Anshul Zilknar

"Remember this, friend: despair not when you are at your weakest point, for that- that is when you are the most open to change. Either you will grow; or perish."

## Anshul Zilknar

"I have travelled far and seen much. Yet nothing warms my heart so much as the sight of a monster so massive that its fury makes the very world tremble."

### Skills

Monster Hunter by trade; tracking, foraging, dungeoneering, swordsmanship, latent psychic abilities.

## The Land Midst the Sea

Most stories begin with a 'once upon a time' and finish with 'a happy forever after', yet these lands from which Anshul hails from know not of either. For what has been, is and forever shall be: a mystical place beyond the sea, a shell of its former self. *Maraguarde*, or, as it is known in whisper by esotericists through out *Faerûn. Seahold.*

Legend has it, that past the Mere of Dead Men on a full moon one is capable to see... something midst the retreating waves. A hidden path. They call it *Breda*. The Old Way, onto a kingdom that no longer exists, yet... if one glares at the waves for too long, one can almost swear that there is more land past this point. Islands, that did not exist during the day peeking into view. Alluring and mysterious, the fascinating concept of finding lands which are not marked in maps, but to follow this path- as one will eventually find out- leads nowhere. Except of course: towards death.

For this hazardous territory remains uncharted for a reason, the islands seen, may seem stable at first. Nevertheless, as the high tide comes, large waves erase most that there was, consuming the pockets of land and... as they retreat, once more, create islands.

Deep within this wasteland, there are places that remain untouched, havens, that are only known to few. The locals, inhabitants of the Fortress Monastery of Maraguarde, Mystic Knights that scatter across the continent and beyond on their errantries to gather knowledge and wealth for their people. Though, not all serve this purpose. Fishermen, artists and blacksmiths- midst a myriad of other crafts, ranging from the mundane to the magickal, all live in the sanctity of the mystical island. Too far away to reach by foot, even if one knows where it is... and the sand, too unstable to cross with beasts of burden. So a would be explorer may be tempted to explore by air, yet, the Ironwind may consume them, a destructive storm of infinitesimal sized metal shrapnel that devours all that comes across. Leaving only sand, and ruins on it's wake. Appearing as mercurially as the seas take and give, there is no pattern for when or how long a storm may appear or last, it may be months, or two may appear in quick succession before an hour elapses on a standard clock- yet, birds are rarely caught by it- as the saying goes "Birds on land, trouble at sea."

Anshul, as all of the other mystic knights, was raised in the traditional chaste system. One's worth at early age dictates the likelihood of being accepted into a particular field; crafts and art are highly prized, and hence any manifesting natural talent for such are immediately taken aside, spared from the ritual necessary to be taken in as a true member of the order, the Errantry.

It is unknown the exact process and what truly makes one a candidate to evade the Errantry beyond the before mentioned, but it is through this pilgrimage that potentiates the growth of their people. To collect wealth, knowledge or at the very least- die trying. "Glory will surely follow" as a traditional saying goes. For death is only a step towards being reunited with their Patriarch, Zilknar- of which all bear the name.

Along it's illusive history, it is said that there was a rebellion to reform the government- to become more welcome of outlanders, and share the knowledge to evade the Ironwind and provide the mounts necessary to merchants, bringing in potential wealth and allowing the means to transverse the tidal wasteland- salamander horses. (As it turns out, they are also rather terrible at naming endemic animals, go figure.)

Close-minded, stubborn to the bitter end and zealous beyond reason- raised in a society that endures through undying loyalty, the silver women and men of Maraguarde may seem exceptionally honest and loyal during their errantry, but truthfully only the bonds to home matter, and acquiring glory. For that, glory, in their culture is a physical thing that shall be measured in the afterlife, like an exotic spice, and shall dictate where they will be sent. Kelemvor is said to also be involved in the process, or at the very least, his scale.

## About the Character

### Personality

Grim and austere, taciturn even, is how Anshul comes across initially. A traditional trait of the masked mystic knights. Yet, that first shell is not all that exists. There is flesh beneath the armour, even if the skin may seem like silver.

### Beliefs

Yet, it is metal that dictates their lives. An iron grip defending that which they believe in. "Gold, Guts- and Glory!"

Some of the mystic knights are said to be born with a particularly strong link to their ancestor, this manifests quite strongly in their physical shape: as hair morphs into feathers, the occasional lucid dream becomes constant prophetic nightmares- and an unwavering feeling of being watched, judged, ensues. These are the marks of Zilknar, and Anshul belongs to the unfortunate group that bears them. A short, yet eventful life is bound to accompany all those which manifest particular attention of the ancient and wrathful entity.

The ceremoniarch and traditions of these folks are too outlandish to be described with mere words, as truthfully, so is their land- many customs are intertwined with foreseeing omens and premonitions that may aid in the prevention of the countless hazards natural to *Maraguarde.*

Hypocrisy colours the fatalistically poetic view of their world, after all, faith is purest when it is unquestioning. Tradition has been what has kept them alive for countless generations, without it, in their retrograde view, they will be nothing. Yet, disproving this, they are not the only survivors from the ancient kingdom of Scyr. Which currently lies midst the seafloor, beneath a roaring maelstorm- accurately named '*Zilknar's Eye*', a tenebrous and roaring storm ensues, all consuming, and wrathful beyond description. To gaze upon it for too long may lead to madness ... whispers, outlandish images from far away and alien places, sheer primordial dread. It could be enlightening as much as it could be disturbing, but trips to one of the ancient tombs near this storm paint their culture.

And the other survivors, you ask? They live near this Maelstorm; three volcanic fingers poking from beneath the waves and reaching for the heavens in a profane gesture are a sign that one has arrived to the "Reefs of Depravity", where knowledge of the Deep and Beyond lie, where blood sacrifice and ritual sex is common place- and perhaps, the only place in all of existence where the steadfast monk paladins of Seahold dare not go.