Shadows and Havoc - Wylan Amilcnam
May 7, 2020 1:49:47 GMT -5
Animayhem, crawlingchaos63, and 3 more like this
Post by Wylan on May 7, 2020 1:49:47 GMT -5
Name: Wylan Amilcnam
Race: Wood Elf
Age - ~200
Height - 5'11"
Weight - 150lbs.
Eyes - Dark brown
Hair - Black
Notable Features - His left ear sports a series of five burgundy rings that travel from lobe to tip, while his right is adorned with three along the tip of ear. Tattoo of Fenmarel Mestarine on the lower left side of his neck. Tattoo of Sharess on the underside of his left wrist. Tattoo of Tymora on the back of his left hand. Tattoo of Mask on the back of his right hand, between the thumb and index finger. Tattoo of Eilistraee on the back of his left calf.
Demeanor - Aloof and almost apathetic to most things. Long ago, he came to terms with the fact that he's an Elf that lives in the Human world, and has actually embraced it. He has little interest in the "Noble" aspects of Elven life, and absolutely hates politics of any kind.
It was a calm and pleasant evening in the grand city of Waterdeep. The hustle and bustle of the city was winding down, and most folks were either making their way home or to one of the many pubs or taverns that dot the city. Somewhere in the Southern Ward, the peace of the coming night was broken by the screams of a woman in pain. The disturbance was coming from the third floor of an occult and wizardry shop. No guards or city watch would come rushing this night though, as the screams were entirely expected. The shop owner and keeper was pregnant, and as it turned out, the baby would come that night. The chaos inside that master bedroom of the apartment above the shop, was the complete opposite of serenity of the city outside. Sitting on the bed was the origin of the screams. A Wood Elven woman with raven black hair and glaring lavender eyes. A servant at her side tended to the bellowing and thrashing woman as best she could, while another knelt between the Wood Elf's legs, counting time and waiting for the baby. Between screams of pain came screams of orders and demands. As commanded, half a dozen servants ran about fetching water, cloth, various herbs and tonics with an almost maddening haste. The servants were doubly motivated to see this child be born. As not only was their mistress a wealthy and powerful woman, but she was also a follower of Graz'zt. Failure would likely seem them to a fate much worse than death. The birthing was short. Labor only lasted a few hours, and when the child came, he nearly burst from her womb. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your own opinions, the swiftness of the birth caused massive internal bleeding in the Elven woman. After the child came into the world, silent but obviously alive and well, she lasted only long enough to softly speak what would become the child's name: "Wylan Amilcnam" before her life spilled out in a pool of deep crimson upon the bed.
Panic. Absolute panic. That was the only way to describe the scene when the realization that the Elf was dead. The child lived, but the mother had died. They must have done something wrong. Made some mistake. Vengeance would be seeking them. A curse would be upon them if they didn't flee. Remove any trace that they had been there or what had happened.
By the morning of the next day, the shop and apartment were spotless. As if the Elf had simply packed a few things and gone out of town. The servants had cleaned up the scene, disposed of the corpse, and one of the servants had "disposed" of the child as well. They looted the shop and apartment for any money or valuables that could easily be traded without trace, split the gatherings, and fled as far and as fast as they could. The Elven woman, her final resting place, and all of her servants are lost to history, for this story is not theirs. This is the tale of that child, supposedly disposed of. Of Wylan Amilcnam.
Be it fate, whim of Tymora, or some other divine intervention, the servant who set out to kill him and put the entirety of that night behind them, felt a pang of pitty for the infant. Instead of killing him, she found someone willing to take him off her hands. In exchange for an unknown sum, the child's life was traded to The Shadow Thieves. While he was well cared for in his infantcy and early adolescence. As soon as was able, he was put to work. Simple things at first. Look-out. Sentry. Messenger. Distraction. Before long, he graduated into more advanced work. Breaking and Entering. Theft. Pick Pocketing. For almost eighty years he toiled. Often told, soon he would have earned the guild enough coin to have earned his complete freedom. As his skills and prowess grew, his reputation and liberties within the guild grew. However, he was not truly free. His freedom and liberty was still held captive by his "debt" to The Shadow Thieves. Over and over he was told "Soon you'll be a free man. Able to go where you please, do as you please. Won't be long at all.". His freedom was close at hand he was often promised. A promise he would soon learn to be empty and false. A lie. Over the years, he realized how many and how often they were told. Some small, some huge. Betrayals, each and every one. Soon, hate grew to resentment. For nearly eighty years he followed along blindly.
It wasn't until his cell was planning to rob a caravan heading to The Dalelands to purchase goods for import and export back in Waterdeep. It would be simple. Break into a storehouse where the carts were being stored after being prepared for the trip the next day. Minimum guards and near a city gate, not far from a safe house if anything should go wrong. Easy, or so it seemed. After the meeting however, he realized he had accidentally left his notebook behind. As he returned to retrieve it, he overheard a second meeting. One in which a couple of others, as well as himself, weren't invited to. Curious, he put some of his guild supplied skills to use. As he eavesdropped, he learned that three other members "owed" a similar debt to the guild as he did, and it had indeed come time to pay them. Unfortunately, those debts were to cost them either their lives or what little freedom they currently had. They were to either be killed in the robbery, or to be the one's to shoulder the blame entirely.
The ultimate and final betrayal. He refused to accept that fate. It was decided, not by him, but by those who would use him. It was time to repay the guild what it truly deserved. Betrayal for betrayal.
All it took was an anonymous note left at a guard post. The note was simple. A time, date, and a simple lay out of what was planned. Wylan had assumed the city guard and watch would handle it themselves, and with their usual bravado and tact. Unfortunately, that was a mistake. They had informed the caravans leader, who himself had his own group of guards, all of whom were quite loyal. Taking his spot on an adjacent roof, Wylan scanned the other rooftops, then the streets. Strangely, everything was quiet and seemed to be going exactly as the guild had planned. He waited. Hoping for his opportunity. He paused for as long as he dared, without making the other thieves wonder if something was going on. Then, gave the signal that all was clear.
Quickly, ten thieves descended upon the storehouse. They lined up in the shadows along the wall, next to a door. One of them made short work of the lock, then quietly opened the door. No sooner had the door began moving, than it abruptly and violently changed direction. Knocking two thieves down as it burst open in the opposite direction, and several mercenaries and guards erupted forth from it. It took a few moments for him to realize it, but his moment had come. He turned to plan his escape, a few seconds at best. Turning back to make sure he was still unnoticed, he saw that two thieves were dead, as well as several guards and possibly a mercenary or two as well. He was still in the clear, and wasted no more time. He made his escape, only slowing his pace to remain inconspicuous when passing guard posts, patrols, and the city gate itself. He avoided the safe house. Doubting it was actually safe, and simply making his way East.
Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. Moving ever Eastward. From village to village, hamlet to hamlet he would either steal or do odd jobs to survive. As it happened, in one village he was accosted at the meager gate and accused of stealing some of the crops. After a short interrogation and offering his services to solve the problem, he was once again free to continue on his way. However, as he had offered to solve the crime and couldn't bring himself to lie, he set about watching the farms during the nights. Often times the farmers would give him a meal in exchange for his efforts. After several nights, he began to think that it was nothing more than animals when she appeared from the wood line that bordered the field he was watching. Her skin a nearly purple grey. Hair a contrasting silver. She was clad in rags, obviously starving. Being from Waterdeep, he had heard all the stories of Drow. This one though? A single Drow. Clad in rags that were nearly falling apart. Even at the distance, he could tell she was nearly starving. Taking her in alive would easily secure him a room and food for quite some time. Besides, catching her and turning her over to the village would rid the world of a truly evil being.
Or so he thought. He followed her as stealthily as he could. Almost a mile away from the village, in a very small clearing of a fairly small wood, he found her. In the middle of the clearing, looking defeated and broken she was on her knees. Nude, with what passed for her clothing folded neatly beside her. Before he could speak, she greeted him in broken Elven, and begged for him to kill her quickly. Looking upon the Drow he only saw a broken and empy shell of a creature. Utterly defeated, with her only hope being a quick death. A pang of pity hit him like a club. No, not pitty. Sympathy. Had he made only a few different choices or had different luck, he could easily be where she was. His decision made, he hung his camping hatchet from his belt, and approached her with his hands empty and out beside him, showing her that he had no intention of harming her. Communication was difficult and easily broke down at fist. After it had been established that he meant her no harm, and wanted to aid her, the first task at hand was finding someone who could easily be responsible. Goblins? Kobolds? Nothing fitting was in the area. He racked his brain for three nights. No answer. On the fourth night after meeting the Drow, and a full two weeks after accepting the task, with the villagers growing impatient. The answer came. Not to him, but to her. Boar. There were a few wild hogs in the area. A surprisingly easy fix. And with that, he had single-handedly saved the day.
Unfortunately, his new acquaintance wouldn't get near the welcome he would. As such, instead of taking up an offer for steady work and the possibility of settling down, he instead requested only a decent supply of food, and a small amount of coin. Meeting with his new companion outside of town, they began their journey. As it would turn out, the Drow seemed to be as talented at languages as he was. It was only a matter of months before they could both speak each other's language rather fluently. Zeslae. Zeslae of The Former House Dalath. Her tale was nearly as tragic as his. A minor noble, lacking the talent of magics, her fate was destined to mediocrity. Until a rival House swooped in, attempted, and succeeded in purging House Dalath. As far as she knew, she was the only one to survive, and only because at the first sign of hostilities, she followed her heart and fled. She had never felt the Underdark was her home, nor did she really want to be part of Drow society. With almost nothing for supplies, her trip to the surface nearly cost her her life several times. So had her life on the surface. She had no way of telling how long she had been above ground, and Wylan could only guess. As best as he could figure, at most, a couple years. Most likely several months, considering she wasn't dead.
They traveled around together for a several years. Avoiding large settlements, and making sure to find a secluded spot for her to hide, while he entered the settlement alone. A pair forged in suffering and survival. It didn't take long for emotions to surface. Soon, the two vowed to one another to spend the rest of their days together. Neither of them had ever had anyone to truely rely on. Now, they had each other. They had ten wonderful years with each other. Surprisingly, it was a caravan trading post that ended the pair. As he entered the tavern and trading post, a group of Elves armed with bows, black arrows, and Elven thin blades saw him and struck up a conversation. His guardedness with his personal information or where he was staying only made the Elves suspicious. Unsure of what he was up to, they waited until well after he left town, and tracked him to his camp. That night, nothing happened. The next night when he returned to his camp after making his daily supply run however, was an entirely different story. There, tied to a tree, was the corpse of his wife. Several wounds covered her body, obviously from torture. But, the most obvious wound, and likely the fatal one, a black arrow sticking from her heart. A rage he never knew he was capable of consumed him instantly. Without thinking, without even consciously realizing what he was doing, his hatchet in hand, he stalked after the Elves. Three days and several miles later, he caught up to them. Waiting until nightfall, he descended upon them just after they began to reverie. What transpired at that camp is something he will say very little about, even to this day. Though, he will admit, the torture and suffering they inflicted upon his wife was merciful and kind compared to what he did to his own "Cousins".
With the Elves dead, his rage faded, and the only person he had loved gone, he was lost. He mourned her loss. Saw to her body as she had wanted. Vowed to continue watching over those of her kind that came to the surface to seek escape and freedom from The Night Below. And continued East. To Cormyr.
Race: Wood Elf
Age - ~200
Height - 5'11"
Weight - 150lbs.
Eyes - Dark brown
Hair - Black
Notable Features - His left ear sports a series of five burgundy rings that travel from lobe to tip, while his right is adorned with three along the tip of ear. Tattoo of Fenmarel Mestarine on the lower left side of his neck. Tattoo of Sharess on the underside of his left wrist. Tattoo of Tymora on the back of his left hand. Tattoo of Mask on the back of his right hand, between the thumb and index finger. Tattoo of Eilistraee on the back of his left calf.
Demeanor - Aloof and almost apathetic to most things. Long ago, he came to terms with the fact that he's an Elf that lives in the Human world, and has actually embraced it. He has little interest in the "Noble" aspects of Elven life, and absolutely hates politics of any kind.
It was a calm and pleasant evening in the grand city of Waterdeep. The hustle and bustle of the city was winding down, and most folks were either making their way home or to one of the many pubs or taverns that dot the city. Somewhere in the Southern Ward, the peace of the coming night was broken by the screams of a woman in pain. The disturbance was coming from the third floor of an occult and wizardry shop. No guards or city watch would come rushing this night though, as the screams were entirely expected. The shop owner and keeper was pregnant, and as it turned out, the baby would come that night. The chaos inside that master bedroom of the apartment above the shop, was the complete opposite of serenity of the city outside. Sitting on the bed was the origin of the screams. A Wood Elven woman with raven black hair and glaring lavender eyes. A servant at her side tended to the bellowing and thrashing woman as best she could, while another knelt between the Wood Elf's legs, counting time and waiting for the baby. Between screams of pain came screams of orders and demands. As commanded, half a dozen servants ran about fetching water, cloth, various herbs and tonics with an almost maddening haste. The servants were doubly motivated to see this child be born. As not only was their mistress a wealthy and powerful woman, but she was also a follower of Graz'zt. Failure would likely seem them to a fate much worse than death. The birthing was short. Labor only lasted a few hours, and when the child came, he nearly burst from her womb. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your own opinions, the swiftness of the birth caused massive internal bleeding in the Elven woman. After the child came into the world, silent but obviously alive and well, she lasted only long enough to softly speak what would become the child's name: "Wylan Amilcnam" before her life spilled out in a pool of deep crimson upon the bed.
Panic. Absolute panic. That was the only way to describe the scene when the realization that the Elf was dead. The child lived, but the mother had died. They must have done something wrong. Made some mistake. Vengeance would be seeking them. A curse would be upon them if they didn't flee. Remove any trace that they had been there or what had happened.
By the morning of the next day, the shop and apartment were spotless. As if the Elf had simply packed a few things and gone out of town. The servants had cleaned up the scene, disposed of the corpse, and one of the servants had "disposed" of the child as well. They looted the shop and apartment for any money or valuables that could easily be traded without trace, split the gatherings, and fled as far and as fast as they could. The Elven woman, her final resting place, and all of her servants are lost to history, for this story is not theirs. This is the tale of that child, supposedly disposed of. Of Wylan Amilcnam.
Be it fate, whim of Tymora, or some other divine intervention, the servant who set out to kill him and put the entirety of that night behind them, felt a pang of pitty for the infant. Instead of killing him, she found someone willing to take him off her hands. In exchange for an unknown sum, the child's life was traded to The Shadow Thieves. While he was well cared for in his infantcy and early adolescence. As soon as was able, he was put to work. Simple things at first. Look-out. Sentry. Messenger. Distraction. Before long, he graduated into more advanced work. Breaking and Entering. Theft. Pick Pocketing. For almost eighty years he toiled. Often told, soon he would have earned the guild enough coin to have earned his complete freedom. As his skills and prowess grew, his reputation and liberties within the guild grew. However, he was not truly free. His freedom and liberty was still held captive by his "debt" to The Shadow Thieves. Over and over he was told "Soon you'll be a free man. Able to go where you please, do as you please. Won't be long at all.". His freedom was close at hand he was often promised. A promise he would soon learn to be empty and false. A lie. Over the years, he realized how many and how often they were told. Some small, some huge. Betrayals, each and every one. Soon, hate grew to resentment. For nearly eighty years he followed along blindly.
It wasn't until his cell was planning to rob a caravan heading to The Dalelands to purchase goods for import and export back in Waterdeep. It would be simple. Break into a storehouse where the carts were being stored after being prepared for the trip the next day. Minimum guards and near a city gate, not far from a safe house if anything should go wrong. Easy, or so it seemed. After the meeting however, he realized he had accidentally left his notebook behind. As he returned to retrieve it, he overheard a second meeting. One in which a couple of others, as well as himself, weren't invited to. Curious, he put some of his guild supplied skills to use. As he eavesdropped, he learned that three other members "owed" a similar debt to the guild as he did, and it had indeed come time to pay them. Unfortunately, those debts were to cost them either their lives or what little freedom they currently had. They were to either be killed in the robbery, or to be the one's to shoulder the blame entirely.
The ultimate and final betrayal. He refused to accept that fate. It was decided, not by him, but by those who would use him. It was time to repay the guild what it truly deserved. Betrayal for betrayal.
All it took was an anonymous note left at a guard post. The note was simple. A time, date, and a simple lay out of what was planned. Wylan had assumed the city guard and watch would handle it themselves, and with their usual bravado and tact. Unfortunately, that was a mistake. They had informed the caravans leader, who himself had his own group of guards, all of whom were quite loyal. Taking his spot on an adjacent roof, Wylan scanned the other rooftops, then the streets. Strangely, everything was quiet and seemed to be going exactly as the guild had planned. He waited. Hoping for his opportunity. He paused for as long as he dared, without making the other thieves wonder if something was going on. Then, gave the signal that all was clear.
Quickly, ten thieves descended upon the storehouse. They lined up in the shadows along the wall, next to a door. One of them made short work of the lock, then quietly opened the door. No sooner had the door began moving, than it abruptly and violently changed direction. Knocking two thieves down as it burst open in the opposite direction, and several mercenaries and guards erupted forth from it. It took a few moments for him to realize it, but his moment had come. He turned to plan his escape, a few seconds at best. Turning back to make sure he was still unnoticed, he saw that two thieves were dead, as well as several guards and possibly a mercenary or two as well. He was still in the clear, and wasted no more time. He made his escape, only slowing his pace to remain inconspicuous when passing guard posts, patrols, and the city gate itself. He avoided the safe house. Doubting it was actually safe, and simply making his way East.
Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. Moving ever Eastward. From village to village, hamlet to hamlet he would either steal or do odd jobs to survive. As it happened, in one village he was accosted at the meager gate and accused of stealing some of the crops. After a short interrogation and offering his services to solve the problem, he was once again free to continue on his way. However, as he had offered to solve the crime and couldn't bring himself to lie, he set about watching the farms during the nights. Often times the farmers would give him a meal in exchange for his efforts. After several nights, he began to think that it was nothing more than animals when she appeared from the wood line that bordered the field he was watching. Her skin a nearly purple grey. Hair a contrasting silver. She was clad in rags, obviously starving. Being from Waterdeep, he had heard all the stories of Drow. This one though? A single Drow. Clad in rags that were nearly falling apart. Even at the distance, he could tell she was nearly starving. Taking her in alive would easily secure him a room and food for quite some time. Besides, catching her and turning her over to the village would rid the world of a truly evil being.
Or so he thought. He followed her as stealthily as he could. Almost a mile away from the village, in a very small clearing of a fairly small wood, he found her. In the middle of the clearing, looking defeated and broken she was on her knees. Nude, with what passed for her clothing folded neatly beside her. Before he could speak, she greeted him in broken Elven, and begged for him to kill her quickly. Looking upon the Drow he only saw a broken and empy shell of a creature. Utterly defeated, with her only hope being a quick death. A pang of pity hit him like a club. No, not pitty. Sympathy. Had he made only a few different choices or had different luck, he could easily be where she was. His decision made, he hung his camping hatchet from his belt, and approached her with his hands empty and out beside him, showing her that he had no intention of harming her. Communication was difficult and easily broke down at fist. After it had been established that he meant her no harm, and wanted to aid her, the first task at hand was finding someone who could easily be responsible. Goblins? Kobolds? Nothing fitting was in the area. He racked his brain for three nights. No answer. On the fourth night after meeting the Drow, and a full two weeks after accepting the task, with the villagers growing impatient. The answer came. Not to him, but to her. Boar. There were a few wild hogs in the area. A surprisingly easy fix. And with that, he had single-handedly saved the day.
Unfortunately, his new acquaintance wouldn't get near the welcome he would. As such, instead of taking up an offer for steady work and the possibility of settling down, he instead requested only a decent supply of food, and a small amount of coin. Meeting with his new companion outside of town, they began their journey. As it would turn out, the Drow seemed to be as talented at languages as he was. It was only a matter of months before they could both speak each other's language rather fluently. Zeslae. Zeslae of The Former House Dalath. Her tale was nearly as tragic as his. A minor noble, lacking the talent of magics, her fate was destined to mediocrity. Until a rival House swooped in, attempted, and succeeded in purging House Dalath. As far as she knew, she was the only one to survive, and only because at the first sign of hostilities, she followed her heart and fled. She had never felt the Underdark was her home, nor did she really want to be part of Drow society. With almost nothing for supplies, her trip to the surface nearly cost her her life several times. So had her life on the surface. She had no way of telling how long she had been above ground, and Wylan could only guess. As best as he could figure, at most, a couple years. Most likely several months, considering she wasn't dead.
They traveled around together for a several years. Avoiding large settlements, and making sure to find a secluded spot for her to hide, while he entered the settlement alone. A pair forged in suffering and survival. It didn't take long for emotions to surface. Soon, the two vowed to one another to spend the rest of their days together. Neither of them had ever had anyone to truely rely on. Now, they had each other. They had ten wonderful years with each other. Surprisingly, it was a caravan trading post that ended the pair. As he entered the tavern and trading post, a group of Elves armed with bows, black arrows, and Elven thin blades saw him and struck up a conversation. His guardedness with his personal information or where he was staying only made the Elves suspicious. Unsure of what he was up to, they waited until well after he left town, and tracked him to his camp. That night, nothing happened. The next night when he returned to his camp after making his daily supply run however, was an entirely different story. There, tied to a tree, was the corpse of his wife. Several wounds covered her body, obviously from torture. But, the most obvious wound, and likely the fatal one, a black arrow sticking from her heart. A rage he never knew he was capable of consumed him instantly. Without thinking, without even consciously realizing what he was doing, his hatchet in hand, he stalked after the Elves. Three days and several miles later, he caught up to them. Waiting until nightfall, he descended upon them just after they began to reverie. What transpired at that camp is something he will say very little about, even to this day. Though, he will admit, the torture and suffering they inflicted upon his wife was merciful and kind compared to what he did to his own "Cousins".
With the Elves dead, his rage faded, and the only person he had loved gone, he was lost. He mourned her loss. Saw to her body as she had wanted. Vowed to continue watching over those of her kind that came to the surface to seek escape and freedom from The Night Below. And continued East. To Cormyr.