[Characters] Characters

[Xiasmus]

Accepted Characters:

Player Name	Character Name	Concept	Complete?	Acceptance
Plodi	Eladrinel Trefyntal	Half-elf Sorcerer with a snarky familiar	Yes	Yes, due to dramatic potential
driftwood	Stinker	Gnome Necromancer, shard of a previous Archmage, and beloved of Hairlock	Yes	Yes, with pleasure
Khodexus	Aiella	Human/Elf/Dragon Hybrid, maybe, Chaos Mage with a story for every day of the week.	No	I'd normally say no, but all signs point to yes.
Rolzup	Tom Tildrum	Human Rogue King of Cats! ˓˓ก₍⸍⸌̣ʷ̣̫⸍̣⸌₎ค˒˒	Yes	We must. The cats insist
William Imm	Donaar	Altered Dragon Druid who may have gotten the raw end of the deal	Yes	The Archmage insists he join us. (And we avoid the uncomfortable Dragon Drop puns)
Plodi (Again!)	Karon Athenar	Human Barbarian Mincer of men and words!	Yes	No, although we may admit him as an NPC (Would an Alt by any other name smell as sweet?)
XQbitor	Syanna Emberclaw	Half-Elf Cleric survivor of the Pits and bearer of holy hands	Yes	Yes, although this may add more blood to her hands.

This thread will be used to store characters for this game.

[Khodexus]

Basics Name: Aiella Race: Human, Elf, Dragon, Thing... Maybe?! Class: Chaos Mage

One Unique Thing One Unique Thing: Aiella seems to have an unprecedented connection with chaos magic, not necessarily to the point of manifesting more powerful spells, but her appearance seems to change from time to time, and she also seems to know things she shouldn't be able to know.

Background/Failed Plan/Writing Sample "Oh hey! Marus, can you tell this guy I'm with you?" The guardsman who had just entered the dimly lit room paused, startled by the familiar way Aiella greeted him. "I'm sorry." He said after a moment, "Do I know you?" "You don't remember me?" Aiella pouted. "How could you forget me?" "How could anyone forget something like you." The dour dwarf merchant growled. "I caught this... thing trying to filch from my stall." "I told you, I was just looking." Aiella rolled her eyes. "I would have put it back down." "You put the bracelet on, and covered it with your sleeve." "That's how it's meant to be worn, isn't it? How else am I supposed to get a good feel for how it would look?" "Use yer imagination, like a normal person." "Have there been any damages?" The guardsman interrupted their argument. "Well no but..." "Normal is so boring... Why would ANYONE want to be normal?" Both the guardsman and the dwarf looked her up and down, taking in, not for the first time, her colorful outfit, her elfin features, and the shimmering iridescent scales along the exposed skin of her neck, face, and pointed ears. "Can we go now?" Aiella turned to Marus. "This walking beard is starting to really bum me out." "I'll take it from here, Master Dwarf." Marus took Aiella's arm in a firm grip and guided her out the door, while the dwarf grumbled darkly until they were out of sight. "Now why don't you tell me the whole story, how did you run afoul of that merchant?" "Oh." Aiella shrugged. "I dunno, I think I saw a necklace I couldn't afford, and was thinking about stealing it." The guardsman stared, "Are you ****ing me?" "I most certainly am not!" Aiella scoffed. "Why, what does '****ing me' mean?" "Never mind. Did you actually steal something from the dwarf, and don't you lie to me. I'll search you if I have to." "Well, there was this crossbow in his armory. It was obvious no one had used it for ages, it was just gathering dust. So I took it, and used it until I ran out of bolts. Not sure where it got off to after that." "What armory?" The guard scowled. "The Dwarf King's armory. You just asked about him." "No, I was asking about the dwarf merchant back there in the marketplace." "I don't remember any dwarf merchant." "We were just there, just now." "I think I would remember a dwarf merchant with an enchanted crossbow." Aiella raised one delicately arched eyebrow over her left eye, which was presently a green color, rather contrasting the ice blue of her right. "He didn't have an enchanted crossbow! He sells jewelry. You said you saw a necklace and considered stealing it." "Did I say that? Well that's certainly a plausible story. But you know what would make a better story?" "I don't want a story. I want the truth. So help me..." "Are you always this grumpy with girls you only just met?" "You said we'd already met. You know my name." "When would I have learned your name?" She blinked at him, looking him up and down. "Where are we going?" "To the guardhouse. I'm locking you up while we investigate this matter." "That doesn't sound like much fun. Maybe a little kinky, but not fun. I think I'd rather..." "I don't really care what you'd rather... hey!!!" But Aiella was standing a good twenty yards away, just at the entrance to an alleyway. "I'll catch you later, Marus. It's been fun!" By the time Marus got to the corner, she was no longer in sight. It was difficult to imagine how someone so out of place could disappear so swiftly in such a crowded street, but somehow the strange draconic elf girl had done just that.

Details Thematic Elements: Aiella is quite literally a wild card. You never know what to expect with her, so she provides so many thematic opportunities by her very presence and existence. Her generally cheerful demeanor could be hiding some inner tragedy, or it could be that she's just a simple soul at heart, or she might just be easily bored and whimsical. If nothing else, she'll keep things moving, by always providing impetus when things would otherwise bog down. Iconic Relationships: To hear her tell it, she's on good terms with the Great Gold Wyrm, and has faced down an agent of the Lich King, not to mention stolen a trinket of high sentimental value from the Three, and dined with both the Archmage and the Priestess at the same time. At least one of these stories is probably true. Or all of them might be pure fiction.

 

Character Details Name: Aiella Class: Chaos Mage Race: Human, Elf, Dragon, Thing... Maybe?! Level: 1 Experience: 0 8 Strength 8 Constitution 18 Dexterity 12 Intelligence 12 Wisdom 18 Charisma AC: 12 PD: 10 MD: 13 Save Bonus: Current Hitpoints: 15 Maximum Hitpoints: 15 Current Recoveries: 8 Maximum Recoveries: 8 Recovery Roll: 1d6-1 One Unique Thing: Random inconsistencies... she makes it work. Icon Relationships: Good luck getting a straight answer out of her. Backgrounds: Whatever she decides at the time... Class Features: Arcane Implements, Common Spell Roster, Chaos Magic Categories, Spell Determination, Not a Ritual Caster, High Wierdness (Adventurer Feat) Talents: Attacking Warp, Separate Existence, Whiff of Sorcery Racial Power: Fae Whimsy (Elven Grace)

 

Basics Name: Sekhet Race: Human Half-Vampire Class: Necromancer

One Unique Thing One Unique Thing: Sekhet was transformed partially into a vampire. To his knowledge - and this is something he has researched extensively - there has never been anything quite like him in the past, and it would be nearly impossible to reproduce the exact circumstances that created him in this state. He is tireless and unaging, does not need to eat food, and has an irrevocable connection to the magics of death and shadow. He has some of the vampire's strengths, and none of their weaknesses, save for the thirst, and he does not appear to be precisely undead, but death has most definitely left it's mark on him.

History Background: Sekhet's parents were farmers. He'd always been charming, and surprisingly quick witted for his impressive size. But his parents were poor, and when an opportunity presented for a better life both for themselves and for Sekhet, they took it. They were paid a moderate sum for Sekhet entering into the service of a powerful and mysterious wizard secluded not too far from the region where Sekhet grew up. This wizard groomed him to be a sort of honor guard, teaching him a small amount of magic so that he could better defend against it, and protect himself and his master from rival mages. Sekhet took to both the spellcasting, and the physical martial skills with ease, but a surprise was waiting for him that would forever change the course of his life. His master was not merely a powerful wizard, but a necromancer of considerable knowledge, and a centuries old vampire. When Sekhet was fully grown, and his training more or less complete, he was to be turned to become a living dead servant; tireless, and immortal. But something unexpected occured. Sekhet tried to fight off his master when he revealed his true plan, tried to preserve his life, but he was no match for the ancient vampire's strength and speed. His consciousness faded, and he fell into oblivion. When he awoke, he was still covered in the ashes that were all that remained of his former master. Left for dead in a now abandoned tower where he'd trained for the last few years of his life. He found he was not hungry, knew no discomfort from the cold, and had only an inexplicable thirst urging him from the solitude of the keep. When he discovered that this thirst was for blood, he was horrified at what he had become. That first night he killed an innocent man, just a simple farmer like he had once been. Repelled by his new form, he returned to the tower and began pouring over his master's journals and tomes, searching for answers. He learned about what it meant to be a vampire, but also quickly learned that he could not be a fully realized vampire himself. For one, the sun held no malice for him, and he did not possess many other qualities that the texts attributed to vampirism. He researched other magics, things that could make whatever he had become, and found no solid answers. He even taught himself spells and other arcane rituals, but he could not stay forever. With the keep abandoned by its former master, others began to come seeking out whatever had not already been looted. There were many things that had been missing since that first night, and Sekhet had come to the conclusion that whoever had killed his master part way through turning him, had assumed he was dead, and took whatever treasures they could carry before departing. But now other scavengers had come to finish the job, and so Sekhet found a magical satchel, and filled it with as many books as it would carry, and departed to find his own way. He wandered for a number of years, teaching himself more arcane secrets, and seeking out mystical lore. Always concealing his true nature for fear that anyone who discovered what he was would turn on him and deliver the same fate that had ended his master's unlife. He also gradually learned to control his thirst, to feed without killing, and even to supplement his diet with the blood of certain animals. His quest eventually brought him to the city of New Port, a meeting place for arcane scholars on their way to various institutions throughout the region. Here he hoped to obtain the next piece of his life's puzzle. Failed Plan: Sekhet had followed his trail of information to New Port, to meet with one of the Archmage's apprentices who had expressed an interest in learning the fate of Sekhet's former master. While Sekhet normally avoided talking about specifically where he'd come from, or what he'd become, he'd made a few acquaintances he trusted enough to share some of this information with, in as far as it helped him find new sources of information, or otherwise continue pursuing his goal. He met up with Ralik, the Archmage's apprentice, in a high end tavern catering to traveling scholars. Things were going smoothly at first, and later Sekhet would berate himself for not picking up on the warning signs. He'd been so eager for an understanding and even accepting ear, that he'd ignored crucial details that should have told him he wasn't dealing with an agent of the Archmage. Ralik tried to capture Sekhet, after they left the tavern, he'd turned on him, along with hired thugs, in order to bring him back to the Lich King, so the lord of the undead could study him, presumably to learn how to create others like him. But Sekhet was not defenseless, and knew how to fight mages, and could hold his own against armed combatants. Ralik underestimated Sekhet, but it was still a narrow escape. Somehow, Ralik was able to convince the town guard that Sekhet was the real villain, and he found himself on the run. Fortunately, he was accustomed to hiding his face, so most of his pursuers had only a vague idea of what he looked like. And thus he found himself near the docks, looking for a place to lay low until he could find a way out of the city. Eventually, his search brought him to the Cracked Keel.

Writing Sample Writing Sample: Sekhet had been in taverns and seedy pubs before. But never one that reeked quite so strongly of salt and sun. He had once rather liked the sun, but while it did not harm him as his books described it doing to true vampires, it still made him... uncomfortable. Comfort, however, was the least of Sekhet's worries. It seemed to him half the city was searching for him, believing him some monster or criminal. If only they knew the truth, it would have been the whole city. He mused. The Salty Seal inn, where he presently found himself, catered primarily to sailors, and other travelers coming in to port, or getting ready to leave through the ports. Sekhet had chosen it because it had a side alley entrance to the common room. The food here was cheap, and though Sekhet himself wasn't eating, he tried to keep up appearances to avoid suspicion. A more expensive meal would have been wasteful. "You look like you're having a difficult day." The voice belonged to a girl, an elf. She looked young, not that Sekhet was the best judge of such things, but if she'd had been human, he would have said sixteen, but for all he knew she could have been well over two hundred. "Difficult... is probably an understatement." Sekhet replied after studying her for a brief moment. "I sense a story." The elf girl continued with a smile, while pulling an empty chair up to Sekhet's table and straddling it without asking for permission to join him. Sekhet was no stranger to interested attention. He was tall, with a strong physique, and fair features. His eyes, which had once been blue, were now lavender, and they were capable of captivating those who looked too deeply into them. But this elf girl did not seem interested in him purely for his appearance. Sekhet returned her smile, already feeling improved from his earlier melancholy. "Aren't you going to tell me?" "Perhaps the story is painful to retell. Perhaps I wonder what business it is of yours?" "It is none of my business, except that I have found the telling of stories to be greatly cathartic, not to mention instructional. Often I learn more from an experience by relating it to another, than I did from experiencing it first hand." Sekhet continued to smile despite himself, as he leaned back from the table slightly, letting the light fall more fully on his face. "Well, you are not wrong, in any of what you've said. I would be remiss if I let my stubbornness keep an interesting story from such a deserving listener. What is it exactly that you do?" She shrugged before answering, "I'm a scholar, a historian to be precise. I'm here because I can't afford the quality of meal my master enjoys in his rooms. The fare here is affordable, if not exceptionally flavorful." "Your master?" Sekhet was suddenly wary. "I'm still an apprentice. My master is a renowned traveler and archeologist studying the remnants of lost empires older than even any elf alive. He is mentoring me in history, in storytelling, and a bit of magic." "I see." Sekhet visibly relaxed, not that his reaction had gone unnoticed. "I take it that your difficulties involved someone's master?" She asked, and Sekhet merely nodded. "Well you have nothing to worry about from me. I just want a story, but if you'd rather I go, I'll leave you in peace." He didn't answer right away, he wasn't sure what he would prefer. But then she began to rise from her chair, and Sekhet reached out to stop her, "No, don't go, forgive me, I am merely a touch unsettled by my experiences. They have nothing to do with you, and you deserve a story for the kindness and interest you have shown, if nothing else." "What can I do to ease your discomfort then, to make the telling of your story a little easier?" "Well, for starters, why not give me your name?" She was startled, but then quickly lit up into a smile, "Of course, how rude of me. I didn't even think... my name is Clarissa, Clarissa Fairwind." "And I am Sekhet, a simple traveler with a complicated tale." "Perhaps you would like to find a place to speak with less potential listeners?" Clarissa suggested. "That may also ease my discomfort." Sekhet agreed. He rose, and she led him from the common room, speaking briefly with the owner of the Salty Seal before leading the way into a small private backroom where some additional food was brought for them. Immediately, Sekhet felt more relaxed. Perhaps she was right, and it would be good to tell his story, or at least parts of it. "Where should I begin?" "Wherever you like? What was the first event that led to me finding you here, in this morose state?" That was a good question, and it took Sekhet a few moments to determine the answer, and begin to tell his story.

Details Thematic Elements: Sekhet is a flawed anti-hero, who believes he is irredeemable, but may yet discover he is far from the black hearted monster he thinks he is. He is intelligent, and manipulative, but his goals are very admirable, even if his motivations are selfish. He is an innovator who could advance magical knowledge and sciences, could bring the common people to a wider understanding of the nature of magic and necromancy, and could very well become a heroic icon in his own right, if given the right opportunities. He wants to be seen as good, even if he believes he is not. But if ones actions are what defines them, then does it truly matter what his reasons for doing what he does are? Iconic Relationships: Sekhet has come to the attention of the Lich King, an individual he does not wish to be associated with, and certainly doesn't want to be allied with. At the same time, he is also interested in, and also wary of, agents of the Archmage, but for obvious reasons doesn't fully trust them either. Finally, he avoids the notice of the Priestess, despite not having encountered her or her followers directly, as of yet.

 

Character Details Name: Sekhet Class: Necromancer Race: Human (Half-Vampire) Level: 1 Experience: 0 14 Strength 10 Constitution 08 Dexterity 18 Intelligence 12 Wisdom 16 Charisma AC: 11 PD: 11 MD: 15 Save Bonus: Current Hitpoints: 18 Maximum Hitpoints: 18 Current Recoveries: 8 Maximum Recoveries: 8 Recovery Roll: 1d6+0 One Unique Thing: Half-Vampire (and the only one of his kind) Icon Relationships: The Lich King, the Archmage, the Priestess Backgrounds: Arcane Bodyguard, Self-Taught Mage/Necromancer Class Features: Arcane Implements, Death's Master, Ritual Magic, Spell Choices, Summoning, Wasting Away Talents: Dead Wizard, Shaed Minion Racial Power: Charm Gaze

[William Imm]

Name: Donaar Steeper
Race: Altered Dragon (technically Dragonic/Dragonspawn)
Class: Druid

Uses Dark Red text for speech.

 

STR	CON	DEX	INT	WIS	CHA
16	14	10	14	16	10
+3	+2	+0	+2	+3	+0

In Humanoid Form

Level: 1
HP: 20 (Max: 24, Staggered: 12)
Recoveries: 8 (1d10+2)
Initiative: +1

AC: 10 + 2 + 1 = 13
PD: 11 + 2 + 1 = 14
MD: 11 + 2 + 1 = 14

Humanoid Melee Attack: +3 Strength, +1 level+4 Could also use dagger for 1d4 damage insteadStaff vs AC (1d6/level+3 Strength+3 damage)
Beast Form Attack: +3 Strength, +1 level+4 Natural vs AC (1d10/level+3 Strength+3 on even hit, 1d6/level+3 Strength+3 on odd hit. On miss, repeat attack against same or different target, but only once)
Flame Spear (1st Level): Targets nearby enemy, +3 Wisdom, +1 level+4 vs PD (1d12+3 Wisdom+3 fire damage - if hit on an odd roll, deal 1d6 fire damage to an ally engaged with the target, if any) (At-Will)
Breath Weapon: Once per battle, make a close-quarters breath weapon attack as a quick action using your highest ability score against one nearby enemy’s Physical Defense. On a hit, the attack deals 1d6/level fire damage.Breath +4 vs PD (1d6/level fire) [quick] (1/battle)

Prepared Elemental Caster Spells: Faerie Fire (1st Level)
Prepared Beast Aspects: Owlbear Aspect (as Dragon Aspect)
Remaining Scout Form Uses: 0
Remaining Nature Talking Uses: 2

Talents:

• Nature Talking: Can talk with animals and plants 2/day. Gain +2 bonus to skill checks to gain information out of an animal (hard DC).
• Elemental Caster Initiate: Can prepare 1 first level daily Elemental Caster spell every full heal-up.
• Shifter Adept: Can shift into scout form 1/day with an action, and can shift into beast form at-will as a quick action. Can also use 1 beast form aspect (selected at full heal-up), which has recharge 16+ after battle.

Feats:

• Fire Mastery (Adventurer) - Gain Flame Spear as an at-will spell

Equipment:

• Dagger (utility mostly)
• Furry robes (light armor)
• Wooden stave
• Symbol of the High Druid, worn around neck
• Herbalist/tea making kit
• Metal tea set
• Waterskin
• Various gems, beads, and coins worth 24 gp in total

 

When escalated to the point of combat, Donaar will handle it in different ways. If he starts off in his humanoid form, he will normally be inclined to use Flame Spear as much as possible on different targets, prioritizing ones that are not engaged by allies to prevent spillover damage. In addition, he will avoid targeting creatures Syanna is engaged with. When engaged in melee, he will try and disengage as soon as possible, possibly combined with a usage of Dragon Breath on the target or a quick jab of the staff.

Normally, he will avoid killing as much as possible with humanoid or sentient foes. However, as the combat escalates, he may shift into his Beast Form. He will also shift into it if facing constructs or non-sentient creatures, or if panicked to the point of having it trigger. He usually defaults to a bear or a dragon-like creature, but regardless, he's much more aggressive than normal. He will pursue targets and constantly used Beast Form attacks, mixed with Dragon Breath (if not already expended) or even his powerful Elemental Caster spells.

Appearance: If you took even a cursory look at Donaar, you can tell that, well, he looks very much like a dragon forced into a humanoid shape, minus wings and tail. His head is very reminiscent of a dragon's, with small spikes on the bottom of his chin, fairly straight horns protruding on both side, and piercing amber eyes. His scales are multicolored, mostly appearing crimson with flecks of brown and gold. He wears a mix of furs and hides over hooded robes, though he nearly always keeps his hood down. Even then, the tips of his horns show through the hood. Over those robes, he wears a symbol of the High Druid. He is barefooted most of the time, and he is almost never seen without his herbalist pouch and his metal tea set.

One Unique Thing: Donaar is a true dragon, but was forced into a weakened humanoid form when very young. From what he can ascertain, since the memories regarding this are rather scattered. He seeks to undo what transformed him, and regain whatever his true form was.

Background: Donaar's early life isn't clear to him. He has memories of a wizard of some sort raising him, presumably for his or her own goals, but that changed. For whatever reason, that wizard was... gone. Didn't come back. It was at that point that Donaar left of his own volition, trying to find a source of true shelter and companionship. Which he did.

He managed to find a small town/village located within the Wild Wood, within traveling distance of New Port. From there, he was adopted and raised as a part of the community, though being something of an oddity there (no doubt caused by his unusual, draconic appearance). It was in this community that he got interested in tea making thanks to his adoptive father, Gilfron Steeper. It was a meditative, yet practical exercise for him, and it gave him serious thoughts about immersing himself in this profession more. Even thoughts about settling down and running a tea shop.

That is, until something else clicked within him. Because of the town's location in the Wild Wood, encounters with druids happened nearby from time to time. Donaar witnessed a few of those encounters over the years and life in the town, he felt drawn to them. Felt like they could answer important questions of his life... even questions he may not have thought about yet. It got to the point that Donaar, after seeing a druid just return to his normal form, decided to track down and ask him about joining. And from then on, Donaar trained as a druid. Much as Gilfron wanted another Steeper, if being a druid was what Donaar truly wanted, it was fine to see him go. And besides, Donaar took the tea-making passion of the Steepers with him for the rest of his life.

It wasn't too long before everything changed again. It started with him following a contact in New Port.

Failed Plan/Writing Sample:

 

Donaar's Prologue: New Port Chamomile

Donaar was walking though New Port, a slip of paper in his hand. He saw the sight of towers, shops, and travelers and residents running around the city for one reason or another, he smelled the smells of fires and fish though the air, and heard the sounds of merchants, bells, and footsteps. But all that ambiance faded into the background. He had an underlying goal, and he wrote it on that slip of paper.

The piece of paper read: Meet 'Chamomile' in alley near Brangh's General Store. Tall black-haired man, has tattoo of dragon on neck. Some traveler to the hometown told him about 'Chamomile', saying that he knew about a mad wizard in the Wild Wood who experimented with transforming creatures, and ultimately making them do his or her bidding. A story that sounded strangely familiar, even if he couldn't quite place it.

That line of thought got interrupted as he heard someone shout nearby. "Aye! Dragon-man!" Donaar turned to look, and he was in the right alley, and he saw a tall man in short black hair and commoner clothes running towards him. The man had an prominent tattoo of a dragon breathing fire on his neck, making it very clear who he actually was. "Chamomile?"

"Yes, that's me," the man said. "Or what the traveler told you to call me. He heard about 'the dragon-man in the Wild Wood', and... well, you live up to that promise. All you'd need are wings and a tail, and you'll complete the look. Now, what was your name?"
"Donaar. Donaar Steeper, I guess, if only because I was raised by that family."
"Hmm. Well, I'm glad that you are part of the Steeper family. They make damn good tea, and I'd love to have some of it again. I don't call myself 'Chamomile' for nothing."
"Actually..." Donaar puts his right hand at his chin, claws touching the little spikes underneath. "I can prepare some Steeper tea for you right now. Chamomile for you?"
"Oh?" Chamomile put on a look of surprise and interest. "How would you go about doing that?"
An affectionate smile crept across Donaar's face. "I'm a druid," he said. "I can steep tea with my own source of fire."
"I'd have to see that. Let's just move right here," pointing to a darker and out-of sight spot in the alley, "so we don't get spotted. Emperor knows that you attract too much attention with that draconic face, and if you do magic things in plain sight, it's just going to backfire. Put the hood up on your robes before we go."
"Oh... I will." Donaar puts his hood up, and walks with Chamomile to the darker spot. "I just want to seem more friendly."

Donaar and Chamomile sit down on a barrel each, facing each other. The area stank of fish, some of it rotten. Donnar pulled out two metal teacups from the pockets in his robes, handing one to Chamomile, and setting the other one down besides him. He then pulled out a metal kettle, decorated with designs of embossed swirly lines. As Donaar poured water from his waterskin into the kettle, Chamomile resumed speaking. "I have one important thing I want to tell you. But I'd like to taste your chamomile tea first. Maybe if I ask you about tea making first?"

"Sure. For me, it's a way to relax and reflect." Donaar reached for his herbalist pouch and grabbed an assortment of tea leaves and herbs from it. "It provides a needed balance for me, and gave me a purpose for a while, before I trained as a druid. Even there, they quickly heard about how it helped, and let me continue it within the grove. As a matter of fact, one of the first things they taught me was to produce a handheld flame.". Donaar closed the lid of the kettle and held it above his left hand, which was closed into a fist. He briefly closed his eyes, looking like he was deep in thought, then opened them again along with his fist, now appearing to hold a dancing flame. Chamomile watched with amazement, especially at how serene Donaar seemed to look throughout this. He couldn't really find the moment to speak, instead choosing to listen to the sounds of water boiling.

Finally, Donaar dissipated the handheld flame and poured cups of tea for both him and Chamomile. "It's ready, Chamomile," he said.
"Good. You sure weren't bluffing."
"Now, before I forget, I was here to ask you about the wizard in the Wild Wood."
"Ooooh, right. Well, I myself don't know that much about the wizard, other than he or she was known to transform creatures into subservient humanoid forms. I, however, know a woman who says she met the wizard. Knows all about that person. I can lead you there. After we finish the tea, of course. Thanks."
"You're welcome. Please return your tea cup to me when you are done. I'd like to have no less than six cups on hand."
"I will." Chamomile and Donaar start drinking the tea, both relaxing as they drink. Chamomile put his tea cup down to speak. "I will say one thing. You really are a Steeper, that's for sure."

After they both finished the tea, Donaar followed Chamomile to see the woman in question. They did end up finding her, though not in the way they expected to. She lied against the wall of the alley, her long brown hair still streaming down from her head. A dagger was embedded in her chest, blood spilling out and staining her robes from underneath. Donaar knelt down, felt for any signs of life. Chamomile went forward and keeled down, tears streaming on his face. "Is... is she dead?"
"Yes," Donaar said. He sat down next to the body, head down and eyes closed in grief. "The body is still very warm."
"I could have sworn she was alive not too long ago. We need to tell the town guards about this. But I need a moment of silence."
Donaar let out a deep sigh. "Let's do so."

Not too long afterwards, the moment of silence was broken by a nearby gravelly voice. "HALT! Stay right where you are, or you will be sorry!" Donaar and Chamomile jumped at that voice, revealed to be the leader of a bunch of thugs. They were approaching Chamomile, who was trying to keep himself from freaking out, and Donaar, who had fire flickering in his hands, practically ready to use. It was clear what the thugs wanted, and Donaar wanted none of that.

Donnar was focused, teeth clenched in anger. "Back off!" He threw a blast of fire at the main thug, knocking him backwards. The others drew daggers and gave chase to Donaar and Chamomile. A fairly long chase, enough for Donaar and Chamomile to loose sight of each other. Of course, they worried about the other getting killed, but at the moment, self-preservation was key. Loosing the thugs was a way to do so, and Donaar, after many turns and running around in the city, managed to find a nesting of crows. He knew that if he'd shift into one of those, and fly away when everyone else does, he'd fly away being the needle in a stack of needles. Assuming that the thugs are too distracted to get a good look at the crows.

So he closed his eyes. Focused his and the world's energy into this task. Become a crow. He felt his current form dissipate, felt like everything was changing. When he opened his eyes, he saw as a crow. The thugs rounded the corner, and when the noise startled the crows into flying, he flew as well. Couldn't think much, just fly with the crows and blend in. But it was inherently satisfying to be flying. Something that felt missing to him normally...

Donaar landed and shifted back into his normal form after a prolonged flight. He didn't really know where in the city he was going, but after looking around, he was relived to see that no one was tailing him. But he'd rather hide in a nearby place in order to make sure. So Donaar went into the nearest open building.

That building was the Cracked Keel. Best laid plans...

Thematic Elements:

• Can you truly find and determine your identity?
• The true balancing nature of tea and tea-making.

Backgrounds/Skills:

• Wild Wood Forager +4 - Throughout his life, Donaar became quite familiar with his location, the Wild Wood, and living in the woods as a result. Knowledge of plants, animals, and survival there, as well as cooking comes as a part of that (among others).
• Dedicated Steeper +4 - From the Steepers, Donaar carried along knowledge of tea steeping, what specific herbs to use for best taste/effect in tea, and ability to market himself a little.

Icon Relationships:

• The High Druid (+) - Well, druids do follow in the footsteps of the High Druid as a general rule, and Donaar is no exception. He's quite happy about doing so. That interest is mutual, as The High Druid is interested in Donaar's uniqueness and origins.
• Archmage (~) - Donaar has a lingering suspicion that this icon and the agents thereof were involved in his transformation. Truth be told, the icon does seem to be interested in Donaar. He's not sure what the icon's motives are regarding him, but he feels unease about it all the same.
• The Three (+, mainly with The Blue) - These dragons are particularly interested in Donaar, beliving that he was originally a chromatic dragon. They, especially the Blue, want Donaar to return to his true form and his heritage as a chromatic dragon.

[Rolzup]

Tom Tildrum
Race: Human
Class: Rogue
One Unique Thing: Tom is the rightful King of the Cats. This means that he can speak and understand their language, as well as command the obedience of all normal felines. Cats, however, remain cats. This means that they rarely have anything to say that isn't about food, sleep, or sex, and that they will generally only obey Tom's commands if he happens to demand something they were already going to do.

Background: They came to him in his cradle, bearing gifts. The back half of a mouse, a cruelly murdered baby bird, and something that might have been part of a lizard? Maybe? There wasn't much left, and it was difficult to tell. His mother screamed at the sight, and hurled the carrion out the window in disgust. But the cats were content: they had honored their newborn sovereign, in the way of their people.

Tom was eight years old before he realized that most people couldn't speak to cats; he just assumed that everyone else knew better than to bother. He was twelve when he learned of his title, and the meaning of the birthmark on his chest. He was thirteen when he ran away from home, fourteen when he committed his first burglary, sixteen when took his first life, eighteen when they caught him, and nineteen when he escaped.

Some of those few who know of the King of the Cats say that he learned his craft from his subjects, that the cats taught him how to move in silence, and how to climb, and how to kill with ruthless efficiency. They taught him to lie, and to cozen, and to take whatever he wanted.

Others, the smart ones, know this to be be nonsense. Cats have nothing to teach but indolence, gluttony, and petty cruelties...as well as, admittedly, how to do these things while looking very, very good.

Iconic Relationships:

The Prince of Shadows: ++(The Prince represents everything that Tom wishes to be, and fears he might never become.)
The Emperor: - ("The Tyrant", Tom calls him. Just...not out loud, where anyone can hear. In truth, he holds the Emperor no ill-will, but he symbolizes the Law against which every good thief must contend.)

A Failed Plan, and a Writing Sample:

 

"It was a good plan," Tom mumbled. His beer made no reply.

"It was a damned good plan," he insisted, "Brilliant, even!" But the beer remained silent, and Tom, somewhat vindictively, drained it. Staring into the depths of the now empty mug he sighed, the sound settling upon the patrons of the Cracked Keel like a damp and clammy blanket.

The House of Blue Stone was supposed to be impregnable, but no one ever thinks of the chimney, do they? But Tom Tildrum did, and Tom Tildrum was both nimble enough to scale the roof and small enough to crawl into the chimney. It was so easy, so perfect! In retrospect, he supposed, it was quite remarkable how quickly things had gone wrong.

Who would expect anyone to light a fire on such a hot summer night? And who expects said fire to be lit with magic, particularly of such an explosive sort? What followed was blur of knifework, savage watch-beasts, a terribly cranky old wizard, and a desperate dive, while afire, through a window.

The remainder of the night had been even worse, and there was a very good chance that Tom would never get the stench out of his boots.

It wasn't meant to be like this. Tom was supposed to be in the Golden Gryphon, buying drinks for his compeers and toasting his success. But here he was, in the damned Keel, spending his last coppers. Mourning.

"The guild," Tom muttered, "Is going to have my ears for this. As a start."

Something furry nudged Tom's arm. He looked up, and a brindle cat looked back, a mouse dangling by its tail from the beast's mouth. "Thanks," Tom muttered as the cat dropped its burden. "Thanks ever so much." The cat meowed, bowed its head, and viciously bit Tom's hand before scampering off.

"Typical. Bloody typical." He stared at his bleeding hand for a moment before pushing the mouse aside, and letting his head *thud* gently upon the table. Why couldn't I be king of something other than cats? Anything other than cats? Tom asked himself that question with increasing frequency, and had yet to receive anything resembling a satisfactory answer.

"It's time for a change," he said aloud, head still on the table. "It's time to do something that matters, by damn!"

It's time to steal something big.

Thematic Elements:

• What it means to be a king, what it means to be a thief.
• How Cats are different than Men, and how terribly similar they are.
• Does money, in fact, buy happiness? Does power? Can poverty and powerlessness buy anything at all?

Str: 10, Con: 14, Dex: 18*, Int: 12 Wis: 10, Chr: 14*

Initiative: +5
Armor Class: 15
Physical Defense: 15
Mental Defense: 12

Hit Points: 24
Recoveries: 8
Recovery Dice: 1d8+2

Backgrounds

• Independent Master Thief, and Bloody Proud Of It Thank You Very Much +5
• Master Bulls*****r +4
• Nimble as a...Very Nimble Thing +4

Class Talents

• Improved Sneak Attack
• Swashbuckle
• Thievery

1st Level Powers

• Evasive Strike
• Roll With It
• Sure Cut
• Tumbling Strike

Feats

• Thievery (A)
• Improved Sneak Attack (A)

[XQbitor]

Syanna Emberclaw Name: Syanna Emberclaw Race: Half-Elf Class: Cleric One Unique Thing: The heat of the Great Gold Wyrm radiates from my hands and I have no idea why.     Syanna was born into poverty in the city of Axis. Her human mother died in childbirth and left her in the care of her elven father, Rhenn Sunfire. Rhenn had once been a commander of the Dragon Emperor’s armies, but when the war with the Wizard King ended, he suddenly found himself redundant when there was no enemy left to be vanquished. Instead he used his expertise in warfare in the gladiatorial arena. When a niggling injury to his knee stopped his career in the bloodsports, Rhenn instead settled down as a gladiator trainer. The pay was atrocious and barely supported Syanna, her stepmother and the twin siblings. When Syanna came of age, she too joined the arena to do her part for the family. With her father as her personal trainer she had high hopes in earning a name in the bloodsports. However it turned out that Rhenn was just as good in training gladiators as his salary, and Syanna almost died in her very first match. In the midst of this experience, Syanna’s mind came to a place of quiet where she witnessed the deities pulling her body and spirit back from the brink of death. Besides being granted her life back, Syanna also received the powers of a cleric. Every day since her 'death' had been a gift, and Syanna strove to understand the reason why she had been saved while countless others perish. A piece of the puzzle was revealed to her when she received an invitation from an Archbishop Carthton on behalf of the Priestess to join them at the Cathedral in Santa Cora. Rhenn wasn't pleased his pupil and daughter took off to the Cathedral to become some preacher instead of training to become a gladiator. He was sure that he could whip her up to shape despite the minor setback. But after some contemplation (and a personal realization that he was better at commanding than training his troops) Rhenn allowed his daughter to leave for Santa Cora with what little they had. Syanna was received by the Archbishop in one of the countless antechambers within her temple, after hours of walking after a guide within the Cathedral. He revealed to Syanna that the gods had taken steps to change her fate in life. She was chosen to carry out their will. He promised to tell her more of her fate when the time came, but for now Syanna had to be initiated within one of the Priestess' numerous orders. That order was the Order of the Many, a multi-aspected cult within the Cathedral who saw the deities not as individuals, but as a whole. She was trained to deliver the god's will, with steel and divine powers. She quickly rose in the ranks of the pious and was recognized as a formidable fighter and a devoted cleric in the eyes of her peers. But jealousy grew in a distinct few as well. Feeling that the newcomer had to go, they plotted against her. Syanna's background proved to be the perfect field to sow their bitter seed. Claiming that she took from the Order's coffers to support her impoverished family in Axis, the conspirators made sure that Syanna stood before a scandal she would be hard pressed to prove her innocence. Not wanting to face the Archbishop despite the false claims, the young cleric quickly packed her few belongings and went on her way in the dead of night.   The smell of stale ale, sweat and vomit stood as an invisible wall when the ginger haired half-elf opened the door to the Cracked Keel. In stark contrast to the sunny weather inside outside, the tavern inside was dim as a crypt. Syanne stepped inside, steeling herself against the smell and the apathetic looks from its patrons. She reckoned her robes, the armor underneath and the revealing symbol of the Unified Deities marked her as a cleric to the tavern guests. It was like she radiated a mote of the sunlight from outside. As she made her way to the bar counter, she could see the confusion appearing in their eyes before they are slowly reverted back to their ale and the somber conversation they had with their partner: what was a cleric doing in a place like this? It was probably the same reason why the majority was at the tavern in the first place. It was certainly not for the ale or the odor. It was to keep their heads down. Desperate people tend to huddle together and find comfort in shady places. And Syanna had good reason to be here as well: She needed to get out of sight from the Order's agents. Although the pious of the Cathedral sought the destitute, poor and crippled to give them succor, there were some places where their words of light rung for deaf ears. The Cracked Keel was one such place. Syanna found an empty seat, sat down, placed her narrow shield up against the table and started pondering what to do. She couldn't return to the Cathedral or she would be prosecuted for a crime she didn't commit. The Archbishop wouldn't listen to her pleas and the Priestess had more pressing matters to attend to. Her mailed fist clutched tighter at the thought of the Priestess not seeing her distress as 'important'. She would have to flee, which was why she had come to New Port. But from there she didn't know where to go. She had planned that she would know when she got there. Best laid plans, as they say... Thematic Elements: Who removes the rotten apples within the Cathedral? Syanna needs to prove her innocence, but how? What is the connection between Syanna and the Great Gold Wyrm? Iconic Relationships: The Priestess - 1 Conflicted: Syanna have proven to be a good acolyte of the faiths, but the accusations from the Order of Many and her disappearance have strained the relationship to the Priestess. The Great Gold Wyrm - 2 Positive: Syanna is blessed by the heat of the Great Gold Wyrm, earning her the surname of 'Emberclaw'. While she had never met the protector of the world nor know why she had been blessed/cursed with warm hands, the Wyrm recognize her as part of himself.

[driftwood]

Stinker Name: Stinker (& Hairlock!) Race: Gnome Class: Necromancer Appearance: Ancient gnome, skin the complexion of a liver spot intermixed with faded grey. Wears woolly boots that look like the lining of Uggs, a loin cloth, a greasy peasant’s hood, a quarter-length cape that comes down to his elbows/mid-chest, and a criss-crossed thin leather bandolier across his chest that serves no apparent purpose except to further emphasize his pot belly. He carries his worldly belongings in a large sack he slings over his shoulder. One Unique Thing: Stinker is operating on only a small fragment of a soul (probably his), but is not especially concerned with finding the rest. Gods help the Dragon Empire if he does. Backgrounds: Squad Mage +2 - Stinker is good at small unit magical tactics, including use of illusions and misdirection to help stage ambushes; less so at frontal assaults; and any grasp of strategy must reside in a different soul fragment Lord of the Low +3 - Stinker makes friends with the lowest of the low, the ones who can’t even get the prime sleeping spots in the gutters. He has very little competition for their lordship, as even the poorest segments of the general population overlook this crowd. On the other hand, they can often lurk in the background unnoticed, and provide him with a broad if shallow covert network. He mostly employs them for his elaborately pointless revenge schemes, swindles, and gambling scams, and occasional nighttime companionship. Rotten Gardener +3 - Stinker has a good understanding and fundamental affinity for nature, specifically during the death and renewal phases of the lifecycle. He is an expert at grubs, estimating the flavor tang of a 3-day old cat corpse, etc.   Icons: Lich King - Conflicted, 2 points; Stinker is obviously linked to the Lich King, as a parasitic necromancer and past foe High Druid - Conflicted, 1 point; on the one hand, the High Druid appreciates Stinker's nature-centric approach to reclaiming death's proper place in the cycle of life, but on the other hand he's a disgusting necromancer Archmage - no points, but potentially an interesting relationship in the long term ... the Archmage may consider Stinker a warning of the consequences to overestimating one's abilities. Failed Plans: Oh, where to start. He may or may not have lost the preponderance of his soul as another age’s Archmage, leading a crusade of Powers to reclaim death from the Lich King - we know how that worked out. His minion, Hairlock the straw doll, is considerably more eloquent, witty, competent, and charming, despite a lack of facial features or internal organs. Perhaps it was Hairlock who led the crusade and Stinker who’s an undead minion. Sometimes when he sneezes hard enough all his teeth (or, someone’s teeth) come flying out. Can gnomes even get pot-bellies? Most recently [see below], he semi-inadvertently murdered a major drug smuggler. The murder was deliberate, but the right actions for the wrong reasons. Stinker would be said to be on the run, if he had any possessions (beyond what he hauls in a sack) or social standing (among those who even register on the social scale). As it is, his evasions are hard to distinguish from his normal lifestyle. Themes: Do the ends justify the means? Natural vs un-natural death (Stinker’s powers manifest themselves as part of the healthy cycle of natural life, death, decay, and rebirth, not skeletons and such). How much of a soul does it take to live a life, or an un-life? What can change the nature of a man?   Regret Stats:   STR DEX CON INT WIS CHA 8 10 8 20 10 17 -1 -1 +5 +3 AC PD MD 11 10 15 HP Recoveries Recovery Dice 18/18 8 1d6-1 Melee Attack: STR + Lvl vs AC; 1d4 + STR dmg Ranged Attack: DEX + Lvl vs AC; 1d4 + DEX dmg   Attack+6 vs AC Damage d6 (d8 fire damage when ablaze; takes dmg = level on odd natural attack roll) AC PD MD HP 17 15 11 8/14   Cantrips Alarm Arcane Mark Ghost Sound Knock Light Mage Hand Prestidigitation Spark Level 1 Chant of Endings At-Will Ranged nearby enemy with fewest hp Attack: Int + Lvl vs MD Hit: 1d10+Int negative energy Death's Gauntlet At-Will Ranged one nearby creature Attack: Int + Lvl vs PD Hit: 1d4 + Int ongoing damage; target can spend standard action to end Miss: Dmg=Lvl Summon Undead Daily Ranged 1d3+1 Rotting Ent Stump mooks HP 6 (mook); AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Initiative +6; Vulnerability: Holy Sword +6 vs AC; 3 dmg; Resist Weapon 16+, dmg x 0.5 on fail Unholy Blast Daily Ranged One nearby enemy Attack: Int + Lvl vs PD Hit: 4d6 + Int negative energy 1st Miss: Half dmg, make attack against another untargeted enemy 2nd Miss: 0.5 dmg, or full dmg if escalation die 1+ and reduce by 1   Racial Abilities Small: +2 AC bonus against opportunity attacks Confounding: Per-battle, daze target until end of next turn on natural 16+ attack Minor Illusions: At-will, create strong smell or sound nearby Class Traits Arcane Implements - wands + staves may help Death's Master - Lich King stuff Ritual Magic - yippee! Spell Choices - choose spells after each rest Summoning - mmmrraawwwrrr.... Wasting Away - Takes 5 failed death saves to die, negative constitution doesn't impact HP Talents: Dead Wizard - can cast wizard cantrips Skeletal Minion - Hairlock! Sorta Dead - doesn’t need to eat, drink, stay warm, breathe, etc. This shouldn’t prevent him from bathing, though, so no explanation for that behavior. Feats: Skeletal Minion - Set Ablaze (live by the Hairlock, die by the Hairlock)   Assortment of rusty knives, a sling without pellets, some random rocks which can be thrown but which are too large for a sling. His sack o' belongings ... contains various rotten small animals, unconsumed alcohol, spare teeth, etc. 50' of rope and 10' pole (just kidding) Narrative:   Stinker glared at three hobos seated around the table from him as he fiddled with his cards and danced his fingers near the 7 copper pieces which served as the pot. He imagined they were glaring back, although in reality they were staring at their empty beer mugs, the serving wenches, or just about anything else besides his unattractive visage. A caricature of a sly look came over his waxen face, and he muttered, ”They’ll never know what hit them,” as he clumsily attempted to palm an extra card from the draw pile. Hairlock, a short distance away, shook his head. He was doing quite well in charming the three serving girls gathered around him, pantomiming a story at Stinker’s expense involving a misplaced golden goblet, a cesspit, and an angry crossbowman. He had just gotten to the part where Stinker tried to grab the goblet with his mouth, and missed, when a scuffle broke out by the door. A large, whiskered woman was trying to force her way in, her layers of rags and motley getting snagged on the armor and weapons of the bouncer. Glancing at Stinker, she started raising her eyebrows and batting her eyes in an attempt to catch his attention. However, the gnome had lost count of which way he was trying to cheat, and was now openly moving coppers in and out of the pot as he tried to get back to where he had started. Conveying the impression of a saucy wink, Hairlock bowed deeply to the serving girls and bounded over towards Stinker’s table. By the time he landed in the middle of the pot, sending the coins skittering towards the edge of the table, the girls were having a hard time remembering the strange straw doll who had been entertaining them with unspoken words. He cocked his head at the door, and Stinker looked up, squinting at the argumentative mound of dirty laundry. ”Wild Hemmie!” he exclaimed. The game forgotten, he stood up hurriedly, appraised the amount of beer left in his mug, stuffed it into his sack with a shrug, and threw the sack over a shoulder as he forced his way towards the entrance. Behind him, the three men shook the haze from their minds as the copper pieces reverted to their natural appearances - bits of shale and woodchip. Looking in their cups sadly, they confirmed that they really were empty. Untangling Hemmie from the guard, Stinker led her into the street as she gabbled and gesticulated excitedly. While Hairlock cast a last look behind them to make sure the pub wasn’t too unsettled, Stinker finally got Hemmie to calm down enough to form sounds into words. ”Y’ins were right, yer were! Ah looked and looked, and surely enuff soon he were there, weren’t he? Right right right.” She beamed at the gnome. Stinker pulled off his greasy peasant’s hood, squeezed some type of condensation out of it, and carefully placed it back on his mostly bald pate. ”Erm, of course! If I said he would be there, why wouldn’t he be? Only … who … and where?” At this, Hemmie’s smile disappeared, and her whole face scrunched up in concentration. ”Bloke wat has ‘is head all a-fire, right? An’ … an’ … clean and don’t he haf sum other chums wi’ him, why not?” She scratched at her head, and a clump of hair came loose. ”An’, em, I’s never not nowhere but where I’s be, ain’t that not no bother?” Hairlock perked up. Red Ronnie! ”Oh goodie!” Stinker cackled as he danced from foot to foot. ”And since you never move anywhere except to fetch me, we know where he is - at last, vengeance shall be mine!” Reaching into his sack, he triumphantly drew out a small dead bird and cast it at his feet. He stared at it expectantly, but when nothing happened, he shrugged and trotted off. Hemmie shuffled behind. ”So’ns I dun wut you dun told me wut I gone dun … p’raps anudder tumble t’nite?” Stinker, picking up velocity, appeared not to hear. But before he rounded a corner, he glanced back over his shoulder and gave a licentious wink. Hemmie beamed again and went on her way. As the bird corpse was abruptly devoured by worms and beetles, Hairlock’s thoughts turned to another red-haired leader of men…   The Red Lord, recently upgraded from the Red Bandit, led his triumphant band down through the pass into the Duchy of Wellesley. More than just one of the most ancient, prestigious, and wealthy fiefdoms in the land, the Duke was also an Earl of the Realm, of the Blood Royal. While the throne didn’t amount to much these days, the blood still counted for something in certain circles. Lothair’s recent string of victories, and establishment of a permanent taxbase and standing army, had earned him significant standing among the warlords of the failing Empire. And now it was time to capitalize. Lothair reluctantly considered that he owed more than a small measure of his success to the repulsive figure precariously hanging onto the plodding mule. For reasons of morale, his steward Cecil had managed to cajole Stinker into wearing a proper mage’s robe over his misshapen form. Unfortunately, they had no gnomish wardrobe, and the child’s robe they had found was not cut for the extent of Stinker’s paunch - the end result was that the fabric strained mightily against the middle and still ended at mid-calf. The visual improvement was significantly less than hoped for. Now that the battles were over, for the moment, Lothair’s lieutenants were letting out their repressed dissatisfaction with the necromancer. Sir Wilhelm, First Cavalier, wrinkled his moustache in distaste. ”Sir - by which I do not mean to imply worthy birth - do you deny that you were passed out drunk with a debauched goat when the surprise attack began?” Stinker scratched at his hood. ”I think I was debauched and the goat was passed out. Anyway, it was a brilliant tactic - the brigands’ charge was completely deflected when the goat bolted, allowing me to rally the troops, counter-attack, and, er, save the day?” ”We had to flee the field!” Wilhelm fumed. ”But that wasn’t the goat’s fault!” And then there was the entrapment and destruction of the raid party on Blackwood Hill - Lothair’s head would be dangling from Edmund’s gate if not for us! fumed Hairlock. Stinker nodded aggressively. Whether or not Wilhelm caught the gist of Hairlock’s riposte, he drew himself up to his full height and proclaimed, ”You wretch, I will just out and ask it - have you no shame?” At this, Stinker unexpectedly dropped his chin to his chest, and muttered something. ”What was that?” ”I said I have shame, all right?!” exploded Stinker. ”It was an affair of the heart…” Instinctively, all the soldiers within hearing distance, and a few beyond, scrunched up as close to Stinker as possible. ”It was … I don’t know. The liquor. The full moon. Just a … lapse of judgment.” Stinker wiped his brow and licked his lips. ”She was … young. Her skin wasn’t loose, she didn’t sag where she shouldn’t, her hair was full and lustrous blond. Fates help me, she had twinkling eyes and full lips. I’ve never been so ashamed.” He hiccupped. Karl, Master Sergeant-of-the-Legion, spat off to the side of his destrier. ”So, you’re saying she was young, endowed, tight, and beautiful?” Stinker nodded mournfully. Karl burst out laughing, followed shortly by all the other men. Lothair smiled slightly, but his gaze narrowed on the enigmatic gnome. Lothair had risen far, from a family that had gradually sunk from county squiredom to less than yeomen, and he had far yet to rise. This was in part because he sometimes had great Sight, and that Sight came to him now. He saw Stinker not as a hiccuping shambles wiping snot from his nose, but for an instant as a being transformed - straight-backed, in the prime of his mature adulthood, exuding confidence, compassion, and leadership to an enormous band of followers. Palpable waves of magic potency flowed off of him. What could this represent? Stinker lifted his face and locked eyes with Lothair. An unarticulated message seemed to pass between them. Then Stinker calmly vomited. Lothair grimaced and kicked his horse forward. Whatever the vision had meant, he was convinced in lay far in the past, not in his future. In fact, invaluable as Stinker had been for a time, he wondered how much longer their futures would be coincide. Stinker managed to drag his mule to a halt. Examining the vomit, he found an undigested turnover, and carefully placed it in his sack.   Lothair’s party, bathed and feted (even Stinker), was drawn up before Duke Wellesley and his court. The betrothal of Lothair to Ainsley, Wellesley’s beautiful daughter, would signal a major shift in the politics of the Empire, an indication that banditry and disorder would no longer be tolerated in the name of allegiance to the Old Regime - not when better alternatives beckoned. Stinker, uncharacteristically subdued, shuffled awkwardly behind Karl, the largest retainer present. An uncommon flush was evident in his cheeks. Lothair was on pins-and-needles. This was the most important moment of his life. At 42, he was no longer a young man, and this was probably his best chance at founding a dynasty. Ainsley’s children would have royal blood (if 6 generations removed) in them, and this would prove the fig leaf that could enable him to ease pathetic King Reginald off the throne. Plus … she was ravishing. And he wasn’t such an old soldier to pass over something like that. Ainsley was as intelligent as she was ravishing; she could see her life’s path unfurling before her, and if certain sacrifices were involved they were amply compensated. Besides, it’s not as if she didn’t know which troubadours and jongleurs to invite to court. And this Lothair didn’t seem too bad … he still had eight fingers, most of his teeth, and only a slight limp. The scars that she could see mostly left his face and hair intact. He was reputed to be just, kind, and good-humored. However, there was something about his party that kept nagging at her. While Lothair alternated between smiling at her and Wellesley, she peeked over his soldier. What was that thing? At that moment, Sir Wilhelm knew that his life had reached its apogee. The only higher peak would be if he could somehow give his life for Lady Ainsley. In fact, he had spent most of the ceremony lost in such fantasies. He suspected she spent her free time doing good works among the poor and in praying for chastity in the chapel. Gradually, he realized that she was staring at Stinker. Her hand was slowly creeping up to cover her mouth. ”Oh no … but that was just a nightmare …” she murmured. Uncomprehending, Sir Wilhelm spun to look at Stinker. Who was blushing and cowering. ”Oh no…” he unconsciously echoed. Wellesley and Lothair were political men, and well-accustomed to choking down unpleasant fare. The betrothal continued. Lothair concluded that indeed Stinker’s path diverged from his own at exactly this point. He seized the throne easily in less than ten years, aided in part by a large brood of male heirs and marriageable daughters, as well as the canny political maneuvering of his future queen. There was no mention of that awkward moment again. The Red Dynasty ruled the Empire for many centuries. The Wellesleys were seneschals for a good portion of that time. Stinker missed all of that, forgotten in a dungeon deep in the old Duchy seat, forced to endure Hairlock’s unending mockeries. ****************** When the orcish pirates sacked the long-decrepit Wellesley Keep, Stinker and Hairlock were translated from bondage in a dungeon to bondage on a ship. Luckily, they were swept far east by unseasonal winds, and ran unground upon a strange jungled land. While the rest of the crew were eaten alive, the natives realized something was a bit off about Stinker. They turned out to worship an aspect of the Lich King. Over the next many years, Stinker had his ups and downs, as he was seen to alternatively be either an avatar of the Lich King or a blasphemer. The former would mean he should be worshipped, the latter that he should be flayed alive. Both happened repeatedly. The silver lining was that in the course of events Stinker got a hold over Hairlock that he was able to use as revenge for the centuries of torment regarding the Ainsley incident, and a chagrined Hairlock agreed it had been ungentlemanly of him to have nettled Stinker so. Eventually, certain actions - that they were definitely not involved in - caused a volcano to erupt, and they were able to make their way, via a circuitous route, back to the Empire. By now, the amount of wages in arrears from King Lothair and his descendents was stupendous, and Stinker was determined to reclaim what was due. Sadly, no one knew of a Red Dynasty - it was a new Age.   Stinker carefully crept up to the market square by Hemmie’s hovel. Sure enough, down a side alley Red Ronnie and his goons were opening crates with crowbars and sorting through the contents. Suddenly, one of the goons - a tall man with a milky eye, one hand frozen in an arthritic claw, and a rather sparse goatee - stood up and turned to Red Ronnie. ”Something’s off. This looks like the real stuff, but it just don’t feel right, y’know?” Red Ronnie, casually twirling the spiked and barbed club from its thong around his wrist, turned his impressive bulk to the henchman and hissed, ”Then why don’t you try some, Sly?” Sly blanched. ”Naw, I mean, now that I think upon it, it’s probably pretty good…” But he was trapped. The others formed a circle around him and closed in menacingly. Taking a breath, he cut open the first parcel and took one of the large pellets into his mouth before he could flinch. For a moment, he chewed resolutely, as if willing himself to overcome whatever was within. Then he gave a strangled scream and fell to the ground, frothing from the mouth and twitching his limbs. Red Ronnie nodded. ”Good instincts, Sly. Still, we can cut it with the real stuff, and this will help cull the herd.” At this, Stinker leapt into the alley, and with a loud cackle announced, ”Got you, you bastard!” Red Ronnie and his three remaining henchmen looked at him in utter astonishment. ”What in creation are you?” Ronnie finally croaked. ”You cheated me on a silver water pitcher that was actually just pewter in Axis’ Lower Market 3 years, 7 months, and 2 days ago!” Stinker frothed. After a long breath, Ronnie let out a chuckle from low in his abdomen. ”I’ve never been to Axis in my life,” he said, bringing his club into his hand. ”Oh.” Stinker turned to Hairlock. ”Wait, what did I mean?” Hairlock shrugged, blazed into an eldritch blue fire, and launched himself at the nearest henchman, gouging out his eyes and stabbing deep into his brain. Everyone stared at the still-heaving corpse, and then all hell broke loose. An enormous shriek erupted from Stinker and he attempted to follow Hairlock’s example by jumping onto the head of another goon and clawing out his eyes, but he only got as high as a shin. He knocked him off-balance and everyone except Red Ronnie got tangled up on the ground. Stinker’s sack landed on the ground with a smack, and a trickle of beer started to flow out. ”Nooo!!!” he cried. That ale hasn’t been brewed in 130 years, Hairlock agreed mournfully. Ronnie circled around, mashing at limbs indiscriminately, until he thought he saw a clear shot at the gnome’s head. Suddenly, he heard a noise behind him. Turning, he saw Summon Undeadsomething bubbling out of Sly’s chest. At first, it looked like just a branch, then several, then he realized that some type of rotten, animated trees were clawing out of the corpse. Giving a startled yelp, he turned to face them down. Hairlock leapt to the next smuggler, wreaking similar havoc. The third fled, leaving Stinker rolling on the ground trying to strangle a dropped cloak. Meanwhile, Red Ronnie was dispatching the summoned undead without too much exertion, and now he turned back to the two troublemakers. He reached down and grabbed Stinker by his bandoliers, hauling up in front of his face. ”I don’t know who, or what, you are - but you’re finished.” He wound up and landed a tremendous punch directly on Stinker’s mouth. The gnome went flying across the alley, crashing to the ground. Blood streaming from his nose, he pushed himself upright against the far wall. He gave an enormous cough and his teeth went flying across the alley. ”My teeth!” he shrieked, putting a masking hand up to his mouth. Those aren’t your teeth! Hairlock reprimanded him. ”They are, for all he knows!” snarled Stinker. Reaching down, he grabbed whichever were within reach and started jamming them randomly back into his mouth, with no regard for canine or molar. Seeing Red Ronnie advancing, he idly gestured at the smuggler and a Chant of Endingsbolt of dark energy flew forth, sending the large man reeling. Holding up two enormous teeth as big as his mouth, Stinker looked perplexed. ”Where do these go?” he muttered. ”What type of deviltry is this?” Red Ronnie yelled. ”Get gone, and don’t come back, or I’ll make you wish you had never come to New Port!” As Stinker and Hairlock ambled out of the alley, Stinker continued to study the two extra teeth in confusion. Eventually, he shrugged, and tossed them over his shoulder. They landed at the feet of Red Ronnie, and immediately Death's Gauntleterupted into grasping hands of bark, that seized and gouged, dragging the man into the earth where he was devoured. ”Never been to Axis … boy, is my face red,” Stinker muttered as he shook his head.   In the weeks that followed, New Port was roiled by turmoil as the underworld adjusted to a major disruption of their power structure and product inflow. Although no one objected, per se, to the exit of Red Ronnie, there had been one survivor who had given a description of the perpetrators of the crimes, and so certain forms had to be followed. (The survivor was among the first victims.) Although he tried not to pay heed to fleeting fashions and fads, Stinker was soon convinced that New Port was no longer hospitable, and he hunkered down in the Cracked Reel to figure out his next move...   A Scene - Featuring Karon and Hairlock Evening fell, and while the company lost themselves in their thoughts or their rotgut, the unappreciated minions found themselves perched side-by-side on a branch. "I wasn't hatched yesterday, I know a shambles when I smell one." "Presumably you're aware that there is more to the world than what the physical senses can perceive." "Easy to discount the physical world when you have no senses with which to perceive it!" "Surely you're not positing that function follows form?" "I think you're playing games with semiotics, the redoubt of the tendentious! Nay, I saw you're using aesthetics to controvert a categorical imperative." "And I say you're perpetuating a tired dualistic dialectic rooted in disproven materialism---" At this, Karon let out an infuriated squawk and pecked Hairlock to death. It wasn't until several days later that Stinker noticed and resurrected him. From that time on, Hairlock began to plot his revenge...

[Plodi]

Name: Eladrinel Trefyntal
Race: half-elf
Class: sorcerer

 

STR	CON	DEX	INT	WIS	CHA
10	17	12	14	8	17
+1	+4	+2	+3	+0	+4

Level: 1
HP: 27 (Staggered: 13)
Recoveries: 8 (1d10+4)
Initiative: +2

AC: 10 + 1 + 1 = 12
PD: 11 + 1 + 1 = 13
MD: 10 + 2 + 1 = 13

Melee Attack: +0 Strength, +1 level+1 vs AC (1d6 damage)
[i]Spells: Breath of the White, Burning Hands, Lightning Fork, Acid Arrow (Wizard Spell from Arcane Heritage)

Talents:

• Sorcerer's Familiar - Talking Owl + 2 random attributes.
• Fey Heritage
• Arcane Heritage

Feats:

• Ritual Casting

Equipment:

• Staff
• Traveler's robes (no armor)
• Waterskin
• Bedroll & Hammock
• Backpack
• 50ft Hemp Rope
• 2 days hard rations
• 25 gp
• And of course, Karon the owl

One Unique Thing: Eladrinel's horned owl familiar doesn't respect him, and never misses a chance to criticize or demean what the owl sees as behavior unbecoming or underwhelming performance.

Background: the second son of the noble high elf house of Trefyntal, Eladrinel was supposed to take his place as the next great high elf wizard in the service of the elf-queen. For generations, the first son had served as a blade master and the second as a high Mage. Best laid plans...

Eladrinel is one of the rare half elves born to elves without human contact, a remnant of the great alliance between the elf queen and the dragon emperor in a past age. By the elf queen's decree, half elves were to be prized as a symbol of the friendship between the two races, but to the house of Trefyntal, he was a symbol of failure, of broken lineage.

Failed Plan:

 

Eladrinel always felt like he was destined for greatness, but it took him a long time to realize that it wouldn't be achieved following in the path of wizardry. From birth, he was groomed for the Abalera-Magalet school of magic, but try as he might, words in dusty tomes would not sit still on the page before Eladrine's eyes. Hours of attempted study devolved into daydreams, thoughts of quests, renown, and greatness.

Time and again, Eladrinel managed to bluff his way past exams and tutors thanks to a quick mind, an agile tongue, and magical powers that somehow responded to his frantic calls despite his lack of study and preparation. Entrance to the academy proved to be his undoing however, as the entrance requirement of summoning and bonding a familiar exposed his carefully crafted web of lies. Up until this point, magic masters had shrugged away abnormalities in favor of the deceit - he was the second son of house Trefyntal...of course he would be a wizard! Although Eladrinel did successfully summon a bonded horned owl, the owl's first reaction was to expose him for the sorcerer that he was, his beaked voice dripping with scorn and disdain.

Writing Sample:

 

The rain fell in thick sheets, obscuring Eladrinel's vision of Faunelwyd, the Elven city of his birth. Having already fled the cold stares of a disappointed family, it was no surprise that the disapproving glare of the owl perched on his shoulder jabbed at the ragged edges of his frayed sense of self-worth. The owl had only been with Eladrinel for a day, but in that time he'd deftly collapsed every false face that the sorcerer had created in his life. No longer viewed as a wizard. No longer viewed as a member of House Trefyntal. Self-despair rose up again in a wave that threatened to drown the half-elf more completely than the torrential downpour soaking him.

Taloned claws sunk through the thick oil-cloth of Eladrinel's hooded rain jacket piercing barely healed scabs and snapping him back to the present with a sharp reminder of Karon's dissatisfaction. "Curse you for a fool three times over, cross breed!" The clipped syllables of Karon's beaked speech sliced through the pouring rain. "A fool for thinking you have any talent worth exploring. A fool for running off in the middle of a torrential rain storm. And an even bigger fool for standing in the rain feeling sorry for yourself!" The owls's feathers puffed up in outrage as the water continued to fall, his piercing yellow eyes boring holes in the side of Eladrinel's head.

With a sigh, the half-elf turned away from Faunelwyd and headed through the wood. "You'll see, Karon. They say New Port is the City of Hope. That's what we need. Hope. You'll see. We just need a fresh start."

Karon clacked his beak in owl laughter. "Hope! Grow a pair, Ela-DRIP-el. Enough at least to realize that the only adventure you're cut out for is the one that ends with a hole in your empty head. You're no wizard, Drip. You're just a poser and a con-man. You know what I hope? That you release this cursed bond before you blunder your way into something that gets us both killed."

Eladrinel tuned out the owl's continuing insults. 24 hours earlier, he had been about to enter Abalera-Magalet. 24 hours earlier he summoned a familiar to be a friend and companion for his wizardly development. 23 hours and 59 minutes earlier, Karon arrived. A perfect horned owl specimen, he looked every inch the symbol of House Trefyntal. Piercing eyes keenly observed the assembly around Eladrinel, who had swelled in pride at his success and impending entrance to the school. 23 hours and 58 minutes earlier, Karon voided his bowels on Eladrinel's shoulder, and announced that sorcerers have no place in elven wizardry.

And so the elaborately constructed house of cards tumbled. Certainly, there would have been a place for him at the elven court - half elves were still respected and prized. Particularly those who shared sorcerous gifts with the Elf Queen. But within the walls of House Trefyntal, there was only scorn. Scorn for failed responsibility. Scorn for failed lineage. Scorn for unfulfilled promise. For 45 years, Eladrinel had pretended to be the budding wizard of the noble house, and in mere seconds the facade had collapsed.

For Eladrinel, the scorn of his family was too much to overcome, even for a place of privilege at the court. And although hours of reading accounts of wizard adventurers had not resulted in any wizardly ability, it had given him an appreciation for adventurers - the lowest of the low made mighty through blood and fire. And so he set out, through pouring rain, with the clothes on his back and a handful of coins in his pocket, to start a new life in the City of Hope.

Perhaps the Cracked Keel wasn't the best choice for a place to start looking, but, then again, best laid plans...

Thematic Elements:

• Eladrinel desperately wants to earn the approval of his familiar, although he has no idea how to do it
• After so many years pretending to be someone else, Eladrinel struggles to find a definitive sense of himself. he hopes that seeking his fortunes away from his ancestral home will bring him clarity of self

 

• Elf Queen - Conflicted Relationship - 1 [Despite having the potential to serve the elven court as a half-elf sorcerer, Eladrinel abandoned the queen and the elven court rather than live with the scorn and rejection of his family]
• Prince of Shadows - Positive Relationship - 2 [Word of the fantastic deceit by a half-elven sorcerer that almost entered the Elven school of wizards has piqued the interest of the Prince of Shadows. It isn't often one sees such bluff potential in one so inexperienced]

 

• Scion of the Elven Noble House Trefyntal - 3
• Silver Tongued False-Face: Crafter of Lies and Bluffs - 2
• Studious Student of Magic and Wizardry! - 3(5 Arcane Heritage)