Medieval-esque Roleplay Character Sheets

[Insanity]

Just to have somewhere for people to jot down their characters. Use whatever format you'd normally use, I s'pose. Basic, literary, or combination of both. Hopefully, by getting characters posted, it'll help those who've yet to decide on their character designs to have a better starting point.

 

[Lavi]

KUMIHO PROFILES
​

... RUSK ...
[image]​

The child of a human-kumiho couple, Rusk was originally loved like any other human child. When his mother, Talya, was discovered to be a kumiho, she and Rusk were ostracized from their home while Rusk was at a young age. He grew up in the country with only his mother as company; his father was murdered for knowingly marrying a kumiho. Although people whom Talya labeled as uncles and aunts visited, Rusk and Talya lived alone on a farm.

Despite the death of her husband, Talya avoided explaining why she and Rusk lived alone. Rusk was not even aware that he was half-kumiho until their farm was ransacked by anti-kumiho activists. Talya was afraid that Rusk would act irrationally if she told him the truth, but Rusk willingly accepted the reality. However, Rusk did not let the injustice against kumiho stand.

He got in contact with one of his "uncles" who visited the farm, Garm. Garm agreed to teach Rusk how to sword-fight, under the guise of self-defense, even tossing ininstruction on using a fox fire. Once he was old enough, Rusk convinced Talya to return to Sessho Forest while he began a movement to end kumiho oppression. Although he did not give it a name, Rusk's movement became known as the Eternal Star.

 

[Viggy]

Name: Drogash, Son of Krugraa
Race: Orc
Gender: Male
Age: Twenty-six
Height: Nine feet, three inches
Weight: Very heavy

​

Spoiler: Backstory

The likes of Krugraa, son of Thrug, were seldom seen in the Black Mires. He was the perfect orcish specimen: twelve feet tall, strong enough to bend steel, with claws like swords and jaws that could crunch through bone as if it were ripe fruit... His roar could make hardened warriors tremble, and one hard look from him was enough to silence any orc with any sense. In his youth he fought toe-to-toe with klodhums and drank from their hollowed-out tusks, hunted the dreaded arakuzu to harvest their venom, and usurped his own father as Chief of the Taung tribe. He made challenges against twelve great chieftains and slew them all in personal combat, earning the fear of their people to make them his own. He became Chief of Chiefs, closer to a god than a mere warlord. He sought out those that presumed to be his rivals, destroyed them, absorbed their best fighters and made food of the weak. He built a vast horde, more orcs under one ruler than had ever been seen in living memory. Three times he led his army into the green lands of the humans, hoping to carve out a new homeland and win himself eternal glory in the stories of his people. He saw himself lifting the orcs up out of the mud and into a thriving new era... but three times he invaded, and three times his forces were pushed back into the Mires again. Krugraa was thwarted by the advantages of developed kingdoms: he could rarely counter cavalry or stone walls, for the orcs had few beasts that could be used as mounts and little understanding of siege warfare. Most of all though, it was the discipline of properly trained soldiers that trumped him. His tribesmen were constantly breaking ranks and scattering when the odds seemed against them. Too many of them preferred looting and raping to actual warfighting, too few were willing to die for a cause. The Chief of Chiefs always won great plunder and many slaves to bring home, more spoils than he even knew what to do with, certainly more than enough to satisfy the average warlord, but Krugraa was anything except average. The shame of defeat was unfamiliar and unbearable to him, the trophies of his campaigns were an empty achievement, he craved permanent conquest. Every morning when he woke up in the stinking mud instead of the inside of a castle, he ground his teeth and seethed.

At the very ripe age of fifty-six, Krugraa was dying. Long idleness had wasted away his legendary strength and he could no longer fight off the infections that were inevitable if one breathes the foul air and drinks the toxic water of the Black Mires. Worse, his mind was beginning to decay, and he spent most of his time in his tent, brooding. He was still Chief of Chiefs, but only in name... His horde was slowly dividing itself, as lesser chieftains competed to fill the void of power he left in his absence. If he ever showed himself in his weakness, and if it were not for the fearsome reputation that his glory days had left him, Krugraa would likely have been killed. But instead he lingered on, as bitter an old man as any, and one day when he knew his time would soon come, he called his sons (of which he had more than a hundred) to his side. They could hardly believe they were looking at their mythical father, most had never even seen him and he did not at all live up to his reputation. Krugraa was pale and weak and raving on his deathbed, and as a last command, he ordered that all of his sons must fight to the death.

Spoiler: Backstory

Only the strongest can be allowed to live, he said, only one can remain to be my legacy and finish my work.
The brawl was held in a deep mud pit that had gone dry, and it lasted all of five minutes. Black blood sprayed, claws clashed, teeth gnashed, the sons of Krugraa howled and cursed and tore one another to ribbons, until the dust settled and every one of them looked to be either dead or dying.

Krugraa watched, and waited. He knew there would be one, one with something more than the others, and he was right.

Groans of agony faded away as the combatants bled out and died and shit themselves, but after about two hours, one clawed at the slope of bloodstained filth and pulled himself to his feet. Drogash, son of Krugraa. Not the eldest son, not the youngest, nor the largest or the fastest or the most cunning. Perhaps he had the perfect balance of strengths, perhaps he was the most determined, or perhaps it was pure luck. It did not matter. He staggered from brother to brother, clawing open the throats of any that had not yet died, and when it was done he turned to his father and raised his fist in victory.

Krugraa descended into the pit.

This was not the same orc that Drogash had first met in that tent, with the stink of death hanging over him. A feverish zeal was in the Chief of Chiefs, and his old strength had come back to him again. He threw his head back and roared, the crowd of onlooking orcs felt chills run down their spine, Drogash met his father's eye and scraped his claws together. Before the old warlord bullrushed his child, he spoke quietly so only Drogash would hear. You will leave the Black Mires. You will explore the green lands and beyond, and you will learn how to destroy our enemies there. Then you will come back, you will make the tribes yours as I made them mine, and you will lead them out of this place.


Drogash stared. If I don't want to?

Krugraa grinned. You will.

And he charged, and Drogash brought his claws up in front of himself, and his giant of a father was stuck like a pig as he landed on top of him. For a long moment the crowd thought both father and son were dead, but then Drogash grunted and heaved his father off of himself, rising to his feet again. Krugraa lay there in the mud with holes in his belly, oozing black, and laughing a raspy laugh. His last croaking words were, Go. Go now.

Drogash could never have said why, but he went.

 

[BLADE]

The Mantle​

Spoiler: The Sermon of the Cairns

"Brothers! Sisters!" the Hierophant stood on a stone mound, surrounded in a semircircle by dozens of the tatterlings. Some of the green mottled flesh and yellow tusks of orc kind. Stunted and bowed goblins with glassy eyes, some in the winter of their years, some merely dawning. Their eyes were bent to the broad thin humanoid in the dazzlingly brilliant sable cloak that had become his namesake.

Two dozen great orange and red bonfires danced around them, waxing and waning in the pale moonlight. The brackish black weir trees bent under the howling of the wind, which popped ears and sent hearing to ringing.

And yet the powerful bass of his voice was unmistakable. He did not shout nor strain. His arms were folded behind him, thin spindly hands tapping in time to his speech. He did not sway nor move in any other way, though he seemed to be moved.

He was an orc. Though his features were somewhat more finer grained and narrow than his kinsmen, and his tusk-teeth not quite so prominent. His eyes were green rather than the usual brackish yellow and his skin was a brighter green which stood out against snowy silver hair. Though hale of heart and hearth, he had the mien of a being who had seen a thousand lifetimes.

The wind was a full blown-gale now. Some of the infants in the crowd shivered and huddled close to their mothers.

"The little ones show fear. Do not remonstrate them. You fear as well. I see it in your hearts. The One sets about terrors in the night so that we might know fear. For only through fear can we know hope. And if you believe, truly believe as I do, then no terrors of the deep shall harm you. The leech-lifes cringe at his power of life. The wolf-beings twist their grotesqueries away. And the pale milk men of the great stone cities will know humility too. This I promise you. Long have we journeyed to reach this spot. Much have we suffered. Triumphed too."

He paused and with an ever so slight nod pointed respectfully towards the mass clearing of cairn stones, where their dead had been buried. Powerfully muscled orcs glad in armor of so many odds and ends, all garbed in white and black acolyte clothing kept vigil with longswords up in salute.

"That shall be our tale. Triumph and terror. Struggle. For our so-called brothers in the mire have not been understanding. They could not, for they have not embraced The One. In their hearts, we are the heretics. And so they test our faith."

"--murderers!" A grizzly voice shouted.

"Aye," the prophet agreed gravely, "Yet we must learn to forgive that sin. Forget? No. All blood must be repaid, in time. But our works will have to be mightier than mere revenge. We see it now. The mire blackens. The sky grows darker. Even the mighty wyrn trees that once stood even in the mire begin to die. The Other approaches. And if we are to resist his ruinous works, we must be ready."

"There will be many that oppose us. Our own kind. They shall be brought into the fold. The milk men. They have kept our people down and denied The One. Though we shall not grudge them their ignorance. And of course..."

He turned around, and the trees behind them now bent with his will. Another mound of cairn stones, blood red and glowing was perched deep in the gloom of the forest. Yet here no corpses were interned. Rather chained to the stone like statues were the life-leeches, with their pallid skins and sharp fangs. The weremen with shapes as horrid as they were feral.

Their powers had proven to be but the bending of reeds before The Prophet of the One. The chains which bound them crackled with red lightning, which arced irregularly through them, the color of blood.

"And so, we shall have our feast," he said calmly to his people. His voice had been even throughout his speech, in cadence earnest and yet aloof. But now, fervor crept in. Old stale bread was brought for his followers and some hard saltfish.

"And watch this offering. The One has given us his gifts and we in turn give as we may. Here now, the cringelings and wretches of the Other."

In his hand, he clutched a great staff of hewn maple-red wood. His voice was rhythmic now, in canto.

"Rain of fire, heed my say;
Seize with hands of flame my prey
The One Commands."

The heavens warped and twisted and shook. For leagues around, the black mire of the Orcish lands bubbled as if the entire firmament was itself boiling under the might of some primordial force.

And then, a column of flame descended from the skies and swept through the forest. It did not touch the weir trees, and seemed indeed to pass through them as a harmless vapor. But the dark creatures were not so lucky. The flames licked about them greedily, as if sensing vulnerability and then without warning, they combusted. They screamed and melted, their screeches becoming a cacophony whilst the Prophet watched silent, his green eyes hard as stones.

The hardier tried to resist screaming. To spite their captors. But that was only the final lie before death.

"May The One show mercy to them, brothers and sisters, for he judges even the agents of the Other."

The prophet paused, "Remember now, all that you have seen on this day. It is but a promise of what is to come."

"Power yields only to power, and The One call us to duty."

 

[Insanity]

Iras Sirali, Spellsword

Iras Sirali, Spellsword Initiate

Spoiler: Image

View attachment 821

​

A youth of apparent human origins, Iras has no real past to speak of worth noting. At the age of five, his parents' farm was raided and the survivors put up as slaves for sale in the kingdom known as Dryoni. Among them, young Iras. After this, not much can really be told. Iras remembers nothing of the past twelve years of his captivity and passing ownership. If he does, he doesn't speak of it and remains closed to others concerning the subject.

What is known is that which has occurred in the latest year of life: his freedom, given by the Guardians of Nevest following a raid on the compound of a minor noble and recruitment to the order following the discovery of his Potential. The training and basic skills taught to him, which he seemed to have a knack for and the uncanny ability to use a sword and bow with what could be considered a practiced ease. However, nothing points at previous experience in these matters, shading the Guardians' trust and the ever-present feeling that something about this recruit seems... off. Given his shy, un-resistant demeanor when instructed or interacting with others, the strangeness about him is only twice-more apparent. What secrets he refuses to reveal, what his origins are - why does he hide them, despite all efforts to pry them from his lips?

((Basic, yes, but I'd rather take a different approach than usual and have his story unfold through the roleplay, rather than just let it be out there, nothing fun to do with it))

Spoiler: Info

Name: Iras Sirali

Age: Seventeen, by all accounts.

Origin/Species: Human, questionable.

Affiliation: Guardians Of Nevest

Town of Origin: Unknown, currently Alviers.

Quirks: Often shy and subservient without any questions, at some points he often goes missing for hours on some nights.

 

[Kiro]

Spoiler: Image

Name: Kaja Ulfsdottor
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Age: 28
Homeland: The Nine Mountains, Eldning.
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 143 lbs.​

Spoiler: Gear & Equipment

Bearded axe forged from folded steel, ash haft.
Round Shield made linden wood, iron rim.
Ash bow.
Quiver, x40 arrows, ash, eagle feather.
Short knife.
Long knife.
Goat-hide leather armour, fur trimmed.
Cloak made of sturdy, fur trimmed, goat hide, covered in multi-coloured patches.
Linnen and hemp clothes.
Lute.
Flute.
Horn.
Goat-hide drum.
Goat-hide tent.
Goat-hide backpack.
Giant ram, used for transporting goods.
Rations (Goat jerkey, goat cheese, smoked fish, hard tack bread, etc.)

Spoiler: Backstory

Ever since she was a child, Kaja loved stories. Wether they were told to her by her own family, or by the skalds in the village's long hall, she always listened with rapt attention, amazed by the old tales, and entranced by the ideas of distant nations. She listened to her father's tales of fighting orc hordes. She listened to traders' speak of exotic trinkets from lands far to the north and the south. She was entranced by descriptions of the sea, a thing unknown to the Mountain Folk.

So it wasn't any great surprise to her family, or indeed the entire village, that Kaja decided to take up the path of the skald. Her father, her elder and younger brothers, the village's woodworker, blacksmith, and fletcher respectively gave her her weapons and shield, and instruments, and traded with the village's tanner for her armour, backpack, tent, and drum. She was set.

Her first years as a Skald was simply spent traveling between villages, gathering stories and local tales, and reciting them back. Mastering the use of music in combination with story telling. 'Getting her eye in', so to speak. She traveled from Mountain to Mountain, trading stories, music, and shows for food and lodging, picking up new stories, and sharing those stories and news. As her skills and reputation grew, she was eventually invited into the Mountain Halls to perform for the Thanes. True, only the Thane of Ramgis, the smallest of all the Clans, and all the Mountains. Yet she was not satisfied. Yes, being a skald was rewarding, and she wouldn't change it for the world... but she knew there were greater stories to be found, and grand adventures to be had, outside her harsh, yet comforting, mountain homes.

Thus, she traded stories and songs for a ram, loaded up with food, and headed down from the mountains for the first time in her life, yet making sure to avoid the Blackmire of the orcs and their degenerate mutant cousins.

 

[Horizon]

King Rorik
______________________

"Ehnrok guide us all."

Spoiler: Information

Name: Rorik Thorland
Race: Kurgan
Gender: Male
Age: 54
Homeland: Frostfall
Height: 6'6"
Weight: 278 lbs​

Spoiler: History

King Rorik is the current ruler of the Kurgan Empire. A leader that is firm in hand and religious beliefs, Rorik embodies the Kurgan people through and through. However, he has been the first king to bring the faith of their god to a new level of importance. The priests of Ehnrok regularly convene with Rorik to discuss matters that people can only speculate about. Some believe this coincides with the recent flux of weapons and armor that forges have been outputting for the king. Other than that, it's noteworthy to mention that Rorik once had an affair that managed to be leaked into the view of the public. A child was born and a mother claimed Rorik as the father. Some questioned if the claim was true, but others had spotted this woman regularly being welcomed into the castle. Whether or not Rorik does indeed have a bastard child, the problem can only reveal itself in time.​

 

[Lupe]

Alpha Male Verander
______________________

"To change the world, you must face your fears"

Name: Verander Mondial
Race: Werewolf
Gender: Male
Age: 260 years old
Homeland: Astravid
Height: 6'4"
Weight: 320 lbs.

Abilities and Skills:
~Regeneration
~Shapeshift
~Minor Spells(Buffs and non-combat spells)
~Able to use a variety of weapons
~Guerrilla Warfare Tactics
~Nightvision
~Great knowledge of the history of Aedirn and its inhabitants
~Silver Tongued

Personality Traits:
~Calm and Collected
~Generally Benevolent
~Hatred for Vampires
~See's mortals as equals
~Cannot stand weakness
~Cannot stand liars

Gear:
~The tooth of Cercetaș
~Partial Leather Armor
~Pijavice, an iron sword of excellent quality

Biography:
Verander was born a werewolf, the son of two Betas on the Year 4,740 in Astravidas. As is custom he was trained since infancy to hunt and fend for himself as well as to read and write. Also due to being a Beta Werewolf he was given a higher education in terms of the history of the land and military tactics. At the age of fifteen he was given even a higher level of training in combat, excelling greatly in guerrilla warfare. It was here he met the man who later become his greatest rival, Cercetaș. The two already were enemies before they met due to their families being enemies for a long time, dating back before the great rebellion. As a result the two were pitted against each other constantly, neither coming out superior of the other.

Eventually training was over and the two went their separate ways. Verander left to become a diplomat and scholar while Cercetaș became an explorer and military commander. For two hundred years this worked out for the two until Cercetaș became the Alpha of the Lycan Kingdom, he immediately demanded the exodus of all his enemies in order to spread werewolfism, Verander and his family included. After being kicked out, Verander and his family traveled to the Nine Mountains. When they arrived, they were not met with intense hostility instead they were met with awe and bewilderment. Werewolves were extremely rare outside of Astravidas and the mountain fold believed Verander and his family were emissaries from the Wolf God. Verander, knowing this fact was saving their lives, did not deny nor confirm the rumor. He simply assisted the mountainfolk survive to earn their goodwill. This worked well for both sides for approximately three dozen years, until rumor spread around Aedirn that the werewolves were attempting to spread a plague and they should be hunted down and killed. Immediately Verander and his family were attacked by the mountainfolk, thus they were forced to flee.

At first Verander was angry at the mortals, whom had so quickly forgotten the services his family had done for them, but while he was travelling he found the rumors to be true. Cercetaș had sent a second group of "colonists" and among these were the most ruthless and gruesome werewolves in Astravidas. What angered Verander the most was that Cercetaș knew that these "colonists" would slaughter anyone who came in their way. In fact he wanted to them do just that so that they could spread werewolfism. Enraged, Verander came back to Astravidas to challenge Cercetaș but was stopped by his pawns before he could arrive to the Hall of the Vârcolac and was taken with his family to a dark corner in Astravidas. The pawns then proceeded to attack Verander and his family, killing many of his siblings before being stopped by Verander's father. Verander was immediately told to flee and challenge Cercetaș by his father in order to honor his death.

Verander, knowing this was the only way, did what he was told. He made it swiftly to Hall of the Vârcolac and, in front of all the betasm challenged Cercetaș, whose face was a combination of fear and confusion for now he knew he would have to fight Verander. Immediately the two were taken to The Hall of Pretenție to commence the duel and once the duel began it did not stop for several days. The werewolves tore each other to shreds and ripped out guts but neither would given in. Eventually however, Verander achieved the upper hand by using his smarts to make Cercetaș stumble onto a spike on the ground, headfirst. Thus Verander was anointed Alpha Male of the Lycan Kingdom and given command of all its subjects.

Spoiler: Human Face

 

[Mars]

Spoiler: Character Image

Valnir The Reaper
______________________

"Enrohk's Chosen"

Spoiler: Information

Name: Valnir
Race: Kurgan
Gender: Male
Age: 33
Homeland: Frostfall
Height: 6'9"
Weight: 310 lbs​

​

*WIP*

 

[Eternix]

Priest of the Blood Dragon

General Information:
Name: Boros Blackthorn; Boros of Masser
Race: Kurgan
Age: 70
Height: 6'6
Weight: 280 lbs
Hair: Blonde,straight, usually tied back in a ponytail
Eyes: Green; red (only when using fire magic)
Homeland: Masser, a port town on the Spice Islands of Frostfall

Significant Events:
4,930 AM: Boros is born the bastard of a wealthy spice baron in the port town of Masser
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4 months of age: Boros is sent to an orphanage in the Kurgan capital of Kislev

15 years of age: Leaves orphanage in secret in a Kurgan military convoy, discovered by CO and his beaten by other members of the platoon as initiation into The Outriders (Elite cavalry unit)

18 years of age: Leads the final and successful charge against the Dovahkirri barbarians in the Verge Wars, recognized as war hero

19 years of age: Invited to the Imperial Palace, meets the king and the young Prince Rorik

25 years of age: Magical abilities begin to appear, given honorable discharge and sent to the Red Tower to become a Priest of Enrohk

35 years of age: Masters the magical ability known as frost fire

42 years of age: Becomes a fully ordained priest

50 years of age: Leaves Kislev for the first time in 25 years, begins to travel the length of the Kurgan Empire

55 years of age: Crosses the Nine Mountains and heads into the southern reaches of Aedirn, working as a missionary

63 years of age: heads back into the Kurgan Empire

70 years of age: Currently working with the common folk as a spiritual guide.