The Myst of Avsolom is a medieval high fantasy role play forum set in an original world. It is 3/3/3 on the RPG scale and 18+
The role play is freeform which means there are no stat systems, but there are Rules and Guidelines for members to follow.

Tic's Tinkerings




NAME: Dubh Splinterbane
AGE: 29
WEIGHT: 280 lbs
JOB OR RANK:Hunter/Scoundrel

PERSONALITY: Free of the confines of the tribe, Dubh is capable of great mirth and frivolity when plowed with wine, women or opportunity. However he can also be quick to anger, and his vengeance is a well with depths unknown even to himself. He longs for high adventure and the spoils such risks inevitably bring.

BIOGRAPHY: Survival is a skint, brittle conceit in the tractless wastelands of Unbai. There in a endless basin of sand and scrub, the Krodgekh tribe of orcs claw, scratch and rend out a meager living amongst the rolling dunes. Wedged between the implacable peaks of Tor Molosva and the fiery ribbon of ash and molten rock that carved its way through Cathwa, the orcs of the Krodgekh scoured the dusty hinterlands for resources and game.

Their hunting packs, astride their great wargs, became an increasingly common sight amongst the baking wastes in the months after the second great Surge. Dubh Splinterbane rode with one such party, his slight, sinewy frame visible near the rear the pack. Orc culture was built around skill and merit, but for the Krodgekh life in such spartan environs had hewn much of the communal sentiment from their societal bones.

In Unbai, dominance and power are coupled with raw strength. Despite towering above most humans, by orcish standards, Dubh is undersized. Such a limitation in a society that prizes physical aptitude left a deep cleft on Dubh's psyche. Despite his skill with dagger and bow, much of his youth and formative years were spent in supplication and compliance, all of which was steeled with a streak of blue-burning resentment.

An errant hunting accident changed the course of the young Orc's life. Toppled from his mount, the hunter suffered a calamatous blow to the back on his head. As he recouperated over the following weeks, blinding migraines and paralyzing nightmares draped his reality like a shroud. The paraonia and inhibition that had so dominated his personality ebbed away, and its place jealousy and a capacity for cruelty took root.

By the time he rejoined the hunting pack, Dubh didn't look upon his fellow tribesmen with an intimidated deferrence, but rather with a smoldering hatred. When the seething young hunter let loose the killing shot on the party's cornered prey, another orc had the audacity to claim the fallen beast's trophy. A great curved horn the length of an orc's forearm. That night, as the tribe enjoyed the fruits of the hunt, Dubh abstained, his stomach twisted in knots with hatred.

That night, while the rest of the camp slept, Dubh snuck into the longhouse and stole back his rightful prize. Retribution was swift and customarily merciless. For three days and nights he hung in a treetop cage, his black anger deepening. The night of his release, he stole away into the longhouse once more, found the slumbering orc who had claimed his trophy and bludgeoned him to death with a shield-edge. As he fled the encampment, the shouts of alarm and outrage barely discernable in the fading distance.

As he steered his warg through the flats, his thoughts turned now to this strange, starkly solitary existance that stretched out now before him. Blood, lust, riches and glory danced before his mind's eye. Few things were certain in this strange, alien land which he found himself, but desires such as these translated in any tongue.

MAGIC & SKILLS: Tribal life trained Dubh in the art of bow and blade. He is a capable tracker and an able survivalist.

* Waterskins
* Light leather armor
* Dagger crafted from a desert beast's horn
* Hunting bow/arrows
* Short sword
* Bedroll
* Flint/tinderbox
* Desert robes
* Warg named 'Turk'



Murajil Harbour
: Setatut, Cathwa
Climate: Warm, arid
Affiliation (if any): Cathwa Nations
Population: Merchants, corsairs, traders, assorted scum and villainy.

Befitting it's decentralized system of authority, the coastal port of Setatut is home to an endless number of dockyards, marinas and ports. Powerful citizens spend untold riches to carve out their own private niches of the city's congested coastline to ensure the safety and expendience of their shipments or contraband.

Those without such resources utilize the frenzied public harbor. Partially encircled by a coiling strand of isthmus, it is named Murajil, or cauldron. At any given time, the recessed bay plays host to sundry assortment of merchants, travelers and corsairs from across Avsolom.

The docks themselves are a motley, if functional, construction of piers and boatyards, teeming with activity and vibrant characters at every turn. Merchants, sailors, steveadors, laborers, thieves, fisherman and more all make up the lively throng that flock to the harbor. A host of businesses aimed towards the weary passenger or roving seaman also crop up along the harbor's edge. Taverns, brothels, inns, and restaurants offer cheap rates and even cheaper wares.

All habour business is stringently presided over by a triumvirate of three great pirate chieftains. Working in an uneasy peace, the three captains enforce a tax of all goods and shipping entering or leaving Murajil Harbour. This piratical syndicate works in concert with the various laborer guilds that facilitate shipping and transport to and from the harbour, making it very difficult for unwilling crews to find safe berth for their goods or viable paths to market.


The local businesses too act in accordance with the pirate lords wishes and should a errant captain prove obstinate to being taxed, will find no one in the harbour district willing to risk the triumvirate's wrath in the name of simple commerce. Such practical concerns of course ignore the very real army of cuttpurses, rogues and brigands at the pirate leader's beck and call should their 'negotiations' take a darker turn.

This monopoly of illicit taxation takes place under the tacit approval of Setatut's civic leadership. The laissez faire approach to city governance is a costly endeavor without the added expense of raising an army to flush out a nest of corsairs from their holes. Besides, so long as the goods reach their intended markets, why risk violence and turmoil?

Visitors and travelers alike to Murajil Harbour experience a tempest of bedlam-like activity, commerce, graft and corruption. For many, the madness of this environment itself is as alluring as any of the vices bartered so freely.


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