Sarah Lindwell

Biographical information

Birthplace Alliria Born Died Age 27 Home Molthal Sexuality Pronouns

Physical description

Race Human Sub-Race Gender Female Height Mass Hair color Eye color Skin color

Political information

Affiliation(s) Occupation Mercenary, Wanderer, Cripple Clan(s) Caste Domain Masters Apprentices Alias(es)

Out-of-character information

Writer Created on Avatar George REDreeve

*The Image is of an elf, please ignore the pointy ears*

The third daughter of a minor Merchant Lord in the bright lit city of Alliria, Sarah Lindwell always craved the world beyond the walls. She had a natural aptitude towards physical sport that none but the son of her father's personal Knight could match. After years of prompting, begging, and illicit training, her father, Artur Lindwell, finally caved and allowed her to practice swordsmanship.

What was initially believed to be the flightful fancies of a young girl soon blossomed into a near obsession. An obsession that proved to make her less than desirable for many of the more prominent Merchant Lords of the city. Not to mention her inferior status as the third daughter.

She was eventually married to a Isiah Blirken, a minor noble who owned only an estate several leagues away from the city. He was an aged man already in his mid-sixties when Sarah met him. Only a year into their marriage he suffered from an errant heart attack that claimed his life.

It was at this time that Sarah would build the Bloody Thorn Company. Using the mercantile acumen that she had gained from her upbringing the newly widowed woman slowly built her forces. She continued to make a name for herself and her mercenaries over the next few years until her 23rd winter. When she received a letter from a commander stationed at Lor Holdram.

What was supposed to only be a six month contract turned into a hellscape when the orcs of Molthal attacked. It was Gerra's very own first cohort that bore down on Sarah and her men. She fought valiantly until a pike took her in her left side and a horse's hoof smashed into her helmet. She was quickly buried in the bleeding corpses of her own men. Unconscious, she could not even scream when the flames came.

And the flames did come. They seeped between the corpses, catching on the linen and wool of the soldiers' gambesons and chausses. And when the flames hit the breaking point they turned their hungry gaze on the corpses themselves.

Whether this was luck or the gift of some twisted god, she could not say. But one of those blighted orcs pulled her half-baked body from the burning dregs. This one act saved her life, though it doomed her to a crippled life.

Her left knee could no longer bend properly and her right arm was useless. The flesh having melted into one mass from the flames. But despite this the orcs still took her, and many others, to Molthal.

It was there that her scarring saved her for no orc would deign to look upon her for more than a second. So, with the other men and dregs, she was thrown to the mining pits. It would be there that she would toil for the next two years. The toxic gases and dust of the mines exacerbated her injuries as well as gave her a wracking cough.

It was in the spring of her 26th year that her life changed once more. A bored guard within the mines had caught her. No orc, but a human man. Taking advantage of her weakness, he proceeded to do what no other had felt the desire to do. It was in this act of smothering that the screams and howls of Lor Holdram came rushing back. And with the spectre of Lor Holdram came power.

Her body moved, more fluidly and with more strength than it had ever moved before. The tip of her pick pierced both the hard metal and bone of her assailant's head. But like with all power, there was a cost. The pain, all the pain since that fateful day assaulted her. Her body convulsed upon the ground and her breath caught in dust-covered throat. She was found like this. In torn rags and the puddle of the guard's blood.

She was later brought before a Son of Menalus. Instead of killing her, as should have been done, he forced her to fight in the Gladiator Pits. He took great pleasure in her torment after she called upon her power. A power that she was forced to call upon.

This continued for a year, until another Son of Menalus arranged for her freedom as a prank on his brother.

A woman who once stood tall and proud, Sarah now stands lame and hooded. Her twisted knee and bent back prevent her from standing at her formidable height of 6'1". Instead she only reaches 5'7". Her burnt and twisted right arm is strapped across her body, to hold it up and out of the way. A long, black cloak adorned with sharp bits of metal in the style of Molthal hangs thickly around her shoulders. A blood red gambeson and chausses cover her form. The silver glint of steel plate peeks out from the folds of her cloak. Armor coveres her left arm and her legs, and she wears pointed sabatons over her leather boots. Black brigandine, in the same style as her cloak is worn over her chest and back. A longsword hangs from her waist on the left side. Almost as if it was meant to be drawn by her crippled arm.


*Will be updated if her outfit changes*

Arcane Berserker (Name may change over time) -

A form of natural magic that her ancestors once used freely, but Sarah's blood is muddied and weak. Had she lived her life like her sisters and brother she would never had awakened the devouring magic. Many different factors fed into it. The flames of Lor Holdram, the fear and desperation of that day in the mines, but most importantly the very dust that has scarred and scoured her lungs. Magic always has a cost, but what if that cost has been payed over decades with no goal to use it for. The pain, death, and emotions all build up until the magic courses on its own. The dust in the air of Molthal is like this. It is charged with raw, latent magic. This raw power invaded her lungs and blood, awakening that ancient power in her veins.

The original cost of this magic was mere exhaustion. However, due to the state of Sarah's body her magic goes rampant inside of her. It tears through her injured, crippled limbs and forces them to work correctly. The cost of which is reliving the pain of having them heal incorrectly after every use. The remnants of the mine's dust also burns in her lungs whenever her magic activates, leaving her a hacking, coughing mess as soon as the magic ends.

While under the effects of her bloodline magic several things happen. Her strength, speed, and endurance are all increased well beyond her original limits. Her body obeys every whim and command she gives it. Her eyes burn with the white light of a hot forge, and cracks from which the same white glow drips run across her ruined flesh. Lastly, her mind is consumed with a lust for battle.

Due to the recent events in her life, Sarah has become rather tight-lipped and cautious of all those around her. Her ability to trust has been frayed and chopped away. She wanders in an almost-haze. Directionless and lost.

She is reluctant to get into any fight, but once her magic starts to course an otherworldly frenzy descends upon her. In this state she craves combat and will actively seek it out.

She suffers from a hate/love relationship with fire. She fears it and triggers her memories of Lor Holdram, but her broken mind also adores it. The flames are her mother, and it is by their waters that she was born to Molthal.

*More details will be developed through RP*