[Characters] The Heroes of Baldur's Gate

[Humble Athena]

Name: Visalia
Race: Half-elf, Bhaalspawn
Class: Ranger (Skirmisher) -TWF
Age: 32
Region: Candlekeep
Alignment: Neutral, Neutral-Good by convenience

 

Visalia is on the petite side of the average, with lightly tanned skin and soot-gray eyes. Her hair is naturally a vibrant blood-red, but she has taken to staining it a darker auburn just so it won't be so attention-drawing, and also wears a dark hood over it. Her clothing tends to be a hodgepodge of articles in greens, browns, tans, and blacks. She used to own a lovely blue dress for special occasions, but it has long since been ruined and discarded.

 

Despite growing up in a library, Visalia isn't overly fond of reading. She will, however, never turn down an offer to tell her a story, unless circumstances insist she regretfully must. She spent most of her youth in a state of childish selfishness born of a shallow ignorance of other people's needs, but that began to change for the better when Gorion brought her a wolf-pup whose mother had been killed. The lessons she learned then have developed an adequate appreciation for the needs of others over time,
Still, rarely does she ever do anything purely from the kindness in her heart. Ever since learning of her heritage, a simple good deed becomes, in her mind, proof to herself and others that she is not falling to her dark paternity. Otherwise, she tries to focus on what needs to get done right now, rather than what her personal future may hold. Life doesn't seem to slow down enough for her to stop and reflect much, anyways! Deep inside, she's a little bitter about all the people and things she's lost, but as she realizes that she is not the only one who has lost and that nurturing that resentment would be a psychological trap, she does her best not to feed that particular stain.
Her current four-legged companion,Jaspar, is the offspring of the first, sadly passed on a couple years ago.

 

The only thing Visalia knows about her mother is that the bright-eyed half-blood was an old friend of Gorion's who came to take sanctuary in the calm of Candlekeep when she learned she was to have a child, and who worked keeping the inn clean for Winthrop until the pregnancy became too much for her. If she had ever mentioned Visalia's father to anyone, nobody seemed to remember it. As she grew up, Visalia settled for nagging Withrop and Gorion constantly for stories of her mother, and sometimes stories in general. It came to the point where they would start sending her on errands to earn the stories, in order to get her out of their hair, or so it seemed. When not running errands or begging for stories, Visalia was happy to play with the other child(ren?) growing up at the Keep at the same time, often initiating games by sneaking up on him/her/them (or attempting to). She would 'hunt' some of the adult residents of Candlekeep as well, but only earned a scolding for such activities. On her fifteenth birthday, she received as a present a sad-looking wolf-pup whose mother had been killed by hunters or bandits. Sheira became her constant companion, and in caring for the wolf, Visalia came to understand empathy for creatures and people. As she grew older and was able to sweet-talk some of the guards into teaching her basic fighting, she eagerly volunteered for small hunting trips to supplement the Keep's victuals, but was forbidden until she was in her mid-twenties (equivalent of a late-teen human). Eventually Sheira grew older, and produced a child of her own. Named Jaspar, Visalia enjoyed the company of her two companions, until the time when Sheira was laid into the earth.

 

Visalia once had the romantic notion of seeking out and re-acquainting with a man she felt a strong attraction for, who had visited Candlekeep once. Lately, however, her motivation has simply been an attempt to stay one step ahead of all the trouble that seems to tumble down in droves around her, and to keep alive those she has come to think of as her trusted companions.

[idilippy]

For completed characters, post your original application as well as a link to your character sheet in this thread. Secreting some info is ok but the party has been traveling together for over a month and should have some idea of what everyone's personality and capabilities are.

 

Name: Revion Bellsulion
The elven bladesinger, a member of your party since your early travels along the Sword Coast, was split from your group once for torture and never returned.
Name: Jarek (called 'Jarek of Candlekeep', 'the hero of Baldur's Gate', 'Gorion's ward')
Jarek, a ward of Gorion, was with you in the cages but separated mere hours before Imoen arrived to free you. He was lead off in chains by your captor himself, his mind wiped out by a feeblemind spell so as to better let your captor examine him.
Name: Breuning Walters
The elderly Bruening, upon being freed, cursed Visalia for getting him into this mess. He cast a spell making him completely invisible and stomped off to find his own way out, refusing to have anything to do with your party.
Name: Taliesin Galewind
Taliesin, the amiable thief, released himself from his cage but offered his services to your captor rather than languish in his cell or try to escape. His service was accepted and you have not seen him since, nobody knows where he went or how he is doing there.
Name:Dilara Bramblethorn
Dilara was separated from your party before you left Baldur's Gate, and what happened to her since is a mystery. The little halfling was skilled with spells and powerful in her own way but never made an enormous impact on your group, only traveling with you for a tenday at the most while you were active in Baldur's Gate. Perhaps she escaped notice and capture, or perhaps she was working for your captor all along. Somebody had to tell them you were leaving for Candlekeep that day, and she did miss the caravan's starting time...
Name: Verati Adouelle
Verati was slain in the fight to escape Irenicus' lair, cut to pieces with a cry to Bhall on his lips and blood staining his hands.

 

Name: Iris Sylanna
Race: Half-elf
Class: Sorcerer (Verdant Bloodline)
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Region: Sword Coast

Appearance: Iris is an enchantingly lovely half-elf with deep green eyes and hair. The hair color appears to be natural and she generally takes terms such as "Fungus-Head" with a laugh. She's small and slim but generally appears to possess an excess of energy. All her movements are quick and her speech even more so. Her lightly tanned skin show evidence of a life spent outdoors by preference though probably more in a garden than a wilderness given her usual preference for elegant, brightly colored clothes.

Personality: Talkative and mischievous, Iris' presence is hard on those without sufficient sense of humor to deal with her. Insults, threats, and disapproval fail utterly at persuading her to behave and usually make things worse. On the bright side, she is warm-hearted, loyal and lacking in malice. Her worst pranks are never cruel and if someone's in genuine trouble, Iris is quick to try to help. Nor is she quite the fool her chatter might make her out to be. What comes out of her mouth is generally pleasant nonsense, not her actual thoughts and feelings on anything or anyone.

Name: Tawnos Wellborne
Race: Human
Class: Paladin
Alignment: LG
Region: Western Heartlands

 

 

Appearance: Although Tawnos claims that he never knew his father, it would not be a surprise if he was sired by a king. His lean, powerful physique can partially be attributed to many years of soldiering, but even so it is apparent that the blood of heroes runs in his veins. This, coupled with his bronzed skin and sandy blond hair, make him appear almost celestial.

Personality: Tawnos has been called both the best of and the worst of Torm's faithful. His magnetism and martial ability show limitless potential, but it is his willful nature, fierce temper, and his problem with authority that make him unpopular with many within the church. Although he holds Torm's ideals close to his heart, he has little patience for those that are truthful to the point of being cruel and this has earned him the reputation of being a troublemaker. Often it is thought that he prefers to swing first and atone later. He is forever the champion of the underdog, feeling most comfortable around the "common" people and enlisted soldiers, much to his officers' chagrin. His superiors rarely see the smile and easy going attitude that earns him so many friends.

Background: Tawnos is an orphan and ward of the church, having grown into adulthood under the guidance of the faithful of Ilmater, Tyr, and Torm. It was apparent that there was something promising about young Tawnos, but it was not until he approached manhood that he realized his destiny.

Tawnos spent many years travelling across the Western Heartlands and Sword Coast, fighting goblins, lizardmen, ogres, and other monstrous threats to the outlying villages under his Penance of Duty. He often traveled with adventurers when their aims matched his own, but differing ideals and his own sense of duty always kept him on the move.

Motivation for Adventuring: In addition to his desire to champion the downtrodden, the Penance of Duty requires that he assist the other goodly gods, the Debt of Direliction requires that he fight the influence of Cyric and Bane, and the Debt of Destruction requires that he explore and record dead or wild magic areas so that they may be repaired. He never has to look very far before finding a worthy cause to fight for...

 

Ring of Protection +3
Handy Haversack
Lion's Shield
Mithral Half Plate +3
Amulet of Natural Armor +2

Name: Vakira Fireborn
Race: Shield Dwarf
Class: Cleric of Dumathoin, Earth Domain (Metal Sub-domain) and Knowledge Domain (Thought Sub-domain)
Region: Underdark (Old Shanatar)

 

Personality: Vakira embodies many of the characteristics stereotypical of a dwarf. Stubborn to a fault, and often cantankerous far beyond his years, he is an old soul. Study and research are his guilty pleasures, and ones that his life in Old Shanatar did not often afford fair time to do. He is a devoted priest of Dumathoin and holds the burial and subsequent protection of the tombs of his kind as sacred above all else. Unlike many of his fellow priests however he also hold the burial places of the other races sacred, feeling that Dumathoin's hand is great enough to enfold all humanoids within its protection. He is righteous to a fault regarding the dead and holds necromancy (and its practitioners) on a pedestal. However, he is strongly biased against those who would subvert the exploration of undeath to their own purposes, believing that death is to be understood, but not abused. At times he can be grating to be around, not because he is particularly rude, but because his scholarly focuses have left him with little time to practice social niceties. As such, Vakira has been known to say the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time. This can be particularly troublesome because he can be fairly opinionated and quite vocal at times, and throughout his relatively short life this has led to several fist-fights. Still, if nothing else can be said about him, for those that he considers friends he is strongly loyal, treating them with near the respect that he does for those who have passed.

[zevonian]

Name: Simivin Tovekil "Tove"
Race: Aasimar (LA+0 as per PF bestiary)
Age: 24
Region: Dalelands
Class: Zen Archer (Monk Class Variant)
Alignment: Lawful Neutral (for now)

Appearance: Tove is fairly tall and of a lean, somewhat musuclar frame. His head is shaved bald except for a topknot on the back of his skull. He looks to be human, from all accounts, except for one eye being bright gold and the other a deep shade of purple.

He wears simple robes over breeches along with metallic bands and braces on parts of his body, a pouched belt, and thin boots. His only carried equipment appear to be an exquisite longbow and quiver.

 

Tove was once called quiet to a fault. He is not withdrawn, and while you can get a story out of him, he'd rather keep his opinions on most subjects to himself. He is one to want to know what anyone else has to say about anything, whether in detail during so called down time, or quickly during so pressing matters such as combat. This would be due to years of learning most everything from mostly silent monks and teachers of the tenets of Oghma. To be spoken to casually and not ordered to do things is generally a welcome relief.

But what Tove is most known for being concerned about is archery. Those that have seen him in combat know he capable of amazing shots, but is not a braggart. When someone asks how he did something, he tries to explain it, if he has time. His bow seems to be of considerable value, but he seems to treasure it more for being a gift from his sensei, and not for any gold piece price attached to it.

He is one of a small cadre of archers within the ranks of the monastery of The Order of the Swift Tortoise. He was raised in that mastery of the bow and arrow is tantamount to a way to self-perfection. It is not arrogance that leads him to believe he can achieve such a thing, but rather that in his younger age, he learned that his odd eyed appearance is due to his ancestry.

Tove is what the Followers of the Binder call an Aasimar. A trace of the divine is in his blood, perhaps angelic, perhaps godly. He knows not if other archers amongst his peers are of the same manners born, nor is he permitted to ask. But the sensei explained that such a lineage carries an extra expectation, though not a burden. And his eyes will serve him well until he learns how to shoot blindfolded. It took one full year for him to realize that his teacher was not making a joke with that statement.

It should be pointed out that his birth is shrouded in mystery, swathed in cloth and placed in a basket, found on the steps of a convent, parents unknown. It was one mile from the monastery that soon after accepted him, for only women were allowed in the nunnery. For the first half of his life, he was assumed to be human, as are the others who study, train, and live there. If asked of his lineage, he will cite his order's name, and little else.


Motivation for traveling to Candlekeep: He has traveled to Candlekeep once before, as a novice, for the elders say that all followers of Oghma should be blessed with the opportunity to study for at least one day there in their lifetimes. Now that he is allowed to walk the earth freely, he has ventured there once more to thank those he encountered previously for their hospitality, and to offer any services he can perform in exchange for continued allowance of those of his order to study there in the future.

Motivation for adventuring with a Bhaalspawn: He knows he is of divine ancestry, but not how exactly. He would hold no ill will towards someone who could have their godly lineage specified, and would want the opportunity to learn how such a family tree can be charted, so that he may possibly do so for himself. And being a student of Oghma, what greater knowledge could be gained than conversations with and study of a child of a God?

So when he was offered the chance to travel with that person, he agreed immediately, regardless of dangers ahead. His sensei once told him, "If you travel with a group that is being shot at, you may be the only one who can shoot back, and are thus needed."
So far, he's been needed more than once.

[Cedric]

Name: "Jas"
Race: Elf
Class: Rogue
Region: Waterdeep.

A slender moon elf standing around six feet tall, his skin pale and pearly and his eyes are Light grey, almost silver in color. His hair is raven black, thick and wavy and reaches beneath his ears and an assortment of earrings and piercings adorn various places on his face and body, including his eyebrows and nose. He is most commonly dressed in tight fit pants with a loose, silky shirt, heavy belts and knee high boots.

 

Luck Blade/Sword of Subtlety or any wicked Short Sword/Rapier/Dagger/Kukri Combination.
Ring of Feather Falling / Ring of Protection
Armor - Nothing specific comes to mind, Leather/Studded Leather of some kind.
Boots of Speed
Bottle of Air
Dust of appearance

[EngrInAZ]

Name: Ullithus Aldenrec
Race: Human
Age: 28
Region: The Sword Coast, City of Waterdeep
Class: Sorcerer (Arcane Bloodline)
Alignment: Neutral Good

Appearance: Ullithus has an infectious smile that is accented by his bright bluish green eyes. His wavy dark brown hair is cut short and worn stylishly loose and ruffled. Ullithus is relatively tall, with broad shoulders and a thin frame. He wears a flame red cloak trimmed in intricately embroidered gold and blue patterns. Beneath his cloak he wears a finely woven cotton robe, dyed a deep blue and tied at the waist by a black leather belt. Hanging off his belt is a simple looking dagger with one small ruby set into the hilt. On the leather scabbard is embossed a shield, ringed in flames, with a black bladed dagger in the center of the shield.

Personality: Ullithus is a confident man; confident in his abilities, confident in his style and confident in his decisions. Given that he is not quick to anger, Ullithus usually has a smile on his face, projecting his confidence. He is not one to shy away from a conversation or a story and is always willing to provide his opinion, perspective and experiences. Ullithus has a dry, sometimes sarcastic humor that can be interpreted as condescending, though he rarely intends it to be such.

Ullithus values the company of like minded individuals, whose goals and aspirations align with his need to promote a sense of goodness in the world. He is loyal to his friends and will do all in his power to help protect and defend those whom he deems worthy. Ullithus also has an insatiable curiosity for all things relating to magical knowledge. His innate ability to draw magical energies from within him, without the need to prepare spells, drives him to find new ways to tap this burgeoning power source.

Background:

 

Ullithus was born in the city of Waterdeep to Jaskus and Adelea Aldenrec. His father, Jaskus, and his grandfather, Urith, were both accomplished wizards in Waterdeep. They both studied with the Blackstaffs at Blackstaff Tower in Waterdeep, and Urith actually apprenticing under Khelben Arunsun for a brief time. Along with the magical lineage on his father’s side, Ullithus’ mother, Adelea, also had magical ancestry. Adelea’s grandfather was a little known wizard in Waterdeep who died mysteriously before Adelea was born. It was of no surprise when the young Ullithus showed aptitude for the magical arts and his father was more than excited to train his new protégé.

As Ullithus began to grow older it became apparent that the young boy’s aptitude for magic was somewhat different than his father’s. While his father would have to spend time each day, preparing and memorizing specific spells, Ullithus could quickly recall any of the spells he had learned without the need for memorization or preparation. This revelation intrigued Jaskus, causing him to invest more time, training and experimentation into Ullithus’ development. This added attention from his father only spurred Ullithus’ already burgeoning curiosity.

As interesting, and time consuming, the life a wizard can be, it doesn’t necessarily lead to a steady income. Ullithus’ family, in conjunction with their magical prowess, were also successful merchants. They dealt in the import and export of exotic and magical goods around the Sword Coast. Ullithus’ father would often leave Waterdeep for weeks at a time, traveling around Faerun in search of the next great deal or interesting artifact. When Ullithus’ grandfather passed away, Jaskus made fewer and fewer trips out of Waterdeep, and when he did travel, it was never more than a couple of days. Jaskus spent most of his time dealing with local business and running the shop.

When Ullithus came of age, and his father was confident in his abilities, Ullithus became the new collector for the business. Jaskus would send Ullithus out to the cities and towns of the Sword Coast, never straying too far from Waterdeep, in search of items to buy and sell. Ullithus has an impressive way with people, possessing a natural confidence that puts people at ease and makes them more receptive to his influence and opinion. It was not long before Jaskus gave Ullithus free reign to explore the greater Faerun to seek out, as he once did, the hidden treasures that were out there.

Ullithus spend several years traveling about the continent, exploring the different and varied civilizations and climates. He had many adventures along the way, but the one of most interest because it is the most recent and has led to his current predicament, happened while en route to Athkatla. Ullithus’ father had been friends of the de’Arnise family, having done some business with them in the past. Jaskus had not heard from de’Arnise in quite some time and so, Ullithus decided to stop in for a visit and see if they had anything of interest.

Ullithus was not expecting the reception he received at the keep. As he made his way through the wilderness which surrounds the keep, he became suspicious as the natural sounds and activities of the forest died away the closer he came to the keep. Once the keep came into sight, he quickly noticed something unusual…the keep was sealed up tight. Not paying as much attention to his instincts as he should, Ullithus proceeded to the keep. To his surprise, he was ambushed near the keep gate by several trolls. Thinking the better of engaging them in an open fight, Ullithus surrendered in the hopes of finding another way out of the situation. He has been held captive for a few days within the keep, apparently not a concern as the trolls continue to battle some external foe. Ullithus has been working at escaping his cell, but as of yet has been unsuccessful.

Motivation for Adventuring: Ullithus is a seeking of knowledge and artifacts. Anything of a magical nature, be it spell scrolls, items or information, are of interest to Ullithus. He has traveled much of Faerun in search of new spells and artifacts most on his own. To further his growth he would like to find other adventurers to explore with to enable him to secure some of the more power magics in Faerun.

 

[Arucard]

Shaelas Lunehalo Race: Aasimar Age: 30 Region: The Dalelands (Archendale) Class: Cleric Alignment: Lawful Good Appearance: Standing an imposing six feet tall, Shaelas is a book easily read by its cover. Holy markings adorn the white-and-golden full plate that covers her well-toned form as well as the falchion carried on her back. If that was insufficient to mark her as a champion of good, surely the Just for roleplay purposes for now; I do intend to take the Angelic Wings feat later if we go that far, and it doesn't seem reasonable that they'd just... sprout... one day. I expect I would roleplay it as her finally learning to use them to fly.feathered wings protruding from her shoulders and conviction-bound stare would erase any lingering doubts. Strands of raven-black hair frame her face, which remains beautiful despite its obvious wear and tear. Several faded scars across her neck, arms, and face reveal the life of one who is far more zealous in ending her foe's lives than in protecting her own. An air of authority attends her body language, and while her presence can seem soothing or even kind, there is a fierceness beneath that makes that authority seem anything but undeserved. Personality: For all of her aggressiveness in combat, Shaelas is by nature a gentle, peace-loving individual. She prefers to avoid combat whenever possible, preventing it either by diplomacy or concession; at times, such concessions are to her own detriment. Violence is always her last resort, but when it must be resorted to, she does so with a knowledge that no other option remains. As such, she commits to it with an unbridled fury and righteous vengeance that only a woman with unwavering conviction can boast. It is this unique, almost bi-polar mixture of qualities that lead to her assignment to the Baalspawn. A warrior more swift to judgment would attack them on the first perceived transgression; such an unprovoked attack would be disastrous both for the church's reputation and the potential for good that the Baalspawn possess. A clergy member more prone to mercy would lack the resolve necessary to do what must be done should they fall into corruption. Shaelas is patient, merciful, and loyal; she is also zealous, aggressive, and unbound by earthly affection. While she is often seen as stern and intimidating, she has an interior far softer than many ever realize. She is often on guard around those she does not know, lest advantage be taken of her dropping it. Once her trust is won, however, a much more relatable person appears. Though few know it save those who have traveled with her extensively, Shaelas has a fairly well developed sense of humor. She also possesses a moderate level of skill in gardening, and a taste for honey that borders upon the obsessive. Background: Raised in one of the villages of Archtassel, Shaelas was the result of an unlikely marriage between an Archendale soldier and a druid of the Archenwood. While their lives were largely different, they managed to provide a supportive and nurturing environment for the child; it was her father who taught her to finish a fight swiftly once it began, and her mother who taught her to value all living things. Neither parent is entirely certain of whose side the celestial heritage descended from, and both were surprised when their child was born with the feathered evidence of such ancestry. The church took ready interest in the development of the young girl whose feathery appendages marked a trace of the divine in an otherwise forsaken time. Shaelas' formative years occurred in the midst of the Time of Troubles, and the end thereof marked her first direct encounter with divine magic when she, in the heat of argument, caused an item in her hand to glow like the sun. The sudden manifestation of this "new" type of power could only be described as miraculous, and the recently returned magic of the priesthood did little to dissuade that impression. It took little convincing to win her to the faith of Tyr, and she joined a local order of paladins with the blessing of her family. Her first experience with the hatred of all things evil came during her initial encounter with the undead. The power of the emotion took her by surprise and pushed her into battle with little regard for strategy or her own safety, leading to several of the faded scars marking her face and arms. In the wake of that first and painful lesson, she learned the extent of her blood's zeal and eventually how to temper it with the patience of her mother. In time, her winning combination of compassion and zeal saw her rise through the ranks of her order, culminating in her greatest assignment yet. Motivation for Adventuring: Knowledge of the Bhaalspawn is a source of great concern in light of recent events, and to the church in particular. With the heroes lauded in the eyes of the public for their deeds, it would be unwise to assume them evil or purge them lest they turn to it. Nonetheless, the blood of devils runs in their veins; if they were to fall to corruption or into the wrong hands, the results would be catastrophic. Shaelas' purpose is to ensure that this does not occur. Her primary mission is to encourage the Bhaalspawn through example and exhortation to resist their blood and maintain a course of righteousness. So long as they do so, she will serve loyally as their protector and guardian against those who would exploit their potential. The unspoken corollary is that should the Bhaalspawn themselves turn to darkness, she will end the threat swiftly and without mercy.

[GrimDarkOtter]

Application! Name: Sir Tristifer Tyrol Race: Human (Illuskan) Age: 51 Region: The North Class: Paladin Alignment: Lawful Good Appearance: Sir Tristifer is an older man, readily apparent at first glance. His skin is weathered and lined, and his hair thin and white. Despite this he stands unbowed in his armor, around six feet in height. His armor is worn with age, but well cared for, as is his blade and shield, bearing the sigil of a golden chalice with a drop of blood above it, the symbol of his order. Though Sir Tristifer does not move with the grace he once did, he still has a certain confidence in every stride, and his sword arm is as steady as ever. Personality: Sir Tristifer is a gentle and grandfatherly soul at heart, more likely to step aside for a passer-by than push through as so many armored warriors do in the Market District. He speaks softly, but firmly, and when he argues he rarely does so with heated words, knowing that such only bring greater conflict. Unlike many of the warrior orders, Sir Tristifer is not overly stern or grim, and smiles often, in a thin and wistful way. Above all, the paladin's years have taught him patience, and he is often amused by the energy and impatience of youth. When others have exhausted themselves with frantic action or contested shouting, Sir Tristifer will find his place to step in with a wise word, and a gentle pat on the shoulder. Background: Tristifer was born the youngest of five sons in a boisterous household on the banks of the Rauvin River. His father Jonas owned the largest sawmill in Everlund, harnessing the power of the raging waters to cut huge planks and fine woods for the many craftsmen of the city. He was the only child of Jonas' second wife, and as such was somewhat younger than his brothers. Tristifer was consequently ignored and grew up somewhat scorned by his brothers, full of energy wasted running around town and causing mischief. With four other sons to provide apprenticeships for, Jonas was troubled as to what to do with the boy. But when Tristifer was nearly twelve years of age, the Order of the Golden Cup of Ilmater established a chapter house in Everlund and issued a call for squires. With no apprentice fee to pay, the choice was obvious, and Tristifer was sent to apply his energies to the service of a Sword of Ilmater. He was raised to be a knight, given lectures on their noble code and the principles of their god. The Tyrol's had never been a godly family, and Tristifer found he enjoyed the peace and communion of worship. He was assigned as squire to Sir Boris Uthardt, a boisterous man who enjoyed escorting merchant caravans along the many narrow trails of the North. Tristifer grew tall and strong, and was soon knighted in his own right, and sent far and wide to serve those both high and low. As part of his journeys, Sir Tristifer found the time to visit Candlekeep on some occasions, checking in on Gorion the Harper. He was acquainted with the older man from a desperate battle against Zhentarim, but knew he was not counted a trusted friend to the secretive fellow. Indeed, at one such visit Sir Tristifer was introduced to Gorion's new "wards", and he came away with no clue as to the child's origin or parentage, despite polite enquiries. Still, the children grew up happily enough, and Sir Tristifer always had time to say hello. But one time, after they had shared perhaps more than a little wine, Gorion muttered a prophecy of Alaundo that gave Tristifer a chill, and more than a few suspicions. Yet on one visit a couple years ago, Tristifer found Gorion gone, and the young ones as well. As he has aged, Sir Tristifer had become somewhat reluctant to throw himself into battle as he once did. Travelling miles and miles across the countryside took its toll. So he followed the advice of a trusted Ilmatari cleric and went even further south, to Athkatla. There, as in many cities, the poor existed in a struggle under the heel of the ruthless and powerful. Thugs and gangs exert control even as the authorities look the other way. There Ilmater can truly offer succour, and though Sir Tristifer had faced undead, giants and fiends, even the local tough is an evil to be opposed. Just a few days ago, Sir Tristifer heard word of a great explosion in the market, and a bloody confrontation between the Cowled Wizards and some sorceror. But he also heard of a half-elven woman with the group, and one of the arrested was named Imoen. The name brought up old memories, and prompted the old paladin to ask more questions. He even glimpsed a familiar face at the city gates. An enquiry with a friend amongst the Cowled Wizards even confirmed Imoen's arrest, and Sir Tristifer made his decision. Retrieving his armor from a dusty chest, he sought out the one who was once Gorion's ward.... Motivation for Adventuring: Sir Tristifer remembers Gorion the Harper as a secretive man, as so many of his kind are, but he also remembers him as a good man. Though he doesn't understand the full implications of what little Gorion shared with him, Sir Tristifer suspects that the man's ward has some dire destiny in store. And Ilmater commands his faithful to guide the lost and comfort the needy. Tristifer knows he grows perhaps a little too old and a little too slow, but his calling is stronger than any ache in his bones. To an Ilmatari, suffering in the name of a righteous cause is a true duty, so Tristifer will lend his wisdom and blade where he knows it is needed, in service to a noble cause.

 

Old Timer Paladins don't grow old, they just slow down. That was the thought that crossed Tristifer's mind as he hauled a bucket of mortar up the ladder. The weight wasn't that much, not compared to the body of a fallen comrade or a plague wagon, but for some reason the old knight thought he felt it more. But he ignored the noisy crack of his elbow joint as he hoisted the supplies and came to face his foe. A loose brick, hanging precariously over the doorway to the chapel. His chapel. He had been here almost two months, but it was still difficult to adjust to the concept. Few of the Adorned go most of a lifetime without being called to a particular abbey or temple, but somehow Sir Tristifer's place had ever been on the road. Until now. After carefully applying mortar around the edges of the stone, he took a small hammer from his belt and began tapping it back in to place, putting more mortar around the beveled edges and the surrounding pieces. The building now consecrated to Ilmater's will had been a seasoning shed for naval lumber, but the prevalence of good trees near the new Maztican colonies had made it unprofitable. And its owner, like many Amnians, thought it better to divest the asset in a grand show of charity, that the Honorable Rozha Mohinder would be spoken of as a man of wealth and generosity. Perhaps a grand edifice in the Temple District would have brought Ilmater more prestige in the eyes of the wealth-obsessed Athkatlans, but He was not needed there. Instead, Tristifer found himself in a poor neighborhood caught between the worst slums and the thriving, if criminal, docksides. Muddy streets and run-down old buildings, and a people that hold on to every copper coin as if it were their last. This was not a place for masons, carpenters or other tradesmen. These were men and women who existed thanks to nothing more than their toil. Come the evening service, the crude benches inside Ilmater's house would be sporadically filled by stevedores, laundresses and teamsters. All it took was one accident, a few missed days of work, and a family getting by would know what hunger truly meant. From his perch atop the ladder, Tristifer spied a two-wheeled cart coming down the unpaved street, pulled by a brawny and brown-skinned youth, and he smiled. Not today, he thought, finishing his work and climbing down. Raising a wrinkled right hand in greeting, Tristifer set down the bucket with his left and knocked on the door for Brother Keteroi. The portly young priest emerged with a scrub brush in hand, obviously interrupted in his own chores, but he had a smile of his own for Young Shesh. "Ah, good-son Shesh," Keteroi said, "you have brought us this evening's distributionary. And in a far more timely fashion than your father last week." Tristifer smiled at the memory of the portly Calishite merchant practically knocking down their door in the middle of opening devotions. "My father begs a thousand pardons," the boy said with an accent far more Amn than Calimshan, "and as apology has left you a cask of his own brandy." Indeed the wagon contained a small cask nestled amongst the cabbages, potatoes and other staples that helped their neediest worshipers. Brother Keteroi accepted the gift with good grace, knowing how business was done in Athkatla, and began praising Shesh for his diligence as a son and merchant as Tristifer began unloading. Between the three of them, the work was short, and soon Shesh was on his way, with Ilmater's blessing. The two Adorned closed the door and sat on the benches of their own manufacture, looking up at the crossed hands carved from soft pine that hung above the altar up front. The back of the large warehouse had been cordoned off into a small living space, and a storage area where Elder Shesh's goods now rested. With a glance to that door, Tristifer said, "We should sell it. Does he think we're going to sit around and drink the whole barrel ourselves?" Brother Keteroi laughed heartily and shook his head. Despite their age difference, the young priest obviously thought Tristifer the more naïve of the two. "Of course, not, Sir." he said, still smiling, "Any merchant wants to be open-handed with holy men, and to be seen doing so. After all, a pouch of gold would not require his son to bring out the cart for all to see, no?" Tristifer nodded, but inwardly he felt yet more out of place. This city had a roundabout way of thinking, and for some reason he just could not adjust. Elder Shesh was just one example. There were matrons but a few doors down who would rather spend more time sweeping a stoop than tending a vegetable garden. Keeping up appearances, the Amnian way. Just like he and Brother Keteroi and this temple that was a warehouse. Even the door wouldn't lock- *Wham!* went the door, proving his point once again. But this time it wasn't the wind or an insistent petitioner. In the doorway stood a trio of men, with curly beards and muscles bared. Their clothes were rags, or little better than rags. Not Thieve's Guild, then, Tristifer noted, They at least pretend to style. So they were certainly some local variety tough, and they swaggered in with precisely that manner. Tristifer was already on his feet, but Brother Keteroi had been caught by surprise, and stumbled as he rose to greet the newcomers. "Ah, gentlemen," he said with somewhat-unconvincing enthusiasm, "I'm afraid you've arrived a bit early for services, as such, but if you'd like to worship, the chapel is yours." The front-most thug, and the tallest, grimaced at the attempt to defuse the situation. "No. This is our street, in our 'hood, and we just saw a wagon of goods come 'round with no cut for me or the boys." A rusty knife appeared in his hand, drawn from this rawhide belt that kept the leader's loose tunic closed. "Now you stand aside and we take what's fair, plus a little extra for your rudeness." As Brother Keteroi opened his mouth, trying to find some pleasantry to smooth things over, Sir Tristifer let his hands slowly, by inches, fall to his waist, and reached for the mason's hammer still in his belt. "Please," Keteroi finally uttered, "We have some lovely brandy hidden away that can be yours for a bargain price." The priest's smile isn't ingratiating enough, apparently, because the knife swiftly finds its way into his right shoulder, tearing through the grey robe like so much air. Sir Tristifer took his chance. In one movement he grasped the hammer's handle and drew it upward, forcing the leader of the trio to release the knife. But his other hand suddenly held another, and it was a stroke of the luck that the paladin put his improvised weapon in place to block the blade in time. Lashing out with his left foot distracted one of the compatriots long enough to turn and meet the bull rush of the third. Tristifer stood his ground until the last moment before ducking aside, but not fast enough to avoid getting the side of his head clipped by a meaty fist. Still, his return stroke was telling, and even a few ounce of iron delivered to the temple can knock a man senseless. But then it was back to the knife fight, and the thug had gained some measure of savagery. "Come on, old man!" he shouted, lunging forward. Another close dodge means a bleeding cut on Tristifer's shield arm. My own fault, really, he chastises himself, I forgot I don't have a shield. Adjusting his stance, Tristifer takes a few almost-wild swings with the hammer, forcing his opponent to back up. The thug hesitates, obviously not used to actual fighting, and Tristifer's confidence grows, if in a somewhat grim fashion. The ball peen hammer isn't very balanced, but just enough. The hasty, weak throw catches the thug between the eyes, stunning him just long enough for the knight to rush in and punch the hand holding the knife. Gripping the man in a choke hold, Tristifer bears him to the ground, waiting until the struggles cease before releasing. As he sits up, he notices the compact crossbow pointed at him by the man he kicked, and winces as the shot is released. But the bolt goes wide and buries itself at the foot of Ilmater's altar. Tristifer looks again, and sees Brother Keteroi kneeling by the man, the rusty knife pulled from his own breast and thrust into the thugs. "Come now, Tristifer," he says weakly, "Not fast enough to catch this one?"