[CS] The Curse of Valeisea

Post Reply
User avatar
Jr. Member
Posts: 110
Joined: Thu Oct 05, 2017 10:50 pm
Location: Up in de' north

[CS] The Curse of Valeisea

Post by F R O S T » Tue Oct 24, 2017 8:30 am

Character Profiles for The Curse of Valeisea RP

REQ Page - http://rp-forums.net/viewtopic.php?f=27&t=5153&start=30
Main RP Page -
OOC Page - http://rp-forums.net/viewtopic.php?f=48&t=5172

1X1 RP Annasiel and F R O S T








Last edited by F R O S T on Tue Oct 24, 2017 7:51 pm, edited 1 time in total.
“I'm a sheep wearing wolves' clothing in a pack of wolves.”

User avatar
Jr. Member
Posts: 110
Joined: Thu Oct 05, 2017 10:50 pm
Location: Up in de' north

Re: [CS] The Curse of Valeisea

Post by F R O S T » Tue Oct 24, 2017 9:22 am

Last updated: 10/24/2017
Theme: https://open.spotify.com/album/5MCO0wyuKkc5TWa1iq7b69 Rise by John Dreamer

Name: Fenris Saerimbor
“There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”
Age: 203

Appearance: Fenris stands at a height of 6'2'', his skin is tanned and scarred from working out on the field and defending his land against the creatures of darkness that preside in the kingdom. His hair is dark brown, shoulder length but often kept back away from his face in a piece of twine.
His eyes are light amber, sharp and bright, and has been described as "striking" by the other villagers in the community. As he is a half-elf, Fenris naturally has a handsome, angular face with strong jaw and an athletic build- his body has become the shape of his work his muscles adapted to pushing the plow without oxen, tilling the ground and working the earth and hard soil for hours.

His ears are not long like the ears of a high elf, rather it is about the size of a human's with a distinct point on the tip. This is typically how people can tell that he is only a half-elf and typically seen a lesser dignified trait.

Fenris wears an off-white woven shirt that hangs loose on his coltish body; ofen he rolled that sleeves of this shirt to his elbows. His trousers are dark brown, soft, cured leather that has clean, but visible stitches. These pants are tucked into brown leather boots that reach mid calf. He finds his clothes to be suited to his tastes and practical for movement in his work.

Of the scars that pock the surface of Fenris's skin, the most notable one cuts down his lips on the right plane of his face in a vertical impression. It has since healed to leave a discolored indent. The other more noticeable wound is a slash across his chest. It is jagged, the scar tissue raised and ugly.

To those Fenris does not know well, he is reserved, quiet and harbors a certain tension of distrust, he's not entirely malicious to strangers but years of conditioning and taught him better than to be inviting of them.
He is capable of being kinder and gentler than his outward appearance might suggest, but overall he's a stubborn man with a knack for sarcastic, biting remarks.

He knows the consequences of his actions and he likes to believe that he is better than a sharp remark or a petty act when push comes to shove. He rarely loses his temper, as he tries to keep his composure in an effort to think before he acts. (That's not to say he hasn't been in a couple brawls in his life.)

With a side of mischief, he can also be playful too. He doesn't put himself above a good laugh every now then. His understanding of this is that a in land so ruinous as this, why not find something to amuse oneself in the meanwhile?

Dancing in a world where there is little to celebrate, at the very least, there is that. For Fenris's family this was once their greatest pleasures in life while they lived- letting music take control, their bodies moved to the beat of a good and familiar melody. Within his family it was always tradition for the parents to teach their child every form of dance they knew; Fenris's father taught him.

was not something passed down to him by his family, it came with time and Fenris's unending hatred toward the king, the royal guards and the monsters that appeared over time during the plague. In his dancing, he is graceful, nimble and agile- with a sword in hand he is a wolf bearing its teeth.
During one of the initial rebellions that stamped down by the kingdom early on, he was known for his skill in wielding a sword- and with a sharp wit, his mind was not that of a scholar, but from a perspective of common sense.

Tracking is another skill Fenris obtained in time spent outside. He can make out the tracks of several beasts in the ground, in the soil or snow and roughly when they were made, notice the shuffle of leaves or a broken twig- he's even become familiar identifying the fur of animals.

Highly dexterous, coming from always working with his hands, Fenris Saerimbor was known for his speed and coordination. He could throw a rock and it was almost guaranteed to hit it's mark. In his youth, he was once scolded by his father for pick-pocketing a man who never noticed. Only his father's keen eyes had caught the act and in the same way Fenris had taken, his father had returned it. As a child, Fenris was challenged by a boy named Micah, to see who could fetch an apple from one of the tallest trees in the village. Now this boy was older, taller and stronger than young Fenris at the time, but he was no more clever.
When their competition began Micah sprang forward jumping onto the trunk of the great tree and shuffling up the bark. Fenris on the other hand stayed put on the ground, finding a rock while the boy climbed.
As his father had always said, it was not always brute strength that succeeded in battle.
Fenris took aim, doing what he knew he did best, he threw the rock and knocked the apple down from the highest bows of the tree. He caught the fruit triumphantly- and, in a flourish, took a huge bite.

He would never mention the fact that the bite tasted bitter and sour and he was so close to spitting. He just stood back to enjoy Micah's reddened face contorted with rage when he jumped down from the branches, a tiny, half rotted apple in his hand.
That day Micah punched him hard in the jaw where he lost one of his baby teeth toward the back and tackled him into the ground against the hard, fallen apples. That day, the both of them, as punishment for fighting in the neighbors yard were both forced to clean the rotting apples off the grass and feed them to the horses.

Fenris was born before the accursed plague wrought havoc upon the land. As a toddler, he was swaddled close to his mother while she harvested grains and vegetables from the field. He was just a child when his father taught him how to work the field. He was a young man when he was finally able to stay awake past bedtime to dance with the other villagers. He had kissed his first love that night, her lips sweet from the wine being passed in a skin around a fire.

Around this time the kingdom was already in shambles. His village in particular was overworked and overtaxed by the Kingdom. Every thirty days in the morning, a cavalry of royal-guardsman would come on horseback in shining armor demanding payment in full.
Fenris still remembers those days vividly when other villagers had a bad season and could not pay. He remembers one man's family watching as his ankles were bound by a rope and he was dragged by the guardsmen on horses through the rugged terrain of their village, Crimerea's outskirts. Everyone else who could hardly pay their own tax could do nothing but grieve along with the family as the man's body was torn asunder by the sheer force of being dragged against the familiar hard earth.

It was one thing to kill a man with dignity for his "crimes", it was another to shame him in front of his own blood.

From then on Fenris never forgot the horrors of the kingdom and what [they] were capable of. From that year on they witnessed four more similar deaths and in the years after that they only seemed to grow more creative with their executions.

He was a man when the plague hit. His growing pains had stopped and his voice had long broken from its squeaking alto to a smoother, deeper tenor.
His younger brother was the first to fall ill within the entire village. At the time his mother had separated the rest of the family from him. She took care of him herself, preying to the gods and goddesses every night that the rumors of a deadly sickness sweeping the land wasn't at her very doorstep.

He passed quickly and the Saerimbor family grieved as if the sun would never rise again.
No one could have seen how quickly and destructively the wave would hit when it actually did come.
By 50, still young for a half-elf, Fenris had become the only remaining Saemrimbor as he held his dying mother's hand while she wept and asked for reprieve in her wild delirium to reunite with her husband and Fenris's siblings quickly. She was hardly aware of him, waiting quietly by her bedside and holding her hands as her body stiffened and her veins turned black and hard. Death took her tortuously slow.

Years later, Fenris left the land he had buried his entire family beneath. He himself had stayed in isolation after, believing at the time that he would eventually follow his parents, brothers and sisters just as swiftly. He worked mindlessly in field, drinking, eating and doing only the bare minimum to survive and like his mother on her final day, wishing to see his family after missing them so terrible. Loneliness became his greatest enemy during those days of waiting. He began see and imagine thing that weren't there, the worse came when he thought he heard his parents singing as they once used to- but the echoes of their voice, still yet hauntingly beautiful were just echoes of a fading memory. The guards stopped coming to the village when they realized that there was no one left to take money from. They overlooked Fenris at the time- with the look in his eyes, it was clear enough; he was just another victim of poverty awaiting the plague, or death which ever came first.

When he finally did realize that by some cruel twist of fate, he was immune to the disease, he knew he had to move on,
and so he did.

In a small, nameless village hidden in the countryside within Valeisea, there is a plot of land where the grass is lush and overgrown, wild flowers dot the landscape in an array of violets and reds. It is here Fenris took up residence in the house of a gentle old woman called "Lorei". She, who prefers Fenris to think of her has his grandma offered him a room to stay in when he was no more than a poor traveler who resembled a drowned rat in the pouring rain.

Lorei, being too old to really work the field on her piece of land merely let Fenris work in order for him to justify his stay. He has lived here ever since, fixing things that were broken, helping neighbors with wasp nests in their orchards, bringing Lorei's flowers and produce to be sold and traded for when her arthritis kicked in and she could go herself.

He became a familiar sight after the first twenty years and he's stayed by her side ever since, always waking up early in the morning as per a routine he'd fallen into over the years. At the crack of dawn, there he was, chopping wood for her hearth in those chilly evenings, tending to the field and trying make her life as comfortable as possible as thanks toward her kindness.


Certainly there was a time before when his visage had been handsome, smiling sweetly and fox-like, she could see it in the echoes of his face, past his tanned skin and his scarred lips.
He may have looked broken, but he was far from it. He was not a fox at all- he was a sharpened piece of metal sticking up in the dirt, ready to slice the foot that steps upon it again, a wolf, biding its time in the woods with amber eyes shining, waiting for it's opportunity to strike.
- Lorei's thoughts

Forever wip
Last edited by F R O S T on Sat Oct 28, 2017 11:14 pm, edited 19 times in total.
“I'm a sheep wearing wolves' clothing in a pack of wolves.”

User avatar
Posts: 4513
Joined: Mon Jan 23, 2017 6:40 am
Gender: Female
Location: Somewhere grey and full of ghosts.

Re: [CS] The Curse of Valeisea

Post by Annasiel » Tue Oct 24, 2017 7:14 pm

Name: Therin Rineheil (Ther-un Reye-nale)

Age: 217


Therin stands a hair short of 5'7, though her willowy build and oft-taunt posture gives the impression of someone taller. Her limbs are lithe, arms ending in long hands with slender fingers, legs in delicate feet that slightly angle inward. She walks and acts with a measured air, a vestige of her early training. When pressured to move quickly, however, this languid finesse quickly turns ungainly.

White-blonde hair falls in a slight wave to the small of her back, held in place by even ringlets along the length. Her almond-shaped eyes, olive-green in color, seem to hold an edge of dedicated sternness, and her thin face naturally rests on solemnity. She has ivory-pale skin which, so long untouched by the elements, is soft and free of any scars or calluses. As a female high elf, her ears fold back from her head at a bend, ending a hands-length out in sharp points.

At the start of our story, she wears an ankle-length dress with a golden trim. It was a bright white, once, but lost its brilliance from the grime of travel. A thin leather belt with a golden buckle circles her waist, beneath which the dress pathetically flares in a shadow of its former form. The hem, once woven in an intricate braid, has been frayed beyond repair, and inch-long tears from tangled feet sometimes intrude on the dress itself. The bodice is high-cut yoke, decorated with the same braided trim as the hopeless hem. Beyond this, Therin has a single sandal with a plaited thong, the other lost miles back.


She may have been carefree once, if anyone could be carefree in the presence of a madman. She was happy, at least, and blind of the deeper flaws her father (and his kingdom) possessed. Over two-hundred years have passed since then, and time has not been kind. Therin is a cold woman. Not cold in the sense of emotionless, exactly, but she tries to distance herself from both her problems and from the world around her. She has had little experience interacting with other people, little social experience at all outside of her early formal training, and is completely ignorant in the ways of the modern world. Despite her reserved nature, she can be compassionate, especially if she feels the situation is unjust.


Finesse. Therin is capable at tasks requiring fine-motor coordination, such as drawing, sewing, and calligraphy.

Literacy. Begun with her father's teachings and continued throughout her imprisonment, Therin has studied a variety of topics. Though her main areas of knowledge are in local politics, philosophy, social custom, she also has a broad (though not very deep) understanding of both arcane and mundane science.

Eloquence. A bit of a byproduct of being well-read, Therin is also very well-spoken, though her skills in actual speech are rusty. She has a large vocabulary, including specialized terminology for matters of politics and state, and is able to easily understand complex writings.

Strategy. Years of time alone with old general's biographies and puzzle sets left Therin with a fascination for military strategy. She is nowhere near masterful, and only understands it on a conceptual level, but her abilities are certainly more honed than the average person.

Dressage. She has decent skill in "fancy" horsemanship, with the ability to perform basic sports feats such as trots and leaps.


Therin's real skill lies in the magic of glyphics, the use of runic circles to cast various conjurations and wards. To cast the glyph, she holds her left hand outward in a predetermined gesture, which generates an encircling projection. If, at any point during casting, Therin's concentration is broken, the glyph shatters painfully.



This glyph appears in the air where it is willed, acting as a one-time launchpad. Any physical object that collides with it is repelled in the opposite direction with double the initial momentum. The repelling half is determined during the spell's conjuration; if anything touches the opposing side, it will be shot through with the force of a cannon.



Initial casting of this glyph will immediately slow the motion of the target. Whether it be enemy, projectile, or falling hazard, it will continue forward at a quarter of its former speed, as if the air around them was turned viscous. It can also be bound to a container or doorway, effectively "locking" it shut until the glyph is broken.



A target is filled with a sense of euphoric courage. This feeling overpowers all other, weaker sensations, trumping any pain or fear the target may be experiencing. The effect can be dangerous, potentially causing an exacerbation of injuries due to the lack of pain. The effect fades when the glyph is no longer active.



When the glyph is cast, it forms on the off-hand arm of the caster (or the caster's target), acting as a shield against any physical or magical assaults. It has a diameter of 2 feet, and the apparent strength of a typical steel round shield. The shield remains active until the caster negates it, or it shatters from a too powerful blow.



While ineffective on living creatures, inanimate targets of this glyph will begin to slowly fall to pieces. Wood will rot, iron rust, rocks begin to crumble. The more durable the substance, the longer the spell must remain active before the target is destroyed, but extended exposure will inevitably turn any nonmagical material to dust.



The brightest of Therin's glyphs, Succor can function well as a source of illumination, but its true strength lies in its ability to heal and enliven others. For every second spent within the glyph's ambient light, minor wounds regenerate, bleeding stagnates, and hopes grow. While it cannot fully heal major wounds, it will extend a fatally injured person's lifespan indefinitely until more competent help arrives.



Six Years

"Something ought to be done about it. Oh, yes indeed, something must be done."

Therin barely glanced up, more enraptured by her drawing than her father's mad ramblings. It was commonplace, after all; he'd been doing it since she was born. The stone outside his study was worn into a rut from pacing, and he spoke so much under his breath, silence was discomforting. If the castle had any more than the two of them, she may have seen it as bizarre, but every servant and attendant had been dismissed the night the queen passed in childbirth. Well, all but a handful of guards and an old nurse named Nari, who hardly spoke for the few years she tended to the babe. Therin only had vague memories of Nari. A kindly woman with a wrinkled face, hazel eyes and an odd smile.


The thought was fleeting. It was silly to think anyone didn't have a tongue. She must have misremembered another word, like toothless.

People did lose teeth, she was proud to remember from her studies, especially when they get as old as Nari.

People also died when they got old, which was what she assumed had happened to the nice old servant. That must have been why Nari had visited in the dead of night, woken her from her sleep, and carried her out into the courtyard. That she could remember as crisp as the air that night, dark in the shroud of a new moon, dressed in a blanket of a thousand stars.

But after... Nothing but a haze. A haze, then loneliness.

"The damned roaches laid eggs of sin inside their heads!" the king screamed, shattering her thought. She jumped, a jagged line cutting through her drawing. He always muttered, but rarely screamed. "They must pay for it... they must..."

Silently, she picked up her fallen pencil, and again lost herself in the curves of imaginary skies.

Ten Years

It was the thunder that woke her, but the howling that kept her up. At first, she thought it the wind, trailing wuthering fingers through the castle's parapets and buttresses. As she listened, though, it took a distinctly human peal, rising to cracks, falling to throaty moans. Therin shivered, drawing the blankets tightly around her shoulders. Maybe it would go away.

But it only grew in fervor, until it was so loud it hurt her throat just to hear. She couldn't take it any longer. Steeling her resolve, she slid out of bed, and peaked around her bedroom door. The hall outside was empty. Therin sighed, somewhat relieved.


Only the howl in response. She called again, daring to raise her voice.

"Daddy? Is that you?"

It paused mid-tremble, and the hush fell like a bag of stones, quiet enough to hear the last echoes fade. A few seconds passed. Then, as if she had never spoken, the screaming began again. Shaking in a way that had little to do with the cold, Therin lifted the hem of her nightgown, and followed the noise. Down cavernous halls and steep stares, through shadowed arches and dusty corridors. It was a wonder the sound could travel so far, as loud as it had sounded in her room, but it only seemed to grow louder as she walked. At last, she came to a familiar door. Her fingers wrapped around the brass ring. Holding her breath, she pulled.

He was standing on the balcony rail, arms spread wide as if he wanted to embrace the storm itself. Rain and wind buffeted against him, drenching his clothes and whipping his hair in a frenzy, but he did not notice.

"Daddy!" she shouted.

He turned to face her.

"Can you hear it too, darling?" His lips were drawn back maniacally, eyes bright and sharp. "Isn't it a beautiful sound?"

"Daddy, please, come inside!"

She took a step towards him, hesitant to even come close. To her relief, he jumped from the railing, but that mad gleam in his stare remained.

"I could teach you this, oh yes. I could teach you all about the song of the tempest, how the wind speaks, what terrible things it says!"

"Daddy, please stop." Forcing her arms to move, Therin embraced her father, burying her face into his waterlogged shirt. Surprise replaced the madness, and a rigid arm patted her hair.

"It's... it's alright, love," he whispered, pulling her inside, away from the rain. "You're drenched. Let's get you dried off, and back into bed."

Fourteen Years

She get clanked, dawg

Alone she drifts from ancient mists
Nary a candle, nary a wish
But in the wont of wandering paths
Through wooded knolls, and windworn crags
She seeks a face she thought as friend
But now -- she thinks as judgement's end

User avatar
Jr. Member
Posts: 110
Joined: Thu Oct 05, 2017 10:50 pm
Location: Up in de' north

Re: [CS] The Curse of Valeisea

Post by F R O S T » Sat Oct 28, 2017 9:35 pm

Name: Lorei

Age: Over 600

Appearance: Lorei was once tall and willowy, now is hunched slightly with age with avian bones and a soft, withered face. Her eyes are crystalline, magenta- like polished stone sparkling from beneath a babbling brook. Her body is all limbs, now knobby and crooked as she grows older. Her fingers are long, captivating, with familiar callouses of time spent in the gardens if her right hand is any indication.
He moves stiffly, slowly and with less grace than she was once capable of, but her movement is still a force. With her gaze and her clear voice, rings authority, rings kindness and compassion.

Her face is long and less heart shaped- less round. High cheek bones give her a regal air, her ears are long and flare out apart from her head, her silver hair falls a length on four and a half feet, thick, braided usually. Muted jewels crust her lobes, pulling, dragging down the soft, aged skin like lead weights, she wears no other jewelry than that.

She wears the clothes she makes, knitted, soft and warm spun from yarn of earthen colors than match the fields that surround her house. Nothing tacky, nothing over the top. She is a plain and simple as her motivations. She is happy, and content.

Lorei is a mysterious woman with a complex mind and simple desires.
She is but a creature who gives nothing but compassion, even to those who deserve little of it; a beacon of empathy a forgiving soul- all with honesty, she lays her cards out, not of naivety, but of reason.

Her heart was once akin to smoldered flames under water hissing and bubbling and the like. It was once dark and cold- once it was absent to her body, another time burned too hot, drove her too far. Oh, the experiences of loss she holds- would bring most people to their knees and have them forfeit their lives. She knows Darkness, she once embraced Darkness as if it were an old friend calling out.

Now, at peace, she toils away the remnants of her years healing others. Time is just a metric, a passing of numbers- it is meaningless in the eyes of fate. She accepted her mortality as is draws near. She is happy to know she will have fulfilled her roles here on this plane of existence and with hope- looks forward to the day where the pain of her past will be nothing more than the last exhaled breath of an old woman.

Gardening is her pastime, her tools of trade- a trowel, a hoe, a shovel, she is no stranger to getting her hands dirty, digging deep in the soil, reaping her gain and planting anew the next season. Only recently has it become to difficult to work her fields. Before Fenris came along they were wild, overgrown and unkempt. Still beautiful, but she has taught Fenris well her ways. Her garden is now theirs, made of blood, sweat and tears.

Lorei's story is like most. There was a brighter time, and then there was not. In the shadow of those days she dragged herself through mud, clambered up the gritty steps to find inner peace and tranquility and has clung to such a place ever since.
These days she spends less time on her past, and more on her present- and perhaps that's the forgetfulness in age setting in, the rot of her mind slowly dimming as time catches up; or perhaps, she truly doesn't want to remember all that vividly.

Her past is too long to outline in it's entirety, but in short, she began her life through the higher times- through prosperity in Valeisea. As a girl she served nobles in a court, as a woman, she married another lady of the court- as a mother, she raised her darling children to be as regal and perfect as their mothers. They were happy. They were all happy.

The coming years were not kind- they never are in these stories. She would live through two great wars, she would fight through one and stand to be as a gallant as any knight or guardsmen the kings had ever seen. She'd seen the passing of other kings. She laid a flower down upon the chest of the second before he was lit ablaze in a ceremonial pyre.

She set aside her blood-streaked visor. Her and her family fled to the mountains before she would lose them all in a raid far more random than the invasion on the Southern boarder on Valeisea lands.
Lorei would survive assassination attempts on her life, murder and far worse than that. She would endure the suffering alone without her children and her partner at her side. They are now one with the Earth and plains. She lives through the plague, and like most, wishes she hadn't.

At last years later she comes here to the nameless "village" of sorts. She takes up a cabin here in a quaint little field and she sews the seeds, the reaps her gain and she starts over again.

When Lorei met Fenris, he was missing his own soul. Like a hollowed body, his responses were limited, few and far in between. His eyes were as dead as his family left behind in some obscurely named town. Lorei's heart ached for him when he wandered by, for it was like looking into a mirror.
His body, once tall, once something prodigal, had become long sticks covered in flesh. The wind could knock him over and that thought, coming from old Lorei was laughable at best. He was obviously a farmer boy. His lineage was "dirty" in crueler terms, his half-blood life would dare not promise him more on this planet. Lorei, of course, didn't think this way, she just knew how things were.

One thing that piqued her curiosity of him was his unwillingness to bow. His eyes, though broken- though withered, held a fire that burned hotly- it burned with rage no subservience, but with a promise of death- of vengeance.
Certainly there was a time before when his visage had been handsome, smiling sweetly and fox-like, she could see it in the echoes of his face, past his tanned skin and his scarred lips.
He may have looked broken, but he was far from it. He was not a fox at all- he was a sharpened piece of metal sticking up in the dirt, ready to slice the foot that steps upon it again, a wolf, biding its time in the woods with amber eyes shining, waiting for it's time to strike.

Misc: Lorei's favorite sport now is teasing the youth as much as she can. She knows she can get away with it at her age- she especially likes to tease Fenris, whose face is as hard as carved stone, but his heart beneath that cold exterior is something pure and good. He has likened to something of her grandson- that alone makes her proud and happy to know him.
“I'm a sheep wearing wolves' clothing in a pack of wolves.”

Post Reply

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 3 guests