Alverein De Nelethas
Established
Roleplay posts: 47
Age: 687
Physical Description: Having lived through more than his fair share of trials in his life, Alverein appears slightly more weathered than the average elf of his age, appearing more towards his Middle Ages then he might otherwise. His hair is a mix of black and grey, the salt and pepper effect having barely come into contact with his beard. The very top of his left ear is missing and a cross-like scare marks his left eye, though thankfully he didn’t lose the eye itself.
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Clothes and Equipment: His usual outfit is a white shirt tucked into dark pants with his usual boots which are grey with elven glyphs worked into it in silver.
His weapons are storied blades in their own right, having existed long before he was even an idea, and probably continuing to do so long after he is naught but dust and half forgotten legend.
The Eclipse Blade, Teuvel Tel Fadien Teuivae: with a handle of dark iron bound in leather, and a scabbard of the same, until drawn Teuivae can seem like an ordinary sword of no great importance. Once drawn however it's magical nature is quite evident. The blade changes with the phase of the moon, variably seemingly made of a metal the color of moonlight and the night sky. The materials change the percentage of the weapon constructed as the moon waxes and wanes, becoming made of more moon-steel while waxing until being fully so on the nights of the full moon, and the shadowy stuff of night while waning until being fully so during a new moon.
The blade of Neverwinter has a cross guard shaped like the Sigil of the city who shares its name, both taking their name from the man who lead to the creation of both, an egg sized ruby being set into the iris on both sides.
The Neverwinter Shortsword: On his opposite hip rises the paired number of the blade, a shortsword created years after as much as a ceremonial twin as one for the battlefield. It shares a common look with its elder, though is not as distinct.
In his other hand more often than not however his black staff stands, a simple construction of wood so dark it almost seems to absorb light when it is not cracking with violet Eldritch energy.
His armor is an archaic custom creation of his, based off of several designs and made to provide equal parts defense and maneuverability for a magic user and crafted from mithral and materials harvested from a black dragon.
His cloak is of fine make, and lined with dark grey winter wolf fur. The natural abilities of the beast it's made from protects him from temperatures well below freezing.
At his back is his bag of holding, though you’d never be able to pick it out as magical from a dozen average satchels. Beaten and travel-worn, it’s been there more often than not, and he owes most of what little he has left to it’s magical depths.
The Key of Khrazan is what he owes for the rest of what he still has, when inserted into a door's lock and turned it opens a gate between that door and a pocket of space like a bag of holding that's 30ft wide x 120ft long x 30ft high. Inside is furnished with wood walls and a stone floor. Once the door is closed it will open back up to normal place it would access until the room is opened up from inside. If the door has been shut the only way to contact it from the outside world is by placing the key's matched doorknocker against the door and knocking with it.
He has several rings and a few other trinkets on him at all times, mementos from his former life.
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Registered: Dec 1, 2018 1:08:20 GMT -8
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Post by Alverein De Nelethas on Jan 2, 2019 6:11:33 GMT -8
The quiet crossroads town had a hundred different names in as many different languages and dialects, though Alverein preferred on he’d heard a wood elf use Lathbora Viran, The Path to a Place of Lost Love as one of the now long untraveled paths lead back to his former home, now little more then ashen ruins.
He stared towards the horizon for a few more moments before dislodging the axe from the stump and placing another piece of wood to be split in its place and let out a slight exhalation as he brought the axe down with a crack as it split the log in half. He set one of the halves onto the base and swung again. He liked the simple life and the simple exercise and labor. Another simple series of actions and the axe came back down with a crack of splitting wood.
He took another look at the oncoming storm before collecting the wood and taking couple steps to set it in the wood shed. He didn't need it now, but it was better to get a good sized pile and let it dry for months before winter came. He slung the axe over his shoulder and headed out to finish off the rest of his daily duties.
Sure he could hire some help, and had on occasion, but something about making sure the horses were fed, the water topped off for the evening, the heating stones in the barn still magically charged, and other duties. With everything done he headed inside the house just as it began to rain…
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Davmyn Uvirith
Established
Roleplay posts: 11
Age: 47
Physical Description: Davmyn's face carries the sharp angles of his race, and his brow is as heavy as any other of his often brooding people. His hair is as red as blood, and the top of his hair is gathered back into a pony tail that flows into the rest of his hanging hair. The hairstyle is meant to keep the shoulder length rough strands from straying into his face, but it often mocks such efforts and still frames he face.
He has a set of tattoos running down from the corners of his eyes across his cheeks and ending at his jawline. He has angular, sharp red eyes squinted softly that give his eyes the appearance of red slashes. His skin is a stormy bluish-grey. Around his left eye is a paler shade of grey and scarred from a burn surrounding it. On his chin rests a small patch of hair, the same color as what rests upon his head.
Davmyn is of a strong build though he does not appear overly bulky with muscle and is best likened to a cat. His hands even still possess the natural elven slenderness despite the special weapons training he engages in quite often.
Both of his hands though, possess the tell-tale swordsman's grip: a callous that moves from the grip of the first finger around the thumb. One would be hard pressed to find this callous, however, as his hands are covered in burn scars. His body has seen thirty years of war, and it bares all of the marks that those that survive carry.
He also possesses the thick wrists and broad shoulders of a swordsman and one has often and comfortably thrown a javelin.
He is tall for a Dahloen, standing at 5'11" and weighing at 168lbs.
Clothes and Equipment: Dark leather armor that fits snugly around his frame, but with flaring pauldrons of leather overlain with hardened resin, and a muffler scarf that has a hood attached to it around the cuirass, as well as a cloth that can be pulled up to cover his face from his nose down. The material on this mask is thick and possessed of two small round objects on each side. Tooled into the leather on one shoulder are two letters in the Ancient Dahloen language followed by a series of stylized lines and slashes, and if one pays close attention they will note it appears to be six characters, giving a total of eight upon the pauldron. Lain overtop of this armor is what appears to be a worn and tattered tabard, but is actually the remains of an intricate robe whose original color can only be guessed at, though now it is a ruddy rust color. The garment reeks of old blood, smoke and ash. Wrapped around this are a series of bandoliers and pouches.
His leather armor is ensorcelled to help regulate his flow of magical powers and enhance his ability to tap into it, as well as to allow him control of the forces he commands to a greater clarity. His boots likewise have been enchanted increase his dexterity and his sure footedness. Hiso gauntlets and boots are leather covered in segmented and once finely made vambraces that have been worked with care and give sharp ridges. Each is set with a single cat's eye agate. From each of these can emerge a shimmering shield of light to protect one from both physical and sorcerous attacks, though they can only absorb so much punishment before needing to be dispelled.
Special Items:
In a brace at his lower back, along one of the belts on his waist are a set of syringes that each contain a different concoction.
Each of the pouches that he wears are small bags of holding- they contain more than what they appear to be able to, but these are not infinite spaces.
Contained in one of these pouches is an old, worn journal hidden beneath a hidden compartment of a potions box.
On his right hand, beneath his leather gauntlets is a simple band of metal around his finger, and around his neck a leather collar riveted with metal studs. There does not appear to be a buckle on the collar and the ring is tight.
On one hip hangs a dagger of golden coloring, of a simple and efficient killing design with the blade- double edged and coming to a fine calculated point though the guard is of a more curled and yet still simple design , and on his back is a shortsword of similar origins and design. The sword, when drawn can lengthen to no more than that of an arming sword, along with the hilt though it cannot shorten.
Allegiances: Himself
Registered: Dec 27, 2018 12:09:11 GMT -8
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Post by Davmyn Uvirith on Jan 2, 2019 19:59:33 GMT -8
His fingers clutched tightly at his hair, falling flat to the ground. He’d long since lost his helmet. Just as every time before.
Just like every time after…
He curled into the fetal position and screamed, his voice joining the chorus that blanketed the world around him; a chorus of nightmarish wails accompanied by the periodic bass like thunderclap of a cannon, or the screeching of wind as it was cut through by wings of sharp metal, billowing the crackling report of flames and conflagration.
I don’t… I don’t want to do this…
He tried, as he had every time before except that very first time, to not look up. Not see it coming for him, as it always did. As it would again. That hurtling and twirling ball of twisted metal. It was one of his people’s. It was falling, destroyed in its exchange with its counterpart of the enemy. In his peripheral, he once again noted the monstrous weapons that their two people had built. It was terrifying to behold those colossal things even from from a distance.
The ground hummed as their mechanisms twisted and snaked, and even over the din of battle, the cries of the dying both fair and dark, even the shrill shriek of the falling Clipwing, he could hear those massive weapons readying to unleash their payloads.
It… I don’t….
It wouldn’t matter and it never did. Like every time before, the burning metal… and the form of the furious elemental that had been contained within forcing itself free continued its free fall towards him. Its features were nightmarish, eyes projecting the heat of its hatred for himself and all of his kind.
Almost.. and… there…
Finally, his eyes closed. The pain would come in a moment.
The screams were suddenly one, and that jarred him enough that he noticed so too were the sounds of… everything else. That terrible cacophony. His scream died off into a choked whimper in his throat. The smells of choking black smoke and visceral blood, vanished without a trace. Another commonality in this uncommon event.
Birds.
He heard birds.
There was no smells of oil, nor of sweating Loen flesh.
The air smelt… strange. He had never smelt anything like this before in his life… He didn’t even have a word for how it smelt. It was… not unpleasant. But his nose tingled from the sensation of breathing, and the air that passed through was… not harsh. If anything it felt like… it flowed too quickly and freely into his nostrils and left him with a feeling of light headedness.
It made him sputter.
… I never sputtered… ever…
He held his breath for a moment, his terror driven tremors changing… trembling. He couldn’t hold his breath any more as a series of short, ragged breathes pulled themselves through his nose. Right now his lungs should be collapsing as bones pierced them, and he should feel the wrath and vengeance of the Firemental upon his crushed form. But his flesh was not peeling back from his bones as the enraged beast seized his face just as the boom of those massive cannons Ended the World.
His eyes opened, where they should not have. His trembling became shakes and he- finally of his own volition, by his choice- let his fingers loosen their grip on his hair. His eyes wrenched shut and his face twisted up, that sharp, short series of breathes racing in and out of his nose in quick succession. Thunder clapped.
He screamed and threw himself, trembling mess and all, up from the ground and tried to flee from what had to be the Ehloen preparing their cou-
He fell forward, and in complete disbelief crashed to the ground, gasping for breath as his body screamed its protests at his movements. He felt… wrong… as if…
As though I’ve been fighting a long time.
A single droplet of water patted on the tip of his ear that poked through his messy long hair, partially freed from its binding. The feeling shocked him to a state of semi fight or flight mode… but he was able to force himself back up to his hands and knees and look around. There were no nasty Watermental powered Cutters about, just… sparse trees that a thick mist appeared to have been receding through….
The trees here were different than the ones he had known. They were young and small, not the great beasts that toppled as Earthmentals drove their charges forward in a shattering of earth and stone beneath their roots. His eyes closed tightly against the burn there and his shoulders began to shake.
He mewled softly on the ground as for the first time in so long, his movements were his own. Storm clouds continued to roll overhead, their payloads still held upon greedily with naught but a few droplets to pepper the dirt and war touched form on the ground.
****
The clouds had grown thicker overhead as he clumsily made his way along. He was tired and barely coherent, and more often than not resorted to taking long breaks, always in places that he could conceal himself. His stomach had been churning for nearly an hour or so.
He had no information, no recon reports- only sporadically filled though they might be- to consult. No half enchanted maps to make his own markings. He simply took to walking in the direction the clouds were headed.
Eventually, he saw a number of roads… but what caught his attention was the stable. Filled with horses…
They’re still here…
He watched an Ehloen disappear into his home, away from the stock within the stable. His stomach clenched painfully, limbs weak and motions unsteady. But his eyes were back upon the horses. His mouth salivated.
With all the careful precision he could muster, the Loen managed to begin a slow crawl towards the stable area, and though he was still a ways out… He was hungry and the horse flesh was calling to him. His eyes burned as he stared at them, and he could focus on nothing else, not even the rain as it came down upon him. He dragged his tattered form as close as he could to the stables. The horses whispered nervously as the raining breeze swept his smokey, bloody scent towards their dwelling.
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Alverein De Nelethas
Established
Roleplay posts: 47
Age: 687
Physical Description: Having lived through more than his fair share of trials in his life, Alverein appears slightly more weathered than the average elf of his age, appearing more towards his Middle Ages then he might otherwise. His hair is a mix of black and grey, the salt and pepper effect having barely come into contact with his beard. The very top of his left ear is missing and a cross-like scare marks his left eye, though thankfully he didn’t lose the eye itself.
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Clothes and Equipment: His usual outfit is a white shirt tucked into dark pants with his usual boots which are grey with elven glyphs worked into it in silver.
His weapons are storied blades in their own right, having existed long before he was even an idea, and probably continuing to do so long after he is naught but dust and half forgotten legend.
The Eclipse Blade, Teuvel Tel Fadien Teuivae: with a handle of dark iron bound in leather, and a scabbard of the same, until drawn Teuivae can seem like an ordinary sword of no great importance. Once drawn however it's magical nature is quite evident. The blade changes with the phase of the moon, variably seemingly made of a metal the color of moonlight and the night sky. The materials change the percentage of the weapon constructed as the moon waxes and wanes, becoming made of more moon-steel while waxing until being fully so on the nights of the full moon, and the shadowy stuff of night while waning until being fully so during a new moon.
The blade of Neverwinter has a cross guard shaped like the Sigil of the city who shares its name, both taking their name from the man who lead to the creation of both, an egg sized ruby being set into the iris on both sides.
The Neverwinter Shortsword: On his opposite hip rises the paired number of the blade, a shortsword created years after as much as a ceremonial twin as one for the battlefield. It shares a common look with its elder, though is not as distinct.
In his other hand more often than not however his black staff stands, a simple construction of wood so dark it almost seems to absorb light when it is not cracking with violet Eldritch energy.
His armor is an archaic custom creation of his, based off of several designs and made to provide equal parts defense and maneuverability for a magic user and crafted from mithral and materials harvested from a black dragon.
His cloak is of fine make, and lined with dark grey winter wolf fur. The natural abilities of the beast it's made from protects him from temperatures well below freezing.
At his back is his bag of holding, though you’d never be able to pick it out as magical from a dozen average satchels. Beaten and travel-worn, it’s been there more often than not, and he owes most of what little he has left to it’s magical depths.
The Key of Khrazan is what he owes for the rest of what he still has, when inserted into a door's lock and turned it opens a gate between that door and a pocket of space like a bag of holding that's 30ft wide x 120ft long x 30ft high. Inside is furnished with wood walls and a stone floor. Once the door is closed it will open back up to normal place it would access until the room is opened up from inside. If the door has been shut the only way to contact it from the outside world is by placing the key's matched doorknocker against the door and knocking with it.
He has several rings and a few other trinkets on him at all times, mementos from his former life.
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Registered: Dec 1, 2018 1:08:20 GMT -8
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Post by Alverein De Nelethas on Jan 6, 2019 5:16:54 GMT -8
Alverein had retired for the night by the fireplace with a bottle of brandy and a head full of memories. He swirled the drink in his glass contemplatively as he absentmindedly rubbed the ancient mark of the elk inscribed on horn with his thumb in the other hand.
Was the clan even alive after all this time? Were the families of anyone he’d known? Bah. It wasn’t like he’d been cloistered for millenia. Sharwen has taken to the road with her love. Linu was probably adventuring still, elves didn’t just keel over after a couple centuries, he was disgruntled proof of that. Tomi had been all but a master thief by the end of their travels. Had he ended at the wrong end of the gallows? Daelan had probably died in battle like he’d always wanted. Boddyknock had probably died when Neverwinter did, trying to save who he could. Grimgnaw has always craved the end, the mad monk, probably found it too.
He thought back to that bleak day, as first his woods and home had burned, then the city. He hadn’t been a monster. Not then. These days... but during the fire he had used magic to clear debris, open avenues of escape, free the trapped. Always working his way towards the citadel.
It had been the hardest hit by the earthquakes and fire. He saved some of the guards and worked his way to the heart of the keep. And he had found who he had been looking for.
Nasher had looked so sad and pitiful, an old man pinned beneath burning timbers. He had looked up and when he saw who had found him he had the audacity to ask for help, begged for mercy. Alverein has given him the only mercy he had offered his beloved: a swift death. Then he had taken the crown from his head, the ring from his finger, the sword from his belt, and the chest he had always hidden behind the throne, and finally the throne itself which he now lounged in.
After that he had walked from the castle and never looked back, the kingdom crumbling in the wake of the calamity, the city nothing but ruins.
He took a drink from the glass and coaxed the dying flames in the fireplace back to life with a muttered work and an effort of will. He set the glass and pendant aside and stood, stretching, as he walked to the window to take a look over the fields as the rain began to fall just late enough for him to see the ragged figure begin to drag its way across the field towards the barn.
He spat a curse and darted for the stairs. Grabbing his sword from the table as he passed he cleared the stairs in a flash, sprinting through the dark halls and out the front entrance, snagging the lantern that hung by the door. He jumped over the porch stairs and hit the ground running, lighting the lantern with a muttered word.
He placed the hand holding the sheathed sword on the fence and vaulted it smoothly barely breaking stride as he headed towards the prone figure.
“Who the Hell are you?” He called out as he neared, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice.
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Davmyn Uvirith
Established
Roleplay posts: 11
Age: 47
Physical Description: Davmyn's face carries the sharp angles of his race, and his brow is as heavy as any other of his often brooding people. His hair is as red as blood, and the top of his hair is gathered back into a pony tail that flows into the rest of his hanging hair. The hairstyle is meant to keep the shoulder length rough strands from straying into his face, but it often mocks such efforts and still frames he face.
He has a set of tattoos running down from the corners of his eyes across his cheeks and ending at his jawline. He has angular, sharp red eyes squinted softly that give his eyes the appearance of red slashes. His skin is a stormy bluish-grey. Around his left eye is a paler shade of grey and scarred from a burn surrounding it. On his chin rests a small patch of hair, the same color as what rests upon his head.
Davmyn is of a strong build though he does not appear overly bulky with muscle and is best likened to a cat. His hands even still possess the natural elven slenderness despite the special weapons training he engages in quite often.
Both of his hands though, possess the tell-tale swordsman's grip: a callous that moves from the grip of the first finger around the thumb. One would be hard pressed to find this callous, however, as his hands are covered in burn scars. His body has seen thirty years of war, and it bares all of the marks that those that survive carry.
He also possesses the thick wrists and broad shoulders of a swordsman and one has often and comfortably thrown a javelin.
He is tall for a Dahloen, standing at 5'11" and weighing at 168lbs.
Clothes and Equipment: Dark leather armor that fits snugly around his frame, but with flaring pauldrons of leather overlain with hardened resin, and a muffler scarf that has a hood attached to it around the cuirass, as well as a cloth that can be pulled up to cover his face from his nose down. The material on this mask is thick and possessed of two small round objects on each side. Tooled into the leather on one shoulder are two letters in the Ancient Dahloen language followed by a series of stylized lines and slashes, and if one pays close attention they will note it appears to be six characters, giving a total of eight upon the pauldron. Lain overtop of this armor is what appears to be a worn and tattered tabard, but is actually the remains of an intricate robe whose original color can only be guessed at, though now it is a ruddy rust color. The garment reeks of old blood, smoke and ash. Wrapped around this are a series of bandoliers and pouches.
His leather armor is ensorcelled to help regulate his flow of magical powers and enhance his ability to tap into it, as well as to allow him control of the forces he commands to a greater clarity. His boots likewise have been enchanted increase his dexterity and his sure footedness. Hiso gauntlets and boots are leather covered in segmented and once finely made vambraces that have been worked with care and give sharp ridges. Each is set with a single cat's eye agate. From each of these can emerge a shimmering shield of light to protect one from both physical and sorcerous attacks, though they can only absorb so much punishment before needing to be dispelled.
Special Items:
In a brace at his lower back, along one of the belts on his waist are a set of syringes that each contain a different concoction.
Each of the pouches that he wears are small bags of holding- they contain more than what they appear to be able to, but these are not infinite spaces.
Contained in one of these pouches is an old, worn journal hidden beneath a hidden compartment of a potions box.
On his right hand, beneath his leather gauntlets is a simple band of metal around his finger, and around his neck a leather collar riveted with metal studs. There does not appear to be a buckle on the collar and the ring is tight.
On one hip hangs a dagger of golden coloring, of a simple and efficient killing design with the blade- double edged and coming to a fine calculated point though the guard is of a more curled and yet still simple design , and on his back is a shortsword of similar origins and design. The sword, when drawn can lengthen to no more than that of an arming sword, along with the hilt though it cannot shorten.
Allegiances: Himself
Registered: Dec 27, 2018 12:09:11 GMT -8
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Post by Davmyn Uvirith on Jan 7, 2019 8:10:58 GMT -8
His stomach continued its twisting as he pulled himself along the ground, fingers fisting in the quickly dampening ground. He was thankful for the leather armor beneath the tattered remains of his robe, as the armor and bodysuit beneath kept the worst of the wetness from cutting through to his skin, but his red tousled hair was plastering itself to his scalp. His brows knit as he pushed himself up, staring with hungry red eyes at the barn.
He remembered the first time he had tasted the delight that was horseflesh- the rich, thick flavor and the texture of the meat as his teeth tore into it upon that field that he and his War-Brothers claimed the field of victory and conquest when he was in his second year of the war. Before he had realized that the war was never going to end, before he had been stripped of everything.
Now though, this wasn’t a matter of taking the rights of their conquest. There was a feast before him, one that would not only save his life but be his deserved Right. He had survived, and now he would claim what was his.
His stomach growled once more before the voice reached his pointed ears.
”Who the Hell are you?!”
His reaction was immediate, though not as coordinated as it should have been; his hands and feet threw himself up from the ground, but rather than landing perfectly on the ball of his left foot and the flat of his right ahead, his balance failed him. Landing on one knee instead, the Dahloen snapped both of his hands out; coils of flaming, intersected and bladed rock erupted to life in his hands, hissing and spitting as the rain droplets fell upon the whip-like weapons.
The drain on him was immediate though, and the magic wreaked havoc on his system. The flaming whip-blades sputter and sparked before the magics fueling them overloaded and died in a shower of embers that left the wet earth smoking. Davmyn only just barely caught himself with one hand as he fell forward, the other drawing the dagger from his belt with shaking and steaming fingers from his belt as he panted.
“You… will not… have me…” He hissed through gasps, fury burning in his eyes as they flared a brighter shade of red. It was no longer just rain that coated him now, as the havoc wrought by his failed casting played nightmare upon his nervous system, pain registering up and down his arms.
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Alverein De Nelethas
Established
Roleplay posts: 47
Age: 687
Physical Description: Having lived through more than his fair share of trials in his life, Alverein appears slightly more weathered than the average elf of his age, appearing more towards his Middle Ages then he might otherwise. His hair is a mix of black and grey, the salt and pepper effect having barely come into contact with his beard. The very top of his left ear is missing and a cross-like scare marks his left eye, though thankfully he didn’t lose the eye itself.
------
Clothes and Equipment: His usual outfit is a white shirt tucked into dark pants with his usual boots which are grey with elven glyphs worked into it in silver.
His weapons are storied blades in their own right, having existed long before he was even an idea, and probably continuing to do so long after he is naught but dust and half forgotten legend.
The Eclipse Blade, Teuvel Tel Fadien Teuivae: with a handle of dark iron bound in leather, and a scabbard of the same, until drawn Teuivae can seem like an ordinary sword of no great importance. Once drawn however it's magical nature is quite evident. The blade changes with the phase of the moon, variably seemingly made of a metal the color of moonlight and the night sky. The materials change the percentage of the weapon constructed as the moon waxes and wanes, becoming made of more moon-steel while waxing until being fully so on the nights of the full moon, and the shadowy stuff of night while waning until being fully so during a new moon.
The blade of Neverwinter has a cross guard shaped like the Sigil of the city who shares its name, both taking their name from the man who lead to the creation of both, an egg sized ruby being set into the iris on both sides.
The Neverwinter Shortsword: On his opposite hip rises the paired number of the blade, a shortsword created years after as much as a ceremonial twin as one for the battlefield. It shares a common look with its elder, though is not as distinct.
In his other hand more often than not however his black staff stands, a simple construction of wood so dark it almost seems to absorb light when it is not cracking with violet Eldritch energy.
His armor is an archaic custom creation of his, based off of several designs and made to provide equal parts defense and maneuverability for a magic user and crafted from mithral and materials harvested from a black dragon.
His cloak is of fine make, and lined with dark grey winter wolf fur. The natural abilities of the beast it's made from protects him from temperatures well below freezing.
At his back is his bag of holding, though you’d never be able to pick it out as magical from a dozen average satchels. Beaten and travel-worn, it’s been there more often than not, and he owes most of what little he has left to it’s magical depths.
The Key of Khrazan is what he owes for the rest of what he still has, when inserted into a door's lock and turned it opens a gate between that door and a pocket of space like a bag of holding that's 30ft wide x 120ft long x 30ft high. Inside is furnished with wood walls and a stone floor. Once the door is closed it will open back up to normal place it would access until the room is opened up from inside. If the door has been shut the only way to contact it from the outside world is by placing the key's matched doorknocker against the door and knocking with it.
He has several rings and a few other trinkets on him at all times, mementos from his former life.
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Registered: Dec 1, 2018 1:08:20 GMT -8
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Post by Alverein De Nelethas on Jan 8, 2019 9:18:04 GMT -8
As Davmyn slumped Alverein hesitated. He’d seen the raiders in the area. Hell, he’d fought enough of them off. This wasn’t a raider from on of the wild “clans”. This was a soldier, fresh from battle. He’d seen it enough when he’d fought for his own nation.
He let his sword lower, sliding it into a loop on his belt as he held the lantern higher and muttered a word. The bright light dimmed and took on a warm golden appearance as he held his hands in a non threatening way.
“It’s all right, son. No ones trying to hurt you here.” He said calmly as he held the lantern a bit higher. As the light brushed over Davmyn some of the aches and pains from his injuries seemed to dull, the bite being taken out of the more serious ones. Alverein was grateful he’d gotten ahold of the medics lantern. It’s light stabilized patients and healed lesser injuries. It wasn’t uncommon to see groups of men and women huddled around them on cold nights after the fighting was done.
He winced at the battered look of the younger man and tried to loosen his stance.
“You’re safe here, just tell me what’s happened.”
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Davmyn Uvirith
Established
Roleplay posts: 11
Age: 47
Physical Description: Davmyn's face carries the sharp angles of his race, and his brow is as heavy as any other of his often brooding people. His hair is as red as blood, and the top of his hair is gathered back into a pony tail that flows into the rest of his hanging hair. The hairstyle is meant to keep the shoulder length rough strands from straying into his face, but it often mocks such efforts and still frames he face.
He has a set of tattoos running down from the corners of his eyes across his cheeks and ending at his jawline. He has angular, sharp red eyes squinted softly that give his eyes the appearance of red slashes. His skin is a stormy bluish-grey. Around his left eye is a paler shade of grey and scarred from a burn surrounding it. On his chin rests a small patch of hair, the same color as what rests upon his head.
Davmyn is of a strong build though he does not appear overly bulky with muscle and is best likened to a cat. His hands even still possess the natural elven slenderness despite the special weapons training he engages in quite often.
Both of his hands though, possess the tell-tale swordsman's grip: a callous that moves from the grip of the first finger around the thumb. One would be hard pressed to find this callous, however, as his hands are covered in burn scars. His body has seen thirty years of war, and it bares all of the marks that those that survive carry.
He also possesses the thick wrists and broad shoulders of a swordsman and one has often and comfortably thrown a javelin.
He is tall for a Dahloen, standing at 5'11" and weighing at 168lbs.
Clothes and Equipment: Dark leather armor that fits snugly around his frame, but with flaring pauldrons of leather overlain with hardened resin, and a muffler scarf that has a hood attached to it around the cuirass, as well as a cloth that can be pulled up to cover his face from his nose down. The material on this mask is thick and possessed of two small round objects on each side. Tooled into the leather on one shoulder are two letters in the Ancient Dahloen language followed by a series of stylized lines and slashes, and if one pays close attention they will note it appears to be six characters, giving a total of eight upon the pauldron. Lain overtop of this armor is what appears to be a worn and tattered tabard, but is actually the remains of an intricate robe whose original color can only be guessed at, though now it is a ruddy rust color. The garment reeks of old blood, smoke and ash. Wrapped around this are a series of bandoliers and pouches.
His leather armor is ensorcelled to help regulate his flow of magical powers and enhance his ability to tap into it, as well as to allow him control of the forces he commands to a greater clarity. His boots likewise have been enchanted increase his dexterity and his sure footedness. Hiso gauntlets and boots are leather covered in segmented and once finely made vambraces that have been worked with care and give sharp ridges. Each is set with a single cat's eye agate. From each of these can emerge a shimmering shield of light to protect one from both physical and sorcerous attacks, though they can only absorb so much punishment before needing to be dispelled.
Special Items:
In a brace at his lower back, along one of the belts on his waist are a set of syringes that each contain a different concoction.
Each of the pouches that he wears are small bags of holding- they contain more than what they appear to be able to, but these are not infinite spaces.
Contained in one of these pouches is an old, worn journal hidden beneath a hidden compartment of a potions box.
On his right hand, beneath his leather gauntlets is a simple band of metal around his finger, and around his neck a leather collar riveted with metal studs. There does not appear to be a buckle on the collar and the ring is tight.
On one hip hangs a dagger of golden coloring, of a simple and efficient killing design with the blade- double edged and coming to a fine calculated point though the guard is of a more curled and yet still simple design , and on his back is a shortsword of similar origins and design. The sword, when drawn can lengthen to no more than that of an arming sword, along with the hilt though it cannot shorten.
Allegiances: Himself
Registered: Dec 27, 2018 12:09:11 GMT -8
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Post by Davmyn Uvirith on Jan 9, 2019 8:52:51 GMT -8
He saw that momentary hesitancy in the Ehloen, and if his muscles weren’t burning, he would have pounced. But everything hurt, and he was in no position for an attack as much as he wanted to destroy the threat… He would have to wait for the Elf to come to him, and do whatever he needed to to survive, as he always did. The thought of failure never once crossed his mind.
But then his light-skinned counterpart… looked at him with a strange face. He had no words to describe the expression, but his fingers were finding their strength on his dagger again. He just needed to come forward and then he could-
”“It’s all right, son. No ones trying to hurt you here.”
Those words froze him, and while the wildfire in his eyes did not die, the red flames smoldered somewhat. He tilted his head slightly, one brow twitching upwards. Everyone was always trying to hurt someone. It was the way of the world; and then the Lantern was raised, the words spoken, and its light washed over him. He could not help the noise that escaped his throat, and fought against the fluttering of his eyelids as his muscles all simultaneously began to relax at once. The numerous bruises, the shallow cuts, the pulled tendons, and the way the exhaustion was pulled from him. He was ashamed of the groan that bubbled up from his throat, but he refused to sink to the ground. He refused to be weak before this Ehloen.
He did not however, stop himself from inching his way further into the light. It felt like his father’s hands on him when he was in nothing but small pants- those scant memories that seemed so far away, before the Priest had been pulled to the frontlines and his mother had receded into herself, before she had attempted to steal them both away.
”“You’re safe here, just tell me what’s happened.”
His brows furrowed, eyes immediately losing their fluttering and he was able to maneuver himself to a more crouched position. His lips tugged into a deep frown as he considered the person before him. He was… safe…
A scowl passed his face, shaking his head, fingers tightening around the hilt of his dagger. No matter what the Ehloen tried to convey with putting his weapon away, or by even servicing his injuries. He had seen the aftermath of interrogations upon Dahloen prisoners… He had carried out interrogations on his counterpart’s kind as well. He knew what their races did to each other.
But for now he had the mystery of this word to parce; he could not show ignorance, complacency, nor weakness now. But what was that word?!
His face gave a miniscule twitch around his eyes and he forced himself to straighten up from his crouch, looking the Ehloen over while keeping track of his body by continually shifting a muscle here, a bare movement of an appendage there. Monitoring how long it would be before he could make his move…
“Your service,” he said slowly and carefully, “Is… acceptable. I require one of your livestock. I cannot pay, but I will not allow myself to starve.”
As he said the word livestock, his head tilted slightly towards the direction of the stables, and as he finished, his stomach growled mightily as if to prove the truth of his words. He considered what happened and wondered what he should say. The truth crossed his mind, but instead he asked a question of his own, “How is there life here? The world was gone.”
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Alverein De Nelethas
Established
Roleplay posts: 47
Age: 687
Physical Description: Having lived through more than his fair share of trials in his life, Alverein appears slightly more weathered than the average elf of his age, appearing more towards his Middle Ages then he might otherwise. His hair is a mix of black and grey, the salt and pepper effect having barely come into contact with his beard. The very top of his left ear is missing and a cross-like scare marks his left eye, though thankfully he didn’t lose the eye itself.
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Clothes and Equipment: His usual outfit is a white shirt tucked into dark pants with his usual boots which are grey with elven glyphs worked into it in silver.
His weapons are storied blades in their own right, having existed long before he was even an idea, and probably continuing to do so long after he is naught but dust and half forgotten legend.
The Eclipse Blade, Teuvel Tel Fadien Teuivae: with a handle of dark iron bound in leather, and a scabbard of the same, until drawn Teuivae can seem like an ordinary sword of no great importance. Once drawn however it's magical nature is quite evident. The blade changes with the phase of the moon, variably seemingly made of a metal the color of moonlight and the night sky. The materials change the percentage of the weapon constructed as the moon waxes and wanes, becoming made of more moon-steel while waxing until being fully so on the nights of the full moon, and the shadowy stuff of night while waning until being fully so during a new moon.
The blade of Neverwinter has a cross guard shaped like the Sigil of the city who shares its name, both taking their name from the man who lead to the creation of both, an egg sized ruby being set into the iris on both sides.
The Neverwinter Shortsword: On his opposite hip rises the paired number of the blade, a shortsword created years after as much as a ceremonial twin as one for the battlefield. It shares a common look with its elder, though is not as distinct.
In his other hand more often than not however his black staff stands, a simple construction of wood so dark it almost seems to absorb light when it is not cracking with violet Eldritch energy.
His armor is an archaic custom creation of his, based off of several designs and made to provide equal parts defense and maneuverability for a magic user and crafted from mithral and materials harvested from a black dragon.
His cloak is of fine make, and lined with dark grey winter wolf fur. The natural abilities of the beast it's made from protects him from temperatures well below freezing.
At his back is his bag of holding, though you’d never be able to pick it out as magical from a dozen average satchels. Beaten and travel-worn, it’s been there more often than not, and he owes most of what little he has left to it’s magical depths.
The Key of Khrazan is what he owes for the rest of what he still has, when inserted into a door's lock and turned it opens a gate between that door and a pocket of space like a bag of holding that's 30ft wide x 120ft long x 30ft high. Inside is furnished with wood walls and a stone floor. Once the door is closed it will open back up to normal place it would access until the room is opened up from inside. If the door has been shut the only way to contact it from the outside world is by placing the key's matched doorknocker against the door and knocking with it.
He has several rings and a few other trinkets on him at all times, mementos from his former life.
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Registered: Dec 1, 2018 1:08:20 GMT -8
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Post by Alverein De Nelethas on Jan 22, 2019 19:13:27 GMT -8
Alverein looked somewhat confused as Davmyn spoke, it being pretty obvious what he had in mind.
“I think you might be a bit confused. This isn’t a cattle farm, and these horses aren’t the to be eaten sort.” He hadn’t done any battlefield negotiations in a while and he had a feeling those were the skills he needed now. “I’m not sure what happened but I don’t think you’re from here. The last war in this area was years ago and your kind weren’t involved.” He said as he took a step backwards slowly. “So just tell me what you remember and I’ll see if I can fill any gaps in. Afterwards you can come inside and I’ll get some food made up. Or you can prepare it yourself if you’d prefer.” All the whole he talked as if to an injured animal, calmly and softly, trying to not have the injured man try and attack him.
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Davmyn Uvirith
Established
Roleplay posts: 11
Age: 47
Physical Description: Davmyn's face carries the sharp angles of his race, and his brow is as heavy as any other of his often brooding people. His hair is as red as blood, and the top of his hair is gathered back into a pony tail that flows into the rest of his hanging hair. The hairstyle is meant to keep the shoulder length rough strands from straying into his face, but it often mocks such efforts and still frames he face.
He has a set of tattoos running down from the corners of his eyes across his cheeks and ending at his jawline. He has angular, sharp red eyes squinted softly that give his eyes the appearance of red slashes. His skin is a stormy bluish-grey. Around his left eye is a paler shade of grey and scarred from a burn surrounding it. On his chin rests a small patch of hair, the same color as what rests upon his head.
Davmyn is of a strong build though he does not appear overly bulky with muscle and is best likened to a cat. His hands even still possess the natural elven slenderness despite the special weapons training he engages in quite often.
Both of his hands though, possess the tell-tale swordsman's grip: a callous that moves from the grip of the first finger around the thumb. One would be hard pressed to find this callous, however, as his hands are covered in burn scars. His body has seen thirty years of war, and it bares all of the marks that those that survive carry.
He also possesses the thick wrists and broad shoulders of a swordsman and one has often and comfortably thrown a javelin.
He is tall for a Dahloen, standing at 5'11" and weighing at 168lbs.
Clothes and Equipment: Dark leather armor that fits snugly around his frame, but with flaring pauldrons of leather overlain with hardened resin, and a muffler scarf that has a hood attached to it around the cuirass, as well as a cloth that can be pulled up to cover his face from his nose down. The material on this mask is thick and possessed of two small round objects on each side. Tooled into the leather on one shoulder are two letters in the Ancient Dahloen language followed by a series of stylized lines and slashes, and if one pays close attention they will note it appears to be six characters, giving a total of eight upon the pauldron. Lain overtop of this armor is what appears to be a worn and tattered tabard, but is actually the remains of an intricate robe whose original color can only be guessed at, though now it is a ruddy rust color. The garment reeks of old blood, smoke and ash. Wrapped around this are a series of bandoliers and pouches.
His leather armor is ensorcelled to help regulate his flow of magical powers and enhance his ability to tap into it, as well as to allow him control of the forces he commands to a greater clarity. His boots likewise have been enchanted increase his dexterity and his sure footedness. Hiso gauntlets and boots are leather covered in segmented and once finely made vambraces that have been worked with care and give sharp ridges. Each is set with a single cat's eye agate. From each of these can emerge a shimmering shield of light to protect one from both physical and sorcerous attacks, though they can only absorb so much punishment before needing to be dispelled.
Special Items:
In a brace at his lower back, along one of the belts on his waist are a set of syringes that each contain a different concoction.
Each of the pouches that he wears are small bags of holding- they contain more than what they appear to be able to, but these are not infinite spaces.
Contained in one of these pouches is an old, worn journal hidden beneath a hidden compartment of a potions box.
On his right hand, beneath his leather gauntlets is a simple band of metal around his finger, and around his neck a leather collar riveted with metal studs. There does not appear to be a buckle on the collar and the ring is tight.
On one hip hangs a dagger of golden coloring, of a simple and efficient killing design with the blade- double edged and coming to a fine calculated point though the guard is of a more curled and yet still simple design , and on his back is a shortsword of similar origins and design. The sword, when drawn can lengthen to no more than that of an arming sword, along with the hilt though it cannot shorten.
Allegiances: Himself
Registered: Dec 27, 2018 12:09:11 GMT -8
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Post by Davmyn Uvirith on Mar 4, 2019 21:06:40 GMT -8
The Dahloen tilted his head slightly, lips twitching downwards as he considered the elf in front of him. He was displaying passivity, a weakness. The Dahloen could accept that, and so relaxed his grip on his dagger- but did not remove his hand. With his other hand, he pushed himself up to stand; the effort it took was more than he cared to admit, nor would he allow himself to show.
With a roll of his shoulders once he was on his feet, he glanced to the succulent home of the horse-flesh, before nodding softly.
“I will accept your offer of food and shelter,” he said slowly, and very consideringly. “If you allow me the use of your ingredients and pantry I will prepare it myself.”
His stomach churned softly, and his purple tongue darted across his lips as the thought of food did please him. His eyes turned back to the elf and he tilted his head slightly, “I was considering what happened myself. It… is a difficult thing to process. I am still trying to understand it myself.”
He straightened his head and nodded towards the elf.
“At your lead, I will follow,” he said carefully. “But I am watching you.”
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Alverein De Nelethas
Established
Roleplay posts: 47
Age: 687
Physical Description: Having lived through more than his fair share of trials in his life, Alverein appears slightly more weathered than the average elf of his age, appearing more towards his Middle Ages then he might otherwise. His hair is a mix of black and grey, the salt and pepper effect having barely come into contact with his beard. The very top of his left ear is missing and a cross-like scare marks his left eye, though thankfully he didn’t lose the eye itself.
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Clothes and Equipment: His usual outfit is a white shirt tucked into dark pants with his usual boots which are grey with elven glyphs worked into it in silver.
His weapons are storied blades in their own right, having existed long before he was even an idea, and probably continuing to do so long after he is naught but dust and half forgotten legend.
The Eclipse Blade, Teuvel Tel Fadien Teuivae: with a handle of dark iron bound in leather, and a scabbard of the same, until drawn Teuivae can seem like an ordinary sword of no great importance. Once drawn however it's magical nature is quite evident. The blade changes with the phase of the moon, variably seemingly made of a metal the color of moonlight and the night sky. The materials change the percentage of the weapon constructed as the moon waxes and wanes, becoming made of more moon-steel while waxing until being fully so on the nights of the full moon, and the shadowy stuff of night while waning until being fully so during a new moon.
The blade of Neverwinter has a cross guard shaped like the Sigil of the city who shares its name, both taking their name from the man who lead to the creation of both, an egg sized ruby being set into the iris on both sides.
The Neverwinter Shortsword: On his opposite hip rises the paired number of the blade, a shortsword created years after as much as a ceremonial twin as one for the battlefield. It shares a common look with its elder, though is not as distinct.
In his other hand more often than not however his black staff stands, a simple construction of wood so dark it almost seems to absorb light when it is not cracking with violet Eldritch energy.
His armor is an archaic custom creation of his, based off of several designs and made to provide equal parts defense and maneuverability for a magic user and crafted from mithral and materials harvested from a black dragon.
His cloak is of fine make, and lined with dark grey winter wolf fur. The natural abilities of the beast it's made from protects him from temperatures well below freezing.
At his back is his bag of holding, though you’d never be able to pick it out as magical from a dozen average satchels. Beaten and travel-worn, it’s been there more often than not, and he owes most of what little he has left to it’s magical depths.
The Key of Khrazan is what he owes for the rest of what he still has, when inserted into a door's lock and turned it opens a gate between that door and a pocket of space like a bag of holding that's 30ft wide x 120ft long x 30ft high. Inside is furnished with wood walls and a stone floor. Once the door is closed it will open back up to normal place it would access until the room is opened up from inside. If the door has been shut the only way to contact it from the outside world is by placing the key's matched doorknocker against the door and knocking with it.
He has several rings and a few other trinkets on him at all times, mementos from his former life.
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Registered: Dec 1, 2018 1:08:20 GMT -8
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Post by Alverein De Nelethas on Mar 9, 2019 14:22:30 GMT -8
Readying himself for an attack he deliberately turned his back and began walking. He hoped but he let magic cloak him with a defensive barrier that would at least give him a moment to roll away from an attack. He lead Davmyn into his home and showed him the kitchen and the door to the magically chilled pantry, stepping back and letting him have free reign.
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Davmyn Uvirith
Established
Roleplay posts: 11
Age: 47
Physical Description: Davmyn's face carries the sharp angles of his race, and his brow is as heavy as any other of his often brooding people. His hair is as red as blood, and the top of his hair is gathered back into a pony tail that flows into the rest of his hanging hair. The hairstyle is meant to keep the shoulder length rough strands from straying into his face, but it often mocks such efforts and still frames he face.
He has a set of tattoos running down from the corners of his eyes across his cheeks and ending at his jawline. He has angular, sharp red eyes squinted softly that give his eyes the appearance of red slashes. His skin is a stormy bluish-grey. Around his left eye is a paler shade of grey and scarred from a burn surrounding it. On his chin rests a small patch of hair, the same color as what rests upon his head.
Davmyn is of a strong build though he does not appear overly bulky with muscle and is best likened to a cat. His hands even still possess the natural elven slenderness despite the special weapons training he engages in quite often.
Both of his hands though, possess the tell-tale swordsman's grip: a callous that moves from the grip of the first finger around the thumb. One would be hard pressed to find this callous, however, as his hands are covered in burn scars. His body has seen thirty years of war, and it bares all of the marks that those that survive carry.
He also possesses the thick wrists and broad shoulders of a swordsman and one has often and comfortably thrown a javelin.
He is tall for a Dahloen, standing at 5'11" and weighing at 168lbs.
Clothes and Equipment: Dark leather armor that fits snugly around his frame, but with flaring pauldrons of leather overlain with hardened resin, and a muffler scarf that has a hood attached to it around the cuirass, as well as a cloth that can be pulled up to cover his face from his nose down. The material on this mask is thick and possessed of two small round objects on each side. Tooled into the leather on one shoulder are two letters in the Ancient Dahloen language followed by a series of stylized lines and slashes, and if one pays close attention they will note it appears to be six characters, giving a total of eight upon the pauldron. Lain overtop of this armor is what appears to be a worn and tattered tabard, but is actually the remains of an intricate robe whose original color can only be guessed at, though now it is a ruddy rust color. The garment reeks of old blood, smoke and ash. Wrapped around this are a series of bandoliers and pouches.
His leather armor is ensorcelled to help regulate his flow of magical powers and enhance his ability to tap into it, as well as to allow him control of the forces he commands to a greater clarity. His boots likewise have been enchanted increase his dexterity and his sure footedness. Hiso gauntlets and boots are leather covered in segmented and once finely made vambraces that have been worked with care and give sharp ridges. Each is set with a single cat's eye agate. From each of these can emerge a shimmering shield of light to protect one from both physical and sorcerous attacks, though they can only absorb so much punishment before needing to be dispelled.
Special Items:
In a brace at his lower back, along one of the belts on his waist are a set of syringes that each contain a different concoction.
Each of the pouches that he wears are small bags of holding- they contain more than what they appear to be able to, but these are not infinite spaces.
Contained in one of these pouches is an old, worn journal hidden beneath a hidden compartment of a potions box.
On his right hand, beneath his leather gauntlets is a simple band of metal around his finger, and around his neck a leather collar riveted with metal studs. There does not appear to be a buckle on the collar and the ring is tight.
On one hip hangs a dagger of golden coloring, of a simple and efficient killing design with the blade- double edged and coming to a fine calculated point though the guard is of a more curled and yet still simple design , and on his back is a shortsword of similar origins and design. The sword, when drawn can lengthen to no more than that of an arming sword, along with the hilt though it cannot shorten.
Allegiances: Himself
Registered: Dec 27, 2018 12:09:11 GMT -8
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Post by Davmyn Uvirith on Mar 11, 2019 7:28:10 GMT -8
Davmyn followed the elf into the ranch, keeping alert for any other sentient presences; following a potential enemy into their territory could lead to disastrous results, but his hunger reigned more than his caution. He would use the elf’s resources in order to sustain himself, and then decide where to go from there.
Entering the dwelling, he glanced about and frowned softly; it was not spartan as he was used to from peasantry or peonage, but neither was it opulent. He was unsure of what word would be used to describe it; it instilled within him an ease that he'd not known since his academic studies as a child under his mother's tutelage. The kitchen was more stocked than what he had seen in his days- but war had not seemed to have ravaged this land. Had not set it to bare necessities for the survival of its inhabitants and the supplying of the military forces. His hand carefully drew away from his dagger as the door to the foodstuffs was made accessible.
He watched the elf as he stepped away, and carefully circled his flank to keep him on his left, fighting his weariness all of the way. With the elf kept in his peripheral, Davmyn perused the stocks before selecting the red meat of some slain beast and a few vegetables; they were of a sort he had not known- some green and leafy, others red and plump though not stiff. There was a malleable nature to them, though not squishy. He spent a moment just testing it. Too much pressure would cause it to crush, he knew. It was soft like all of the lands appeared to be around him.
He moved away from the pantry and set the food about the counter, after using the tip of his toe to close the door to the storage room. Now he faced a new challenge; preparing the food with his back to the stranger. His lips twitched downwards lightly as he withdrew his dagger carefully, leaning his hip against the counter while trying to both cut the food into bits and watching the elf.
It was not going well and his face tightened, teeth clenching behind his lips.
“What is the status of these lands? Are there dangerous individuals or creatures should I venture far from your dwelling? There were none that I encountered from… where I came from.”
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