 2009 12:04 am

Well back-for the third time- again. I've decided to properly make an attempt into the DTRPG this time around. Depending on who reviews this final(for the moment) character sheet, Hopefully things will go smooth sailing. If Thalar does managed to read this, I'm sure the page from around the 31th of January should refresh your memory on this character and the changes you suggested. Told me everything seemed to check out ok in your last post before I dropped off the map. Just leaving it in your hands.
Name: Dathar Kar’shalu Sulliss’rune

Race: Drowolath

Age: 204

Equipment:
-Dual steel short swords-(One is called Black Fang, the other Testament)
-Steel(Hardened) Zwehiander


Armor:
Blue cotton dress shirt
A tattered ragamuffin cloak now reduced to a haggard scarf. The scarf is dyed cerulean blue and bears the emblem of the Kar’shalu symbol.
His own crafted heavy-plate mail dark blue armor set. The armor bares several significant gemstone slots.
Tabard of the Sullis’rune. White outline with a blue mesh.

Supplies and Misc:
Simple Canteen
Cooking Knife
2 sets of extra civilian clothing
A plain metal compass
A steel shard his father gave to him.
First-aid supplies
Flint and rock
A blood soaked tattered cloth from Ka’latha
Arsha’s golden band
Drow blacksmith tools
Four foot long rope

Magic: Earth Sorcery

Combat Proficiency: Two-handed weapons, hand to hand.

Beginning city: Chel'el'sussoloth

Clan: Sullisin’rune


Background: Dar’thar is a complicated fellow to say the least. He was born to a modest blacksmith in the heart of the bustling marketplace of Chel’el’sussoloth. La’dar was respected as an honest and open-minded merchant to all his patrons and customers. As befitting a commoner’s lifestyle, his parents were bound together for financial and emotional reasons. His father instilled in him a rigorous work ethic that carried over into all aspects of his life. His father crafted from a wide range of products, as it was fitting for a master smith. His provided weaponry ranging from a common iron knife to custom made blades. La’dar, the master smith, was infamously known for his eccentric choice in metals; the man smelted and formed weaponry from blackened steel for higher-tier customers. He prided himself on using blackened steel to forge cruel weapons that did not reflect the smith’s otherwise benevolent demeanor. Dar’thar worked with his father day and night since he was the only child; Dar’thar would ultimately leave his father’s home and seek out his own path as a blacksmith.

Darthar’s parent met under strange circumstances. Magira was a penniless pauper who Darthar encountered his shop one night. He willingly took her in for one night, but she never left. Magira was a tact, shrewd businesswoman. Nobody who entered that forge ever got the better of the ruthless manager of Ladar’s shop. The two lived together and enjoyed a modest amount of income.


When not working with his father in their forge, Dar’thar would explore the exotic, lively market tents and packed merchant stands. The dust filled alleyways were his playground, the chatter and banter of hundreds of citizens the music to which he danced. He was something of a dreamer, an idealist with a kind heart, uncommon for the drow since they were typically loners. It may have to do with his positive and cherished upbringing, but another point was he appreciated what he had every single day. The long and arduous work of a smithery had its advantages over a formal education for the young drow. He learned the process of smelting metals and casting them into templates when crafting blades. The angles and shapes of mathematics needed to shape the smoothest hilt and sharpest axe head. Each separate branch of work tied together perfectly into melding a well-rounded education.

Dar’thar possessed one childhood friend who was very dear to him, Ka’latha Dis’moro; she was the daughter of a up and coming cotton merchant. Dar’thar was stubborn and relentless with everything he committed in his childhood, while Ka’la was humble and accommodating. She often saved the young drowolath’s life from certain peril since he did not know when to hold his tongue. When frightened or threatened by a surly soldier, Dar’thar would foolishly play the role of a vengeful guardian for her. The two were nearly inseparable as children; each was a teacher to the other in some way. Dar’thar taught her about self-pride and standing up for herself; Ka’la instilled patience and logic as best she could, it wasn’t very successful though. One day, Ka’la discovered a unique talent through an accident involving an order: pressure sorcery. At the time she didn’t understand what exactly it meant, she only knew sorcery was something usually found in noble blood. Word spread throughout the district of the Dis’moro child possessing a rare sorcery; like anything, all information reaches the ears of the unmatched nobility. Unfortunately, the clan who heard of the girl’s illustrious talent was the Sharen clan. A representative of a Sharen sub house approached the mother of Ka’latha; the cotton merchant eagerly and impatiently sealed her daughter’s fate.. She was whisked away from the commoner’s world, and rose to become a member of the nobility. Ka’latha left behind everything she had known; it was a part of life, the lucky ones always shared the same fate. Dar’thar accepted the bitter truth of losing what some would call his truest friend; other children mocked him as being in love with the newly christened Sharen noble. It mattered not to the smith’s son; the end of his boyhood was slowly creeping towards him with each passing day.

At around age thirty, Dar’thar experienced the first of many tragedies he would endure in his seasoned lifetime. His father had in the past few decades earned the name of a provincial and generous merchant; his wares were respected by even the grizzled wolfs of the Sarghress. As any superstitious person knows however, the peak always occurs with a treacherous and unneeded fall. Several smiths began contracting specifically with one clan only. Dar’thar believed in the open door policy, his services would and always were open to anyone who could afford it. The Sharen had kept an eye on the smith’s weaponry, noting its blackened and twisted designs. The Sharen bought from and commissioned custom orders from La’dar in the past. They strategically eliminated competition by buying out the smiths within the districts. They saw La’dar as another simple and greedy merchant, all too ready to sell himself to the mightiest clan at the time. Some call him a madman, others a suicidal death-seeker; he refused them right on the spot. Aggravated but not undeterred by the surprising response, the Sharen agents reinitiated there dealings; each time they were granted the same response: no deal. Perhaps La’dar was not intimidated by the pressure of his colleagues and threats form servants of the oldest clan; maybe he was too full of himself. The dye was cast; his decision would forfeit all he ever cherished.

The Sharen sent two skilled and stealthy assassins in the dead of night. Their mission was a simple one: steal the schematics and sketches of the smith and slaughter his family in the heart of night. Dar’thar was by this time a typical rebellious teenage drowolath. He returned from a bar in the waning hours of morning to discover the grisly sight; his home and father’s shop were lit ablaze as a ferocious fire burnt his entire life to countless ashes . He impulsively rushed into the smouldering ruins to try and locate his father and father. He searched for over ten minutes in the rising inferno; he couldn’t find a single trace of either of them. His home would become his death trap if he stayed any longer. He managed to safeguard his life barely, the building collapsed on itself several minutes after his escape. He slumped sluggishly to the side alleyway, only to discover an even more forlorn sight: his father bleeding out in the dim side street. He bursts forward to La’dar’s side, struggling to support his father who was barely conscious. Dar’thar knew his father would not survive the wounds inflicted upon him. He cradled the pitiful smith’s lacerated body in his burnt arms as the light from his father’s pale eyes gave way. Lad’ar reached out to his son’s tear-drenched face. He simply smiled to him, and spoke one last ambiguous sentence “Don’t be afraid…oh Marla…I couldn’t keep my promise after all” he said to no one in particular; his body slumped and the warmth of his body drained as Dar’thar cradled his battered body. The screaming and horrific wailing of an innocent son was heard throughout the neighbourhood. In the course of an entire evening, the idyllic dream of innocence drowned into the grim reality of the drow’s cruel society.

Dar’thar’s entire livelihood no longer existed. His family’s estate was liquidated and seized by the very agents of death, the Sharen. He was forced out into the streets as an orphan. He had no skills other than what his father had taught him in the thirty odd years. He tried to search for his mother, since she wasn’t in the fire. Nobody had seen her leave the forge that night Still, it was enough information to give him hollow hope. Dar’thar began to knock on the doors of his father’s old colleagues and friends. Each eerily turned him away or made excuses of having no positions available. It wasn’t the fact they didn’t want to help the boy; they knew he was in a desperate situation and would have gladly done so otherwise. The Sharen either controlled or threatened the known associates of Ladar into refusing the boy. He finally managed to find an employer, a run-down smith who didn’t care how or who gave him help-as long as they had some shred of talent. The smith only offered minimum may for the boy’s services, but it was better than dying on the streets Dar thought to himself. Still, he needed more than the misel y ada the smith offered. Darthar took up a job as a bartender at the arena working during the later shifts. He juggled the early mornings of working with the sub-par smith and the late night owl shifts. He gained an understanding of business from the smith and the shady rumors and gossip of the nobility be being an astute observer at the arena. Nobles and high commoners favoured the high quality spirits, while the commoners who came to watch bought the cheap, but bountiful beer available. Dar’thar used his dual position at the forge to improve his craft from what little the unqualified smith could teach, and more importantly his access to the drunken slips and stories of the higher classes. He thought his position would yield any luck with his search for his mother’s vanish. Dar’thar grew tired of the double jobs and the lack of any progress in his life. Perhaps he was doomed to live this shallow existence for the rest of his days…

Fate is often contradictory though, for Dar’thar’s luck once again rose. During a rather peaceful evening in the after-hours of the arena’s matches, a group of rather worldly noble-looking drowolath strolled into the bar. They were giggling like a mass of schoolgirls, their frilly robes swaying with each step they took. The trio approached Dar’thar’s back as he polished an empty opaque glass. One of them called out to him with a slight slur “Hmm hmm, that was a brilliant match. Bar boy, fancy a bottle for me and my friends? On the house of course” the ditzy black haired leader ordered in a teasing tone. Dar’thar tilts his head back to get a look at the pitiful group, immediately he spots the symbol of the Sharen. He quietly tightens his burly hands around the glass handle , and grits his teeth as his anger boiled under the surface. He sighs inwardly as the spontaneous mood leaves him as he realizes his situation though; He cannot afford to destroy his only source of income. Dar’thar puts on a thespian’s cheerful smile, indulging the idiots with their games “Sure sure, the affluent Sharen are always welcomed here with question. What would you like my lady?” He replies with a forced disgust. The female claps her hands together “Ho ho ho, of course. Make it an entire bottle bar-boy.” She haughtily slurs her words. The trio and the silent bar-keep keep each other company for the next two hours. They discuss random meaningless chit-chat amongst each other, only acknowledging him for another round or for him to pour a fresh shot. The entire bar changes from a boring atmosphere to a noisy and boisterous setting with the three woman. Dar’thar watches the ditzy one laugh in shrill bubbly responses to her friend. He notes her seemingly easy-going nature and fun-loving habits. She tilts her head once every ten minutes or so to him; its always that same annoying but lovable laugh. He thinks to himself about his misfortunate as he hollowly wipes the insides of another glass. The leader breaks the awkward barrier between them : “Ehh, so bar-boy…which one of us do you think is the prettiest?” She sly grins with a sensual loose gesture due to her sheer intoxication. Dar’thar’s eyes widen in surprise as the question was so unexpected. He glances at the three Sharen girls and cringes inwardly because his choice will anger the other two he thought. Still, she was the one who seemed the most obvious. The ditzy leader was the one he thought. He replies to her drunken stupor sheepishly while rubbing his index finger against his cheek; “Hrmm…I would have to say..you” he mumbles incoherently to her. The other two feign disappointment as their friend bounces up and down in a shrill cry “Hahaha…of course, I’m the one. Who else would it be? You picked right bar-boy..otherwise I would have broken your nose if you chose wrong Hahaha.” She calmly replies with a bizarre half-threat. “Well bar-boy, thanks for the drinks. You’re a good little boy hmm hmm. Maybe will see you around, next time you can serve me entire round of wine Hahaha.” She shines a crooked smile to the quiet drow male. The trio merge together and gingerly disappear out to Chel’s bustling night. The trio stop dead center at the entrance for a moment, the sharen ditz turns back to the humble bartender. Her previously bubbly personality melts into a twisted chilling omen “Your a lot different then before, there’s no more fire in you. Didn’t you use to hate people like us? I guess your not the guy I thought you were Dar. That fire…you should have just faded away like the ashes.” She ominously chuckles in a disturbing manner. The other two mimic her menacing smile, their eyes dull, and muted in the doorway. “You can’t escape fate Dar, you never will” she said in an empty monotone. The trio disappear into the embrace of the darkness, the echo of their voices was all that remained. Dar’thar immediately drops the white rag to pursue the group, nothing mattered at this point. Who the hell was she? How did she know about that? Why did she really come? It didn’t matter, only his seering hatred clouded his judgement.

He paced himself as he searched through the sprawling streets of Chel. He saw the trio turn a corner a hundred feet ahead of him. Unnerved and efficiently machine-like, Dar’thar follows the Sharen; he keeps a controlled composure as to not draw attention. The hunter preys behind them at a safe distance, his eyes scanning for them around each bend and twist of Chel. The burning memories scorch his mind as the hatred sinks him into a sociopathic calm. They turn into a back alley, the bottoms of their robes leaving a clue for his final approach. His pace quickens as he sprints into the alleyway like a wild tiger- he sees nothing but an empty decrepit alleyway. His eyes scope out the alleyway, but nothing remains of the trio. His patience dies as his anger consumes him. He pounds his fists into the hard concrete wall at his failure. He bangs and rattles the inanimate dirty wall; his knuckles begin to bleed from repeated exposure and abuse. Dar’thar finally disengages his useless fury as he slumps against the wall. He had a lead finally, and now it was gone. That girl would never come back, he would never find the answers he wanted. He straightens himself up as he clasps his right hand around another alley exit as a vastly different scene unfolded.


The woman was of aristocratic means, by the lavish and tight fitting clothes she wore. She was surrounded by three female drowolath. Dar’thar crouched behind a wooden crate as he listened in on their conversation “No more Arsha, you’ve tried my patience for the last time. I’m tired of waiting for your answer. Yes or no you Sulliss’rune harlot?” the leader barked bluntly to the cornered noble. The uninterested Arsha venomously replied “Illya, my old friend. Can you never think of anything but ada? Are you such a pathetic worm whom resorts to extortion. I am not intimated by your hollow threats. Begone Illya, else you wish to find death”. The answer was all Illya needed, she roughly slaps Arsha across the face with a stinging hit. Arsha staggers from the blow across her cheek, an imprint is left on left cheek. “I guess there’s no reason to hold back then. I’m tired of you Arsha…you never can keep your promises. Maybe hell will treat you better, so long…old friend” Illya smugly replies to Arsha. Dar’thar’s heart pumps madly as he watches the scene unfold, this woman would be killed. He knew there was no way he could take all three on, but if he tried to leave they’d possibly kill him. He shakes his head and emerges from his hiding spot. He tip toes out from the alleyway into the deserted courtyard. Illya’s right ear perks up as she hears Dar’thar’s approaching steps. Dar’thar pretends to act surprise as his widen eyes meet with hers “Err…wrong way I guess…” he feigns nervousness. Illya raises a brow as she draws her shortsword and walks toward Dar’thar. “Oh dear..what will do with you? Dear dear…we can’t have you going anywhere. I guess you don’t have luck boy- too bad.” She nonchantly says to Darthar, her fingers delicately petting her thirsty blade. Dar’thar raises his hands as to calm the cutthroat “Er..no really, I just took a wrong turn…I’ll be on my way. Please, it was an honest mistake” He squeaks as he backs away. Arsha vigilantly watches the misfortunate newcomer, but she saw an opportunity. Illya’s back was turned away from Arsha, and these two were merely common thugs of Illya’s, nothing Illya hadn’t seen before. Perhaps the boy could serve as a distraction, she only needed the right opening. Dar’thar nervously sidesteps to the right for a moment, Illya glides across five feet and shifts her weight to block him a path “No no boy, there’s no running away. You just don’t get to walk out-you’ll sell me out. I can’t let some trash ruin me. Sorry lad, it’s not personal. Just your unlucky” Illya shrugs her shoulders as she raises her iron blade. Arsha’s eyes widen as she seizes the distraction. She instantly lights the the left thug’s arm into an infernal flame, the second panics as her companion screamed in pain from the seering fire. “What!?” Illya yells in surprise as she twists her back around to see Arsha’s trickery. In that instant, Dar’thar’s seizes his own oppurtinity. He dashes towards Illy’as exposed back and angles his burly clenched fist to the back of exposed head. Dar’thar breaths heavily as the vunerable woman had no time to stop him; the brute force of the punch connects with the backside of her skull. A gruesome crack echoes from the deafening blow, Illya cries out in pain as the blow stuns her. In the ensuing chaos, Illya drops her steel blade to her left side. Dar’thar dives for the fallen blade in the hopes Illya won’t recover it. Arsha struggles with the remaining bandit, the two interlocked in a grapple with drawn blades. Arsha watches Dar’thar attempt for a split-second and returned to her own opponent. Dar’thar rolls with the blade locked in his right hand, he positions himself in front of Illya with her possession wielded by a thief. She stares at Dar’thar with a malevolent set of eyes, her jaw widen in a hideous shape “You think your pretty good, huh kid? Your dead..I’m going to cut you open and skin your flesh from the your bones. I’ll feed your heart to my dog, and your eyeballs to your mother you son of a bitch” She shrieks at him; she draws out a concealed dagger from her belt. “Watch my hands, watch my hand…watch..and DIE!” she charges swiftly towards the young drow. Dar’thar raises the jagged blade in front of the oncoming attacker, his heart pounding as the cold chill of death froze his blood. Arsha finally gains the uphand and overpowers her opponent, the female tumbling to the ground. Arsha angles the blade upwards and pierces her neck cleanly, the blade logged in completely. Illya’s legs pound with each wild step to her enemy, her daggers ready to tear him apart. Illya slashes across at Dar’thar’s chest and aims the other towards his head. Dar’thar hastily lowers himself seconds before Illya’s daggers pierced his body. He had the low vantage point and in her error Darthar plunges her blade into her chest. The blade’s tip slides out the otherside of her back. Illya gurgles and coughs up blood as the blade punctured her right lung. She flails about and chortles in pain as she pitifully dies in the alleyway. Tears stream from her blood-shot eyes as she realized her life was over. Ilya finally falls to her knees, her body collapsing forwards unto the cold concrete floor. Fresh blood pours from her fatal wound. Dar’thar pants haggardly from the extremely lucky opening. Dar’thar turns to Arsha, who raises her right brow in amusement “Hmm, you’re a murderer now lad. There was no reason for you to aid me, but then again I get feeling you didn’t just waltz in. Nobody will find them for atleast twenty minutes; you don’t want the guards to do the same to what you did to Illya. Come on, we don’t have much time.” She beckons to him as they flee the grisly crime.


The woman was called Arsha’Korsu Kar’shalu, a minor noble of the Sullissin’rune clan. She pitied Dar’thar as he related his tragic tale over a warm meal. He told her about his family’s unneeded murder, how he managed to barely survive with his two jobs. She nodded constantly as he finished each new story. He told her about the three Sharen girls, their playful banter, and their cryptic knowledge of his family’s murder. Arsha sipped a small cup of tea as he related the tales of his past. When he mentioned his mother’s name, Arsha lowered her cup. “What?...did you know my mother?” Dar’thar assumes since he mentioned her name. Arsha coyly wriggled her finger back and forth “I knew you mother indeed. She was an old friend of mine; not like “Illya”, a true friend.” She responded to his gaping look. “Hmm, so she had a son..hmm…” She ponders among her memories. “How did you know my mother?” Dar’thar anxiously asked Arsha. “Your mother…was once apart of the clan boy. She was a noble like myself, but her life fell apart years ago. Some nasty affairs happened and filthy deeds. She commited a grevious and embarrassing sin, she fled from the safety of the Sullissi’rune.” She nods while sipping the steaming tea. Dar’thar furrows his brow as the information sunk in. He shakes his head in confusion as to why. “What happened? Tell me please” He begs Arsha for the truth. “Relax boy, you should know of course. Your mother was always ambitious, she never took no for an answer. She had the talent of course, but she over-extended her drive. She couldn’t accept her bliss, she yearned for more power. Your mother foolish challenged her superior for control of her position. Marla overestimated her abilities and lost in a humiliating defeat. The fact your mother broke and disrespected the codes of Sullis’rune in an open act of defiance, she was banished from here. You need to understand something lad, the Sullissi’rune are not hedonists, they have lasted for so long due to complete control and tranquillity. Your mother would have risen had she only accepted her status, but it was never enough for Masira. Her arrogance tragically proved to be her undoing.” She tells Dar’thar as a warning. Dar’thar’s spirit sunk to new lows as he learned about the truth of his mother. He knew his mother could be ruthless and demanding at times, but to be so brazen as to think she could challenge ancient authority. Now he knew why she cried herself to sleep at times, was it bitter memories of her disgrace? Disgust at her predicament as a commoner? He would never know he thought to himself. “I can’t go back to the bar, the fact I ran out…and I can’t stand working in that dump of a forge” he gestures to Arsha bitterly. She rises elegantly from the mahogany chair, a warm fire burning in the fireplace. “Your mother was always good to me-even until the bitter end. What you did was foolish, but brave as well. Even though I could have saved myself, the fact you risked your life for mine means I’m indebted to your family more than ever. You know the truth now Dar’thar. So what will you do? What I saw in you reminded me so much of your mother’s fire, it’s shame you weren’t a girl. Still, you have raw potential. Your still very young by our standards. You reminded me of my older brother as well. Your both stubborn, brazen, and do not accept no for an answer; but what you possess like him is sheer cunning. The way you fooled Illya into a unsecure overconfidence is not a trait learned, it’s flows in your veins. The world you know will never change if you remain as a commoner. I have one daughter who is fully grown and left this home long ago. Hmm…perhaps this is a second chance; maybe you can redeem your mother’s sin.” She vaguely hints at something approaching. Dar’thar blankly blinks as to her indirect suggestion “What are you trying to say?”. Arsha rolls her amber eyes as the boy lacked refined inference “It seems you need more education than I thought…I’ve raised one child already, but I am not a spinster. Dar’thar, I’m willing to adopt you as my own blood. Having a son- may do some good for my boredom” She fills in the dots for him. Dar’thar’s mind goes blank as the words sunk in. A hazy memory tries to project into his mind, the situation seemed so familiar. “Why though?” He asked stupidly to the charitable offer. “I already told you boy. If you can’t get that through your thick skull, I may retract what I just said.” She curves her lips into a teasing smile. Dar’thar looks Arsha directly in the eyes and replies “I accept…mother” the words echoes in the empty room.

Dar’thar spent the next several years honing his incomplete commoner’s education. While as a blacksmith he knew about the basics of geometry, metal forging, and some standard applications of science, he was otherwise unsuited to became a noble. Arsha left Dar’thar in the care of a tutor due to the fact he was somewhat old to attend the halls of Orthobe. Dar’thar tutor and mentor for the next ten years of his life was a valuable and trusted instructor of Sullissirune males, his name was Ralos. Ralos was strict, demanding, and abit of a perfectionist. He didn’t necessarily take pleasure from beating his pupils, but he used physical abuse as a reinforcement to instill failure results in death in his mind. When Ralos first met Dar’thar he noted his impatient and brash attitude as a detriment, but also acknowledged Arsha’s earlier observation about his strong will and cunning tactics. Ralos trained Dar’thar to rely on his raw natural strength he gained from his days a blacksmith to be the basis of his fighting style. Ralos tested him in a multitude of weapons styles, Ralos concluded Dar’thar’s choice should be in either two handed weapons or longswords to specialize in primary style; Ralos also thought Dar’thar should rely on a combination of using his magical affinity with his weaponry. Dar’thar’s elemental affinity test aligned him with earth-based sorcery, reflecting his unyielding , bull-headed nature. Ralos trained the drowolath male vigorously over the course of the ten years. Dar’thar learned to harness his earth magic in conjunction with heavy styled weapons to create unique attacks manipulating the enviorment. The handicap Ralos explicitly told Dar’thar was his choice in weaponary severely limited his natural mobility and agility. Dar’thar also familiarized himself with the customs and nuances of nobility of the Sullissi’rune: who’s title belong to who, the personal differences between classes and genders, the open-minded nature of the Sullissi’rune as a whole as well. Ralos had a lasting impact on Dar’thar’s future temperament: he laid the traits for percievernce, ruthlessness, calcutating patience, and a sharp wit and manipulation of words. When tens years finally passed, Dar’thar returned to Arsha for a personal evalution. Arsha concluded with the following line “It seems I was right about you ten years ago. Ralos agrees you’ve changed much and I can clearly see the results of his strict regimen. Perhaps your future is more eventful than I originally thought. Maybe you’ll live up to my expectations as the shadow of my brother.”

The Sarghress clan had formed an alliance with the Sullissin’rune sometime in the past. Arsha wanted to see how well Ralos’s training truly paid off. Arsha arranged a meeting with a Sarghress representative to the conditions for an exchange between her foster son and an equal member of the Sarghress. The negioatatins at times proved to be fruitless and heated disagreements often became the focal points of the month long arrangements. Finally an agreement was reached by the two respective parties: Dar’thar would be examined by a Sarghress who volunatirly offered to evaluate the competence of the male, and Arsha would promise her adopted son to the servitude of the Raiders for over twenty years at minimum. Also, Arsha would have to educate a Yuhunrir female drowolath who displayed empathic abilities due Arsha’s own unique empathic abilities. The conditions were set and Dar’thar left for the Sarghress’s clan fortress several days later. In constrast with the utopian compound the Sullissi’rune created, Dar’thar felt oddly at home in the rough-neck and collective home of the wolves. Dar’thar asked a local guard as to where he needed to report too. The guard dryly replied with “Old bones will be taking care of you Sullissi’rune, you can find him in the forges over near the armory. Best becareful, Old bones will burn you with his smelting rod if you piss him off to much”. Dar’thar shook his head in resignation as he headed to the booming furnaces and lively corridors of the forge. Making his way through dueragar slave assistants barking at one in another in their native tongue, Dar’thar entered a lonely room with barely any furnitature. Dar’thar scanned cautiously the eerie dim room for any sign of life; a hanging chain-link rattled for a moment before a hand wrapped around Dar’thar’s exposed neck. A scarred and leathery set of fingers held a knife against his threat as a croaking male’s voice boomed: “Already dead lad, your easy prey for a goblin. Better yet, a tikititi has more guile than your stupid arse.” He taunts the unassuming Dar’thar. Dar’thar’s eyes widen as a bead of sweat dripped done the side of his forehead. The hand loosens it’s grip and pulls the blade back. From the shadows steps the one called Old Bones, otherwise known as Arkan Sarghress.

“Old Bones, I presume?” Dar’thar coughs as he rubs the marks left from Arkan’s hand. “Aye sodomist, I’m Old Bones. You’re the bloody Sullissi’rune brat who thinks he’s fit to fight with the most grizzled shit-kickers Chel’s seen ehh? Well lad, let’s see what your scrawny arse can do. Come on, outside in the compound; I’m going to test your mettle and see if you can actually take a hit unlike the rest of the sloths who live in that bubble” He scowls bitterly to Dar’thar. Dar’thar grits his teeth as Arkan disrespected his clan and more importantly his own pride. “Lead the way Old bones” Dar’thar clenches his right hand as his anger illy took control of him. “Got a temper ehh? Let’s see if you can do anything with that fire, otherwise your just full of shit kid.” Old Bones croaks in a half laugh as he exits the forge to the compound’s open space. The two pace towards a rotting wooden practice arena scarcely wider than a single bedroom. Dar’thar vaults over the wooden fence as Old Bones did the same; the two stand directly opposite from each other, in the center of dusty corral. Arkan tosses to Dar’thar a plain iron greatsword as he prepared the same for himself. Dar’thar smooths his right hand over the roughened edge of the blade. “Better than nothing lad, a blade’s just an extension of your own abilities. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Well then kid, your probally wondering why I’m your examiner? This is a personal request of course. I ain’t gonna bloody tell you the reason though, unless you can actually keep up with me poor old bones.” The aged Sarghress smith snaps mockingly while cracking his vertebrae. Dar’thar replies with “The rule of thumb seems to be the older you are, the stronger you really are. I’m not that much of an idiot. Although Senile Bones seems better suited for a fossil kept in the back closet of the wolves’ den.”. “Ho ho, got a tongue on ya young one. Enough talk boy, let’s see what your runty arse is really made of.” The old drowolath narrows his eyes as his mocking manner shifted to a bitter coldness. Dar’thar gulps nervously as the man changed completely, he curls his lips into a slight smile as he raises his blade in front of him “Your move old man” he says to Arkan. Arkan snorts loudly as he slashes at Dar’thar’s elevated blade vertically, an unnaturally powerful blow causing Dar’thar to stagger from the weight behind it. Dar’thar struggles to keep his legs planted in a defensive stance as Arkan forced the pressure from his blade into Dar’thar’s. “What’s the matter Sullissi’rune? Can’t even beat an old senile man, guess I was right. Your nothing more than a tik lizard’s morning shit.” The old bastard sneers in the face of the youth. The battle was one sided. Dar’thar lost to Old Bones, but he was accepted into the Highland Raiders on the recommendation of Arkan’s personal favour, rather than actual merit.

The examiner noted although Dar’thar was rather tall for a male, he possessed adequate strength, and was somewhat quick on his feet; the examiner marked and praised him on the one element he always embodied: his endurance and will to struggle. He was outfitted with the standard armor and uniform of the raiders, and from there stretched out to the surface. Dar’thar led a boastful and colourful life on the surface for over seventy years with the raiders. He raided with vigour and ferocity with each successful raid of jewels, lost artifacts, and bounties scrounged from the forgotten surface. The sights and sounds of the exotic and strange landscape forced Dar’thar to give a sublime respect to the world he never knew. Now he knew why his ancestors regretfully sundered the beauty they once inhabited. The seasoned raider had one particular encounter that brought out the murderous and savage nature he locked away for so long. While on a routine patrol his unit and was outnumbered, but not overpowered in the least. The orcish band foolish headed towards their death. The unit devastated the war cabal using their advance equipment and superior tactics in flanking and routing the warband. Dar’thar overestimated his ability and was injured in the line of duty, after taking matters into his own hands wantonly. He was berated and confined to mess detail for a month in punishment. He learned the importance of working as a unit and from this harsh lesson paved the way for his more tactic, calculated style in combat. The raiders proves invaluable in teaching Dar’thar the qualities of trusting in your superiors, and working together to ensure a near failproof outcome. Dar’thar earned the respect of the High land Raiders as being reliable, resourceful, and never leaving his comrades behind. He often was chided for his lapse into his reckless behaviour, but it stemmed more from his need to keep casualities to a minimum.

The Highland Raiders discharged Dar’thar ten years after the orc massacre. His superiors felt he was an earnest veteran, but he could never rise within the ranks of the them since he wasn’t officially apart of them. Still, after decades of recognized and endless work, his contribution to the raiders left him with the respect of the Yurun'hiir commander, Azrillna Yurun’hiir, the leader of Darthar’s battalion. He was made an honorary member of the Yurun'hiir ; however, it was only in name and spirit. Dar’thar returned to the confines of his adoptive childhood home. For the first time in years he felt purposeless. The raiders were his family, his center of life and now it was nothing but a fragment of the past. Arsha worried about her her adoptive son’s idleness with each passing day. He was not of the Sullissin’rune leisurely lifestyle; he possessed their patience, but was restless and suited for a ever changing landscape. The memories of his childhood lingered and burned freshly into his waking thoughts and sleepless nights. The Sharen had robbed him of everything, and yet gave him another chance at life. Dar’thar settled the matter with his tormented past. He explained to his mother he wished to return restart his father’s long dead smithery. Arsha knew he was most at ease with the earth and his hands, she consented to her foster child’s wish. Once again, the drowolath left for another chapter in his life.

Dar’thar worked up from the bottom of the market’s competitive world. He bought the refurbished , quaint compound his father once used over a hundred years ago. With the small fortune he acquired from his days as a raider and patronage from his sub house, he ventured into the smithing world again. He spent his days in modest means and remained faceless amongst the citizens. He was simply known by the district he inhabited as slightly above average smith. The clanging of metal against moldable casts, the flaring heat of the fireworks, everyone who passed the door of the smithery assumed he was no one in particular. Dar’thar dealt mostly with the Sillis’runne and Sarghress clan since he was most favourable with them. He purchased a dwarf slave in the meantime called Marth. The dwarf despised the drow, but still begrudgingly tolerated Dar’thar’s presence due to his calm, level-headed fairness of the dwarf. Dar’thar lived peacefully in obscurity he hoped. He re-enacted the act of his father’s open door policy. He used the same motto his father once recited repeatedly “If one can afford my craft, they will have my hammer as a friend”. Patronage from the Sarghress and Sullisinsune grew modestly over the course of the next decade. All seemed well for the once nightmare plagued drow.

In the grand schemes of clan politics, the Nidraa’chal clan grew in power at an alarming rate. This new breed of drow, the Ver’drownedar, began to trickle into the population. Citizens were wary and suspicious of the bastardized promises of these so called “children of the Goddess”. Dar’thar observed indifferently this new mysterious and malevolent breed of drow. Several Nidraa’chal visited his shop in the months before the cataclysmic war. They offered him the chance to become apart of something new. The agents noted his weapons were fit for the new breed; the cold and twisted appearance of his steel reflected the heartlessness of these cursed drow. Dar’thar echoed his father’s choice from decades long since past. They swore he would regret his foolishness, and his head would be displayed to all when they returned. The agents never came back. All around the city could feel the tension and hysteria escalating. The Great Clans remained divided and indecisive. As all know, they paid the ultimate price for squandering their precious grains of sand. On the night the Nidraa’chal marched, the city was razed by the burning fires of these harbingers of demons and uncontrolled malice. Chel, the once great bastion of drow society, stood near the brink of collapse. The Sharen made their stake with the entire combined army onto the tiny clan. The culmination of years of tension built up to these terror filled weeks. Dar’thar gazed upon the wreckage of his ransacked and war-torn home with utter horror. He had seen death many times before, but this spelled a sorrowful end for all if something was not done. The drowolath smith returned to the quiet quarters of his ancestral home. The fires of countless battles echoed throughout the city, cries for help and the mercy of a gentle death wailed throughout the night. He felt powerless as the scope of everything forced him to realize he could do nothing; he could not falter, for Dar’thar could protect his district as best his body held out. He couldn’t fight alone against the organized forces of the Nidrachaal, he recalled the situation from his days in the High land raiders. Besides, the entire Temple District had been overrun with demons and disorganized units from the Sharen and other clans would take aim at any. He logically came to the conclusion that he could only shelter and offer aid to those fleeing that area.

He headed out to the streets as countless refugees sprinted away from the district. He raised his hands and beckon to any who needed shelter. One by one , those who heard his pleas hesitantly answered his call. Some left and other accepted his deal; they could seek sanctuary in his forge. He noted that majority of these people had become infected by demons. Still, what shred of honor prevented him from leaving behind these wretched souls. He stood watch as he closed the door and began a vigil in the long night. The nightmare had just commenced.

Dar’thar was running out of supplies and his refugees were starting to starve. He couldn’t hold out any longer. He remained quiet during those patrols and prayed to the Goddess he would come out unscathed. Darthar kept his Sullisin’rune light-plate armor mounted on a pole in his bedroom just in case the need arise during their holdout. Then they came. Nothing was unseen to them, the Kyorl forces strategically headed towards the Temple District to drive out the demonic presence. Dar’thar panicked when he realized several of his refugees were unwillingly tainted. When a split off group arrived, he tried his best to accommodate their needs. They were respectful at first, but their impure presences had already been sensed. They stormed into the forge and wrecked his entire’s life work in mere minutes. They slaughtered several adults and dragged the rest of the tainted and untainted into the streets. They left Dar’thar in his shop. He couldn’t do anything while he heard their cries of agony as each was executed mercilessly. He sunk into his subconscious and headed towards the well-worn armor he crafted and donned it in silence. Light fitting, and scarred from years of use, he creaked in the armor as he drew his blackened steel Zwhenedier in tow. The small group of four were two youthful, inexperienced, and overconfident Templars led by a naïve, proud warden and her blade. There wasn’t a chance for error at all. Dar’thar launched his blade across horizontally and cut asunder the two templars. Before they could react, he sent out a shockwave of earth to entrench the warden and her blade into a bind. He had to act fast since she would break free in only minutes. The youth were alarmed and surprised by how this vengeful skirmisher killed two of their brothers in a fell swoop. The warden and her blade ferociously broke through the rubble and readied themselves. Dar’thar overexerted himself. He wasted too much energy and was fatigued. The warden cautiously engaged the skirmisher and raised her blade to impale him. “Demon scum, you will face judgement by my hand. I will.---ahhhhckkk” She screamed as her body burned suddenly. Her warden hadn’t sensed the intruders and was mowed down by a flurry of arrows. In the corner, they waited. A trio of Sharen women. The women from the bar years earlier. The girl had come for him. She had watched him this entire time.



Ka’latha stood feet from Dar’thar’s delirious withdrawal. She lent a seemingly fragile hand out to him. He fumbled towards her gracious help. He barely rose before a tightening pressure built upon him. Dar scrapped across the barren ruins of the recent battle. He stared in complete confusion as Ka’latha harmed him. He transfixed his eyes upon her, her face revealed the answer he sought. Ka’latha’s eyes burnt a blood red in the dim centre. She had fallen to the taint. Dar’thar raised his great sword sluggishly against the fresh Sharen; it was a one sided fight. Ka’latha made child play of the exhausted Dar’thar, his strikes against her utterly useless. She was a master of pressure sorcery and an adept with the seering flame. Defeated and bested easily, Dar’thar collapsed upon his blade for support. Ka’latha stepped in triumphant strides towards her kill. The two met at the crossroads of their intertwined fates. Ka’latha raised her staff to deliver the execution. For a single moment only, she hesitated. In this moment, their lives would change forever once again.

She asked a peculiar question “You don’t know when to die do you? No it seems its in your blood. Your like a scrambling dog who never knows when to keep his nose down. Pathetic, even in battle you show your enemies compassion. Still, at least you have the raw edge that makes you useful to those sodomites” She said to him flatly. Dar’thar mumbled the answer “I’m a commoner your right. I don’t make any excuses about my “low” blood. Have you forgotten too? Where you came from? You and me ended up on the same level, but I can see there’s nothing left of that girl I knew. At the bar years ago, that was….nice.” he coughed as blood trickled from his mouth. Satisfied with his reply, she began to lower her staff to end it “I can’t understand you honestly-you were always too stubborn Dar. Goodbye Dar’thar….I’m sorry” her words rang out in a confusing meaning. He raised his left clawed hand to the staff with the last reserve of strength. Ka’latha’s reaction to his unseen move shocked her and him. The staff split from her grip and Dar’thar slashed with the gauntlet’s pricks across the front of her shirt. The silk tore apart across her abdomen with five horizontal tears. The last boom of strength ricocheted her frail frame into a hard wooden stand. Dar’thar’s body gave out after that. He was at her mercy. In a delusional vision, he watched as an explosion erupted in the distance near the temple district. The outline of Kala stood over him, and he could hardly make out her voice. Simple screaming, or something like that he concluded inwardly. Her form vanished as more of the flames screeched across in the distance.

Dar’thar awoke in the sub house medical quarters were his mother’s servants tended to him. Arsha grimly sighed a mixture of relief and anger as he opened his mix matched eyes. Dar’thar managed somehow to end up back in the shop, and a scout stumbled upon his battered presence a day later. Dar’thar’s body suffered more grievous scars along his arms and legs from the beating. He was alive yes, but nothing would ever be the same.

Dar’thar returned to his home to rebuild from the wreckage. His entire livelihood laid in ruins, but he would remake what was lost. The stains of dried blood still were at the execution spot. His first taste of racial malice took form that day, his distrust of the drowussu and the Kyorl’solenum only solidified his image of their horrific zealotry. He barred trade with the Kyorl’solenurn from that point onwards.

Life began to retake shape in Chel’she’loth, and the dead were remembered and honoured for their sacrifices. It is now fifteen years since the war passed. Dar’thar routinely continues his smithing business. Tranquillity flows through his forge and piece of Chel’s market. What souls will cross with this complicated drow? Will Dar’thar settle his unfinished history with the Sharen? Will Dar’thar learn why Ka’latha appeared after all that time on the fated night of reunion? So many questions and road lay wide open for the drow. Dar’thar can only continue to walk down his ever changing road; come, will you join him as well?

Description: Dar’thar stands at roughly five eleven, above average for a drow male. He weighs about a hundred and eighty pounds, give or take a few. He has several significant scars etched throughout his body. On his nose is a horizontal cut that runs from the beginning of both eyes. On his back are three claw marks from the orc raid. On his body are various minor scars and a long jagged diagonal scar. His face is sculpted but not chiselled, his brow protrude lightly outwards. His hair color is black streaks with gold tips. He usually wears his hair in a cropped ponytail. Dar’thar wears simple blue and gold worker’s clothing in his forge; in the streets a common fashionable overcoat and cotton pants are his suited choice. Also, Dar’thar’s right hand was replaced with a golem prosthetic from years of abuse and neglect on his part. Although not from the bloodline of Sullissin’rune, Dar’thar inherited heterochromia from his mother’s genes. His left eye is a pale blue, while the right is a sun-stained yellow. Dar’thar has a crescent shaped blue marking under his left eye; from the middle of his right cheek to partly to his forehead is another blue marking.

Time Zone/Activity: Eastern Standard Time. I post depending on my time openings and the whole nine yards. I’m generally available more in the evenings during the week. On the weekends pretty much free, just send me a pm to let me know what time works best for others.
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Darthar
Nether Spawn
 
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Joined: Thu Oct 09, 2008 6:56 pm
Location: Scrapyard
Clan: Beldrobbaen

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