((I've been persuaded to join as well I'm just going to post a bio right now, as my brain is too foggy from cold medicine to come up with a very decent post.))

Name: Methadox (self-appointed)

Age: 41

Gender: Male

Occupation: Apothecary (formerly)

Race: Human

Appearance: Average height and build, no particularly outstanding features. Black-brown hair, worn short, dark grey eyes. Generally relaxed, unassuming expression. (Click)

Clothing: Black leather armor in a few places, but mostly just simple black robes with a few small trinkets dangling from his belt. Black leather boots.

Weapons: A small dagger kept in his boot and a wooden staff.

Skills: Chiefly potions and simple illusions, though he has dabbled in alchemy as well. Can fight with his staff or dagger if needed.

Personality: Quiet, unobtrusive, reserved. Skilled enough with words when he elects to use them, but generally prefers to silently observe and offer his opinion only when needed.

History: "Methadox" grew up in one of the larger villages of Yithare. He was apprenticed to the village's apothecary at the age of ten and eventually replaced the old man. He lived alone in a small house, running his business from home and using his free time to further his studies. Over time, however, it came to people's attention that while many of his potions served purely medicinal purposes, many others had entirely different uses. The townspeople immediately labeled him as a dark sorcerer and exiled him under pain of death.

With nowhere else to go, he took to wandering under the name of Methadox, selling his potions to any who would buy them and barely making enough to get by. Finally, Methadox decided that if he was going to be ostracized as a dark magician, he might as well live up to the title. Though his primary focus remained on potions, he began to study and experiment with alchemy and illusionism as well. He soon found that while people had little use for apothecaries, magicians were in high demand, though it meant that his customers were usually of a far darker sort than before. He had been making his living in this manner for nearly a year when the evil forces were suddenly driven from most lands, and he along with them.

He is now dwelling in Hakash and merely trying to get by. He has little interest in the true intention of the raiding parties; he simply has nothing more to lose.

((Maybe you could look around here- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_sp ... gy_by_type for a good race. That's how I came up with skinwalker))

This was a most intriguing group. Orcs, dark elves, human knaves... was that a vampire? Cest'kele didn't fear the undead, but any freelance vampire would definitely be a problem. He normally didn't think much of orcs either, and the majority of them sniggering and nudging each other in the tavern's corner didn't improve that judgement. He'd have to see to their elimination early on. Offal kept too long underfoot could begin to rot. But one orc among them... Morethal, he'd heard the others call him... had the cunning eyes of an orc chieftain. The rest appeared human. Most were likely halfwits, but a few may be worthy of notice.

Arrogance was a downfall Cest'kele found in his adversaries. Underestimation of one's enemies was the one flaw in an omnipotent archmage's power. He had lived too long, experienced too much, to make the same mistake.

Tread carefully. Keep one's goal in mind. Bloodmantle possessed something Cest'kele wanted. Bloodmantle desired the artifact. Cest'kele would procure the artifact, even if it meant killing every other raider to attain that guerdon.

Thus the necromancer melted into the shadows, his slitted red eyes glittering under his hood. With detached amusement he watched the verbal sparring between Morethal, a female mercenary, and the vampire. A disciple of pragmatism, he found himself thinking that the raiders displaying themselves in all their dark glory was not only foolish, but suicidal. The self-righteous hypocrites - also known as the goodly forces - had Nauskal pinned against a wall. Subtlety, not an outward display of force, would aid their venture best.

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A broad shouldered sailor pushed into the room and gazed at the raiders.

"Okey you sorry lot! Enough chit chat, follow me."

The sailor boomed over the talk of the raiders, who then turned towards the sailor and obeyed him as he was apparently there to lead them to the ship they were taking. Most of the raiders packed their equipment and followed the sailor obediently, Morethal was pleased that they were already getting underway as he would not have to bother with these humans. He got up with his armor squeaking and headed after the sailor, who led them up from a hatch into a dirty side alley between buildings. The group wandered trough the dark alleys towards the docks, the smell of fish and the sounds of the seagulls grew ever stronger.

After a while they finally appeared to the docks and there awaited a ship, not a merchant ship it was fair to say or a battleship for that matter. It actually seemed to be both, but with a quick examination of the crew there was no doubt what their profession was. Morethal silently boarded the ship with the other raiders and sat down on a pile of rope against the railing. He hated the sea, he hated the cursed crossing of the continents, but he would have to endure.

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Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

Fersin shuffled along with the other restless raiders as he watched the gentle moving sea. When he was finally on board the ship, he leaned on the railing and gazed outward to the ocean, listening to the gulls. He had to admit that he was severely bored just standing there like this.

_________________

I was cured all right.

Cu'scath shrugged, then walked onto the ship with the other raiders. He didn't particularly care about the "survival of evil", but he had to admit his existence had been rather bland of late. He strode about the ship, watching the other passengers.

There was something distinctly unsettling about the sea. Perhaps it was its vast expanse - the sunlight glinting on the pristine waves blinded Cest'kele's eyes, which much preferred darkness. He also missed all eight of his legs, and the ship's vertiginous rocking hardly sated his nostalgia. Two legs. What idiot god created the doctrine that all humanoid races had to have two legs? Just standing on that rocking ship, Cest'kele could have sworn that a gentle breeze could knock him over.

Morphing into arachnid form, sadly enough, was not an option. No need to frighten anyone.

Ebony-topped staff thumping against the deck, he wove his way around the pirates, who scrambled to and fro under their captain's barked orders. The few sailors he bumped into shot him withering glares, which he returned in all innocence. Presently he found his way to Morethal. The orc appeared to have some status, as he'd given the speech in the tavern.

"Have we a plan yet?" Cest'kele spoke in his customary hiss. "Where is our first target?"

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Morethal grinned and gazed at the stranger, there was an odd stench about this man, but he guessed it was due to the fact he was a necromancer. Morethal wasn`t aware of the necromancers goals or anyone`s else`s, he was there only to restore what he had lost with bloodshed. It was not very common amongst his people to have what many considered honor, but Morethal was proud just like his father. Both were in a leading position thus it would always look bad, if a battle was lost as the blame was cast upon the leader. Morethal had not come to think of a greater plan, he liked to proceed with the situation as it developed.

"The coast has a few villages due to us, raiders and those pirate scum so I wanna head deeper into the lands before launching any form of an attack on anyone. Might be harder, but the higher the prize"

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Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!