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Found 9 results

  1. The Valorous Griffin guild An organization that came out of its founder's deep sense of justice and independence. Leonardo Mallory Faervel Griffin founded the guild. All so members could do good in the world in the ways only they could. instead of helping create, protect, or build an organization for someone else? He had come To be the founder of his own. A decision not made lightly in the slightest and one that did not change his ideals. To help those in need, protect those who need protection, Pursue knowledge, feed his creativity and to take care of his fellow guild members. all things he will encourage each member to strive for. The Griffin guild's oaths are ones Leonardo brought over from another guild. Ones he helped write himself and ones he adds to as necessary. His goals are lofty but attainable. The Griffin guild is to have 4 branches. One for each cardinal direction. They will also have a naval ship And in the future most possibly a fleet. The Valourous Griffins will take to the water protecting Aevos seas. Each member will be trained in naval and or non naval combat but that is not the only option to help. The guild has different crafts available, and divisions all its own. Such as woodwork and crafts, trade in weapons, alcohol and jewelry, a smithy shop, as well as the pursuit of magical, alchemical, or medical knowledge. finally don’t forget the care for the cities where guild branches base themselves. There is truly no task too small for every action and skill counts. People of all backgrounds are welcome to join. Everyone does their part to support the guild. Members will have access to knowledge, opportunities, and training they could not receive alone. They will be provided shelter in the guild halls, materials for their crafts, herbs if needed, and a forge for the smiths. The guilds combat-focused divisions will have chances to go on many missions. Be it fighting monsters, thieves, or crooks. To raiders, Dark Cults, And large-scale disruptors of peace. There will be Chances for competitions and activities will be plentiful as the Griffin guild has its own celebrations. Both to keep up morale and keep their members sharp. please read bellow for recruitment possibilities and contact information Contact Signed Leonardo Mallory Faervel Griffin
  2. No respite from the Struggle A sickly, tiring woman sat sequestered in an attic. Often the space was ablaze with lantern light and brimming with letters of correspondence. This eve, it was dim. The papers so neatly stacked in their cabinets were left strewn on the floorboards; scattered in a nonsensical array and stitched back together at the seams. The Farfolk's face was enshrouded like the rest of the room, graced only by the flicker of a single flaming candle she had happened to forget up there amongst her chests of trinkets and memorabilia. Useless clutter, really, which served no purpose. Just the same as the blank pages full of words she sought to puzzle into a pleasing shape. Like ritual they were rearranged. Over and over and over. But always a piece was left out; unfit; inconsolable. Irreconcilable. Starkly pallid green eyes strained against the waning flame to see something, anything, in spite of the shadows that encroached closer. Once rich and deeply verdant, the pair responsible for vision failed to muster any color from the page. There was never enough time to make sense of it all. However much could be found was already being lost; any that was created was always being destroyed. Stolen, taken, lost, destroyed. Stolen, taken, lost, destroyed. Understanding became impossible. Where was it coming from? How could one possibly recapture all the time constantly slipping through their fingers. How could anyone find the full picture again. How do I get it back? Weakness Consumes. Strength Creates. Content fades to nothing. Ambition seizes all.Limits.Define.Infinite.Potential. Isabella's breath hitched as she was thrust back into the world like a fleck of the Heaven's spat out spit. Her limbs trembled; her body overcome with a cold sweat yet again. The candle had long since burned out. She struggled to her feet and traced her fingers against the wall, wading blindly through the trail she set for herself. Running her palm over the cabinets, Isabella guided her frail form out of the attic. Ultimately, she found her way back to the light of day, but not after receiving the same answer from a different question. The same question that begets every answer.
  3. Source [!] A sudden burst of energy shoots from below Hohkmat, funneling through every crack and crevice, sneaking over the walls and slithering through the gates. Across the lands upon closer inspection came a horde of letters, peeling off into all manner of direction, darkening the sky as they frantically reached for their recipients. “It is with a heavy heart that I renounce my position as Magister of Hohkmat on this day. Circumstances not of my own choosing pull me from this realm. I am called to a higher purpose, that which you all know well. The Voids call tearing my consciousness from this reality. I have meditated on these callings for centuries, but never have they been this strong, unwavering and relentless in my mind. I have not been able to serve you as the Void intended, and for that I am sorry. Upon each day I smile as I see the accomplishments of our people, I can only hope Hohkmat lives on for many centuries to come as the first of an Empire of the Void. I must admit to you all, it is with shame that I am not able to stand with you all in this coming victory, but I ask you all to cast free the doubt from your mind, let wild the void within your grasp and let it flow through you as it was meant to be. With the Void as your tool, no path can go unpaved.” Woe be the voidless when I am done here Source
  4. _______________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________ It was a draining exploration, a lone soul seeking to find himself through the thick and thin of the troubles that grounded him. In the end, he did not find what he was looking for, instead found only the tree that left him bitter and alone. Forcing a remembrance of not the good times, but rather the bad. A plume of flame being the only thing left from the venture. And a bitter elf. The day was hot and humid, the rays of sunshining beaming down upon the Silver State of Haelun’or, the city of Asul’hileia. It was when the times were saturated and abundant with trials of just about anyone, one for a petty argument, another for aggravated assault. Yet an elf, freshly victim to one such trial only for standing up for the justice he believed necessary to better the city. Stripped of his role as government official, his family turning their backs upon him in his time of need. On a bench, he sat tightening his boots with a grim look scouring over his visage. Left to rapid scrutiny by other citizens and ex-family alike, he felt at a loss and filled with melancholy and a dour gait in his move set. Outside, the humid city did he set foot to journey to a long, almost forgotten place. Dressed in a dusty, old set of blue robes and a traveling tunic of red that did not at all quite fit together, yet worn still they were. Not a person batted an eye at his lack of position in the city, finding his way out the gates that were never open did he walk towards the nearest harbor, that being the ruins from a recent undead dragon attack, being Cloudbreaker. Yet he did not care to search the ruins as other bandits and rats might, he only sought a boat, which ultimately he did find. A boat for one, large enough for the cool breeze and the deep blue sea. The wood groaned at the weight of the elf stepping upon the dusted surface, beaten yet still sea-worthy. He fastened a few ropes, raised the anchor and soon was set off, angled to the Northeast of Almaris. The sea was rough, waves high enough to topple the boat at any moment, yet by some outside factor did it stay erect. The wind billowed, pushing the sail forth which in turn propelled the rigid boat the elf rode upon. Days had passed, the nights calming the waters enough for the elf to sleep, if only for an hour or two. The food that sustained him only being dried jerky and hardtack that was swelled with sea spray. In the midst of night did the pessimistic high elf attempt to catch a few winks of sleep, yet the waters were not calm for that he was in the middle of the ocean. They were calm because he was close to his destination, a guttural, grinding sound having cried out as the bottom of the ship scraped against stone and sand alike where he beached. The Elf had been startled awake by the horrific, scratchy sound. Quick, was he to raise the sails and drop the anchor so that the boat would not float away, though it was unlikely it would ride the seas anymore. Upon the edge of the boat did he press a boot, leaning forth to look out at the greenery he found himself upon, a nod of approval showed as he recognized it almost immediately, though perhaps a bit overgrown if anything. It appeared to be the Silver Isles, home to the ruins of Karinah’siol. “Ah.. My home, gone and ruined..” A grumble sounded from the scornful elf, a robust sigh huffed out as he made his way through the overgrown brush. The coos and skittering of the local wildlife appeased him, atleast for a moment, bugs having done well to bite at his form as any tropical isle might house. Yet it was still familiar to him, nostalgic in a way, like a mother tucking in a child after serving them a warm cup of milk to aid in the process. The nostalgia shattered though when the high, silver walls were shown to him. They stood tall but were addled with holes, chunks having been worn out of them due to lack of upkeep. Crumbles of marble littered the outside, many an entrance littered at the base where no doubt that nothing good lived within. His resolve strengthened, as once again, that was not his goal. Instead, it was for something else, so his boots scraped upon gravel roads as he ushered himself forth towards the city ruins. Charred ruins of buildings such as the tavern or the soldier headquarters, the Sillumir, littered either side of the street. Such being the goal of the previous ruler in an attempt to leave the city unlivable in case of outsiders taking over. A sneer, distasteful as the sight was, covered the face of the else as he trekked through the ruins, up an old set of stairs with holes or crumbles. The gates that separated the esteemed ‘thill of the older land from the lesser' were raised. Perhaps a symbol of the integration of the old city's inhabitants joining the lesser in the horrid atmosphere of Almaris, rather than in secluded isolation on the Silver Isles. Or it was simply but a gate that no longer had a purpose, condemned to rotting and gathering rust whilst idle bandits or ruin-explorers wandered through. Such thoughts filled the mali’aheral’s head as he passed through, though soon to come to a stop as he saw what he came for. His old home, where he spent most of his time. Sweat from the trek stuck to the neck of the ‘aheral as he was quick to enter the home, still standing tall and regal as can be, yet worn with time and intruders. The windows had busted in, the sills of such were littered with shattered glass, the door having been taken off at the hinges and simply missing. And so he had no door to open when he entered to find many books, unlegilbe strewn about the floors, the carpet having been ripped and torn, notes scrawled onto the wall via dagger or blade. None of which held any coherent meaning except for perhaps a love feud or otherwise between two distinct lovers. Again, he passes by, leaving it to rest, to not overturn the dusty items that did remain. Instead, the high elf made his way to the room in which most of his time had been spent, studying, conducting experiments, or otherwise. Apart from a broken mirror or a bed with a missing mattress. The only tell-tale signs of it ever even existing were the feathers that had flown from it after it had likely been shredded. And in a bout of rage, but also with purpose did he lift his boot and slam it into the floor, the loosened nails quick to unstick and sling the board up to reveal a hovel to hide items in. Quick, did he calm himself, even as the memories of the past haunted his mind. The times of strife with those who sought only his blood, and for no other reason that he would not join them. The times of sorrow when he felt at a loss on how to continue his works, the times of when he had an overly heated debate that left him ostracized and outcast, as he was now. A deep breath to calm, and another. The heated memories quickly flow away, though oh-so eager to stay. The tired, sleepless azure eyes cast themselves down into the hovel, relieved to find the sack was still there. Took to his knees as he knelt down to reach for the sack and pull it out. The tie that held it closed was withered and easily snapped away at what little force he applied. His hand fished within to open it proper so that he might get a better look. A few trinkets and memorabilia populated the sack, a few of his first letters to his initial, yet ex-beloved, and a sack of minae. “There you are…” He let out a sigh of relief as a folded yet crumpled piece of paper was pulled from the sack. The Elf flicked it open to reveal the image it held. And it was no art piece, instead it was but a simple crayon-like drawing of a stick man that wore something that appeared to be either blue robes or otherwise, and a smaller, shorter figure that wore something lilac, appearing to be a dress of sorts. The two stick figures held hands, and so the elf's fingers tightened on the piece of paper, wrinkling it ever so slightly. A somber feeling weighed down on the elf’s shoulders, a sense of regret at what could have been but never will be. Time had gone on and there was no way to change that which occurs. Time travel does not exist. In a brisk movement, the folded paper tucked away into his pocket and the sack tied with a new string. As there was just one more place to visit in mind. A scuffling of boots kicked up a bit of dust as he made way out of the house and up the ruined street, a tree or two having fallen to block his path but was easily overcome by climbing over. Up a slight incline did he find himself walking, as the Silver Isles were a mountainous set. The travel was quick to wind his voidal poisoned physique, but with frequent breaks did the high elf make it up the path that led to a simple bench at the base of a tree, old yet still showing off intricate carvings. With age, moss and rust had taken root, saddling upon the aged piece of fine metalwork. This spot gave an overview of not only the ruined city but the rest of the isle, where a small Hyspian town has since been built off in the distance. He set himself upon the bench, an eerie feeling at the empty space that weighed heavy next to him. A sorrowful silence plagued his surroundings save for a few croaks from crickets or the like as it was perhaps four hours before the roosters crow. With the lights that were still lit within the ruins and the torches from the Hyspian town, the scenery of the island still held life though nothing like before. The silence offered him too much time to himself, a flicker here.. A flutter there. He felt eyes upon him, yet he knew none were there. But there were, for it was his memories and his thoughts that plagued him, a simple shadow cast over his form, yet incorporeal. The elf shifted forward and buried his head in calloused hands to let out a small sob, only when he knew he was fully alone, and that there were no peering eyes to take such a scene and gossip upon it. There was no reason behind it, except that the sobbing soon turned to wailing and a fit of rage was to be had. A blade was snatched from its rigid sheathe, and aimed with a quick slice did the ponytail that held back golden, blonde locks get cut away only to fall to the grassy park that he populated. The elf flung the blade once the hair had been cut, and off the edge of the raised cliff did it clatter against stone, scraping upon its descent as he rose to his feet. The ilk of his rage had yet to subside, and so his eyes burned bright a mist of an azure, similar to the color of his eyes shimmering around his hands and otherwise, the aura of such pulsated with power. A guttural sound grew from his throat as tendrils of the aura collected in a ball. The bench had since been tilted over and a few meters had been given from himself to the base of the tree where so many memories had been gathered. The ball of aura flashed and was quickly replaced with a ball of blue flame that grew hotter and hotter, taking in all of the oxygen it could get to swell and grow. And grow it did, though no specific form did it take, as soon as the ball of dark blue flame form, did it blast out in the form of a flamethrower. Firstly pointed up towards the leaves to set them alight all the way down to the base, quick to char the outer layer of the tree and thoroughly set it up in flames. A crackling of flame stayed as the magi’s anger subsided, the residual effects of the evocation left upon the tree, likely to be a beacon in the dark of night upon the island as he let out a cool, silvery sigh. His hands stuck themselves into the pocket of his worn coat to ensure the folded piece of parchment was still there. A turn of his heel, did the high elven mage depart from the scene of a burning tree, still as bitter and lost as can be. For there was no finding himself in the past, as he could only be himself in the present, as bitter and cruel as the one in the present might be. There had been little to be gained from the daunting venture to the ruins except for a piece lost to him and faded memories to haunt him, but an echo of the good times and the bad. ________________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________________
  5. In Athera, on the outskirts of The Reformed Kingdom of Oren, a settlement was formed, mostly human, on a fishing wharf. It was out of the way from major roads, and it's population wasn't high, so it's not hard to believe that the economy was so stagnant that the majority of the population lived in little more than mud huts along the small fisheries and make-shift dock. There was one exception: a powerful wizard, likely of dark magic, held a tower that loomed over the little village. His name was Deinalt Mephistaurus, and he enjoyed the power he held over the peasants and fish-mongers. He relished in it and exercised it as a tyrant. The villagers had little choice but to comply with his demands. The years drew, however, and they saw no way out, his demands becoming harsher and harsher as he pushed their limits. Sometimes, they were even summoned into the tower itself, either to never be seen again, or as a dry, pale corpse. Secretly, they sent messages out, begging for help from Oren, but Oren had been caught up with politics and, most importantly, wars, and their resources were stretched thin. The request went unheeded. When war erupted in 1483, the villagers knew they would not receive help soon, if at all, and sought instead to hire mercenaries who would take the job for the meagre coin they could scrounge up. They eventually found some who agreed, and the group stole in at the dead of night to ambush the wizard as he rested, for they knew frontal attack upon his tower would avail little except their own deaths. They did not kill him as he slept, as the wizard did wake, but he was still caught flat-footed and with his magical components outside of his reach. He cast what he could, but blind-sided as he was, the fight was intense but short. Deinalt Mephistaurus fell backwards upon the bed he had woken from, but not before cursing the traitorous villagers with his dying breath, promising pain and destruction to them as long as they lived. In the end, the village rejoiced in the victory of their saviours. After much celebration, the heroes parted and Rahult enjoyed their new freedom. They found some measure of prosperity now that they were no longer bogged down with the unrelenting and unfair demands of the wizard. Ten years later, on the anniversary of the wizard's murder, the Plague hit the town, and much of the population died over night. It was no coincidence, the villagers moaned as they mourned. Deinalt's grip still strangles them today. His curse continues! Some of the villagers suggested seeking clerical help, but this idea was shot down for its massive cost. Besides, the Plague hit them hard; if this were truly the will of the mage, would it not be satiated? Another ten years passed, and upon the anniversary, the village was torn with a localized earthquake. Many died in the fallen rubble. Many more lost their homes. Calls for holy intervention increased, but so did the flight from the village. Nothing could be done to circumvent the next tragedy but to wait. When the 30th anniversary came, the villagers waited with baited breath, waiting for a swoop that would likely kill them off for good this time. But the night passed with no unholy intervention, and they all breathed a collective sigh... until the next morning. Several people (men, women, children) were found dead in their beds, throats slit. A couple people were confirmed missing shortly after, but it was unknown if they were still alive, or if they were, whether they were fleeing justice for the acts or fleeing the curse before it could hit them. The villagers would have loved to follow up these events with a witch hunt, but their seeking was cut short; the Flood had overtaken Athera and their wharf was one of the first to drown below the constant rains. Those who were left had no choice but to leave their homes to be swallowed by the waters and go to Vailor. Some of those villagers may still yet live, as could the Heroes of Rahult... as could the unknown murderer. And though the village is gone, no one knows for sure if the wizard's curse is done. Known Former Villagers: Sahar Tha'un Known Heroes of Rahult: Timeline: 1468 - Athera was settled 1469 - Rahult was successfully settled, building watched over by Deinalt Mephistaurus 1475 - Mephistaurus's demands become strange. Citizens begin to disappear 1483 - The Kingdom of Oren becomes Galahar. Rahult citizens look elsewhere for aid. 1483, Sun's Smile - Mercenaries are hired to kill Deinalt Mephistaurus, a contract is drawn 1483, The Amber Cold - Deinalt Mephistaurus is killed in his tower. 1493, The Amber Cold - Plague hits the town overnight. Many citizens die. 1503, The Amber Cold - A localized Earthquake hits the village 1513, The Amber Cold - Many citizens are found murdered in their beds End of 1513 - Rahult is abandoned to the Flood
  6. ~Lenniel Divhileia~ Age: 218 Gender: Male Race: High Elf Height: 6'4" / 1.8 meters tall Weight: 168 lbs/ 76 kg (I imagine) Description His body, like most high elves, is rather slender and lithe with a light skin tone. Strawberry blonde hair, brushed back, spikes out from his scalp. Long, pointy ears poke a little way from his head, though streamlined. His brows rest evenly across, though the right may twitch from time to time. His eyes are a shade of purple, while neither twinkling nor flashing, that have a certain glow to them. His face is always with a half smile, though one could wonder if he is laughing with them or at them. He wears a white linen shirt, buttoned down the middle, with the sleeves coming up to his elbow. Around his neck is a frilled cravat, splaying out down the middle of his chest. Over those, he wears a green jacket, flaring back dramatically at the elbow with a large whit cuff. His pants are simple, also linen and colored light dirty grey. His feet are fitted with regular calf high brown boots. Personality/History Template: Mage High Concept: Aspiring Master of Alteration - Who wouldn't want to have the powers of a god? To alter the fabric of reality to your whim? Trouble Concept: Indulgent & Indulged - I like to have the finer things in life, like cake! Childhood: Knows nothing of his past. Found in the wreckage of a home with two other corpses. Was adopted into another family. Growing up, he wished to learn magic, but failed at properly connecting to the void. Could only ever accomplish simple household magic. Was teased and ostracized for his failure. After a little over 20 years of this, he quit. Phase Aspect: Fear of Failure Young Adult: Turned his attention to more scholarly pursuits. Read histories, biographies, anthologies, and anything else he deemed interesting. Only stopping to eat and sleep, he shunned social interaction in favor of his literature. This continued on for around a century, attesting to his foster parent's patience. This routine was only broken by the multiple cataclysms that struck, though those usually saw Lenniel with his nose in a book while running away from danger. Phase Aspect: Loremaster Bonus feat: Improved Peripheral Vision - Can spot things out of the corner of his eye better than the average joe. Adult: Eventually, the socially underdeveloped Lenniel was kicked out of the house. This forced him to seek employment to make a living. He eventually settled in Arlas. He took up being a minor Scribe, helping to copy documents and other menial activities. The rest of his time was split between reading, and messing with his neighbors. Switching flowers across the street, making random objects jump up and start waltzing to an unseen orchestra, making papers get blown away in a sudden gust of wind, even pebbles into people's shoes. While severely annoying in some cases, he also tried to avoid hurting others seriously with his pranks. Phase Aspect: Magnanimous Prankster Recent Events: With the transition to Athera and the recent elf hunts, Lenniel decided not to return to Arlas. For a time he was homeless, picking up a few... acquaintances here and there along the way. Said acquaintances have convinced him to once again start learning Magic again. Sadly, he as fell to what were probably bandits a couple times along the road. But recently he has had a streak of luck: Lenniel acquired a house, secured over 2000 minas through a quick investment, is starting to learn and SUCCEED at casting magic, and is all in all rather pleased with his situation. Magic Arch-type: Alteration Sub-Type: Telekinesis Rank: Beginner Arch-type:Household Magic Rank: Master
  7. Angoleth Nicknames: Angol (Pronounced Aengul or Angel) Age: 50 Gender: Female Race: High Elf Status: Active Description Height: Six feet, six inches. Weight: One hundred sixty pounds. Body Type: Straight/Hourglass Eyes: Blue Hair: Platinum Skin: Fair Markings/Tattoos: N/A Health: Healthy Personality: INTJ Inventory: To be added Further Details: N/A Life Style Alignment: Neutral Good Deity: Aeriel Religion: None Alliance/Nation/Home: Aesterwald/Annil'sul Job/Class: Mage Title(s): None Profession(s): Enchanter, Librarian, Masseuse Special Skill(s): Magic Flaw(s): Combat Magic Current Status: Mastered Arch-type: Alteration Sub-Type: Transfiguration Rank: 5 Weakness(es): Weakness Strength(s): Intelligence Current Spell(s): N/A Weaponry Fighting Style: None Trained Weapon[s]: None Favored Weapon: None Archery: Incapable Biography Parents: Aegnaer (Father), Anunis (Mother) Siblings: None Children: None Extended Family: None Pet(s): None History Artwork
  8. The Scryers of The Mages Guild The Scryers are a sub-sect of the Mages Guild established by Guildmaster Vedaer Sylvaeri in order to maintain the peace and regulation in the world of the arcane that the Guild so eagerly seeks. In doing so, the Scryers perform tasks that further this goal; Be it the retrieval of relics, the investigation of eldritch anomalies, or a task as humble as guiding wayward magi into it's mother guild. Often members that have proven capable in combat, the Scryers have recently taken to scouring the realm for rogue magi. (See "Rogue Mage Trials") Enlistment In order to enlist and perform the duties of a Scryer, one must prove themselves a well known and trusted member of the guild. Those respected amongst the rank and file shall be sought out, and interviewed. Should one desire to take initiative and volunteer, they may send a letter to the High Scryer ((mthdominator)), or one of the Archmages themselves. Hierarchy The Scryers have been constructed upon a simplistic hierarchical system. This system is shown below. High Scryer- The individual responsible for the management and leadership of the entirety of the Scryers. This individual must serve as a Guildmaster or higher. Arbiter- Tasked with trying rogue magi and organizing drills, lessons, and research trips. Instructors take claim to this rank. Two instructors may serve as this rank at a given time. Scryer- A person that has proven capable of defending themselves, their guild mates, and the tranquility they seek to establish. Often apprentices, instructors, and Guildmasters alike. Enlist- A newly enlisted guild member, pending drilling and a final interview. *Auxiliary ranks are often assigned.* Uniform Light robes are provided for the Scryers. *Color varies* -Written by Guildmaster Vedaer Sylvaeri, High Scryer of The Mages Guild
  9. Yulnii Elibar'acal Nicknames: The Golden Owl, Anti-mage Age: 41 Gender: Female Race: High Elf Status: Alive and crazy Description Height: 6 feet one inch. Weight: 135 pounds Body Type: Incredibly thin (near to the point of being unhealthy) Eyes: Dark blue Hair: Blonde Skin: Pale Markings/Tattoos: Scar along her left arm. Health: Physically well, mentally unwell Personality: Generally very friendly, but quick to anger. She is incredibly self-conscious. At times, she can seem to be controlled by another, completely different presence within her body. Inventory: A red rose in her hair, a golden owl necklace, and a small bag full of various knick-knacks. Further Details: As of now, none. Life Style Alignment*: Chaotic Neutral Deity*: None Religion: None Alliance/Nation/Home: Elves of Haelun'or/ Elibar'acal Family Job/Class: Sillumiran Title(s): Sillumir, Mali'i Profession(s): Practicing Fi'hiiran'tanya, protecting Haelun'or Special Skill(s): Fi'hiiran'seth, Fi'hiiran'tanya, incredible artistic ability Flaw(s): Can be quick to anger and quicker to make an enemy of. Her mental stability is in question due to the nature of her magic. Magic Current Status: Active, master in Fi'hiiran'seth. Adept at Fi'hiiran'acaele Arch-type: Fi'hiiran'tanya Sub-Type: Fi'hiiran'seth and Fi'hiiran'acaele Weakness(es): Physical strength, Necromancy Strength(s): All other magic Current Spell(s): Ailer's mist. Ailer's missile. Ailer's protection. Weaponry Fighting Style: Dagger/Anti'mage Trained Weapon[s]: Dagger, slight sword training Favored Weapon: Nothing Archery: Bare minimum of training Biography Parents: Iheiu Elibar'acal (Missing), Iyathii Mercahe (Missing) Siblings: None Children: None Extended Family: Valmuel Elibar'acal (Great-aunt), Naeri Elibar'acal (Uncle), Lorei Elibar'acal (Uncle), Athri Elibar'acal (Deceased, Uncle), Vulchirr Elibar'acal, Asul Elibar'acal (Cousins) Pet(s): Fox-Amber (Deceased) History - To be added when I am not a lazy bugger. Until then, check this out: http://www.lordofthecraft.net/topic/105651-the-march-of-the-golden-owl/?hl=elibar%26%2339%3Bacal Early History The Teenage Years The Destruction of Haelun'or The Sacrifice - Fi'hiiran'tanya The Wandering of the Conclave The Tomb The Fringe Artwork
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