Oneiro
02-22-08, 08:39 AM
Name: Rabyr Oneiro
Race: Presumed human, though physical traits have led others to speculate on his heritage.
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 142 lbs
Eyes: Violet
Hair: Dark grey
Place of Birth: The Fallien Desert
Current Residence: Fallien, travelling around the desert with his nomad tribe
Occupation: Nomad
Appearance:
Rabyr's appearance is largely devoid of color. His skin is smooth and sports a dark tincture of slate pigmentation; his hair, only slightly darker but equally lifeless, falls all around his head in unkept cascades. With a face as coldy beautiful as - and therefore disturbingly similar to - the average Drow, he immediately stands out amongst the rugged features of other nomads. To conceal this strange visage, he almost always covers his lower face with a thin fabric, claiming that it protects his nose and mouth from the sand flying around the desert. His eyes, too, are strikingly peculiar; they bear not the brown or black of any desert-dweller, but are colored a piercing shade of violet - a feature that is seen as very intimidating amongst his tribe. His hands are very lanky, with abnormally long fingers that many have said to resemble a five-legged desert spider.
In choice of clothing, Rabyr is very unassuming. Apart from the cloth covering his face, he prefers to wear the traditional outfit of every nomad, with thick robes wrapped tightly around the body to keep the warm outside and retain a sense of cool. Strong but worn-down boots are little less than a necessity for the harsh environment of Fallien - and to protect himself from the unforgiving sun, he wears a flat turban of old, white bandages. Fringes of red fabric hanging down from the headwear near his temple indicate his position as a Heart of the Hunt - a warrior that is allowed to lead others during the daily hunt for food or simple training.
Personality:
Primarily devoted to the other nomads he travels with, Rabyr is nevertheless notable because of his eternal lust for knowledge and exploration. Because he is usually the one to visit the greater settlements of Fallien whenever his clan travels close to such locations, even setting foot in Irrakam and meeting with travellers from outside Fallien several times, he's far more worldly-wise and less xenophobic than his peers, and much of the elder nomads' old superstitions is lost on him. For a member of the clan, Rabyr is sometimes considered disturbingly self-serving, though truth be told, other societies would hardly look upon that side of him as stringent as his current superiors, simply because nomads are expected to abide by the iron law of their respective groups. In areas of milder codes of conduct, the young nomad would simply be seen as valuing friendships and the loyalty within them to an ascetic extent. Despite this staunch approach to company, he is easily distracted by the remotest anomaly, and quickly enticed to investigate, unless the situation at hand is of vital importance and requires his full focus.
History:
Ettermire, the year CP 1003
"... but Master Auvryana..."
"Quiet, child! Even in a crisis such as this, your voice remains the single, most obnoxious sound that's ever tormented my hearing!" Divrael Auvryana's booming voice rained down upon the young Drow woman, scalding with abuse wherever the downpour of the violence approaching them did not overrule its stringent tones. His concentration was at its peak, his genius running at full steam, and consequently, his irritability had reached new levels of reproach. His dark-skinned hands moved nimbly over the parchment on his desk, drawing illegible symbols and perfect geometry with the poise of a veteran artist. He knew that any mistake, a rune etched too sharply, a jagged circle, however infinitesimal, would make this spell go awry, and seeing how this was his final chance at getting away from the boisterous horde that drew ever closer from the streets outside, he could not afford letting his thoughts slip for the slightest of moments. The metallic contraptions around his middle fingers started to weave over the runes he had drawn, leaving a crimson trail of his own blood - he had long since lost the sense of pain that accompanied such sacrifice. He'd sacrificed far more during his time as a pawn of Queen Valsharess.
Through it all, the young woman standing nervously behind him finally saw why she was still the apprentice, and he was still her master, his skill aeons beyond hers. She remained quiet, fearing that if she intruded upon her master's intricate designs once more, he would not stop at a verbal assault. That did not mean she agreed with what he was doing, however; she was sure that if they simply surrendered to the troops coming their way, they would be granted amnesty on the condition of remaining in the Queen's service for the rest of their lives. A fate far preferable to what would happen if Divrael Auvryana's plan did not work out as intended - the probability of which was way too high for her tastes. Not only had he been vague about the details of the monstrosity of a ritual he was now carrying out, he was also obscenely nervous - a tinge that she, in all her years, had never sensed in him before, ever. The commanding shouts in the background grew louder, the Queen's soldiers finally encroaching upon the small shack wherein Auvryana and his apprentice lay trapped like rats.
"Hold them off!" Her master did not even look at her, but the authority that rolled off his tongue was irresistably compelling. She nodded grimly and turned towards the decrepit door of the wooden barn, her bare feet scraping across the thin layer of hay that lay strewn beneath her feet. Her violet eyes lay still and focused within her unnaturally symmetric features, her white hair caught in a long braid that reached all the way to her lower back. Her tight attire moved like a second skin as she assumed a fighting posture, although there was no weapon to be discerned upon her lithe frame. For three, four seconds, all that disturbed the silence within the shack was the scratching of Divrael's claws on paper - on the fifth second, the door crashed open, and a battlecry stormed upon her from the entranceway. Her thin brows furrowed.
The victorious shout faded into a gurgling sigh as she leaped forward, planting her foot in the trespassers stomach and setting him afly the way he had come, crashing loudly into one of his companions that had unfortunately entered the barn behind him. From the outside, she could hear the other troops call out for their companions. She frowned in deep worry. She would not be able to stand her ground against so many attackers. The master would have to pick up the pace if he wanted them to get out of here in time. She moved forward as the Queen's troops poured through the door, her fierce punches and kicks driving them back into the bottleneck of the small doorway. They were unaccustomed to capable unarmed opponents, but she, too, knew that it would not be long before they adapted to her style and skewered her upon those dangerous halberds they wielded. A flash to her right prompted her to duck, breaking her attacker's knee with a sweeping kick. The blade of a halberd hacked down at her, and she jumped backwards, allowing more and more enemies to make their way into the shack. She grunted, knowing that this was the beginning of the end.
"I'm done! Get over here." Hope glinted in her eyes as she nimbly jumped to her master's side. Their eyes locked as the elder mage threw his crimson cape around her. She sensed something was wrong, but those mesmerizing eyes clouded her instincts. It was not until the blade had plunged into her heart and red fluid splurted from the grievous wound that she realized her master's betrayal. Before the haze of death closed itself around her mind, she recognized a rune that meant 'sacrifice' upon the spell. Of course. How could she have been so stupid? Divrael had only meant to save himself. Her surroundings became remarkably peaceful, the pain faded from her chest - if this were dying, then it was nothing like the trial of fire she'd been told it would be.
The last words her Drow ears perceived were a familiar voice cursing hoarsely: "What?! I misread?" followed by gurgles of anguish. Then it was gone. All was gone, except for her. She felt light as a feather, dancing upon a nightly drift over Ettermire. She was conscious, without a body to command - a vulnerable but breathtaking experience. Then it was gone, and she was surrounded by blackness. Soft, feathery blackness.
Somewhere in a leafless tree outside the Alerarian capital, a large raven looked into the moonshine. A spark of violet glinted in its onyx orbs before it took flight, crossing over the conclusion of the violent scene in Ettermire, where Divrael Auvryana's burnt corpse was about to be taken back to the nearest prison for verification.
The Fallien Desert, the year CP 1786
Unseen ripples in the sky bore silent witness to the scorching heat of the sand flats. The endless expanse of palegolden particles, softly creviced with dune and dale, seemed to mock any pretense of life that attempted to tend to its business on its surface. And yet there were many creatures, both atop the sand and burrowed below, that had managed to elude the grim fate that struck many unprepared journeymen in these parts - Rabyr Oneiro knew that all too well, even at his young age. Without knowledge of the denizens of his birthplace, survival as member of the hunting party would be impossible. His thick boots moved softly through the sand, any sound of sole stymied by the near-fluid soil he stepped upon.
His entire youth, he had aspire to be a part of the courageous hunters that provided the clan with sustenance and protection, and now was his greatest chance of entry. Together with five other children, he had spent the entire day practising the art of sneaking, how to read the signs in the sands, where the most and the least dangerous beasts lurked, and how to come close to unexpecting prey. He was doing well, compared to most of the others, but then, only two of them would be allowed to join the hunting party, and he was not all that sure he was the fittest or the most cunning of his peers. Particularly the girl sneaking in front of him, Sychia, had scored better in just about every aspect of their training. He was so caught up in thought that he did not notice the sand receding into a small pit to his right, nor the dog-sized spider that climbed from it and leaped at him.
In reflex, he heaved up his arm, stifling a scream as the beast's jaws burrowed deeply into flesh and released their toxic contents. The screams of his instructor did not reach his ears, his mind a blur of panic and anger. In a tremendous show of resilience, he curled the fingers of his free hand into a fist and smashed it into the area above the horrid creature's mouth, where he would have suspected the beast's eyes to be. Surprisingly, it let go of him, falling to the sand with its five legs extended to the cloudless heaven; it was dead, beyond a doubt. Rabyr turned around. His instructor and Sychia were looking at him strangely. He felt fever burn within his skull as the elder nomad grabbed his injured arm and inspected the wound. Despite the sick feeling enveloping his body, he knew that something was wrong; desert spiders were exceptionally poisonous. He should have been dead on impact. He braced himself as he lay eyes upon the wound, and was amazed to see that it was deep, but clean. A color that did not belong in flesh appeared to sparkle within, only for a second. Then, the violet faded.
The Fallien Desert, the year CP 1801
Sand whipped up in divergent drifts as the thick-clothed nomad was struck backwards, her boots scraping through the white-hot soil as she struggled to keep her balance. Her hands, wrapped in tattered bandages, clenched themselves firmly around the crude haft of her weathered blade. The weapon's dull edge suggested that it might as well have been crafted for blunt impacts; the lack of craftsmanship that had gone into its smithing now lay like a deadweight upon her tired arms. The giant scorpion's attack was relentless, and she was forced further and further backwards, blocking desperately, yet without fear in her eyes. Fear did not befit a hunter. She had a smile on her face as the beast tried to skewer her with its tail, allowing her an opening near its vulnerable eyes. She struck like a viper, but was stopped in her tracks as the beast, in an unnatural show of intelligence, blocked the rusty iron with its pincer. The surprise kept her defenses down long enough for the beast to hit her square in the chest with the outside of its other pincer, smashing all air out of her lungs as she crashed into the sand several yards away.
With a victorious screech, the scorpion jumped at her, ready to strike the fatal blow. She braced herself for impact, her face contorting into an expression that told she would survive the blow. Before the scorpion could reach her, though, a whirlwind of white cloth jumped over her, wielding a curved blade with the grace of a dancer. She sighed as she recognized the violet eyes that stood focused upon the giant beast's movements. Ever since Rabyr had recovered from the bite of that desert spider, he had changed; his skin had turned grey, his eyes a piercing purple. Where she had outmatched him in just about any skill before, he now made humiliating her look like child's play. And here he was again, "saving" her, in his eyes. In her eyes, he was merely adding another insult to the pile he had accumulated in front of her over the last five years. Shaking her head as her peer masterfully slew the scorpion without so much as ever being on the defensive, she started the short way back to the oasis where the clan had taken residence for the time being.
"Oi, Sychia," she heard him calling behind her. She looked over her shoulder, scowling at him as he ran to her side.
"What do you want?" she responded harshly, though the edge was taken out of her voice by the intimidating glare of those unbearably annoying eyes of his. "Wasn't that unneeded interference enough of a rush for you?"
"Wha-?" Rabyr was taken aback, before adding indignantly, "you would have been killed if I hadn't taken over the fight at that point!"
She chortled. "Nonsense. I was in complete control, and if you ever grapple around in my business again, I'll personally ensure that those fingers of yours will be back to normal size the day after," she threatened darkly, and with that, left her fellow nomad standing still in the sand, bewildered.
Skills
Swordsmanship - Rabyr possesses a basic proficiency in the area of swordsmanship, allowing him to wield both one-handed and two-handed swords with the skill of a soldier.
Geomancy - Those with magical aptitude amongst the nomads are few and far between, but Rabyr possesses a remarkable aptitude towards the element that most, if not all desert travellers are in tune with: earth. At the moment, his power allows him to telekinetically lift up to a cubic foot of sand and send it flying in any general direction. It also allows him to keep the manipulated grains of sand clustered together or spread out. Such manipulation requires tremendous mental exertion, and if sustained for longer than a few short outbursts, results in physical exhaustion.Equipment
Clothing
Belt Pouch
Gourd
Steel Scimitar - A sturdy weapon with an impeccably curved blade, granted to Rabyr upon his promotion to Heart of the Hunt.
Race: Presumed human, though physical traits have led others to speculate on his heritage.
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 142 lbs
Eyes: Violet
Hair: Dark grey
Place of Birth: The Fallien Desert
Current Residence: Fallien, travelling around the desert with his nomad tribe
Occupation: Nomad
Appearance:
Rabyr's appearance is largely devoid of color. His skin is smooth and sports a dark tincture of slate pigmentation; his hair, only slightly darker but equally lifeless, falls all around his head in unkept cascades. With a face as coldy beautiful as - and therefore disturbingly similar to - the average Drow, he immediately stands out amongst the rugged features of other nomads. To conceal this strange visage, he almost always covers his lower face with a thin fabric, claiming that it protects his nose and mouth from the sand flying around the desert. His eyes, too, are strikingly peculiar; they bear not the brown or black of any desert-dweller, but are colored a piercing shade of violet - a feature that is seen as very intimidating amongst his tribe. His hands are very lanky, with abnormally long fingers that many have said to resemble a five-legged desert spider.
In choice of clothing, Rabyr is very unassuming. Apart from the cloth covering his face, he prefers to wear the traditional outfit of every nomad, with thick robes wrapped tightly around the body to keep the warm outside and retain a sense of cool. Strong but worn-down boots are little less than a necessity for the harsh environment of Fallien - and to protect himself from the unforgiving sun, he wears a flat turban of old, white bandages. Fringes of red fabric hanging down from the headwear near his temple indicate his position as a Heart of the Hunt - a warrior that is allowed to lead others during the daily hunt for food or simple training.
Personality:
Primarily devoted to the other nomads he travels with, Rabyr is nevertheless notable because of his eternal lust for knowledge and exploration. Because he is usually the one to visit the greater settlements of Fallien whenever his clan travels close to such locations, even setting foot in Irrakam and meeting with travellers from outside Fallien several times, he's far more worldly-wise and less xenophobic than his peers, and much of the elder nomads' old superstitions is lost on him. For a member of the clan, Rabyr is sometimes considered disturbingly self-serving, though truth be told, other societies would hardly look upon that side of him as stringent as his current superiors, simply because nomads are expected to abide by the iron law of their respective groups. In areas of milder codes of conduct, the young nomad would simply be seen as valuing friendships and the loyalty within them to an ascetic extent. Despite this staunch approach to company, he is easily distracted by the remotest anomaly, and quickly enticed to investigate, unless the situation at hand is of vital importance and requires his full focus.
History:
Ettermire, the year CP 1003
"... but Master Auvryana..."
"Quiet, child! Even in a crisis such as this, your voice remains the single, most obnoxious sound that's ever tormented my hearing!" Divrael Auvryana's booming voice rained down upon the young Drow woman, scalding with abuse wherever the downpour of the violence approaching them did not overrule its stringent tones. His concentration was at its peak, his genius running at full steam, and consequently, his irritability had reached new levels of reproach. His dark-skinned hands moved nimbly over the parchment on his desk, drawing illegible symbols and perfect geometry with the poise of a veteran artist. He knew that any mistake, a rune etched too sharply, a jagged circle, however infinitesimal, would make this spell go awry, and seeing how this was his final chance at getting away from the boisterous horde that drew ever closer from the streets outside, he could not afford letting his thoughts slip for the slightest of moments. The metallic contraptions around his middle fingers started to weave over the runes he had drawn, leaving a crimson trail of his own blood - he had long since lost the sense of pain that accompanied such sacrifice. He'd sacrificed far more during his time as a pawn of Queen Valsharess.
Through it all, the young woman standing nervously behind him finally saw why she was still the apprentice, and he was still her master, his skill aeons beyond hers. She remained quiet, fearing that if she intruded upon her master's intricate designs once more, he would not stop at a verbal assault. That did not mean she agreed with what he was doing, however; she was sure that if they simply surrendered to the troops coming their way, they would be granted amnesty on the condition of remaining in the Queen's service for the rest of their lives. A fate far preferable to what would happen if Divrael Auvryana's plan did not work out as intended - the probability of which was way too high for her tastes. Not only had he been vague about the details of the monstrosity of a ritual he was now carrying out, he was also obscenely nervous - a tinge that she, in all her years, had never sensed in him before, ever. The commanding shouts in the background grew louder, the Queen's soldiers finally encroaching upon the small shack wherein Auvryana and his apprentice lay trapped like rats.
"Hold them off!" Her master did not even look at her, but the authority that rolled off his tongue was irresistably compelling. She nodded grimly and turned towards the decrepit door of the wooden barn, her bare feet scraping across the thin layer of hay that lay strewn beneath her feet. Her violet eyes lay still and focused within her unnaturally symmetric features, her white hair caught in a long braid that reached all the way to her lower back. Her tight attire moved like a second skin as she assumed a fighting posture, although there was no weapon to be discerned upon her lithe frame. For three, four seconds, all that disturbed the silence within the shack was the scratching of Divrael's claws on paper - on the fifth second, the door crashed open, and a battlecry stormed upon her from the entranceway. Her thin brows furrowed.
The victorious shout faded into a gurgling sigh as she leaped forward, planting her foot in the trespassers stomach and setting him afly the way he had come, crashing loudly into one of his companions that had unfortunately entered the barn behind him. From the outside, she could hear the other troops call out for their companions. She frowned in deep worry. She would not be able to stand her ground against so many attackers. The master would have to pick up the pace if he wanted them to get out of here in time. She moved forward as the Queen's troops poured through the door, her fierce punches and kicks driving them back into the bottleneck of the small doorway. They were unaccustomed to capable unarmed opponents, but she, too, knew that it would not be long before they adapted to her style and skewered her upon those dangerous halberds they wielded. A flash to her right prompted her to duck, breaking her attacker's knee with a sweeping kick. The blade of a halberd hacked down at her, and she jumped backwards, allowing more and more enemies to make their way into the shack. She grunted, knowing that this was the beginning of the end.
"I'm done! Get over here." Hope glinted in her eyes as she nimbly jumped to her master's side. Their eyes locked as the elder mage threw his crimson cape around her. She sensed something was wrong, but those mesmerizing eyes clouded her instincts. It was not until the blade had plunged into her heart and red fluid splurted from the grievous wound that she realized her master's betrayal. Before the haze of death closed itself around her mind, she recognized a rune that meant 'sacrifice' upon the spell. Of course. How could she have been so stupid? Divrael had only meant to save himself. Her surroundings became remarkably peaceful, the pain faded from her chest - if this were dying, then it was nothing like the trial of fire she'd been told it would be.
The last words her Drow ears perceived were a familiar voice cursing hoarsely: "What?! I misread?" followed by gurgles of anguish. Then it was gone. All was gone, except for her. She felt light as a feather, dancing upon a nightly drift over Ettermire. She was conscious, without a body to command - a vulnerable but breathtaking experience. Then it was gone, and she was surrounded by blackness. Soft, feathery blackness.
Somewhere in a leafless tree outside the Alerarian capital, a large raven looked into the moonshine. A spark of violet glinted in its onyx orbs before it took flight, crossing over the conclusion of the violent scene in Ettermire, where Divrael Auvryana's burnt corpse was about to be taken back to the nearest prison for verification.
The Fallien Desert, the year CP 1786
Unseen ripples in the sky bore silent witness to the scorching heat of the sand flats. The endless expanse of palegolden particles, softly creviced with dune and dale, seemed to mock any pretense of life that attempted to tend to its business on its surface. And yet there were many creatures, both atop the sand and burrowed below, that had managed to elude the grim fate that struck many unprepared journeymen in these parts - Rabyr Oneiro knew that all too well, even at his young age. Without knowledge of the denizens of his birthplace, survival as member of the hunting party would be impossible. His thick boots moved softly through the sand, any sound of sole stymied by the near-fluid soil he stepped upon.
His entire youth, he had aspire to be a part of the courageous hunters that provided the clan with sustenance and protection, and now was his greatest chance of entry. Together with five other children, he had spent the entire day practising the art of sneaking, how to read the signs in the sands, where the most and the least dangerous beasts lurked, and how to come close to unexpecting prey. He was doing well, compared to most of the others, but then, only two of them would be allowed to join the hunting party, and he was not all that sure he was the fittest or the most cunning of his peers. Particularly the girl sneaking in front of him, Sychia, had scored better in just about every aspect of their training. He was so caught up in thought that he did not notice the sand receding into a small pit to his right, nor the dog-sized spider that climbed from it and leaped at him.
In reflex, he heaved up his arm, stifling a scream as the beast's jaws burrowed deeply into flesh and released their toxic contents. The screams of his instructor did not reach his ears, his mind a blur of panic and anger. In a tremendous show of resilience, he curled the fingers of his free hand into a fist and smashed it into the area above the horrid creature's mouth, where he would have suspected the beast's eyes to be. Surprisingly, it let go of him, falling to the sand with its five legs extended to the cloudless heaven; it was dead, beyond a doubt. Rabyr turned around. His instructor and Sychia were looking at him strangely. He felt fever burn within his skull as the elder nomad grabbed his injured arm and inspected the wound. Despite the sick feeling enveloping his body, he knew that something was wrong; desert spiders were exceptionally poisonous. He should have been dead on impact. He braced himself as he lay eyes upon the wound, and was amazed to see that it was deep, but clean. A color that did not belong in flesh appeared to sparkle within, only for a second. Then, the violet faded.
The Fallien Desert, the year CP 1801
Sand whipped up in divergent drifts as the thick-clothed nomad was struck backwards, her boots scraping through the white-hot soil as she struggled to keep her balance. Her hands, wrapped in tattered bandages, clenched themselves firmly around the crude haft of her weathered blade. The weapon's dull edge suggested that it might as well have been crafted for blunt impacts; the lack of craftsmanship that had gone into its smithing now lay like a deadweight upon her tired arms. The giant scorpion's attack was relentless, and she was forced further and further backwards, blocking desperately, yet without fear in her eyes. Fear did not befit a hunter. She had a smile on her face as the beast tried to skewer her with its tail, allowing her an opening near its vulnerable eyes. She struck like a viper, but was stopped in her tracks as the beast, in an unnatural show of intelligence, blocked the rusty iron with its pincer. The surprise kept her defenses down long enough for the beast to hit her square in the chest with the outside of its other pincer, smashing all air out of her lungs as she crashed into the sand several yards away.
With a victorious screech, the scorpion jumped at her, ready to strike the fatal blow. She braced herself for impact, her face contorting into an expression that told she would survive the blow. Before the scorpion could reach her, though, a whirlwind of white cloth jumped over her, wielding a curved blade with the grace of a dancer. She sighed as she recognized the violet eyes that stood focused upon the giant beast's movements. Ever since Rabyr had recovered from the bite of that desert spider, he had changed; his skin had turned grey, his eyes a piercing purple. Where she had outmatched him in just about any skill before, he now made humiliating her look like child's play. And here he was again, "saving" her, in his eyes. In her eyes, he was merely adding another insult to the pile he had accumulated in front of her over the last five years. Shaking her head as her peer masterfully slew the scorpion without so much as ever being on the defensive, she started the short way back to the oasis where the clan had taken residence for the time being.
"Oi, Sychia," she heard him calling behind her. She looked over her shoulder, scowling at him as he ran to her side.
"What do you want?" she responded harshly, though the edge was taken out of her voice by the intimidating glare of those unbearably annoying eyes of his. "Wasn't that unneeded interference enough of a rush for you?"
"Wha-?" Rabyr was taken aback, before adding indignantly, "you would have been killed if I hadn't taken over the fight at that point!"
She chortled. "Nonsense. I was in complete control, and if you ever grapple around in my business again, I'll personally ensure that those fingers of yours will be back to normal size the day after," she threatened darkly, and with that, left her fellow nomad standing still in the sand, bewildered.
Skills
Swordsmanship - Rabyr possesses a basic proficiency in the area of swordsmanship, allowing him to wield both one-handed and two-handed swords with the skill of a soldier.
Geomancy - Those with magical aptitude amongst the nomads are few and far between, but Rabyr possesses a remarkable aptitude towards the element that most, if not all desert travellers are in tune with: earth. At the moment, his power allows him to telekinetically lift up to a cubic foot of sand and send it flying in any general direction. It also allows him to keep the manipulated grains of sand clustered together or spread out. Such manipulation requires tremendous mental exertion, and if sustained for longer than a few short outbursts, results in physical exhaustion.Equipment
Clothing
Belt Pouch
Gourd
Steel Scimitar - A sturdy weapon with an impeccably curved blade, granted to Rabyr upon his promotion to Heart of the Hunt.