The Wandering Flames

[Draco]

Greetings Adventurer, and welcome to The Wandering Flames


Aims:


The company is a motley assortment of wandering vagrants and cut-throat sell swords. Banded together in times of necessity when extra blades are needed to achieve greater yields of treasure. Some join in search of wealth; looting caravans and hordes to further their own financial means. Others in the quest for glory and fame, wishing their name to spread across the Reik, revered in respectful tones in each Hamlet and Farmstead throughout the Old World.

The thrill of perilous conflict and horrific beasts drive courageous warriors to the roar of combat and the clash of steel, joined in turn by the graceful sail of archers arrows and the spitting fury from a gunners barrel.
Pay is distributed evenly as demanded by the greedy denizens, divided from the rewards or pilfered earnings.

They are not often hired as mercenaries, and will hardly ever allow themselves to be paid by wicked nobles who wish for others to dirty their hands, seeking mainly to serve themselves, and no other. Only in times of desperate monetary need will they hire themselves out, though with strict rules and careful guidelines. There is no distinguishable leader amongst the journeying travellers, however when a chance of risk or reward is sniffed it is not hard to unite hearts and minds to a single cause.


Rules:

The Wandering Flames has no defined overlord or single dictator, to represent the often shambolic structure in which a band of self-serving glory seekers would operate. (With the exception of the Pay Master, although this position is almost one of "Treasurer"; dividing rewards equally and dealing with the fiscal stability of the company)

In any key decisions, the majority approval will pass. If strong disagreements or qualms are held with the decision, new ideas or alternate suggestions should be brought to the forum for consideration. Overall, this company runs on democratic values, with each and every warriors voice heard.

Organisation:

The Payment system is still in development.

The Pay Master is a high-ranking tradition carried through in all wandering bands, dealing with important financial transactions and the monetary reliability that members would come to expect.


The Various Paths of Life Open to Those in the Wandering Flames Mercenary Guild


Ambassador

An Ambassador may be a strange role to encounter in such a misfit, rambling gang; the fine robes and soft tones are not suited to such a risky and rough lifestyle. In effect Ambassadors are members who are stable and level-headed enough to lower their weapons when agreements can be hammered out on the table, rather than the battlefield.

Warrior

Warriors make up the mainstay of any drifting battalion, fearsome adversaries to encounter in a swirling melee. Warriors are any character with an extended close combat ability.

Warriors - Draco Van Hellian, Fungrim Irongrudge

Archer

Archers provide a harrowing hail of swift retribution in the heat of battle, felling devastating foes before their damage can be wreaked. Archers are classed as Short or Longbow, or Crossbow.

Archers - Ilarion Airienthel

Rogue

While more humble enemies to encounter, equipped with less armour and weapons, rogues are an integral part of every roving company. Gathering vital information, "Obtaining" items or gold when money is tight and light-of-foot in any unwelcoming scenario. Rogues are characters such as Thieves, Spies, Assassins, Hunters or even, uniquely for this guild, Smiths.

Rogues - Krystal Turvuman, Arcangelo Celestine, Flatch

Mage

Any uncommon site in the unkempt society of a disorganised rabble, preferring to stay in comfortable city suites than a battered, bloodstained tent. It is not unheard of for unorthodox wizards to wander with such bands, seeking to test their abilities in pressures of a challenging situation. Mages are classed as characters wielding magic ability (I.e. Wizards, Seers, Priests also fall into this category too)

Mages - Anurion Angilfin

Gunner

Gunners are another rarity in ragtag bunches, their skills and more importantly, armaments, kept and cherished by Empire and its craftsmen. However when a hot-headed, impressionable youth breaks free from this conformity stricture, his abilities are leapt upon and greeted in the world of the sellsword. Gunners are classed as those using any blackpowder weapon.

Gunners - James Stice

Other ranks dot the spectrum of nameless warriors and unknown wanderers, these will be added if and when later requirements arise.

Recruitment

Though the guild is not officially recruiting as of yet, we are severely lacking the recommended amount of regular writers. Anyone interested in joining the guild can post on this thread, and RP with at least me... and then we'll take it from there.

It is very helpful to note that the Flames RP off site run on a strict 18 rating. The WA forums may be pg13, but we're not. At all. If you do gain entry, expect excessive drinking, bloody violence, explicit sex, swearing and pretty much everything else. Though drugs and rock and roll are pending at the moment..

***
Here's my home away from home. Gotta add my own furniture to the place!

[Draco]

Name;
Draco Van Hellian

Age;
36

Race;
Human Male

Birthplace;
A small walled town in Northern Kislev, by the name of Samakand. Upon his leaving, Draco’s hometown was peaceful, nestled in the woodland that stands on the foothills of the Northern range of the World's Edge Mountains. Now, Samakand is an ashen ruin, but Draco's memory of his home will live on with him; though he may now be the only soul in the Old World and beyond who remembers it.

Description;
Standing at only 5'8", Draco is surprisingly short, though he is decently athletic in build. His hair is black, dirty and unkempt, with a centre parting so that it falls either side of his face. It is slightly wavy, neither thick nor thin, and is often greasy, a testament to the hygiene of one who is forever on the move. His eyes are a powerful blue, with a strength that continues throughout his very being. Though these same eyes once seemed sleepy and laid back when Draco was a young man in Samakand, the horrors that he has witnessed, and sadly committed, have awoken his now fiery nature and his almost leader like qualities, which shine through with a mixture of interest and passion in his eyes; they are after all, the window to the soul.

Draco still wears his token thick long coat, though it is now torn, scarred and dirty with both mud and old blood. The mail coat that he adopted as his second layer instead of his tunic during the siege of Erengrad is now long gone, and he has reverted back to his old method of relying upon several layers of tunics and a quick instinct to save him, a method that was greatly frowned upon in the Order. Though this method seems almost cocksure and foolhardy, Draco would reason that comfort comes above all; a strange remark indeed from one who was once enslaved in the darkest of places. He is by profession a warrior; but since Draco realised that he and his allies have an uncanny ability to stumble into trouble at the most random of moments, he chose that the ability to lead a normal life outside of his fighting without being constantly armoured was worth the huge risk that it left. Some would expect one who was so often in grave danger to wear mail or indeed plate armour, but there is no way to be sure of timing of an attack, and though it is better to be safe than sorry, it is also better to be happy than safe.

Draco's coat is black, but now faded with so much wear and tear., having been used as a protection against swordsmen, fire, heavy rain, and other assorted events. It is knee length, but would appear shorter on a man of normal height. The hem and tails are greatly mudded; the amount of times Draco has found himself having to fend off bandits in the middle of a field on a stormy night is almost worrying. It has a high collar that he often uses to protect his lower face from the elements, something that became very useful in the harsh winter of Kislev. This was once used in combination with his wide brimmed hat as a way of shadowing his face from passers by, and from instilling a sense of wonderment and fear into those who he was hunting. But his hat he cast from the bridge of Erengrad, following his expulsion from the Order of Sigmar, onto the river that runs through the city.

Draco wears three or four belts; one, the longest, is a cross body belt, from his left shoulder to his right hip. This contains many pockets and pouches which carry any small item or trinket that Draco feels is either dear to him or he wishes to keep as some form as memento. Most notable of these is Draco's old Sigmarite pendant, which is attached to a length of golden chain. It too is golden, though slightly tarnished now. He wore it about his neck as a ward against devils, but the twin tailed comet of Sotek upon a disc did little to stop the creatures that attacked him in Erengrad; not that he was ever pious enough to believe in it anyway. Though he is not proud of his actions in his service to the Inquisition, he keeps it close as a method of remembering the events that he was forced to endure in the Kislevite capital city. Until a few years ago, the pouches also contained the Druchii flesh hooks from the weapons that he still bears today. He told none of this; they were after all something that reminded him of the horror he lived for five years. But they were a method of soothing his conscience; he knew that he took them from the corpse of his captor, and that in killing the Dark Elf he gained revenge for all of his comrades that died, where he lived. When his dreams were waking he would hold them close and know this, and he would know that he had succeeded at least one thing, in what was otherwise an empty life. However, he has not been seen doing this for several years, and it is most likely that he disposed of the macabre memory.

But weapons and trinkets are not all that remind Draco of Naggaroth. No slave comes from the Land of Chill untainted, and Draco is no exception. His marks are not noticeable upon meeting him, and indeed it is long before he feels comfortable enough around someone for them to see. When his undershirt is removed, and no other clothes remain on his upper body, it becomes deathly apparent that the skin of his back is nearly all scar tissue. Countless rents, line upon line of pale flesh criss-crossing over each other. The Druchii care not for the state of their slaves, and dearly enjoy making their slaves feel the lick of a whip.

Draco's normal clothing is a pair of slightly too long black pants, held up by a leather belt, two white undershirts, a brown waistcoat with an extended length so that it reaches nearly to his knees, a tunic and finally his overcoat. Upon his feet, he wears soft leather boots, almost knee height, which are faded and worn. Mud cakes their soles, and countless tears and scratches adorn their surface.

Career;
Ex Witch Hunter, now self serving mercenary, of sorts. He has only once sold his sword to a greedy noble, preferring to quest with his companions and reap the rewards, dividing equally between them. This said, as yet no rewards have been reaped by the group; every time they seem close to gaining enough gold to satisfy even a dwarf, they experience mishaps which leaves them just as poor, or poorer, than before.

Mentality;
Upon meeting Draco, there is a period of unrest that one must go through in order to talk to him on an equal basis. This is mainly due to Draco's need to gauge the trustworthiness of all, or most, he meets. But it is also due to the shyness that has always been a deep part of his mentality and character. Following this period, however, it swiftly becomes apparent that Draco is, to all intents and purposes, a perfectly normal man, which can come across as surprising if one knows his history. However, he does not tell many the events that overshadow his life, and none know all. He prefers to continue as he would have, before his eighteenth year; a relaxed and friendly man, almost childlike in his humour, though this may be a subconscious way of trying to live his childhood now, rather than the shattered one he lived long ago. He also has a love for drink and fine ale, something that grew almost from necessity following the years he spent with Fungrim and Arcangelo.

However, Draco's nightmares still haunt him, every now and again, when even Krystal's warm embrace cannot lock away the horrors. He is deeply troubled and world weary, having almost given up on life many times since his escape from Naggaroth, when his future seemed so full of hope; but during the five years previous, life and death meant nothing to him. His main, and possibly only reason for living now, is his friends, and above all Krystal Turvuman. He loves them dearly, her most of all, and would lay down his life for those who persevered through his once permanently cold nature to discover the real him. Life is finally worth living for someone who has seen so much hurt; but without them, Krystal, Angelo, James, Anurion, Ilairon and even Fungrim, life would be worthless.

It is helpful to note that in Draco’s eyes, revenge comes in the form of extreme violence. His conscious cannot be calmed until he has at least wounded the cause of his guilt; it is because of this that he feels he did all he could for his companions back in the wastes of Naggaroth.


History;
Draco Van Hellian was born on the 10th Ertezeit, 2243, two weeks before the date that the midwife has proclaimed. Though at first it looked that young Draco would not survive his first winter, the child miraculously pulled through, much to the surprise of the townsfolk.

Draco's father was the town priest, a well respected and wise man by the name of Peter Van Hellian. His mother, Vanessa, was an ex-barmaid and reformed Ulrican, who had turned housewife when their first son, Dimitri, was born three years previously.

Much to the anger of Dimitri, Draco was the more loved of the pair; Dimitri's violent and disobedient nature was none to popular with his father. Dimitri grew away from the family unit, bullying his polite, well mannered young brother. Draco refused to fight back, finding it better to sate his rage and ignore any hatred he felt for someone he should dearly love.

It was on Draco's 8th birthday that he discovered something about his parents' relationship that Dimitri had long known. Rushing into their home, he discovered his father, drunk, beating his mother for some trivial mistake. Worryingly, the now almost disowned Dimitri found sick pleasure in the hurt that Draco suffered, a hurt that he had once felt, but had now removed from his body. Where Dimitri's separation from the family unit was not his choice, Draco pushed himself away, becoming for a short while a loner, the mysterious boy at the back of the class, the self contained child who sat alone on the hills or in clearings in the woodland until nightfall, when the bell was called.

When Draco turned eighteen, he had gained himself a small and collect group of friends, mainly from the farmhands he had met on his day alone in the fields. Dimitri had become the head and captain of the town militia, and had not taken the name Van Hellian for a good many years.

During Ulriczeit of that year, the cold took long to wrap its icy grip about the town. A strange fact for North Kislev, but the farmers enjoyed the extended harvest season without question, no longer loosing half of their crops to overflowing rivers or heavy snowfall. But some time into the month, heavy rain swept into the woodlands, and the luck seemed to have ended.

It was in the failing light of one of these days, when the last few ebbing rays of the sun shone through the rain clouds, that disaster struck.

During the generations, the town had only repelled one half hearted attack of beastly invaders from the North, though it was whispered that creatures far beyond nightmare roamed the woods further up the slopes late at night, when the moons where high. But upon this night, it was a different beast that attacked. The townsfolk never spoke of it, but in the Church records, on a new page and in a different hand, read one word; Vampyre.

Some tales talk of a Vampyre queen, a beautiful woman of eternal youth, who lives further north than her brethren. But none had yet wandered so far North as to meet Samakand, or even North Kislev. Most likely it was the extended summer which was responsible for the beast's further wanderings, but none know for sure. The effects of its arrival, however, were known well for a long, long time.

It was a Strigoi, the wandering, most bestial form of Vampyre. It tore through the villagers and farmers in the fields, reaping the crops in the calm before the storm that was forecasted for the night. Those within the town walls heeded the warning bell rung by a valiant and brave villager even as the creature climbed the wooden structure of the watchtower to reach him.

It is helpful to note that the notion of a Strigoi that far North is extremely rare; the loremasters of the Inquisition explained to Draco later on in his life that the beasts are commonly found only near the badlands of the South. But Draco saw what he saw, and there is little doubt in his mind that it was such a creature that attacked his village. Why the beast had roamed to Kislev will never be known.

Two parties were organised to kill the beast; the first, Dimitri's militia, trained and well armed and organised. They sorted the villagers into the holy grounds of the Church to be protected by Ulric, but one group was gone already. They had heeded the warning bell's final tolls, and the screams of agony from the gates, but they did not flee. Draco and his friends chose to hunt the creature. Dimitri was driven into searching for his younger brother when his father bravely left the safe grounds of his church to find his youngest son.

Draco and his companions found the beast in a barn, residing over the corpse of a fallen farmer. Though they attacked first, the beast tore them apart with ease; only Draco survived, though he was knocked unconscious.

It was Dimitri and Vanessa who found the priest, mortally wounded, barely steps from the church gates. Vanessa mourned her dying husband as Dimitri followed the creature to the roof of the church. Draco stumbled across his parents in a daze, speaking to his father before he died, and watched as Dimitri slew the creature. The younger son begged for forgiveness from his father for his foolish and headstrong actions, but he never got the peace of mind he sought so desperately.
[See 'The Beginning of the End', parts 1-10]

Draco left his town shortly after, promising to his mother that he would return when he found his redemption. He travelled first to Erengrad, finding the journey arduous as the harsh Kislevite winter finally set in across the country. Upon reaching the Grand Capital City, he enlisted on a boat set for the newfound lands of Lustria, across the raging seas.

The journey was the most harrying time of his life so far. He quickly picked up the simplest sailing skills from his experienced shipmates, and established a friendship of sorts with the aged captain. But he was still seen as the naive youngster, and was treated as such.

During a vicious Northern storm, the ship, the Kestrel, was thrown off course, travelling on a westerly course that was too strong for safety. It was attacked by Druchii corsairs, who killed many and took the survivors captive; though whether those who survived were the lucky ones is extremely doubtful.
[See 'Flight of the Kestrel']

Draco prayed for death, but it did not find him. Instead, he became a slave to the vile Dark Elves in the city of Clar Karond. He worked day and night in the armouries, forging simple weapons of arcane design, along with mail and shields, to fund the increasing army of the Witch King of Naggarond.

For five years he toiled alongside others, tasting horror and madness. But his spirit never broke, something which his slave driver and tormentor sought so eagerly to do. In the year 2266, Draco turned 23; Dimitri was 26.

Leading what could only be described as a botched and halfhearted rebellion, Draco managed to escape the city with a few others, though the followers who were stuck within the city were executed. He reached the endless plains and forests of the land of chill, running towards the East, towards home. They hoped to reach the coastline, though they had no hopes for themselves on the crossing of the ocean.

The slave driver followed them alone atop his mount, confident that he could find and kill or capture the slaves before they escaped. He ran them down within a week of Clar Karond. Draco managed to kill the great Cold One mount of his hunter, driving a strong tree branch through the roof of it's open and roaring mouth and into its brain. He was knocked down with a back sweep from the armoured hand of the elf, who set about executing all but Draco before the man's very eyes. But when the slave driver tried to chain up the broken man, Draco managed to overpower him, driving the ceremonial blade that hung at the elf's waist into his chest.

Salvaging the Draich and the Uraithen from the corpse of the Druchii, he continued his flight east. He finally came across the coastline, and discovered a slave army in the making; those who had escaped to the coast but no further, now arming themselves for vengeance. He was treated like loyalty by all those who saw his weapons, and was offered a place on the boat they had constructed, being given the reasoning that by slaying a Druchii, he had earned his freedom. He gladly took the space, and the boat, now full, left that night, even as the signs of a larger Druchii force could be seen on the horizon.

They travelled east again, towards the Old World. But when the mists about the boat grew thick, and the waters vicious, they turned south, fearing some arcane magic. Though they will never know, they had travelled too close to Ulthuan.

They drifted south, having lost their crude paddles in a storm. Fatigue and lack of food overwhelmed them, and two died already from exhaustion. They had managed to escape Naggaroth, but Lustria was nearing.

With a stroke of luck that seemed almost a miracle to those who thought that such times had forsaken them, they managed to drift to a merchant ship docked in a Lustrian cove. The sailors fed the slaves, not questioning the outlandish weapons or the scars, as all had heard the rumours of what happened to those who travelled too far North.

Almost six months later, Draco arrived back in Kislev. He was clothed by the best tailors in Erengrad, funded by the captain of the Merchant Ship; he had enough to spare since his discovery of gold in the jungles that surrounded the cove a week before the slaves' arrival.

Draco travelled back to the only place he knew; his hometown. He was hopeful once more; but his dream was shattered upon arrival.

Stumbling through the thick, strangely untamed woodland, he discovered the clearing where Samakand had stood. It was an ash filled graveyard, scattered with mutilated bodies of those he had known and grown up with. Every step he took shattered his heart a little more, until the final crushing blow; the body of his elderly mother.
He found no survivors.

He buried his mother next to the broken headstone of his father's grave, praying for her soul. But a deep search through the village made one thing deathly apparent; Dimitri was not present amongst the dead.

From the nauseating signs and sigils that he found daubed around the village upon the walls and upon corpses, he took the attackers and murderers to be a band of barbarians from the vicious North, as he had never seen anything akin to them before. On the site of his hometown he vowed to find and kill all responsible, though whether or not he can ever hope to carry through this promise is doubtful.

Reeling from the shock, he wandered South until he came across the city of Kislev. He stumbled through the streets, searching for somewhere that would take him in. He came across a church, but the deity worshipped within the hallowed walls was not Ulric; the steps that Draco collapsed upon led to a church dedicated to Sigmar. It was a Northern outpost of the Empire Religion, and the monks took Draco in, tending him back to health. Not being one to pass up the free care, he neglected to inform them of his Ulrican upbringing. It seemed to him that a new leaf was being turned, but in reality it was more a new page.

He soon found that what he had once taken for an innocent monastery was something wholly more sinister; it was in truth an outpost for the Inquisition of Sigmar. During his visits into the markets of the city, he had heard rumours of their actions, tales of lone Witch Hunters scouring the lands, burning heretics and mutants, and destroying that which haunted Draco's memories; Vampyres.

Feigning deep piousness in the name of Sigmar, Draco worked up his strength, making sure that the priests knew at all times that he wished to hunt the children of false Gods. They whispered to each other on odd moments, deciding the fate of the man, and soon it was decided; he was inducted into the Order of Sigmar.

For almost five years Draco trained with them, learning their ways and the methods to hunt the beasts and ward off devils. He was gifted with plate armour, but refused to take it. His weapons he carried were the Druchii made Draich and Uraithen, which he would never give up, though he took a short sword too to ease the pressure on his precious blade. His main gift, however, was his mighty warhorse, Shadowmane.

Hearing of heresy and rebellion in the South, Draco was sent to the area surrounding the river Aver, the Inquisition still fearing the taint of the Von Carsteins. It was here where Draco's future was decided, though he did not know it at the time. Travelling to the town of Weatherdale, he found it besieged by an Orc warband. He lent his sword to the defence, helping to rally the survivors and joining forces with a group known as the Burning Souls.

Led by the suicidal Dwarven Slayer Fungrim 'Irongrudge', the group had been resting in the Dog and Bull in of the town when the attack started. Draco chose to turn a blind eye to the Mage, an Elf who had once been a man but was now, strangely, a woman, as he decided to lax the feint of piousness for a short while. It was in this group that he met Arcangelo Celestine and James Stice, and formed a friendship with them that has yet to be broken.

The group travelled South to Tilea, seeking a cure to the poison that ailed the mercenary of the group, Virgil Black. Draco never found whether he was healed, as the group was torn apart by infighting within the walls of the capital. Angelo, James and Draco left, travelling Northwards. And two nights following, as dusk fell, they were joined by Fungrim Irongrudge, who would not speak of the events that occurred as he left behind his companion, Kateri Sarrasri.

For a while they returned to Weatherdale, taking up the free quarters in the newly renamed Orc Hide Inn, that had been named such to commemorate their victory over the greenskins. But receiving orders from the Inquisition, Draco was summoned Northwards to hunt down the source of much fear and panic in a small town known as Hartenburg. Arcangelo, keen to befriend the Witch Hunter, insisted on accompanying him.

Upon arrival, Draco and Arcangelo found that those families that had perished were all missing their eldest unwed daughter; the eldest virgins in the town. Laying down a plan to capture whatever it was that was hunting the young girls, Draco and Arcangelo waited; but the next eldest played on the brawler's lust for women, and the plan was shattered without Draco's knowledge. The beast came to them in the night, and they barely survived. Draco discovered that the beast was in fact a vampire; one who's soul had been taken during the Vampiric Wars in Sylvania. After much violence and bloodshed, Arcangelo and Draco finally slew the beast they had grown to hate.

Upon leaving Hartenburg, Draco received no orders, so the pair decided to track down Fungrim, who had left on his own months before. Utilising Arcangelo's skill in tracking, they finally managed to find him in the woodlands of the South.

After nearly a week of travel with the dwarf, new orders reached him. They had been sent many weeks before, but had been delayed as he had proved too difficult to find. Draco decided to set off at once, with Fungrim in tow, possibly looking for his glorious death in the lands beyond; Troll Country. Draco travelled back home to Kislev, to the port city of Erengrad.

Within weeks of their arrival, the Great Siege of Erengrad began, a Chaotic warhost led by a Chaos Lord known as Charnate Blood-drinker moving South from the wastes. A force of such size had rarely before seen in the Old World, and it's main blow came against the Capital of Kislev. Summons were sent for aid, and within a week the Bretonnian Knight force of Christof Montefiorre had arrived, though the opportunity for open battle that they sorely required was long gone.

With the Inquisitorial Investigation still underway, panic erupted across the city. Rogue necromancers, hoping to cash in on the confusion, came forwards, raising undead in scattered events, harrying at the already spent Witch Hunters. The main blow of the Chaos forces coincided with the defection of the Captain of the Guard of Erengrad, Mikhail Zamoyski. The forces could do little but retreat as a grand daemon was summoned forth to tear down the gatehouse of the North wall. Fungrim was wounded in the fighting, and knocked unconscious; none dared later to inform him of the beast he had missed when a chunk of masonry connected with his skull.

The chaos forces pressed onwards, but the relief came in the form of unexpected guests; a Dwarven force led by Mordrakk Grimbeard, King of Karak Drung and reputed friend of Fungrim Irongrudge. The hold had received the summons for aid, and strangely had decided to ally with the humans. Mordrakk himself attacked the daemon, aided by his Slayers, Hammerers and Ironbreakers.

Draco, however, was feeling increasingly disheartened by the vicious methods taken by the Witch Hunters to seek out the source of the Heresy. He had chosen to turn a blind eye as men and women were sent to the stake without trial, but when Grigori Dyakov, the Head of the Order, turned his eyes upon the children, Draco could not stand back any longer. He stepped between Grigori and the pyre beneath a girl known as Sofia Binyon as the Head Witch Hunter held his torch aloft. Draco would not stand down, even when Jakob Reinhard, his closest friend within the Order, told him to. Draco was cast from the Order, and was given a warning; it is most likely that only through Jakob's request was he not executed as a heretic.

Eventually the forces managed to push back the Chaos armies, cleansing the North Bank. They met the army head on outside the walls in a battle of such a scale that was not seen again for many years. Fungrim fought in the engagement, but Draco within the city, as finally the culprit of the panic was found; the Chaos worshipping mayor of Erengrad. He killed the man, but laid the honours upon Jakob, in an act of kindness and repayment for his earlier actions.

Draco and Fungrim travelled South once more, Fungrim having failed to find his death. The pair split in the forests of the Empire, Draco choosing to travel further South. He wrote to Arcangelo and James's last known whereabouts, requesting a meeting at the Orc Hide Inn. He did not know where Fungrim was, and the dwarf can barely read Reikspeak anyway.

The trio met, and within almost minutes of Draco arriving, a bar fight started, though it was nothing to do with him. Alliances were formed almost instantly, with Krystal Turvuman, Ilairon Airienthel, Ansem Shadowclaw and Sapphira Orieadin aiding the warriors. With a stroke of luck, Fungrim too arrived, stumbling into the inn and attacking the nearest drunken brawlers.

And the Flames commenced.

Character Equipment;
Uraithen;
A repeater crossbow taken from the corpse of the slave driver upon the cold plains of Naggaroth, Draco has carved away the bulkier weighting pieces in order to lighten the weapon, as well as wrapping red cloth about the grip for more comfort. It is of course dear to him, though it is not as dear to him as his Draich.

Draich;
This item is much more than just a weapon to Draco; it is a relic honouring his fallen comrades upon his escape from Clar Karond. The Druchii flesh hooks were long since torn away and pocketed, leaving only the bare structure of blade and hilt. It still, however, means everything to him, in the same way one would treasure an heirloom passed down by a deceased relative. A show of one of his only victories.

Knife;
A small, flat bladed knife, predominantly used to whittle bolts for his Uraithen. However, it can be used in any number of situations, from cutting meat from a creature hunted by either Ilairon or Arcangelo, to protecting himself in combat when all other weapons are spent.

Axe;
This almost always stays amongst the baggage on Shadowmane. It is mainly used for chopping down branches and small trees for fire or to whittle bolts. Its blade edge is very blunt, and if used in combat the effect of hitting an enemy with it would create a horrific effect.

Short Sword;
The sword gifted to him on his final induction into the order. It is immensely useful in combat, and has become his predominant weapon due to its easier usage compared to the large Draich.

Among the baggage on Shadowmane are many items that he has found or 'gained' on his travels, such as flint, rope, bedding and spare clothing, though the latter is barely touched. All that Draco believes he will need is stored upon her back.

Goals;
For a while, his life appeared goalless; he had no direction, nowhere to go. But now, with friends, Love, and other things, Draco's life seems full again. He now hopes to gain great wealth, as with any mercenary, and then settle down and raise a family with Krystal, as he is not getting younger.
This said, he still deeply hates the servants of the Dark Powers, and will hunt them down wherever he hears of them. Those who slew his mother are still alive, somewhere in the World.

Steed;
Draco's horse, Shadowmane, was gifted to him upon his induction into the Order. She is highly trained, extremely powerful and viciously loyal, and he cares a great deal for her too. She is mainly black, with grey and white speckles upon her back. Her mane is raven, reflecting her name.
It is also worth taking note that due to the size of Shadowmane, being a warhorse. Draco would find it exceedingly difficult to mount her normally. The stirrups have had extra straps of leather added in, almost like a ladder, for him to climb up on.

Skills;
Over time, Draco has learnt how to almost 'refill' the clips of his repeater crossbow. Though his whittled arrows are smaller and less potent, it still means that he needn't conserve his fire. He is also a reasonable tracker, but he only really knows the basics he was taught in Kislev.
He is predominantly a warrior, wielding his Draich with deadly efficiency despite his size. Though he is naturally stronger than the elves of Naggaroth, his smaller size means that his Draich still requires two hands to wield, like any other blade.

[Ploting]

That story was probably one of the best ive heard in a long time. You should write novels.

[Draco]

We do. ;)

[Arcangelo]

Name: Arcangelo Celestine

Age: 42

Race: Human Male

Place of Birth: Empire country, exact place of birth unknown.

Appearance: Arcangelo is a somewhat foreboding figure, towering over most men at 6’7”. His upper body is well built, his wide shoulders and broad arms showing off intense strength. His deep grey eyes, usually hidden behind a long fringe of jet-black hair, show little emotion. He is a handsome man, his face free of scars or distinguishing marks, and his jaw is usually lined with a rough shade of a beard he refuses to grow. His chest and stomach are a mess of old, thin scars and wounds, a design the wanderer believes is a clear map of his life on the road. Over his left shoulder and trailing down his back flows a jagged tattoo of a sky blue, the tribal design of old depicting ‘beauty in war’.

Clothing: At current, Arcangelo wears a waist length leather jacket over a sleeveless studded leather shirt. Under this he wears nothing. Around his forearms he wears leather bracers extending to a single fingerless glove on his right hand, the other ending at the wrist. His trousers are a pair of brown, tattered cotton pants, loose fitting and comfortable, which hang over the tops of his dark brown boots. The boots are fitted with thick metal fastenings. A leather belt is tied around his waist, more for storage than anything else.
In the warmer months, Arcangelo is stripping the armour and jacket, and replacing it with a leaf green cloak. Under this he wears no shirt unless the cold proves too intense. At all times, he bears a scarf of black, tied at the back of his neck it hangs over his chin, but when riding or fighting he pulls it over his mouth and nose. The only hint of jewellery is a silver pendant, shaped like a buffalo’s head, an emblem tying him to the Church of the Celestial Light.

Mental: With a long lasting life of turmoil, certain memories can throw the Hunter into a rage he cannot always control. Lately, these flashbacks have become less frequent, and all the better. He is not a trusting man, and without sufficient justification he will not go into detail regarding his past. That is not to say he is a hateful person, by any stretch, and will defend his companions to the bitter end. He does have an insatiable love for the finer things in life, especially the maidens.

Weapons: Attached to his belt, sheathed in a long cross-stitched sleeve resides a glimmering silver blade, northern in craft and reaching a golden hilt. A gift from the people of a village in Kislev, it is easily his most prized possession. Its steel is blessed by one of the wanderer’s many powers, it constantly shines, if not dimly. Dubbed the Aurius Luna, or the Light of the Pale Moon in Old Worlder, it is engraved with two intertwining snakes, weaving up the blade to a face each other, the emblem of Anura, Goddess of Light. Over his shoulder the Hunter carries a tightly strung longbow, into which a fine elven design is etched, although it was crafted by his own hand. It is light and strong, although rarely used, and the string is the hair of a great Kislevite mare’s mane. The arrows for the bow are kept in a quiver at his waist, only able to hold around 20 arrows, but it is always full. There is also a small crafting knife tucked into the Hunter’s foot, mainly used for carving and whittling, although on more than one occasion its blade has tasted blood.

History: On the 12th of Ulriczeit, to a travelling family of nine, Amourin Willow was born. With 4 elder brothers and 3 sisters, (another one due no more than a year after Amourin himself) he lived in a battered horse drawn caravan belonging to his mother and father. His mother, a loving and beautiful woman, although now a little world weary, once belonged to a rich family of merchants in Middenheim. His father, a now aged, heavy drinking old man, was born to a similar life as his son’s. A shallow, self-absorbed old crook, Cameron Willow lived now as a merchant on the road.
22 Years before Amourin’s birth, a tiny caravan ambled into the city of Middenheim, cluttered with a mix of useless garbage collected from all four corners of the empire (and one or two of Bretonnia etc.) The only child of the old merchant, one Cameron Willow, was a man in his late 20’s, a young and handsome man with a keen eye for the ladies. When the caravan came to rest in Middenheim, he was instantly taken with a woman of no more than 18, Elisa DuClaire, daughter to a rich businessman here in town. This bold, charming traveller instantly ensnared the young girl, and the two seemed deeply in love.
Two months later, the caravan moved on, now bearing a bearing mother, whisked away before her father could catch wind of the lovers. After their first was born, a strong, healthy boy by the name of Thomas, the family Willow began. With no marriage planned, the family kept to the road, even after old man Willow passed away, leaving the couple in charge to keep the cart going.
Amourin led a life of abuse and hard labour, dished out by his brother’s and father. His sisters were kept in work aboard the van, in what their narrow-minded father believed to be a fair trade, crafting clothes to sell. Even through this life of labour, Amourin found safety in his mother, who would teach him woodcraft and the wonders of the natural world. An educated woman before she left, she knew much of the workings of the natural world, and soon the young master’s love for such things blossomed.
When the family made their regular stops in the towns and cities of the Empire, Amourin would venture out in search of more knowledge, searching libraries and points of historical relevance. He also had a growing curiosity in the many religions of the old world, although his Father would discourage such beliefs, usually following his words of wisdom with a hefty boot.
By the age of fourteen, he had developed an intense physical strength and had already reached 6 feet. He excelled in archery, marksmanship, swordplay and craft, all skills he worked on in the woodlands on his increasingly frequent treks. His hiking companion was his eldest brother Thom, with whom he shared a common love for nature and its beauties. The two would stay in the woods for days; honing the young man’s skills in tracking and hunting, and Thom grew to be something of an idol to the young Amourin.
However, in the summer of his 16th year, horror struck and tore the family apart. During a particularly heavy night of drinking, Cameron lashed out and struck Elisa, who split her brow on a table in the caravan. In dashing to her aid, Thom found himself at knifepoint, his father barking demands between huge gulps on a bottle of whiskey. When he disobeyed the old man a fight ensued, during which Thom was stabbed, and fell to the ground, clutching the gaping wound now drawn across his throat.
The only aid to his gargled wails was the still young Amourin, who leapt to his brother’s aid. Through wheezed breath, and with a mouthful of blood, the now older man leant in to his youngest brother and whispered.
‘Don’t…let her…go…’ and with a final cough, he fell into silence. With tear filled eyes, Amourin looked to his toppled father, the source of all his anguish and pain, but remained silent. Slowly, he slid his hands from under Thom, and lifted his unconscious mother into his arms. Her breath was soothing, but the battle raging in the mere child drowned it all out. As he strode from the camp, his brothers only watched, no sign of remorse or upset.
With his bloody hands staining his mother’s gown, he marched through the night, and on into the day. Never looking back, he set his sights for Middenheim, and for a week he walked, his silent pilgrimage calling out to any god that would spare this fair being. Through fast and drought he walked, until at last he marched upon the steps of the Chateau DuClaire.
When the servants found the comatose form, there was too much joy, too much rejoicing to search for an explanation. Though she would never wake, the DuClaires had their daughter, and nobody cared to make the link to the shattered husk of a child found not half a mile away, lying bloody in the streets. All battle flushed from his system, the loving hero fainted.
As a nameless orphan, a monastery took in the young Amourin, the Church of the Celestial Light. Run by a wizened old priest Arcangelo Boraliss, the boy would be raised a warrior of the Word. He took up the name of Arcangelo, in respect to the priest to whom he owed so much. For nine years, the monastery would be his home, and he would hone his already potent skills.
Here he also met another lost soul, by the name of Ilderath, a young druid taken in by the Celestial Light to train in the arts of magic. The two shared an uncanny love for nature, and spent many months training together, exchanging knowledge and such. When Ilderath chose to leave the monastery, but a few months before Arcangelo, the two made an oath to meet again, and so took upon the name of Celestine. Soon enough, Arcangelo Celestine left the monastery and began a life as a wanderer.
While in Middenheim later that year, he met a young maiden by the name of Alyson, and the attraction was instantaneous. By fall that year, the two were married, bound by the vows of the Celestial Light. For two years, the couple remained in Middenheim, and for once Arcangelo felt the anchors of home. It was not until the winter of their second year that Alyson fell deadly ill, and was swept from Arcangelo’s embrace. Thrown into a world of remorse, he once again cut his ties and took off, returning to the path in the dark.

Steed: Throughout his travels, Arcangelo has acquired many great steeds, each of great strength, but he now rides the oak brown Keogh.

Goals: A firm believer that placing too much love in anything leads to heartache, Arcangelo now travels with the soul purpose of expanding his knowledge, and if that means he can pad his pockets a little, then so be it.

[Ilairon]

Character Name: Ilairon Airienthel

Character Age: Appears to be about 22

Character Race: Wood Elf

Place of Birth: The gladed village of Mith Niethras Gal-ethon hidden within the Loren Forest

Character Description: Ilairon is approximately 6'4" tall. He has unkempt brown-blond hair. He is more muscular than the average Wood Elf. His eyes are a light green though at night they often appear a shadowy gray. He wears a simple jerkin and light pants. Over the jerkin he wears a cape that is of a dark green color that mimics forest surroundings. He often wears a robe or cloak over these, each mimicing the forest environment that he favors. He wears a ring on his right hand bearing strange runes and markings, and any pick-pocket foolish enough to attempt stealing the ring has often lost a hand or an arm. He wears no armor; instead, he relies on his speed and mobility, using his grace, agility, and lithe movements to avoid damage. He has a short bow as well as a quiver over his back in which he keeps multiple arrows, crossbow bolts, and darts. He also has a small, hand-held crossbow that hangs from a cord that is attached to his belt. He has a kriss dagger that he keeps in his pack as well as two ordinary looking short swords; each is held in a scabbard at his waist.

Profession: Sell-sword, ranger, pickpocket, and tracker.

Mentality and Personality: Ilairon is an observer. He doesn't go out of his way to make friends and acquaintances, but he isn't completely dead to the world, and will socialise with others from time to time. However, he doesn't have any strong bonds of friendship, and that doesn't particularly bother him. He doesn't go out of his way to annoy, but at the same time he doesn't venture to increase the disposition of others towards him, mainly because he's cynical and suspicious about life in general. Many of the people he's known in his life have either failed or betrayed him so the only person he truly trusts is himself. He's cold and efficient when he puts his mind to something, but he has no clear goals.

He is neither trustful nor overly trustworthy. However, he is reliable. He is quick to discern lies and unravel the truth, but he does so in an almost completely uncaring fashion. He doesn't laugh at the misfortune of others, and when he is near those in need his eyes show more kindness than he would ever normally let on. His eyes also show great hatred whenever he is near one of his own kin. When he looks at other Elves all he sees are the faces of his betrayers.

It's evident that something from his past bites at him because even a casual observer can sense the bitterness inside of him. He doesn't like to talk about his past because he doesn't want others to know his shame and the betrayal that haunts him. When asked about his past he merely says that he did not leave his home under the best circumstances, assuming he even says anything.

He is not quick to anger, nor seemingly to sorrow. He has buried most of his emotions just like he has repressed many of his memories so that they do not overwhelm him. People can manipulate emotions and use the past to reopen old scars - to protect himself Ilairon has resigned himself to a shadow of a soul.

Ever since fighting in the Massacre of Kara, a small Kislevite town that Ilairon and several other mercenaries cleansed of the taint of Chaos, nightmares have plagued Ilairon, and his memory has been slipping. Braegon Cyrth, an entity of chaos, is the cause of the nightmares and Ilairon's slipping memory. In addition, Ilairon has had several dreams recently where he sees his father and the land he is now exiled from.

Personality and Interaction with the Flames: Ilairon was originally quite cold, standoffish, and anti-social towards the other members of the Flames. However, now that they have spent a long time together, although still far from trusting, he is starting to brighten up and be a bit more sociable. His cynical outlook is changing from depressing pessimism to snide sarcasm and sardonic jibes. He is slowly getting more conversant, less formal, and more open, albeit still - for the most part - a closed book about his own past. His hatred for other Elves, however, has peaked after his encounter with Marethe.

History: Little is known of Ilairon's past. He was born in a village hidden amongst the glades of Loren. Rumors go of his early childhood and his later life there, but for the most part Ilairon ignores them. Nothing is known of what caused him to leave his home and the only answers rest with him and his kindred.

It is known that after leaving the forests of Loren, he followed the Gray Mountains north until he reached the Arden forest. There he crossed the mountains until he came to the southern part of Couronne where he restocked on what supplies he could not get himself and hired himself out as a sell-sword. In the process he went on various quests leading him to the Arden Forest, the wasteland, the zombie swamps, the Laurelon Forest, the forests of the Empire, and even the badlands to the south.

Eventually he ended up in Marienburg where he rested for a few days outside the city. At night on the third day he was attacked by a would-be assassin. Ilairon won and kept the assassin alive, interogating him and examining his belongings. Ilairon found out that the assassin had been sent by a wizard south-east of the city. Grabbing his gear and leaving the assassin to survive the wilds, Ilairon headed off.

When he reached the wizard's tower he found an old man at the base of it, looking at something. Ilairon snuck forwards with caution and with an arrow aimed at the old man. As Ilairon drew closer, the old man looked up and stared at him before erupting in laughter. Ilairon looked to see if he was in a trap or some form of danger but found nothing. The old man revealed himself to be the mage after sending multiple spells at the Wood Elf.

A raging battle ensued and Ilairon came out the winner. Ilairon walked towards the mage, but stopped as the old man began to speak. He foretold of his own death and began to smile and laugh once again.

Ilairon walked away from the dead mage and stared at what the mage had been pre-occupied with. There were strange runes and symbols on it but for the most part Ilairon recognized it as a map of the Old World. He studied it and noted his name inscribed on it. Studying it further he found that an area near the Moot had been circled with magical hexes. Ilairon grabbed the map and quickly placed it in his pack. Silently he headed southeast.

In the town of Weatherdale, Ilairon joined a group of rogues. During a bar fight, the group managed to set an inn ablaze, leaving only ash in their wake. During the fight and blaze, Ilairon was attacked by an imp-like creature who identified himself as Braegon Cyrth. Braegon acted like he knew Ilairon and claimed dismay that Ilairon didn't remember him. Ilairon lost the fight, and he suffered from a momentary lapse of consciousness, lost in a terrible vision.

They began wandering north, towards Middenheim, after the conflict in Weatherdale. Along the way, they came across a High Elf mage named Anurion Anglifin. Soon after, dreams that had haunted Ilairon years ago began to resurface.

Braegon Cyrth reappeared, this time taunting Ilairon with memories of the innocent ablaze in the Kislevite city of Kara. He requested Ilairon to step into the darkness and join him, but Ilairon refused - as a result, Braegon Cyrth responded by taking the form of a necromancer, summoning several imp-like sirens, and attacking the Wandering Flames. The group killed the creatures and the necromancer-form Braegon Cyrth had taken, but Braegon Cyrth survived, and Krystal was blinded.

Beastman attacked the group as they continued towards Middenheim, and when they reached the city, Ilairon split from the group, gathering information from old informants, friendly merchants, and his own inferences. He knew of an old friend from Tilea who was locked away in a cell in a prison in Middenheim. He went to meet his old acquaintance and freed him as the price for information the Tilean could give him. One important thing he learned was that Marethe, a Wood Elf exile like himself, was living east of Talabheim in otherwise uninhabited Elven ruins.

Early Historical Data: Ilairon was born in the gladed village of Mith Niethras Gal-ethon hidden within the Loren Forest. Son to a highborn lord, Ilairon was destined for nobility. As years passed by, Ilairon showed a certain disregard for order and authority, disobeying commands that were meant to keep him safe. He had a burning lust for adventure, danger, and glory.

A waywatcher, Ilairon guarded the woodland paths of Athel Loren from intruders, safeguarding the Asrai borders with bow and blade. He often went through the woods alone, listening to the sounds of nature and dreaming about glorious battles he would fight in to defend his homeland.

One day he stumbled across an old warding stone. Ancient Elvish runes of warning and danger had been chiselled into the stone ages ago, but Ilairon disregarded them, continuing on his way. His curiosity peaked. Roots, trees, and forest debris had hidden the original path, forcing Ilairon to forge his own path. He found an ancient altar with runes in a dialect older than any he knew. Their meaning was lost on him, but he felt a chill run down his spine as he stared at them.

He was compelled to continue towards the altar, stepping over vine-covered flagstones and bounding over toppled columns. He reached down to take a closer look, put his hand on the altar, and blacked out. The next thing he knew he was in his village, standing over his father's dead body, and several other dead. Other Elves looked at him with hate, anger, and revenge in their eyes, but Ilairon knew not why or what had happened; rather than fight them, he submitted to them, dropping his weapons, and letting them bind his arms and legs.

He asked what had happened, but they merely spat at his feet and beat him until he was a bloody ruin. His own wife, a high-ranking priestess of Ariel, had found him guilty of crimes he knew he hadn't commited, including murdering the Elves that he had seen dead. As punishment he was exiled and branded a murderer. He had no idea how they could think he had killed other Elves, let alone his own father, but their hate was minimal compared with what happened prior to his exile. Ilairon's wife married another, making Ilairon a cuckold. She and her new husband poisoned Ilairon's son, Rethian's mind, turning his own son against him. Ilairon left his village at nightfall, filled with hatred for his kin who had betrayed him, determined to find revenge for his betrayal and to find the real murderer. As years passed by, and his luck failed to find the murderer, Ilairon forgot his quest; all that remained was bitterness, bitterness and dreams of glory.

Ilairon abandoned his noble upbringing and hired himself out as a sell-sword. His most notable journeys were to the jungles of Lustria, where he and several other mercenaries went seeking fortune, but most found death. On the return voyage, near Tilea, the survivors were attacked by pirates. In the battle, Ilairon was lost to the sea, and the others thought him a dead man. Three days later his journal prefaced his arrival on the Tilean beach. A young Tilean boy, the son of a fisherman, found Ilairon and his journal, and called his father. The Tilean fishing family took Ilairon in for a time, nursing him back to health; in exchange he finished his tale 'Into the Jungle,' recounting how he had wound up afloat and adrift in the sea for three days.

Years later, he met up with Tariq Sabar, one of the survivors from the trip to Lustria and Christian Verez, who had been the young Tilean boy who found him on the beach years earlier. The trio found work along with several other mercenaries, escorting a merchant caravan to Araby through the lands where the dead rise again. Some of the mercenaries, content to have made it through safe either stayed in Araby or purchased passage back to the North on ship. Ilairon, Tariq, Christian, a mercenary named Joseph Ghent who had helped protect the caravan south, and several other mercenaries were hired by the somewhat eccentric, somewhat roguish noble Thomas Bondurant to return to the lands of the dead, and to go 'tomb-raiding.' 'Tomb-raiding' did work out so well for most, and Ilairon, Tariq, Christian, Joseph, and Thomas found themselves doing mercenary work here and there to make up for what was - for the most part - a misadventure.

The group of five were in a small down called Evendale, staying at a local inn and tavern called The Drake's Beard when a barfight led to their last job together. They were one of two mercenary groups that were hired to seek out a chaos cult and extinguish it. They obliged, killing the head cultist, a skilled sorcerer of Tzeentch. They left the town, and received their reward, but days later they learned that the threat of Chaos had spread even further with their departure. Returning to Kara, they learned that a Necromancer Cult had resurrected the dead Chaos sorcerer, for what purpose they never learned; regardless, the lich sorcerer could not be controlled by the cult, and with undeath he renewed his cult. He was able to turn much of the city of Kara into mindless automatons at his bidding, creating an army of innocents. Ilairon and the others returned, along with additional mercenary groups, and by the end countless innocents - men, women, children, sick, and elderly - were dead, killed by the mercenaries. The sorcerer was stopped, but the group of five companions were no longer the same, and they gradually drifted apart.

Ilairon was consumed with guilt as the images of children he had been forced to slay swam through his mind.

Skills: Ilairon is a skilled shot with his short bow and crossbow. He also is skilled with fighting with two weapons at once. He has trained extensively to be able to fight with a blade equally in either hand and to be able to switch hands with ease. He uses his kriss knife to sharpen the heads for arrows and bolts as well as to replace lost, used, or broken arrows and bolts. He does not rely on magic much but does have great knowledge of nature and can find plants to heal himself, give strength to companions, and stop the spread of poison. He can also mend light wounds. He has never used a steed before, prefering to walk instead. He is stronger and tougher than the average Elf but not by much. He is also good at hunting wild animals, reading maps, and traversing the woods, wilds, marshes, and mountains that are the Empire.