[Characters] The Bonded

[moozuba]

Please re-post your character information here. Include a link to your character sheet and any supplementary information you may wish to provide.

The original application thread can be found here.

Also, please adapt the following table or create a format of your own with the requisite information. You can store your code in this thread for easy access, but I would ask that you kindly post it behind spoiler tags in each post you make where combat is a possibility.

Name	HP	AC	Touch	Flat	Status	Fort	Ref	Will	Hero
Anya Dragomirovich	15/15	16	12	14	Inspire Courage +1	+1	+6	+5	3

You are also welcome to include such things as prominent spells/abilities/attack modifiers/trained skills/etc.

Here is what a full combat table might look like (hit Quote on this post to get the code itself):

 

Actions Free: Sustain Inspire Courage: +1 ATK / +1 DMG Standard: Attack goblin with dagger. Dice Dagger vs Goblin AC: 1d20+5sch14 (1 (natural 1))+5 ✘ † Total = 6 1d4+2 (2)+2 Total = 4

Anya Name HP AC Touch Flat Status Fort Ref Will Hero Anya Dragomirovich 15/15 16 12 14 Inspire Courage +1 +1 +6 +5 3

You can edit your character post here until you get the code the way you like it. Please don't start posting the code in-game until it is CLEAN and COMPLETE. I like sleek, simple aesthetics.

[Olivia Darkmagic]

 

Name: Feiya Queensfoil

Familiar: Daji (Fox)

Race: Human

Class & Role: Witch

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Physical Description: A lithe young woman with stark white hair stares provocatively at you, silently daring you to advance and either provoke or caress her. Her fingernails are overlong and sharpened, and she carries a wooden staff with strange trinkets tied to it. Close by, a red fox watches you warily, ready to defend the woman if necessary.

Her ancient robes are shredded and frayed with overuse (or maybe for convenience) and bound behind her with hempen twine except for the corset style bodice and one long strip between her otherwise bare thighs which is weighed down with bones interwoven into the thick wool. Fetishes and tools of both utility and necessity encircle her waist and hang at her hips. Atop her head, a makeshift crown of thorns crested with a fetish carved from blackened witchwood and a long iron spike holds her messily piled hair in place. A torn and faded blouse that barely restrains her cartoonishly large breasts, lacerated opera gloves, thigh-high stockings with a makeshift garter and weathered riding boots complete the ensemble.

Personality: Wild yet aristocratic. Most who know Feiya think shes mad. Shes spent so much time in the deep woods with her mistress and the animals that many of her social graces have been corrupted. She reverts at odd times. Her powers define her as much as the choices she made to develop them. She takes the path of hardship over that of privilege and may or may not have had a hand in the downfall of her house. She is secretive and seductive but selfishly so.

She is manipulative and tends to be selfish if only due to years and years of relying on herself. She is powerful though. Powerful and more willing than most to wield her power for personal benefit and to the good of those she takes an interest in. She prefers to keep men twisted carefully around her little finger and women at a distance. She has seen the heart of a man and knows that it contains only lust (for flesh, for power, for food or for gold). She has also seen the heart of a woman and knows that it contains untold darkness and a root of bitterness

She sees the world very darkly. People are pawns to be manipulated. Emotions are convenient strings upon which to tug in order to make her puppets dance. The only truth is Feiya's truth. Her greatest fear is that someone might take hold of her strings and manipulate her as she manipulates others. Her greatest goal is power. Magical, political, economic. She operates under a moral code of her own making but cares little and less for the laws of society. Growing up in a corrupt dukedom and studying under a madwoman, she has never considered that there may be some person who could break her bleak view of the world and expose her dark heart to the light of love or hope.

Background: Feiya is the daughter of a disgraced house of lesser nobility. She loved magic and tracked down the crone of Witherwood and became her apprentice. The secrets of witchcraft were imparted to Feiya by the crone. She took to adventuring (pathfinding?) after the death of her mistress in order to make ends meet. She suspects to this day that some part of the crones spirit lives in her fox familiar Daji who always proves too clever for his own good.

Though her travels and adventures have been limited, she feels like she's been everywhere and done everything. Attacked by monsters and by men, accosted by bandits and by drunkards, been full to bursting on fine roast meats and left starving for days on end, clean and filthy, holy and defiled, gleeful and furious. Her white hair often sees her mistaken for an older woman. Her ripped clothes often see her mistaken for a whore. City dwellers see her as wild. Wilderness dwellers see her as cultured. No one sees her as a friend. No on except Daji, her constant companion.

Origins: Feiya was born and raised in New Stetven, Brevoy in the far north-east of Golarion near the Lake of Mists and Veils. She spent her middle years in the Verduran Forest being trained by Lakshmi the Crone.

Check out the cool map site Draig linked me to!!!

Party Relations: IN NEGOTIATIONS. Mikael Svenson. Feiya met Mikael near Almas in Andoran (not far from Absalom). She was attacked by bandits and he assisted her in fending them off. Without a word they seemed to come to some sort of understanding that they would travel together for safety. They took a room together, though they slept separately, and on the morning of the third day Feiya spoke to him. She was headed to Absalom, the great city at the eye of the Inner Sea. It pleased her to learn that he was going to the same place and they chartered a boat for the final leg of the journey. They share a mutual but unspoken respect. They keep a comfortable distance from one another even while traveling together. Daji seems suspicious of Mikael and gets feisty when he gets too close to Feiya.

 

Ill finish the second table later. I finally got the blasted thing to work. Ugh. Free: Sustain Inspire Courage: +1 ATK / +1 DMG Standard: Attack goblin with dagger. Name HP AC Touch Flat Status Fort Ref Will Hero Feiya Queensfoil 8/8 12 12 10   +1 +4 +2 3 Daji, Fox Familiar 4/4 15 14 13   +3 +4 +3 - Skill/Ability Type Mod Effect Quarterstaff Weapon +0 1d6 Languages   -- Aklo, Common, Celestial, Elven, Sylvan Arcane Strike Feat - +1 melee dmg Daze Spell   Daze HD 4 for 1 round Detect Magic Spell   Ray of Enfeeblement Spell     Touch of Fatigue Spell     Mage Armor Spell   +4 AC Spellcraft Skill +8   Use Magic Device Skill +8   Intimidate Skill +5   Know (Arcana) Skill +8   Know (Nature) Skill +8   Sense Motive Skill +7   Perception Skill +2

[theIncredibleL]

 

Profile Name: Brom Thistleborn Race: Human Class: Ranger Alignment: Neutral Good Height: 6'4" Weight: 215 lbs. Age: 27 winters Traits: Rostlander and Armor Expert

Background The entire homestead had come out to pull help pull the raft to shore. The timber from the Greenbelt had been a month in harvesting, and the current of the River Sellen was strong. It would take all hands to maneuver the floating island, and the young lad was eager to be part of the effort. His father owned the mill, and Brom was almost old enough to work among the men. He was sure that one day, the mill would be passed down to him, and the responsibility of overseeing the sawing of timber would be his. It took several hours to secure the raft, and afterwards everyone gathered on the commons for the celebration of the harvest. Thanks were offered to Erastil, lord of all plants and living creatures, for the plentiful bounty. To Erastil was promised responsible stewardship of the Greenwood, that it may always be a haven for the creatures of the wild and the Clans of Men who made their home there. The sun was low in the sky when the crowd grew hushed. The Ferry was approaching, and upon it was a vardo. Not one of those elaborately decorated colorful vardos used by the Wanderers. This was a simple wagon, devoid of ornamentation, and pulled by a single horse. A rustic man dressed in greens and browns sat in the driver’s seat. When the ferry docked, the driver quickly scanned the crowd, gave a nod, then proceeded down the road towards the mill. Brom looked towards his father, and found him looking into the worried face of his mother. The two looked toward Brom, and motioned for him to come to them. The three walked down the lane the vardo had travelled, but it was beyond their sight. When they arrived at the mill, the driver had already unhitched the horse and let it drink freely from the river. Father clasped the driver by the hand with a warm "Welcome home, brother." Mother embraced the man. He then knelt before Brom. His face was worn with age marked with a number of scars. He smelt of leather, wild game, and steel. "I am your uncle Aust, Brom. I've come to claim you as my apprentice." The vardo contained the core of the lessons Brom was to learn over the next several years. There were the bones of creatures from fireside tales with names like Bugbear, Orc, Hobgoblin, and Ogre. There were holy symbols and wooden stakes. And there were weapons. Sword, bow, and dagger. Aust took Brom on many excursions into the Greenwood. He taught him the ways of tracking, and admonished him to "kill no wolf" in this part of the forest; "harm no bear" in another. Countless hours were spent learning the art of warfare and the vulnerabilities of "the eaters of the flesh of men.” Creatures of Darkness with naught but malice in their heart, and a taste for man-flesh on their tongue. After seven years, his training was complete. Brom was a Ranger. "I am late in my winters, Brom. I no longer have the swiftness of youth. I have taught you everything I know. You are my last apprentice. Take the knowledge I have given you and guard it. And when old age makes your arms too weary to wield your sword, pass on your knowledge to another that it may never die. I will retire here with your mother and father. Come seek me when you need advice. Take this sigil ring, that other men of our ilk will know you, and offer their camaraderie. There are many dark things in this earth, yet some few have the courage or knowledge to face them."

Maxims Throughout the River Kingdoms, the people live by certain decrees that define them as people of the River Kingdoms. So much so, that many of these "freedoms" are laws in some of the kingdoms of the country. Brom lives by these "freedoms." Say What you Will, I Live Free Oathbreakers Die Walk Any Road, Float Any River Courts Are for Kings Slavery Is an Abomination You Have What You Hold

Name	HP	AC	Touch	Flat	Status	Fort	Ref	Will	Hero
Brom Thistleborn	30/30	17	13	14	Normal	+5	+6	+3	2

[ItsaVerb]

 

Name: Vigg Nosam
Race: Human
Class: Bard
Role: Support (morale). Ideation. Heavy role-play. Comic relief.
Alignment: CG – would gladly distract a city guard while a penniless street urchin steals some fruit from a merchant's cart, for instance.

Name	HP	AC	Touch	Flat	Status	Fort	Ref	Will	Hero
Vigg Nosam	8/8	13	13	10	Normal	+0	+4	+3	0

Appearance & Persona

Vigg Nosam is a street performer and a vagabond. Most humanoids who meet him are immediately disarmed, in the figurative sense, by his kind expression and sincere, gentle manner. You find yourself quickly comfortable with his company. Specializing in comedy, it won’t be long before he’s said something that makes you chuckle, if not have you doubled over in a hearty guffaw.

Vigg is an attractive young man, there’s no doubt about it, though it is difficult to describe what makes him so. Not handsome, in some traditional senses – his features are neither rugged nor chiseled. He has an inquisitive face, with brown laughing eyes that attentively engage, and an impish grin that can soften the mood of even the grouchiest customer. His hair is black and just touches his shoulders. His skin is sun-bronzed, but not weathered. Barely into his 20th year, not so surprising. He is fit, but not muscular. In no way the model of masculinity, it can only be said that somehow it all comes together in a pleasing way.

Observing Vigg, it wouldn’t take long to notice his penchant for engaging in very spirited flirtation with members of the fairer sex. Often times, the line between sincerity and seduction is blurry for those in whom he has taken a special interest – for as much as he can be easily beguiled by feminine beauty, and has enjoyed the intimate company of more women than he might be comfortable admitting (until he knows you a little better), he simply has a way of making any one of them feel unique and special.

Vigg typically dresses in inconspicuous clothing, which is unusual for a performer, but his audiences are entertained nonetheless. Though his primary talents are in the comedic arts (from solo play-acting or “stand-up philosophy”) before larger crowds to playing lute in a tavern in the employ of the proprietor, or just busking for tips - devising clever limericks on the fly or reading from his ever-growing book of bawdy poetry to amuse small crowds on street corners. More recently, he’d begun to also hire himself to parties of dungeon crawlers looking to give a boost to their fortune-hunting luck.

Generosity is part of Vigg’s nature. He demonstrates his concern for others in obvious ways. Accumulating wealth is never a motivation behind his exploits. Rather, he is a true lover of life. Check his pockets and you’ll likely find no more gold than it takes to stay fed and boarded a few days. When he has an unusually large pay-day, which happens from time-to-time, he is likely to donate most of it to some charity he believes to be authentic, and he’s keen at distinguishing a grifter from some poor soul truly in need.

Children will chase after Vigg and crowd around him. It’s because he loves children, and in their own innate way they can detect that, and feel safe in his presence. Vigg will make time to stop and entertain children at any opportunity; singing some of the more innocent-friendly tunes in his repertoire, or leaning on his sleight-of-hand skill to amuse them with some close-up magic. When Vigg finds a coin behind a child’s ear, you can be sure that child will get to keep the coin too!

Engaging Vigg in conversation is easy, as he is verbose and gregarious. Ask him to talk about himself, and he will share mostly anecdotes, many of which having something to do with avoiding his demise by narrowly escaping the bedchamber of some lovely lady whose husband has arrived home unexpectedly. Usually, you will find that although Vigg has out-spoken you in sheer volume of words, that by the time the conversation is over, you have told him much more about yourself than you have learned about him. Those observant and interested enough will pick up on this tendency, and may even begin to wonder if there is more to Vigg than meets the eye…

Character Ties

Vigg is close friends with Brom Thistelborn. They have been travelling together for nearly two years, and from their perspective, given their ages, that's a pretty long time. Their first meeting planted the seeds for a tight bond of trust and gratitude. Vigg was in a jam, and not the usual sort. He was engaged in the losing end of a fight with some bandits when Brom happened upon the scene. Brom came to his aid, and saved Vigg's life. They found it easy to get along right away, and also benefit from a symbiosis in their connection. Brom has taught Vigg most of the "adventuring" skills he's got (for instance, where not to pitch a tent if you don't want to be murdered in your sleep), and Vigg plays a pretty good wing-man for the slightly shyer Brom.

 

HA! Made ya look!!!

 

Vigg Nosam
Male Human (Keleshite) Bard 1
CG Medium humanoid (human)
Init +2; Senses Perception +5
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 13, touch 13, flat-footed 10 (+2 Dex, +1 dodge)
hp 8 (1d8)
Fort +0, Ref +4, Will +3
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 20 ft.
Melee dagger +0 (1d4/19-20) and
. . shortsword +0 (1d6/19-20)
Ranged light crossbow +2 (1d8/19-20)
Special Attacks bardic performance 8 rounds/day (countersong, distraction, fascinate, inspire courage +1)
Bard Spells Known (CL 1st; concentration +7):
1st (2/day)—cure light wounds, detect secret doors
0 (at will)—detect magic, flare (DC 14), ghost sound (DC 14), mage hand
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 10, Dex 14, Con 10, Int 12, Wis 13, Cha 18
Base Atk +0; CMB +0; CMD 13
Feats Deceitful, Dodge
Traits charming, focused mind
Skills Bluff +10 (+11 vs. characters who could be attracted to you), Diplomacy +8 (+9 vs. characters who could be attracted to you), Disguise +10, Perception +5, Perform (comedy) +8, Sense Motive +5, Sleight of Hand +3, Spellcraft +5, Stealth +3
Languages Common, Elven, Kelish
SQ bardic knowledge +1
Other Gear leather armor, crossbow bolts (20), dagger, light crossbow, shortsword, backpack, belt pouch, candle (3), chalk, disguise kit, entertainer's outfit, flask, flint and steel, ink, black, inkpen, meal, common (per day) (3), mug/tankard, paper (8), sealing wax, signet ring, torch (2), waterskin, 14 GP, 6 SP, 9 CP
--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Bardic Knowledge +1 (Ex) Add +1 to all knowledge skill checks.
Bardic Performance (standard action) (8 rounds/day) Your performances can create magical effects.
Charming +1 Bluff/Diplomacy/save DC for a language-dependent spell vs. targets who could be sexually attracted to you.
Focused Mind +2 to Concentration checks
--------------------

[Draig Enaid]

 

Name	HP	AC	Touch	Flat	Status	Fort	Ref	Will	Hero
Mikael Svenson	15/15	17	12	15		+5	+2	+0	3

Mikael Name: Mikael Svenson Class: Barbarian/Fighter Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Allegiances: Himself, those he calls friends.   Appearance: Standing at an opposing 6' 6" of corded muscle and sinew, Mikael's weathered face and scarred body speak of hardships and challenges he has faced growing up on the steppes of the northern frontier. His long hair, white as the snows, which he has kept even in the warmer southern climate, is typically tied back with a simple leather thong near the base of his skull. He typically keeps his face clean shaven, a custom he has found makes him stand out a little bit less among the people of the south. His clothes and armor are utilitarian, carrying a minimum of decoration. What decoration there is comes in the form of complicated geometric knots and whorls, a clear indicate of their northern origin. He keeps an over-sized longsword and a round shield on his person at all times, ready for a fight at a moments notice.   Personality: More then anything, Mikael is a fish out of water, and he knows it. Sure, he knows some basic southerner customer, such as the use of tables and benches to sit and eat at, instead of furs. Also that there are laws for all kinds of things, and that simple arguments can't always be solved with a good fist fight and flagon of mead afterward. But so many laws, and so many odd phrases and speech. As a result, Mikael has become a bit gruff and withdrawn, having acted or spoken and been embarassed by it in the past. In situations he is unfamiliar with, he can tend to be silent and thoughtful, listening before speaking, if he speaks at all. When in the company of those he considers friends or comrades at arms, he will often open up more, especially as their mettle is tried in combat together.   Background: Born and raised among the nomadic tribes that make their living on the steppes of the northern frontier wilderness, Mikael was never satisfied with his life, even at a young age. Following the reindeer and snow bison herds, defending the camps against raids from orcs and goblinoids, and suriving the harsh winters hardened Mikael's body and mind as he grew, maturing him into one of the finest warriors his tribe had seen in some time. But Mikael was always searching for new challenges, new opponents to best, new ways of fighting, things he could not find among his people. Whenever his people would come to the trading villages that the soft southeners erected along his tribes route to the wintering shelters, Mikael would always look forward to the tails told in the taverns there, when the southener caravan guards were deep in their cups. Tales of wars against evil warlords, quests against fire-breathing dragons, and cities so large that his entire tribe could simply get lost amongst the crowd. All of these caught Mikael's interest and set a fire in his heart. Thus it was that one winter, at just twenty winters old, when he should be thinking of a wife, Mikael stated to his father his intention to leave the tribe, and travel south with the caravans to see this world himself. Naturally, his father was angered, expressly forbidding it. After a rather heated shouting match that nearly came to blows, both father and son parted ways. His mother later came to him that night with a bundles of his belonging, his father's favorite sword, and some provisions. While his father was still angry and disappointed, his mother explained, after he cooled down and thought, which Mikael himself should do she sternly pointed out, he understood. He didn't like it, and wouldn't give his blessing. But he also wouldn't try to stop Mikael if this was his mind. Parting ways, Mikael joined up with the caravan guards, their group preparing to leaving in the morning for the south.   Goals & Motivations: Mikael's travels and joining up with a mercenary company are the focus of two main goals. The first is to learn more about the combat arts, to hone his skills and to ever more challenging opponents to face off against. His second purpose is to find something he feels he can bring back to his tribe, and to his father, to prove that Mikael's choice to leave the tribe and travel among the southerners was the right one. He isn't sure though what will fill that goal. Wealth in the form of gold, jewels, or material goods mean little to the nomads of the steppes.   Mikael has been traveling with Feiya for the last few days, after coming across her and familiar trying to hold off a group of highwaymen with plans beyond simply robbery. She'd already downed two of them, and the remaining three got a surprise when Mikael came bursting out of the undergrowth with a roar of rage. In less then a minute the remaining bandits were either dead or running. Opting for safety in numbers, the continued to travel south, Mikael's lack of civilized upbringing meshing well with Feiya's own.   How would you rate your knowledge of the Pathfinder system and rules? 3-4. Have a decent amount of 3.5 D&D experience, which does translate. How would you rate your ability to survive almost-certain-death situations (ie. Very Hard level encounters) in this system with a balanced team? 3-4

[stobco]

 

 

Name HP AC Touch Flat Status Fort Ref Will Hero Scant Firelocks 20/20 17 15 13 Normal +3 +8 +3 0 Skill/Ability Type Mod Effect Dagger Weapon +6(+6 ranged) 1d3-1 Shortbow Weapon +6 1d4 Languages   -- Halfling, Common Weapon Finesse Feat - Use DEX modifier instead of STR modifier Sneak Attack Ability   1d6 Acrobatics Skill +11   Bluff Skill +4   Climb Skill +5   Diplomacy Skill +4   Disable Device Skill +9   Disguise Skill +4   Escape Artist Skill +9   Knowledge: Dungeoneering Skill +6   Perception Skill +8   Sense Motive Skill +6   Sleight Of Hand Skill +8   Stealth Skill +13   Use Magic Device Skill +5

Introducing Scant Firelocks! He's small and agile, good with his hands, and has looks and charm to boot! What else could you ask for? Name: Scant Firelocks Age: 28 Race: Halfling Height: 3' 3" Weight: 37 lbs Class: Rogue Alignment: Chaotic Good Party Role: He finds secret things, disables dangerous things, collects interesting things, and runs away from hurting things. All that with a smile and a happy-go-lucky attitude! C'mon, you know you love him... Pathfinder Experience:   On a scale of 1 to 5, 5 being "expert" and 1 being "I know what a d20 is," how would you rate your knowledge of the Pathfinder system and rules? I'll give myself a 2 - 2.5. On the same scale, how would you rate your ability to survive almost-certain-death situations (ie. Very Hard level encounters) in this system with a balanced team? I'll give myself a 4 - 4.5. What can I say, I know when to be brave, and when to be a coward! Appearance:   Barely topping three feet, it's easy to see why this Halfling goes by the name of 'Scant', considering his world is largely taken up by the legs of tallfolk whenever in crowds. That being said, he's a little bit on the tall side for a member of his race, at the very least on the upper end of average. While slender and agile in the limbs, his torso is a bit round and whenever the young man is outside of his moulded leather armour it's a bit hard to miss the fact that he's already sporting a bit of a potbelly; even the agility required for the roguish arts can't keep a Halfling away from enjoying the pleasures of food. The crown of his head is topped with a scruffy mass of vibrant, coppery hair that has a tendency to point straight up in its own, untamed faux-hawk. His attempts to keep the unruly stuff from spreading onto his chin haven't been entirely successful, either, though he's found luck in the fact that it's sparse to grow and only does so on his chin and upper lip in somewhat prickly stubble. Pale, milky skin is dotted copiously with freckles, especially along his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and the backs of his hands. Along his neck, where usually hidden under his armour, is an intricate tattoo of a midnight blue, swallowtail butterfly whose wings are patterned with carefully dotted constellations. Fiery eyebrows only help to bring out the vibrant blue-green of his large, somewhat almond shaped eyes. Personality:   Quick witted and smooth tongued, Scant has every potential to be a double talking con artist thanks to his array of skills. Thankfully for most other people he actually possesses the kind of strong moral compass that most tallfolk wouldn't except from his diminutive race thanks to all their nasty stereotypes. Scant puts a high value on personal freedom and the freedom to feel safe for yourself and your belongings in any area, something he is more than happy to act on if he feels another is encroaching on those freedoms. Most of the time though he's quick to smile and joke and more than a little bit loud as he does so. When it comes time to listen, however, the diminutive man is very attentive, taking in information like a sponge and visibly enjoying all kinds of stories. Background:   Scant was born to a family of caravan traveling Halflings, and as such he spent his first few years traveling around with them. His parents were a friendly pair, absolutely loving and elated that they had the chance to raise their newborn son free; they had both been slaves in Cheliax and had managed through the aid of the Bellflower Tillers to get out of the region to Andoran. Unfortunately, he never really had the chance to get to know his parents as the three of them fell ill to a Halfling afflicting sickness when he was a toddler. It was only through the work of the caravan's cleric, Koya Mvashti, and in her own words the blessing of Desna herself that the youngling survived the illness. His parents weren't as lucky as he was. As such baby Scant found himself with a new mother in the Desnan cleric who had saved his life. He grew up with her on several more caravans, eagerly listening to her tales of the Great Dreamer, inhaling knowledge about her and the other deities at an alarming rate. For much of the Halfling's life he grew up looking like he was going to follow in Koya's footsteps as a healer and a follower of Desna. Even as an adolescent he found himself at her side aiding in the healing of various caravan travellers, though he never fully pledged himself to the goddess to attain healing spells. His decision to become a rogue didn't come about quickly, either. Several things happened over the course of several years to push him towards that path. The largest of such was the number of times he found himself doing careful mechanical disentangling whenever things managed to get broken up in the caravans and he got quite good at dismantling fine mechanics so that they could be repaired. He also found himself learning an adeptness for picking locks during this time after the keys for several sets of locked chests got stolen during a caravan ambush. Adding all of that to his deft abilities with a light blade and the Halfling basically just fell into the stereotypical roguish craft. Despite taking on the mantle of the rogue he still chose to get an intricate tattoo of a Desnan Swallowtail butterfly on the back of his neck and he still considers what life could be like if he did pledge himself to the goddess and take on the path of the cleric alongside that of the rogue. Thoughts of that were pushed out of the way for a time by the death of his adoptive mother Koya in an unfortunate accident regarding a runaway wagon. With Koya gone Scant now found himself alone and decided it was time to see some of the wonders of Golarion. Seeing as Absalom wasn't far, and he'd never been on a boat before, it made sense to start there. So off to the Centre of the World he went. Scant has now been Absalom for two months exploring its collective differences and enjoying it immensely. Being as small as he is he's able to acquire certain information that most others can't, and that always makes things exciting. The most recent buzz of the city if the discovery that one of the sealed castles is no longer sealed. Now that sounds exciting, and where there's excitement, there's Scant Firelocks!

[Ytterbium]

 

Name	HP	AC	Touch	Flat	Status	Fort	Ref	Will	Hero
Bixby Murphy	15/15	13	13	10	Gettin' Smarter	+3	+5	+4	1?
Jericho (parrot familiar)	7/7	15	14	13	Desires Crackers	+1	+4	+2	-

Name: Bixby Murphy
Race: Human
Class and Role: Gunslinger, etc.
Alignment: NG
Background: Bixby has a lot of family "Back East." He's not especially clear on exactly where this is, but his Aunt Betty, who he mentions with a bit of reverence, seems to be learned in all manners of spellcasting and the one who taught Bixby "how to magic," as he puts it. He also speaks fondly of both his parents, his little sisters (both married), and his dear, departed Nana, who seems to have been his grandmother. As for why he left Back East, Bixby's usual explanation is "Ya gotta find evil afore ya can shoot it."

RP Sample Bixby set his lanky frame down in the booth across from the mysterious strangers, setting his beat-up cowboy hat on the bench next to him. His sandy brown hair is cropped quite short, a stark contrast to his bushy mustache. When asked what his drink preference is, Bixby answers, "Just water fer me! There's a fancy learnin' word fer what I am: tee-toe-taal-er. Means 'someone who don't drink no booze.' See, learnin's good, but drinkin's bad. 'Taint right fer a man to get out of his right mind 'bout stuff like that. 'T's the same reason I don't cast none of them enchantmentbewitchment spells. Them and magicking up dead folks. Don't do that neither. 'Taint right." Bixby took a sip of the water in his mug. "Hoo-wee! This here's from a good well! Y'all got good waters in these parts. I may have to refill my canteen afore I trot off. Now, you wanna know more about me? Well, mostly I just travel around lookin' for decent folks to help. It's like I always say: Ya gotta find evil afore ya can shoot it." Bixby takes another, longer drink, then wipes the droplets collected in his mustache on his shirt sleeve. "I'm from back east. My folks are still there, along with my two sisters. They're both married and happy as could be. Married good men, too, even if one a them's a bit prog-ress-ive 'bout gubmint." Bixby had the emphasis on the wrong syllable, as though he were just saying progress. "That's another learnin' word. Still, he works hard and treats my sister good. My Aunt Betty's the one who taught me to magic. She's purty good at it, too. I study up the book she gave me as best I can, and I do alright. I'm workin' at learnin' some healin' magics too. I think I just about got 'em down." Bixby downs the last of his water, smacking his lips after finishing. "So, y'all say ya know some folks what could use my help? I'd be happy to jine 'em fer a bit. It's like I always say: Ya gotta find evil afore ya can shoot it."

[Melchior]

Name: 'Brother' Radcliffe
Race: Human
Age: 38
Class & Role: Cleric [Healer]
Alignment: Chaotic Good...ish.
Physical Description & Personality: Gods and faiths differ wildly in both tenants and practices but when most people think of clerics, they tend to envision the same thing. Upright and virtuous, true believers and devout preachers of their faith, deserving of the moniker 'holy; men and women - depending of the god in question - who spend their days tending to temples and shrines and meditating in quiet contemplation. They certainly do not think of the drunken, lecherous sot who just fleeced them of their last gold coin at dice in a run-down cesspool of a tavern.

But then, Radcliffe has never been a very good priest.

Of above average height, Radcliffe might be considered handsome in that well-travelled, world-weary kind of way. His brown hair is messy and he rarely bothers to tame it, and his facial hair seems to be is a state of permanent scruff, which does little to counter the assumption that he is a penniless vagabond, travelling from town to town, looking for the next coin he can swindle or drink he can mooch. Wrinkles play at the corners of his eyes, laugh-lines from earlier, happier times in his life, and his hair and beard is splashed in places with a bit of early greying, around the temples and at the corners of his mouth. Though he oft professes otherwise, Radcliffe is not a young man anymore. Indeed, he is veritably old -to hear some of the young, spry and energetic adventurers that so often frequent his company tell it - though when told such to his face, Radcliffe simply laughs along with the rest, but is quick to remind them that some men - like himself - do not get old, they get distinguished.

Indeed, Radcliffe would call himself 'experienced', a laid-back, peace loving man who has been around the block a few times. Others would call him a wastrel. An incorrigible drunk and a lazy idiot who wouldn't know responsibility if it bit him. He is seldom seen without a bottle of liquor close on hand, and he has even been known to show up to perform his religious duties intoxicated.

Background: Radcliffe never chose to become a priest. As the sixth son of a lowly fisherman from of a tiny little spit of land near the ocean, Radcliffe never had the luxury of being given a choice. With too many mouths to feed already, Radcliffe's parents gave their youngest child to a nearby church to raise, in the hopes that their son might have a better chance at life.

Raised by the brothers and sisters of the church, Radcliffe's life was set out for him to moment he was taken away from his mother's bosom. It is the only life he knew growing up, and perhaps that explains why he has never tried harder to escape it. Oh, he could moan and complain - and he did, and still does, both regularly - but to this day he is still thankful for the priests who took him in as an infant.

When he was old enough to take the vows, Radcliffe became a full-fledged cleric and the church sent him out into the world to perform their god's will, to tend to the many people of world, and to aid them wherever he could. Some twenty years later, his superiors would no doubt agree that Radcliffe has done an exceptionally poor job.

Radcliffe Name HP AC Touch Flat CMD Status Channel Fort Ref Will Hero Brother Radcliffe 33/33 18 11 17 13   5/5 +5 +2 +9 4 Spell Level Save DC Spells Remaining 1st 15 Enhance Water, Obscuring Mist, Shield of Faith, Protection from Evil, ***, Faerie Fire (D) 2nd 16 Flame of the Forge, Hold Person, ***, Heat Metal (D)

[Rolzup]

Master Thomas Aloysius Bombast

Class & Role: Sorcerer/ Gentleman, Scholar, Man-About-Town.

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Physical Description: Gods above, he’s a handsome man. Tall, well built, perfectly coiffed blonde hair, brilliantly white teeth on constant display, blue eyes that genuinely twinkle.

What’s more, Master Bombast is always impeccably dressed, favoring deep blues and greens accented with gold.

And he always carries himself like a gentleman, Bombast does. His posture? Would put a stone golem to shame. His stride? Confident, assured. His breath? Somehow it smells of mint, no matter what it is that he’s just eaten.

Thomas Bombast is perfect, really, in every possible way. And you’re not. But do not despair! He does not hold this against you. He knows that it's not your fault, after all

Personality: It is, for some reason, terribly difficult to dislike Thomas Bombast. It shouldn’t be. He’s too handsome, too confident, too...Thomas Bombast. He dominates every room that he walks into, he seems incapable of even considering the possibility that he might be wrong about something, and he never ever stops talking….

But somehow? He makes it work. Thomas Bombast, you see, takes everyone just as seriously as he takes himself. He treats even the lowliest servant with unaffected respect, and he’ll tell remarkably dirty jokes to the most dignified of dowagers.

Unlike so many of his colleagues, Thomas is actually gracious to the creatures that he calls forth, even when he’s sending them into battle. Especially when he’s sending them into battle. He treats his familiar, Jasper, as though he was a member of the family, and Jasper returns this affection wholeheartedly.

Nevertheless, Thomas is human. And thus, imperfect. As previously noted, Thomas is confident that he is always correct, even when he has no idea what he’s talking about. This leads to what some might call “overconfidence”, which Thomas prefers to call simply “self-assurance.”

He is, perhaps, a little too trusting and a little too generous. It’s difficult for Thomas to fathom the idea that someone might mean him ill.

In the end? He means well, and by and large Thomas does well. Indeed, he does spectacularly well. Except for those times when he does not. Rest assured that when things go badly for Thomas Bombast? They go spectacularly bad.

Background: Thomas Aloysius Bombast was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and that spoon? The most beautiful you've ever seen. It's been in the Bombast family for more than three centuries, since the day Fairweather Bombast personally claimed it as one small portion of his share from the horde of the dragon he and his companions had just slain, and...

Well. Suffice to say, it's a lovely spoon, and it likely has a more interesting history than you ever will.

But enough about the spoon. At least for now. We're here to speak about Thomas.

The Bombasts were Olde Nobility, with Olde Money, and, alas! Olde Enemies. The vengeful sort, even: Thomas was only three days old when he survived the very first attempt upon his life. Family lore says that the assassin looked down at the sleeping babe, and was so struck by his beauty that he hesitated for the few crucial seconds that allowed Thomas' father to act. And by "act", we mean "chop the bastard's head off."

Despite all odds, Thomas survived his childhood. And indeed, he thrived. He won friends, he influenced people. He had adventures, he had misadventures, he had narrow escapes and he even gained a scar or three.

Which, damn it all, only made him more handsome.

Thomas came to the Absalom Mages' Academy at the age of sixteen, having already demonstrated some small aptitude as a sorcerer. He excelled at his studies, exposed a false "ghost" that had been haunting the school, and made his first enemies of his very own.

But upon graduation, for the first time in his life Thomas actually found himself at a loss. What was next? What could he possibly do that was worthy of his time and attention? And then came the earthquake, and things began to get interesting....

Party Hooks: From the looks of things, it's entirely possible that Thomas has already been out drinking with Vigg and/or Scant. They seem just the sort that he'd like to spend time with, and to boast at. He'll have done a poor job of hiding his envy at their tales of adventure, and given the chance Thomas will be only too eager to demonstrate his own skills.

Name	HP	AC	Touch	Flat	Status	Fort	Ref	Will	Hero
Thomas Aloysius Bombast	25/25	11	11	10	~~~~~~	+2	+1	+4	2
Jasper Poundworthy (Monkey Famliar)	12/12	16	14	14	~~~~~~	+3	+5	+5	~

[ItsaVerb]

Name: Kyra Viru
Race: Human
Class: Monk
Archetype: Flowing Monk
Alignment: Lawful Neutral

The flowing monk is the wind and the river. She knows how the world flows, and forces her enemies to flow with it. Even the most powerful stone breaks under the graceful and persistent pressure of wind and water.

Name	HP	AC	Touch	Flat	Status	Fort	Ref	Will	Hero
Kyra Viru	21/21	17	17	14	Normal	+5	+5	+7	1

Appearance

With long waves of shimmering black hair and dazzling emerald-green eyes, eighteen year-old Kyra Viru’s appearance resembles more the people of her mother’s Chelaxian heritage than those of the Casmeron desert lands of her birth, with soft facial features and sun-bronzed skin illuminated by the underglow of her naturally fair complexion. A sprinkling of tiny freckles across her nose and the tops of her cheeks inkles of her love of sunshine, sea-salt, and open air.

A statuesque six feet in height, 140 pounds, her build is sleek and athletic, with strong shoulders, long, slender arms and legs constructed of perfectly-toned muscle, and subtle but feminine curves in ideal locations. Her voice is soft and appealing to the ear, with a faint edge of rasp adding a sultriness to her tone. Her smile is bright and beams with authenticity. By most human standards, the young Keleshite is strikingly beautiful.

Personality

Being observant and attentive, Kyra tends to listen more than she speaks, and when she does speak, chooses her words carefully. Though many might describe her demeanor as serious, she does have a playful sense of humor and will be entertained by a joke or witty anecdote. Her interpersonal behavior is consistent, even predictable. She is not given to drastic swings in mood, rather, she is almost constantly composed – focused.

Kyra is very blunt with her words, and sometimes critical, which can be taken as judgmental, but she does not judge others. Her acute self-awareness, especially considering her beauty, can be taken for egotism, but Kyra rejects ego. To her, an ego is just an inner voice that tells lies.

People know where they stand with Kyra, quickly learning that she is the sort who will truthfully answer a question if you ask her - so if you don’t want to know the answer, you’d best not ask the question. Honesty is a trait she honors above all others. She freely grants trust - holding that others are sincere and reliable until such time as they prove otherwise.

Background

Kyra is the last-born child of the Emir Parumartish Viru of Katheer and his wife Utana, who died during childbirth. The belief that she was somehow responsible for her mother’s death haunted Kyra throughout her childhood. She wrestled with guilt and was tortured with the unanswerable question of why; Until the day she finally understood her path and all of the guilt, anger, and fear fell away to reveal her life’s purpose.

During her directional training, Kyra immersed herself in the teachings of Irori, the god of enlightenment, self-perfection, knowledge, healing, and inner strength. In her sixteenth year, she committed herself fully to the path of perfection, studying under the martial arts master Yumamato Nyiama from the Temple-Monastery in Katheer as a monk in the service of the Church of Irori. She made a pilgrimage to the Open Palm of Sheehad, an Irori temple in the foothills of the Zho Mountains, to take her first Vow - a Vow of Truth - an oath before Irori, and a promise to herself that her lips would never speak a lie.

Kyra values order, truth, and fairness - but also knows that even in the natural flow of the world, where all things are perfect in their essence, things sometimes will not seem fair. She believes that man’s laws should never be at odds with the natural laws man could never fully comprehend, and that seeking individual perfection is the truest way to serve.

Party Relations

Kyra is the sister of Khair Viru, known to most outside his homeland as the bard Vigg Nosam.

 

Kyra Viru stood at the starboard edge of the deck near the ship’s bow watching the sun vanish behind the horizon of placid water with a brief and brilliant flash. Twilight painted the Inner Sea in hues of orange and violet. The only sounds she was focused on were the lap of gentle waves against the hull, the undulant groans of the vessel’s tired wooden structures, and the syncopated footsteps of a drunken sailor approaching behind her.

If his clumsiness hadn’t already alerted her the man’s foul breath would have announced his arrival, even with buckets of rotting chum only feet away. She anticipated what would happen next, determined that when she felt his hand she would subdue any reflex so he would know she hadn’t been startled.

"I know you're there. Please don't touch me" Kyra warned in a factual tone not meant to threaten, but to inform.

Eschewing the typical random grope at her lady parts, it seemed this one fancied himself a romantic, reaching instead to place the grimy fingers of his right hand on her cheek. She let him believe for the moment it hadn't bothered her, though her every nerve screamed, needing to be quieted.

Allowing the man to turn her face in his direction, she sized him up. She had nearly six inches height advantage, and more than that in reach. His arms were short – musclebound. The fifty pounds he had on her would only be a disadvantage to him in this circumstance. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils wide and slow. He was drunker than she’d guessed by his staggering footsteps.

“Mmmm… a real beauty ye are” said the stranger. “Pretty girl like you ought not be travelin’ alone, methinks. Ye could use a little comp’ny, aye?”

Kyra said nothing, hoping the man would decide in the next second to reverse himself. Instead, she saw his miserable mouth moving closer. He was not planning to stop. She would have to help him. By not pulling away, she had put him at ease. Between that and his inebriation, the task would be relatively simple.

Still feigning agreement the young Keleshite raised her left hand to softly touch the one on her cheek. The man began to smile. In a fluid series of motions she pulled his hand away by the pinky, swiftly bending it sideways and dislocating it at the lowest knuckle. Still holding the broken digit, she pivoted slightly giving her the space she needed to throw the palm of her right hand at his nose - the muffled popping sound it made landing assuring her she’d used enough force to break it.

Blood instantly began to spray from the man’s face. She concluded with a kick to the stupefied sailor’s crotch - another direct hit. A second later he was on his knees, then slumping to his side on the deck in his puddling fluids. Aside from the initial yelp, he managed only the word “bitch” as he struggled with the decision which of his wounds to reach for first.

Knowing the only operable sense the thug presently possessed was hearing, Kyra responded politely, the complete absence of sarcasm in her tone only adding to the insult. The sound of her voice suited the beauty of her face but conflicted with her display of aggression, feminine in timbre with the slightest hint of rasp, “It’s so very kind of you to offer, sir, but I’d planned to spend this evening alone.”

The episode caught the attention of a few more crewman who had emerged from below deck. Like the one squirming near Kyra’s feet had a few moments before, their lecherous expressions broadcast bad intentions.

The gang of four sailors were drunk, armed, and agitated by the growing number of days the wind hadn’t blown. Kyra was outnumbered, and it seemed clear to her these salty sea dogs were determined to get what they wanted, and pleased to share.

Before the filthy men could surround her, she drew her temple sword and assumed a defensive stance. In a clear and controlled tone she announced “I know what you’re after and some of you may get it, provided you’re the sort of cretin who feels satisfied with a girl who only lays there... but I promise you this; Before that happens, one of you is going to die.” Her burning gaze moved from one man to the next. “Who will it be?”

The arrogant smirks on the men’s faces dissolved as they considered the sincerity of Kyra’s declaration. The big one in front raised his hands. “I don’t need this nonsense.” He tried to match her stare for a moment; He blinked. She did not. The man turned and walked back toward the galley hatch, shaking his head and muttering incoherently. The others, including the bloody one who’d regained his footing, feeling suddenly less brave, followed.

“You boys are smarter than you look” Kyra whispered under her breath, watching her defeated gentlemen callers retreat. Yumi was right again. The only weapon she needed to win that conflict was her will. If for even a moment any one of those men detected the emboldening scent of fear, things would have gone differently. She would have killed. She might have been killed.

She had never killed a man, and she was glad she would not this day. Yumi would approve.

Turning to face the west, Kyra thought of Absalom. She’d visited once when she was eight years old, and wasn’t anxious to return. There were at least a hundred natural beauties in the world she would rather explore than a noisy, smelly metropolis twice the size of Katheer, but it was likely her brother was on Kortos, and she needed to reach him. If you’re looking for someone anywhere in the Inner Sea region, Absalom is the logical place to start.

Much had changed in Katheer, and indeed all of Qadira. There was news of Izora, terrible news. There was news of Sahba, news of their father. Things were different, and Khair should know. She truly hoped he would at least want to know...

 

Kyra Viru

Human (Keleshite) Monk (Flowing Monk) 2
LN Medium humanoid (human)
Hero Points 1
Init +2; Senses Perception +8
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 17, touch 17, flat-footed 14 (+2 Dex, +1 dodge, +4 untyped)
hp 22 (2d8+6)
Fort +5, Ref +5, Will +7
Defensive Abilities evasion
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Melee temple sword +3 (1d8+2/19-20) and
. . unarmed strike +3 (1d6+2)
Ranged shuriken +3 (1d2+2)
Special Attacks flurry of blows
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 14, Dex 14, Con 14, Int 9, Wis 18, Cha 7
Base Atk +1; CMB +3 (+5 grapple); CMD 20 (22 vs. grapple)
Feats Crane Style, Dodge, Improved Grapple, Improved Unarmed Strike
Traits sacred touch, wisdom in the flesh
Skills Acrobatics +9, Climb +6, Escape Artist +6, Perception +8, Ride +6, Sense Motive +8, Stealth +6
Languages Common, Kelish
SQ ac bonus, hero points, redirection, unarmed strike, unbalancing counter
Other Gear shuriken (5), temple sword, backpack, bedroll, wooden holy symbol (Hand-Perfection), 25 gp, 9 sp
--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
AC Bonus +4 The Monk adds his Wisdom bonus to AC and CMD, more at higher levels.
Crane Style Penalty when fighting defensively reduced to -2 and dodge bonus increases by 1.
Evasion (Ex) If you succeed at a Reflex save for half damage, you take none instead.
Flurry of Blows +0/+0 (Ex) Make Flurry of Blows attack as a full rd action.
Hero Points (1) Hero Points can be spent at any time to grant a variety of bonuses.
Improved Grapple You don't provoke attacks of opportunity when grappling a foe.
Improved Unarmed Strike Unarmed strikes don't cause attacks of opportunity, and can be lethal.
Redirection (2/day, DC 15) (Ex) At 1st level, as an immediate action, a flowing monk can attempt a reposition or trip combat maneuver against a creature that the flowing monk threatens and that attacks him. If the combat maneuver is successful, the attacker is sickened for 1 round
Sacred Touch You were exposed to a potent source of positive energy as a child, perhaps by being born under the right cosmic sign, or maybe because one of your parents was a gifted healer. As a standard action, you may automatically stabilize a dying creature merely by touching it.
Unarmed Strike (1d6) The Monk does lethal damage with his unarmed strikes.
Unbalancing Counter (DC 15) (Ex) At 2nd level, a flowing monk's attacks of opportunity render a struck creature flat-footed until the end of the flowing monk's next turn (Reflex DC 10 + 1/2 the monk's level + Wisdom modifier negates). This ability replaces the bonus feat gained at 2
Wisdom in the Flesh (Acrobatics) Acrobatics becomes a Wisdom-based, class skill.

[TeufelHeunden]

Thematic Music (if you so choose)

Name: Thangardt Stontosser
Race: Daysighted Drueger Tyrant
Class & Role: So many ideas - if accepted we will continue to work out this part to give you what the party needs and something fun for me to playFighter/Tank
Alignment: The fact that you follow a set of tenants and laws set down by your faith and I do not gives me an advantage.
And if history has proven anything, it is that those with the most advantage always win.Chaotic Nuetral

Physical Description:

Short even for dwarf standards, Thangardt Stonetosser still leaves an imprint many do not forget. His armor is worn with many dents and scars, almost as many as he has on his body. But despite its gnarled appearance it has stood the test of many skirmishes. He knows from experience how to maintain it so it can best protect him.

At just over four feet tall his mass is over two-hundred pounds of pit-bull personality. His bald head is pot marked with numerous scars of its own, and his bulbous nose is adorned with a nose ring he had placed on a drunken night long ago, he wears it with pride. His long grey beard slopes from his pudgy face like the snow falls across a mountains face, wild and full of danger. He is gruff in his demeanor with a side dish of sarcasm that tends to get him in more trouble than he usually deserves. He may not have the sharpest mind of those you meet, but you will thank your god for his sharp axe and stalwart shield in a tight spot.

"I'll fight for a cause. I won't die for one" ~ Thangardt Stontosser
"It's not stealing if their dead" ~ Thangardt Stontosser
"I go where the trouble is" ~ Thangardt Stontosser

 

Quick Stats for Thangardt Stontosser Thangardt Stontosser M CN Duergar Tyrant Fighter/Alchemist, Level: 4 Abilities: Str 15, Dex 18, Con 18, Int 10, Wis 13, Cha 7 DEFENSE AC: 23, Touch: 15, Flat-footed: 19 (+4 Dex) Skills: Perception (+5) Acrobatics (+0) Init: +4 Speed: 20, DR HP: 47/47 Fort: +10, Ref: +8, Will: +5 Armor Slot 1: Masterwork, Breastplate (Agile) AC Bonus: (6) Armor Slot 2: Steel weapons that hit with Nat 1, Broken (DC20 Fort save) Mastwework, Living Steel Heavy Shield AC Bonus: (2) Armor Slot 3: Armored Kilt AC Bonus: (1) OFFENSE Base Attack Bonus +5 Weapon Slot 1: disarm, trip , Masterwork Flail (-) Attack/Damage: +6 (1d8+2, X2) Weapon Slot 2: , Dwarven Waraxe (-) Attack/Damage: +5 (1d10+2, X3) Weapon Slot 3: , Shortbow (40) Attack/Damage: +7 (1d6, X3) Weapon Slot 1: disarm, trip , Ankus (-) Attack/Damage: +5 (1d8+2, X2) NOTES Conditions: Additional Information:

Build details   Ability Base Race Final STR 13 2 15 DEX 17 18 CON 14 4 18 INT 10 10 WIS 13 13 CHA 11 -4 7   Level Classes HD HP BAB F R W Class Feats 1 Fighter (Armor Master) 1 10 15 +1 2 0 0 Bonus Feat - Combat Expertise (1) Agile Maneuvers 2 Alchemist (Vivisectionist)1 8 10 +1 4 2 0 Alchemy, Sneak Attack 1d6, Brew Potion, Mutagen, Throw Anything   3 Fighter (Armor Master) 2 10 10 +2 5 2 0 Bonus Feat - Improved Trip, Deflective Shield (+1 to Touch AC) (3) Combat Reflexes 4 Fighter (Armor Master) 3 10 12 +3 5 3 1 Armor Training (1)   5 Fighter (Armor Master) 4 10   +4 6 3 1 Bonus Feat - Greater Improved Trip (5) Iron Will 6 Fighter (Armor Master) 5 10   +5 6 3 1 DR1(light),2(medium),3(heavy)/-   7 Fighter (Armor Master) 6 10   +6/+1 7 4 2 Bonus Feat - TBD, Deflective Shiled (+2 to Touch AC) (7) TBD 8 Fighter (Armor Master) 7 10   +7/+2 7 4 2 Armor Training (2)   9 Fighter (Armor Master) 8 10   +8/+3 8 4 2 Bonus Feat - TBD (9) TBD 10 Fighter (Armor Master) 9 10   +9/+4 8 5 3 Armor (Light Fortification)     Daysighted Drueger Tyrant Standard Racial Traits   Ability Score Racial Traits: Thangardt is hearty and observant, but also belligerent. He gains +2 Strength +4 Constitution and –4 Charisma. Type: Thangardt is humanoid with the dwarf subtype. Size: Thangardt is a Medium creature and thus has no bonuses or penalties due to his size. Base Speed: Slow and Steady- Thangardt has a base speed of 20 feet, but his speed is never modified by armor or encumbrance. Languages: Thangardt speaks Common, Dwarven, and Undercommon. Defense Racial Traits   Duergar Immunities: Thangardt is immune to paralysis, phantasms, and poison. He gains a +2 racial bonus on saves against spells and spell-like abilities. Stability: Thangardt receives a +4 racial bonus to his CMD against bull rush or trip attempts while on solid ground. Magical Racial Traits   Telekinetic Adept: Thangardt has access to the basic telekinesis, kinetic form, telekinetic finesse, telekinetic haul, and telekinetic invisibility kineticist wild talents with an effective kineticist level equal to his total character level. Psychic Magic: Thangardt can cast ironskin (2 PE) and mind thrust I (1 PE) as per the psychic magic universal monster rule. Thangardt's caster level is equal to his total character level. Thangardt has a reservoir of 5 PE per day. Senses Racial Traits   Darkvision: Duergar have good darkvision, allowing them to see perfectly in the dark up to 60 feet. Basic Telekinesis   Element(s) aether; Type utility (Sp); Level 1; Burn 0 This ability is similar to mage hand, except you can move an object that weighs up to 5 pounds per 2 kineticist levels you possess (minimum 5 pounds), and you can move magical objects. Additionally, you can create a container of entwined strands of aether in order to hold liquids or piles of small objects of the same weight. You can dip the container to pick up or drop a liquid as a move action. If you possess the extended range wild talent, you can increase the range of basic telekinesis to medium range and increase the rate of movement to 30 feet per round, and if you possess the extreme range wild talent, You can increase the range of basic telekinesis to long range and increase the rate of movement to 60 feet per round. You can also use your basic telekinesis to duplicate the effects of the open/close cantrip. Kinetic Form   Element(s) universal; Type utility (Sp); Level 5; Burn 1 You are able to suspend your body in a large mass of elemental matter. Until the next time your burn is removed, you can change your size to Large or shift back to your original size as a standard action. This doesn't change your ability scores in any way. At 16th level, you can accept 1 additional point of burn to instead change your size to Huge. You cannot use kinetic form to decrease your size. Telekinetic Finesse   Element(s) aether; Type utility (Sp); Level 1; Burn 0 You can perform any sort of fine manipulation you choose within close range, including attempting Sleight of Hand and Disable Device checks. Telekinetic Haul   Element(s) aether; Type utility (Sp); Level 2; Burn 0 Prerequisite(s) basic telekinesis When using basic telekinesis, you can move an object that weighs up to 100 pounds per kineticist level you possess. When using your telekinetic blast, you can throw an object weighing up to 100 pounds per kineticist level you possess, but this doesn't increase the damage. If you accept 1 point of burn, the maximum weight increases to 1,000 pounds per kineticist level you possess and the duration increases to 1 minute per kineticist level you possess. Telekinetic Invisibility   Element(s) aether; Type utility (Sp); Level 3; Burn 0 You weave strands of aether, bending light and dampening sound; This works as invisibility except that the aetheric bending is easier to notice than normal invisibility, so your bonus on Stealth checks is halved (+10 while moving and +20 while perfectly still). However, the dampened sound allows you to avoid automatic detection via sound-based blindsense and blindsight, but you do not receive the bonus on Stealth checks from this wild talent against a creature with such abilities.   Starting Equipment Original Per Item/Crafted Number Cost Masterwork, Flail 308 Ankus 8 Dwarven Waraxe 30 Dagger X2 2 2 4 Shortbow 30 Arrows (40) 1 2 2 MW, Breastplate (Agile) 1000 Armored Kilt 20 MW, Living Steel Heavy Shield 270 Bandolier 0.25 Antiplague 50 17 2 34 Antitoxin 50 17 2 34 Alchemist's kindness 1 0.3 10 3 Smokestick 20 7 5 35 Tanglefoot bag 50 17 10 170 Thunderstone 30 10 5 50 Alchemist's fire 20 7 10 70 Smelling salts 25 9 5 45 Bloodblock 25 9 5 45 Handy Haversack 2000 Alchemist's Lab, Portable 75 Fighters Kit 9 Bedroll* - Belt Pouch* - Flint and Steel* - Iron Pot* - Mess Kit* - Hemp Rope (50')* - Soap* - Torches (10)* - Trail Rations (5)* - Waterskin* - Traveler's Any-Tool 250 Wand of Cure Light Wounds 750 Caltrops*(X5) 5 Chalk - Hemp Rope (50') 1 Grappling Hook 1 Twine (50') - Whitsle 0.5 Sunrod 4 2 8 Bear Trap 2 MW Manacles 50 Total Cost 5309.75 Total to Spend 6000 Money Left 690.25

Personality/Background/RP Samples Beginnings Kravenkus had been under siege for two days the orcs were relentless in their attack, forces were weak and supplies low. Jalayr propped himself alongside a wall panting deeply, he ran his stubby fingers through his thick beard. Around the corner two goblins taunted at the end of the corridor, Jalayr raised his axe and charged. The closest goblin let out a squeal of pain before tumbling lifelessly to the floor, thick green blood flowing from the axe wound to his head. The other goblin leapt forward in a blind frenzy plunging his spear worthlessly at Jalayr, who simply sidestepped the unbalanced attack and cracked the goblin with the butt of his Axe knocking him out. The orcs and goblins had struck without warning and were slowly taking the great Dwarven stronghold by force. Jalayr sensed the end was near and had been split from the others while wandering the tunnels alone. That is when he heard the sound, muffled and almost distant. Was that a toddler he had heard? Jalayr's mind raced through the possibilities as he tilted his furrowed brow to the side to discern the direction of the moans. Through an open door, he found a Duergar lying face down, a dwarven maul in her back - and the moan again as he body quivered. Carefully he turned her over and swaddled in her arms was a toddler. As he gathered the young Duergar and made his way back, he found his sense of impending doom was proven wrong, Kravenkus had withstood the siege and driven back the invaders. "Our ev'ry dwarf a Darklands' vet, We own this hall but owe a debt. Though dangerous, our task be set: For there's work needs doin'...an' we're not dead yet." -- Old Kravenkus Nursery Rhyme, turned Drinking Song (Common approximation) Early life found Thangardt a foreign orphan in the distressed Sky Citadel of Kravenkus burrowed in the World's Edge Mountains on the border of the Darklands. Thangardt hewed himself in the company of despondent dwarves searching for honour and food in equal measure, along with oath-breaking slugs that had no other places to turn. Few dwarves have chosen to remain at the Sky Citadel, it has become a ghost town of its former self since the lodes ran hollow and the gates to the Darklands became too plentiful to protect. The small community huddled deep within the early, darkest keep, trying to fashion some facade of life in the shade of grandeurs long lost. Upon coming of age, Thangardt realized that unlike his peers, he lacked any distinct skill at craft or creation. The only area he exposed affinity for was the obliteration of things. His difference as a Duergar alienated him to a point, but with so many other misfits in Kravenkus it wasn’t too much of a disadvantage. He soon found himself working in the only task he was able – clearing the debris of rock and ruin so that more artistic dwarves could rebuild in its clearing. Kravenkus might be a Sky Citadel, but the once great halls found themselves falling into both poor condition and Darklands hands. For several years he toiled, smashing stone and removing rubble. It was rough work, and humbling. It also formed his strong muscles. Actually long days of collapsing columns and tossing large debris make a "stone lumberjack" a far better fighter than he yet realized. After years of this labor and increasing attacks from the Darklands, Kravenkus had lost all its intrigue for Thangardt, and he set out to find himself in the world. Personality / RP Sample   "Now ain’t that the most refreshing sight you ever saw." Thangardt snorted and rubbed his stubby hands together as he looked out over the buttress walls. A cool mist covered the ground for as far as you could see, fragmented only by the muddled bodies of yet another failed assault on Galt. The cold mist began to rise slowly from rapidly cooling pools of blood. Thangardt’s beard rose as he grinned and prodded at a bit of grunge that still clung to the buttress, salutations of an unrelenting attacker and his meeting with the Duergar's axe. "Such a sight to behold." Next to the meaty mercenary, Malcolm wobbled his head. "You are sick, Thangardt." "And you, my comrade, have no gratitude for fine art." "Art? Sending those rebels packing? They were underequipped and deeply in need of training. This was butcher's work, no more, no less." Thangardt grunted. "Everyone's a critic. Take a bit of pride in your work, why don't you?" "Work? What in the hells are you talking about?" "Look below. The distinct lines of the killing zones, the beautiful way we rounded them them up into the moat." Malcolm shook his head and turned to the side, looking at Terrowin the Younger. "I can't talk with this guy, when he's like that. Makes me doubt my sanity." "You're not doubting his?" "Hells no. That ships long since sailed." Thangardt's only reply to this was a mocking smile that drew out as he turned his thoughtfulness back to the field below. He'd always liked cold misty mornings. Not necessarily because of the mist, or the peaceful sounds or the cold or any of the other mawkish reasons people might have to like them - Thangardt liked cold mornings because they had a way of lowering a man’s morale. And men with lower morale broke with less force. Thangardt liked cold mornings, because they made his job that much easier. Thangardt thought back to that cold misty morning when he got his first taste of life as a soldier and mercenary. Almost 50 years ago when a squatty little dwarf walked into that camp and placed himself in line in front of Landgrave Hunfray and the troops of Hunfray’s Raiders. A group of combat veterans who had hung up their loyalties to their various lords and decided to sell their sword to the highest bidders. Most of them were ruthless and hardnosed warriors who had enough with unloyal courts and backstabbing generals and decided the only form of loyalty they could trust was coin. The rest, like Thangardt had left their homes in search of a better life and found themselves drawn to this new life that seemed to suit them all too well. Like Thangardt, the other novices wandered in without a penny to their name and rags on their backs. It didn’t take long until those that could survive were molded into the same hardnosed soldiers that made up their ranks. "Will they be back?" Terrowin the younger prodded. The question woke Thangardt out of his daydream, and the mercenary tapered his stare across the fields in front of the wall. "Not today, no. That last attack broke what courage they had to take these walls. They'll have to reorganize and find their courage again, before they try again. That'll take the rest of the day - maybe the morrow as well. By then it won't matter." Terrowin scrunched up his nose, while Malcolm next to him grinned. "Why won't it matter?" "Because by then we won't be here. Our indenture ends today, and our proprietor doesn't hold enough coin to keep us here." Terrowin blinked. "So we're just going to leave? After struggling to keep this place for so long." Thangardt raised an eyebrow. "Sentimental for the place, kid?" "Eh, no. It just doesn’t make sense. I mean, we have friends - comrades - who bled and died for these walls. Shouldn't we see it through?" "They did, and we have. Our indenture runs to the end of the month, and that’s today. Tonight, we open the gates and hike out, put space between this place and ourselves before those rebels discover that they do, in fact, have enough courage to charge again." Terrowin seemed to ponder this for a moment. Clearly he didn’t like the idea. "Doesn't that seem a bit... amoral?" Malcolm burst into laughter. Thangardt allowed a brief hint of a smile as he watched the youth. "Amoral? Kid, you're paid for your arm and the weapon it holds - not for your bleeding heart. The indenture was agreed upon, including how and when it would end. We know it, and our proprietor knows it too." Thangardt turned towards the Terrowin the younger now, and his tone took on a stiffer edge. "We do not run a charity here - you want to die for your beliefs, find religion. Here our only god is good hard coin and the sound it makes as it tumbles in our purses. That is all we work for, and all we ever will..."

Hook The heavy smoke climbed from the tar lanterns outside the tents intermingling with the abundant cooking fires after a strenuous day organizing for the approaching battle. The three friends sat around their fire to discuss what they had just uncovered. They had met at the beginning of the campaign and soon became chums. Thangardt who was veteran with Hunfray’s Raiders was already a member of the troop. The other two, well Vigg was brought in to brighten the mood of Valcrum the current commander and give him counsel while Brom was a Rostlander, a ranger by trade but engaged as a scout.   “I tell you, there is 20 times more woman and children down in that camp than there are men, I saw them with my own eyes,” Brom affirmed to his mates. “I believe you Brom, but Valcrum won’t hear of it, his plan is one of absolute annialation,” retorted Vigg. “Well boy’s, like I said before, I’ve seen him do things that would make Gyronna’s sect look like a bunch of milk maids. When he gets it in his head – there isn’t anything stopping him,” Thangardt countered. “But we can’t let him do this.” “There ain’t nothing we can do to stop it, the best we can do is get out of here before it’s too late,” advised Thangardt. “The other scouts say that Gorthoklek himself rides in our direction at the behest of Queen Abrogail II, there is no way we can stand up to his army if they fall upon us,” offered Brom. “If that is true then Valcrum’s fate is sealed and his little foray with his alchemist fire tomorrow won’t do anything to stop it. The way I see it, we can stick around here and taint our souls so that Gorthoklek can claim them later and send us to hell – or we can slip out of here before it’s too late. We can’t save that town now, the best we can hope for is that Valcrom succeeds and slaughters the lot of them before they suffer anymore. He will get his in the end, I’ve seen it before.” So it was that the three of them settled to slip out of the camp in the dead of night and leave Hunfray’s Raiders to their own end. They left Chillax and made their way towards the coast where they traveled east. Once they reached Almas in Andoran, Thanbgardt bid farewell to head up to Highhelm in the Five Kings Mountains. That was a few years ago, but recently while traveling through Oppara in Taldor, Thangardt had caught tales of a rather charming Bard by the name of Vigg who was making his way to Absolam. He decided it was time to track down his old friends and see how they were. Thangardt awoke in the rubble of Absalom 3 weeks ago after an earthquake had shook the city shortly after he arrived.

[SophieValentine]

Need-To-Know Name: Lee Smith Race/Gender: Human, Male Age: 22 Height: 6'0" Weight: 175 Eye Color Grey Hair Color Dirty Blonde Occupation: Information Broker and Acquisition Specialist Religion: Lipservice to the Lucky Drunk, mostly. Personality/Description: Somewhere in Lee's past, there was most definitely some kind of elf, or maybe even a fey creature. He's tall, lithe, and has a face, that when not actively emoting, brings to mind an aloof elf or impassive fey creature. Generally speaking, his face remains at 'strong neutral' or perhaps 'thinking of stabbing someone' nearly all the time. The most emotive he gets is when he's nervous or scared...which seems to be happening a lot more frequently lately, given the state of things. He's not a very personable person - unless he's had a couple of drinks. It isn't that he doesn't like people - on the contrary, he finds most people fascinating. He just has difficulties...finding anything to say. Most of his work involves observation, and, over the years, it's become difficult for him to turn that portion of his brain off and actively engage. Not to mention, most of the time he's given a mission and sent on his way - there isn't often room for discussion or debate. He can count on one hand the number of times he's worked with someone else, and he spent the entire time wondering if they thought he hated them by his silence. He's rarely seen out of dark clothing (given that he works mostly at night), and almost never without his swords. Any period of resting can find him either resting his palms on their pommels or checking that they're in their proper place. He tends to have a restless sort of gaze - if observed for any length of time, his stretching or shifting will reveal what he's really doing - headcounts and exit checks. A natural from birth, all this paranoia has only compounded over the years he's worked for Gauthfollow.

Name	HP	AC	Touch	Flat	Status	Fort	Ref	Will	Hero
Lee Smith	30/30	18	14	154	Dying a Little on the Inside	+3	+7	+2	3