A soldier who deserted his command.
Jacob Latris was a Taurian immigrant to Obstaria. Now he is a man who has severed his connections to sanity long ago, and is searching for something that probably doesn't exist.
The Prophet John's life and, indeed, death was a mystery. Some say that the gods placed him on this earth for his purpose without a past, and others, a rare few, claim that he was a god himself.
Born to King John XVII, Hope did not get standard princess treatment. Yes, she was locked away in a tower, and yes, there was the standard moat of flaming lava, but unlike all the other spoiled brats, she didn't get a dragon. Hope Rexian had to make do with a demon. And this particular demon couldn't even breathe fire! Simply pathetic job done by the cosmos. Hope may have gotten the valiant-knight-who-happens-to-be-called-Prince-Charming-riding-in-and-killing-guardian-on-noble-steed treatment, but some things just won't do. You can't just mess with tradition like that!
The rain poured down on the city of Grathen in a relentless beat that would marvel the best of drummers. It beat down on the public buildings, with pedestrians streaming in front of, with eyes cast upwards and lips mumbling prayers to Rain Gods. It beat down on the Slums, where thieves were mumbling thanks to their gods for all these people looking up and not at their purses. And it beat down on Ariel Lorette, a girl of 13, escaping from horrors beyond the common person's imagination. Ariel Lorette, with rain streaming down her face and hiding her tears of pain and sorrow and, above all, victory. For Ariel had escaped them. Ariel was free.
A sadistic murderer.
"Aye, there be a lot of dwarves 'round these parts now'a'days. Why? 'Cause that Groggar kicked 'em out of their caves. Groggar the Genius they call him. Them dwarves now hate his guts, which is a lot o' hate for a race that they used to call 'infeior.'"
-Old Gerald, man in the pub.
"Which one? Oh, him. He be Pancratius. Yeah, he's a bit moody, but he's all right when you get to know him. Ya see, back in the day, and by that I mean his day, before you an' I were born, he was a big shot. The gods loved him, and one day, he asked for a gift that turned out to be a curse. Once he figured out the horrible side o' his gift, he sought out an oracle, to figure out how to get rid of it. Ol' Pancratius ne'er did tell me what the oracle said. The gift? Didn't I tell ye? No? It be immortality."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub.
AutoMedon – A mechanical poet of renown not for his vast catalog of poetry, but for his complete lack of anything written or spoken, having had no output in his programmed profession. His creator is unknown or at least unaccredited, and there are those in great number in the artistic world who wonder and marvel at his inability to produce poetry, crediting that flaw to his creator who is unknown or at least un-credited. There is also a small faction of scholars who believe that when he finally, finally speaks, it will be the most beautiful or sorrowful verse ever spoke or will ever be spoken. Whether his creator is among either group or dead is unknown. AutoMedon sits alone under a tin roofed enclosure, upon a stone chair, with his gaze off in the distant as if thinking.
“It’s strange to look at this mechanical man and think what thoughts are working through its’ workings or even if the damn thing is” – Aralis of Qurim, poet and pottery salesman