VodkaTrackpant

You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” ((How do you respond?)) "Hmph," the cave dwarf made his way to the cushion he'd been gestured towards, his eyes concentrated upon the hag a distant and annoyed look within his dirt brown eyes, "course you've been expecting me." The cave dwarf's voice had an accent (Similar to a Glaswegian accent) thick as his beard and the calluses that lined his wrinkly flesh. His voice was deep and rough, rocky like his homeland. The dwarf stank of pipe tobacco, ale, dirt, sweat, and musk. "My name is Bokordromli Bonefeet, and I am a cave dwarf. Though I'm sure you'll be knowin' that," Bokordromli scratched his dark ginger beard which was large and bulky as his muscles, "I've come out from me home in search of work. You see I am a dwarf of many crafts from smithing, mining, and building. Matter of fact, by the looks of the poor condition of this airy humid hell-hole you call a town you could use the craftsmanship of one such as I, if you've the coin." Bokordromli's voice was hard and sturdy as stone his dwarven pride showing via his distant gaze and each with each word that left his mouth.

You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy swamp?" She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story." ((How do you respond?)) The old wizard gave the hag a look, and within his saphire eyes, should she be so perceptive as to notice, there'd been a look of curiousity beneath the glaze of neutrality. "Expecting me?" The old wizard inquired in a voice aged as his wrinkly face as he leaned against his staff so that it may help him stand, "I do not recall sending word of my arrival to any of this region." The old wizard began to twist some stray hairs upon his long white beard as he awaited a response. "You did not. However, wizard, you of all should know I've eyes and ears amongst the buzzing swamps," The old hag cackled. Her lips churned into a smile revealing yellow teeth rotted as the wooden shacks and cabins the old wizard passed before entering the tent. Within her voice had been a hint of hostility, and with breath that smelled just as unwelcoming to one's senses. "Hm," the old wizard would move forwards towards the cushion he had been previously gestured towards, with each of his steps came the tap of his wooden staff against the wood-board floor. He took himself a seat having to rely on his staff to help push himself back into a comfortable position upon the cushion, "You had asked for my story, yes?" "Yes, and generous am I to even allow you such opportunity." The hag responded sharply, "When the mosquitos first buzzed of a wizard within my swamps I could hardly believe it. At first thought I'd wanted nothing more than to quickly dispose of you as I have many others. However, I wondered just what kind of wizard was foolish to enter my swamps even after my announced disliking for visitors?" The old wizard nodded, stroking his beard, "I am Xoldor, Xoldor Aleister of nowhere. I have come to you, hag, for scholarly matters. You see I have keen interest in the arcanic world and its secrets. And you, hag, as I understand, have found within your posession something that may prove a window into the world of the arcanic arts." "Window into the arcane? I have no such thing that could possibly-" the hag's voice froze as a thought seemed to come to her, "That is unless, possibly, you're here for it." The hag would lean forwards her glassy and almost lifeless pale eyes narrowing down upon Xoldor's visage, "If it is as you say it is then why should I allow you to even peer into it? Give me good reason I should not simply kill you here and now; at least that way I gain two things: a window into the arcane, and ingredients for my concotions." "Do not be so hasty, hag," Xoldor would pull a smoking pipe from his robe, placing into it some leaf before lighting it with a flame upon his finger tip taking a puff before he would further speak, "I doubt you'd manage to so much as get it to glow. I, on the other hand, contain within my mind knowledge that could yet open this window I speak of, if given the chance. So why don't we make a deal?" "A deal?" The old hag would cackle, leaning back her gaze retreating as she seemed to think for a moment, "Very well! How about this?! I will allow you to perform whatever you must to appraise it and if possible open a window at which point you too would share with me the view. However, should you fail to do so, you will return it to me and forfeit your mind to me so that I may pluck from it whatever I wish." The hag spoke with a crooked smile as she rubbed her hands together excitement in her voice. "I can agree to such terms, if I may add one more thing," Xoldor took a puff from his pipe, "You cannot act in anyway to interfere or sabotage my studies; not you or anything else purposely. If such an agreement is broken then you will be forced to let me go with it in my possession." "Hm," The hag gave Xoldor's proposal thought for a moment, frowning as she responded, "Very well, I can agree to these terms. Shall we write up a contract?" "Yes, a contract shall do finely," Xoldor nodded with a smile, taking a final puff from his pipe before ashing it out and slipping it back away within its place inside his robe.

The character Ulric Sullyvan began their tale at a long lost kingdom North of the Nordic people. This kingdom long forgotten was named Arkalas. Within this city it would use its orphans and train them to be soldiers, and also take children from family's in debt to also be trained as soldiers just as the orphans. Which of these Ulric was he would never be able to know, however one thing they would soon know well would be combat. The king of this forgotten place despised all things magic, announcing a war against all those who practice it. The kingdom would use its soldiers to break into homes and "liberate" mages or accused ones at least as the king had deemed it. The city was plaguaed by a civil war during this time as revolution against the king's ways soon ignited. Thus many battles were fought within the streets of Arkalas where the orphans and children taken by debt would be sent to fight on the front lines within after proper training of course. There it was where Ulric grew up, and even today they can sleep feel the bits of flesh between their finger nails, the blood running down their face, and the sound of ravens and crows as they looked perched about looking forwards to their next meal. Ulric quickly became desensitized to it all as they fought for one thing and nothing more, survival. After managing to survive many fights on the front lines a general within the king's army soon noticed their efforts and took Ulric in as a warrior. Ulric never quite got along with many of his fellow soldiers outside of combat, but within it he was a very dependable ally and formidable opponent using their Highlander genetics to force their way through many fights. Eventually the king noticed how well the boy fought and soon knighted him as a knight of Arkalas. It was then they bared their first crest upon their pauldrons and the last time for now. As the war continued the people soon began to realize of their own king's wickedness, and Ulric was no exception as he was used in many "liberations" against mages. Ulric soon came to realize the suffering created by everything, the war, the king, and most of all himself. The king began to lose his grip upon the people's hearts as they called for the war to end many joining the revolution which adopted the beliefs of the Nordic kingdom far to the south, the Red Faith. This sudden switch to beliefs left the king without the hearts of their own people, and upon realizing this the king demanded of all of their armies to wipe all people that protested within the streets. Ulric and the others did as they were told, and killed many innocent lives that day and most likely near all of the population of Arkalas. When the battle was over the streets were nothing but a pool of blood and all that stood was now Ulric and a hundred other soldiers, two others being knights. The king celebrated and praised the army, and yet none felt a single bit of pride in what they'd done. Ulric stepped up to the king and in a series of events cut the head from their shoulders. Upon doing so not even the king's royal guard lifted a finger against Ulric as they all stood in the pools of blood their heads hung. That was the end of Arkalas and the day Ulric filed his crest from his pauldrons as even though the slaughtering of his Lord was not something they regretted it was still something they knew should be punished as they broke their knightly vows. Thus Ulric Sullyvan roams the world now, crestless, and with but one purpose: to cleanse the world of wicked Lords and to hopefully in the process find one worthy to give their vows to once more. Thus Ulric Sullyvan walks alone with nothing but their zweihander, armor, and thoughts for company; and with each wicked one found and slaughtered the heavier they all seem to be.