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The Willowleafs were a noble family of Elvish lords with landholdings in the forest near a small village. When trolls attacked the town, their Elvish neighbors came to their aid, but were too late to save most of the townspeople. Those who survived had lost their homes and everything they owned, so the once-indifferent Elvish Lord benevolently offered a place in his home for them. The elves employed many of the humans as servants in their homes, and treated them quite well. In time, the eldest son of the Elvish lord became enamored with his human servant. As the lord had decreed that no romantic relations between elf and man would be tolerated in his realm, the son’s relationship with his servant would be kindled in secret. Eventually, the woman became pregnant with a half-elf child, whom she would name Viessa. She would be given her mother’s surname, as she would never disclose the identity of the elven father, lest the lord bring judgment upon her beloved. Even so, the Elvish lord commanded that she would no longer be employed in his home, and that she must take her son with her to work elsewhere in their community. Like many of mixed heritage, Viessa was shunned by her Elvish relatives. She was bullied and picked on for much of her childhood, and spent much of her time tending to livestock in the stables and fields. At the age of thirteen, Viessa’s mother became very sick with an unknown disease, and eventually passed away. By this time, the Elvish lord had heard many rumors of Viessa’s lineage, and rather than keep the girl as a reminder of his own son’s disobedience, the Elvish lord saw fit to send Viessa to serve in the army of a nearby human king.

The Elf lord had his scribe pen a letter to Commander of the Kings army stating Viessa’s predicament, and requesting that she be put into the service of the king. Commander Nerval of the King’s Army, Leader of His Majesty’s First File, was a kindly, dark-haired man of sixty-eight years. He had served in the royal army for nearly all of his life, rising to the highest rank from his beginnings in the infantry as a man-at-arms. As such, he was well-renowned throughout the realm for his bravery and dedication to the King. Upon receiving the Elvish lord’s letter, Commander Nerval asked that the half-elf youth be brought immediately to his chambers. He questioned Viessa at length about her home, her mother, and her upbringing in a way that must have seemed rather odd to an orphaned child that had been overlooked for much of her life. On that same day, Nerval swore Viessa into the service of the King. At first, the Commander would keep the half-elf girl as his personal servant. Viessa was tall and strong compared to full-blooded humans her same age, and became a great asset to Nerval in his advancing age, carrying his weapons and armor, and when needed, helping the Commander to scale the many of steps that led to up to his chambers. Commander Nerval favored the girl so much that he afforded her every opportunity to learn at his side, whether during audiences with the Royal Court or at strategic military meetings. Over two years passed for Viessa in the personal service of the Commander, and she was finally old enough to officially enter the royal army. On the morning that the half-elf was to become a soldier instead of a servant, Nerval called her into his chambers. The old man proceeded to thank Viessa for her years of unquestionable loyalty, and stated that he had been keeping a secret since the day he had received Viessa into his home.

The girl looked at him confusedly as the Commander informed her that he had been born in the same village as Viessa’s mother before he moved to the serve the Crown. In fact, Nerval said, he guessed that Viessa might be his great niece by marriage. This hypothesis would be nearly impossible to prove as their village records had been destroyed along with the rest of the town; but this did not matter to Nerval. From that day forward (and many days before), the Commander would think of Viessa as his niece, and treated her as such. At sixteen years of age, Viessa Willowleaf- Wysajor joined the Royal Infantry. In very little time, she became a skilled and shrewd fighter, in part due to years of bearing the brunt of Elvish beatings. Serving under her great-uncle had made her a quick study of tactics and formations, and her experience in the stables of the Elvish lord helped her to become one of the best mounted soldier-trainees. It wasn’t long before Viessa was promoted, and then promoted again, eventually becoming lieutenant over her own unit. She was well loved by her fellow soldiers, but looked upon derisively by those in command, who feared that one day she would rise to take over as the Commander as her uncle had. During Viessa’s service the realm was blessed with several years of peace. Much of his time was spent training with her fellow soldiers and studying combat arts and theories of war under her uncle. The Commander’s advisers took notice of the special attention she appeared to be receiving, and began to plot against her, often sending Viessa’s unit to deal with undesirable tasks, such as providing relief to flood victims, tracking goblin raiders, or rebuilding outdated outposts. lieutenant Wysajor was unfazed, however, and became skilled in maintaining the morale of her men. She could always be found working side-by-side with her soldiers, without complaint. During a peasant uprising in the farther reaches of the realm, Viessa’s unit was called upon to return order to the area. Martial law was imposed in the region, and while her soldiers began the occupation of several communities, Viessa called a meeting with the leaders of the rebellion. In doing so, she discovered that the Sub-commanders’ had been using their rank to unlawfully tax and abuse the common folk under their protection. Upon her return to the city capitol, Viessa confronted her superior officers regarding their misuse of power, and wound up in the infirmary after they overpowered her and beat her mercilessly.

While recovering from her wounds, the group of officers sent a representative to her bedside, informing her that her aging great-uncle, the Commander of the First File, would be assassinated if Viessa tried to expose their machinations. Rather than serving under a corrupt regime, Viessa fled from the infirmary barracks under the cover of night, while still recovering from her injuries. She knew that her comrades would know her as a traitor to the crown and an oathbreaker, but would not put her beloved Uncle Nerval in danger. Viessa swore that one day she would return to the city capital to bring justice to the sub-commanders. Pursued by assassins, Viessa would flee to a neighboring country, taking refuge in a temple. The priests provided her sanctuary and healed her wounds, and Viessa found herself drawn to the priestly life. She devoured holy writings zealously, applying the devotion she once held for justice and combat to the study of religion and morality. The priests were glad to offer all of the instruction she could retain, and in-turn, asked that he use his knowledge of combat to protect the nearby hamlet from predators. After a year and a half, the sub-commander’s spies finally located Viessa, and a first file squadron was sent to collect her for court martial. When they arrived, Viessa was assisting the townsfolk by hunting down a rabid wolf that had been terrorizing their flocks. The First File questioned the temple priests, who refused to provide any information regarding Viessa’s whereabouts. The temple was destroyed, and all the priests massacred for their silence. The soldiers plundered the pantry and cellar before riding on to the village to continue their search. Once again, the First File left no survivors. Seeing the smoke rising from the village from several miles away, she returned home to find the soldiers drinking sacramental wine and wiping the villagers’ blood from their weapons. Her battle instincts immediately returned to her as she breathlessly spoke a prayer to the temple god and unsheathed her sword. Viessa’s blade sliced through her former brothers in arms with ease until the entire squadron lay at her feet. Her adopted home destroyed and the temple brethren slain, Viessa retrieved a single scorched holy book from the remains of the chapel, gathered her belongings, and mounted her horse, riding southward into the woods. Viessa spent the next two years in solitude, only venturing into society when absolutely necessary, and always under cover of night. She pored over the religious text and kept her sword sharp and armor polished, while training incessantly for the impending justice she would bring upon the sub-commanders.

Viessa currently resides at the manor of Lord Darius uth Wistan as a member of his house guard as a Knight-Errant. Lord Darius knows one day she will leave his service to finish the battle fate set before her.

Ardita Sante was on her way to the fabled and rumored market in Narrowhaven and as always in search of shiny things for her twisted collections. Shiny armors, shiny talismans, shiny gold, shiny this, shiny that. Suddenly, while waiting for her horse to finish his well earned refreshment from the fountain, a beggar with not so shiny teeth appeared in front of her.

As Ardita looked carefully, he had no teeth at all.

“I beg you not for food, as even inert food has bested me. But please, please, could you spare me some coin?”

The leaves were flying all over the place calmly, driven graciously by the wind, not predicting what would happen next.

Ardita punched the beggar and said: “I follow no more the virtue of compassion! For it brought me only pain. Find a job. You see that gardener? he looks old. Help him and I am sure you will be able to get food you can eat somehow.”

As the beggar spitted blood on Ardita’s beautiful blonde hair, she saw herself in another time and space.

————————————————————————————————————————————-

“Am I… still alive?”

A flatulent smell of boiling blood reached his brain receptors while nervously searching with his right hand for the otherworldly object. The same one he felt not supplying him the spectral energy he needed to SEE… clearer.

“Where is it?! Where is it!” he yelled in the night. Only the sound of masses of blood moving in the bushes gave him the danger awareness he needed to escape from his disarray.

“At last!”
As he retook possess of his spectral rod, He stood to find himself in front of a strange construct..

“Why am I here…How was I brought in this foul place!” he thought while trying desperately to recall his most recent memory. But still the staff would only send to his rotten brain only images of the fight with the spirit of Mondain…. an energy flux eruption and, lastly, the daemons ravaging Serpent’s Hold.

P.S. If you want to get some bg on my characters you can check on the forum or check this post http://forum.uoroleplay.com/viewtopic.php?f=25&t=2041&p=7733&hilit=uroboro+avogadro#p7733 which is a nice recap at a point in the shard’s history.

The crackle of fire filled the quiet dark of that dank environs.

The orange light from the campfire slid like oil across the damp stones of the walls and floor nearby, illuminating a droll and lonely sort of place. It was tiered above the rest of the room, though the light from the flames did not advance far into the shadows, somehow more solid than the grey smoke that rose in a twisting column up to the mossy iron grates above. Only a little bit of light filtered through those bars, reflecting from the torchlight of the above world. And lit up within that light was the slender form of a man, black-skinned as the corners untouched by illumination.

His hair was a shock of snow-white, currently pulled into a short loop of a tail to prevent those gossamer tendrils from becoming any more dirtied. His expression was one that matched his surroundings; bleak, hollow, morose. There was not a lot of energy gleaming in those crimson eyes, gleaming like a pair of dark garnets that glinted and flashed with the dancing lights he was so delicately cultivating. Perched upon a raggy canvas stretched across a tumble of rocks, a shield rested face-down nearby, propping up the honed edge of a blade and a bag to keep both from touching the ground. He held a waterskin, taking the occasional drink. A line of crimson was torn across the face; from brow across the bridge of the nose, broken before it reappeared again upon a cheek. A single drop slid down across his brow, more than a hint that the injury was fresh.

But Ruathrym did not seem to care. He was depressed. Ears no longer twitched with curiosity to the sound of voices above, his efforts to join them spurned after multiple attempts. His pockets were light, from attempts to trade and receiving much smaller amounts than considered generally acceptable. Even the meals he had purchased were of subpar quality. What issues those people had with drow, he had faced the brunt of it for the past few weeks, as the townspeople had a target to focus their hatred upon. Such things wheedled at the mind, slowly degenerated mood and confidence, rendering him feeling quite out of place. But no effort was made to descend further down into the deep earth.

“They didn’t make it, you know.”

The voice had uttered from behind him, but there was no real reaction from the swordsman staring at the pulsing coals. He knew the fellow was there. A brief foray up from the depths to speak with the exile.

“All that effort you made, and they were still caught in the tunnels and put down. You could have made it easy and just done it yourself. You’d still be with us.”

Crimson eyes gleamed out of the shadows behind Ruathrym, whom lifted his own gaze partially from the flames, crackling over various scraps of wood pulled from the sewers themselves. Broken bits of chair, furniture… scraps of cloth and old wood. Silence reigned for several moments, in which one man watched the shadows, and one watched the fellow sitting silently by his own gear. It was a while before the quieter drow finally spoke, his voice a low baritone that barely made it over the sound of the soft crackling.

“There was no reason. They had done nothing. What a useless waste of life… And it didn’t even affect that foul creature much, did it? Are you still hunting him?” He finally turned his head, a low smolder in his eyes depicting a moment of cold fury. But the mood died out quick, as though he simply didn’t have the energy for it, watching the eyes that narrowed behind him. “I do not need your judgement, or your updates. Return home, brother. Tend to your own life, and I will repair mine.”

After a long moment, the sound of boots upon stone began to scuffle off, crunching over pebbles and detritus of the outside world. Ruathrym’s eyes turned back to the campfire, watching coals shifting to glowing ashes, as the reminder of his family began to descend back into the dark recesses of the deep parts in the world. Silence began to reclaim its hold in the dungeons beneath the township of man, and the dead expression began to work its way back over the man’s face. In the morning, he would return to his work, grasping at straws, fighting to claim some sort of livelihood for himself. But for now… the sound of falling droplets and hiss of steaming, wet firewood was his only companion.

Schuyler Bain:

Born into a wealthy family, Schuyler Bain was well educated and next in line to take over his families’ lucrative shipping company. Started by his great-great grandfather, the Bain Shipping Co. had an impeccable reputation. Their services and expertise were highly praised and sought after throughout the known world. Days before Schuyler was to begin his rapid ascent to the top seat within his families company, an Imperial investigation released its findings. They had been investigating Bain Shipping Company for several years and had discovered that Schuyler’s father was a founding member of an underground organization known for its treachery on the high seas. The companies’ headquarters and holdings were seized and Schuyler’s father was taken into custody. The fall is the Bain dynasty drove Schuyler’s mother into a deep depression that quickly destroyed her soul. She was remanded to an institution where she died only a few months after arriving.

Offered two options by the King’s Navy, Schuyler could be sent to a work camp on some god-forsaken island where he would be punished for his father’s indiscretions, or enlistment in the King’s Navy. Deciding that there was really no difference between the two, he created a third option… gathering what little gold was left in his private account, Schuyler purchased passage on a run-down piece-of-shit frigate captained by a scruffy looking man and his enormous first mate. The voyage to the other side of the world seemed to take forever, but Schuyler had grown up on the sea. He had made many a voyage with his father when he was younger and found himself feeling rather at home on the high seas.

The rest, as they say, is another tale for another time.

Sakura Mlezziir

To start understanding my past, you must first know of those that bore me.

Many do not know, but not all Drow surround themselves with anger and murderous action. There are some who choose to worship not Lloth, but her daughter, Eilistraee, the Drow goddess of song, swordwork, hunting, the moon and beauty.

My mother was Ininidia Mlezziir, a worshipper of Eilistraee who lived beneath the earth in the caves of Olathche’el. She pretended to worship Lloth so as not to gain the suspicions of the priestess’s in her family, but she managed to slip away to worship her true goddess in the radiance of moonlight. Unfortunately, the grove in which she chose to worship was close to an Orcish settlement, and it did not take long for a group of young Orc males to discover her when they too were out prowling at night. The worship of Eilistraee requires a significant lack of clothing, and my mother was a ravishing in her own right with light ebony skin and white silken hair of a pure Drow; the Orcs saw a chance to relieve their more basic urges and then to rid the world of what they believed to be an evil Drow priestess conjuring some evil spell over the land.

The goddess Eilistraee, and perhaps the touch of fate, were on my mother’s side that night when the Orcs decided to try and take her by force. A knight, hailed by many for his brave actions over the years was passing through the area, and heard the commotion as he was on his way back to his manor house. His name was Galen Crestspire, a man over six feet and auburn features, and he quickly came to the aide of the female in need before he even had a chance to really see what she was. The Orcs were slain swiftly by the knight and the quickness of his blade before their bodies lay scattered about the grove, and Galen had turned to the woman he had helped.

A naked, unsettled, female Drow was most likely the last thing Sir Galen had been expected to see that night, I am certain; while I’m sure Ininidia did not expect a stout, handsome human knight to come to her rescue. My father, when I was very young, used to enjoy telling me that the quiet drug on some time as they both stared at each other like stunned deer, and he would just snicker when mother tapped his shoulder to scold him.

Ininidia was the first to break the quit, frankly announcing that she was not evil and meant no harm, and that he had best let her go on her way. Not so much as a pardon me or a thank you, and my father was snapped out of his bewildered quit. He moved to bar the way out of the grove, intending to question her further, but found himself enamored by her proud expression even as she stood unclothed and seemingly unafraid. He asked her instead why she had been in the grove when the Orcs interrupted her, which surprised my mother, and she answered him honestly with a smile that she had been at worship to her goddess. She was quick to explain which goddess, however, when my father’s face darkened with disgust, thinking she meant Lloth.

It is very likely that had my mother not explained completely, things would have ended badly then and there. But my father was very inquizitive and began to ask more questions, and before they knew it, the night was slipping further away as dawn crept upon the night. My mother took her leave and bade him goodnight. She was gone in a flash of ebony skin and white hair, and my father told me that he had never felt so enraptured. Whatever this feeling was, he was sure he didn’t want it to go away, and so every night he rode back out to the grove in the hopes of seeing the beautiful Drow again. And he did many times, and their feelings eventually grew into love for each other.

My mother was alarmed when, several months after their meeting, she began to show signs of pregnancy. The efforts of hiding it from her family, from my father, wasn’t meant to be, and her family revealed her secret with all the malice and hatred that Drow elves are renowned for. My mother was forced to take flight and depart the city for fear that both she and I would be slaughtered, and she was too terrified to tell my father what had happened, so frightened that he too would reject us both. She traveled hidden paths to the only place she could think would shelter her, which was Shadowfair, a home for followers of Eilistraee, various races made of this haven in the mountains. Upon hearing her tale, and hearing of the man my father was, the leader of Shadowfair immediately sent a messenger to him without my mother’s knowledge, explaining in detail the situation and asking him to come and speak with her.

From the stories I have been told, my father rode hard for many days and nights, nearly killing his trusted warhorse in the process, to get to us to make sure we were truly safe. When my mother saw him, she was humbled, but my father didn’t pause as he sprang from his horse and took my mother in his arms, refusing to let her go until she revealed to him the entire story. It was at that point, before all of the followers of Eilistraee, that my father fell to one knee and brazenly professed his love for my mother, begging her with all his heart to marry her. She said ….. yes.

Would you like a mailbox? That’s great, because now we have mailboxes. You can request a mailbox from the staff team.Mailbox restrictions:* Can only be opened by someone on the staff team, or the actual player character who owns the mailbox.* Anyone c…