[Verified by Astator] Oli Guillory

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Oli Guillory

Postby Oli Guillory on January 5th, 2016, 7:52 am

Image

Nicknames: Olive
Titles: None

Race: Human
Gender: Male
Date of Birth: Spring 12, 494 AV
Height: 5' 10"
Weight: 144 lbs

Profession: Squire
Housing: Syliras Dormitories

Language: Common - fluent

Merits: Persistent, Clever, Loyal
Flaws: Masochistic, Sadistic, Obsessive

Worships: Kelwyn
Oli Guillory

Physical Appearance:
Of average height and average build, Oli tends to appear more slight than he truly his; his musculature is far more reserved than many of the knights and squires of Syliras, leaving him looking much more slight in comparison. His grooming straddles the line between groomed and unkempt: stray whiskers often sticking out at odd angles,; hair wild and tangled; clothes pressed and washed; boots shined. It varies, day to day, how presentable he is and in what way, but there is always an element of care mixed in with his natural chaos. His features are subdued, deep chestnut eyes settled under a brooding brow, though it is rare to find his face as such in the light of day, as words often brighten his light-skinned visage. Though almost always wearing his leather armor while he is out and about in training or on patrols, Oli prefers simple linen shirts and leather pants, shoes and any other attire of any other sort forgone for comfort.

His natural gait is as unhurried as his words, though both seem to lack a fundamental warmth. There is a way about his gestures, the manner in which his eyes occasionally grow dark and wild, the soft step of his footsteps as if he is constantly being followed that lend towards a sort of unease about him, as if he is not quite comfortable in his own skin but tries very hard to be regardless. In the training grounds, however, he is recognizable only by his feathery brown hair and a glimpse of a grin that doesn't ever reach his eyes. He maintains control over himself just enough to keep others from reproaching him for his "wild behavior", but there is a brutality to him that many find distasteful, especially within the realms of the friendly spar.

While some might consider Oli attractive at a passing glance, the longer one spends with him, the better chance one might notice the manner in which his eyes seem to linger: not upon supple features or in tender longing, but that of a hunger who's carnality is bound only by the strained smile and nervous bite of his nails. Darkness sits just behind his smile, and while it is not immediately apparent, time is his facade's greatest enemy while negligence his ally.

Beneath his clothes, Oli is fit and trim. While strength is not his greatest boon, his training and stable lack of appetite have given him a muscular appearance where, perhaps, there is not quite the ability to live up to it. Though his skin is fair, it is covered in scars that coat his chest, back, sides, arms, and legs, beginning halfway from his forearms and stopping just beneath his collarbone. Some of the scars seem almost designed - letters, symbols, crudely carved pictures - while the rest are far more simplistic in both application and scarification. These markings, both self-inflicted and otherwise, are kept hidden most times, but should he share a night with another, their discovery is inevitable. The most notable of his scars are as follows:

-Center of chest: A crude circle split by a jagged line
-Upper right thigh: Three straight lines set a half inch apart, the middle line about double the length of the other two
-Lower left side: The word "free" carved in uneven letters about a thumb's length in height for each situated so that it can be read from Oli's perspective if he is looking down towards it
-Middle and upper back: Crisscrossed lines placed unevenly over the skin, some of the scars are scars over scars
-Left lower lips: Thin, horizontal scar



Personality:
There are two distinct Oli's with a muddied third, though it is not a affliction of the mind nor a split soul that has given rise to the mask and the grin beneath. On the surface, in the light, Oli is a lighthearted jester, meaning well in spite of his short comings, be they social or practical in nature. He laughs often, but there is a hollow ring to his mirth that lurks in the undertones; his words, while not spoken particularly quickly, are rarely biting or acidic, yet sometimes they ring cold, even when the message boasts warmth. Though friendly, Oli is not so openly inclined towards friendships; romances, on the other hand, are a different matter entirely, and he has little issue sharing a bed with another, though often he requests darkness to shroud their intimacy. To the knights, he is respectful, rarely making jeers with them even when invited. To the squires, however, he is a bit more relaxed and partakes in frivolities when invited. The rest of the city is much the same to him, and he enjoys it where and when he can.

When he trains, his eccentricities tend to sway his humors. The most prevalent of adjectives to describe him in the training grounds or even with his head buried in a book of tactics is that of "focus". He finds it easy to fixate on a goal, particularly those of a physical nature, and once he has begun, he continues until it is finished. Some might find him a brutish in this regard, as it is not uncommon for his sparring partners to find themselves with injuries they hadn't agreed upon exchanging, though it is very rare for him to ever leave the field unscathed. He is not necessarily reckless, but there is a distinct pattern of give and take with him in any sort of formal or educational avenue: if he must bruise a rib or break a finger of his own to inflict a greater wound upon his quarry, it is a price easily paid. While not quite as drastic in places more geared towards erudition, often he will forgo a meal or meals in favor of another battle-worn journal, or he will stay up until he has finished, trading sleep for knowledge as it were. In the best of lights, he is dedicated; in the worst, he is prone to unhealthy fixations that rarely lend themselves towards self-preservation. In spite of these things, when he is made aware by shouts and punches or sharp, barking orders, Oli is not hapless to his nature. He can reel himself in, and should he be particularly wary, it is not unheard of him to carry on as a "normal" young man who might perhaps hit a slight bit harder than he should or spend just a little more time in the library than might be healthy.

In the darkness, however, Oli often succumbs to the strains of forced smiles and stifled desires. Pain is often an outlet for his repression, the flow of blood however slow not only a symbolic release but a physical one as well, and many of the scars that litter his skin are such ministrations: a well cut path to mark his explorations into his personal realm of mediation. While his own pain is a soothing balm, that of others is something more of a burning tincture, one that warms him far more than sear of alcohol or the vaporous allure of drugs. It is a special treat for him, one that fills him with as much excitement and pleasure as it does disgust and shame, and often it is focused on the lower creatures: rats and birds, cats sometimes if he is particularly harried. Occasionally, he finds himself lost in his own mind while tangled in the sheets, and many a time he has drawn blood simply for the act of it. Apologies, both sincere and regretful, have kept these incidents more rumor than anything else, but he finds it far superior to any searching kiss or tender touch.

His obsessions find themselves far greater under the light of the stars, and if he has not already dedicated his time to the betterment of mind and body, Oli often plays "games": How many times can he rewrite a poem with a needle slid between his fingers? What might his leg look like without a particular patch of skin? How long can a rat live fed only on sections of its own tail? His macabre pastimes are not glorified in his own mind; they are as detested by the mind that conjures them as that of the one that might stumble upon them, but there a is a driving need that draws him back, no matter the reasons or desires he might otherwise express. It is not a constant state of being, his shadowed self, but it is always an inevitability. He strives against it, often for weeks if he can manage, before he sinks back down into the detestable but soothing act of harm, whether it be to himself or another.

These facets of his personality lead to a mix of expression in his day to day life. There is almost never a point in time when he does not have an injury of some kind, be a cut, a bruise, a sprain, or more, and thought his ailments are rarely severe, they are constant, familiar, and so too they are rarely sources of alarm. His eyes always have a lingering weariness to them, one that is more easily noticed when he stops to rest or pauses in gait or speech. Though exempt of his more lugubrious proclivities in the training grounds, his movements are slow and steady, measured and controlled as if speed is something precious and limited to be conserved and used only when necessary. Finally, Oli is infatuated with the idea of those who do not crave - whether they simply appear to be disciplined or if they are, in fact, devout to their own moralities -, and he strives to surround himself with those he considers to be positive influences on his own twisted paths. These people he does not consider friends, for a friend would be that of an equal, and he certainly does not believe himself that.



History:
Oli was brought into the world through the twisted machinations of lust and obsession. An apathetic woman laid under siege by a half-crazed, wild man found herself growing in size and eating for two not long after his visitations had grown regular. Though not immediately infatuated with the idea of child-bearing, the woman found the man a useful tool, one that blindly provided for her needs and whims alike as he was able, and she lapsed into an apathetic term, birthing Oli with the aid of hooting owls and a screeching man beside her. She was never quite the same afterwards, and while she spent some time with the man soon after, eventually she returned to the brothel, her cheeks more sallow and shoulders slumped. Oli was cared for by the other women more so than the one who had given him life, and as months turned to years, another child was to be born.

While soft and supple with a twinkle of the eye and airy breath of laughter at any silly instance, there was an oddity to the little "Olive" as he was so fondly called. He rarely cried when injured, rather he was fascinated by the drip of blood or the burn of a scrape; his tears were reserved solely for that of necessities: food, rest, the occasional comfort. The others found it a relief, in truth, that when their sweet Olive took a tumble, it wasn't long before he was up and toddling about again, his grin all the wider. When his mother came time to birth once more, there was no man to stand beside her, only the other women, and while a midwife was brought in to help ease the pain of the experience, she did not last the night. There were two deaths that night, and the second was that of a sister Oli knew only for a few chimes as the others fluttered about the room, tears both true and false filling the air. It was the first time he'd seen death, and it was for a tender moment he took the little, blood body next to his own and stared down at the empty eyes with a curiosity borne that, over time, only ever grew, never to be truly sated.

After a few days in the wake of his mother's passing, Oli's father came to fetch him. He was ferried away to the forest where his father spent the majority of his days in a hunting shelter, returning to the city when necessary to sell his game or purchase supplies. It was there, in the great open quiet of the world outside the cocoon of stone that Oli was allowed to discover life and all its intricacies by his own power. Though his father fed and cared for him as was necessary, the child was independent and didn't require much in the way of comfort. His father, having never had anything to teach to before, enjoyed the prospect of training another to follow in his footsteps, and so he thought to harden the child's stomach for gore and killing by allowing him to help skin the bodies of the animals he returned with. Oli took to the tasks set before him with far more zeal than his father expected, and as time passed, the child was as comfortable with his hands inside a deer as he was petting a dog or scratching behind the ears of a cat. Before he was to be taken on his first hunting trip, his father brought him a hunting dog, young but experienced enough to be of some use on their first foray. The trip itself was successful, and his father watched with pride as Oli beat his first kill to death with a rock, the shaft of his father's arrow intentionally misplaced that the boy might learn what it was like to take the life of another creature.

As both boy and hound grew and trips he was allowed to go on were more frequent, there was a change in the dynamic between dog and master. The beast seemed to quiver at Oli's touch, and it had long since stopped licking the gentle hands that would comb its patched and scabbed coat. When it fell prey to one of the hunter's traps, its leg snapped in a bloody splintering of bone, it was Oli who calmly bludgeoned the beast to death, smiling up at his father as he did so. Now, neither son nor father was particularly inclined towards judgment of the other, and while the hunter found his child's lack of empathy for the beasts and birds of the wood to be a bit out of the normal, he considered it a useful disposition, and one he fostered through apathetic negligence, allowing the boy his fun with the smaller animals he was able to catch on his own. This disregard for what many might find a concerning trait proved to be his ultimate downfall, as it was next his turn to find himself prone upon the ground, his own traps stealing away his ability to move much farther than a pitiful crawl. It was one he had never set, and as Oli had turned to stare down at him, it was then his father realized that where he had turned his head, he might have expressed concern. The child watched him fade from life, unresponsive to shouts and pleas, threads and supplications. When finally his breaths allowed him no more words, the boy rose and, with the aid of his father's skinning tools, helped to release the final gasp of air, just as he had done with so many countless other lives before.

Alone in the trapper's home, Oli was found with arms wrapped around his legs in the middle of the room, body shivering and eyes bleary. Those who had come to relieve the rapper of his seasonal stint left without discovering his body, instead electing to take the child back to the city to be raised upon the other parentless squabble where at least he might have meals and care that they could not - and would not - provide him. The orphanage was not a particularly eventful season of his life. There were other children, some loud and some quiet, but it was only a short time before he was welcomed into the home of Wandya and Ashtad Nigriso. They were a pleasant duo, one with a bitter core. Neither Wandya nor Ashtad had been accepted as squires, their family finding them lacking in faith, ability, and most importantly, dedication. These things had long since hardened their hearts with the creeping tincture of rancor, and when they sought their child they did so not for a light in their lives but for a chance at ill-wished retribution. The child, to them, was a window to lead them back into the graces of their family, to be raised as a would-be knight to show those who had shunned them that they were as capable as any other. While neither the youngest nor the oldest of the children at the time, Oli was chosen for his apparent pliancy; of course, when he was brought home, his more wild natures began to surface.

At first, his quirks were ignored, taken as necessary obstacles to be overcome when the time was right. As the days stretched into seasons, they found him with a desiccated cat stretched over his lap, the creatures screeching cries silenced with a snap of the neck as deep brown eyes rose to meet two equally horrified expressions. The child, their child, would partake in no such abominable practices, and so Ashtad took it upon himself to purge the boy of his faults at the lash of the whip. Initially, the punishments were light, more to inspire fear than anything else, but the child responded oddly to his chastisement. It excited him, and one night when he let a small bubble of laughter escape his lips, the lash stripped his back clean and true. From that point, there was little to hold the man back from the growing catharsis of his son's education. It was an escape from the meaningless bells he toiled away beneath the earth, and soon he was not alone in his ministrations. Both husband and wife began to light into the child, all the while the boy finding that the pain was not something to shy away from but to embrace. He carried on with his practices, though as seasons slowly bloomed into years, he grew more secretive, his conscious not unaffected by his father's condescending words that followed each stinging stripe added to his bare back. When he was caught, he was beaten, and there were several instances in which the leather was taken too far, leaving behind more permanent markings of his transgressions.

The draw towards pain became greater the older he grew, and slowly, he began to find there were other ways his body might experience a release of tension and strain that at the hands of his parents' instruction. Soon his skin was littered with cuts, scrapes, and bruises, mirrors of the raw marks upon his back, and his parents took it as a sign of progress: the child had learned it was not enough that they beat out his flaws but that they must be carved out by his own hands. So he continued, finding new and interesting ways to draw fourth his own tears. With the aid of his mother who always made sure to clean and dress his wounds, more scars formed, each a memory and one that, no matter how many times he might let the exact moment slip from mind, could be remembered at the idle brush of the rise of mottled tissue or at a glance of pinkish skin. It was a story to him, one that demanded it be written, and so he chose himself as a canvas over the bodies of the animals that had started him along his path.

When Wondya gave birth, the child that was born proved to be a pivot point in Oli's life. It was so strange to see something so small cry so loudly, and for a time, his attentions were focused solely on the pale blonde curls and chubby fingers. Oli wanted to share what he had learned with his little brother, to impart what knowledge he knew to the little creature who would sleep so soundly after so many bells of wailing, and so he thought to leave his own mark, to make his own memory that the two of the might cherish together. So, it was with only the most pure of intentions that he slipped his hand into Jelle's cradle and with a snapping tear removed his brother's pinky. The screaming howl that erupted from his brother's lips was so sudden, Oli had little time to do the same to his own hand as he had intended. Instead, Wondya and Ashtad burst into the room, finding Oli cradling a tiny finger with eyes wide and surprised and the bloody wave of a tiny hands in pain and fear. That night was the nearest Oli came to death, and it was the first time his wounds were not tended to. He treated himself as best he could, and the resulting scars still prove to be the most prominent.

With his transgressions seemingly taken to a point that not even the whip could allay, Wondya and Ashtad left Oli to his own devices, their care and nurture taken up solely with their "true" child, something they did not forget to remind of on a regular basis. He was still beat for his foolishness, but it was more out of habit than anything else, and as his parents attentions upon him waned, Oli took the city, seeking out new experiences, searching for a taste of the fear he had felt as blood had dripped from between his lips and his body lay battered and torn upon the floor. He found a hint of what he sought in fights, fists finding purchase against jaws, knees jabbed into stomachs, the thrill of a breath stolen with the strong wrap of an arm about his neck. After about a year of his foray into the realm of fist fighting, of which he was little more than a living, breathing sack of flesh for others to sink their fists into, he managed to anger a larger, far more brutish boy, who fell upon him with all the strength of a winter's storm. As light began to fade and the voices that shouted and pleaded for their companion to abate his barrage of bludgeoning strikes, a knight stepped in. The other boy was torn off of him, and a hand was offered, one that was only stared at in confusion before the man turned to leave, the aggressor's body dragged behind for all to see.

When he was well enough to stand, Oli sought out his savior with a fixation that could only be described as obsession. It was not that he had been saved, though there was a glimmer of thankfulness in his mind as he thought upon it, but it was that there existed a force that others allowed to do so as they pleased, to inflict harm without repercussion, to kill without reprimand. Though it took time, for the knight who had saved him was not a name well known, Oli watched him, followed him, and slowly he developed a desire to become him. It was with this fixation in mind that he began to train himself as he saw the knight do, but a sword was far too much a weapon for him, so he wrapped his fists and trained in spirit. To him, the more he learned of the knights and their squires, a dream forgotten by his parents who doted upon their new would-be knight, the more he wanted to become one. His heart had long since been bent under shame, yet driven by the craving desire he had grown into; and he knew that on his own, he had little chance to overcome his nature. His parents had slowed their education, and alone he understood he would do nothing but spiral into his addictions until they destroyed him, as the boy in the alley had almost brought to actualization.

As his training continued in what he thought to be the privacy of his own devices, his parents asked what it was he was doing. When he told them of his plans, rather than met with more shaming guilt, they raised him up, words of praise and encouragement. They split their attentions between their two children; their desires pressing for Oli to become a squire as soon as he was able. So his regimen increased, and Ashtad bought him true weapons to practice with in the fighting pit of the city's unranked combatants. His first failure to squire under the knight was marked with a single line carved into his leg, a moment in his history that he would never forget. The second denial followed suit, situated beside the first. Having never had a purpose with an outcome so desired, Oli's failure hung heavy about him, and he sought, for the first time, a comfort in tandem with pain. Love was a word heard, but not understood, and though he did not have coin to pay, he was young and handsome enough that, after a few passes at those who seemed willing, he found a first kiss and several more. It was an exhilarating experience, one made all the sweeter with a tight grip upon his neck and the nick of his lips against a sharp clench of teeth. Where he had found pleasure in pain, Oli had never stopped to consider that pain in pleasure might be equally, if not more so, appealing. Though the encounter was one that passed between them a single time without further instance, it was remembered as a think scar on left of his lower lip.


Reinvigorated, when a third time passed, Oli refused a denial, begging that the knight, at the very least, join him and his family for a meal. Whether it was his parents' schmoozing tones or the oppressive atmosphere of the silence between, within the next few days, the knight informed him that he was to gather his things and move to the squire's dormitories. Their son started upon the path they had always desired, his parents lavished their affections upon him, his long lost name resurfacing with a sickly sweet tone as their precious "Olive" headed off to become a knight. It was here Jelle proved a pivotal point once more, with his brother gone and parents without an outlet for their frustrations they had vented for so long, the child became their new project, their minds at a loss for as to why they punished him, only knowing that it was necessary and right and good. Away from his childhood home, Oli was allowed time enough to sleep and eat, his time consumed by drills both physical and mental, and he took to them like a flame to oil. There was pleasure to be found in the bruises and battering strikes of those he trained with, even in the exhaustion of long nights lit by dying candles. He applied himself to what he did wholly, for a time, he thought himself purged of his iniquities, his desires occupied with what was before him rather than within. This, however, did no last, as he was taken along on a scouting mission that ended with bloodied fists and a cart of corpses. Though the bandits they slayed were considered wrongdoers and therefore deserving of their lives stolen, Oli found it mattered little to him, only that he be the one to tear their cries from their sheltered skins and watch as their lives ebbed away.

Despair clawed at his mind as it turned back towards its old ways. His fist flew faster and heavier against those he trained with until he developed a whispered reputation as one who struck to hard and concerned himself with the well-being of others too little. Though religion had always been a part of his life in the exemplars of his mother and father, Oli had never stopped to consider that a god might consider him, dark and twisted as he was without the true will to change, as anything more than a liability. In his fugue, he wandered into the temple, where he stopped to listen to a soft song that detailed a pair as one, a single entity split into two who stooped down to gather up the broken and set them upon a different path. Though their name was gained, Oli never once stopped to pray to them, instead, he carved a symbol to his chest to remember what they stood for, and that should he find true hopelessness, they might come as his last and final resort.

On his twentieth birthday, he was visited by his parents who informed him that his brother had passed away. The loss was something hollow, and it grew even more barren as he was led into his old room to find the body battered and bloody upon the ground, eyes glassy and pale cheeks still stained with tears. He took the corpse out of the city, hidden among a cart of supplies to be taken to his patron's home. A detour was taken, and he buried the body under a familiar grove within the Bronze Woods, arriving late to his patron's home, dirtied and silent. While questions were asked, they were not prodding, and Oli continued his training as before. An incident with a thief led to another carving of his own skin, the words "free" etched into his side as the boy who had thought to steal from him faded from the world, his deed made known and no quarrel given by the few who knew.

Though he was not the most popular of squires, there were some who still found him an alluring specimen, specifically a young man by the name of Lov. It was an odd romance Oli found himself in, one in the wake of his brother's death that lingered on his conscious, as if his actions and inactions alike had brought the even to fruition - there was guilt only in that he had not been the one to take the child's life, something that he knew to be wrong, but still could not quite shake. Then, there too was the ever present need to let his own blood flow, to let the stresses of his mind drip away, to revel in the sear and burn, the rending tear, the stinging end of a sharp blade. With Love, his mind was allowed peace of a kind. It was a warped sort a creature, one that reveled in the rough manner of the other man's touch and the humility of actions on either side; shame was not quite the word for their intimacy, but it was not something that Oli shared with others. He kept to himself, as Love did, and slowly their flame began to burn brighter and brighter until pain and pleasure blurred. It wasn't until he felt the cold, hard stone of the floor against his head that he realized that the copper of on his tongue was that of Love's bood. The night ended with the light of fear and anger heavy in the other man's eyes before he saw Oli to the door.

With the respite of Love lost for the time being and his own mind frayed by the push and pull of righteousness and desire, Oli still clings to the knighthood. It is his only perceived hope for redemption of any kind, though there is a part of him that knows full well with every opportunity for growth there is also the possibility of decay.

Timeline:
Spring 4 494 AV - Born to whore mother and hunter father
Summer 17 497 AV - Mother passes in an unsuccessful birth, sister dies as well, Oli watches
Summer 19 497 AV - Father takes him away to live with him in the woods as a trapper/hunter
Fall 53 499 AV - First hunting trip
Fall 54 499 AV - "Experimentation" begins
Winter 62 501 AV - Father falls into one of his own traps, dies, Oli watches/helps
Winter 65 501 AV - Trappers come to relieve his father, find Oli alone, bring him back to Syliras orphanage
Spring 43 501 AV - Adopted by new father and mother (knight family?)
Fall 72 501 AV - Begins "education" on righteousness
Spring 17 503 AV - Whipped close to death, slowly recovers==
Fall 84 503 AV - Whipped close to a death, slowly recovers
Summer 31 504 AV - "Experimentation" on self begins
Winter 59 505 AV - Adoptive parents have a child of their own
Spring 4 507 AV - "Experiments" on the baby, whipped close to death, slowly recovers
Summer 12 508 AV - "Experimentation" on others begins (commonly fights and brawls)
Spring 4 509 AV - Beaten nearly to death, saved by a knight
Spring 26 509 AV - Begins to follow his "knight in shining armor"
Fall 42 509 AV - Begins self-imposed training to become a squire
Winter 2 509 - Parents encourage training and express desire for Oli to become a knight
Winter 18 AV - First attempt to squire to knight, carves line into leg
Spring 4 510 AV - Second attempt to squire to knight, carves line into leg
Summer 70 510 AV - First sexual encounter, "experimentation" begins in a sexual context
Winter 81 510 AV - Third attempt to squire to knight, invites to home for dinner, carves line into leg
Winter 83 510 AV - Squired to knight, moves out of parent's home and into (dormitories? Knight's home?)
Spring 4 511 AV - Begins official training, "experimentation" in sparring begins
Summer 72 512 AV - Kills first sentient being
Fall 32 513 AV - Visits the All-Gods and learns of Kelwyn, carves his chest to commemorate
Spring 4 514 AV - Parent's child dies, Oli takes the body to bury at their request
Summer 72 514 AV - Has his heirloom stolen
Fall 46 514 AV - Finds the thief, tortures and kills, carves "free" into his side
Spring 44 515 AV - Meets "love interest"
Fall 82 515 AV - Injures "love interest" and relationship is tenuous



Housing:
The Squire's Dormitories in Syliras, Sylira


Skills:

PictureSkillExperienceTotalRank
#Weapon: Cestus15 RB 10 SP25Novice
#Acrobatics25 SP25Novice
#Torture15 SP15Novice



Lores:

Medicine: Preventing Infection with Clean Bandages and Balms
Kelwyn: Gods of Lost Causes



Possessions:

  • Simple Shirt
  • Simple Pants
  • Simple Undergarments
  • Simple Cloak
  • Simple Boots
  • 1 Waterskin
  • 1 Backpack which contains:
  • Comb (Wood)
  • Brush (Wood)
  • Soap
  • Razor
  • Balanced Rations (1 Week’s Worth)
  • 1 eating knife
  • Flint & Steel
  • Cestus

Heirloom: A simple iron ring



Ledger:

NameCreditDebitTotal
Starting Package100gm#100gm
Cestus#8gm92gm



Threads:

DateName
Day, Season, Year#
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Last edited by Oli Guillory on January 13th, 2016, 4:00 am, edited 9 times in total.
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Oli Guillory
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Posts: 17
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Joined roleplay: January 5th, 2016, 6:20 am
Location: Syliras
Race: Human
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