Sarcof

It was hard for mail to reach those in the North. As accustomed as Oan was to having no mail of import reach his actual mailbox, and any mail worth reading reach him via a messenger bird, he was surprised to find a letter addressed from his friend Nicolas in the mailbox he kept at the Lorraine tavern. Of course it was opened, and he took in the scratchy, wavering writing at a glance, surprise beginning to seep into his features. While he didn't know it, he reacted similarly to the dwarf Pikel, grabbing the innkeeper and, in a quiet, dangerous voice, asking the man from where the message had been sent. Patrons, of course, summoned the local guard, who arrived to find the shaken, but uninjured, innkeeper telling them his account of the events. Oan arrived too late, not even having the blessing of attending the funeral. He placed his hand on the marker of his friend, murmured something, and made his way towards The Garrison to drink to his now dead friend.

Oan of Brevis places his scrawl on the charter the next time he visits the now independent nation-state.

Oan does not see any decrees on his visit, nor does he hear the Lord of Saltstone's proclamation. And yet, he knows that something is amiss, from the assembling of materials, the work of the blacksmiths and weaponsmiths at their forges, the extended drilling of the men through the snow. A bit more listening, a little bit of walking amongst the commoners, and the rumors reach his ears. He says quietly to the frigid air, drawing strange looks from the people passing by, "So, there is to be a war, then. The Norlanders should be wary."

Oan looks up from where he had been pitching hay to the few horses in the stables, having heard the steady clank of the gates being risen. Stepping out over the forge, the man looked down, clothes being whipped by the wind flowing from the entryway. He recognized the elf that strides into the courtyard, raising a hand to him in greetings, muttering to himself, "So, one of the Veterans have come home."

I can't recall meeting Watyll, so I probably don't have a place posting here, but after reading this I wish I had. He sounds like a fantastic person to have been around. I'm sure he's living his next life as well as he lived this one.

Name (Leave IG name as well): Gimdul (Sarcof) Race: Forest Dwarf Gender: Male Skills: Farming, cooking, no bad fighting habits Do you meet the criteria to join Hallowvale Contracting?: Yes. Leave an address for a return letter of accepted: Luciensport

Vulpes is great. +1

A cloaked man pauses by the board near the Marked Office in Felsen, looking it over before his eyes alight on the notice. He pulls out a piece of parchment, the edges jagged, ripped. The roll has seen an abundance of use, apparently. He unfolds the roll, taking a reed fragment that's been cut to form a pen, and an inkwell, scratching out a message, tacking it to the board however possible. MC Name: Oan Frondson IC Name: Sarcof Age: 36 Race: Highlander (Human) Minor Backstory: Oan grew up in a small hamlet, learning early forms of fighting from wrestling with the other boys around the hamlet and participating in fights on market days as the farmers arrived. His interest in hunting was piqued by the trio of hunters that were apt to tell stories of their hunts in a smoky room of the hamlet's tavern, the Three Hogs. Later, after he had left the hamlet, he joined the Storm Swords, receiving a crash course in sword combat, and an introduction to archery, both skills he would hone later on. He eventually heard of the Marked Men, noticing the carvings in Flotsam woods, asking about who lived in the school until he got his answer: a group of elite monster hunters. And, since then, he's been trying to join.

Oan leaves another notice, a fresher one, pinned to the notice board of the Capital office. MC Name: Sarcof IC Name: Oan Frondson Age: 36 Race: Highlander Human Minor Backstory: When Oan was young, he wanted nothing more than to grow up to be a hunter. As he ventured out into the world, this desire was gotten, other things taking focus. He struggled to acquire food and minae, finding work amongst a mercenary company. During this time, he found a ruined fort within the Flotsam Woods. The gates were down, but some searching found him a way into the trees and over the walls. He drifted about the School, not able to access the inner holds, but content to wait, intrigued by the structure. When life once again showed it's hold, he began to venture into the School, dropping from a very specific limb that, although sworn to be cut away a hundred times, remained a reliable way into Kaer Caed and a good point to sleep. He was intrigued by the men within the School, his fascination drawing him back but he never made the decision to join. In Vailor, Oan continued to dog the Marked, his fascination still present, disrupted by other happenings in his life, including the acquiring of a tavern with the help of one of the Marked. He worked the tavern, feeding whatever rumors he heard to the Marked man, who would in turn pass it along to the others. Life was good, until he lost the tavern. With nothing tying him down, he decided that it was time to join the Marked. Once more, life made this decision less than feasible, and he held off. Now, however, with no more duties tying him down and getting in the way, he has a decision to make. Now it's time to commit.

((I just want to know what poison they used...))

Oan continues work, none of the characters in his visions making sense. Instead, he strives for the Gem of Harmony to make the Crystalline Reader. He looks away from the notes he's recorded, various alchemical variations crossed out. His stocks are drained, his eyes weary from the torchlight and the extensive scratching of thin words into the book. He ascends back into the sunlight of the world, muttering, "Preferred th' fuckin' night over this shite." He continues down the road to the Outremer cart, venturing back to Felsen, then to the docks, searching for signs of the sickness, people swaying, suffering the pain, being blinded by the lights. "Saints preserve us." He makes the sign of the Lorraine, before continuing his journey. He'll need more supplies.

Oan returns to the Office in Felsen, bearing a new piece of paper, shaking off the ash that gathers at his shoulders, in the folds of his clothes. He tacks it to the notice board along with the other two initiates' papers, reading similarly to his previous attempt. MC Name: Sarcof IC Name: Oan Frondson Age: 35 Race: Highlander Minor Backstory: When Oan was young, his favorite past time in the hamlet he grew up in, asides from playing with the other kids, was to listen to the stories the hunters would tell whilst they were drinking, fueling his desire to join their ranks. As he grew older, the wanderlust dulled his desire to become a hunter, but it was still present. As he left the hamlet, he became a drifter, moving between towns for work. He found good pay as a messenger and even better pay later as a mercenary. The company he was with trained him, gave him a grounding in sword-fighting and knifework. In Vailor, this trend continued. He was the owner of the Seven Cats for a short while, a job set up by a friend to keep Oan out of his hair and to provide him with information. Eventually, he lost ownership of the tavern, and so he became a nomad, falling back on the same skills that had kept him fed in Athera, those and a loose membership with a town by Felsen. Finally, the opportunity came and he found himself assisting several of the Marked men in a contract, first as a healer, then as a marksman. The desire to be a hunter surfaced in full once more, with a realization that had been making itself known. It was time to join the Marked.

Oan sees the notice in the Capital office as he passes through Felsen. He nods.

Oan muses on this, thinking over the materials he'll need to gather to craft the blaze rods... Aurum and redstone might be an issue.

Gonna miss you, man. Didn't get to RP with you as much as I'd like. Glad I knew you after you changed, glad I knew you period. Take care, Gunner.

A roll of vellum has been tied to the gates of Aardwen, frozen by the Arctic temperature, left to be found by any of the Marked that happen across it. The handwriting is spidery, sloping and written hastily, but familiar to some of the Marked. MC Name: Sarcof IC Name: Oan Frondson Age: 35 Race: Highlander Minor Backstory: Oan is the son of a farmer and the village healer. While young, he was taught some of his parent's trades, but he was always really interested in the stories told by the hunters and an old veteran of the wars. He remained in the nameless hamlet that was his home until the age of 20, at which he ventured out, the wanderlust having sank it's claws into him. He joined the town of Sylverport, needing a convenient place to stay, and began finding whatever work he could. He served as a messenger and became skilled at moving, especially through trees which earned him the moniker of "Leaf Monkey", something he used to venture into the School of the Stag, much to the annoyance of it's residents. It wasn't until after the attack of the Dragon on the school, and Oan's meager aid, that he was no longer considered as much of an annoyance and a hindrance as he had been. Oan, like many other citizens of Athera, found his way to Vailor aboard the ships, working to keep some of the ships free of monsters, and travelling between vessels. In Vailor, he was homeless, the town he had been with struggling to claim land and territory. He was given no quarters amongst them, taking to sleeping where he could. One day, whilst speaking to one of the Marked, Adeon, the Veteran came up with an idea: Why doesn't Oan work at and own the tavern? It'd keep him out of the Marked's hair, and give him a job and a place to live. The Marked man set things up, and soon, Oan was the proud owner of the tavern, no longer poking around with the Marked. Unfortunately, the Lord Steward was not satisfied with Oan's job of running the tavern. He arranged for the building to be given to another, and Oan was evicted. Once more, he slept where he could, the town having gained a foothold, but not having counted Oan as needing a room! Over time, he eventually had a son, and the man became desparate to scrounge what coin he could to put back for the boy when he got older, finding whatever work he could once more, be it as a messenger or laborer. He taught his son some of the skills that he knew, the boy regarding him as a teacher, not a father, and the child eventually left to live with his mother. With that, and a taste of the Marked lifestyle on his tongue, he made a decision. It was time to try and become an Initiate for the Marked.

Oan recalls this village, frowning as he hears word of this new development. He mutters something to himself, scratching his jaw before striding down the street with a copy of the poster. Preparations will need to be made before he attempts to gather a group to purge the village. several preparations.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KY2KzjVNoKY It was a quiet night in Outremer. Torches glimmered along the paths, lights glowed gently in the houses. Crusaders passed from one pool of light to the next, wary of an attack, be it from Tartar remnants or some undiscovered foe. The night was disturbed suddenly, the feral growls of necrophages shattering the night air. Crusaders drew steel and ferrum, some already on duty, others pulling on armor and grabbing weapons before exiting their houses into the unforgiving darkness of the night. From the shore sounded the feral cries of drowners, shrieking as they charged towards the pools of light, the forming line of crusaders, armor and blades glinting in the yellow glow of the torches. Shields were raised, bodies hitting that wall of steel and flesh. The initial chaos of body against body was a madhouse. Steel lashed out ineffectually, a few of the drowners falling as they tried to press forwards, crusaders struggling to hold their footing and discern if the line had been breached. Fortunately, it had not. The line held, drowners on one side, claws lashing out against the shields, the crusaders weapons returning the favor. All was going well, drowners falling. Then one of the crusaders slipped in the gore that had begun to soak the ground underfoot. Before the men at his side could react, the drowners had begun to flow into the gap. The line fractured, crusaders falling quickly as they tried to react in to the crisis that had just manifested in the murk of the night. Men fell before finally, the crusaders began to respond, some being wounded by their fellows in the chaos, but even these men fought on gallantly. The battle turned, the seemingly inexorable tide of drowners beginning to ebb before finally ceasing. The crusaders mopped up the last few drowners that arose, finished off in the rays of the morning sun, tending to the few wounded that had survived the night, providing burial rites to their many brothers who hadn't. The bodies of the drowners were committed to the flame, the stench of burning flesh tainting the air. The people of Outremer were a tough bunch however, returning to their business after saying prayers for the dead, asking for the Creator to guide them to the Aether, and a well-deserved afterlife.

Is it semi-common knowledge regarding Vulpes's skill in repairing and building crossbows? Beyond that, fantastic profile, very detailed.

Oan enters the Caliphate, having been present the previous Saint's day for a failed hunt. He finds Ketily in front of her stall, nods in greeting to her, and peruses the wares she has to offer. What he finds instead is Ketily's proffered statement that the Fleugal has fled the city, swimming out in the ocean, supposedly the size of a house. With that, he checks the sewer, cringing at the stench of the sewer. Nothing to be had that might clue him in as to where the Fleugal has vanished to. With that, he ventures out of the city, the smell of a city's waste still in his nostrils. Definitely going to defile a river getting it off of himself.

Oan scratches the important notes on a piece of paper with a charcoal pencil, notes regarding the beast, it's location, and some useful items for hunting it. Paper and pencil stuffed in pocket, he strides off to start scouting for signs of the beast, but not for it. He has no death wish.

Oan looks the notice over, frowning at the description of the beast. He pins up a response, reading: "You'll need a fleet to take this beast down, three-four ships at least, with cannon and ballistae. Diving helmets will be needed to probe it's warrens and the killing grounds, and scout craft to make sure it doesn't take the fleet unawares. I'll be willing to assist in preparations, especially devising equipment to kill it. I once heard of whalers using harpoon cannons, big things with powder in them to hook onto their prey. Given enough ships, this might be feasible. Send me a bird or look me up in the Seven Cats Tavern."