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Name: Sterne Evans
Race: Male Hyur of Midlander clan
Nameday: 16th Sun of the 2nd Umbral Moon
Guardian: Nymeia, the Spinner
Location: Ul'dah, Balmung, Crystal
Grand Company: Flame Captain in Immortal Flames
PvP Team: Leader in The Salts of Rhotano
About: It was the beginning of winter for the northern city-state; a time when overcast becomes less of a second thought and more of a mumbled certainty. Unlike the other climates of Hydaelyn, this isolated and distant spit of land is more hawkish and at times more bitter than most. The air traveling from the southern climates cools and creates a condensed and coalesced blanket of clouds that block out the yellow glow of the sun for days.
It is the White Shroud, and the light that can break through dulls the colors of everything beneath it including the Cwinsyng Estate. Their property occupies only a few malms on the mountainous coast opposite of the eastern sea port-city, Kemaer, the gateway to Casttain.
The Cwinsyng Manor lies in the center of their lands and on the precipice of a hanging valley. The walls are wedged between rising mountain slopes. A series of braces support them in rebellion against the weight of the earth beyond the yalms thick stone. The lands surrounding them have been cultivated into a graduated terrace and, in spite of the weather, its brushes and bundles of vines thrive under the withering lights.
All along the valley cold winds howl. They carry the scent of the mountains and pierce through the manors concentric walls. The chill reaches the inner sanctum where a decision is being made.
Sterne walks to the larder on the far side of his father’s home with swift determination and comfortable familiarity in his steps. As he grows closer to it his gait grows more deliberate, cautious and careful; almost paranoid. He reaches up to a leather pull and it crinkles in his hands under the pressure. The oversized door swings open with a groan. With determination, he doesn't make a sound gliding into the room. The door shuts just as quietly with a puff of air, shifting layers of dust and other signs of neglect.
Silently he convinces himself of what's next and its necessity. After a moment he brings his focus to a tarred baldric wrapped in dirty linen. The dust finally settles and without hesitation he tugs on the fabric. It eagerly glides off the altar revealing a straight-sword. The hilt gleams in the light, beautifully ornate with green accents and iron spirals that yearn to touch the pommel. He reaches out to touch it in their stead and marvels over how the blade is still sharp and pristine after all this time. It’s stained a muted olive green that starts at the ricasso and fades to black steel a quarter of the way through the fuller.
Sterne takes his time admiring the craftsmanship of his father’s work. Holding it before himself, he is reminded of the melodic combination and perfection of its balance, counterbalance and sturdy construction.
It takes only another moment more for Sterne to move as swiftly he entered the room.