Narav 'Kessel' Tobelle

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Joined: Mon Apr 25, 2016 3:14 pm
Race: Human
Profession: Fisher
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Character Sheet
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Narav 'Kessel' Tobelle

Mon Nov 21, 2016 5:24 pm

Narav Tobelle
Name: Narav Tobelle

Age: 20

Race:Mortalborn-Human ((Domains, undiscovered. Adaption, Wrath, Transcendence)) Approved NS request

Date of Birth: 3 Saun 696

Marks: Yithanai Favored, Kasyni Favored

Factions Joined: Order of the Mantis

Languages Spoken: Common-Fluent, Rakahi (Broken)


Appearance and Personality

Imagine, if you will, the sea-soaked vagabond. I never quite understood the romance of the notion before now. Nowhere to return to and nowhere to go, yes? But I am less the misplaced protagonist in a plotless story and more the defeated apprentice. I had and lost, as many do when greed collides on open waters. I suppose if I had to give some voice to a question of personality it would be reticent and good natured. Much has been lost, but those who focus on the void in their pockets rarely spot the opportunity to fill them. An optimist then, if I had to choose. I believe fully in the grace of the Immortals (the kinder ones, anyways) and that the triumph of the mortal spirit is not written or spoken of for mere legend’s sake, but for the truth of its power. I have to hope. Without it every mile would seem like ten and every morning I would lie awake under the weight of that absence. Beyond that I can’t say. Perhaps I am scholarly? I enjoy stories, I guess, and learning about the wide world. My travels have afforded me at least a small semblance of worldliness but I’d be arrogant to claim it among other sailors. Underestimate me at your peril for I have reason to live and I have killed before. I don’t relish the thought of blood, but I will do what I must to continue. I have a purpose, which is more than most claim. I have a purpose and you will not deter me.

My Father's Story

Wolfsong drifted over the quiet city, broken by the passage of the assassin. A bloody dagger lay far from here, buried in the breast of a high official. Raskalarn’s protected, her peerless. Damned be the man who lay a finger on those under her aegis, and few had tried since the banishment of her daughter. But men who played at Immortality always learned the fatal folly of their jest. No mortal was untouchable, no soul unreachable with the right tools. The gilded pommel of Rynmere’s fabled dragon would be glinting in the light of the corpse-clothers, the holy men of burial and investigation among Raskalarn’s echelon. No doubt Karem’s wolves were on his trail now, the dog rarely far from the heel of her chosen master.

Snarls now, the undercurrent of howling, a twisted rhythm to the chase. Djevelli paused in the mouth of an ally and drew a small copper vial from his cloak. With a deft twist he plucked the lid and upended the dark liquid across his hands. Viscous and cold, he lathered it into his muscles. Drawing the cloak from around his shoulder he instructed it to flee, due North, carrying his scent along with it. The vile concoction he had plucked free would mask his smell completely for a short while. Perhaps the wolves would see through it, perhaps not. Either way they could not all risk following one scent or the other. They would divide and by that division would be their weakness. Djevelli scaled the short stone and mortar wall of the cottage he was beside, leaping onto the thatched roof and continuing his progress low along the city skyline. Behind him the snarls deepened in frustration. Across the next rooftop he went, scuttling from fixture to fixture. He paused briefly every second roof or so to catch his breath, to mark the progress of the swift hunter on his trail. The wolves were not accustomed to climbing and so the hunter, one of Karem’s chosen, had taken to the roof to sight his quarry. Djevelli considered testing his skill against one of the Hunter’s own but decided better of it. Many of his resources had already been spent in the assassination. To pause here for a confrontation might yield him the victor, but he certainly would not be prepared when the second of Karem’s Hunters wielded on him when they discovered his magical cloak a ruse. Instead the assassin drew four small orbs from the heels of his boots, two each, and cracked them on the lip of the home he clung to. Oily black smoke poured from the fractured glass and Djevelli hurled them in four different directions, marking his shots to the lips of other buildings around him before dropping to the alley floor. The thud of wolf paws thundered past him as he lay against the shadows before slipping around another corner and drawing the last small copper vile from the seam of his shoulder. Another dose of the pungent aroma and his scent had changed again. Djevelli carefully dropped the copper vial into a stormdrain and slipped around the back of the inn.

He had planned his egress perfectly and although he had not counted on two of Karem’s being so near on his trail, he had certainly thrown them off long enough to regroup. The angry howl of the wolves from somewhere behind him, choked in the night, brought a smile to his lips as he scaled the trellis around back of the inn and slipped back into his room. It was the work of a single fluid motion to close the windows and back away, but he turned to find a woman staring at him, wide-eyed, from the open doorway. Before she could scream he was on her, his body a spring of instinct too fast to allow her surprise to escape. He dragged her into his room by the throat and shut the door behind them, pressing her body painfully to the wall.

“I recall asking not to be disturbed.”

“I-I’m so sorry!” she gasped, her voice cut husky by the pressure against her throat, “I did not think you were in!”

“I paid good gold for privacy.” He hissed from between drawn lips, “Perhaps I should request it back and explain the owner what your curiosity has cost you.”

“No, please sir. I promise I saw nothing! Please, I beg you, let me go. Please. Please.” Djevelli grimaced, already starting against the bitter taste of her begging. He was no cutpurse or brigand, this intimidation was beneath him. He let her go with a rough shove against the wall, returning to his bed.

“See that you didn’t. Leave me.”

She nodded gratefully, but paused, rubbing where he’d held her throat and working her tongue along the inside of her mouth. Djevelli stood, already debating whether he would have to chance the street and leave a body before the flash of the wench’s eyes froze him mid-step. Bright orange.

“Djevelli, merciless Djevelli…” she crooned, any vestige of the meek woman gone. “Why spoil one of your best traits?” She pushed out her chest, delicately plucking the bodice strings from their knot and exposing smooth flesh, “Have you a blade for me, sir killer? A sharp tool to violate my ribcage? Tell me you do.”

“My lady.” Djevelli dropped to a knee immediately, his eyes akimbo across the sparse inn room. He had no less than seven weapons hidden, but none within easy reach. He knew how fast she could move and her temper was the viper’s strike. “No. I have no dagger for you.” He held out both hands, one spattered lightly with blood. “I did not expect your arrival so soon…and so near to Ras-“ He did not finish the name. An almightly blow laid him flat onto the dusty floor. He rolled reflexively using the momentum to draw him under the mattress and into easy reach of his stiletto. Drawing it from where it punctured the bed he lay it flat against the inside of a closed fist and flush against his arm. The room spun.

“Careful, Djevelli,” Syroa whispered, venom thick in her voice, “You know how I detest another woman’s name on your tongue.” There was a coyness there, but Djevelli had known Syroa too long not to note the obvious spark of fury as well. Lust and Fury, so close they may as well be entwined lovers. “Stand up, assassin,” He ordered, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and forcing him to his feet, “I detest groveling.”

Up just as quick came the first, spinning the stiletto out and against the Immortal’s throat. Already the tavern wench disguise had begun to fray, the bronze-dark skin of her preferred hue rising to the surface like an angry metal blush. She grinned, all traces of fury gone and thrust her neck against the thin blade. “Knifeplay, my pet? So quick to the foreplay.” He was fast, but she was faster. Before he had time to draw blood she had seized the crook of elbow and arm and twisted the hand back, forcing the assassin to splay against the bed with the Immortal straddling atop. “First the details, and then the prize.” Her orange eyes were a balefire.

“The blade was planted in his heart,” Djevelli confirmed, letting pride creep into his voice, despite the position he found himself in, “A royal dagger from Rynmere. The Empress might consider it a charade but she cannot afford to let it go unchallenged. Rynmere can ill afford to turn it down either, how long since one of her high advisors was taken by the sword? A murder from under the protection of the war empress, certainly it will shake her court.”

“And you?” She crooned, dragging a claw along his jawline, hard enough to draw a ribbon of blood, “When the find you, sweet Djevelli, will you not just tell them? That this was only a long overdue hello from her favorite cousin?”

“If that is what you will,” Djevelli answered carefully, “But I thought-“ She tugged back his arm hard and something popped. Tears sprang unbidden to Djevelli’s eyes as a rush of pleasure ran through his body.

“I am wont to change my mind, am I not?” He nodded, never taking his own eyes off hers. The moment of annoyance was gone, replaced by the same demure hunger as before. Outside the howls drew closer and Syroa finally seemed to notice them. She released Djevelli’s arm and stood, scowling at the window. “Bitches have a real thing for you, don’t they Djevelli?” She winks and holds out a hand to him. “Come on then, let’s go before they ruin our fun.”


“No?” Syroa’s eyes flared orange again a moment and narrowed

“No.” Djevelli massaged his injured shoulder before unbuttoning his shirt. “We have an arrangement.”

Syroa sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose with exasperation. “You’re still on about that challenge? Djevelli, that was months ago. Come with me, you’ve earned the right to be my champion. Don’t ruin it with…this.”

“We agreed.” He said, raising an eyebrow with the ghost of a smile on his lips, “If I killed one of her untouchables, you would give me one night that belongs to Zanik. One.” At the mention of her lover’s name, Syroa snarled but Djevelli only inclined his head respectfully and slipped the dark linen from his shoulders.

“Why?” Syroa asked, crossing to the window to look out at the street, her expression hidden, “Forget this. Be my champion and let us go.”

Djevelli chuckled, wincing against the pain of the injuries his Immortal had already inflicted upon him. “My lady, that is one order I will not follow. I must escape here of my own ability, without your help. Whether I do or do not is irrelevant, isn’t it?” He glanced over to her and laid back against the bed. “You’ll find another like me. Five years, ten years, more…but I’m sure there will be others like Djevelli of Athart. All I want, all I’ve ever wanted is to steal a night from an Immortal. The grandest act of all. Tonight I pretend. We pretend. As you promised.”

She looked back at him, bronze face framed in the moonlight. Horns had slid out of her forehead and curled around her furious red hair. The orange light in her eyes was tempting, blazing. She laughed, long and hard, shaking her head. “You mortals,” She shut the curtains, “How despicable you are.”

“Come now,” Djevelli said, inviting her towards the bed, “Is this how we begin foreplay?”

Syroa grinned back, mouth full of fangs as a lithe tail roughly twisted his injured arm around the bedpost. “Oh no, Djevelli,” She said in a hiss, stepping towards the bed, “You’ll know when we begin foreplay.”
My story
I found my home in the house of Edward Tobelle, a merchant of Ne’hear. I’ve never known my true parents but Edward assures me his brother was not worth knowing, and that any woman he saw long enough to bare me wasn’t worth knowing either. From his disdain, I’d measure my father a criminal and my mother just another straw-haired peasant between raids. Edward considers all thieves cowards and monsters of the lowest sort. To take from the livliehood of another is paramount to killing them, save without enough courage to turn the blade in their gut. Edward owned three ships, the fledgling trading empire he wanted to build. When I was a boy I remember him naming the third, The Danielle, for his daughter. The first two were the Pridesmith and the Deliverance, beautiful ships I’ve sailed on since I was old enough to be trusted with water. The Danielle was his pride, though, and Edward doted on the caravel almost as much as he did on my sister and me. Edward was, hopefully still is, a prideful man. Sharpened with sea salt and tempered by thunder the red haired captain had gained a small reputation for himself as a deterrent for pirates. I don’t mean to say the man spit at Scalvoris, but the rogues that roved the coast and picked at the dead between Ne’hear and other destinations had a habit of losing the naval battles they instigated. Briefly Edward was approached to captain a naval vessel for Ne’hear, to make the waters safer for merchants like him. I think Edward saw more profit in letting the other merchants fend for themselves while the curs sailed clear of his own ships. Edward wasn’t a perfect man, so often in these retellings we re-imagine people to be more than they are. I believe in truth, with measured embellishment.

Being the son of a merchant had its perks. I was afforded the same private tutor as my sister, Master Eld Nori. I could swear the man was born wrinkled. He taught us about Idalos, bits of distant cities and unique cultures. I remember finding the Knights of Rynmere a romantic sort of ideal, clad in shimmering steelskin and wading through bandits like reeds. Of course, Danielle and I played Knight and Bandit thereafter. She politely always took the bandit to my knight. We may not have looked alike, but I considered her my family as much as Edward and, to a small extent, the crew of his ship. I had a happy childhood, even if it wasn’t delivered by either of my deadbeat parents. I had Edward, his many wives, and my sister Danielle to be the family my true parents never gave. I don’t believe I miss them, I never knew them after all. I don’t particularly feel moved to seek out my heritage. I’ve been raised by a noble merchant, lion of the sea, and with the gentle wisdom of his exotic wives. I learned the art of the blade, a bit of language, and politics of Ne’hear. I was to be a merchant, after all, take the place of Edward or perhaps even captain my own ship one day.

When I was 20 Edward enlisted the aid of both Danielle and I to sail her namesake to Rharne. We had a cargo loaded with precious metals and important crates. I dared not look within them (Edward considered that indiscretion a thievery of privacy) but they smelled of strong spices and I could swear something moved within. Putting aside that initial curiosity, I joined him because Edward had hinted he would be speaking with a Rharne Shipwright to discuss the construction of a fourth for his fleet. Although he never quite said the words, he implied it would be my own ship, a chance to further the family’s legacy in mercantile pursuit. Danielle was courting a visiting noble from Rynmere. All these years of playing bandit and she was set to marry a knight. Well. Perhaps. I am getting a bit ahead of myself. What I want to express was that I was happy, proud, and feeling immortal. But I suppose those that can claim that title don’t much like others pretending at their power.

The Tidemaul. The Whore’s Kiss. I remember the names emblazoned across the hulls of the ships. Pirates, ambushed us under the cover of a storm. Edward sent Danielle and me to a lifeboat to make for shore, the ship engulfed in the flames of the pirate’s first attack. I remember, and still do, my confusion. If the pirates wanted our cargo, why risk setting the ship ablaze? I didn’t make it to the ship with Danielle, and instead found my way to the depths of the sea. I wish I could tell you a story of brave survival, of dashing swordplay. But I washed onto a beach with a spar of driftwood in my shoulder and nothing to me but the torn clothes on my back. There I met Lisirra. I didn’t know her by that name then, but since we have come to know each other at least with passing familiarity. She found my struggles for survival amusing, enough so to lay her favor on my brow and save me a death of infection. In return we play a deadly game of hide and seek. My family is hidden from me, their fate unknown. Lisirra and I seek them. Should she find them first, they will be lost to me. If I find them first, she will spare them her touch.

My life. I never imagined it to be a collection of desperate adventures and wild searching. But an entire cycle has passed and I have still found no one. I will not lose a game to Lisirra. I will not abide her smug laugh, a childish face perverted into such old and terrible glee. I will win this game and win both my freedom and family back. In my life I’ve never had to fight for anything, die for anything. I can say with certainty (and with a great measure of fear) that I will fight to win back what I have lost…even if it means spitting in the face of an Immortal to do it.

Name: Djevelli Kest
Race: Human
Date of Birth:
Skills: 89 Blades (Daggers), 79 Stealth, 67 Poison, 61 Intelligence, 53 Seduction, 38 Alchemy

Appearance: An older man now, Djevelli has white hair with speckles of the black he used to have. He's a strong but wiry man with a delicate thin mousatche and goatee. He looks every inch the noble Raskalarn dresses him up as, but with dangerous iron-grey eyes and the scars across his body to suggest his craft.

Personality: Djevelli is a driven man of implied humor. Although he rarely does more than chuckle, he likes consider himself funny in a 'smart' way. Djevelli is a man who has worn many faces and has no trouble wearing emotions as easily as clothes. For those that know him deeply, Djevelli is a man who has hollowed out his life to live it for an Immortal he hasn't seen in over twenty years. There's not much there for Djevelli, and he searches for meaning.

Relationship to PC: Father

Anything else: Djevelli is not to be used in any flashbacks or by me at all. He is an NPC in the service to Raskalarn...but moreso, imprisoned by Raskalarn and has been for years. As per his agreement, Syroa never came back for him. He didn't escape. All he knows is that he has a son somewhere and in spirit of that, within the last ten years has helped with Raskalarn's internal security while remaining a 'prisoner' of the Empress. He's working off his crime as Raskalarn will not willingly discard someone useful to her.

The Inclement Weather is a sloop I christened with old grog and without much ceremony. Given the direction my life had taken, I appreciated the dry humor in naming my sloop something dour. It reminds me to keep up a smile. I set out on the sloop for Rynmere and can't help but feel that this is how Edward would have begun his enterprise, saving enough money for a sloop and braving the seas to build reputation across the Idalosian sea. It isn't much to look at, but the sloop is cozy and it suits me.
Knowledge & Skills

SkillPoints AcquiredTotal Points SpentProficiency
FT Blades30/100 (30/250)Competent
Detection5/100 (5/250)Novice
Discipline5/100 (5/250)Novice
Fishing10/100 (10/250)Novice
Medicine8/100 (8/250)Novice
Navigation5/100 (5/250)Novice
Negotiation5/100 (5/250)Novice
Investigation5/100 (5/250)Novice
Persuasion5/100 (5/250)Novice
Seafaring15/100 (15/250)Novice
Unarmed Combat10/100 (10/250)Novice

Skills Knowledge

Acrobatics: Feeling at Home Perched in a Tree. Appraisal: Judging the Valuable Stock likely to Sell and Why. Blades, Daggers: Quickdraw
Blades, Daggers: Thrusts and Jabs
Blades, Daggers: Stabbing small areas
Blades, Daggers: Driving a blade with precision
Blades, Daggers: Parry
Blades, Daggers: Attacking more generally when visibility is limited
Blades, Daggers: Slashing attacks
Blades, Daggers: Switching attack hands
Blades, Longsword: The Proper way to carry a Longsword Deception: Avoiding Eye Contact and Using a Crowded Route.
Deception: Clearing up the Evidence.
Deception: Throwing Your Weighted Clothes into the Ocean. Detection: Knowing the Sound of her Approach Without Looking.
Detection: Recognizing urges which are not your own.
Detection: Deciphering conversation in a library
Detection: The sound of magic portals
Detection: The feeling of a semi-solid shadow
Detection: The sound of someone eating flesh and bones
Detection: Identifying a fresh kill Discipline: Functioning whilst nervous
Discipline: Fighting uncontrollable urges.
Discipline: Never Take From Those Less Fortunate Than You [JD]
Discipline: Not screaming at horrors Disguise: Concealing signs of Grave Robbery Endurance: Pushing yourself when injured
Endurance: The pain of a brutal beating
Endurance: Fighting the pain
Endurance: Maintaining coherent thought despite extreme pain[
Endurance: Fighting whilst already injured
Endurance: The slow burn of an unpleasant injury
Endurance: New injuries on top of old.
Endurance: Pacing oneself with hard work Etiquette: Polite offers of help to strangers Fishing: Docks are often poor places for a catch
Fishing: How to Fish at Sea Forgery: A Good Forgery can take a lot of Tries!
Forgery: Replicating a Seal by using a First Hand Guide. Investigation: Back Tracking Helps Locate People/Things [JD]
Investigation: Piecing together clues to illustrate a larger picture. Intimidation: Taunting your attacker Logistics: Moving your Gear Ahead of Time. Medicine: Advanced Human Decay Navigation: Map reading Negotiation: Better At Negotiating Due To Merchant Upbringing [JD] Persuasion: Customs between Merchants
Persuasion: Trying to Calm Someone in the face of a Murder.
Persuasion: A compelling argument to an Immortal. Politics: Ne'haer's Council of Minah [JD] Psychology: Unchallenged Abuse leads to its Continuation.
Psychology: You know the Need of an Orphan.
Psychology: Imagination can be overwhelming Rhetoric: Repetition to create impact Seafaring: Keeping afloat in Inclement Weather
Seafaring: The Importance of Fruit and Water Seduction: Bold Gestures Sometimes Work out Well. Socialization: The Value of Touch for Comfort. Sociology: Understanding a Sailor’s Last Wishes.
Sociology: A Hard Reminder of What Your Actions could have Cost others you Care about. Stealth: The Front Door is Sometimes a Good Option. Strength: Pushing book cases requires adrenaline
Strength: Digging a Grave Tactics: Keeping the Large Plan and its Pieces in Mind.
Tactics: Tragedy can Claim the most Intricate of Plans.
Tactics: The delicate balance of an individual combat Writing: The Value of Suspense in a Story.
Writing: Concise Twists are often not Seen Coming. Unarmed Combat: Fighting whilst off balance
Unarmed: Duck and Weave
Unarmed: How to take a Punch
Unarmed Combat: Basic grabs
Unarmed Combat: Brawling: Defending your eyes
Unarmed Combat: Brawling: Defending against multiple attacks

People Knowledge

Allan: To Save him you Accidentally Killed his Father.
Alsohmm: Shaman
Alsohmm: In Rhakros
Duncan: Companion of Edalene and Aeodan
Edward: Stand-In Father and Entrepreneur [JD]
Edalene: The One Who got Away?
Edalene: Doesn't look furious
Edalene: Got your letters
Edalene: Thinks you're lying to her
Edalene: Has missed you
Edalene: In the library
Edalene: Servant of Ralaith
Fridgar: In the library
Fridgar: Huge
Fridgar: Not too bright
Fridgar: Wants to learn about space
Fridgar: Irritable and easily frustrated
Fridgar: Thinks the sun is going to explode
Fridgar: Becomer
Godyrn: Did he Deserve to Die?

Mastes: Smooth talker
Kata: Mastes' "pet"
Kata: Something beneath the surface
Ralaith: Marks his Chosen with Clocks

Location Knowledge

Ne'haer: Locations In and Around the City [JD]
Rynmere: Knights of Rynmere [JD]
Location: Rynmere Library
Location: Rharne [JD]

Language Knowledge

Rakahi: Basic Communication [JD]

Other Knowledge

Domain Magic: Basic Theory
Magic: What a Rupturing Portal sounds and looks like
Magic: Becomers can Heal.

Yithanai: Passing a Sickness

Special: There is a dagger hidden in the Hotlands
Special: There is a cult in Rhakros
Skill Point Ledger

10 Seafaring (SP)
5 Medicine (Sp)
10 Fishing (Sp)
5 Detection (SP)
5 Navigation (Sp)
+3 Medicine (Mark)
10 Unarmed (Sp)
5 Persuasion (SP)
25 (blades) RB, FT
Seafaring +5 [JD]
Discipline +2 [JD]
Negotiation +2 [JD]
Investigation +2 [JD]
Weapon (Blades) +5 (Thread)
Discipline +3 Kasyni
The Price of Good Intentions15(5) Weapon: Blade10
Books About Space 15 0 25
Open and Closed Chapters 15 0 40
Curses in the Gutter 15 0 55
Control 15 0 70
Burial Rites 15 0 85
Psychological Ailment: PTSD of Ship Wreck (Bad dreams ever so often) [JD]
Fame Ledger

ThreadActPointsTotal Fame
Starting Race FameMortalborn-10-10
Starting City FameNe'haer+100
Marks Section




  • Egg
    • The first ability of any Yithanai is one they never completely understand. The Egg is Lisirra’s way of planting a bit of her sadistic creativity within those she chooses to mark. The egg is the potential to change. Similar to a Spark, it is far more consciously designed. As a Yithanai grows with Lisirra’s favor, so do they lose their humanity and become a creature of the Plaguedaughter. In addition, planting the egg allows Lisirra a little more control over her marked than most other Immortals. She can twist it inside them, causing unimaginable pain, use it to transmit messages even when she isn’t around, and can locate her marked even in areas devoted to keeping the eyes of the Immortals from sight. She implants the egg within her marked’s souls and there are few, if any, ways of removing it. The abilities that come with the ‘Egg’ seem beneficial. A Marked will never again sleep unless desired. Instead they take on a form of low activity called ‘torpor’. It allows them to rest and recuperate while simultaneously remaining somewhat alert. Although very few actions can be taken while one is in torpor, a marked will be aware of their surroundings and be able to leap from Torpor when danger arises. Small, mundane, and slow tasks can be completed in torpor if it is not particularly draining. Finally, the marked will become more resistant to hunger and cold, allowing them to last nearly twice as long as other members of their race when deprived of resources. However, without energy their body will begin to slow, even if their organs and mind stay active. The egg transmits sadistic suggestions at Lisirra’s behest, quiet enough to be considered subconscious urging. This urging continues throughout all stages of marked development..
  • Carrier
    • This ability allows a user to carry one or two diseases within their body safely. The carrier acts as a transmitter and can choose to infect others in the common way their carried sickness would be transmitted. At this basic level, only minor to moderately dangerous diseases or sicknesses can be carried and transmitted, and only those diseases that the marked could realistically contract. A Carrier can choose to remove a disease from another’s system and take it upon themselves to carry, but only two can be carried at any time. A Carrier cannot willingly discard a sickness they are carrying through any other means than infecting someone else.
    • Plaguedaughter's Skills
      • Add an extra three skill points to one of the following skills: Poisons, Resistance, or Medicine. These points can exceed the 100 point limit


Lisirra's Blessing: Yithanai
Favored: Egg
Favored: Carrier
Lisirra: Appears in the shape of a young girl
Lisirra: Plague Lord [JD]
Lisirra: A Game of Life and Death [JD]


The only Blessing to be gifted through the domains of two Immortals. Mastes has, over the long arcs since the Great Shattering, created such a bond between himself and Kata that he now lays a somewhat tenuous claim to the female's domains as well as his own. His manipulation and control of the other is such that he did not even realise how he had combined his own gifts to hers when he blessed the first mortal. The abilities themselves are given by Mastes' blessing alone; it is not a requirement for both Immortals to be present. In point of fact, it is unknown as to whether or not Kata has ever blessed an individual... or if she is even aware of the existence of a blessing combining her domains with Mastes'.

The physical representation of Mastes' attention is a clever one; the Immortal deemed it necessary in most - cases for the mark to be discrete from the public eye; it would not work to his advantage for mortals blessed by him to be ostracised - or worse, lynched - by those around his followers. It appears as little more than a natural-looking scar across the outside of the upper thigh of the individual: the scar is natural, for the blessed would have created it themselves in the process of giving themselves over to Mastes entirely. For the Adored and Exalted, the mark it joined with two newer, smaller scars, which cross at random points to maintain an illusion of naturally gained injury.


  • The Shadow of Vice
    • Gained upon receiving the mark, the Spirit of Vice is a literal spirit representing the Favored’s own personal vice. Decided upon gaining the mark, this spirit manifest as the Favored’s shadow, and can move and appear separately than the Favored, though it does not have any physical capabilities. This gives the Kasyni basic control over the purview of the chosen vice. Acting more like a Sev'ryn familiar than an actual spirit, the Shadow draws the Kasyni toward his or her particular vice, and is fed on indulgence in that vice. However, once per day, the Favored can merge with the spirit, allowing him moderate control over his vice. For example, a gambler would become better at gambling, an alcoholic may find his drink never-ending for the night… But at the crash from the merging leaves the Kasyni feeling weak and lethargic for a trial, and the Spirit of Vice no better.
    • The Favored of Kasyni can, with a touch, instill in a target the desire to engage in a vice that the Kasyni has experienced. Each vice may be different, and the Kasyni can tailor the impulse to fit the vice.
    Compelling Skills I
    • Add an extra three skill points to one of the following skills: Chemistry, Discipline, Psychology, Rhetoric, Tactics, Torture.
  • List your possessions here!
    • 1 Hammock
    • 1 Gangplank
    • 1 Small table
    • 1 Chair
    • 1 Chest
    • 6 plates (assorted)
    • 2 Eating Knives
    • 1 Fish Smoker
    • 1 Lantern
    • 1 Map (Shoreline of Rynmere)
    • 1 steel long dagger
    • Set of clothing
    • Set of toiletries
    • Tinderbox
    • Waterskin
    • Compass
    • Spyglass
    • Small fishing net
    • Small anchor
    • 1 x Week’s worth of dried food rations
    • A one-masted sailing Sloop (boat) with a mainsail and jib rigged fore and aft. The sloop has a small hold and living quarters under the deck, enough room for a single bed, table or small writing desk, chair, storage chest, and shelf.
Starting Package +20 gn 20gn
Starting Package debt -300gn 20gn (none repaid)
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Total Currency: 0 ON, 20 GN, 0 SN, 0 CN
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Last edited by Narav on Wed Feb 14, 2018 9:07 pm, edited 14 times in total.
User avatar
Approved Character
Posts: 100
Joined: Mon Apr 25, 2016 3:14 pm
Race: Human
Profession: Fisher
Renown: 0
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Narav 'Narraphas' Kessel (WIP)

Wed Nov 23, 2016 2:31 pm

Yithanai's Story
The waves spoke words.

Hush, they whispered. Sleep.

Narav dreamed in shifts, slipping in and out visions as he dangled over the abyss. The distant shouts of splintered voices, worn gruff by sea and salt, still lingered on his ears. Wine-dark and frothing, the sea pitched the Dancer from peaks to valleys as its master tried to get it under control.

“Narav! The dinghy! Get your sister to the Dinghy!” Edwar-…Father. Above them, the sky sizzled fingers of forked light and roared fury. Three dark sails tossing beside them, the hulks of their ships surrounding. Whore’s Kiss…Tidemaul, names in scorched ink across watertight wood. They had been…attacked.

“Narav! Narav!” her black hair eating the glow of every lightning strike. Looking up at him. The dinghy, half lowered to the wild ocean. Panic.


He came to wake thrashing, spitting sand and stone. Startled, gulls bobbed and skipped away from him with ornery squawks, cheated from their noonday meal by the last vestiges of life. His shoulder burned, a haze of smothering heat clinging to his mind as he struggled to piece the stream of memories together. Na’haer. Home. The White walls burned across his febrile thoughts with startling intensity. The Dancer, his adopted father’s ship…a merchant vessel bound to Strosdyn, Ivorian, Andaris. Three days out of port in Ivorian when the storm snapped at their heels. He remembered the approaching bank of crow-black clouds and….what was it? Some other ugent…


Narav remembered. Cutting the sea from three directions the pirates came. Bold before the storm he could remember only names burned into the ships. Whore’s Kiss. Tidemaul…and a third, the bigger one. No. No name, the memories refused to tumble…or perhaps he had not seen one. Edward and Vastin, his adopted Uncle, pitched into preparing the ship with the hired crew. Scattering from station to station across the deck they snatched at crossbows, loaded weapons. And tied down the cargo as the storm crossed above.

Another flash of pain. Narav groaned and dragged himself farther up the beach. The waves hissed their discontent, almost certainly his imagination. One arm worked just fine but the other struggled to reach above his head to find purchase on the sand. A spar of jagged wood in his right shoulder, muscles straining to work around it. Desperately, Narav clutched at it and tried to draw it from his flesh. Waves of agony poured from the wound, so intense his sight blurred and stomach heaved. Bile and seawater, the remains of an evening on the frenzied waves.

Black hair.

“Dani!” It was the first word he croaked since coming to consciousness and the voice did not sound like his. Cracked and torn from wind and seaspray he said the name again quieter, to ensure himself it was his own voice. Dani, his sister. He had loaded her into the dinghy, lowered it. What had Edward told them? Not to make for Ivorian, surely. Days behind them. It was…Andaris. Yes. The next stop on their journey. Make for Andaris, keep the prow pointed North. Keep the coast in your sight. He had given her Edward’s compass, clasped in her dark hand. Lowering the ship toward the sea. He would leap in after her, clear the boat and haul himself aboard. Edward would fend off the pirates and the storm then follow. Surely. The logic of it now tasted vile, but it could have been the vomit on his tongue. What then? How was he here and not with Dani?


He remembered her face, the skin around her eyes stretched to alarm, shouting his name above the din. Something…behind him. A blow, darkness. He could not remember being hit, only hearing the sound of something connecting with his head. It was unlike any sound he had ever heard, an echoing BOOM as the world lost substance. Did he fall forward, or back? Deck of the Dancer or the sea? Surely not the sea…he would have been dead for sure. So…the Deck? Gingerly, a hand lifted to touch his forehead. More pain as he felt the contours of the gash across the back of his head. Not deep enough to be fatal, but enough to steal his vigilance.

Now he was…somewhere. The beach was real. Calloused fingers gripped the sand again and again to ensure it. The spar of wood in his shoulder. The wound was infected. It was the smell of it now, subtle over the brine. A rotting sort of odor that told him the hot fog clinging to his brain was fever…the agony in his body, blood poisoning. How many times had Edward lectured them on the importance of medical care on the open sea? Drink lime juice, exercise, remove the splinter and…sterilize the wound. Immortals help him, he needed to sterilize the wound.

“Well, you’re a curious fish…aren’t you?”

Narav craned his neck back, catching the shade of another head above him. Under a curtain of dark hair, amber eyes held his with curiosity. A girl. Young by the look of her face. Sinister. Sinister? Something about her had struck him as dangerous, impossibly. It must have been the fever…and if the fever was so advanced, surely he was running out of time?

“Help,” he croaked, reaching up toward her face. “Send for help.”

“Help?” She seemed surprised, straightening out of his vision and clicking her tongue along the inside of her mouth. “Sorry, fish. No one here but you and I.” Narav twisted himself from back to his side, taking care of the spar and trying to firm himself against the waves of dizzying nausea. The girl was young, no older than 13 or 14 arcs. A smattering of freckles crossed in a belt over her nose and her long hair limply framed her face. She was wearing a light and airy dress, the sort of thing someone wealthy might wear to the beach or on a relaxing day. He’d seen many of that kind on his travels with Edward. Her feet were bare, toes curling forward and back in the sand. She smiled at him and held out both arms, looking one way and then the other. “See? No one here.” She let her arms drop to her side while she rocked forward and back on her heels. “Well? What brings a fish out of the sea?”

“Please.” Narav whispered the words. “I need help. I’m…I’m hurt. There were pirates. I…I need to build a fire, I need to find fresh water, I-“ He was cut off by her laughter, sweet, tiny peals of laughter that bubbled up out of her and over him. It was so jarring he stopped midsentence, staring at her.

“But that’s so much to do!” she said with a coquettish smile, “Why not just lay here and rest? I don’t think you’ll finish in time.”

“In time for what?”

“To live.” She said it simply as it if were the easiest thing in Idalos. A cold chill whispered along Narav’s spine. There was no mercy in those childish eyes. No empathy, only sharp, inquisitive joy.

A breath. Another. It hurt to breathe, but not a lot. There was still time. Grunting, Narav dragged himself toward the distant trees at the edge of the beach. “Where are you going, little fish?” the girl asked him, skipping along his dragging body. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just wait it out?”

“Sorry to ruin your fun,” Narav grunted. Shit. Talking hurt. He was terrified for a moment before he realized he was just thirsty. The salt had stolen much from him, but it wasn’t too late. “I have somewhere to be. People depend on me. I’m not gonna die.” The girl made a sound with her mouth that sounded like exasperated disapproval, but didn’t chastise him. Instead she continued with him toward the edge of the forest. Narav strained his ears, but couldn’t hear the sound of water. Fine. Fire first then. His muscles snapped and strained as he gathered loose sticks and dropped them over his shoulder on his back. He’d have to dig out a pit and find a way to start a spark…and there was pulling out the spar. He couldn’t afford to pass out again, so one of the more crucial aspects of surviving was a toss up. “You know,” he muttered at her as he turned back toward the beach, “You could help me.”

“What? Me? I don’t know, fish. I mostly like watching you try.” She tapped her finger to her chin in thought and stomped from foot to foot, spraying sand up into Narav’s face. “Oh, fine! I’ll help. But on a condition. We play a game.”

“Game?” Narav gasped? “GAME?” Ludicrous. This was ludicrous. Who WAS she? What kind of a child could be so thoroughly divorced of human empathy?

“I don’t have to help, you know,” She chided with a pout, “I just wanted to make it fun. You’re doing everything so slow.”

“Fine…Fine!” he spat, scooping sand out of a growing hole with one hand, desperately digging. Delirium stopped him once or twice, when the world pitched and turned like the waves beneath a ship. But he was making progress. “What are the rules?”

“Easy!” She said with a smile, plopping down across from him and accidentally nudging some of the excavated sand back into the hole. He glared at her and she giggled, “Sorry! You’re not a very good digger.”


“Fine.” She stuck her tongue out, “Impatient.” Taking a moment to think she smiled and bobbed her head. “Two trials. If you survive two trials here on your own, you win and I’ll help you. Lose and you’ll just be another dead fish, so I guess that’s penalty enough.”

“Two trials?” the thought of all that time under the baking sun without water was too much. “I won’t survive two trials.”

“Quitter.” She said, folding arms across her lanky chest, “I follow the rules. If you survive for two trials, I’ll make you better…but if I do, you have to play more games with me.” Narav bit back the impulse to shout at her, tear his own voice to demand she help him. It was useless. She might not even exist…it was something he dared not examine, till now. Infection had a way of playing on the senses. Maybe he only thought he saw the girl, that his mind had conjured of this aggravating illusion only to taunt him in his last moments…or something. It was difficult to think.

“Fine.” He said at last, poking the sticks into a lean-to and turning back toward the forest to find kindling, “I accept your terms.”

She clapped her hands together excitedly and grinned. “Don’t go too far, alright? I’m going to take care of a few things and I’ll be back in two days to see if you win the challenge. Don’t go doing anything exciting while I’m gone, alright?”

“I’ll try…not to,” Narav mumbled, taking a moment to lay his head against the sand and breathe. The world twisted and turned with such jarring force he couldn’t get his bearings. Everything was a chore and all the time he wasted his sister could be alone in Andaris looking for him.

Or maybe she drowned.

Narav shook the thought out of his head violently, banishing the horrors to another corner of his thoughts. He didn’t have time to waste imagining. The sun hung low over him, dipping toward the waves. The tide would be in soon, faster than he had planned. Desperately he scooped more out of the makeshift fire pit, trying to ignore the fact his right arm was growing numb. Blood marked his progress from the beach to the edge of the forest. Gathering dried twigs, dead grass, and larger sticks he tried to remember the lessons his adoptive father had taught him in Ne’hear. A fire was essential to surviving for the next few days and so he had to work fast. He didn’t have the strength to try and force the spark with friction, so he had to do it with sunlight. The spyclass in his pocket had been chipped in his toss on shore, but surely the glass would be enough to catch the light and focus the sun.

But as Narav got into position, the sun bled into the horizon, sinking into the sea and leaving him cold in the approaching night.

The night was the worst Narav had ever experienced. The snarls and calls of wild animals always felt dangerously close. Tiny sand-colored crabs fed on the dried blood he left in the sand. Thrice in the night he awoke from feverish dreams to swat the tiny pricks of pain of crabs testing his flesh. Eager. Always eager. The sea was not content with its lost soul and even now sent its minions to drag it back. Narav muttered nonsense in his half-state, a foot in the grave and the other stumbling to grip the world. Both hands danced in the realm of dreams and so the young man lay between three worlds as fate decided which he belonged to. Fortunately, the night was not as cold as he had thought. Having dried in the sun before it vanished, he weathered the night in the sand. His breath made tiny indention, small pits for the sand fleas and spiders to traverse before morning light tore its way across the sea.

The first day found Narav dry-throated and bleary. His arm no longer hurt but it did throb, pulsing as if the whole of it was one heart, senselessly trying to rip free his skin and burst upon the sand. Narav didn’t need to look at his wound to know it was infected, he could smell the sickness in the air…a sour note beneath the sea-salt and sand. Tiny nicks and bites littered his exposed flesh, kisses from blood-hungry creatures hiding before the onslaught of day. Most of the morning Narav spent gathering wood from the edge of the forest and resisting the urge to drag himself to drink from the surf.

No, Narav, his adoptive father had said, The sea only grants madness to the thirsty and death to the foolish. Never trust it to save you. We take what we need from the sea, but never forget her hunger.

It sounded hungry, the gentle crish-crash of waves slipping pale seafoam fingers toward him. Narav fought the urge to vomit and laid his head on the sand. Too long. Everything felt like it was taking too long. Dragging the fractured spyglass from his pocket he tried to catch the sun. His stomach lurched and rolled, searching for the food he didn’t have to heave. Hours before the first halting beam of sunlight darkened the edge of a leaf. Narav held his breath, his body protesting. The noonday heat had begun to scorch along his pale skin. His ruined arm felt like it was cooking and Narav tried not to imagine fat, juicy sausages sizzling amid flames. An ember.

A spark.

Desperately the young man blew on it, nurtured it. One might have thought it was a newborn, a fledgling dearer to life than death the way he curled his body possessively around it. The wind rose, beating uselessly against the tatters of his clothing and Narav bit back a rueful chuckle. It grew, from a lick to a flame to a crackling beast, hungrily devouring the meager offering of driftwood and leaves he fed it. Narav scrambled, taxing his body to gather larger branches from the edge of the woods. A pawprint in the soft mud, canine. Narav bit back worry and built the fire higher. His tutor would have his head, scraping on the land like some newborn whelp. Where was his survival training now? Where was the drilled instruction? He’d be dead soon anyways without water and medical help anyways, raving of thirst and infection. Useless on the bay.

Flopping like a fish. Dead Fish.

The child’s tone chilled him to his bones. He could still hear her, listen to the grin on her lips infecting her words. He cast a wary eye at the line of trees, expecting to see her freckled face and smile. She was the kind to watch a man suffer, watch and laugh. What…was she?

An Immortal? Some demon? He shuddered at the thought. If she were only a figment of his imagination he could rest assured he was truly alone…but the thought a creature like that would watch his struggles? And when he died? What then? Would she eat him? Narav laid back on the sand, the heat of the fire pushing against his tired bones. He angled his head where she had been standing last, half-hoping to see nothing.

Her footprints remained in the sand. A grim, wordless answer.

The second night came with a storm. Above him the clouds glowered, growling with dull fury. Wind whipped the sand over him and sent the insects and crabs scurrying for cover. A small blessing in trade for a much more dangerous situation. Narav curled around the fire he had built, desperately trying to shield it from the elements. Before the rain came, swift and pelting, he thought he might be able to keep it alive. Never had the flame risen more than a single tongue, devouring the wood he fed it almost in moderation. Narav loved the little fire he had made. There was something about its stubborn struggle that he could find meaning in. Here he was, wound putrefying, fever worsening, damp and parched on some spit of land. His family could be dead, lost to the gullet of the sea or worse…in some pirate’s hold. So long as it clung to life, so could he.

And then the rain came.

The fire did not last a break.

The dark was absolute, broken only by the forked tears of lightning across the uncaring sky. Narav desperately tried to crawl to the cover of trees, but made it only to the top of the sloping beach before a profound exhaustion wormed its way into his bones. He lay there, turning his mouth to the sky so he could taste the rain that fell there. Tantalizing, teasing, never enough to state the raging thirst. He was cold and hot, delirious. He saw her in the rain, the child with freckles and blazing eyes. He saw his sister, his father, the ship tossing on the sea.

He saw many things. Shapes and faces with no meaning. Some he tried to speak to, a gasping, low grown…others he flailed at uselessly. His mind couldn’t hold onto the illusions it created, each one falling behind the other in an unending gauntlet of sensation.

Death. He could feel it upon him. Part of him expected Vri, sorrowful and wan beyond the curtain of rain. Narav didn’t know whether his idea of Vri was really how the mortal looked like but he took comfort knowing someone was here to see his last.

I did my best, he thought, please…just let it be painless.

He reached out for the shape in the rain, lost his balance and fell onto his wounded shoulder. The pain kicked him into unconsciousness.

“Fish! Dead Fish! I’m here dead fish! Any more flip to your flop?”

A tiny foot. Kicking a sodden chest. He was aware of that but everything else was fuzzy, unclear. He tried to mumble something. Was it day? Night?

“Alive still?” She sounded disappointed and far away, but definitely unhappy. “Should have made it three trials, not two.”

A jolt of…something, tore through him and he awoke to clarity with roaring agony. He screamed, but it was soundless as his wound closed over, the wood removed and corruption gone. The sensation was like nothing he had experienced before, or would ever want to again. It felt invasive and powerful, like he’d been squeezed between the thumb and forefinger of some immense giant and came out whole. He gasped, and the child let go of his shoulder. Her eyes were glowing, a shade of putrid green and Narav shivered to behold them. Sighing, she offered him a waterskin.

“You win.” She said, “And I helped. No one can say I’m a sore loser.”

“What…are you?” He asked, unable to stop himself from guzzling the water. She watched him drink with curious fascination before she shrugged.

“Rude.” She stated, crossing her arms. “No thank you?”

“Thank you.” The words sounded alien in his own mouth, like he had to roll them around with his tongue before speaking them. His fingers found his shoulder, the sunburst of a scar there. This was reality.

“Lisirra,” She said at last, “My name is Lisirra and we have more games to play.”

Lisirra…Lisirra, the name sounded familiar. Somewhere, distantly, he remembered the name in some bygone lesson. That was worrying…someone important enough to name but not remember. An Immortal perhaps, or a powerful mage.

“Yes…” Narav slowly got to his feet, “A game. You’re right. I said I would play if you helped me.” Down both sides of the shore was open sand and trees. Nowhere in sight to run to.

“Don’t fret, silly.” She told him with a little laugh, “We won’t start right away. I spent two days thinking about the whole thing. It’ll be super fun.” He afforded her a raised eyebrow and she giggled. “You win if you find your family, all of them. Corpse or not, you gotta tag em to win. In the mean time, I give you a new game to play each Arc or so. If you lose, I find one of your family first.” She paused, batting her eyes coquettishly. “Mr. Fish, you really don’t want me to find them first.”

“Are they alive?!” Narav resisted the urge to grab the girl, his hands shaking as he thrust them at his side.

“Dunno,” She said with a girlish shrug, “Haven’t looked yet. But you, Mr. Fish, should worry about our game. I’ve marked you once, a little reminder of our stakes. And every time you find a new family member I’ll mark you again. Maybe you’ll start having fun, like me. I think I would like that.”

Narav kept himself in check, drawing his fingers to fists.

“City is north of here, you’ll find them.” She said with a wink, “Don’t take too long, I know you’re bound for Andaris…I’ll be sure to let you know when to go. Be sure to bring your competitive spirit! It would a shame for you to have flopped just far enough to live only to lose.”

She turned around to go, skipping along the beach toward the forest. Narav took a step after her. “Wait!” He called, his voice breaking with indecision, “How do I know you won’t cheat?”

“Silly fish,” She said, wagging her finger at him, “I am sickness. I always win eventually.”
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