Character Backgrounds

T'vra:

The slave child known as T'vra was born to a minor warlord of the Belkzen. A second failed attempt at getting a half-breed male, T'vra's mother was slain by the orc warlord, and the child thrown to the other human slaves for them to raise so that one day she might be of use to the clan. Growing up, T'vra always felt she was different, and not just because she was half human, half orc. Part was her skin color. The clan she was born into bore a very deep green skin color, yet hers was very pale gray, with tinges of blue. This was a warning of the path fate would lead her down. Soon she began noticing an adeptness for the arcane. Something she and her caretakers kept well hidden from the clan. And yet, this arcane ability was also different from the clan warcasters, or seers. It always seemed connected with the air and the wind, and manifested as such forces. Small gusts to knock down the drunken clansmen who had just beat her, things of that sort.

In her teens, T'vra had made up her mind that it was high time she struk out on her own, to try and learn more about her human side, the aptitude for the arcane arts, and the very strong connection with air. Eventually the right moment arrived for her to escape. T'vra looks back at that moment occasionally, and wonders how it all happened, and how long it will be before the clan catches up with her. She had not meant for the guards to die. But the wind she learned to control had suddenly turned to lighting, striking them down, much to T'vra's shock. But for now, she must keep wandering, staying ahead of the clan, and trying to find distant relatives of her mother: Taeliera Housha.

Grodd:

The mercenaries known as the Roughnecks represented an assembling of warriors from all over the realm. Their diverse makeup allowed for a number of tactics and strategies to be employed as soldiers from all four corners of the world joined together out of one form of necessity or another. Martial skill was the only commodity of any value in this harsh land and discipline was of the utmost importance to create and maintain a cohesive fighting force. The warriors who constantly practiced and prepared for hit-and-run warfare drilled into Grodd’s head the importance of defending yourself at all times. The lessons were long and brutal, as seen in the numerous scars borne on Grodd’s body. Fortunately, Grodd picked up on things a bit faster than the other grunts and possessed a natural resistance to fatigue and pain, allowing him to live long enough to endure the training drills and survive the battlefield. This was the life Grodd seemed destined too after being shunned from his village years ago once the orcish fangs began to show from his mouth. Outcast and on his own at a young age, he was taken in by a passing Roughneck patrol where he earned his keep through hard toil.

The Roughnecks had been hired by the surrounding townships to put an end to the greedy advances made by a neighboring warlord. These attacks made no attempt at preserving civility or honor as all caught in their path were butchered like cattle. Word spread of the heinous acts committed. Pleas for aid from the towns and villages fell upon deaf ears. Far too outmatched to form up any resistive force on their own, they sought out hired swords for help. At first, the offer was refused as the small collection of towns could not meet the price of the Roughnecks. After hearing of the brutality of these assaults however, the Roughneck leadership made the decision to aid the people in an effort to bring some decency back into a cold world.

The Roughnecks had hastily planned out an attack on a recon force that had camped too close to the hideout for the mercenary band’s comfort. A hasty pre-emptive strike had been ordered by the mercenary leadership before anyone could become aware of the secret camp. Grodd was used to the sudden call to action and consequently rarely removed the armor that had protected his life. The motley assortment of warriors assembled and made their way towards the enemy scouts.

As the mercenaries approached the scouting contingent, the trap was sprung upon the mercenary force. The scouts turned out to be the bait as the surrounding forest burst into a wall of shields and swords as black armored cavaliers emerged. The Roughnecks, caught completely by surprise attempted to form up and repel the sudden attack. Unfortunately the damage had been done in the first blows as the mercenaries fell like wheat before the scythe. Lacking the numbers to create a defense, death overtook the motley band with horrific speed. The mercenary leader cried out in vain as he succumbed to the inevitable.

Feeling a surge of rage and anger rise up, Grodd pushed it back down and ran. As his strides took him away from the slaughter, he swore vengeance at a later date knowing now was not his time. On his tail were a number of warriors looking to sew up any loose ends. Grodd quickly clamored up the side of the nearby cliff. The attackers were still in pursuit although the climb was slowing them some. He heard the shouts “Kill the orc! Slaughter the abomination!” as thrown rocks hit on either side of him. This added an extra burst of speed as he crashed through the forest and emerged on the bank of the raging river. He had taken a wrong turn in the excitement of the chase and had a choice of facing the pursuers or chancing the falls. “Why can’t I catch a break?” wondered Grodd as he approached the waterfall, barring his route of escape. One look back at the pursuers breaking through the trees told Grodd that there was no choice as he took the leap from the top of the falls.

Theolaerynn Frostfire:

In that time between false light and true dawn it seems like the world holds it's breath, as if fearing the sun might choose this day to forsake the living. And then, as the first spear of light is caught in the morning dew and refracts in a dazzling show of light, that breath is released in a rush of sound as creatures great and small happily greet the day.

Theolaerynn Frostfire wasn't one of them, and didn't appreciate those that were. He had once again stayed up far too late to get any real sleep at all, and the fact it was his own fault was of no consolation. For a brief moment he considers shutting the blinds and going back to sleep, but the memory of what his father had done to him the last time he had tried that some decades back brought him quickly to his feet.

It wasn't that his father was a mean or unkind person. It was worse than that. He was a scholar and a perfectionist, and seemingly devoid of any emotion at all, other than a strict intollerance for anything but the most sincere devotion to science and the scientific method. In his case, oddly enough, healing. Not so much in performing healing acts, although he did that as required, but rather delving into the inner mysteries of the body. He insisted that the body could heal itself of anything short of outright death, if only one knew how to communicate with it. And since he was often in a position that mentally or physically left him unable to write notes, his only son was called on to make them for him. And they had better be perfect.

Working for his mother wasn't much better, although at least she had a personality. She was so bubbly and fun loving, in fact, that he couldn't imagine what brought his parents together in the first place. He could only imagine how impressed his father hadn't been the first time he fell victim to one of his future wife's practical jokes.

No, it wasn't her personality that made working for her tough. It was the work itself. She translated ancient texts and generally looked for the elusive answer to what made the universe tick. Bonus if it involved discovering new magic or at least new ways to use old magic. Perhaps it was the intensity in research that was the common bond in his parents relationship. It was certainly the common reason Theo got into trouble. He had inherited all of his mothers mischief, all of both parents curiosity, and neither of their dedication to the scholarly arts.

Which meant that he was usually smart enough to get into trouble, but not smart enough to get out of it. Being a pragmatist, though, he couldn't let that discourage him from practicing.

And so as he headed to breakfast he wasn't quite sure if the thrill had been worth the 'complications' and lack of sleep, having spent much of the night softly, patiently tresspassing past locked doors and sleeping forms. And yet, he couldn't quite surpress a giggle as he checked his hands one last time for traces of adhesive, wondering if his father had tried to pick up his shoes yet...

Rohan "The Dove" Jeggare:

Rohan was born the seventh son of Alistair Jeggare in the city of Korvosa . House Jeggare, one of the richest noble houses in all of Varisia and Cheliax, controls much of the trade in Korvosa and so Rohan was born to luxury and power. Rohan’s mother, Isra, was a native Varisian, and so was considered “beneath” her husband’s status. Isra loved her son and attempted, in his early life, to protect him from the harsh cruelties associated with being born Chelaxian. In fact, Isra hated Cheliax and all it represented and resented her marriage to her rich and cruel husband.

As a child, Rohan exhibited a generous and kind spirit, which his mother fostered. His father, however, was incensed that a son of House Jeggare would behave in such a soft and womanly fashion. He came to call his son The Dove, a title of derision and weakness. The name stuck and he was known throughout Korvosa as “The Dove”. As he grew older, Rohan began to see the name as a source of strength and distinction, which only infuriated his father more and made him more of an outcast to his family and his society.

At the age of 14, Rohan befriended a house slave, Qandis, who taught him the word and deed of Iomedae, goddess of valor and justice. Rohan swore to follow the edicts of his new God and turned his back forever on the diabolical worship of his family. Sadly, Alistair became aware of his son’s conversion and had Qandis skinned alive in his son’s presence. He declared that Rohan should be immediately fostered to Lictor Creev of the Chelaxian Hellknights. For four years, Rohan suffered under the Lictor’s cruel and abusive care and would have been inducted into the Hellknights had he not escaped, naked and alone, into the Chelaxian night on the eve of his 18th birthday.

Rohan returned to Varisia and swore to dedicate his life to helping those who are oppressed by the Chelaxian Nobles who rule Varisian society.