[Approved by Pegasus] Solsarin Ilduan

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Approved Character
Posts: 45
Joined: Fri Oct 28, 2016 10:18 pm
Race: Human
Renown: 32
Character Sheet
Plot Notes
Wealth Tier: Tier 1



Solsarin Ilduan

Solsarin Ilduan
Date of Birth - 28 Zi'da, 690
Height: 6'3
Weight: 180lbs
Race: Human
Marks: None
Factions: None
Last edited by Solsarin on Sun Oct 30, 2016 9:56 pm, edited 8 times in total. word count: 20
User avatar
Approved Character
Posts: 45
Joined: Fri Oct 28, 2016 10:18 pm
Race: Human
Renown: 32
Character Sheet
Plot Notes
Wealth Tier: Tier 1




Sour. Intense. Sol's flesh is marred by imperfections; pale, blotched bruises and wicked scars score his body from head to toe. His natural form is lean and muscular, toned with a soldier's discipline that pervades his physique. Calloused hands, thick forearms that give way to narrow shoulders and a caved chest make for a contradiction in build, one that continues to developed abs, a burly waist, and built thighs that carry hints of a harsh routine born from a lack of genetic strength. Naturally handsome, he shows little concern for style, keeping an ill-trimmed beard and matted, brown hair cut enough to stray from obscuring his countenance. Gaunt, dark eyes sit beneath an even brow, all proportional, yet somehow stunted, a broken nose offsetting the visage with a violent reality.

As little as he seems to care for his exterior the forlorn image completes itself in a stylized attire designed for little more than obfuscation. Common outfits consist of black leathers, layered thick wools, and a woven black robe even amidst strong heat. Leather gauntlets cover his wrists and hands, fingerless, they allow for control but fail to hide an occasional arthritic twitch. Clumsy footfalls make themselves known through thick-soled boots that roll into frayed breaches, those held together with an ever-present sword belt adorned with dual sheathes that house a worn dagger and a long blade, the latter's hilt wrapped with red-stained bandages. A series of pouches and buckles line his waist the contents of which shift with a melodic chime at every other step.


Addicts make for odd fellows. Sol is no exception. Prone to vicious mood swings his only consistent, observable trait is the occasional half-speech mumbled or shouted to the shadows. He is a serious man. Few actions are unplanned, social activity without purpose yields dull, passing interest. Little satiates the obsessive tick in his mind for power, a glaring flaw that forces strict, stern action in the form of intense self discipline.

Sol is a horrible conversationalist, if a philosophical one. He tends to muse in lieu of banter and will spend hours pontificating on the purpose of a rock than seek solace in warm discourse. Everything about his manner is obsessive; whether he is training his physical or mental self, he does nothing haphazard and carries out his actions in a cold, calculating method that leaves little room for sympathy. Despite these sociopathic tendencies Sol does display a surprising degree of empathy in the face of misery, offering small kindnesses to those with little means. Whether he does so out of disdain for excess or a true streak of altruism remains a subject of debate.

With a small social circle, little concern for his fellows, and a wounded sense of self, the mage can be erratic and dangerous at the best of times. Often he attempts to distract himself with small hobbies; writing, language, and adhering to a rigorously strict schedule of discipline, but even such raw dedication does little to curb the desire to Flay.

  • Body Part, Eyes: Solsarin's eyes are now a Mercury Silver, speckled and all.
"I lost everything and it haunts me still."
41 Cylus, 716
I write now to put myself in some semblance of order. How I came to be in such a wretched state is no grandiose tale, no bard-song for the ages, but I find myself drawn to insatiability. The urges to draw upon life itself consumes my thoughts, my dreams; and this harrowing shadow of mine does me no favors in its incessant prattling. So whom then do I turn? The laws of this State sour on my "gift," assuredly any confidant would do away with me, even within the confines a sacred drunken rant; no, all I possess are thoughts to my company, my own power of will to resist. To combat a deathly desire a distraction this remains.

The Arc and specific season of my birth grow hazy with time, perhaps from too many blows to the skull, or rather from a dull upbringing. My parents hail from the Eternal Empire - though I have no concept of their current health their insignificant deaths give me no pause - and hold no such positions of prestige; my father a state scribe (of whence this miraculous penmanship stems), and my mother a lush, neither favored me nor did I return any unrequited love. I imagine my sire educated me to his best as to not draw embarrassment from a lame offspring. No, they gave their attentions to my elder, a sister, a prodigy of mind and spirit. I was to be a second point of pride. Was. My development remained decidedly average, as did my aptitudes. To this end I assumed the position of the "ignored." With her myriad activities I would be surprised should my sibling remember my name, let alone existence - as it is I believe I have forgotten hers; something with an "A." Nevertheless, this position suited me. It left me time.Time to galavant, to explore. To waste.

"Beregrin's Primer of the Ancient Tongue? You, really?" Aelerian scoffed. She pushed her own studies aside, a thick tome dedicated to the human anatomy, and peered over her desk at the uglier, male version of herself. Sol arched his brow. He lowered the pages of the primer, dark eyes eyes glowering at an icy blue stare. From the floor she towered over him. Only enough room for one desk in the singular 'library,' Sol's interests lay strewn around the corner; the day's writing lesson, a flattened pillow, a glass of liberated wine, and of course a stack of books detailing the utter intricacies of language, chief among them "Linguistic Origins, a Summary and Study of Grammar, Content, and Design." He kept the book down long enough for the scowl to sink in before he raised the pages back up to skim the last paragraph for the fourth time. Something or another about the subtly of articles. Beregrin was not a succinct man.

"Don't ignore me, child." Sol grimaced. He sighed and grabbed at his wine, washing the venom he so wanted to spew back down his throat. A wooden rustle and the scrape of a chair drew his attention. Aelerian stomped her way about the desk and came to a halt above the stunted Sol, her maturing height a stark contrast to the boy of eleven arcs. "Can you even comprehend any of that?" His eyes flickered up. Golden locks of kept beauty framed that perfect, heart shaped face, those almond-shaped eyes. Sol frowned. The girl rolled her eyes and grabbed at the pages, tearing the book from his hands despite tugs of resistance.

"You know father would punish you for ignoring your letters for such useless drivel. Only Immortals speak the Ancient Tongue, silly." She stepped aside and canted about the room, her eyes scrolling over the pages with impressive speed. They never once retraced a passage. Sol felt his cheeks flush. "As if you would ever meet an Immortal." She snorted, sighed, then shook her head, pausing long enough to toss the book over her shoulder.

Sol flailed his arms out and missed the projectile, the corner jutting itself into his forehead. He fell onto his side and grasped at the pain. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes. He did not whimper. Instead he glared out beneath a wrinkled palm, his sole attention on the trial of a young woman as she made her way to the hall.

"Father," she called. "Sol stole wine again!"

Perhaps I remember things too harshly. Was life so wrong? I could have been born an urchin. I suppose then I would not hold such ire, maybe then I would not be so driven. Perhaps.
7 Ashan, 716
While I do not remember the date of my birth, nor my true age, I use the mark of my enlistment now to denote the passing of years. This grants me an idea as to my arcs; somewhere in the early onset of thirty. So much of my memory remains inaccessible. Only moments of true import remain clear though I suppose that is common among the human population. Do Immortals possess perfect minds, or do they do misremember? With such agelessness how delightful would it be for details to simply be replaced? A blessing, then, for us mortals to forget. If only I could lose more.

I served Raskalarn. Though not directly I fought my way through her professed enemies in the glorious expansion of the Empire. I was too young for such carnage. That of war. I lied, of course, to join at an early age - a singular advantage of appearing older than one is, but once I did hit maturity it happened all at once. If late. My Decadrion, I recall, seemed to know my secret. He took an interest in my development. He must have known the scars I would bear and that I had no desire of patriotism. My reasons for violence were selfish, foolish even. Did he see my potential? Or did he merely understand my rage?

The wet, sickening crack of metal on wood made Sol smile. Today they trained in the rain with practice blades. These Arming Swords served little purpose in formation; too long, they posed a threat to the man beside you, but alone the longer blade assured advantages a gladius did not possess. He struck his dummy counterpart, one direct arc over his shoulder to the neck, beneath the safety of a helmet and above a pauldron. Precision meant survival. A gruff voice gave cadence behind the line of recruits, it belonged to a tall, weathered veteran. A Decadrion. Strike, he called, so Sol struck. Once. Again. He hefted the dull blade in the technique they spent the first week pounding into his skill. Grip lose, tight on the blow, arm cocked then extended, elbow bent, wrist straight. The blade rang out under the strain and by the tenth assault he felt his arm tire. His muscles ached. The fatigue extended from his finger callouses to the back of his shoulder; even his legs burned, the stances being essential. Push from below, they instructed, your power comes from resistance and conflict.

Strike. Sol obeyed. All the while the dummy stared at him, that featureless mask of wood; it almost taunted him. The marks he made were superficial, mere blemishes to that material flesh. Strike. What good did the same movement do? Would he be defend himself with such weakness? He lodged the blade beneath the armpit this time. Armor weakened at the joints the man taught them, blows to plate or chain did little. Sol realized he towered over the wooden man, yet his lanky arms did less than he wanted. Size did little. He needed power. Strike. Again, a slight marring of an otherwise pristine surface. His cheeks flushed. Cool water stained his face, it soaked his clothes, weighed him down. His arms disobeyed him. He lifted the sword again to little avail. Useless. The others continued with the practice, unfatigued, they followed each command without hesitation. Even here he could feel his father's words. Useless. Lame. Be more like your sister.

"No breaks, recruit!" The voice stood behind him now. It barked at him. "You tired? Tough shit, do you think your enemy will care? Do you think your brothers and sisters will care how hard it is when a spear finds their back because you broke then line? Strike!" Sol grunted. He narrowed his gaze. "Come on you useless bastard, strike!"

He snapped. Sol issued a blood curdling scream and leapt at the dummy. The face held features now. A hawkish nose, dark, scowling eyes, those gaunt cheeks. He found the will to raise his arms again, his knuckles turning white at his grasp. One hit. The clash echoed across the training field. Another. Again. Three, four, the man before him lost an arm, a leg, he hacked at the limbs over and over until the wood caved in. A final, extended blow ripped the head from the torso. Sol slipped and fell back into the mud. His chest heaved, tears streamed down his cheeks, the salt mixing with the rain to save his pride. He noticed the silence now. The others in the line turned to watch the boy and no cadence rang out behind him. Instead, he stared at the wooden wreck before him, its form annihilated.

"Hah." Sol felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see the grizzled veteran smiling. "Good, boy, anger will save your life. Now get up. And get another dummy, we've another half-day yet to go."

Few I believe experience the camaraderie of soldiers. Isaak had no true born sons, so he turned to me for solace in his legacy. My intelligence intrigued him. I could be more than a soldier, a Legionnaire of little consequence. I believed him. I needed to. Did I not join the Legion to prove my worth? To be something great? His death, I believe, I lament more so than my loss of potential. More so than I pity my own status.
25 Ymiden, 716
I find myself drawn to the inaccuracy of memory. It is a common phenomena for one to edit their experience, if only to ease the pain of sleep, to lack that embarrassment we all feel at our failings. To do so with my own past would be counter productive. For these writings are for me alone and to alter my sins gives cause - or worse, justification - to repeat them. I must feel shame, I must experience the raw negativity of my actions, for without this relentless self-loathing I risk becoming the very thing I detest. So it is then that I remain as close to the truth as I may recall. However difficult that may be.

Our campaign led us west, to Rynmere. I had never left the confines of the Empire before then and I suppose I would have preferred viewing a new country as a tourist instead of a conqueror. At the time, though, that new land was naught but housing for inferior fools, all of them standing in the way of the Empire. Propaganda ruled my thoughts. I was young, still naive, driven by tales of glory woven by hardy veterans. I spent my evenings within myself, lost to the idea that I may advance and become great. An act of raw heroism would earn me a personal invitation to meet Raskalarn; my sister would eat her words and I, a great man, would need no such admiration, and I would forgive her these trespasses. Obviously. Too silent, I remained, cut off. Hindsight breeds many revelations; had I partook in those glorious marching songs, made more friends might they have looked for me?

The sun cast no shadows at noon, only reflections. A flash glinted off Sol's own plate. It caught the right angle to momentarily blind him. He staggered only to be shoved back to order by the Legionnaire beside him. Men shouted around him. Some called formations, others relayed orders to the back lines. Sol shook his head and shuffled his feet back into a resting stance. Breath, he remembered. You must breath. A deep inhale brought the stench of sweat and mud, blood, and a strange hint of a fresh glade. The wood they fought within was still damp with the previous night's deluge; another factor that played to the plight of the Century. He glanced forward beneath that thick, stifling helmet. The forest loomed with an air of silence. The first day gave them hope; a few dozen lightly armed militia he thought, harriers, but with the second and third their enemies' numbers grew and the Legion diminished.

Isaak growled to Sol's left. The man's shoulders hunched, his gladius brandished and shield raised. His knuckles grew white. Sol frowned at the unease of his mentor. The Decadrion stood tall in battles previous, he remained a beacon, a rallying cry that grasped victory from the clutches of defeat. Yet now he stood with a grimace and short, ragged breaths. What did he see that Sol could not? This fight seemed no less desperate than any before.

"Shields up!" The cadence proceeded a harsh wall of sound as men raised their tower shields in unison. Sol fell into routine. He exhaled and felt his mind calm at the familiar weight. Breath, he thought. Inhale. He brought his gladius up next and stiffened his shoulders, facing forward, his body locked into place beside his fellow soldiers. Where were they? He shifted his gaze left, then right. No one. No vast infantry, no storming horses. Only silence. The air grew heavy, thick with fear, Sol listened to men around him shiver, he listened to their hushed whispers and whimpering breaths. They knew it too.

His shield titled from a pinpointed impact. Too light for an arrow. Another plink. One beside him. He looked down his boot as a rock fell. Small, no threat. How odd, but where did they come from? Sol looked out from his diminutive view. There, within the tree line, more skirmishers. They abandoned their slings and taunted them with these pittances. Sol scoffed and redoubled his focus. Calm, now, remain strong. "Foward, march!" Another order. Sol blinked and glanced aside at Isaak. The old soldier shook his head. As one, the Century moved, thunderous footfalls breaking the stillness of the wood.

"Isn't that what they want?" Sol whispered.

"Silence, boy." Isaak rang with vehemence. "Do not break formation. Stay close to me. When the wall fails abandon your gladius and watch my back." Sol nodded, his gaze narrowing. He pushed the fear into the back of his mind. Instead he fell back into practiced habits; he focused on the march, on his shield held high. The burn of his arm did nothing to weaken his resolve. Rest brought relief, and one must first survive to rest. The unit advanced as one, raw discipline forcing soldiers through yet another fight. The Legion neared and the Rynmerians retreated deeper into the wood. The rocks kept coming.

"Behind us!" The shout came from behind the formation. Men turned their attention to the sudden onset of hooves and the rattle of plate. "No! Keep forward!" Isaak called after too late. The rocks ceased, instead replaced by arrows. Several shafts took the distracted men in the backs, bypassing the strength of the wall. The horses neared. A blood curdling roar rose from ahead and armored infantry charged from nowhere, a full line of unseen aggressors. "Hold the line! Hold the line!" Isaak pulled warriors back to fill the holes left by the dead. Legionnaires shuffled into place while Sol watched the charge. Knights, not militia. Damn it. Damn it. He braced himself.

The initial clash pushed the line back. Some lost their footing and fell to a storm of blades, their cries lost amidst the sudden clang of steel on steel. The line filled itself. Sol pushed back, he heard a man grunt before he thrust he gladius out catching the same fool in the gut. Blood ran down the hilt to his hand. Warm. He withdrew the strike and prepared himself. Another impact on his shield. He resisted and repeated as he always did. Shoulder down, push, unbalance, strike. Focus forward. Sol fell into the trance of battle. He lodged his blade into another soldier and listened to a drowning breath, the gurgle of blood in one's lungs. The singular sound of death replaced the cries of pain and fear that filled the empty air.

"Sol!" The boy paused. He looked to Isaak's to find his eyes wide, his mouth agape. Sol followed the stare. To the right Rynmerian Mounted Knights tore through the formation, casting men beneath vicious, gnashing hooves. "Break! Run!" All at once Sol dropped his shield. He stepped forward, ducked beneath a long blade and shoved the tip of his gladius into a lightly armored Rynmerian. He watched the light fade from those green eyes. No time to hesistant. Sol released his grip from the weapons hilt and let the corpse fall. He fell into step beside Isaak and drew the longer arming sword from his hip. Together they broke from the line and advanced away from the Calvary. The freedom from structure allowed him to flourish.

A quick parry to an axe lead to a gash across a man's neck. Sol felt his focus hone on the singular goal of battle. Survive. Isaak cut a swath of death ahead of them while he took the stragglers to keep the veteran's back safe. Another blade. Sol slammed his weapon into the offending strike and slid the flat down. A slick screech of metal proceeding a tear, more blade as he twisted the sword beneath a wrist and lopped off a man's hand. Back to form. Sol recoiled and jerked to the side, intercepting a mace meant for Isaak's back and shoving a hilt into an unprotected face. The crunch drew bile from the boy's throat. He spat and forced another step forward.

They advanced, quickly, away from the lost Century, deeper into the forest itself. Ahead the soldiers thinned, a few avoiding the duo for fear of the chemistry they displayed. Sol allowed himself a grin. Hope. Survive.

Something twisted his shoulder. Sol moved with the impact, focus waning under the pressure. He whipped around to see Isaak convulsing with several arrow shafts embedded into his chest. Oh. Sol blinked and fell to a knee. He tightened his grip around his second blade and screamed. Time, somehow, seemed slow now, as he watched his captain fall onto his back. Sol lunged up, his face flushed, a battle rage replacing the cold, hard focus of control. The edge piercing the chin of another soldier, the blade ripping through his flesh and out again. Another impact. This time at his back. Sol fell, the arrow in his shoulder chiding deeper as he met the ground. Breath, he had to breath. He inhaled in half, ragged gasps. His arms did not respond, nor did his legs. All he could do was lay, lay and watch as men tramped the corpse of a surrogate father. Death, he mused, did not hurt much, at least.
3 Saun, 716
I find myself apprehensive. These memories I carry without a single error. At times I do not believe my own recollection, but my shadowed companion strives for perfection, as I am reminded of time and again. Horror is too ineffectual a word. The abject terror that awaited me upon waking from what I knew to be death. Darkness. I held control over my senses; feeling, scent, sound, and while I felt my eyes dart about I saw naught. Only hell. What I remember most were the screams. They howled with such unimaginable fear. I knew war, I knew the sound a man made when he felt his death upon him, but this. I could not imagine such a fate that could draw such cries of terror from seasoned veterans. I can now. With the utmost clarity.

The dreams began after I cried myself to exhaustion the first night. They made no sense. A shadowed veil felt to prod my mind, it sought something; yet I felt no care, some callous intent that held me no more special than a stone. Until, that is, I resisted. Something softened then, a piqued curiosity. Voices followed, too far away to hear, they held no form or meaning, merely whispers of tongues. I had no way to determine the passing of trials so I can not fathom how frequent these dreams returned, but they did return, and they grew steadily worse. Each time I drifted to sleep the veil returned. I began to recognize the force was another mind. It railed against my own. Thrashed at my stability. It pulled the strands of sanity I had apart and the whispers came clearer. It spoke of death, my own, of those within this hell. Yet I felt no fear. I had already died. What was another failing.

Meditation came easy now. Sol pushed the pangs of hunger from his mind. Focus. He listened to the steady drip of the cavern, a perpetual plunk of water on rock. A soft scent of mildew and lichen passed his nostril, the only variable in the stale, humid air. Decay filled his lungs. Breath. His chest heaved in slow, heavy draws; inhale, he took in the dead air of his prison, exhale, push out the rot. A sort-of peace fell over Sol's mind. The darkness fed his imagination. Images played against his mind's eye: lush, green fields, towering marble cities. Hairs on the back of his neck stood up against a cool ocean breeze. Sol's lips turned up into a half grin. He ran amidst the peaceful chirp of morning bird song, stretched his legs and fell back into a bed of soft grass. A blue sky stretched far beyond the horizon, giving way to black, billows clouds. Black? Sol's brow narrowed. Thunder erupted from afar. The wind picked up and howled. It pushed him from his reverie. Something approached.

A flicker of light rounded a corner. Time for water, it seemed. Clumsy footfalls thunked over to Sol's cage. The shadowed figure of a cloaked man stood at the edge of his gate, his features obscured from light blindness. Sol raise and arm to shield his eyes. No bucket today. So sloshing of liquid. He sat, his legs crossed, arm up, eyes narrowed and exchanged stares with his captor. Minutes passed. Hours. No, only moments. Time held such little meaning now.

"Still alive." Sol's countenance slipped. His mouth fell agape. Words? The voice fell harshly on his mind. Low, sickly. "Good. You were right, this one is strong. He will do." The soldier's eyes darted about the cavern. Who did the man speak to? He strained, but his vision failed him, the light illuminated only rock and steel bars. Yet. He heard something, whispers? A dark, cacophonous tone, scratching at the edge of his senses. Dreams played in his mind. A memory of death, of intrusion. "This is what I need. You, soldier, you will be the next step." The cloaked fellow giggled. His torch flickered, casting enough light to glimpse the form beneath the hood. A sick, pale face peered out, black, sunken eyes and a skeletal face. Sol fell to his back.

"Wh-what devilry?" Sol's voice came out as weak whisper. His dry throat made only ragged protests.

"I've not time for resistance, child. Be still." Sol withdrew farther. A sigh followed. "Very well. Suffer." From behind the cloak two red spheres of chaotic energy erupted from nothing. They pulsed in the air and advanced with terrifying speed without physical direction. Sol's eyes widened. He flailed at the ground and pushed, his weakened legs scrambling to gain footing. His shoulder burned from his recent wound, his muscles cried out. No food for days, his muscles ached and ground against one another. Sol fought to no avail. He slipped and landed on the cold rock below as both spheres passed into his body.

The screams that emanated from his lips seemed leagues away. Sol found himself staring down at himself, his body convulsing, his mouth open as horrid gasps and cries leapt from his lungs. He felt nothing here, safe in his separation. Move, he thought. Nothing. The form below followed no commands, succumbed as it did to pain. The cloaked man advanced. Behind him a giant showed moved in his wake, not apart of but joined in same unhallowed union. Sol watched in terror as the man laid a thin, worn palm on his chest.

Silence. His senses abandoned him. Sol found himself back in his own body. No pain. The seizures halted and his mind found clarity, a warmth within his entire being. The flicker of the torch scratched at his ears. The familiar drip came back, water on rock, the scent of rot. Of death. He understood now. This process, he knew it, he imagined the horrors responsible. Soon he too would join the others in one, final act. His vision sharpened, his mind steeled. The ground itself held new sensations, more than cold; deep, strong, the rock continued for untold fathoms. A renewed energy coursed through his spirit. Then the pain returned. No screams this time.

"Ah. It is done." The man giggled again. "Enjoy your new awarness, boy, and let it feed me." The mage withdrew a wicked, curved dagger from his cloak. Get up. Sol's eyes focused. Isaak's cadence resounded in his mind. Strike. His fingers twitched. The dagger rose into the air. Anger will save your life. A featureless mask replaced the sickened face. Wood. A dummy that melted away to a hawkish nose and dark, scowling eyes. Sol lashed his arm out and grabbed the torch beside him. The mage arched a brow. The pain grew tenfold. Electric shock coursed through Sol's body. His form shook. It did not dull his purpose. Another scream passed his lips, this one fueled with rage; it reverberated against the stone and he leapt up. The dagger pierced his shoulder as he thrust the torch into mage's open mouth. Their bodies fell in a heap, together. Training took root. Sol wretched an arm free and ripped the dagger from his flesh. On, solid motion brought the blade down on the man's chest.

There, in the mage's dying breath, Sol felt power. Something attempted to escape. No. There was no release for this one. With his enhanced awareness Sol reached out and grasped at the thread, a single tendril of energy and yanked the ether from the corpse of his tormentor. A new warmth coursed first through his hands, up his shoulders then down into his body. The sensation spread with rapid alarm, turning from a comfortable heat to a biting cold, then back again. His body shook. Power. True power enveloped every fiber of his self. Within his revelation a voice pierced his skull. The same, shadowed whisper he knew, yet now stronger. Near.

You are interesting, human. It spoke to him, and to him alone.

Desperation drives men to do marvelous things. Sometimes terrible, yet nonetheless impactful. I knew not the scars I put upon my soul that day, that I lead myself down a path of addiction and sorrow. Here now I sit, shaking, my words almost illegible. Not from nerves or fear, but the hunger. It consumes me. My companion drives me to these acts of heresy, of death and the reaping of souls. I may not resist today, or tomorrow, but I endeavor to fight these temptations. These entries help, but I know not when next I will strike and sin. May someone forgive me.

Sol resides at the Ye Old Inn within Andaris, indefinitely renting one of the "poor" quality rooms.
Last edited by Solsarin on Mon Nov 07, 2016 1:52 am, edited 9 times in total. word count: 5228
User avatar
Approved Character
Posts: 45
Joined: Fri Oct 28, 2016 10:18 pm
Race: Human
Renown: 32
Character Sheet
Plot Notes
Wealth Tier: Tier 1




Acquired Skills


SkillPoints AcquiredTotal Points SpentProficiency
Blades (Arming Sword) 25/100 (25/251) Novice
Endurance 10/100 (10/251) Novice
Strength 5/100 (5/251) Novice
Shielded Combat 10/100 (10/251) Novice


SkillPoints AcquiredTotal Points SpentProficiency
Meditation 24/100 NA: FT Novice
Linguistics 5/100 (5/251) Novice


SkillPoints AcquiredTotal Points SpentProficiency
Filler0/100 (0/251)Novice


SkillPoints AcquiredTotal Points SpentProficiency
Writing 10/100 (10/251) Novice


SkillPoints AcquiredTotal Points SpentProficiency
Aberration 30/100 (35/251) Competent
Acquired Knowledge

Art of War

  • Axes: Put your Weight Behind your Attacks
  • Unarmed, Brawling: Kick to the Face
  • Unarmed Combat, Brawling: Dodge, Duck
  • Unarmed Combat, Brawling: Hold, Armlock
  • Blades: Basic Combat
  • Blades, Arming Sword: Feet Shoulder Width Apart
  • Blades, Arming Sword: Technique (Thrust)
  • Blades, Dagger: Draw and Stab
  • Blades, Gladius: Basic Strikes
  • Endurance: Repetition of Movement
  • Endurance: Keeping Formation while Fatigued
  • Endurance: Often, Emotions can Provide a Boost
  • Endurance: Pain Can Make You Focus
  • Endurance: The Mind Overpowers the Body
  • Strength: Removing a Stuck Blade
  • Tactics: Combat Formations


  • Meditation: Finding the Inner Calm
  • Meditation: Ignoring External Distractions
  • Meditation: Emotional Balance
  • Meditation: Breathing Techniques
  • Meditation: A deep breath to calm the nerves
  • Meditation: Staying calm in the heat of battle
  • Detection: The Sounds of Life in Nature
  • Detection: Spotting Someone Who is Lying
  • Detection: The Sound of a Galloping Horse


  • Aberration: Technique, Flaying
    • Flaying: The tendril of energy has to be found at the moment of death
    • Flaying: An Addictive (and dangerously so) Practice
  • Aberration: Limitations of the Sphere
  • Aberration: The Harvester
  • list
  • Requires Power
  • Made a Pact
  • Learning the Limitations
[*]Dustforge: To Do with Imbuement and Wells[/list][/columns]


  • Linguistics: Basic Analysis
  • Writing: Basic Penmanship


  • Location: Rynmere
  • Location: Ye Olde Inn
  • Location, Rynmere: Hangwood
  • Location, Rynmere: Venora
  • Navigation: Venora, West of Andaris


  • Common [Fluent]
  • Ancient Language [Broken]


SkillPoints AwardedPoints SpentRunning Total
Blades (Arming Sword) 25[RB] 25 00
Starting Package 50 00 50
Aberration 00 15 35
Endurance 00 5 30
Linguistics 00 5 25
Meditation 00 5 20
Writing 00 10 10
Shielded Combat 00 10 0
Aberration +4 [PG] 00 0
Meditation +5 [PG] 00 0
Endurance +5 [PG] 00 0
Devouring, A Case Study +10 00 10
Aberration 00 6 4
Meditation 00 4 0
You Stone Alone +10 00 10
Aberration 00 2 8
Meditation 00 3 5
Strength 00 5 0
Along the Road +10 00 10
Aberration 00 8 2
Meditation 00 2 0


Total Currency: 0 ON, 146 GN, 2 SN, 0 CN
Starting Package [City Dweller] ... +100gn
Cashed in Housing ... +250gn
Arming Sword [G] -40gn ...
Gladius [G] -24gn ...
Heater Shield [M] -10gn ...
Leather Armor [N] -10gn ...
Leather Gauntlets [N] -5gn ...
Leather Greaves [N] -5gn ...
Wool Cloak -11gn ...
Scribes Kid x3 -54gn ...
Blank Journal -5gn ...
Non-Fiction Book x2 -20gn ...
Set of Six Torches -3gn ...
Large Bag [Straps/WP Leather] -1.8gn ...
x3 Magical Tomes Loot ...
Jeweled Dagger Loot ...
Rumor Bribe -5gn ...


Character Sheet Review +20 20
Human in Rynmere +10 30
Scribe in Rynmere +10 40
Devouring, A Case Study -8 32
You Stand Alone -2 30
Along the Road -2 28




[Details Forthcoming, lists for now.]
  • Arming Sword
  • Jeweled Dagger
  • Gladius
  • Leather Armor Set [Armor, Gauntlets, Greaves, Fauld]


  • Compass
  • Toiletries [Soap, Comb, Razor, Toothbrush, Razor]
  • Waterskin
  • Eating Utensils x2 Sets
  • Tinderbox
  • Scribe's Kit x3
  • Blank Journal
  • Non-Fiction Book x2
  • Oil-Soaked Torches x6
  • Large Leather Bag w/ Shoulder Strap [Waterproof][/columns]


  • Clothing Set [All Black]
    • Coat
    • Shirt
    • Undergarments
    • Pants
    • Boots
  • Black Wool Cloak


  • Magical tomes, containing basic and sometimes inaccurate information on Aberration and Dustforge. x3
Last edited by Solsarin on Tue Nov 08, 2016 1:14 am, edited 17 times in total. word count: 623
User avatar
Approved Character
Posts: 45
Joined: Fri Oct 28, 2016 10:18 pm
Race: Human
Renown: 32
Character Sheet
Plot Notes
Wealth Tier: Tier 1




Thread List
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