<div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/64/Borpalface1.jpeg)</div><strong>Name</strong>:<strong>Borpal</strong>(http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=188184.msg9090583#msg9090583)<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Institute of War<br/><strong>Tagging</strong>: Open<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Six years at the Institute, and nothing to show for it. Wrongs had been righted, lives had been saved, justice had been upheld -- these were all good things, no doubt. Heroic. These things helped to keep the fabric of society knitted together, when so many forces were arrayed to tear it apart. These things, though, did nothing to quiet the cries of the hundred souls that Borpal carried within him. A hundred men, women and children exterminated in a day in a massacre that he could not yet bring himself to regard as random. There had to be a reason, a cause, a justification. There had to be someone who could be made to pay for the blood spilled in the Bubbling Bog so many years ago. For if not, then why did the powers of Mud and Mist grant him such strength? If not, why did the Gods make him their champion? Or was it perhaps only one more cruel joke on the part of Fate?<br/><br/>As the grippli drifted down the vaulted passageways of the Institute on his well-worn flying carpet he wondered if this day, like none before, would bring him answers. He automatically adjusted his altitude to avoid those who walked the halls, murmuring commands to the enchanted device in his native tongue. As far as he knew he was the only grippli at the Institute; certainly he had never met another, and his odd method of conveyance was now a common and unremarkable sight.<br/><br/>There were three already present in the antechamber when he arrived. His large glistening eyes took them in, their names floating up in his memory. Wyren, Bresnahan, Zhara. The archer stood alone while the other two conversed. Borpal had worked with none of them yet, but each had reputations. Top tier operatives, one and all. Clearly today's mission was something of great import. Or, possibly, something ceremonial. He hoped it wasn't the latter. Impressing dignitaries in exhibition fights did nothing to honor the trust he had been granted.<br/><br/>Borpal drifted toward Wyren and down, until the frog-man hovered at the level of the archer's waist. He noted the man's bow, held in hand, and briefly wondered if he should have come armed as well. "Mister... Alsatt, is it?" He offered a small webbed hand. "I am Borpal, of the Honeytoe Tribe. Unless I have you mistaken for someone else, I hear you're something of a legend with that bow. I look forward to working with you."<br/><br/>