Fenris
10-15-06, 11:27 PM
Name: Fihrinn Cuartù Armunn-Aoradh
Age: 14 (human equivalent: 21)
Race: Modadh-Duine
(Fur) Color: Deep gray, with portions fading to black
Eye Color: Pale, ice blue
Height: True form, 6'11"; Human form, 6'2"
Weight: 200 lbs
Occupation: Spy
---
Modadh-Duine Info:
The Modadh-Duine are a race of wolf-like people indigenous to Sulgoran’s Axe in Salvar. Due to their distrusting nature (as well as the locals' taste for Modadh-Duine pelts), they are generally reclusive, limiting contact with humans and the like as much as possible. A few, however, occasionally venture out of hiding.
Appearance: Human-like torso, legs, and arms. Paw-like hands and feet Lower legs more canine than human Entirely canine head and tail Covered completely in fur
Innate Abilities: Phenomenal sense of smell Slightly enhanced sight and sense of hearing Enhanced speed Ability to shapeshift into human and fully wolf forms Branch of song magic called "howlcasting"
Howlcasts are most used before hunts or battles. They take considerable time to cast, especially when cast by a single individual instead of a pack. There are three principle howlcasts:
Shadowcry: Grants partial invisibility and enhanced speed for a short period of time, ranging from 5 to 15 minutes (duration and degree vary with skill).
Bloodcry: Noticeably enhances strength and, for the skilled, can cause an increase in size. Also induces a mild adrenaline-like frenzy.
Seekerscry: A difficult song to cast, grants the howler a glimpse of all living creatures in the near area—around a radius of a mile to a mile and a half. Typically, the impressions granted are vague and unclear. Clarity and precision increase with skill. Typically used to locate prey animals.
Other notes: The Modadh-Duine are severely “allergic” to gold. Physical contact quickly induces serious illness, and prolonged exposure can even be fatal. The touched fur withers and the flesh scars, giving the appearance of a mild burn.
- - -
Appearance: Fihrinn stands 6’11” tall in his true form. His fur is a deep gray, with spots fading to black on his upper back and around his neck, and his brilliant ice-blue eyes stand out in stark contrast will his dark coloring. His build is lanky but strong, and resonates of speed. He’s often caught wagging his tail absently, and tilts his head when thinking or curious.
History: (It's kind of long...)
People are always saying "revenge is a dish best served cold." But no one ever says anything about the aftertaste.
He was young. He was foolish. And he felt like his heart had been torn out.
His tears mingled with the blood pooling around the arrow in his sister’s back as the crashing in the brush drew closer. His eyes blazed, his teeth shone like knives in the moonlight as the hunter emerged from the forest and into the clearing by the riverbank. The human yelped in surprise when he saw another beast hunched over his kill. Somehow he managed to get an arrow drawn with his shaky hands, and he let it fly.
The poor idiot missed.
He'd torn the man apart before he could even start to think about what he was doing. But then, it was already done, and everything was hot and wet and sticky and red. And then he heard the rest of the hunting party tromping through the trees.
How he managed to run while carrying her body, he had no idea. Maybe it was the rage, maybe the unspeakable grief. Maybe it was the furious cries of the men back at the clearing, and the barking of their hounds. It didn't even occur to him that he was trailing her blood back to the village.
The hunters were close behind the whole way, until he arrived, tearstreaked and exhausted, at the collection of huts buried in the frosted woods. He rapped hard at the door, leaving a red stain on the wood. His mother had answered, and screamed. He almost dropped the body. Then his father had come, his jaw gaping with disbelief.
Then they heard the hounds.
His father's eyes had widened. "You led them here?"
They'd sounded the alarm. The village had woken, and amidst the panic had managed to creep away. He had started to go with them, before he realized they would never escape with the hounds on their tails. They would be hunted down and slaughtered, every last one.
Because of him.
It was then he'd turned back toward the hunters. He'd made no sound, no last embrace to tell his mother good-bye. She wouldn't have let him go.
And then he ran. He ran, and he ran, and he ran, smearing his blood-stained claws on the bushes as he rushed past. He heard them. He heard the hounds turn, following his scent. He heard the shouts coming closer, and closer. He heard his breath growing more and more ragged, and felt his strength start to fail.
The sun had started to rise when his legs betrayed him, and he collapsed. And then the hounds were on him, tearing and shredding while he lay limp. The hunters had come not long after, and dragged the dogs away. Their catch was only barely alive.
Why they spared him, he never learned. Perhaps they thought death was too easy a sentence for the killer of their comrade. But whatever their reasons, he awoke in a cage.
They had a poison, a venom boiled from forest herbs that they used to make him fall asleep. They bound his wounds that way—when he was knocked out, and couldn't bite or claw or try to escape. Day after day, he watched them brew their venom—and day after day, he awoke a prisoner.
One day a stranger came, dressed in strange clothes, riding a beast laden with blankets and kettles and swords. The man had come and looked at him, and kicked the cage a few times, and spoken with the hunters. He'd cringed when the strange man drew out a bag of golden coins. The hunters had brought out his knives. The two knives his father had given him, that they'd stolen from him. He snarled then, and the merchant jumped.
They loaded the cage onto a cart hitched to the merchant's mule, now laden with new goods from the village. The merchant had turned around then, and they had journeyed far from the place he called home.
The city was larger than anything he had even dreamed of, crawling with humans, weighted by the shadows of the colossal spires that the clouds obeyed. The man had taken him to a crowded, chaotic place, full of the sound of the humans' jingling gold. He had crouched down in his cage, afraid that one of the coins might bounce between the iron bars.
The humans had come and marveled, while keeping a safe distance, and chattered ceaselessly with the merchant. At length, a man dressed in colors brighter than the others had come, and drawn out a heavy bag of gold. The merchant's mouth had practically watered, and he brought out the twin knives as well. The colorful man had raised his eyebrows, impressed, and added several more coins to the collection.
That was when he began to sing.
The merchant jumped, surprised by the sudden outburst of sound, and rapped loudly on the bars, trying to silence the captive, but to no avail. He was singing for his life.
The cart clattered through the streets until it arrived at a colossal building of gray stone, hung with banners. Men emerged from the house, drawing cautiously closer to the bizarre, noisy wolf-creature in the cage. Like the hunters, they considered him a beast—and that was their downfall.
They tossed a loop of rope between the bars and looped it around his neck.
Still he sang.
They pulled the lead tight, and readied their spears.
Still he sang.
The merchant appeared, his keys jingling in his pocket.
Still he sang.
The man turned the lock, and carefully opened the door.
And the song was complete.
The men yelped in surprise as the creature faded into shadows before their very eyes—and then everything was shouts and screams and claws. He shredded the lead, cut his way through the dumbfounded servants. They dropped their spears in their fright. It took too long to silence them. He could hear more running down the hallways of the house. Quickly, panicking, he dug his knives from the merchant’s saddlebags and lunged away behind the buildings.
(That’s the gist of it. He meanders around, homeless for a while. Learns to break into places unseen in order to steal food, and learns Salvic and Tradespeak. Finds employment from a noble keeping tabs on a rival, soon becomes a professional spy. Buys Harcrë from a merchant. I could write it all out if you'd like, but I doubt you have time...I know I dont...;) )
Skills: Fihrinn makes his living collecting information for pay. Thus, he has plenty of practice in infiltration and remaining unseen—especially with the aid of Shadowcry. This is the only howlcast he can really use; he has a terrible time casting Seekerscry, and has no practice at all with Bloodcry. He uses Shadowcry frequently enough, though, so that he is mildly skilled with it. Since he has to cast it alone, it usually takes him 15 minutes to complete (as opposed to the 10 minutes required for a pack). He can achieve greatly obscured visibility for around five minutes.
He is also capable of knife-based combat. Granted, “capable” is about all that can be said about his knife-wielding. He prefers to avoid such confrontations altogether, but when he cannot, his main advantages lie in speed and agility rather than expert knifemanship.
Like all his kind, Fihrinn can shapeshift into a human form and a full wolf form. This is a useful talent for blending into crowds, but the transformation to human form is quite painful, so he attempts it as infrequently as possible. When he does, it takes him just under 20 minutes to fully take the form. Wolf-shifts are much easier and quicker, especially on days near the full moon.
Also, he has learned how to brew a sleeping potion to aid him in his espionage. He keeps one dose on hand, and typically tips his knives with it (a poison vein is engraved into both blades). Once in the bloodstream, the concoction can knock out the target in less than a minute, keeping them unconscious from 20 to 40 minutes.
Finally, as more of a skill than a hobby, Fihrinn can carve. He’ll sometimes peddle figurines between jobs, and has recently started experimenting with flutes.
In short: Stealth/infiltration Enhanced sense of smell Shadowcry howlcast Novice in knife combat Ability to shapeshift Sleeping potion Novice carver
Equipment: Twin iron luansgian knives (Modadh-Duine weapon of choice, similar to the khukri knives of Nepal), dose of sleeping potion, carving knife, set of leather armor (complete with gloves for handling gold payments), grappling hook, lock pick
Familiars: Fihrinn owns a trained hawk, Harcrë, which he uses in hunts, to deliver messages, etc.
Age: 14 (human equivalent: 21)
Race: Modadh-Duine
(Fur) Color: Deep gray, with portions fading to black
Eye Color: Pale, ice blue
Height: True form, 6'11"; Human form, 6'2"
Weight: 200 lbs
Occupation: Spy
---
Modadh-Duine Info:
The Modadh-Duine are a race of wolf-like people indigenous to Sulgoran’s Axe in Salvar. Due to their distrusting nature (as well as the locals' taste for Modadh-Duine pelts), they are generally reclusive, limiting contact with humans and the like as much as possible. A few, however, occasionally venture out of hiding.
Appearance: Human-like torso, legs, and arms. Paw-like hands and feet Lower legs more canine than human Entirely canine head and tail Covered completely in fur
Innate Abilities: Phenomenal sense of smell Slightly enhanced sight and sense of hearing Enhanced speed Ability to shapeshift into human and fully wolf forms Branch of song magic called "howlcasting"
Howlcasts are most used before hunts or battles. They take considerable time to cast, especially when cast by a single individual instead of a pack. There are three principle howlcasts:
Shadowcry: Grants partial invisibility and enhanced speed for a short period of time, ranging from 5 to 15 minutes (duration and degree vary with skill).
Bloodcry: Noticeably enhances strength and, for the skilled, can cause an increase in size. Also induces a mild adrenaline-like frenzy.
Seekerscry: A difficult song to cast, grants the howler a glimpse of all living creatures in the near area—around a radius of a mile to a mile and a half. Typically, the impressions granted are vague and unclear. Clarity and precision increase with skill. Typically used to locate prey animals.
Other notes: The Modadh-Duine are severely “allergic” to gold. Physical contact quickly induces serious illness, and prolonged exposure can even be fatal. The touched fur withers and the flesh scars, giving the appearance of a mild burn.
- - -
Appearance: Fihrinn stands 6’11” tall in his true form. His fur is a deep gray, with spots fading to black on his upper back and around his neck, and his brilliant ice-blue eyes stand out in stark contrast will his dark coloring. His build is lanky but strong, and resonates of speed. He’s often caught wagging his tail absently, and tilts his head when thinking or curious.
History: (It's kind of long...)
People are always saying "revenge is a dish best served cold." But no one ever says anything about the aftertaste.
He was young. He was foolish. And he felt like his heart had been torn out.
His tears mingled with the blood pooling around the arrow in his sister’s back as the crashing in the brush drew closer. His eyes blazed, his teeth shone like knives in the moonlight as the hunter emerged from the forest and into the clearing by the riverbank. The human yelped in surprise when he saw another beast hunched over his kill. Somehow he managed to get an arrow drawn with his shaky hands, and he let it fly.
The poor idiot missed.
He'd torn the man apart before he could even start to think about what he was doing. But then, it was already done, and everything was hot and wet and sticky and red. And then he heard the rest of the hunting party tromping through the trees.
How he managed to run while carrying her body, he had no idea. Maybe it was the rage, maybe the unspeakable grief. Maybe it was the furious cries of the men back at the clearing, and the barking of their hounds. It didn't even occur to him that he was trailing her blood back to the village.
The hunters were close behind the whole way, until he arrived, tearstreaked and exhausted, at the collection of huts buried in the frosted woods. He rapped hard at the door, leaving a red stain on the wood. His mother had answered, and screamed. He almost dropped the body. Then his father had come, his jaw gaping with disbelief.
Then they heard the hounds.
His father's eyes had widened. "You led them here?"
They'd sounded the alarm. The village had woken, and amidst the panic had managed to creep away. He had started to go with them, before he realized they would never escape with the hounds on their tails. They would be hunted down and slaughtered, every last one.
Because of him.
It was then he'd turned back toward the hunters. He'd made no sound, no last embrace to tell his mother good-bye. She wouldn't have let him go.
And then he ran. He ran, and he ran, and he ran, smearing his blood-stained claws on the bushes as he rushed past. He heard them. He heard the hounds turn, following his scent. He heard the shouts coming closer, and closer. He heard his breath growing more and more ragged, and felt his strength start to fail.
The sun had started to rise when his legs betrayed him, and he collapsed. And then the hounds were on him, tearing and shredding while he lay limp. The hunters had come not long after, and dragged the dogs away. Their catch was only barely alive.
Why they spared him, he never learned. Perhaps they thought death was too easy a sentence for the killer of their comrade. But whatever their reasons, he awoke in a cage.
They had a poison, a venom boiled from forest herbs that they used to make him fall asleep. They bound his wounds that way—when he was knocked out, and couldn't bite or claw or try to escape. Day after day, he watched them brew their venom—and day after day, he awoke a prisoner.
One day a stranger came, dressed in strange clothes, riding a beast laden with blankets and kettles and swords. The man had come and looked at him, and kicked the cage a few times, and spoken with the hunters. He'd cringed when the strange man drew out a bag of golden coins. The hunters had brought out his knives. The two knives his father had given him, that they'd stolen from him. He snarled then, and the merchant jumped.
They loaded the cage onto a cart hitched to the merchant's mule, now laden with new goods from the village. The merchant had turned around then, and they had journeyed far from the place he called home.
The city was larger than anything he had even dreamed of, crawling with humans, weighted by the shadows of the colossal spires that the clouds obeyed. The man had taken him to a crowded, chaotic place, full of the sound of the humans' jingling gold. He had crouched down in his cage, afraid that one of the coins might bounce between the iron bars.
The humans had come and marveled, while keeping a safe distance, and chattered ceaselessly with the merchant. At length, a man dressed in colors brighter than the others had come, and drawn out a heavy bag of gold. The merchant's mouth had practically watered, and he brought out the twin knives as well. The colorful man had raised his eyebrows, impressed, and added several more coins to the collection.
That was when he began to sing.
The merchant jumped, surprised by the sudden outburst of sound, and rapped loudly on the bars, trying to silence the captive, but to no avail. He was singing for his life.
The cart clattered through the streets until it arrived at a colossal building of gray stone, hung with banners. Men emerged from the house, drawing cautiously closer to the bizarre, noisy wolf-creature in the cage. Like the hunters, they considered him a beast—and that was their downfall.
They tossed a loop of rope between the bars and looped it around his neck.
Still he sang.
They pulled the lead tight, and readied their spears.
Still he sang.
The merchant appeared, his keys jingling in his pocket.
Still he sang.
The man turned the lock, and carefully opened the door.
And the song was complete.
The men yelped in surprise as the creature faded into shadows before their very eyes—and then everything was shouts and screams and claws. He shredded the lead, cut his way through the dumbfounded servants. They dropped their spears in their fright. It took too long to silence them. He could hear more running down the hallways of the house. Quickly, panicking, he dug his knives from the merchant’s saddlebags and lunged away behind the buildings.
(That’s the gist of it. He meanders around, homeless for a while. Learns to break into places unseen in order to steal food, and learns Salvic and Tradespeak. Finds employment from a noble keeping tabs on a rival, soon becomes a professional spy. Buys Harcrë from a merchant. I could write it all out if you'd like, but I doubt you have time...I know I dont...;) )
Skills: Fihrinn makes his living collecting information for pay. Thus, he has plenty of practice in infiltration and remaining unseen—especially with the aid of Shadowcry. This is the only howlcast he can really use; he has a terrible time casting Seekerscry, and has no practice at all with Bloodcry. He uses Shadowcry frequently enough, though, so that he is mildly skilled with it. Since he has to cast it alone, it usually takes him 15 minutes to complete (as opposed to the 10 minutes required for a pack). He can achieve greatly obscured visibility for around five minutes.
He is also capable of knife-based combat. Granted, “capable” is about all that can be said about his knife-wielding. He prefers to avoid such confrontations altogether, but when he cannot, his main advantages lie in speed and agility rather than expert knifemanship.
Like all his kind, Fihrinn can shapeshift into a human form and a full wolf form. This is a useful talent for blending into crowds, but the transformation to human form is quite painful, so he attempts it as infrequently as possible. When he does, it takes him just under 20 minutes to fully take the form. Wolf-shifts are much easier and quicker, especially on days near the full moon.
Also, he has learned how to brew a sleeping potion to aid him in his espionage. He keeps one dose on hand, and typically tips his knives with it (a poison vein is engraved into both blades). Once in the bloodstream, the concoction can knock out the target in less than a minute, keeping them unconscious from 20 to 40 minutes.
Finally, as more of a skill than a hobby, Fihrinn can carve. He’ll sometimes peddle figurines between jobs, and has recently started experimenting with flutes.
In short: Stealth/infiltration Enhanced sense of smell Shadowcry howlcast Novice in knife combat Ability to shapeshift Sleeping potion Novice carver
Equipment: Twin iron luansgian knives (Modadh-Duine weapon of choice, similar to the khukri knives of Nepal), dose of sleeping potion, carving knife, set of leather armor (complete with gloves for handling gold payments), grappling hook, lock pick
Familiars: Fihrinn owns a trained hawk, Harcrë, which he uses in hunts, to deliver messages, etc.