[PF-1e] Giantslayers

[Klar Slasher]

Indranna Flamekised is ready for review!

[Jarl11]

Table updates - done, done and done.

You guys are making my job for choosing looking tougher by the day!

Originally Posted by FoggyKnight

Frankly, I thought that should be the fire giant...That guy also looks a bit top heavy. Long arms, barrel chest, comparatively small legs. Good for knocking over.

Agreed. I much prefer the drawings in Giants Revisited and Giant Hunter's Handbook. That's more the angle I'm taking.

Originally Posted by ItsaVerb

Jarl, I'd say your ad is a smashing success. Nice job!!

Thanks, amigo! I learn from the best! (and outright stole their ideas )

Originally Posted by Vex

Guess Anders will become a Gnome then. Behold and beware!

As Foggy said, not all halflings need to be in the Ramblehouse. Just most of them. Watch your pockets in there. It's not a coincidence that it doubles as the only inn...

Originally Posted by JonnyGulliver

(How have we not broken into puns by now?)

Was wondering that a little myself. Guess it's not TOO BIG of a problem.

[Ziether]

@Jarl: with all those quotes, that was a pretty GIANT post.

[Starspawn]

You guys want size puns?
I was playing a Dwarven Orcale who escaped capitvity!

The warden called out for a: Small Medium at Large

[FoggyKnight]

-rep to Starspawn

JK

[Starspawn]

I'm sensing some ... amounts of hostility.

[PopCultureBard]

My time constraints appear to be less severe than I'd expected so I have finally managed to put words into place on my app. It is 99% complete, which leaves a percent for fiddling a bit, but it should be worthy of examination now.

[ogamodyna]

Name: Thjorn
Race: Human of mixed Kellid/Ulfen extract
Alignment: Neutral
Class: Barbarian (will add Druid asap but Barbarian is heritage as much as class)
Traits: 1) Giant-Blooded, large weapons used at half penalty, +2 CMD against Awesome blows. 2) Beast of the society, when you wildshape into a small or medium beast the duration of wildshape is doubled.

Description: Thjorn appears almost to be more closely related to the giants themselves than to some of the other folk about Trunau. He stands an impressive six-foot-nine and weighs in at somewhere near three hundred pounds. His hair he keeps pulled back in almost a top knot at the back of his head. It is a veritable mane of dark brown with overtones of coppery red. That same coppery red can be found in his coarse and ruggedly groomed facial hair. Eyes a mix of amber and green hazel look down in a brooding manner for the most part. His attire is roughly made and even more roughly patched with hints of the far north in design and accessory. Sharkskin boots and gloves are kept oiled and well cared for, the woolen pants and tunic are not in as good condition however. A single silver earring dangles a piece of raw copper from his ear. Upon his back he carries an odd double sheath which is almost always occupied by his heavy crude chopping blade of a falchion, and/or it's companion a long handled boar spear with the hefty crosspieces a few inches below the foot long leaf-bladed head. At first glance one might assume the northman to be slow witted, since he rarely speaks. A closer look would reveal that he simply does not speak as often as most. There is a dark and brooding quality to his glance and a consideration before he moves or speaks. When one is much larger than those around them it is not uncommon to learn patience and deliberation before doing anything that might cause harm. Whether a harsh word from that rich low pitched voice, or an incautious movement that could damage those less massive and sturdy, Thjorn tries to think before he acts. Unfortunately that all changes if he is seen in one of his tempestuously violent tempers. At those times the amber eyes flash with an inner fire, muscles writhe and lash out in quick and sure movements designed to stun, cripple or even kill. Still his rare laughter is infectious and his smiles can cut through the gloom of even his own brooding and brighten an entire room.

Beliefs: Thjorn was raised as a northman and believes in honor and glory of the warrior. On the other hand he was also raised by a Kellid woman with a spiritual bend, she taught him a love of nature and reverence for the animals and plants of the wilds. It was more her training than his father's that was responsible for the young warrior's survival on the hazardous trek that led him to this strange location. There is great glory in battle but there is also a spiritual joy in travelling through the wilds, watching the sun over a mountain lake, sharing a bush full of wild berries with a bear. Or just sitting near a campfire listening to the song of the wolf calling you out to run with the night.

Goals: First to develop the spell abilities his mother wanted for him. Second to reclaim some of this land from the rapacious nature of those controlling it. To make a haven for other races and species and a community that fits well with the nature of the location. At first he'll start with an animal companion, eventually claiming a sanctuary to protect and develop. Probably take leadership feat eventually to help with this.

Fears: 1) To lose control of his own destiny. The civilized world or the world of the orcs, both hold potential to force him along paths he does not wish to follow. Not particularly chaotic, he does however have an animalistic portion of his soul. To be caged or chained and have his freedom taken away is both terrifying and enraging. Perhaps such a fear is the root of his ability to enter the mystical fury that marks a berserker. 2) To lose his humanity to that more primal bestial nature. That part of him may be responsible for his facility with animals and wildshape. Both of the above could also be linked to his Giant blood heritage.

Background:

 

The rain was miserable. It fell in slow depressing sheets from an oppressively gray ugly sky.. Once it hit the ground it spread in sullen ugly rivulets across the drab ugly mud. In short it was a wet, miserable, depressing, drab, gray ugly day. Thjorn Ulladyr sat on a crate atop a weatherworn cart that matched the day and it's surroundings perfectly. Cracked sides, peeling from the weather, were less than half full of whatever merchandise had been bound for market. From his rough seat, the imposing youth in rough leathers looked at the bounty. Rough woolen cloth, a crate of sharp farmer's cheese, a nice stack of smoked hams and sausages, some fairly usable blacksmith's barstock ,more cloth and handmade clothes, and one very sour barrel of homemade beer. Somehow it didn't seem like a treasure armada to draw forth a band of merry brigands.

Huge, towering a full head or more over the other brigands, Thjorn glowered down at the "merry" band of bandits and their most recent victims. Arms for the band were mostly spears, clubs, cast off caravan guard weapons patched back together and the occasional stolen blade or axe. Their armor was even worse. A fair number of the band wore layers of cloth stitched together in thick diamond shaped pads. One or two of the luckier ruffians had on leather jerkins or caps. The only decent armor in the lot was on their "captain" back at the camp. "Branaugh captain of the free band" as he called himself, wore a carefully mended and much fussed over chain maille shirt. It fairly shone in direct sunlight on those rare occasions that the sun shone. Of course a practiced eye would note the weakened areas were steel was patched with cheaper tin, or brass. Pretty as it was the shirt was all but useless to a careful dagger strike.

As he watched the farmer and his family being pushed around in the mud, the ex-sea-rover wished that he"d used that careful dagger a long time hence. At the tender age of 20 he was already worn-out and jaded.

From a young age he had followed his father, Eberhard Cloudbrow's exploits and tales. Eberhard had gone a-viking in his youth and made a modest name for himself. Whether it was skill or luck or a combination of the two, Eber had come back from his first voyages with a reputation for victorious battle and luck in spoils. His second and third voyages fared just as well. He became a talisman among raiding captains. Never strong enough, bright enough, or well off enough to command his own Long ship, he sailed on a dozen voyages on other men"s ships. Stories were told and often it was mentioned in whispers that Eber's Grandfather had been fate touched as well. Those vague gossipy rumors whispered that there was giant or troll blood if one looked farther back in the bloodline. Still it did not keep captains from taking the "lucky" warrior on voyage after voyage.

It was on his return from one such trip that he brought back the dark and exotic looking Khellid, Fhaol. The mysterious dark woman was already heavy with his child by the time they reached shore. Rumors varied from slave, to battle spoils, to priestess and princess bride. The truth was that nobody knew where he had come across the woman or how he had won her. She stayed as his wife for the rest of her life though. Through their years she gave him three children. The son fathered on that first voyage, a daughter just a year later, and three years late their son Thjorn. In some ways Thjorn was the pride of Eberhard's achievements. He quickly grew to outstrip others his age and tower amongst the men of the clan. At a young age he often wrestled or brawled with the older more experienced warriors. Dark and brooding one minute, he would turn around seconds later and be all thunderous laughter and hearty smiles. Of course his dark and brooding nature was also quite capable of spawning an even darker inferno of rage. On those occasions even the heartiest of warriors thought twice before starting trouble with the towering youth. By the time he was 16 the boy stood a hand taller than his quarrelsome father. If ever there was substance to those tales of giant blood in the family, Thjorn was the best evidence.

That was also the year Eberhard hatched his scheme to finally captain his own long ship. If Vikings took their boats across the water to raid other people,why not start the raiding a little closer to home. With a double handful of his own kinsmen and some other rough types Eber had stolen the newly refitted drakkar of a neighbor. Before anyone could even raise the alarm the ship was down the fjord and across the waters. Unfortunately the new captain had not possessed the foresight to check the ship's stores before stealing the vessel. Within a week the crew was hungry and desperate for water. Within two weeks the first crewman had died. Putting ashore for the first time, the raiders fell on a small village surrounded by heavy woods. Though almost equal in number to their attackers, the villagers would have been doomed to the ferocity and arms of their raiders. Fortunately for those villagers they were but an outpost of a much larger and more organized city. Consumed by the heat of battle and victory, the berserker Thjorn was at the same time sickened by the carnage and the atrocities inflicted by some of his fellow shipmates on their pacified victims.

While they were still sorting through valuables the raiders were themselves fallen upon. In the fighting retreat young Thjorn was cut off from his father. Lost and alone in a strange land he fled. At first he did his best to avoid pursuit. Capture could only mean death or confinement. Of the two he would choose death any day at all. To live chained or held behind bars was an all but unfathomable terror compared to the mysteries of death. Days spent hidden in haystacks led into nights of lurking and struggling through the darkness away from the scene of battle. He walked, ran, hid and scurried to survive for most of a week. Conscious of the eyes of his ancestors, the youngster never shed a tear and did his best to stifle any less than manly sounds he might have made huddled in the dark. After that first week though, he found the boat. It was little more than a canoe. Just a trio of hard benches for seats or bedding down, and two sets of oars as well as a single triangular sail. Inside the boat were a few supplies, fishing gear, and the tools to keep the venerable old wreck afloat. The boat changed things. He rowed it when the water was calm or rode the current for hours at a time. With the gear on board he fished, he ate fish, he salted fish. When opportunity presented he foraged through the woods. There were fruits, berries, wild mushrooms and onions, herbs and even sometimes an unwary rabbit or nesting hen. With these provisions to augment the fish he not only survived but became fairly healthy and content. Those days made him remember his mother's way with nature both fondly and with a growing respect. She would never have stolen a boat without even basic supplies. If she HAD found herself in such a situation she would have known how to forage and restock supplies.

When he dared to enter the next village he found that nobody had heard of the raid further north. There were no wanted posters or angry kinsmen seeking him. In short he had no history or worries except where to sleep or find his next meal. It wasn't until the next morning that he discovered he had floated quietly down a vast length of river to a land on the border of what amounted to an orcish empire. Fleeing as guard or drover in a series of caravans he finally came to the the orcish killing grounds. Though caravans were scarce, they still traded occasionally and of course any caravan passing through lands such as Belkin needed guards desperately. A hulking barbarian well over six feet tall had no trouble finding a place with such a caravan.

Inevitably it seemed, Thjorn's caravan was attacked. The first volley of arrows removed most of the rather sparse guard. The second volley felled a fair number of the drovers. Unfortunately for the bandits, Thjorn was not among those first casualties. He fought back with an almost animal furor. Spitting his own blood in their eyes, he had driven two of the bandits from their mounts with vicious chopping swings of the falchion. Rather than risk more men, Branaugh had offered the berserker a place in their band.

That had been months ago. And now under an ugly sky, wearing an ugly glare, the young northman was done. With a muttered string of the odd skaldic words, words which would blister wood if understood, he stood and stepped off the wagon in long strides. When his feet hit the mud he was only a pace or so from the nearest victim. One of the farmer's daughters no doubt. Barely old enough to start showing a shape, and wide eyed in terror the girl writhed and cried in the grasp of a man old enough to be her grandfather. The toothless leering ruffian was working diligently to rip the roughspun cloth from the girl's shoulders when he felt that large meaty hand grab his shoulder. His own curses and profanities ended with the sodden thud of a forearm at the base of his neck. When the knave fell into the mud, a large sealskin boot stepped over him and close to the girl.

With a gentle and patient gesture completely at odds with his earlier behavior Thjorn helped the girl straighten her blouse and close a ragged cloak over the top of it. While the rest of the band struggled to figure out what was happening, the barbarian lifted the girl into the bed of the wagon. He did not even glance at the prostrate figure in the mud. Nor did he seem to particularly care about the trickle of blood joining the rivulets of mud around the felled bandit. In a matter of seconds he had the entire group of farmers either in the wagon or on their shaggy ponies. When he stepped into the drivers seat of the wagon he lifted the huge curved blade from his back and propped it ominously against his knee.

Tell Branaugh I quit. The statement was as brief as it was irreversible. Once the "Captain" heard from his underlings there would be no turning back. He would put a mark on the northman's head just as unyielding as any lawman. Of course if he had his way Thjorn would have no part of this ragtag crew again. With a single last glance of warning he slapped the reins against the horses' necks and started the wagon along the road.

Over the next few days he said almost nothing to the farmers. In the morning he would help the women into the wagon and then start the wagon team along the road. In the evening he helped them down. He ate the bowls of gruel and stew they offered him with fearful and questioning eyes, but his nod was all the thanks or recognition they received. When they came to the drab little village one of the farmers mentioned an inn and guided the wagon that way.

He was in a small private room in the inn when the city guard came. There were 2 guardsmen with their knuckles wrapped white and ready around their billhooks. At the head of the group was a single "sergeant" with his baton of office and a well made sword at his waist. I hear you helped those farmers downstairs out of a pickle.
Thjorn nodded and uttered a single accented; "Ja."

Slowly the sergeant reached into his belt pouch and drew out a sheaf of papers. In the dim light of the torchlit hallway he examined the first few until he came to a specific page. He scanned the page with an occasional sharp glance at the barbarian hunched in a chair that seemed too small. When Thjorn paused eating the sharp cheese and warm sausage bread the Sergeant cleared his throat. My aunt tells me you saved my cousin from one of the scum that scavenges along that road. She gave me a fair description.

As his squad looked on in more and more confused wonder he read a very detailed description of the towering bandit in the boarshide armor, the reddish gold hair, the facial features, silver earring with a drop of amber, even the heavy ugly chopping sword were listed. When he finished, the sergeant or guard or whatever he was, looked up. We have this description from several witnesses. They call him the "beast" for his fury in battle and the wound he leaves on bodies. There's a reward out for him. 100gp for the beast dead or alive is the reward. As he, spoke the guard leader reached slowly towards his sword belt. when he did so eight hands tightened with warning creaks on the shafts of polearms. Instead of drawing the sword though the sergeant tugged a pouch free of his belt.

Cythery is my favorite cousin. She's quite young and the apple of her mother's eye. It's my pleasure to reward you for saving her from that highwaymen the Beast. My aunt tells me she saw him laying in the mud with his eyes open to the rain splashing in them. I'll report the knave as killed and we'll have these fliers pulled from the wanted files. Thank you for saving my kinsmen. The "officer" of the guards suddenly looked much younger as he smiled and offered Thjorn his hand. Welcome to Trunau

Trunau: New comer in Trunau looking for opportunities. The entire story of his arrival is above, suffice it to say that after a long line of difficult choices and poor decisions, Thjorn is ready to look for a brighter future than some half-starved brigand in a land of chaos.

Optional additions!
Posting Rate: 3-5/week or more if action and timing indicates.
Music / Character Entrance Song:
Other: Hey Jarl, enjoyed playing in your brief Way of the Wicked adventure. Hopefully my RP was remembered fondly from that time lol. Feel free to look her over and let me know what needs tweaking. I'll work on the CS over the next few days and might search for the right image hehe.

[Neqq]

Most of my puns are like oracles, lame.

[Starspawn]

Mine are also like Oracles, as in they have an HD of 8 and a Base Attack Bonus of +0 at level 1.

Wait, what?

[ogamodyna]

one of my favorite and briefest puns... does a stick float? It wood!

[Jarl11]

Not sure if I should post my fav pun, so I'll save it for now.

Hi ogamodyna! Welcome, welcome. That Way of the Wicked was short but it wasn't mine. I played the summoner with her Prince . You were the ranger, if I recall right...?

Will up date the table later folks. Am now in my new town and we are out to buy a house today!

EDIT - Have completed the next 3 reviews and just need to type out my notes. Probably get them out tonight.

[ogamodyna]

Ah yes. I knew I recognized the name from WotW. And who could forget the Prince? /shudder. Yes I had the plain unremarkable easy to forget ranger with street thuggery level fighting skills lol.

[Ziether]

Originally Posted by Starspawn

Mine are also like Oracles, as in they have an HD of 8 and a Base Attack Bonus of +0 at level 1.

Wait, what?

I laughed harder than appropriate.

[ItsaVerb]

Kyra Viru -- Flowing Monk Name: Kyra Viru Race: Human Alignment: Lawful Neutral Class: Monk Archetype: Flowing Monk Traits: Sacred Touch, Vexing Defender 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. 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. Beliefs: 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. Goals: (Character) To achieve individual perfection--though Kyra understands the journey itself is the destination. (Player) To fully embody this character I feel very close to, and make a positive contribution to the campaign. Fears: Kyra depends greatly on a sense of control, which she tries to be realistic about. What gives her comfort, confidence, and strength is knowing she has choices, and what she does with those choices are the biggest influence she can have on the world. To have those choices taken away, to loose all control (i.e. to be debilitated, physically, mentally) would be her greatest fear. 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. Trunau: Kyra is a stranger to Trunau.   Disclaimer: I don't want this to come across as a half-hearted attempt to recycle a character, because it is not--but I have played this character before, and can easily adjust her current situation without changing her background and peel off a class level to get her back down to level 1. This is my favorite character I've played on rpgx, by far. My private opinion is that she has produced my very best writing, and the game she was in folded up, and I still want to play her, and I know how.   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...     I am presuming a bit of a revision of Kyra's history, but in thinking about it, I think the search for her missing brother and the whole background I'd used for the character would still play. It's possible she was lead to the Hold of Belkzen in her search. I'm posting a couple of things here I think should give players a deeper look into Kyra's persona, to help you with your phase II exercises!   Hello Diary! (Haven’t I always started that way?) I haven’t written you in over a year now, and I have to say I do miss it. Remember how Wayland checked our diaries every week to make sure we’d written something? He always said he wouldn’t read it, but only skim the pages to make sure we were practicing. I decided I should depend on just my memory for facts and details, to exercise and sharpen my mental acuity, so I stopped journaling the events of my life. This entry is not meant for me to read again. I’m writing it in case anything happens to me and I am unable to speak for myself, those close to me might know what I’ve seen, and why I chose to leave Katheer. Tomorrow morning, I board a ship to Absalom in search of Khair. I haven’t seen him in over two years now, Diary. Yumi almost drove me crazy by not stomping his feet and refusing to allow me to leave the strict rigor of my training. He didn’t discourage me in any way, nor would he approve. He forced me to consider the choice carefully, and so I did. I decided that I will make contact with the monks of the Irorium there in Absalom, then seek out my brother. First of all, Izora has taken sick, and nobody is able to say exactly what afflicts her. What’s more troubling is that father and Anmadir have refused to let any other healers see her. Oh, Diary, father’s behavior has taken such a drastic and frightening turn. The last nine, maybe ten months, he has had a guest in the palace, a man named Mazzerio, reportedly some sort of master herbalist. I’ve been so immersed in my training I confess I didn’t try myself to learn much of the man. Wayland has behaved strangely enough to convince me that he doesn’t trust Mazzerio, and something else - something unusual, he seems afraid. I’ve visited Izora at times and found her for the most part lucid, but confused. No, not confused. Some things she interprets clearly, it seems, and other things leave her memory. Sometimes, she will eat and drink well, other times she slips away to sleep for days. I’m so worried for her. We all are, except father, it seems. He gets angrier the more questions are posed to him. He’s still doing the opium, and I think something else now. I noticed an unfamiliar odor recently, like burnt oil, but not quite. Oh, Diary, that was the day he frightened me so. He didn’t know I was there, and I found him laying on the floor, alone, wriggling as though he wanted to escape his own skin, his eyes clenched shut, repeating “You’ll be coming back to me soon, now. Come to me, my flower.” That was his nickname for mother. It was terrifying, and I have to focus so hard to not let my mind run wild with speculation. Father, if you are reading this, I want you to know that I love you, and that I still believe in you. It’s been almost a month since Izora fell ill, and both Yumi and Wayland have surprised me, frankly, with their collective opinion that we should not contact Sahba at this time. I certainly could have reached her by letter myself by now, but first I considered my mentors’ concerns. When I considered their concerns, I was further confused. Their advice didn’t make sense. Wayland cares for Sahba as if she was his own daughter, and always has. Why would he wish to withhold knowledge of our sister’s dire circumstance? Why would Yumi not object vigorously at my suggestion that I leave my training and travel alone to Absalom? Why would both of my mentors suddenly fall silent when I need guidance the most, Diary? The only conclusion I can jump to, and I know I need to be very conscious of how far I jump, is that they prefer that the three of us stay away. I can only trust that such uncharacteristic behavior must be driven by urgency, and fear, and genuine concern for each of our well-being. But what of Izora? What of her well-being? Oh, my! I forgot! Khair doesn’t know about Sahba! I wish I would have started this entry with good news. Well, Khair, unfortunate timing aside, I have good news for you! Our sister is a star, or a hit, or whatever it is they call it in the theater. I know you will know the right term. She’s written a whole musical play! She composed it herself, she casted it, and she directs it, and performs solo herself, and oh, Khair, you would be so proud! I am so proud! It’s beautiful, and captivating, and wonderful! I saw it myself, in Katheer. It was so profitable that Sahba took the original troupe all the way to Cheliax! It seems we don’t need to worry about our Bibi's confidence any more, does it? I guess I might just as well have written a letter to you, Khair, because it is you I’d expect, if anyone, who would next hold this journal if not me, but I was glad to talk to my old friend anyway, who never judged, and only listened. What a wonderful lesson my Diary always taught me. I hope to see you soon, my sweet brother. I miss you, and as much as I fear to express this truth, I need you now. I look forward to finding you happy and well, and if I shouldn’t, take all I’ve said here and use it as you see fit, and never forget your little sister loves you. ~ Kiki This post, I think, gives a nice perspective into a very fundamental aspect of Kyra's personality, as well as some history. In this post, Kyra is working as a barmaid in order to gather clues for her investigation, and she has just been assaulted by a stranger for no apparent reason (as a player, I realize it was simply that the girl was jealous of Kyra for getting so much attention). Via a flashback, she reminds herself who she is, and how she strives to behave: https://www.rpgcrossing.com/showthre...99#post6235799 PHASE II Name Kyra's Assessments Felix Goodness, that’s a large man. Wow. He’d be terrifying if not for a sincere smile and a heart as big as the rest of him. Felix and I have principles in common, though we have seemingly different aims. There’s a lot we could learn from each other. I find it curious that Felix worries that his life might not mean something, that he couldn’t change the course of history--though he still gives the best of himself to help others. Perhaps I could help him learn that connection and see his worth. I worry that Felix’s obsession with killing the dragon could make him forget his own values, if he were ever faced with such a choice. Valerius Valerius doesn't realize the weight he carries on his back. He "feels" it, but he doesn't know what it is or where it comes from. Poor Valerius serves the most stingy master, revenge. And he confuses revenge with justice. It's so easy to do. It seems the "right" thing, but it never can be. Valerius' tales of his father remind me in some ways of my own, though my father's cruelty was directed at others, and I didn't know for so long. And there's something that reminds me of my brother in Valerius... he's a good liar. So unfortunate. Orrin Orrin is a beautiful being, and I have deep respect for him. He defines commitment. A true druid, he is absolutely connected to the world, and he bears a great sense of responsibility to his land and its beings, and he bears it with a graceful tenacity. I wonder and I hope that there could be some sensible solution to these tribulations in the region. I know Orrin hopes it too. He can count on my help, and I would be proud to lend it. Barnabus (Giggles) What can I say about Barnabus? I prefer to focus on the positive, that being neither Barny or I can suffer bullying of any sort. He's taking the hard road, and that may be his path, but I've talked to Barnabus, and I know the thing that haunts him, and it hurts him. He wasn't in a position to be the hero the day he lost his parents. They gave him a gift, they put their lives before his, as any parent would, and only wanted him to live--and he lives today, and he blames himself. I hope he learns to understand the sacrifice they made, and to honor it. He's so concerned with what he'll be known for... Pride is an insidious foe. I know it. I hope Barnabus knows it. Asgeirr Asgeirr's practices are new to me. I haven't figured a lot of it out, but he is most certainly committed to his god Odin. Oh, Irori, I have to thank you, again, for not being one of those gods who act like... 'gods', feuding with each other, and arguing over which has the greatest power or wisdom, and for teaching me to see that what is right for one may not be for another, and to challenge myself not to judge but to understand. Should I end up in those mountains facing the sort of threat I've been hearing of, I know I'd be lucky to fight alongside Asgeirr. Sky Sky... there is a thing the two of us have in common that has affected us both fundamentally. We both grew up without mothers, and our mothers gave their lives to give us ours. We we raised and taught by men. Sky is honest and she shows her concern for others in obvious ways, but the rage... I worry for Sky, and I wonder, like I wonder about anyone who seeks revenge above all else--what happens next? I can only imagine the empty reward of such an excuse for justice. More deaths even the scales? What happens next? When the one goal that defined you has been completed, and you're standing in the blood. Where do you go? I secretly hope that Sky doesn't get her revenge, and stops wanting it. She could be so many things... (Kyra searches her pack and retrieves her dogeared hand-written digest, the sections she found most germane from the sacred tome known as 'Unbinding the Fetters', reminding herself of the limits a mind so easily puts on itself, and how breakable those limits can be, wishing Sky knew about it, then reminding herself she was still only the most neophyte of students, avoiding the urge to lie to herself that she could properly teach any of Irori's lessons.) Hrotha I appreciate Hrotha on multiple levels, and I feel very comfortable in her presence. She is wary of hasty assessments of others--like myself--and Felix. How did he put it? Books aren't covers? It’s an easy trap to fall into--to presume that the things that I have in common with someone make us more the same, and I continue to become more fascinated as I see more of the world and meet its creatures, reminding myself that it is often our differences that can give us the greatest opportunity to connect in meaningful ways. Having to ‘stretch’ to truly understand someone whose viewpoints are not like our own. Still—the kinship I feel with Hrotha is fundamental. I am so glad that she did not give in to anger, and that instead she looks at the things she would hope to see changed in the world, and doesn’t feel helpless—seeing that she can be the change. I admire her goal to make the Council of Defenders, and having learned how committed she is, I have no doubt she will succeed. Eghan Eghan… (Kyra fans herself) I have made no promises to share my every private thought, only to not lie. Thank goodness. I suspect he’s seen my cheeks get red once or twice. I find him very handsome. A wonderful blend between rugged and soft. His smile gives me the urge to giggle. As people, we share a fundamental acceptance of all beliefs. We are not judges of others, only of ourselves. Irori—I do request your guidance here. I’ve found myself distracted by Eghan. I worry that in a crucial situation, I could lose my concentration. I realize that the way I conduct myself might make people think I have little passion in my heart, and that’s okay. I do so for reasons I am comfortable with, but I am still a woman… Makkari Elves fascinate me. There is so much about them I know I will never understand, but I treasure the opportunities I have to spend time getting to know them, and learning. Yes, yes, I know... I'm stereotyping. No two elves are as much alike as any two humans are. Each have their own gifts, and none is exactly like any other. I blame my brother Khair for exposing me to his own intrigue for the magical race. There is something about Makkari that makes him very easy to trust, though he does not value order in quite the way I do. Again--a space between that provides room to grow in our understanding. He gives freely of himself, putting himself at risk to protect the safety of others, and not for selfish reasons. I am glad to know Makkari. Sophitia I have had to center myself frequently when observing Sophitia. At first, it seemed there was a facade there, that she was projecting a persona meant to keep others from getting in too close. After spending a bit more time with her, I’m not so sure it is, and I’m a bit surprised. As with anyone else, I tend to keep my assessments about Sophita to myself. They are only assessments after all, but assessments are not innocent. With her, I’ve revisited those may times, because I worry I’m missing something I should be seeing. How can I put this? (heavy sigh) Sophitia has treated me very well. Respectfully. Kindly. I think her feelings toward me are generally positive, but I sense that she is slotting everyone, those who she sees as being at her “level”… worthy of her? And those that merely amuse her or that might be useful to her. It is an unwelcome reminder of the feelings I had growing up--and that I’ve been glad to escape, though it has taken much travel to do so—that I’ve received a favor I didn’t earn. I didn’t think I’d be able to articulate this very well… do I think Sophitia is dangerous? Maybe. It’s my own apprehension where magic is concerned. I learned far too well, in Absalom, not long ago, what can happen when such amazing powers cannot be controlled. I will continue to meditate on this. There are lessons here, things I can learn from Sophitia, and vice-versa. I will continue to grant her my trust and be rightly skeptical of my own assessments of her until I can really get to know her. She deserves no less. Anders Anders is adorable! But not just that. It is rare that I've met a Halfling that didn’t have a zest for life, and though he is quite serious in his service to Iomedae, there is no way to dim the bright light that shines inside him, and flickers only from self-doubt. I am the first to say understanding one’s weaknesses is important. Nobody is strong at everything, and I thank Irori my father (Kyra nods, pausing, seeming to collect herself momentarily, the glint of a tear forming in the corner of her eye) knew that, and allowed my brother, my sisters and I to find the path that was meant for us, so we could focus on our strengths. Knowing one’s weakness doesn’t mean being ashamed of it, it means accepting your whole self for exactly what you are. How can someone improve themselves if they start with such a warped picture? I suppose Anders feels he has something to prove. I hope he becomes more interested in believing in himself than others believing in him. He has a wonderful heart. I’m so glad I met him, and whatever happens in the future, I know he’ll be one of the people whose memories stay with me. I think I won’t forget the sound of his voice. I could listen to Anders sing all day. It is so beautiful! Sittania Speaking of the rare exception when it comes to Halflings... Sittania. She treats everyone with equal respect ostensibly. She is polite, and kind, and she does care for others. She is, though, very clearly constrained by her sense of duty. I respect that dedication, and such a journey can't be encapsulated into such trivial factors, but I do sense the weight she feels. Such a lovely creature, and capable, too. I think, like myself, people presume she is 'serious' all the time and can't enjoy life. Maybe I myself have fallen victim to the same misconception as it regards Sittania? Oh, Irori, you dickens. Yes, I will meditate on this. You don't need to say it... I understand. Perhaps the two of us could explore these things together. Perhaps we could find something in ourselves we still need to explore. I can't imagine the her adoptive family of Elves ever being disappointed in her. I do wish she will be able to extinguish that fear. She is a truly good being. I hope she knows that.