Althea should be dead three times over. Kidnapped while traveling with her family’s trade caravan, she was taken to the ruins of a long-deserted laboratory where a wizard with extremely set in a never-ending smile that left her wondering what he was thinking. He never spoke a word to her, instead she spent her days trapped inside a spell being tormented by spell after spell, her screams of terror slowly turning into those of quite whimpering, wishing that every spell cast was the one that finally ended her. That end never came, and slowly Althea started to understand what was happening to her.

It started with the other people that were brought in after her. They were all close enough together that they were able to discuss things quietly amongst themselves when the wizard went to bed at night, or whatever he did when the morning came. An older man, a priest, seemed to know more about what was happening than either Althea or the other man did. “A phylactery,” was all the priest would say on the subject. “He’s trying to make a phylactery.” Althea wasn’t sure what a phylactery was, but it didn’t sound very nice. It apparently involved torturing all three of them at various times of the night, and the only thing that was keeping her going was the old priests’ prayers to Eldath when the sun came up. The other man didn’t last as long before going crazy, yelling loudly into the morning and never seeming to go to sleep.

One day, the man stopped yelling suddenly, and when Althea turned to look the wizard had stabbed him through the heart and watched him as he bleed out. Or started to, the old wizard turned to Althea and the priest and started moving to them. Then the growling began, and to Althea’s horror the man stood up, transforming from a man into a wolf. It leaped onto the Wizard, tearing into his shoulder and shoving him to the ground. The old wizard’s face contorts from the ever-present smile to one of pain, and for the first time Althea heard the man scream. The wizard dropped to the ground, unmoving. Dead.

The wolf turned its head to Althea and the priest. Blood still dripping from its chest, it lunged at Althea. She threw up her arms to protect her face and screamed out when she felt its teeth sink into her arm. A quiet whimper, and the wolf fell, dead. Slowly, it shifted back from wolf to man, and the priest looks to Althea’s wound, clutching the dagger from the Wizard’s belt. Escaping the cell, the priest bandaged the wound as best as he could before taking the amulet from around his neck and pressing it into her hand. He promised to return with more help. He didn’t say why, but she knew he didn’t trust her to come with him.

The priest left and Althea sat there, clutching her bandaged arm and exploring the ruins of the lab. An old decrepit book sat on a worn work table, but Althea steered clear of it not liking the feeling that was coming from it. She eventually finds some stale bread and naws on it, trying settle the hunger in her stomach. It didn’t work, and eventually Althea comes across a single clean blanket in a trunk. Wrapping it around her shoulders, Althea curls up on the floor and falls asleep. When she woke up, it was dark out, and her stomach hurt. She was hungry, but the half loaf of bread still sitting on the counter she ate to settle her stomach didn’t help at all.

She wasn’t quite sure what happened next, all she remembered was pain. Pain that would drive anyone mad if they weren’t already. When she finally came to, she was in the woods somewhere, shivering from the cold night air and dripping with blood that wasn’t hers. The hunger was gone, the pain in her stomach faded. She didn’t know where she was and when she tried to stand up, she just collapsed again. Curling up on the ground, she fell asleep again.

When she woke up again, she was somewhere dark and damp. The only light in the whole place was a single candle that was sitting on a desk. Two people were standing at the foot of the bed she was sitting on. They didn’t say much a first, seeming to wait until she was fully awake before the interrogation began. They bombarded her with questions, some she could answer, some she couldn’t. Some that didn’t make any sense, but they took any answer she gave them. After what felt like hours they asked her one last question. “Do you want to control it?”

Control it? Of course she did, through any means necessary. Until she found a way to cure it, or find the priest who was probably looking for her because he found help. Control was important, and it was all she could ask for in that moment. They seemed proud of her acceptance, though they seemed a bit annoyed at her wanting to be cured.

After few days, Althea and the two other people travelled to a new camp. There she met with even more people, some of them looking around the group confused... WIP

X was born into a family with high political influence. He realized quite quickly that did not fit in quite well. He was the first and only member of the family to be born with fiendish blood. His infernal blood, besides the curved horns, does not show that much. It manifests in form of claw-shaped finger nails and a slight redish tone his skin.
He did his best to find the cause for his infernal heritage and discovered that his family made deals with devils to strenghten their influence. He seems to be the toll for those machinations. He disagreed with those ideals and cut ties with his family, joining the Tome Keeper guild, a faction with some political influence but goals beyond that

Backstory:

''Ay, I walk in here dripping and gold, and yet you think your pretty penny gaze is going to interest me?’’ He said gruffly, throwing his leg up onto the barrel across from them. A cocky grin had wormed its way across his face, yet under the aloof demeanor was a fire burning in his gaze. They stared back at him, noting the batteredness of his clothes, the wisp of smoke curling from the dangled cigarette in his mouth, the bloody dagger sitting in his belt. He had leaned closer while they were observing him, eyes lacking the beadiness most men had in this rowdy pub. Clasped on his propped up knee was bandaged hands, skillfully wrapped like a boxer. They didn’t know if it was for style, injuries, or rather a survival instinct. Instead, they suggested to themself that it was all three.

People tend to buy him a beer, awkwardly avoiding the topic of his past. He is rough in appearance and demeanor, yet he had the graceful movements of a lion. His mysterious eyes are the biggest puzzle for some to solve, not that he wants anyone solving them. This man's name is Wafku Dyandiver but most people call him Whiskers for the small beard he tends to grow which has lead to much teasing. Wafku's name stems from an original naming ritual with the name of, '' Waegmund Dynadriver.''. Exiled from the mountains of his people, stripped of his clan name, for a crime of dark nature magic, marred with a scar marking of the Malum, he is thrown into the inhumane world below. Forced into the black market trade and pressured into using his warlock magic, he begins to become twisted into the dark side of magic. Finding refuge in the Dark Seladine brotherhood, the mark of the Gemini is carved into his back. After an underground fight gone wrong, Wafku is cast out of the group set to die. Struggling with a drinking and smoking problem, he morphs into a hustler known to frequent alleys with a woman or man pinned against the wall. With this new fate laid out before him, he begins to roam from pub to pub making new one night lovers along the way. Consumed by anger, this usually expressionless man can erupt. When will Wafku face the pain his people gave him, if ever?

Appearance:

 He stands at a slightly taller height for a dwarf clocking in at 5'4. His build is all lean muscle, framed in by narrow shoulders with a feminine tilt of the hips. His hair is black with streaks of purple, short cropped to the ears and spiked. You can find him regularly chewing on seeds with dirt under his nails from the latest garden find. An amused half smirk seems to be permanent on his angular face as a scruffy small beard lines his chin. A small scar and mole lies below the pucker of full lips and a smatter of freckles marches its way across the wide nose area. Permanent eye bags are home underneath gorgeous violet slanted eyes (yes depression is his designer). His ears are pointed though his left one is cut at the tip, earrings lining themselves down the sides. Bush brows hang over his feline eyes, twin scars marring the left one. The zodiac symbol of a Gemini is carved into his back, taking up more then half the space near his shoulders. A diagonal scar slashes across his muscular torso, hidden mostly by the cover of a dark laced up leather breastplate. A dark purple tippet is his trademark. Wafku typically has his hands wrapped up like a boxers though it does not stop the blood seeping through it when he gets into fights though the blood isn't always his.. A dagger is always strapped to his thigh, along with the rest of his weapons concealed near a pack. He likes to wear a thick double serpent belt, the only wealthy mark on him, though it was stolen. His appearance is generally battered and his wears a roguish look from his days on the prowl.