In the Worlds of Generic Fantasy



Jennifer Robinson
JenniAt about 27 years old, give or take a few years, Jenni is 5 feet and 7 inches tall with a pleasantly developed figure; long in the leg, but otherwise well proportioned to herself. Straight, fine, thick chocolate colored hair frames a vaguely angular face with high cheekbones and a stronger jawline than most women possess. Her mouth is unremarkable, being neither too small or too wide; lips neither very thin or full--though her smile often cants to the left. Her best trait is her eyes, which are green. Not pale, washed-out green and not hazel, but bold, clear hunter green. They are serious eyes, set under expressive, mobile eyebrows and on either side of a straight nose. Just off her right eyebrow is a small mole. Her hands and fingers are long and dexterous, often cool to the touch, and strong.

Her attire consists of practical leather boots; tough cloth pants, usually brown or another dark color; a plain utility belt; a cloth tunic of a light color such as blue or green with a vest to match her pants (when matching is possible) over top; and the omnipresent dark green cloak. On the belt, she carries a plain belt knife and a few pouches with various things in them. She also has a backpack, the contents of which are subject to change but typically contain a store of herbs, food, and light equipment.

Fairly easy-going and gregarious, she'll talk to just about anyone unless they're truly boring. She has no patience with "perfect princesses" who just ask for trouble. She is usually a very logical person in that she never does anything without a good reason and so is annoyed by inane behavior and won't put up with it for very long. She's a talented peace-maker and is good at restoring order to chaotic scenes--when people listen to her. That they often don't is a source of great consternation to her. She's the sort of person who sees who you are capable of being rather than who you are, and sometimes has her standards set too high. She has made a study of people and quickly sees through the facade they show the world and into the person inside.

In general she is a very understanding, kind, and loyal friend. She knows almost immediately if something is wrong, and can be very blunt--and stubborn--about finding out what. She will resort to any means to beg, plead, taunt, demand, or tease the information out of the person. She has her cynical and sarcastic side, and it's really not advisable to make her angry (she has a killer LOOK that says quite clearly "if you don't shape up and/or shut up I shall personally make your life extremely miserable and there's nothing you can do about it"), but she can be quite silly and playful with people she is comfortable with, her close friends. These seem few and far between to her, however.

Jenni is a wanderer, roaming at will from place to place, offering her services as a healer wherever she goes. She will sometimes settle for a while, but she will still tend to disappear without warning or reason from time to time, and sometimes returns with a tale or two to tell of distant places with strange names. All in all, an enigma with a quest to "rid the world of injustice."

Miscellaneous Information:     Scent: Leather, woodsmoke, herbs, a hint of some spice like cinnamon or cloves.     Key colors: Hunter green, dark blue, silver, and brown or red.     Erogenous zone: Neck, hands to a lesser extent.     Glass: Contains 50% of total capacity.

Evarel Starshade
EvarelEvarel is a half-elf. His heritage makes him tall and wiry, being 6'2" but weighing surprisingly little for all his long bones and tough travel-hardened muscle. Though outwardly he appears to be in his late twenties, his true age is impossible to guess. He has a round face with a pointed chin, high cheekbones, a straight, high-bridged nose, and the slightly peaked ears that mark him as half-elven. His mouth is wide and thin, the lips being very flexible. His hair is feathery in its silkyness and bouyancy and is a light cinnamony shade. Bangs brush his forehead, and the rest grows long enough to tickle the back of his neck. His eyes are dark brown, set deep in their sockets, and topped by eyebrows that move freely and often. His skin is pale and creamy and flushes rose-pink.

Evarel is a wandering bard, and dresses accordingly. He favors bright colors, though his ensemble is constantly changing. Currently his riding boots are dark blue; his trousers pastel yellow; the tunic he wears is a light grey-blue; and the vest over it all is royal purple with bright brass buttons. He also wears gloves the same color as the boots, a cape blood-red on the outside and lighter on the inside, and a sheer fuscia sash tied around his waist over a belt to match the boots and gloves. Attached to the belt is a simple knife made for eating rather than fighting, though it can be used for that purpose if Evarel finds himself in such a situation. He also owns a sword, but it mostly stays in its sheath attached to the saddle of his horse, Sasha. She is a tall, sturdy mare, black as black can be with kindly brown eyes and a pink nose. She carries Evarel and the rest of his equipment, consisting of travel food, a change in attire, basic survival gear, and his musical instruments. These are an old, well-used guitar, a tambourine, and split pipes--when these aren't tucked into Evarel's belt.

Evarel with SashaEvarel's most notable trait is his fierce love of Sasha. They are virtually inseperable. Where Evarel goes, Sasha goes. She is his best friend. If the mare were humanoid, they would probably be lovers. Anyone threatening harm to her has to get through him first. Evarel isn't typically the most frightening person, but then most people aren't stupid enough to bother his horse. Mostly, however, Evarel is a natural buffoon. He is witty, jovial, silly, and fun. He sings, he dances, he makes a great fool of himself and seems not to notice or care. He possesses great charm nonetheless, and flirts shamelessly whenever opportunity presents herself. Life is a game to this bard. His concerns are mainly to do with the manner in which he is going to acquire his next meal, or the gold to pay for it, and with watching the world around him. Nature enchants him, and he's just as likely to stop for a flower as a person on the side of the road. If you can get him to hold still long enough to get into a real conversation, Evarel may show the deeper side of himself. He is likely to wax philosophical about the workings of nature, the world, and the people in it. This, however, never lasts long. It is impossible to know him on an intimate level--if, indeed, he has one.

At one point in time, Evarel and Jennifer Robinson were companions on the road. This began after Jenni saved him from one of the more deadly spots of trouble he is wont to get himself into and healed an arrow-wound to his leg. They traveled together for a while after that. Evarel was delighted to learn that Jenni could sing, Jenni was delighted with the chance to do so, and they made good partners, each enjoying the other's sense of humor and wit. Eventually, however, Evarel's endless flippancy began to wear on the more serious Jenni's sense of morality. They parted ways somewhat bitterly--that is to say, Jenni was bitter--after an instance in which Evarel blithely ignored a tight situation that could have been helped by his interference but had nothing to do with him otherwise. His logic states that you doesn't ask for trouble, even if the cause is good, unless you can't avoid it or you can get something out of it while avoiding personal injury. Some would call him a coward. He would say he's merely interested in self-preservation. Jenni would say there's no difference between the two designations; and that if you can help, you should always try. They will still cross paths occasionally, as luck or fate would have it, and they are capable of camaraderie, but little more. Evarel would have the whole incident (and all the others like it) forgotten and left in the past, but who can account for the strange ways of others?
To view some of Evarel's bardic repertoire, go here.

Miscellaneous Information:     Scent: Vaguely sorta-elvish, horse, fine wine.     Key colors: Silver, bright red, light yellow, purple.     Erogenous zone: Mouth, face.     Glass: Ought to contain wine.

Pritha of Dorcet
Pritha is an old woman who calls herself the last true witch. She lives in a small, landlocked town called Dorcet and runs an apothecary there. Her home is above the shop. It is the one place where growing things are allowed to run rampant in the orderly, well-groomed town. The walls are hung with three species of vine, each of which has medicinal properties. Her garden contains conventional things like peppers and beans, but also things most people would dismiss as weeds like dandelion and prunella. Pritha knows that dandelion has great value as an herb as well as being edible, and prunella also goes by the name of self-heal. She makes all her wares.

Pritha herself is at least sixty, perhaps older. She is slightly stooped, her hands are gnarled, and her long braid is streaked iron and silver. Her square face is wrinkled and saggy, but her eyes are bright, unclouded blue. She has a rather prominent nose, but there is no trace of any sort of blemish there.

She truly is a witch, whatever the younger generation has to say about it. ("She doesn't even fly a broomstick!") She learned her craft from two of the best. When they died, their knowledge was bequeathed to Pritha. She has been known to curse people with unfaltering success, and to bless, as well. Dorcet, however it claims to despise her, couldn't properly get by without her.

As a woman, Pritha is gruff but not unkind. She never married, has no children, and lives alone. She believes respect is earned, not owed, and treats everyone about the same. Nevermind her age and gender; she is the least prudish person in town and doesn't hesitate to speak boldly. If you enter her domain after dark, looking for a particular potion, you're playing by her rules.

Pritha is--was--the mentor of young Jennifer Robinson. Jenni apprenticed as a healer, though. When Pritha says Last True Witch, she means it.

Noah Twayblade
Until you get up next to him and find that you're looking up at him, Noah appears short and somewhat stocky in build. He is short-limbed and stout-necked, and he actually isn't remarkably tall at about 5'10", but he has a presence, not apparent at a distance, that commands a sort of wary respect. Though he is strong, he isn't burly with muscle but rather limber. His movements are coordinated and graceful. He watches people from behind impenetrable hazel eyes which are overshadowed by a prominent brow and set in a thick-boned and solemn face, though his smile, when it appears, is winsome. He prefers his hair close-cropped and his face clean-shaven, but more often than not he sports a thin beard and endures a shaggy, light tawny brown mop of hair that seems bent on getting into his eyes.

He wears tough, home-spun, work-a-day pants and tunic in dusty, earthy colors or undyed at all, a common combination being a mouse-gray shirt tucked into brown trousers that are supported by Noah's wide sword belt. His cloak is little more than a blanket with a clasp. Whatever color it was, it is no longer. His tough leather boots are mud-caked and cracking.

As something of a mercenary, he doesn't own much else, and what there is fits into the sack he carries over one shoulder. His only possession of note is his sword, Gramin, which he treats with reverence. It is a very fine weapon that has been in Noah's family for a few generations. The blade is slightly curved and made of a metal that is light and flexible but strong--something very similar if not identical to Damascus steel, right down to the feathery patterns on the blade. It may give a little, but it will not break easily. The hilt isn't ornate, but it is stylish and lends itself to easy handling with one or two hands. The pommel is a polished moss agate.

Noah was born on a farm and grew up with his parents and siblings. As a middle child, his prospects were limited to working the land with his brothers or apprenticing himself to a craft or trade. He chose the latter. Fascinated from a young age by the tales of brave knights and great deeds, he resolved at age eight to take up the family sword and use it to defend the principles of chivalry.

His fancy was not met with approval. For three years he did his best to respect his family and work hard on the farm, but finally his sense of purpose won out over obligation. At eleven years, he was too young to be a squire and late to begin as a page, but he resolved to try. He took Gramin and left. It took several months of rough living and a tenuous existence on the road to find a willing master, but Noah persevered. He did not find himself with a knight in the traditional sense, but he was desperate enough to learn from anyone. By age fourteen, he had proven himself a natural talent, wielding the practice blade with a surprising grace. Rather than expend his own energy wastefully, he learned to turn the enemy's strength against him. The sword, for Noah, is an extension of himself. His fighting has a look as natural as walking.

Noah continued to train with his master for the next six years, living an almost monastic life of daily meditation and exercise. He consistently beat most of his age-group competition in tournaments, and if he lost he studied his opponent and came back until he won. He and Gramin became a local phenomenon. However, Noah allowed none of it to touch him. He was still devoted to his dream. On his twenty-first birthday, he bid farewell to his master and set out to earn his knighthood.

Now, eight years on, Noah keeps himself alive by doing whatever jobs he can find, provided they mesh with his personal code of honor. He would rather starve than do something against his principles, and often he does.

Noah is a man who lives and dies by his sword. His honor is important to him, and the codes of chivalry guide all his words and deeds. What goes on inside his head is his own business and no one else's. When he speaks (his normal voice is a quiet, softly rumbling baritone), his words are thought out and placed carefully. Noah will spend a long time evaluating a man's character before he calls him friend, but once a friendship is forged, Noah will hold loyal and true to the bitter end. It takes a great deal to shatter his good faith. However, if you betray him so irrefutably as to break with him, then the bond is well and truly destroyed and you would be well advised to cover your retreat. You won't get a second chance unless it be in your next life, and at that point Noah will probably be happy enough to send you on your way himself.

Miscellaneous Information:     Scent: Dirt, leather, sweat, steel.     Key colors: Medium gray, dark brown, white, and bronze.     Erogenous zone: Not your business.     Glass: Has some water in it.

Sabia Weaver
Apprentice SabiaSabia is a ten-year-old apprentice in Heldon Castle's infirmary, where she does whatever tasks the healers set her, in the hope of earning a few extra pennies to take home to her family at the end of the day. Everything about her is rounded, though not because she carries any extra flesh about her young frame. Due to somewhat mismatched features, she's not pretty. Cute, maybe, but not pretty. Her eyes are gray, but while one is open, inquisitive and bright, the right one is heavily lidded and always appears half-closed. This does not impair her sight, unless it be a certain lack of peripheral vision on the affected side. Her nose is a mere button, and her smile is crooked. Her hair is straight and ash-blond, clean when possible and usually tied back in a ponytail one way or the other. If she ever gets much over five feet in height, it will be a miracle.

Most of the time Sabia lives with her family. Her father (Garret) is actually a blacksmith and not a weaver, though her mother (Maura) happens to work the loom for the extra support of her family. All Sabia's clothes, simple undyed dresses for the most part, are homemade. She does her best to keep them clean and fresh. She is very fastidious about her hands. Sabia is the fourth of five children, having two older brothers (Gilliam, Caden) and an eldest sister (Bronwen) as well as one little brother (Sean).
Garret is stocky and below average height for a man, not taller than 5'6. His eyes are pale blue. It's hard to tell what shade of brown or blond his hair is supposed to be. He's constantly afflicted with soot from his work, and it's rare to see him without a smudge or two somewhere on his face. That is plain and open, honest, and stubborn. He's fair, but isn't afraid to use a belt when his rules aren't obeyed.
Maura is a full head shorter than her husband, but isn't to be taken lightly. In fact, she's rather heavy. For all that, she's strong in body and in will--with five children, one has to be both to keep up! Like Garret, she's firm but kind, and runs a well-ordered household. She's a good wife and mother by anyone's standards. Her hair is thin, wiry, and faded strawberry-blond, and her eyes are hazel. Her round face might have been pretty, but years have washed it out and relegated Maura to simply plain.
Bronwen is the first child of Garret and Maura, eighteen years old and looking to marry the first likely suitor. She's attractive enough with her blue eyes and long, wheat-colored hair, and taller than both her parents. She finds being firstborn and a girl isn't much fun, as she gets stuck with looking after her younger siblings more often than she would like so that her mother can work. In response, she does her best to be a good daughter both to make up for not being a boy and so that she can get out sooner. She's a good person and loves her family, but she lacks patience.
Gilliam got the few dominant genes hanging around in the bloodline. Unlike his parents and siblings, his eyes are dark brown. He got his father's set jaw and dark blond hair, which he wears long enough to tie back in a short ponytail that brushes his neck. Gill, as his family calls him, is fifteen, and feels just as annoyed as Bronwen that he wasn't born first. Still, he's the eldest son, and mostly does exactly what is expected of him as such. He goes to the forge with his father every day and learns the trade, and keeps an eye out for his younger siblings.
Caden, as the middle child, finds that he wants to be anywhere but where he is. He isn't going to get the blacksmith business, he can't simply be married off, and he doesn't like the idea of working for Gill for the rest of his life. He's only a year younger, after all! He wants to make a name for himself, he wants adventure, and he has the personality to successfully seek it. While he doesn't resemble the rest of his family in attitude, he takes greatly after his father in appearance. He's short and strong, with dun-colored hair and blue eyes, which are plain and unremarkable except for a certain flame of lively spirit.
Sean is the baby of the family at eight years old. For the time being he is slender and seems all limbs. He takes after his mother with reddish hair and blue-green eyes. He dearly wants to be like his older brothers and emulates them to the point of annoyance. Gill is the subject of abject hero-worship. Sean would do anything for him.

Sabia would love to be a healer and not spend all her waking hours bent before a loom--that clacking monstrosity, as she sees it. She finds everything about the healer's trade fascinating and is eager to learn whatever the masters feel like teaching her. She's been described as "one of those serious kids that knows they have to be something more someday." Often she has to be told to run along when she's caught staring at what someone else is doing. She's polite and courteous, on the quiet side, a bit shy, and always helpful, but a little scatter-brained.


Jennifer Robinson
In a modern setting, Jenni follows the same physical and personality description as her medieval counterpart. At the same time, certain differences must be noted. She still prefers utility, so she wears denim jeans and good walking shoes. In the cooler seasons she likes sweaters, generally dark earthy colors and particularly green. In warmer weather, she'll wear simple cotton t-shirts. One favorite is black set with the phrase "Do not start with me. You will not win." in white. Her preferred jacket is a long slate grey trenchcoat with deep pockets. Sometimes she wears a silver necklace with a pendant about the size of a dime shaped like two overlapping circles containing a flaming chalice.

Her relationship to the world is an easy-going on. She is a freelance writer and moves around a lot in search of inspiration. She has seen a lot of strange things in her travels, so the occasional sighting of a vampire, werewolf, demon, or other creature is no big deal. She has even been known to give in to vampires willingly in the interest of perpetuating the predator-prey cycle. Humans are in sore need of one, she says. Always she has a need to heal, and she'll talk to anyone with hopes of hearing their story.

Until about fifty years ago, this person was a man called Daniel Liberston. Forty years ago, he started calling himself Ramiel. Thirty years ago, he ceased to use Daniel Liberston at all. Daniel Liberston is dead.

At first glance, Ramiel is an unremarkable man in his early forties. The careful observer, of course, will note his individual features. His smooth, beardless face is pale, almost unnaturally so, but how many desk jockeys spend any time in the sun these days? His sleek hair is the color of dark, polished walnut wood except for an elusive streak of gray at the left temple. His eyes are light, striking blue hiding under heavy brows and behind bronze, wire-framed glasses. He has a straight nose, though with a prominent diamond-shaped bridge, and a thin-lipped, unsmiling mouth. He is about half an inch shy of six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and slab-muscled. However, his body generally remains hidden under tasteful, professorial clothes, and those under a long, charcoal-gray overcoat in the winter and foul weather. His hands (square-palmed, long-fingered) tend to hide in the pockets, and he walks with his head down (a forelock of fringe falls forward to shade his right eye) and shoulders hunched.

Eventually, the careful observer will notice that certain things about Ramiel's manner betray his true nature. He is only seen between the hours of sunset and sunrise--in that order. His eyes are sensitive to light, and the glasses have no lenses. His head turns and his nostrils twitch at the slightest breezes, like a hunting beast. He avoids water. His lips are not just thin, but drawn tight over his teeth as though determined to keep guard on them. He is quiet and antisocial. In a word, he is a vampire--but a very reluctant one. He was turned at the age of 46 under circumstances that could almost be called accidental. After fifty-one years, he still hopes to find a higher purpose to his un-life.

Damian Truwick
A "gifted" young man of twenty-six years and one bizarre ability. Damian is about 5'6" with a square, lightly muscled build. He enjoys working out, but has never been able to put on much bulk. He has medium-brown hair that he wears in the popular longish style and "dirty" blue eyes, as though they'd tried to be hazel and got stuck. His manner of dress usually involves blue jeans, a t-shirt with or without a design, and a lightweight, unbuttoned overshirt with collar and cuffs.

Breaking all standards of normalcy, Damian is only just developing his ability. Most "gifted" people discover theirs around puberty or earlier. Damian was taken completely by surprise when he apparently caught a bad case of food poisoning from a fellow in a sandwich shop. The fellow went from green to pink in seconds and Damian wound up with his head between his knees just as quickly. He has since learned that the incident (on top of a long string of colds, headaches, and mysterious little cuts and bruises) was a symptom of his ability. Essentially, he is able to take the physical ailments of others into himself. At present, it only works with people within a few feet of him and the effect is temporary if the problem is congenital. He can't yet prevent it from happening, but he recovers when given time and distance, as though his body has a "reboot" function that kicks in when outside influences are removed. If asked, Damian might describe himself as the freak offspring of Rogue and Wolverine or of Peter Petrelli and Claire Bennet, depending on whether he was talking to a fan of "The X-Men" or of "Heroes," respectively. Clearly, if his ability is of any use, it's as support for the fighting supers.

In his previous life, Damian worked a regular crap job and lived in a crap apartment with two other guys. He played football in high school, but wasn't good enough to merit scholarships and didn't have the money for college. Only the Discovery channel and Wikipedia have saved him from total ignorance of the wider world of learning. He wouldn't be caught dead at it, though. His roommates would never have forgiven him for being the closet geek he is. If he happened to come out with a stray fact about sharks or DNA or ancient history, he always explained it as "something he'd heard somewhere." He would have flatly contradicted anyone who suggested there might be people who could fly, or move objects with their mind, or spontaneously heal from any wound. He moved with the crowd, somewhere near the back of the pack, going with what worked and finding an edge where he could.

Damian is a decent-enough human being. He is socially responsible, at least. Though he often comes off surly or brusque, he likes people and wants them to like him. However, his ability tends to garner more pity than respect, and he can't abide it. He keeps aloof for his sanity as well as his safety. When he can, he enjoys working out or sitting quietly with a cup of coffee and something to read.

Donald Hopkins
{Character Sketch} Age 18; height 5'9"; hair mussy russet; eyes blue; skin light, ruddy tan; build that of someone who excercises sometimes but lounges the rest; wears jeans and t-shirt; high school education; funny, goofy, compassionate.

Theodore Hopkins
{Character Sketch} Nickname Ted; Donald's brother; age 21; height 5'11"; hair curly blond; eyes blue with glasses; skin pale; build lanky with broad chest and shoulders; wears button-down collar shirts (usually white, sometimes with vertical pinstripes) and a tie with slacks (usually black or grey); college education (medicine); serious, witty, in control.

If it isn't mine, it belongs to someone else. If it isn't someone else's, it belongs to me.

This page last updated 12.30.06