Difference between revisions of "AmtWiki:Nim"

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Elevated to Baroness title June 19, 2021<br>
 
Elevated to Baroness title June 19, 2021<br>
 
Kingdom Regent June 2021 for Reign 67<br>
 
Kingdom Regent June 2021 for Reign 67<br>
Nominated for Flurb of the Year a second time.  Took 2nd place the first time around.
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Winner, 2020 [[Flurb of the Year]]
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===Additional Images===
 
===Additional Images===

Revision as of 07:46, 1 September 2021

Heraldry



Baroness Lady Squire Nim'Riel Nim'gwue Saeava'in ~~ Squired to Queen Mother Sir Reyna Arafel~~ of Redstorm, Kingdom of the Emerald Hills

”She is fire She called all the ethereal echos of the lost FreeHill warriors into her being. Warriors of Bows. Swords, words and song rushed joyous into her creation. Born of sorrow, loss, and memory, she is the power of Elves past. ~~ Thus spake the Queen Mother Sir Reyna Arafel”

===Biography===|The Elf

Detailed backstory. Character summarization below the backstory.


Her Beginning Backstory:

The Fall

The sword piercing her body instantly set her soul on fire. Dying by the hands of her own was never expected. It had to be this way if they were to be rid of her. Her power had grown too much. She could fend them off with a wave of her hand if she so chose to do. They feared that. Her neck was noosed from behind, and her hands were bound behind as well. It was her heart the King played when they created the distraction that drove her here. If only she had heeded her own warnings. The visions came to her frequently. But, one never likes to face their own prophecies. The bond between her and the ancient line of the Druids was strong. Everyone knew it. No one dared to stop her. Until now.

Her location had to be chosen where no one could see her and that limited the tools she required. When she laid the stones for the circle that night she had run out of them in a miscalculation due to her haste. The blessed hazel staff she carried would have to suffice. The oaks stood tall about her, so yes, it would do. She finished the circle with what she had in the crane bag slung to her side. Cloves, garlic intended for Samhain celebrations, feathers, all too precious salt, mistletoe, and the sacred agrimony for invisibility. Damn it, the agrimony was a small amount. She placed all of it in hopes it would be enough. S’ilvana’in would understand.

She prepared her circle. In focused command she called the elements before her. Nwyfre, Gwyr, and Calas. They responded. Clouds in the distance faded to reveal the full moon which illuminated her work below. A rush of adrenaline hit her like a wave. The power was building. She pulled a dagger from her pouch and applied a cut to the palm of her hand. Blood dripped to the center of the circle and the land received it in absorbing thirst. She raised a blood tinted finger to her cheek and in ogham runes branded sigils of death, life, and and open gate. To the north of the circle, as if pushed from a force below, a standing stone grew to the height of her. The third and final element had joined her. Her incantation needed to be quick. And, it needed to be complete.

She raised her eyes to the moon and outstretched her hands toward the grove. Blood and staff in hand, she channeled her focus. All the way back to the beginning of the elven creation. All the way back to the footsteps of the gods. All the way to the very creation of the earth itself. She called.

Gwaed i ddu. Cnawd i las. Asgwrn i falu. Yr afon i gymryd.

Carreg oddi tanaf. Nefoedd uwch fy mhen. Mae gwaed fy hynafiaid o dan fy nhraed. Rwy'n galw. Rwy'n cerdded fel un o'r dechrau.

Rhoddaf gyfiawnder ichi Derw, fe'ch dial yn rhydd. Rwy'n cofleidio'ch dicter.

Ar garreg byddaf yn sefyll. Yn y gofod rhwng byddaf yn gwylio. Mewn gwaed, byddaf yn rhwym i'r byw. Yn angau yr wyf yn aros.

((Translation: Blood to black. Flesh to blue. Bone to grind. The river to take.

A stone beneath me. Heaven above me. The blood of my ancestors is beneath my feet. I'm calling. I walk like one from the beginning.

I will give you justice Oak, you will take revenge freely. I embrace your anger.

On a stone I will stand. In the space between I will watch. In blood, I will be bound to the living. In death I am waiting))


It was done.

She felt the bile rise in her throat. A metallic taste tinged with the iron of blood spilled out of her lips as she looked her tormentors in the eyes. She did not release her gaze as was expected.

“Demon!!” the tall one grunted as he put the blade into the center of her diaphragm. She coughed as the fluid was trapped in her throat, yet she did not give way. She smiled.

“Witch!!” he spat.

The sword was thrust deeper and the internal grazing of bone rung throughout her mind’s consciousness, or what was left of it. Not long now, she knew. The rope was pulled tighter and she could feel her body begin to shiver as warmth dwindled and the chill spread through her veins. Darkness began to spread over the canopy of the trees so that the light of the moon was eclipsed by the density of the clouds. Small patters of rain pelted the ground in rhythmic incantation summoning a flood. The other two culprits, slowed in their attempts to watch the sky. Beneath the standing stone, a tremor moved. Cracks formed at the base loosening piece by piece of the outer layer thus weakening the structural integrity.

The assassins looked to each other in knowing. The bearer of the sword dropped his hand from the hilt, while slowly backing away. The blade held steady in her. His eyes widened in horror, for she still remained on her knees with fixed expression upon him. It was almost that of joy. His fingers twitched, turning to tremor the longer she looked at him. “Run!” he shouted With all celerity, the attack was abandoned. In the confusion of the increasing rain, the items of the attack were dropped, which freed her hands enough for her to grip the sword in front of her. She watched as the three men fled on the horses they left in the distance. She marked the sight of them with her fading stare and only released them when the standing stone began to crumble. Her last acts of life were complete as she raised her voice in a call to the gods. And with her dwindling breath, she pushed the sword all the way through.

Nim’riel was no more.


The Rising

The horse hooves beat the ground alternating in staggered thrusts intended to widen the distance between the war band and their aggressors. Beads of sweat pilled on the cheeks of the warriors trying to survive the surges between fright and flight. It had been days since they had water or food enough to replenish their dwindling energy. Another day may be too late.

The corner ahead offered a last chance to lose the mercenaries set upon the party. An elf, clad in black sped frontwards of the band and motioned in silent communication for the others to accompany. Only 7 left this time. The horses instinctively followed. With one last burst, the mounts pushed through their fatigue with all determination to take their riders to safety. Anything left in reserve was now actively spent in staying alive.

Hidden among the groves of the forest, a small dell appeared. The sight of it was unusual, but welcomed, and it brought a sense of dread knowing what would likely ensue. Coming to a slow landing in the area, a human fighter within the group trotted forward from behind the pack. He dislodged his aching limbs from his horse and guided it toward the edge of the makeshift camp where the side of a tree boasted patches of green. It would be a small treat for his companion, but it was a reward nonetheless. He looked back toward the remaining crew bustling around. The area would do well enough for now.

When the beast was settled, he turned to catch the attention of the elf in black. He motioned that he would go to locate water and perhaps bring back a bundle or two for throwing on the fire. If he was lucky, there might be dinner too. He left the steed comfortably grazing and turned his sights toward an area in the distance that looked to be a source of water. It was unclear if the quality would suffice. It may not matter. Despair leads to illogical decisions. The closer he came, the more disheartening the weight settled upon him. He plodded further into the area, noticing that even with the trees thinning, a darkness settled upon the mire appearing before him. He looked to the sky, but no thickening of the already overcast expanse occurred.

On the edge of his hearing, the sound of metal hammering came from the distance, but it was no ordinary smithing sound or common din of reparation to a broken cart. It was the clash of swords with the concomitant tussling grunts and groans of men in battle. The enemy had found them. It was too soon. They were not ready. Sheer reflex overtook him. He made a sudden turn to aid his fellow warriors. Reaching for his sword, he was horrified to find nothing there. A thousand images of the violent collision his company was enduring rushed to the forefront of his mind sending him into a panicked confusion.

He looked to the distance of the camp, and then back behind him where the bog lay. His best chance to survive and think was to hide. But where? Knowing the likelihood he might die either way, he took the choice with the greatest uncertainty. His feet were clumsy. In his haste he tripped over himself while he intensely fought his weak form desperately forcing him toward the repelling stench. His feet hit the thickened, wet muddy ground too soft to support a heavy body and he sank rapidly, giving him alarm. He grabbed at the edge of the bog and was fortunate to grasp a patch of thick grass which bore thinly serrated leaves just enough to slice him in a multitude of places. Blood trickled from his hand down into the quagmire now entrenching him weakening his clutch. His foot hit something solid which provided him a temporary foothold, upholding him so he could gather his thoughts. A few yards away voices grew and orders were given to surround the area for search. The battle continued in the distance. How many were left now? His stomach lurched. There was no way out.

Three rangers came into view and he recognized them as those that had been chasing them throughout the kingdom. Their backs were turned as was his fortune. How long it would last, he did not know or have time to weigh. He looked for any item that could become a weapon, and found only a few insignificant items. They were out of reach.

The foothold suddenly gave way and he began to sink deeper. He had no way of knowing if the rangers witnessed what happened; he would only know if their arrows struck him. Whatever his sudden descent had done to dislodge the support beneath him, now caused it to rise slowly. He could feel the rigid weight graze his calf and thigh as it climbed from the depth. Not an altogether pleasant feeling. He fought the mud in his ears and nose until he was on the brink of choking. So this is how it was going to end.

Reaching out to swipe away the object now nearing his waist, he only found entnglement in a wave of fabric. He struggled to free his hand by giving a push, but the object was relentless. He frantically thrashed about below the surface, when without any indication of reason, a piece of metal came into contact with his touch. He quickly determined that whatever it was, he now had hope of something tangible to assist him in sparing his life. He grabbed hold of the length of it and firmly pulled. The item released what held it almost as if it was given to him. He began to kick his legs to resurface and as he did so, he let out the last of his breath in a gasp.

The rangers standing nearby, turned at the noise. In a feckless maneuver, the warrior worked to wipe his eyes and cleared out his nose with his free hand simultaneously stabbing the ground in front of him to pull him out of the muddy entrapment. Where his strength came from he did not know, but an outpouring or renewed resolve coursed through his veins. He found himself in a heated exchange with the rangers that were too close to escape his skillful thrusts and lashes. Confusion surrounded them and the warrior took advantage of their surprise. They scrambled for melee tools about their belts, but came up short of time which sent them deeper into trepidation ultimately creating miscalculations in strategy. The warrior had them right where he needed them.

Deeply into the fight, the swordsman failed to notice the looks of fright corroding the valor of the infantrymen. They were stricken cold where they stood. Any resistance he had met with evaporated against his attempts to kill. His weapon easily dispatched one to his right, dropping the aggressor to his knees in death. Yet, the others did not notice. Their attention was no longer on him. He wanted to turn, but knew it could be a trap so he kept forward against the embroilment. He planted his attack leg and prepared for another thrust when in an instant, the opponents began to flee. A speed that was almost inhuman carried them away from him and it was clearly fear that was driving them. As they ran, they began to shout in the direction they were running. “Nim`gwue!!!......Nim`gwue!!!!!!!!!!”

All evidence of distant clamor ceased and the echoing sounds of horses racing quickly faded into the distance, returning to the path from which they came.

The human stood there in a stupored dream-like state, gathering his wits about him. The silence between his clogged ears and the visible absence of any movement in the nature around him struck him heavily in the chest. He fell backwards to the ground with the sword dangling, then ultimately dropping out of his hands. It bounced toward the bog and he found himself scrambling toward it in a fit of desperation. Any loss of a weapon at this point could have meant a tragic end for him.

As he scurried to capture it, he looked forward to where it would go if he were disadvantaged in his attempts to succeed. Calculating his risk, he crawled back toward the edge of the bog where there before him a gray palored hand floated in the congealed water. Across the palm a ochered stain Further up the length of where the arm should be, an ear of odd proportion revealed itself. It was thin. Elongated. Much like that of a precisely cropped bit of flesh so that the pinnacle completed in an elegant tip. The more his eyes coarsed the figure, the more the body rose, lifted in heaving agitations growing from under the cadaver to reveal the visage of a woman….no wait!….an elven likeness….preserved in a manner of torpored status, Yet there was no life.

Shaken and plagued with fatigue, resignation, and hallucinatory hunger the man rushed to waters edge. He knelt on the embankment with knees braced against a divet in the ground to prevent slipping in again. He stretched fully outward and swiped at the body undulating with the air pockets rising slowly underneath. Covered in mud, the sweat carried droplets of dirt toward his eyes, and the taste was foul. Countless grabs at the hand failed to make contact with the once delicate fingers. His eagerness growing and his strength waning caused him to grab the sword in a final attempt. He reached out and thrust the tip into the body, catching on the rib bones still so strangely solid. The sword lodged deeply and did not release. Using the leverage given to him by this act, he slowly and delicately reeled the corpse in his direction until it met with the more solid ground. Letting go of the sword he pushed and pulled until the head was below him. He reached toward the neckline and slid his hands to where the shoulders would be, and there he found a solid grip just under the arms. Stiff, firm, and more in keeping with a life-size doll he hoisted it onto the dry leaves that had blown in from trees not too distant.

He wiped her face with pulled grass and fell back. What was revealed could not be. It was if this woman were simply sleeping. Many mummified beings had been found in bogs such as this due to the high peet content, but never like this. She was beautiful. She was well kept. She was a lady.

Shouts in the distance grew within range and five others came upon him; a muddy mass cradling a helpless victim. They rushed to provide him aid, but when they reached him began to back away in careless steps. Fir’Mus, the elf in black, marched up from behind and split the onlookers to fully arrive. He put his hand on the warrior’s shoulder to pull him back. The man looked up to see the commander standing behind him, but the leader was not looking at his subordinate. His eyes were locked on the face of the remains of the woman.

“Nimriel,” he whispered. “Nim’gwue.” He spat on the ground. This was one of the greatest warriors in the realms of elves and men and was a strong ally against the cancerous uprising of the King, whom these fighters rallied against. His hands visibly shook. “Gods be with us.”


The Awakening

It was a shock to see the commander shaken. He was unable to move. The effort to release his gaze upon the female lying in front of him failed and he was left with a sense of defeat. His expression was mixed. A carousel of reactions cycled over his face. First was horror, then sorrow, and as his men looked to him for counsel, they witnessed a sort of confused awe which made him more human than elf. Seeing him frozen, the others standing with him started to approach the man still on his knees so they could assist him. Fir’Mus quickly turned his head to look over his shoulder and barked an order:

“Keep your distance!”

Feet planted where they landed and no one moved. Completely agog, the human raised his eyes toward the elf and made no movement to release his hold. She was so cold.

“Merddyn, for the sake of all of us, let her go.”

Gripping the form tighter he drew her to his chest while gazing into her rigored face. “I will not.”

The elven fighter breathed deeply and released the breath slowly. This required delicate dealings; something he had not employed in a very long time.

“I am not one to repeat my orders, and I do not plan to begin now. Let go and rise. Or...face the consequences”

In the distance, thunder rolled across the sky and echoed off of the outlying hills jutting from the ground. Spitting moisture could be felt filling the air which cooled the cheeks of the man between small breezes beginning to rise. Those standing and watching the scene, sheltered their eyes in expectations of an impending storm.

“I will give you one last chance, Merddyn. And, then I will have no choice.”

“Can’t you see it?”, the warrior said hoarsely. “Do you not recognize? She saved my life.”

Celyn, one of the others in the party, spoke with disbelief. “Saved your life! For the Gods, man put it down before the others come back and take us all. Ivor is fighting for his life back at camp. We have to go!”

This sword,” Myrdden reached down beside him and lifted it for all to see, “was given to me. It came to me when I needed it most. I owe it to her.” And his voice trailed off as he looked down toward her smudged and oddly sleeping face again. “This. What’s been done. Requires justice. I cannot leave her here.”

“Celyn, go back to camp and keep watch over the road. I will return,” ordered Fir’mus.

“But, Captain, I…”

“GO!”

Fir’mus lowered his head. His jaw began to tense and the pulsing grit of his teeth alerted the others that this was no time to intervene. They began to slowly back away, for regardless of what was about to happen, they would be wise to remain neutral unless called to sword. Celyn grabbed the shoulders of the others and pulled them toward the return path that would take them back to the injured soldier. They began walking and after a few feet of retreat, ran.

The elf in black slowly rose his hand to his weapon and emptied his mind for what he had to do. In slow motion, he lifted the hilt silently from its scabbard. The blade emerged as black as the armor he bore. As the man was still immersed in cushioning the woman, he would not realize his death.


Justice! There she lay. All the darkness of inertia covering like a blanket upon her soul pressing her below the roots of the trees. Below the crust of the earth. Before the blight of her people. Down to the beginning. A small light appeared. Like a pin prick of flame rising over the horizon it moved. It stirred something within the black depths of endless sleep. The light grew nearer and with it came voices. Yes, those were voices, but were they with the light or were they the light itself? The light was inviting. But, wait. This pull. A distant echo tore at her senses. Beckoning. Demanding. “There will be Justice!”

Like shattered glass the invitation turned to urgency and the flame gripped her with an uncompassionate force thrusting her rapidly toward the tunneled sound of angry voices. The sound of Elvin kin in provoked displeasure. There was a call for justice. It was there reverberating through resonant waves piercing and rousing her soul into fury, shaking her into confusion as her eyes tore open before consciousness hit.

“There will be Justice!” Cried Fir’mus. The sword drew upwards and came down. Myrdden raised his face to the blade and froze. The sword was halted inches above a perfect cleave. It never landed its mark.

Myrdden fell backward in horror. “What in the 9 hells are you doing, man!”

A Stunning silence was all that met him. The dark elf’s attention was drawn to something more pressing. A cloud of ashen pallor crept over his face and darkened his expression. Nothing about him moved save the silver of his hair in the rising breeze.

Her eyes dark and deep fixed upon him. A Medusa’s gaze cut through severing his ability resist captivation, and he was rendered helpless. Myrdden searched Fir’mus for desperate understanding and realized that he was no longer a target for the elf’s judgement. He followed the line of sight and traced it downward to the woman’s face. In shock he released his hold on her and attempted to back away but was caught under the weight of the muddied clothing still so strangely intact. Fir’mus dropped his sword and fell to his knees. He slumped over in violent wretching and fought to keep his senses. It was of no use.

Gasping erupted from Myrrden’s arms and the elven woman choked as her lungs struggled to remember their purpose. Mud and moisture spewed from her mouth and nostrils, trailing down her cheeks, streaking through the dirt. The warrior pulled himself together and began to try to help her clear her ability to breathe. Her hand swiftly raised and grabbed his wrist as much to warn him to stop as it was to leverage her body in an attempt to rise. He comprehended what she was doing, and worked at lifting her up while he supported her with his other arm. She was strong. How could it be?

Her feet found the ground and she pulled herself to a standing position. And she stood. Above them the sun dimmed and droplets gained mass as they slowly began to fall to the ground. Fir’mus looked up and found her focused on him. He shivered. She searched to find her voice. It was taken from her so long ago and she had nothing but memories of what words sounded like. These beings before her spoke a language far removed from what she knew.

Defiantly, despite the spittle falling from his lips, Fir’mus vitriolically spoke using native elven tongue and the sound of him pierced her soul.

He rose to standing opposition, although weak. “You are the ancient come to take us all to the underworld as the legends tell us. The men may fear you, but, I will not yield.” It was the tongue of the elven line back to the beginning. The wind increased until the canopy of trees began to bend in the direction of the sudden gusts. She spoke slowly, remembering with clarity as if something snapped her to. “I am nothing more than what justice demands.” Her lucidity was ironic. “Your bloodline is all that will save you. But if you have weakened and have become more human than our kin, then I will not stand in the way of your consequences.”

Myrdden quietly laid his hand on the sword beside him. He calculated his movements to keep his rising silent. He was unsure of what was unfolding before him, but he knew that at any moment chaos would break into the scene and he wanted to be prepared. She had a hold on him. Something linked them on this plain despite the time passed between their respective inception. He could do no more to her than what she willed him to do and for now, he was still.

Fir’mus laughed mockingly, “My consequences are not in your control, witch. And, your kin has long left you. Go back to the demons that possess you or I will take you there myself.”

Myrrden, feeling a panic rise within him, involuntarily called out “What is your name?” The woman turned in quick confusion toward him. She searched his face for understanding of his dialect. As she spun away from Fir’mus, he took the opportunity to grab his sword from the ground and charge in her direction. She heard the sound of footsteps rapidly growing upon her. Instantly, a rush of power forged its way through her veins releasing an energy that surrounded her. The dark form of the charging commander continued in her direction. As he closed the distance between them, she prepared to meet his attack and a flash of light thrust from the sky above her and struck him where he stood. His feet ceased to move. All that was left in the expression in his attack was a look of disbelief which overtook him. He dropped his weapon and fell to the earth, lifeless.

The impact of the bolt jarred Myrrded from his hypnotic state. He backed away from her in a stupor, and clumsily tripped, losing the sword he held in the process while simultaneously reaching out in begging surrender.. She turned, and for the first time since awakening stopped to observe the simpering form before her. The pleading for mercy caught her off guard in such a manner that all the rage and anguish formed in her breast took her down to her knees. She struggled to pull the material from her dress away from her entangled legs, but the weakness was too much. She could not move. Forward she fell on one hand and she looked to the man beginning to rise. He moved in faltered grasps for the sword while speaking in tones of pleading. She could not understand him. “What is your name!” He repeated.

The rain fell in heavy droplets. She felt laughter rise in her throat, but not for the reasons of joy. It was in mocking she chortled. She would enter this time and this place the same way she went out. Drenched by the sky element. Myrrden took the opportunity to regain his sensibility. He grabbed the sword pointing it at her. He looked to the pouring and determined that if either of them would live, they needed to leave quickly. He lowered the weapon and returning his gaze to her, attempted to reach out a hand for her to take.

Then, Suddenly, she was gone. A raven rose rapidly in ascending flight into the downpour leaving him breathless and confused leaning against a tree for support. He looked all around, but as the muck and mire from the struggles trailed into his eyes, he had no choice but to lose sight of where the bird went. Staying conscious was arduous. Seeing the commander’s body laying in the short distance created a sense of the surreal. Did this really happen?

The wind died down and the flash storm waned into a steady trickle. There would be no commander now for the rebels that were back at camp. He pushed himself off the tree onto weakened legs. One foot in front of the other he moved toward the path of the camp. He would have to tell others about what happened and pray to the gods that they believed it.

Nim’riel as Character

Previous Homeland: Il’yfalian

Dilemma: Man came to wipe out the forests and elven gatherings to take the land so they could build their own kingdoms. The Kingdom Empire is called H'eil. They enslaved the elves that did not resist and murdered the women and children of those who did. They began breeding with the elves to gain their magics in human form and produced all manner of half-elf bloodlines (which backfired and eventually reduced the fey portion throughout the ages).

Their strategies: To create greater force, sent dragon hunters out to trap dragons. They created a Dragoncult to produce more eggs for the corrupted dragonspawn. Enslaved them to do their bidding. Used them to wipe out large swaths of lands/villages and took the spoils for themselves. Assimilation.

Her response: She organized a rebellion full of elven warriors called the Feannag Elves as well as shamans and human sympathizers from outlying lands of Myllalon, Fnelon, and A’nhona. She used the smithing skills of the outliers to rise up against the human kingdoms and burned them to the ground. She was very successful until betrayed by the very ones who sympathized with her. H'eil offered the humans lands and immortality through the works of sorcerers of the dark and sinister Dragoncult whose only goal was to taint the dragons of old and to weaponize them.

Whose hand took her life? H'eil's own Imperial Dragon-cultist assassins.


Her skills: She had studied under the Druids at the time to learn life magics and elevated to the use of blood magic. She lived among the trees and became one with the nature elements important to the Druids: sky, stone, and water. She spent much time caring for the Oaken trees in the Elven Gathering groves. The Oaks, Hazels, and Yews were sacred to her.

Who did her land fall to?: H'eil Empire


How she came back: Use of blood magic and calling upon the Oak spirits to allow her to avenge their destruction.

Where did she awaken?: Celtic Lands Skills after awakening: shapeshift, blood magic, element control, transformative vengeance

Her Weapon: Bow/Arrow

Her purpose: To eliminate the bloodline of those that destroyed her people and restore the elven nations. To destroy the dark dragon cult.

Her Symbols: The Raven, The Snake, The Boar

Her Patrons: She follows the High Ones of the Beginning but recognizes Moccus (Celtic boar God), who was the diety that met her upon her death and escorted her to the plain of waiting while her soul sought to be awakened. The legends tell that the High Ones came to Earth Plains as creatures of the Forest to remain with their Elven children after the great split. She believes Moccus is one of the High Ones.

Affiliated Groups

Ironstars
Gray Wardens
Clan Household The Horde ~~Title: Guardian~~ Rank ~ Second to Chieftan
Eldsee Court - High Seat Duath O Fain Draug - Household dedicated to the History of the Queen Mother Feannag Elves Warriors - High Command

Belted Family

Queen Mother Sir Reyna Arafel
Squire: Nim'Riel Saeavain
Man at Arms: Doomcaber Yawp Maukavus
Page: Golem the Druid

Notable Accomplishments

Page to Bronic Bladesinger
Squired to Queen Mother Reyna Arafel
Awarded Lady Title by Immortan Kal Thrax
Regent of Redstorm 2019
Baroness of Redstorm June 2020 until June 2021
Took Best in Show Illumination Piece - first piece created
Ambassador to Eldari Court 2019
Created/Authored and Signed the Historic Elven Treaty with Immortan Kal Thrax of Emerald Hills
Awarded up to 5th Mask for exceptional RolePlay of which she is proud to have earned
Completed many Commissions for scrollworks
Second Place in first Dragon Master entered 2021
Elevated to Baroness title June 19, 2021
Kingdom Regent June 2021 for Reign 67
Winner, 2020 Flurb of the Year


Additional Images

  • Link to image 1
  • Link to image 2

More Information

  • Orkicon2.gif
  • Personal Website
  • Company Website