mature

Name: Utennia Sinna

Age: 24 (maybe,..)

Gender: Female

Height: 5'10"

Race: Cimmerian

Occupation: obscure.

Born in the North, Utennia says she was over come with wander lust to see the gleaming cities of her south. There are those in her home village who say she this wander lust was suggested after it was noted locked chests had a habit of opening around her. That and her deep, and as she put it, passionate friendships with other young women of her home village began the raise questions from the village elders why she wasn't married and with child yet.

The days and nights in Tortage passed swiftly for both of them.  Pradhana calculated her next moves with a greater calm and adaptability than Cakara had expected.  She had found them work, plenty of it in fact, and as soon she was confident enough that they had not been followed, she moved them back to Stygian soil, a discreet and comfortable distance from her mother’s estate.

Her tension was apparent, as was her desire to try new things, to learn new skills.  Both of these things she demonstrated as Cakara rowed them down the River Styx in search of further fame and fortune to propel her independent reign.  She sat on his lap, curling a hand suggestively around the right oar, deliberately distracting his work.

“Give me the oar, I wish to row.”  She purred up at him, her eyes narrowing into sultry slits framed in expensive makeup.

The woman lay moaning in the grand birthing chamber down the hall, writhing about on her feather stuffed mound of fine silken linens from the Far East.  She whimpered and whined, complaining of her discomfort while the majority of the household scurried about in preparations of the coming child.  Her anguished sounds filled the Stygian palace, chilling the already cold little boy of about five years age, who sat shirtless, illuminated by a hundred beeswax candles.  The curious child watched the three men who gathered around him prepare several implements, speaking in hushed tones more for the sake of not disturbing their pain wracked mistress than frightening the bewildered child.

"The Vanir and their Ymirish allies have left Cimmeria a smoldering ruin of ice and rock. While brave in their own right, the southerners are hard-pressed and barely maintaining their front-lines. But who are we to care?

For we did not leave our realm of Asgard out of sympathy. Nor did we leave the halls of our fathers out of charity. We've come to make war, to slaughter any who would fight us. To take the spoils, and make slaves of those we crush. Blood, glory, gold, and women. That is why we are here, and that is why when we are finally slain, we shall claim our rightful places in Valhalla!

Now, go forth and take the heads of the red-haired bastards of Vanaheim! Slaughter all who dare rise up against us!  Let the world know that the Grim Wolves of Asgard have finally been unleashed!" -Wulfgeir, Warchief of the Grim Wolf Warband

He stood admist the still warm corpses, a sea of blood at his feet. In his hand, he held a massive blade, simple in it's design. The flames of candles, flickered and danced as if demons skirting the boundaries of the darkness in the center of the temple. Daeyong, slowly took in deep breaths as the realization of what he had done came to bear on his mind. Slaves, women and children, struck by his hand lay butchered all around him. It wasn't their deaths that caused this momentary pause, but the thought of the next step in this grim ritual. With a shaking hand, he cast the blade carelessly aside to clank upon the blood soaked stone of the temple floor. Kneeling, he reached for the small vial dangling from his belt. "My Lord Yun, Master of the Underworld, God of demons. I humbly offer this pittance of blood and souls in search of your favor...and now, my master. I offer you my own life.

In the calm hours of the morning, Daeyong stood in the center of his courtyard. Slowly, his eyes wandered about his estate as he stood at rest, his hands resting against the small of his back, one hand gripping the other's wrist softly against the cotton fabric of his tunic. Lazily he gazed about the stone walls that confined his modest estate, the house itself being nothing more than a series of rooms seperated by sliding doors of wood and paper. As if an ill omen, a cool breeze interrupted the calm, sending a shiver down his spine. A strange uneasiness came about him as he turned to face the barred twin wooden doors of his home. An inquistive brow rose above his eye, as the sound of armored horse and infantry became audible. The massive twin doors before his eyes suddenly became the gates of Hell.

Hello all well Nerle's here in a new home again :-> Posted a start on her bio and hopefully a Picture i posted of her took properly mehh

Is good to be here hopefully be posting more soon to maybe some stories of Nerle and some of her more family friendly adventures

 Good to be here met some of you here already both in and out of game  

BG I'm an older player long time PnP RPer (aka tabletop).An original Wiccanian ,from before the mergers,Active duty Canadian Army Reserve  ,All the RL BG I'm giving ,sorry had a bad experience another p-lace ..so .

Char Main one is Nerlessia a Half Stygian Nobleman's daughter in back ground

Her  Char Class Ranger and she is Played as a Warrior Priestess of Derketo :-> warning she is ; 1) Naughty; 2)played rather accurately to Genre and Historically/Canon accurate for her background ,that includes her dress and manner in some extent ;-)  

Name; Nerlessia
Nicknames:Nerlessia the Wanderer,The Golden Dancer
Tittles Priestess of Derketo ,Defending Lioness,Initiate Sister of the 1st rank of the 4TH mystery
Age 24-25 years old
Place of Birth: Luxor region ,her families estate /Caravanseri,the home base a sit were of their land-based trade caravans
Place of residence :mainly a suite of rooms in th Purple Carp In Khemi ,the Derketian Temple of City of Kwit-Nejer
Date of Birth: 12th day 2nd month of Ankhet 2nd year of the reign of Ctsephion 3 
Race: Stygian ,Aristocratic caste
Gender: Female.
Description;
Height; 5 foot 6 inches
Weight:135 pounds
Colour of skin: a dusky golden brown (part of the reason for her most common nickname "The Golden Dancer")
Colour and Style of hair:Dark glossy black with a touch of red in it ,worn in shoulder length tight beaded ringlet curls/braids

Background: Her father cavarn was attack. She was capurted, volidated, and stole into slavery where she learn to clean animals, clean/debone kills, cook, sewing, treat aduse wounds, and sexual positions.She learn to shot a bow from a game the slavers made, if a slave was disobied, they would tie the slave and place a object on the body where the other slaves have to hit in order for that slave to live.

Full Name: Rohierim
Nick Names:  Roh

Age: 27
Race: Aquilonian
Gender: Male
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Skin: Light Tan
Height: 5' 5''
Weight:197 lbs

Place of Residence: I do like spending my down time on a bench in the common area of Old Tarantia.

Place of Birth: Old Tarantia
Known Relatives: Mother Celia

Group/Guild Association: Cymbrogi
Guild Rank: Knight, Patrol Leader, Recruiter

Religion/Philosophy: Praise the Mitra for the strength given to me!
Occupation: Soldier/Guardian

Weapons of Choice:  Short Sword and Shield. Sometimes a spear does the job well.
Enemies: All followers of Lol.

The Wedding Reception

The stink of the seashore loomed heavily in the humid night air as Neverlin took another long swig from the bottle of blackberry wine. Smacking his lips, he slunk against the side of an abandoned warehouse. He strained to keep his eyes open as the soporific effects of the sweet liquor dulled his senses.  Normally, he did not condone drinking to excess, being a firm believer in keeping one’s facilities optimal.

But it had been a particularly tough week and the life he led now seemed a grim caricature of the one he envisioned.  So he sighed and indulged himself with another swallow.

Hot Gardack Nights

A mosquito zipped and buzzed about the mammothskin tent, bumping up futilely against the soot covered ceiling searching for an escape.  Neverlin sighed, dabbing the moister from his forehead with a silk napkin and sunk deeper into an arrangement of satin pillows.  Even in the late evening the sticky hot weather was intolerable, and he was sweating like a virgin in the Pyramid of Ancients.  A pile of searing red coals in the center of the tent certainly didn’t help matters either. The mosquito dove towards him suddenly, perilously close, but still just out of the Necromancer’s grasp. With a blink, Neverlin snuffed the life force out of the tiny insect and watched it spiral downward onto the smoldering coals, incinerating it with a faint sizzle.

He really hated the swamps.

The sky was obscured by a dense arboreal canopy; the stars and full moon, in turn, were largely obscured by thick cloud cover.

Beneath it all she lay. Still. Ears imagined as twin vessels into which liquid sound would pour. The soundscape clicked and popped with the rustle of foliage and howled with the frigid winds. Beasts stalked prey; the insects sang paeans to would-be mates. Alien noises in an alien place.

The soft rasp of slumbering bodies also could be heard, plaintive and oddly comforting.

The darkness was receding now, and she turned her head, peering over at the Mitran. He had promised to be up for the final watch, a promise now as ethereal as his dreams. Not that it mattered. Unused to the nighttime cacophony of the Cimmerian lowlands, Axun had laid awake for most of the night, drifting in and out of fitful slumber. She had woken the bald pale-skin at one point, only to find him sound asleep again when next she woke.

The river’s gentle pulse very nearly drowns out the small clacking of the prayer beads. Tk-tk-tk, they are chiding.  The Mitran – Cleric, more technically – intently regards the archer bathing there in shallows. She has gone under thrice now and for a third time she rises up from the water, head flung back and then forward, sunrays catching silver strands of riverwater thrown in lazy parabolas from her cropped dark hair.

Act 3: Love and Bloodshed

Begin here listening to the soundtrack: Deathbed and Maelstrom by Bear McCreary, click this link to begin listening now: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oi3cvpILRr8

Act 2: I’m falling…

(Mirnea’s origin story, parts of which are still a mystery to Mirnea herself. I hope you all enjoy it and there is more coming as I begin to articulate her story on in text that is all my mind at the moment. I am looking for constructive criticism, encouragement and whether you like it or not!