Sarah Blirken-Lindwell, Baroness Blirken
*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.
Appearance
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*
*Will be updated if her outfit changes*
Skills and Abilities
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.
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.
Despite utilizing the Ritual of Calling, Sarah's armour is no weaker than the traditional Ghost Mail. And in many ways it is more powerful. Her armour is made up of a collective of 99 wiling souls and a fragment of her own. Her armour is her Company. Her loyal followers and brave fighters. They give her not only strength and speed, but their collective expertise guide her strikes and movements. While wearing the armour she enjoys the ability to weave her way in and out of danger with a supernatural grace.
Not only this, but the spirits imbued in her armour are more active than in many others. They whisper guidance and warning in her ear and urge her to places of safety. She has made a name for herself upon Phorasmos by listening to them. Other Mourners trust in her leadership and follow her in expeditions that pierce ever further into the heart of the cursed island.
In addition to these wondrous effects, one more makes itself known. Her armour allows for her broken body to move correctly, though not without pain. She most be careful when she takes off her armour as her body will often violently and forcefully twist back upon itself into her crippled form. When this happens she requires assistance to force her broken body back into the armour. The process is distinctly painful and uncomfortable for those that assist her.
These heightened abilities, as of yet untapped, come with a cost. Her armour shifts in form as she passes the veil of the dead. What was once inky black becomes filled with a silvery light. She becomes a roiling beacon for the dead of Phorasmos. They seek her out with an unending hunger. Her own soul's condition becomes clear as well. Her flesh takes on an ethereal quality. The color fades from her eyes, turning them into a silvery gray, and her hair becomes stark white. In contrast to this her charred skin remains as solid and as blackened as ever.
Not only this, but the spirits imbued in her armour are more active than in many others. They whisper guidance and warning in her ear and urge her to places of safety. She has made a name for herself upon Phorasmos by listening to them. Other Mourners trust in her leadership and follow her in expeditions that pierce ever further into the heart of the cursed island.
In addition to these wondrous effects, one more makes itself known. Her armour allows for her broken body to move correctly, though not without pain. She most be careful when she takes off her armour as her body will often violently and forcefully twist back upon itself into her crippled form. When this happens she requires assistance to force her broken body back into the armour. The process is distinctly painful and uncomfortable for those that assist her.
These heightened abilities, as of yet untapped, come with a cost. Her armour shifts in form as she passes the veil of the dead. What was once inky black becomes filled with a silvery light. She becomes a roiling beacon for the dead of Phorasmos. They seek her out with an unending hunger. Her own soul's condition becomes clear as well. Her flesh takes on an ethereal quality. The color fades from her eyes, turning them into a silvery gray, and her hair becomes stark white. In contrast to this her charred skin remains as solid and as blackened as ever.
Personality
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.
Sarah found new purpose when she joined the Mourners. In possession of her Ghost Mail she was always in contact with the ghosts of her old company. They soothed old wounds and guided her amongst the dead. But her fixation on them caused her to care less and less about the still living.
*More details will be developed through RP*
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.
Sarah found new purpose when she joined the Mourners. In possession of her Ghost Mail she was always in contact with the ghosts of her old company. They soothed old wounds and guided her amongst the dead. But her fixation on them caused her to care less and less about the still living.
*More details will be developed through RP*
Relationships
Tyisur Volklor - A friend from when she still led the Bloody Thorns. He was often hired for their more delicate jobs but had refused a place amongst their number. Sarah and Tyisur recently met again on the road to Crobhear.
Farren Lóthlindor - A personal friend of Sarah's. She had inspired her to more actively pursue her love of the blade and the rush of battle. The creation of the Bloody Thorns Mercenary Company is directly because of Sarah's relationship with Farren. She later invited Sarah to join the Knights of Anathaeum, but Sarah rejected the offer, preferring to continue being the Captain of the Bloody Thorns.
Urrut - The Son of Menalus that had her fight in Molthal's gladiator pits. Sarah desires to eventually slay him and lay low that entire damned plateau.
The Lindwell Family - Her family that is still alive in Allirea
Farren Lóthlindor - A personal friend of Sarah's. She had inspired her to more actively pursue her love of the blade and the rush of battle. The creation of the Bloody Thorns Mercenary Company is directly because of Sarah's relationship with Farren. She later invited Sarah to join the Knights of Anathaeum, but Sarah rejected the offer, preferring to continue being the Captain of the Bloody Thorns.
Urrut - The Son of Menalus that had her fight in Molthal's gladiator pits. Sarah desires to eventually slay him and lay low that entire damned plateau.
The Lindwell Family - Her family that is still alive in Allirea
Biography & Lore
Will be updated as she participates in RP.
Five living led her. Five mourners walked beside her. They walked inland into foggy banks and leafless trees. They walked away from the shore and the ocean's comforting winds. They walked as the ground turned from rich soil to sandy dirt. As thick green grasses turned into brittle yellow stems. As the ruins morphed into spectral buildings majestically carved. Great trees lined their path. Their physical reality split open in giant, white cracks. Ghostly copies burst forth from the dried husks and towered over them. Their branches crooked, sharp, and more often than not pointing directly at them. They were silent judges to their procession. They found them wanting, and from their silence rose the voices of the unquiet dead.
They laughed and cackled. They shrieked and wailed. They shouted and they whispered. So many words, so many words. They told them things, tried to tempt them from the path. They threatened them at other times. Things were thrown, only to dissolve into the mists. Shadows grew and danced around them. Twilight was upon them. They were upon the edge. The immaterial line that barely held the mindless dead at bay. Here they could just barely reach out. And here they were just barely safe. It was here, at this time, at the crossing of thresholds that the assembled procession were going to fulfill a rite. One unlike any other. The Ritual of Calling.
The spiritsmiths had all claimed it impossible. Five years was too long. None would come and the ritual would be a waste. But then an aberration, one who had appeared and for a reason no one knew, had told them otherwise. It told them that it would work. That despite her not having a spirit vessel, shards of their souls had clung to her. Cleaved themselves to her as tightly as her cloak hugged her shoulders. They weren't wrong. They had all noticed them. Especially the Mourners. They had watched as shadows and motes of silver light grew from her form. They trailed behind her like lowered wings. They hugged her broken and bent body. And as they walked the shades offered strength. Her stride lengthened and grew powerful. Her left foot straightened and her knee twisted back into place. Her back cracked straight and held her head up high. Her right arm, which had been naught but charred flesh, grew thick again with burnt muscle and renewed control. Her armor, worn strangely, now moved fluidly.
With her body held tight by these growing remnants, many of those around her finally noticed her height. And it was a rather daunting thing, especially for a woman. Standing just over a solid six feet and an inch she towered over several of them. Then the muttering started. Her lips moved and a soft voice dripped from them. They were words of apology, of thanks, of laughter, and of names. So many names. Her icy blue eyes stared at the veil. The fog thickened and it turned glassy. They could all see their reflections in the strange fog.
Then the spiritsmiths spread out in five directions on the living side. The aberration came and mirrored them, but did so amongst the dead. The mourners stood along the line, their weapons were drawn and they were ready. Sigils of power were carved from the hard dirt and spools of silver thread were laid out. Waters taken from the heart of the dead city filled the central basin. One large enough for a grown man to fully submerge themselves in. And fruits were brought out. But these were no ordinary fruits and were not meant for the living. Only one would eat of them, and then their guest would come to the feast.
It was at this point that a mourner handed a particularly large fruit to Sarah. She took it into her hands as she descended into the basin. She was careful not to cross its halfway mark, careful not to cross into the realm of the dead. Once she was submerged past her head, she took a bite. She had expected pain, but none came. Rapturous pleasure bloomed within her. A warm balm to the ever present pain. And then heat billowed. The water bubbled. Another bite. Ice flowed and the water froze. Another bite and heat came again. Another bite, and another, and another till the fruit was gone.
The Mourners watched her shadows. They grew and billowed as she feasted. They wrapped her up in a cloak of the night sky. But from it came a hot, white light. And then the shades spread out. The Mourners glanced at each other. Uncertainty and concern flashed between them. The shades grew and multiplied. They spread out behind the woman and seemingly kneeled. The Mourners looked to the dead. They had expected nothing of the ritual, despite the assurances of the aberrations. None of them had heard of a successful calling after five years. And yet, here they were. What was more concerning was that it wasn't only one spirit that came.
From the mists, more and more figures coalesced. Smiles adorned their faces. Happiness filled their eyes. All of them looked towards the woman. Some looked at her as though she was their child. Others saw their sister. More saw their friend. All of them saw their leader for whom they would brave the fields of Death. Then the Mourners heard her voice again. Only this time it wasn't whispered. Instead it commanded. It was names, so many names. Ninety-nine in total. And with each new one the figures lined up with their shades. With each new one they nodded and kneeled. With each new one they grew more solid. A hundredth name came.
"Sarah Lindwell," they all heard her clearly. They all heard her say her own name. What was stranger was that there was a response. Another black shade formed. Only, that this time it came from the fog rather than her shadow. It walked down into the pool. Sat across from her and also feasted on a fruit. Then a snap. The glassy fog shattered. The shades and spirits coalesced. Sarah was wrapped in a cloak of the midnight sky. Her opposite clothed in the moon's soft glow.
"I call you," she began again, "the Company of the Bloody Thorns."
"We hear," came a discordant response. It was made of a hundred voices all speaking in tandem. The effect was eerie and disconcerting. "As always, we follow. Our Lady." And then the shade cloaked in light knelt.
They laughed and cackled. They shrieked and wailed. They shouted and they whispered. So many words, so many words. They told them things, tried to tempt them from the path. They threatened them at other times. Things were thrown, only to dissolve into the mists. Shadows grew and danced around them. Twilight was upon them. They were upon the edge. The immaterial line that barely held the mindless dead at bay. Here they could just barely reach out. And here they were just barely safe. It was here, at this time, at the crossing of thresholds that the assembled procession were going to fulfill a rite. One unlike any other. The Ritual of Calling.
The spiritsmiths had all claimed it impossible. Five years was too long. None would come and the ritual would be a waste. But then an aberration, one who had appeared and for a reason no one knew, had told them otherwise. It told them that it would work. That despite her not having a spirit vessel, shards of their souls had clung to her. Cleaved themselves to her as tightly as her cloak hugged her shoulders. They weren't wrong. They had all noticed them. Especially the Mourners. They had watched as shadows and motes of silver light grew from her form. They trailed behind her like lowered wings. They hugged her broken and bent body. And as they walked the shades offered strength. Her stride lengthened and grew powerful. Her left foot straightened and her knee twisted back into place. Her back cracked straight and held her head up high. Her right arm, which had been naught but charred flesh, grew thick again with burnt muscle and renewed control. Her armor, worn strangely, now moved fluidly.
With her body held tight by these growing remnants, many of those around her finally noticed her height. And it was a rather daunting thing, especially for a woman. Standing just over a solid six feet and an inch she towered over several of them. Then the muttering started. Her lips moved and a soft voice dripped from them. They were words of apology, of thanks, of laughter, and of names. So many names. Her icy blue eyes stared at the veil. The fog thickened and it turned glassy. They could all see their reflections in the strange fog.
Then the spiritsmiths spread out in five directions on the living side. The aberration came and mirrored them, but did so amongst the dead. The mourners stood along the line, their weapons were drawn and they were ready. Sigils of power were carved from the hard dirt and spools of silver thread were laid out. Waters taken from the heart of the dead city filled the central basin. One large enough for a grown man to fully submerge themselves in. And fruits were brought out. But these were no ordinary fruits and were not meant for the living. Only one would eat of them, and then their guest would come to the feast.
It was at this point that a mourner handed a particularly large fruit to Sarah. She took it into her hands as she descended into the basin. She was careful not to cross its halfway mark, careful not to cross into the realm of the dead. Once she was submerged past her head, she took a bite. She had expected pain, but none came. Rapturous pleasure bloomed within her. A warm balm to the ever present pain. And then heat billowed. The water bubbled. Another bite. Ice flowed and the water froze. Another bite and heat came again. Another bite, and another, and another till the fruit was gone.
The Mourners watched her shadows. They grew and billowed as she feasted. They wrapped her up in a cloak of the night sky. But from it came a hot, white light. And then the shades spread out. The Mourners glanced at each other. Uncertainty and concern flashed between them. The shades grew and multiplied. They spread out behind the woman and seemingly kneeled. The Mourners looked to the dead. They had expected nothing of the ritual, despite the assurances of the aberrations. None of them had heard of a successful calling after five years. And yet, here they were. What was more concerning was that it wasn't only one spirit that came.
From the mists, more and more figures coalesced. Smiles adorned their faces. Happiness filled their eyes. All of them looked towards the woman. Some looked at her as though she was their child. Others saw their sister. More saw their friend. All of them saw their leader for whom they would brave the fields of Death. Then the Mourners heard her voice again. Only this time it wasn't whispered. Instead it commanded. It was names, so many names. Ninety-nine in total. And with each new one the figures lined up with their shades. With each new one they nodded and kneeled. With each new one they grew more solid. A hundredth name came.
"Sarah Lindwell," they all heard her clearly. They all heard her say her own name. What was stranger was that there was a response. Another black shade formed. Only, that this time it came from the fog rather than her shadow. It walked down into the pool. Sat across from her and also feasted on a fruit. Then a snap. The glassy fog shattered. The shades and spirits coalesced. Sarah was wrapped in a cloak of the midnight sky. Her opposite clothed in the moon's soft glow.
"I call you," she began again, "the Company of the Bloody Thorns."
"We hear," came a discordant response. It was made of a hundred voices all speaking in tandem. The effect was eerie and disconcerting. "As always, we follow. Our Lady." And then the shade cloaked in light knelt.
Timeline
Traveling from Molthal (374 Spring)Through Blood and Blight (never completed)
To Crobhear (Complete)
A Meeting of Sisters (In Progress)
A Frayed Soul (In Progress)
The Syzygy (374 Winter)
A Ship Astray in Thagretis (In Progress)
1 year after Molthal - Joins the Mourners of Phorasmos (375)
To Wake in the Night (In Progress)
A Little Help (In Progress)