Open Involerra Academy of the Adventuring Arts

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ShoddyProduct

Well-known member
Welcome, one and all, to the Involerra Academy of the Adventuring Arts! Located near the heart of Drestel, capital of the nation of Arcanis, the school was originally founded as a bards college, a place for artists and musicians to practice their craft and learn the intricacies of their innate magic, a place to hone their talents to survive, live, and thrive in the wider world. While successful, the schools notoriety was largely confined to the ringed city for most of its life, and while the artists trained within its walls did venture out into the wider world, none quite reached the level of renown expected from a school as prestigious as itself.

Of course, this can only remain true for so long. As many of you likely know, seven hundred years ago, two former students of the former Involerra Institute of the Magical Arts, along with a small group of three other adventurers, went on to not only reach the acclaim all artists seek, but also essentially saved the world multiple times during the events of the Calamity. Much of what this group did was important and world changing, but two things changed the very foundations of the institution; they helped depose the former king, and they were from Drestel.

Naturally, when a group goes on to save the world from impending doom or domination, people will flock to them. As such, Drestel, which was still a growing city, saw a boom, as the brightest minds across the world moved to make it their home. The queen, Alessiandre Yistrand, may she rest peacefully, having been beside the group during parts of their effort, and having fought in the final battle across the ocean in Komada, made it a goal to see that no such circumstances would ever arise again. Using the crown, and the funding from their new citizens, and leveraging the goodwill brought on the city by the heroes, Queen Alessiandre converted Involerra from a bards college to an adventuring academy, a school for all aspiring heroes, where they can learn their craft, hone their skills, and get the practical experience they need long before any threat could rise.

It is this version of the school I welcome you to now. It has been seven hundred years since Alessiandre converted the school, and it has been seven hundred years of relative peace. The Academy is working, with more and more teenagers passing into adulthood, and passing into adventuring, each year. Perhaps, in the near future, one of you, or perhaps even a group of you, will follow in the old heroes footsteps, and leave your mark on the world. As an incoming freshman, you will be expected to determine what kind of adventurer you will be, form an adventuring party with your fellow students, and, if fortune favors you, find your first adventure by the end of the year.

For now, though, you should prepare for your first day. I hope to see you all, and I hope to see you all prosper.
- Zevras Arganam, Principal/Headmaster of the Involerra Academy of the Adventuring Arts​

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Name:
Age:
Gender:
Species: (Human, Elf, Dwarf, etc. Anything fantasy goes, and some stuff sci-fi if it has a good enough fantasy/magitek twist)
Class Expectation: (Wizard, Fighter, Rogue, etc, feel free to get a little creative here)
Backstory:
School ID Photo:
 
Neril.pngName: Nëril
Aliases / Titles:
Nëril the Lesser; Nëril II; Nëril the Young.
Occupation: Apprentice in the Art. Specialty: Necromancy.
Age: 40 years (Elven adolescent).
Height: 5'10.
Weight: 160 lbs.
Sex: Male.

Hair Color: Raven black.
Eye Color: Black with specks of gold.


Biography:
Nëril was born 40 years ago. His father was Kamulin of Argoloth, and his mother was Gwynil the Lesser (both Elves of old). The Elflord Kamulin had other children from a prior union, but they and the mother lost their lives in the Calamity 700 years ago. After a long period of grieving and reconstruction, Kamulin joined with Gwynil, and the young Nëril was born soon afterward. Perhaps this union, made in grief, unintentionally sentenced its progeny to a grim path.

Named for the ancient Elflord Nëril the Magnanimous, Nëril soon proved remarkable in his own right - possessing a prodigious intellect and drive to master the intellectual forms taught to all High Elven children. The traditional educational methods soon proved inadequate to satisfy his hungry mind, and he exhibited a social drive beyond an Elf of his years.

Mighty in skill, understanding, and subtlety, he had the making of an expert craftsman, apparently eager to follow in his father's footsteps. But the name Nëril proved fortuitous; like his namesake from centuries earlier, the Art caught his attention, and he began an intensive and private study of the arcane.

He naturally adopted a philosophy of elitism surrounding magic. The Art had given way to the Method; anyone with enough will could master the arcane, privy to knowledge inscribed in textbooks. No longer the privilege of an initiated few, magic had grown plentiful throughout the world, fueling economic revolutions in more cosmopolitan neighboring Drestel. As civilization expanded, he perceived that there was another revolution underway - that of magical technology. And rather than recoil from it, embracing the isolationism of his people, he turned from his family to embark on an education at Involerra.

His goal was complete mastery of the Art in its highest and most forbidden form: the cosmic forces of death, life, and the unholy synthesis of the two - so-called undeath. For
Nëril the Magnanimous was rumored to have, later in life, embraced (or succumbed to) lichdom. A complex figure renowned for his great works in life - so close to cementing an everlasting legacy, before vanishing into obscurity. The newer Nëril would finish what his namesake began: an investigation into the deepest, most shadowy magic there was, and to return with the ultimate elixir - a new form of being. A dark and private quest, for a dark and private elf.


Personality: Nëril is dominant, unforgiving, and unyielding. He possesses an iron will, and is acutely aware of his strengths and weakness, careful not to underestimate the role of fortune in a situation. He wrestles with an inherent paradox in his being: psychological extraversion and the desire to share in intellectual pursuits mingled with an anxious and frustrated disposition towards others, born arguably of pride. He desires simultaneously to be embraced and to be venerated - but to have both at once is impossible, and to desire such from baser kinds ought to be beneath him. He grapples with this internally every day.

At Involerra,
Nëril also reckons for the first time with those who may equal him in capability, and while the desire to surpass them fuels him, setbacks and embarrassments may prove too much for him to handle, as he may lack the ordinary psychological safeguards to cope with failure - which can, in turn, render him vicious towards others. Wealthy and elitist, he pounces on weakness - a natural bully, not physically, but mentally. Moreover, as an elven adolescent, he has lived much longer than some of the other students. Living amongst non-Elves inflicts its own challenges. Time will tell if he will adapt.


Abilities: Nëril is a gifted spellcaster. He favors the necromantic arts, and has always possessed an innate affinity for effectively manipulating his own life-force, be it in the form of so-called False Life (elven: Cuil Danglar-Cuil, literally 'life without life') to bolster his endurance, to sapping the vital essences of others. He can cast his voice into the minds of those around him to speak without words, and move objects without touching them. Even as a mere apprentice, he demonstrates exceptional promise in the Art.

His mystic focus is a featureless obsidian cube, often held languidly in the right hand. It floats idly above his palm during delicate castings. Nëril's magic is serpentine and artful, subtle in its coloration, and precise in its movements.

As an Elf, he is a magical being of nigh-otherworldly grace, naturally healthy and ambidextrous, and possessing greater agility and finer senses than an ordinary mortal might (graceless humans, for example).

 
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Name: Thalia Redwood
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Species: Half-Elf (The other half is human)
Class Expectation: Ranger
Backstory:

“Your father was a hero… It’s in your blood”

These were the words Thalia grew up hearing, and after hearing it enough times, she believed it. Despite not knowing her father in person she’d known him in stories her mother would tell her, and her favorites were always the ones about his time in Involerra academy. The goal was simple: graduate as top of her class, befriend the best in each field and under her leadership, become known as the greatest party of adventurers of her generation.

The only issue was… She couldn’t hit a bull’s eye if it was farther than 5 feet ahead of her.


School ID Photo:

thalia.png
 
Frizzlegum "Frizz" Babblybruk


Basic Info
Age: 19 years
Height: 5'1"
Weight: 94 lbs
Gender: Female
Race: Gnome (Or, well. Tiefling. But she's a gnome all the same.)
Class: Artificer

Backstory

Frizz didn't remember being born. That's not an odd thing, of course - most people don't - but considering sometime around her whole 'being born' thing was the last time she saw her birth parents, it made it a bit difficult to remember them as well. All of what she knew is what her pa had told her - in some of the stories, he'd found her beneath a bush on the side of the road, in others, he'd bought her off a pair of traveling merchants, and in others still, she'd fallen right out of the sky and landed on his head when he was taking an evening stroll. She didn't know which tale he'd told was true, if any of them were, but she didn't mind that. She wasn't particularly bothered about people she'd never really met, nor particularly insistent about a time of her life she didn't remember. All stories had a little bit of truthiness to them, didn't they? And besides - it made her life a little bit more exciting.

The pa she did know - the pa that mattered - was Ichabold Babblybruk, an aging gnome inventor on the outskirts of Drestel's third ring. He taught her everything she knew. Taught her about the world, taught her about magic, taught her tall tales and farflung stories and things that were probably lies, but fun to think about all the same. He wasn't the most hands-on parent. He didn't show his affection, much, and had a habit of letting her find things out the hard way. Over the course of her childhood, Frizz had set herself on fire no less than fifty-two times, and each of those times was a lesson in and of itself. Still, she loved him - he was her pa, and he loved her all the same.

Naturally, the things she learned the most from him was the family trade. Artificery ran in Ichabold's blood, and he made well sure it ran in Frizz's as well. It helped that she had a penchant for exploration - she was driven by a natural curiosity and a tendency to think outside the box. Whether or not the box survived the process, however, was another story entirely. Paired with a complete disregard for consequences and an impressively unflappable naivete, that curiosity had a tendency to cause just as much harm as good.

Frizz' coming of age wasn't quite a matter of maturity, but more a matter of course. Ichabold had seen her wanderlust and lack of purpose get the better of her as she aged, and being the hard teacher he was, decided it was best to kick her out to experience the world on her on terms. That, and, well, her horns kept gouging ruts in the gnome-high ceiling of their home. It wasn't a tearful goodbye, or a particularly forlorn one - they shook hands, he nodded, and with that, Frizz was off, visions of adventure dancing bright in her head.

It was only natural that she ended up at Involerra's doorstep.

Equipment

Save for the clothes on her back, Frizz' actual possessions are sparse. She has a kit with her tools of the trade, a few scraps and unfinished projects, and - perhaps the most important thing she owns - The Kerblammer, a massive, crudely-cobbled hammer of her own design. Seven-feet long from handle to tip, it's heavy enough that she can't easily swing it with her own strength. She can barely even lift the thing, instead often opting to drag it around when it isn't slung across her back, handle folded for slightly easier carrying. Of course, not being able to swing her own weapon is a problem; a problem she expertly engineered a solution to. Through a trigger mechanism, she's able to detonate explosive vials stored in the head, sending the hammer - and the Frizz attached to it - flying wildly in the opposite direction. It isn't exactly perfect, yet, and she isn't the best at aiming it, and she has a tendency to do more damage to herself than anything she's trying to hit - but it was the first thing she ever made that was truly her own, and she loves it more than anything else she has.
 
Name:
Shuye of the Honeygrass Springs

Age:
16

Gender:
Female

Species:
Drow

Class Expectation:
Cavalier

Backstory:
There was a story Shuye always liked about a distant land where water turned to stone in the places where it gathered in its multitudes and stone burst through the earth in great spires which made the weathered stone of the painted cliffs seem not much taller than the dunes which broke themselves against it. Shuye thought she had seen those once, the spires which pierced the earth like the spines of a great beast, within the twists and churning of the Desert that Feeds. Her gran had almost pulled her ear off at that, but she didn’t regret it. The sight of them had been beautiful in a way she hadn’t had words to describe, and, if she was honest, still didn’t.

The slice of the spires through the twisting sands, the howl of the wind which seemed to linger in the air even after it had been reclaimed by the desert’s appetite. She never saw its phantom again.

Too much in a rush to get to get old’ the village’s chief had always said of her — though he was also her father and he said it was a sly smile, so perhaps that was the sort of teasing thing that parents simply liked to do. Still, there was truth enough in it, it was certain that the girl had a fire behind her that pushed her to stick her nose into trouble, or to gather the few other children of the village together to act out some grand imagined adventure drawn from partially recalled verses of the Tales. Anything to be moving, really.

Though, the adults did like her ‘attempts to make the Tales into a living thing’ or however that particular bit of praise was worded.

She learned to ride when she was nine, which was her mother’s idea, and quite a good one as far as Shuye was concerned. She liked riding, the freeing feeling of motion especially in the lowlands where the dusty earth turned hard between clumps of stalky sweet grass and spindly spine-trees whose plump fruits were a delight in the hottest months. It was nice to feel as if she could go wherever the whims might strike her, even if the lands felt enclosed by the ever churning sands of the Desert that Feeds.

Perhaps by the time she was thirty she might have felt same sort of suffocating stillness as she did during the most blistering days when she needed to stay in the cool of home. The Tales did help for those days, listening to stories and reciting the ones she had memorized lest their edges begin to soften with time and the story take on a new shape in her mind. She was never destined to be one to memorize all of the Tales, but it was still embarrassing to get something wrong.

When she was fourteen and plans were being made for which oasis she would visit for a taste of culture beyond what she knew, a peculiar thing happened, the Ever Hungering Storm began to still. It wasn’t much, at first, a stillness in the ever shifting sands. A home upon a bluff which lingered first for hours, and then for days before it was swallowed again, but soon replaced by lands that lingered first for days which bled into months. Once it seemed the storm wasn’t going to reclaim these escaped lands, the tribal chieftains met to discuss. The deliberations were long, but the Storm was obliging and the decision for an expedition was made. It was a solid group, a pair of old soldiers who had served during the Calamity and during the water disputes before that, the eldest chieftain and his oldest son, and the Matron of the Tales, one who could speak them verse by verse without pause.

It was half a year or so before they returned with stories of their passage through the desert and the lands beyond which seemed far stranger than even the oldest memory of the world that had been before the desert and the Devouring Storm. And in that, perhaps the fates chose to smile on the girl who was soon to be too curious for her little home. Word of Involerra sparked an opportunity. A chance to experience the world as none had had for… well centuries was too short a span of time, wasn’t it?

Shuye volunteered and with that same sly smile her father agreed to let her go.

School ID Photo:
 



Common Name: Visca Tan'Mistel

Species: Dryad

Age: 37
As Dryads tend to be a long-lived species, this is probably the equivalent of a 16-year-old human. The appellation tan, meaning twig, signifies that Visca is not yet considered to be of adult age.

Gender: Female
As observed by the white berries nestled among the leaves growing from her skin and hair; males of the Viscum album genus produce only flowers, no fruit.

Class Expectation: Rogue Paladin
Visca's family agreed to her enrollment as a rogue. They are unaware of the major change. She would prefer to keep it that way, as they are, largely, the reason for it. Since her deity is a trickster, he's all for the deception.


Family:
The Mistel Family is derived from Viscum album, commonly known as the mistletoe plant. A hemiparasitic species, most of the family functions as social hangers-on, generally attaching themselves to other, more powerful individuals, and using them for resources - occasionally to the point of bleeding them dry. This has not been known to make the family particularly popular with other dryads, but they have seen to it through the generations that they are also extremely hard to get rid of.


Background:
The Mistel family is always looking for new ways to wedge themselves deeper into society, as well as ways to make sure that once established, they aren't easy to remove from a position. In looking to forge a weapon of sorts that would enable them to cement their hold wherever they liked, the family turned to one of its youngest scions: Visca, then aged fifteen.

By a combination of the arcane arts and magitek forging techniques, they took her plant and attached it to a chunk of metal - and then forged it in, one seared and folded branch at a time, beating vine and steel together until they were intrinsically linked, and then forging it into a sword, quenched in the flesh of the bound child to cause her to go dormant within the blade in order to recover.

Twenty years passed.

Upon reawakening, having lost much of her childhood and almost all of her faith in her family, Visca found herself a new faith. Pledged to the Trickster God Loki, she feels she has a calling to trick her family out of whatever benefits they've managed to arrange for themselves - and ensure that they don't have the resources to try what they did with her ever again.

She will, however, need more than the skills she has and the blade that holds her. For that, she needs Involerra.


The Mistel-Tān Blade
A short-sword, slender-bladed, with a branch-guard at the grip. Forged under auspicious means, it possesses a certain set of abilities, either of its own or leeched from its rooted Dryad.

Poison: Innate; as mistletoe is quite toxic, the Mistel-Tān has the capacity to poison those cut by the blade.
Cure Poison: Learned, Paladin; a trick of undoing.
Sap: Innate; like the parasitic mistletoe plant, the Dryad-within leeches vitality from that which has been impaled. Currently, this only works on other Dryads, though it's possible she could learn otherwise at school, if she were so inclined.

As Visca is bound to the blade, she can go into it at will.
This is not, generally speaking, something she has any desire to do. Spending twenty years in a magic sword generally puts a person off the idea.

As the blade is bound to Visca, it cannot be wielded by anyone else.
At least, not while she wills it otherwise. She's fairly certain she was never supposed to have the will to defy her family. This is somewhat a sticking point.

As Visca is bound to the blade in the way any Dryad is bound to their plant of origin, she will die if it is destroyed.


School ID Photo:
 
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Kaji Joharu





Age: 17(?)


Gender: Male


Species: Spirit (?)


Class Expectation: Battle Smith







Ashes.



Nothing but ashes and crumbling stone.



Reif had expected as much, bereft of all but the faintest forms of hope as he sifted through the rubble that was once his home and his livelihood. The blacksmith in the neighboring village had been kind enough to share what he had; a small room and use of the the forge so that Reif could at least earn a meager living. Even still he couldn’t quite rid himself of the bitter taste of his pride as he had swallowed it, bloody and covered in soot on another man’s doorstep asking for help.



Anyone would have done the same, and many had. The population of that neighboring village had nearly doubled with refugees like Reif, victims of bandit raids that left lives ruined but intact in favor of the loot that could be taken. He knew he should have been happy to have kept his life, grateful that he had the chance to build again.



Those sentiments were easier sold to the young. Reif’s beard was more blackened by soot than youth these days, his joints growing ever stiffer with each winter that passed. Before the attack he had considered taking an apprentice; without a child of his own to pass his art onto a willing volunteer was almost a necessity.



”No point in that now.” He spoke aloud to the silence. No point at all.



With an angry grunt Reif kicked at what had been the wall of his forge, thick stone brutally shattered with his own hammers that still held enough weight to make him regret the decision to kick it. Stifling a curse Reif hopped for a moment with the throbbing foot cradled helplessly. Par for the course; another stupid decision in much the same vein as the thoughts that brought him to digging through ash and coal. He was angry, and with no real outlet he had dreamt of a fantasy scenario the he impulsively acted on. If he could find the blade he had been working before the village was attacked, if he could finish it and present it to the lord who had ordered it.



Then.



Yes, then he could rebuild.



First, he had to dig through his entire home’s wreckage. It had taken days before he even found the forge, and as destroyed as it was he doubted the blade had been left untouched.



”I’m an idiot.” Reif sat back on his heels and sighed, eyes fixed to his filthy hands. No one could blame him for giving up. No one other than himself.



Another chunk of his forge fell free, pushed from within as the deep soot seemed to come alive in the silence following his words. Reif, startled by the sudden movement, retreated quickly with clumsy steps as something continued to push its way free. Flashes of fire and steel passed through Reif’s mind; the warmth of his work and the gleam of his pride but also the means of his life’s destruction. Nothing should have been moving from inside the forge. It had been buried, and screaming hot the day Reif had lost everything.



His heart pounded in his chest as the soot broke free from the thing beneath it. Ashen skin pulled over corded muscle that seemed to emit a warm, faint glow. Coal black hair that wafted through the night breeze in front of eyes the color of molten steel. A faint trace of smoke curled from the corner of the small creature’s pale lips, the glow that seemed to burn from within revealing light between its teeth.



Reif had never made claims to bravery, and made no effort for such as the the eerie child crouched in the center of his forge and its luminous eyes bore through him. His knees shook, and had he not already fallen from its emergence he felt sure he would have then. The urge to scream had risen like an unstoppable wave in his throat, but in the moment he opened his mouth to give it voice the scream became a breathless rasp.



The creature flinched and scuttled away like a wild animal as Reif fearfully clutched at his suddenly dry throat, and something else overcame his reaction. He recognized the expression the child regarded him with, the fear that echoed his own. A deep, shuddering breath steadied the smith and sent the child flinching further back.



”I’m not going to hurt you.” Reif held his hand out, as he would have any animal, or any child. ”What are you doing here? How did you end up in my forge?”



The ashen child ended it retreat, the combination of Reif’s words, tone and body language seeming to have the desired effect. It, he Reif realized, made no sound in response to the questions, but simply tilted its head as though trying to understand. Reif chuckled quietly, nervously as he took another step toward the child.



”You’re gonna catch your death out here. Why don’t you come back with me?”



The child’s eyes widened, and Reif hesitated in his advance. For moment the silence between the two was as frozen as they were, hanging heavily after Reif’s words fell from the air. Snowflakes began joining the fallen words, each one a puff of steam when it reached the child’s skin.



”Would you like that? I can take care of you.”





~~~~~~



It had not been an easy path for Reif. With nothing to his name he had taken the child back with him in the dead of night, and managed to hide him from the other blacksmith for a few days before his impromptu adoption was found out. Once clothed and fed the boy seemed almost normal, the glow he held within seemly muted to almost imperceptibility though his eyes and his silence still sent shivers even down Reif’s neck.



Of course their lodging had been quickly revoked once the other smith’s wife had caught sight of the boy, and for months Reif found himself carrying the child with him from village to village. Where he could he would take on extra work from other blacksmiths. Most of the profit went to the commissioned smiths, but it was enough to get Reif and the child from meal to meal and farther down the road. Those villages without any smith often proved more lucrative, but once the child was seen Reif could practically count the number of hours until they were spurned.



The child did not speak for many months, offering at first only most basic of gestures as way of communication. Reif spoke for the both of them, telling the child the tales and legends he remembered from his own youth, teaching him the plants and the animals and the ways of the road as the boy’s molten gaze took in each and every word. It didn’t take long for the child to grow used to those lessons, to crawl onto Reif’s broad shoulders and tap his head demandingly; their signal that he wished to hear more.



The boy’s first words came well into spring, prompted by an interruption to a tale from Reif’s own youth. The smith himself had been the one to break off from his story, gaze drifting as he remembered his friends from ages past by name and by face.



”You need a name. I can’t keep calling you ‘boy.’” The child had looked at him strangely, as though he knew something that the smith did not. Reif had become accustomed to those long, inexplicable looks.



”What? You don’t want a name?” The boy shook his head firmly.



”Everyone has a name, kid.” The boy continued staring at Reif, unblinking. ”You might be able to make friends if you had a name.”



The child’s gaze shifted, drifting to the sky above for a moment.



”I’m sure I can come up with something.” Reif let his eyes fall in the opposite direction until he felt the sting of a small hand slapping the top of his head. ”What the hell, kid?” Reif looked up again, molten gaze meeting his intensely.



After a few more breaths of silence the child’s lips parted.



”Kaji. My name is Kaji.”



~~~~~



The rest is history. Kaji spent fourteen happy years with the man he called his father. Eventually they settled down, the people of the village they had chosen willing enough to overlook the strange child for the boon of a skilled smith. He learned the trade, the hammering of steel and layering of magics coming naturally to him as though his hands were built for hammers and tongs. As Reif became weaker Kaji took on more of the work, reveling in the discoveries he made within the materials he worked.



Though rarely he would learn of himself as well, discover some gift he held that seemed to alien to the people around him. Even his father could offer no explanation to Kaji’s summoned forge, the way Kaji could mold steel in a fraction of the time Reif could have in his prime.



”You were born for the forge,” he would often say when no other answer would suffice.



Others had called Kaji demon and devil during their travels; in their home, though, the chosen label was spirit. He wasn’t really sure what he was, and didn’t really care to know beyond what he could do. The years had taught him much of that, and the work a good bit more.



Kaji would have been content in that; would have continued accepting his own ignorance but for the fact of Reif’s health. It was only a matter of time, a reality that neither the boy or the smith had ever shied away from. They had come to an agreement over the years as Reif weathered: When the day came the Reif passed Kaji would go into the world in his own, and using his skills would mark his name alongside the greatest of smiths.



It was the promise that drove him to Involerra, the commitment that had pushed him free of his nest to spread his wings with his wares. There was more to learn of the world than the sum of the mysteries of his own origin, though either siren’s song would have pulled him to the Academy regardless. Magic weapons, enchanted armors and even more to discover; if Involerra wasn’t the place to satisfy all of Kaji’s questions then such a place of enlightenment did not exist.
School ID Photo:

Even without an official photo Kaji is incredibly easy to find and identify. Most immediately noticeable are his luminous eyes of shifting yellows, golds, and oranges reminiscent of magma or the contents of a crucible. His skin is a powdery grey, and occasionally seems to illuminated with the same radiant, warm glow that his eyes constantly emit. His long, black hair is often tied back haphazardly by strips of leather or cloth, and when that restrain inevitably fails a series of steel clips will take up the slack and further accentuate the taper of his pointed and pierced ears. Though lean and compact, every muscle of his body stands in unnatural relief, a trait he has held since childhood.



Bonus: Kaji’s physiology grants him varying peculiarities of note. When excited or angry he often vents smoke or steam from his nose or mouth and the heat his body produces can increase to significant degrees. Additionally he is able to consciously cause the same phenomenon through deep and steady breathing. After a full meal, or drinking strong alcohol, this can even result in the exhalation of actual fire.

Kaji’s forge is an innate ability that he has struggled to explain to magicians and smiths alike. When utilized a sphere of magical energy appears in front of him. By inserting the materials necessary he is able to go through the processes necessary to refine them into weapons, armors, accessories and more. Though visible the orb does not interact with anything other than Kaji and what he puts inside. Once dismissed any materials left are dropped from the orb and often recovered for future use.

Despite this ability offering a much quicker path to creation Kaji would just as readily use a standard forge, were it not for his lack of a physical forge of his own and the fee other smiths would charge for such a loan.
 
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Name: Ash Victoria/Miasma

Age: 17

Gender: Female

Species: Genasi - Smoke

Class Expectation: Bard

Backstory: Tide and Flicker graduated from Involerra in the same year, twenty years ago. A rogue and sorcerer respectively, they made up two parts of an adventuring party that, while they never saved the world, they helped make people’s lives better. Things like clearing abandoned archeological sites, saving people lost in the Reach, or retrieving stolen goods from thieves and bandits on the roads between towns. They put years into the work, and lived well for it, but eventually decided to return to Drestel and try to settle down. You can only brave so many near-death experiences before it stops becoming thrilling, and instead transitions to worrying. It didn’t help that they were expecting a child.

Ash was born in the Third Ring, just a scant few months after her parents returned home. She grew up in the thriving urban area, surrounded by flourishing art and rich culture and people of all kinds. Her home was near the North Gate, on the way to Frjiburg and Three Spires. Ever since she was young, she was surrounded by the culture of adventuring, with party members visiting and the stories of her parents. It didn’t help that, after a few years of regular jobs, both Tide and Flicker were starting to miss being on the road and helping people. It was all but guaranteed that they would not only send Ash to Involerra, but that they would start adventuring again once their child could take care of herself while they were gone.

Growing up as a Genasi, and hybrid element one at that, made her heritage as the descendant of not one but two separate genie’s made life difficult sometimes. She was never the victim of physical violence, but jokes were often made at her expense. People would ask for wishes, ask if she lived in a lamp, even ask if they could talk to her grandparent to make a deal or bargain. It bothered her, and caused her to withdraw, taking solace in being by herself, often ending up at the third wall, admiring the works placed on it, searching for new pieces of art nearly every day. It was one of few things she really enjoyed, though she was reluctant to share once she began practicing her own under the tag of Miasma, often shortened to Mia.

Most of the stories Mia grew up on were of adventures, not of Involerra. She had gone to typical public school while she was growing up, and she found it all terrible and boring. It was no fun to sit in the classroom, listening to someone talk about things you didn’t really care for, so when her parents pitched Involerra to her, Mia refused. They knew how much they loved the school, though, and they knew Ash had the potential. They’d helped her learn a few spells, taught her at least how to hold a dagger, if not use it. They saw how much she used to enjoy the stories they told her, so they made the executive decision to send her off.

Mia, of course, hated this decision. It meant school, it meant people, and it meant they would be leaving to adventure again. Saying “no” didn’t help her any, though, so she instead took it as an opportunity to reinvent herself, to distance herself from the Genasi lineage and hopefully keep any instructors from recognizing her. After her parents had filled out the application form, before it was sent off to the school, she snuck it out from behind their backs and changed the listed name. She was going to be Victoria, and hopefully, with any luck, there would be something to finally motivate her at Involerra.

 
Name: Arvyn Ravenwalker

Class: Wizard

Race: Human

Gender: Male

Age: 17

Backstory:

Arvyn could remember them ever since he was a kid. A strange group traveling along the road. He had asked his Pa who they were. He knew now that his Pa had answered with no small amount of derision and suspicion. “Adventurers” he had said Arvyn understood why.

There were always stories about these people known as “adventurers”. He never understood where these stories came from as he had grown up in a hamlet of a little more than a hundred people and didn't know of any other settlements nearby. The stories besides those about the heroes who had saved the world couldn't decide whether they were the greatest blackguards or just simple drifters challenging the locals' quiet lives.

The adventurers had stayed in a small inn that night. All the kids my age or above, overcome with curiosity, went to see them. Some tried to lift the large man's axe or draw back the lady's bow. Arvyn went to the man with the funny hat and some kind of orb. He had said he was a master of magic and scholar of divination which he explained was the search for truth and study of potential.

“So I guess you aren't some conjurer of cheap tricks?”

“ I am. Many wizards would deny it but sometimes all you need is those tricks. That doesn't mean you don't have something better up your sleeves, just that it's not required.”
The wizard and Arvyn had talked for another hour until it was time to leave. The next morning they were gone. All that was left behind was a book Beginners Guide to Magic with Arvyn's name written inside.

Most in the hamlet had seen but never owned books and thus Arvyn hid his. Afraid what the others in the hamlet would say. He knew what he wanted now despite his Pa and his siblings assuming he would remain forever. Arvyn wanted to leave. That desire only grew when one of the great metal towers was built a few years later.

Over the years he studied the book again and again. Each time understanding just a bit more. There came a time when he was alone and a fire needed to be lit he would summon one. The first time Arvyn did it he feared he would burn down the family home! Once some green mist shot forth from his outstretched hand and into an empty field! Nothing grew there for awhile. He enjoyed his use of a visible floating hand to play some pranks on his family.

But the greatest was when Arvyn climbed the metal tower. Well, that's not true… A month earlier he had learned actual magic! He had summoned a raven which he named Darkwing! He could only ever be with his raven at night. When he realized he could see the bird he used it at first to fly around the hamlet watching some of the residents at night. One day Darkwing flew to the top of the tower and Arvyn stared down into the hamlet with the raven's eyes!

The day he would leave quickly approached when he would leave for an academy the book had called Involerra. Arvyn would leave in the middle of the night avoiding the road near the hamlet. The raven would ride on his shoulder he looked like a peasant with a sack on his back carrying the few possessions and clothes he owned.

He knew the trip would take a few days to the big city and the academy. It gave him plenty of time to think about his name and his magic. He lacked an arcane focus which usually meant the few spells he knew weren't performing like they should. Or they could fail outright… As a peasant, he lacked a surname always just known as Arvyn at home. How about Arvyn Ravenwalker? Reaching a hand up and petting Darkwing he continued to think.

Abilities/Equipment:

A wizard at the very beginning of his journey. He knows a few cantrips: mage hand, create bonfire, and poison spray. He knows two spells: Find Familiar and Ice knife, which he hasn't used yet. He lacks an arcane focus for now and owns a book: Beginners Guide to Magic which he has memorized and currently uses as his spellbook.

School ID:

Still looking for good art to use if not I'll use a description maybe.
 
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