[Verified by Luminescence] Antelokes

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Postby Antelokes on July 10th, 2021, 9:45 pm

Antel (Antelokes)

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
Frow what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.


Race: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 22
Birthday: 5th of Spring, 501
Birthplace: Zeltiva

Appearance: Antelokes is tall (6'1") with broad shoulders and lean for his build. His bright green eyes are intense and focused. Callouses cover his hands, which are often stained by soot—like most of his clothes. He moves with a smooth, deliberate gait, yet with the veiled tension of a bow pulled taught by its string, like he's never entirely relaxed. The bright flames of Ivak's first mark paint his left forearm.

Antelokes is left handed.

Character Concept

Antelokes comes from a broken family in a broken world. He’s seen broken people and wished that he could fix them. Usually he can’t.

Frustrated by this powerlessness, Antelokes has come to abhor stagnation. When presented with choices he tends to decide quickly and rarely procrastinates action. Sometimes these rash decisions lead to very real consequences, but to Antelokes this is always preferable to sitting passively and letting outside forces drive his life.

Antelokes does little to hide his feelings, sometimes creating conflict with poorly veiled expressions of disapproval or disdain.

Character History

Antelokes was born in Zeltiva. His father was a blacksmith, an Azenth, and loyally worshipped the god Ivak. Eventually Antelokes' mother abandoned her husband and young son, going to Sunberth for reasons Antelokes never learned. He still hasn't forgiven her... or found her. Some time later he and his father followed her to Sunberth, hoping to find some trace of what had happened to her. They were unsuccessful.

The city was rough, as it always is, though Antelokes' father seemed to handle it with impressive gentleness and grace, avoiding confrontation more often than not. Unfortunately the city took its toll on the man, striking him with a maddening disease that stole his mind long before it took his body. Left with no choice, the young Antelokes stepped up to fill his father's shoes as best he could.

Antelokes did not possess the grace his father did, and soon found himself embroiled in a mire of confrontation. That was dangerous. Arguments like that could get you killed anywhere. Especially Sunberth. Shouldering his burdens Antelokes let himself grow harder, doing distasteful things from time to time when there was no better choice to protect him and his dying father. In the process he drew the attention of (and a mark from) the god Ivak, something that would have made his old man proud if the man had still possessed any of his former wits. Death took Antelokes' father soon after.

With his father dead and his mother nowhere to be found, there was nothing left for Antelokes in the city of anarchy. He left, eager to find some corner of the world he could make his own.

Gnosis Story :
(beware of flashbacks, they're in italics)

Antelokes sat on the bare earth of the little shop he shared with his father Maltios, drawing figures in the dust and trying to ignore the great furnace that dominated the back of the room. He couldn’t ignore the smell though. It hung in the air, thick and terrible. He wanted to leave, to run away and get as far away from that stench as he possibly could, but that wasn’t an option. Somebody would notice. Somebody would smell it and come to investigate while nobody was there to turn them away. Somebody would connect the dots, then it would all be over.

So he stayed there, sitting in the dirt with the door sealed, letting the evidence seep out through the forge’s smoke vent. Most passerby would assume it just came from the slag they worked with normally. Hopefully the ones who knew better wouldn’t ask questions. After all, this was Sunberth. It wasn’t like what happened last night had been illegal.

Antelokes heaved at the bellows, wringing every drop of force he could out of his body and pouring it into the heat of the forge. Sweat dripped from his brow, only to quickly dry from the heat of the flames. Taking a break from his efforts, he looked into the forge to gauge the temperature. Squinting, he tried to remember his father’s lessons. It had been so much simpler when the sure man had been able to help. Keen eyes and a keener mind made the work ten-fold easier.

As if summoned by his son’s thoughts, Maltios burst into the shop from the back door, babbling to himself, with wild eyes. Antelokes frowned. The master metalsmith hadn’t been in his right mind for quite some time now, but he wasn’t normally this bad. The condition was explained fully as two fierce men slipped through the door behind the older man, their eyes full of death.

In the new light of dawn, Antelokes’ father muttered to himself as he tinkered at one of the shop’s workbenches. He played like a child with the tools he had used to wield so expertly. The man’s son stared at him, searching in vain for some sign of the great man that had once possessed the body. He cringed in silent grief that this plague had struck his family. The clear note of a knock sounded at the door, interrupting his thoughts. Antelokes shot to his feet before thinking to be quiet. He wasn’t expecting any visitors, and he had no customers that would be passing by this early in the morning. The sun must barely have risen.

The knock came again. Antelokes edged his way to the door, letting his feet fall lightly on the ground. Once close, he listened, straining his ears for some sign of the person on the other side, but he heard nothing, not even breathing. He tried to relax. Whoever it was had probably realized they’d made a mistake.

“You had quite the fire here,” called out a voice from behind him. Antelokes wheeled around to see a figure standing by the forge, looking into the bright orange coals within. His voice was smooth and powerful, seeming to pass right through Antelokes’ ears and into his soul. “You let it burn down though. It’s cooler now. Too cool for your needs.” The figure raised his eyes and met Antelokes’ own, freezing the boy’s feet where he stood. “It would still be hot enough for most people with their menial tasks, but you and I both know that your work requires something more, doesn’t it? Something stronger.”

Antelokes collapsed to his knees and lowered his gaze, breaking eye contact. He recognized this man. He couldn’t imagine anybody who wouldn’t, especially not somebody who had been raised on stories about this being, as Antelokes had been. The appearance, the glow about him, the eyes… It was Ivak, the World Destroyer—exactly how Matlios had described him to Antelokes so many times.

“Great one—” he sputtered, aghast that the god saw him now, in his moment of greatest shame.

“Don’t do that,” said Ivak, voice warm and resonant with power that the greatest of orators would envy. “I’m not here because you know how to kneel. Plenty of people can kneel. I want you to be better than them.”

The strangers entered the shop with the arrogant swagger of people that knew they held all the cards.

“Well! The loon actually told the truth! I was sure he was a stupid beggar!” cried one of them. Antelokes stepped forward to challenge them, but the one who had spoken savagely shoved him back without warning. The younger, smaller Antelokes stumbled backward a few paces before tripping and falling backward. The men guffawed. His father wrung his hands as his eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal.

“Youz best stay outa this, apprentice,” called out the other intruder, obviously drunk. “Da business we got is wit’ the old man.” A spike of anger shot through Antelokes, but the adrenalin seemed to be paralyzed for a moment by the fear coursing through his veins. The first man spoke again.

“We don’t take too kindly to disrespect,” he said. He gave the shop a cursory glance. “Ned, take anything that looks like it’s worth something,” his eye twinkled with an evil glint, “and throw that poker in that there fire. I think we need to show what happens to tongues that get too loose around these parts.” The men laughed. Maltios clearly didn’t catch the threat, but Antelokes himself had no such misunderstanding. He rose to his feet, this time wary of the strangers.

“Please,” he begged, “he’s sick. He doesn’t even know what he says anymore, much less means it!” The man who had spoken first—obviously the leader—looked at Antelokes the way one might look at a rat in their pantry.

“Mean it or not, he said what he said, so we’re gonna do what we’re gonna do.” The man glanced Antelokes up and down, obviously not impressed. “Look, I’ve got a soft spot for stupid children in over their heads, so how about you run out that door and don’t come back tonight. You won’t want to see this.” The stink of alcohol was on the man’s breath. “Who knows? If he doesn’t struggle too much, your master might live to see the sunrise tomorrow.” Antelokes had no doubts the man would follow through with his threats. He silently cursed the disease that made his father—normally so careful with his words—say whatever had riled these men up so. What could he do? The leader turned away, snorting, more interested in the fun he and his buddy were making out of Maltios than he was in the skinny apprentice.

The man was right. This was happening, and Antelokes was here. What would he do?

The other intruder, Ned, was at the forge, adjusting a heavy iron poker Antelokes had been using before, preparing his instrument of torture. Antelokes had a very stupid thought. Before he could talk himself out of it, he was a blur of action.

It was sheer momentum and luck that caused Antelokes’ shove to send the man tumbling into the hungry flames of the large forge. He screamed as his face and chest fell across the bed of coals. The man struggled and writhed. With little thought Antelokes whirled on his heels, snatching up the poker from where the stranger had dropped it. The leader stared at Antelokes for a moment in surprise and horror. A mask of vitriol and malice drew across his face.

“You dead bastard!” he growled. Antelokes, stood silent, but bristling with equal rage as he faced his opponent. The man moved to draw his knife, but Antelokes darted forward first, bringing the heavy iron rod down toward the man’s head. The man cursed and ducked back, but the strike hit his shoulder with a sickening thud. Antelokes could feel bone shatter. The man screamed something unintelligible, but he thought he could hear the word “kill,” in there somewhere. The single-minded Antelokes advanced. He swung the poker again and missed. His enemy responded by diving toward him and slashing with the knife. Antelokes struggled to raise his weapon in defense, stepping backward. Both men were surprised when the still-hot tip of the poker buried itself deep in the intruder’s eye, brought deeper still into the brain by the momentum of the man’s leap. It sizzled sickeningly. The man’s remaining eye seemed to stare accusingly at Antelokes as the final breaths tore themselves from the man’s lungs.

The poker fell to the ground as Antelokes’ fingers went limp together with the body of his assailant. Maltios whimpered in the corner, shuddering like a beaten dog. The strength that had surged through Antelokes’ limbs during the conflict seemed to ebb away. He turned back to the forge. The intoxicated man hadn’t been able to free himself from the brilliant heat of the flames and his dead flesh charred and popped. Nasua twisted Antelokes’ gut. He had never killed before. He had barely even fought beyond little meaningless scraps with other boys growing up. He’d seen death, sure, but he and Maltios kept themselves distanced from the worst parts of Sunberth’s underbelly. He was a metalsmith. He created things. He didn’t destroy. At least, not until today. Something caught his eye about the bodies. It was now mostly obscured on the burned man, but on the forearm of the one he had killed with the poker an ugly tattoo marred the skin.

Antelokes cursed. Daggerhands. These men would have friends, ones more powerful than Antelokes cared to cross. If it came out that they had died here it would be the end for him and his father. There was no way he’d be able to take the bodies away, not without anybody noticing. Dread started to creep over him. The great heat of the coals caught the burning Daggerhand’s clothes and crackled in the air above the corpse. There was one way he could get rid of the bodies without anybody knowing. He nearly vomited on the spot.

Antelokes slowly rose, wincing as his blistered palms pressed against the ground. He had spent most of the night laboring at the bellows and was rewarded for his efforts by injured hands, the terrible smell, a forge full of ash, and no corpses.

“I— I didn’t know what to do,” Antelokes said in halfhearted explanation. The god raised an eyebrow.

“I think you knew exactly what to do. You just wish you didn’t have to do it.” Antelokes hung his head. The god continued. “Tell me, child of the forge. If you went back, what would you have done differently?” Antelokes struggled for an answer.

“I don’t know,” he responded honestly. “But it was so terrible, how—”

“Look at me,” Ivak interrupted. Something about the way he said it compelled Antelokes to stare right into the god’s eyes. They burned, filled with grief and rage a thousandfold stronger that his own, like pits filled with molten rock of emotion.

“If you want to share regrets, I could break your mind right here. Nobody, has ever known the shame I have.” It was as if a fiery coal had been placed in Antelokes’ heart and coursed through his veins to punctuate the god’s words. The fires then seemed to wane a little, and the god’s face took on a softer tone. Antelokes gasped and relaxed, finding that without thinking he had been holding his breath. Ivak smiled, and Antelokes almost couldn’t see the pain in it. “But what’s done is done, and now we’re left to pick up the pieces. Few people ever try. It’s so easy to just live, and hope things just work out. It takes someone brave to make change.”

The god glanced to the side, and Antelokes saw that he was looking at Maltios.

“Your father was such a man. He served well, and now his tired mind enjoys its rest.” Ivak’s gaze returned to Antelokes. “You could be as strong as he was. You could be much stronger. You could make change as most people never even try to do. Doing so would require choices though. Hard ones. Harder than this. Can you stand the pressure?” Antelokes stood on shaky legs. He tried to speak, but no words left his mouth. Was he? That was what he wanted though, wasn’t it? He had felt so powerless when the Daggerhands had entered the shop. He never wanted to feel like that again, but the question stood. Was he strong enough? Ivak smiled knowingly, as if he could sense Antelokes’ very spirit. He grasped the boy’s forearm in a firm grip. “I think you could be, but this might help.” Antelokes felt an odd sensation under the god’s hand. It was like burning, but there was no pain, no smoke, and no terrible smell.

Ivak met his eyes one last time.

“Live true,” he said, then left, brushing past Antelokes and out the door onto the street. The young metalsmith remained where he was for at least a minute, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Eventually, he looked down to where the god had touched him, and there on his skin was the image of a bright flame captured on his flesh.


Fluent Language: Common
Basic Language: Fratava (Picked up from dealing with sailors and traders when he lived in Sunberth)
Poor Language:


Skill EXP Total Proficiency
Arcanology 4 XP 4 Novice
Blacksmithing 10 SP, 15 RB 2 XP 27 Competent
Bodybuilding 15 SP 15 Novice
Flux 2 XP 2 Novice
Geology 3 XP 3 Novice
Investigation 2 XP 2 Novice
Logic 4 XP 4 Novice
Meditation 2 XP 2 Novice
Metalsmithing 10 SP 10 Novice
Observation 15 XP 15 Novice
Organization 1 XP 1 Novice
Rhetoric 1 XP 1 Novice
Socialization 12 XP 12 Novice
Unarmed Combat 17 SP 17 Novice

Gnosis: 1 Mark Ivak (Azenth)

To Antelokes, his faith is an important reminder. He looks to it as a source of strength, but also as an important reminder of its purpose. His faith and the mark he has been granted also serve as an important reminder to him of his late father.

Azenth Information :
An Azenth with one Mark has one very important ability; they gain the immunity to fire. At one mark, the heat of a fire can still be felt, but it does not burn them. If they work with fire routinely, say as a magical discipline of Reimancy or routinely build fires, then the heat of that fire is often absorbed by them and keeps their body temperature relatively higher compared to 'normal' individuals of their race. Singularly marked Azenth often make incredibly talented firewalkers and firedancers with very little effort. In addition, at this level, Ivak marked people often sense the underlying strongly building emotion of another person, but cannot tell specifically what has caused those emotions. For example, if someone is experiencing a powerful upheaval of emotion - say grief - the Azenth can detect that, but will not understand what caused it. Mundane emotions - everyday joy, sorrow, etc are not picked up by Azenth. Instead, Azenth hone in and narrow down on only strong intense boiling emotions. They can often tell when someone has newly fallen in love, or if another completely hates something or someone with a passion. The only rule is that the emotion has to be intensely strong for them to feel it. Even urges, like the desire to steal, can be detected if they are overwhelming.

(more complete list of lores coming soon...)
Metalsmithing: Making Bronze
Layout: Zeltiva


1 Set of Clothing
-Simple Shirt
-Simple Pants
-Simple Undergarments
-Simple Coat
-Simple Boots
1 Waterskin
1 Backpack which contains:
-Comb (Wood)
-Brush (Wood)
-Balanced Rations (1 Week's worth)
-1 eating knife
-Flint & Steel
-Money (see "Ledger)

Heirloom: Longsword (his father's weapon, given to him for safekeeping when his father started to lose his senses)


Location: Syka

House: Beach Camping in Tent


Purchase Cost Total
Starting +100 GM 100 GM
No Horse+Tack +250 GM 350 GM
Alcohol -3 SM 249 GM 7 SM
Scabbard -4 GM 245 GM 7 SM
Expenses Spring 522 -135 GM 110 GM 7 SM

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