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  #1  
Old 03-25-2018, 09:27 PM
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Begon Ugo Begon Ugo is offline
Feeding my addiction...
 
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Gundren's Crew

Please repost your complete character application here, along with a link to your character sheet, for easy reference.
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Old 04-02-2018, 09:50 AM
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Noltelix Noltelix is offline
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Theon "Lucky" Mudfoot
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Name: Theon "Lucky" Mudfoot
Race: Halfling (Stout)
Alignment: CG
Class: Barbarian
Background: Folk Hero (Farmer)
Personality Traits: I feel empathy for those who suffer. // I’m oblivious to etiquette and social expectation.
Ideal: Respect. People deserve to be treated with dignity and respect.
Bond: I protect those who cannot protect themselves.
Flaw: I have a weakness for the vices of the city, especially hard drink.

Appearance:
 


History:
 


Role-Playing Sample:
 


Last edited by Noltelix; 04-03-2018 at 01:27 PM. Reason: streamlining
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Old 04-02-2018, 10:41 AM
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Name: Old Black Jack
Race: Human
Alignment: Chatotic Good
Class: Warlock
Background: Gravedigger
Personality Traits:
I like dead things better than living things. My pet skull is a better conversationalist than most people.
I'm happy and free, living so near death has made me wish to be alive while I live.
Ideal: Eccentric- I don't believe in conforming to expectations, I've always been a little odd. (Chaos)
Bond: I found a relic among the dead, and I believe it has strange powers.
Flaw: I have strong, difficult to control urges near a dead body.
Description:
 

 

History:
 

Role-Playing Sample:
 

Character Sheet

Last edited by AddictedD20; 04-03-2018 at 05:09 AM.
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Old 04-02-2018, 05:44 PM
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Nezkan Karduuth
 

Name: Nezkan Karduuth
Race: Dragonborn (Bronze)
Alignment: Neutral Good
Class: Paladin
Background: Acolyte
Personality Traits: I venerate a hero of my faith and refer to his example. I judge others by their actions not their words.
Ideal: I seek to prove myself worthy of my god’s favour by matching myself against his teachings.
Bond: I owe my life to the priest who took me in when my parents died.
Flaw: I put too much trust in those who wield power within my temple’s hierarchy.

Appearance: Standing at over 6’2” and like most dragonborn, being very heavy set, Nezkan cuts an intimidating figure. Broad shouldered and long armed, Nezkan has dull, brass coloured scales that gleam when the effort is put in. Nezkan is a charismatic yet cumbersome and methodical man. Nezkan has a short snout and stoops slightly, his lizard-like stature cutting an inch or two from his height. Short legs and with a small tail, Nezkan would often be seen as a runt among other dragonborn.

History: Nezkan was bought by a priest of Helm’s Hold in Neverwinter, temple of Helm, as an infant. His clan, rooted out and destroyed in a raid, the young kings were all captured and sold on by the mercenaries hired to destroy the clan. Nezkan was raised in Helm’s Hold, brought up as an acolyte of Helm’s faith but free. As a child he was often abused by other races in the wider city, even one as diverse as Neverwinter and as such he often remained in the Hold seeking refuge from the wider world. Nezkan grew fast and at the age of 10 was already taller than most other acolyte teenagers in the Hold. His physicality did not go unnoticed and he was quickly seconded to the militant arm of the Hold and taught the ways of Helm’s justice.

Nezkan excelled and in six years developed in both faith and physicality to the point where he was deemed worthy to join the Everwatch Knights, a branch of Helm’s Hold that the church hired to outsiders for revenue. As such, Nezkan learned much of the world beyond Helm’s Hold, especially Neverwinter, the city a prime place for skilled warriors to gain work. Nezkan earned more than his fair share during his time as part of the Everwatch Knights and after five years he had advanced far enough in his devotion to ascend the ranks to Holy Knight.

After years of working Helm’s will through the Everwatch Knights, Nezkan held hopes of moving into the upper echelons of the warriors of Helms Hold into the ranks of the Vigilant Eyes of the God, a roving band of paladins that recruited only the most worthy of Helm’s warrior followers into their ranks. However, Nezkan has yet to earn their eye.

Role-Playing Sample:
Neverwinter felt familiar but always so different. The streets, even in late afternoon were full of people and far more than Nezkan was used to seeing in Helm’s Hold. However Nezkan had been out in the world, and in Neverwinter in particular, enough to know this is what it was often like. Anonymous. Most of the people in the street made way for Nezkan to pass, his wide shoulders and stooping head, mixed with his draconian features enough to perturb most passer’s by.

Nezkan snorted a beast like snarl, a throaty laugh at the wary strangers who moved away from him. He would often risk his limbs for these strangers. Helm would not look kindly on more than a few of them. Nezkan shook himself from his thoughts as he reached The Black Mule, a shanty looking tavern that seemed as if it might fall in on itself any moment. He paused briefly before heading straight to the shabbily blue painted door.

Nezkan ambled into the tavern and glanced around, the inside far nicer than the outside and after a moment, headed straight to the short, well rounded dwarf at the bar.

“Gundren,” Nezkan grunted and pulled an idle mug of ale from the bar top that had been waiting, “You have been making a lot of noise about a job you may have going.”

“Aye, short snout, you’re on the mark there I reckon,” Gundren retorted, looking for a rise. He grinned a toothy smile up at Nezkan, the difference in height not phasing him a jot, “Helm got time for you to spare from your noble deeds?”
Nezkan glared at the dwarf. “Helm’s Hold is always willing to help,” Nezkan sighed, “Now tell me what the job is.”
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Last edited by Aladdin; 04-02-2018 at 06:31 PM.
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Old 04-02-2018, 09:09 PM
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Shaeria
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Name: Shaeria Liadon
Race: Moon elf
Alignment: Lawful Good
Class: Wizard
Background: Entertainer with some Noble dashed in.
Personality Traits: No one could doubt by my noble bearing that I am a cut above the unwashed masses.
I take great pains to always look my best and follow the latest fashions.
Ideal: Noble obligation. It is my duty to protect and care for those beneath me.
Bond: Having been trusted with special training, I must do all I can to preserve the Tel'Quessir culture and people.
Flaw: I secretly believe others are beneath me.
Appearance: A determined elegance radiates from the woman you see here, centered in the pale lavender of her almond shaped orbs; framed by chestnut brows and a fan of dark lashes, partially hidden behind the rich mahogany wisps that highlight the gentle curve of her cheek bones and the heart shape of her face. The elegant line of her nose, flourished by the delicately rounded tip, sits above full lips, stained a soft berry shade in stunning contrast to the milky paleness of her skin. Silken strands are loosely tucked behind long Elven ears, elegantly pointed at their tips. The rest of the thick mane slides easily into an intricate braid, flecked by tiny glass beads in varying shades of blue and green; from the deepest navy and jade to ones as light as the sky and spring buds. The loose twist of the braid follows the delicate curve of her back to settle between curved hips, tied with a thin band of raven leather. The rest of her form is slender and toned, lithe and graceful with her Elven blood, subtleties suggesting greater strength beneath.
History: A scion of a noble house, Shaeria was one of many refugees that flooded the hidden elven city of Evereska after the second fall of Myth Drannor. She had been accepted into training from the prestigious Cormanthor Bladesingers, but the catastrophe that led to Myth Drannor's destruction cut short her training. A young elf, she is one of the vocal new influx that speaks out against the isolation of Evereska, seeing it as cowardly to turn their backs on the world at large. She felt trapped and robbed of her birthright. Myth Drannor represented a return to the glory of her people, and instead she was doomed to obscurity hiding in the Greycloak Hills. Her shalafi, Amaranth Siannodel, the sun elf who was training her in the Song, had been among the casualties of Myth Drannor, but often she found her mind drifting to a dream he had told her about shortly before the catastrophe. In his trances, he dreamed that Oghma, the god of magic, had revealed a matter of urgency to him. A goblin tribe had made its lair in an ancient ruin now called Cragmaw Castle, where they have defiled a shrine once sacred to Oghma. Now dedicated to the vile goblin god Maglubiyet, the altar is an offense to Oghma that must not stand. His visions suggested that Sister Garaele—a priest of Tymora, the goddess of luck—could aid him in the town of Phandalin. With Amaranth's death and the loss of her people's greatest city, Shaeria could not help but feel that fulfilling his vision could help her achieve the destiny that was denied to her. She could take up his quest, and his mantle, seek out sister Garaele, and perhaps complete her unfinished training in the Bladesong. Anything was better than languishing beneath the obscurity of the Evereskan mythal.
Role-Playing Sample: The moon elven woman took the offered seat, settling easily into the chair. Her eyes darted briefly across the room's decor, noting the relative cheapness of her surroundings as well as the wealth that it likely indicated of her patron. Still, it was safer to travel with other guards than to attempt the journey alone.

"What brings ya ta Neverwinter?"

Shaeria nodded at the question. It was logical that the dwarf would wish to know where she came from, and what had brought her. "I come from Evereska, but my shalafi..." she pauses, searching for a better word in Common, "my teacher, he had designs that we travel the Sword Coast. He sought a woman in Phandalin, a town not far from here. I wish to make contact with her in his place. When I saw you were looking for guards to that city, it seemed...fortuitous." She speaks with a heavy elven accent. It is clear that her knowledge of the Common tongue is largely academic, and has not served much use until recently.

The dwarf nodded, shuffling through some paperwork. "What specific skills or expertise can ya offer to me guards? And how did ya come tah acquire those skills?"

Here the elf seemed to regain some of her confidence. "I am a Bladesinger." She responded simply, though it was only a half-truth at best. Her training was by no means complete. When the dwarf does not give her the nod of recognition or respect that the title usually incites, Shaeria gives a soft sigh, brushing an errant strand of hair from her eyes. "Among the Tel'Quessir, the Bladesong is an ancient tradition, taught to us by the god Corellon himself. Few among us have the honor of being inducted into our ranks. One must have the mind necessary to be a great wizard, and also the agility of the greatest dancer. Spell and sword must act as one to create an act as beautiful as it is violent. It takes decades of training to achieve even a novice's skill in this Art."

The dwarf nodded impatiently, and wrote 'fancypants wizard' next to her name on the application. "We have a few applicants interested in tossin' magic around, but as long as ya don't burn down the wagon and its merchandise, I've got no reason to say no. I'll get back to ya soon about the job. Have a few more interviews to do yet."

The elf stood, uncertainly. What was the normal protocol here? Handshake? No, that was humans. Tug his beard? She didn't have a beard for him to tug in response, so probably not. Finally, she settled on a fluid bow. "I shall await word, then." She spoke stiffly, before making her way out of the makeshift interviewing office in the back of the tavern.

Last edited by Elwen; 04-02-2018 at 10:16 PM.
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  #6  
Old 04-03-2018, 11:47 AM
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Ohlund Behrundson

Ohlund Behrundson
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Name: Ohlund Behrundson
Race: Human
Alignment: Neutral Good
Class: Fighter
Background: Soldier
Personality Traits: Ohlund his haunted by his dishonourable discharge from the local militia, which his family has served in for decades. He faces problems head on, and still believes a simple and direct solution is the best path to success.
Ideal: Ohlund doesn’t enjoy fighting, but believes in the greater good and fighting for the right cause, namely defending those who cannot defend themselves.
Bond: Ohlund fights for those who cannot fight for themselves, in the proud tradition of his family.
Flaw: Despite his loyalty and pride in his service, Ohlund cannot bring himself to follow orders that would force him to set aside his ideal of protecting the defenceless. In his eyes, war is not to be waged for glory’s sake, but to preserve peace. He would do anything to hide the shame of his discharge due to his refusal to obey an order.
Appearance: Ohlund is not an imposing man, but is solidly built. He has brown hair and blue eyes, stands approximately 5’10”, and weighs 190 lbs. Ohlund prefers plain clothing to anything ornate, but takes great pride in the appearance and maintenance of his armour, weapons, and gear. However, due to his current circumstances, Ohlund’s gear, though well cared for, is obviously worn. He has an open and earnest manner about him, and has a face that is honest, if not friendly.

History: Ohlund is not necessarily a warrior at heart, being a man of modest size and possessing an affable and laid-back manner, but he has always seemed to have an extra measure of luck with a sword in his hand and a shield on his arm. As a young man, Ohlund served in the local militia that both his grandfather and father served in, taking more pride in upholding his family’s ideals than in any battlefield victories. Ohlund’s demeanor, his professionalism, and his excellent grasp of tactics made him popular with both the enlisted men and officers, but despite this, he was not seen as having the pragmatic outlook necessary to become an officer. Chided as soft-hearted, Ohlund had no stomach for operations or orders where the end was used to justify the means.

After nearly a decade of faithful service, even Ohlund’s staunch professionalism buckled when he was confronted with an order he could not obey. Following a border skirmish, Ohlund and his unit were ordered to strip a hamlet of all food and weapons, despite the sure knowledge that this would result in the death or enslavement of the inhabitants. Though he will not speak of it, his insubordination cost him dearly, resulting in a dishonourable discharge. Though his family felt no shame had come to him through his good and honest actions, Ohlund took to the road in search of work and a way to remove the stain of dishonour he believes he has brought to his family name.

Role-Playing Sample: The heel of Ohlund’s left boot was leaking. Again. The man sighed quietly and pressed his lips together, determined not to dwell on such a minor inconvenience. There were worse things than a soggy sock, and the work was a welcome change of pace from the lonely marches and listless evenings spent in squalid taverns.

Besides, the caravan was nearly to Neverwinter, where he could take the time to mend the boot and send some of his pay back to his family. The pay wasn’t bad, he reflected, and Rockseeker seemed to be an honest Dwarf, less driven by financial considerations than others of his kind that Ohlund had met.

As the caravan pulled up to the last village before Neverwinter, the mercenary captain began barking orders at his men. Ohlund had been a chance replacement, filling in for a man with a broken arm and gambling problem. “You, soldier, you’ve drawn first watch while we find accommodations.” Ohlund was no fool, and knew that as an outsider he would draw the lion’s share of the unwanted tasks. Only force of habit made him respond with a curt affirmative before he stashed his gear and began to pace the perimeter of the wagons.

Truth be told, the teamsters were more than enough to scare off the urchins and beggars that invariably sought out such supply caravans, but Ohlund had made no effort to befriend his fellow guardsmen. They were hard men, callous and indifferent, and poor company besides. He preferred the company of the urchins and beggars.

As the teamsters filtered into the village after the guardsmen, Ohlund discreetly tossed a few hunks of cheese and bread to the locals. If the gods were good, no one would ever be the wiser, but if fortune failed him, he had some meager coinage to cover the cost. Or he would in a few days when they arrived in Neverwinter. He resumed his pacing, wondering what work Gundren might be able to scrounge up for him this time.

Two days later, Ohlund was seated at a creaky table, sipping anxiously on some lukewarm ale. He rose abruptly when he saw his dwarven friend. “Gundren, thanks for meeting me. I heard you’ve got some work but no one has any details….” The look in the dwarf’s eye was nothing short of glee.
“Aye, lad, and that’s the way it’ll stay. Now, for a pint, and a friend, I might be convinced to speak of the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Last edited by OldSchool; 04-03-2018 at 04:44 PM.
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Old 05-23-2018, 06:18 AM
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Vierna Vandree

Vierna Vandree
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Vierna Vandree
Name: Vierna Vandree

Gender: Female

Age: 129

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Race: Dark Elf

Class: Cleric (Trickery Domain)

Background: Spy

Faith: Lolth

Lifestyle: Modest (1 GP)

Personality Traits: I am always calm, no matter what the situation. I never raise my voice or let my emotions control me. The best way to get me to do something is to tell me I can’t do it.

Ideal: Aspiration. I’m determined to make something of myself.

Bond: A powerful person killed someone I love. Some day soon, I’ll have my revenge.

Flaw: I turn tail and run when things look bad.
AppearanceThe inn's door opened, and stepping inside was a slender woman dressed in practical, form-fitting dark suede clothing and an ocker-colored cape. Her pointed ears testified to her elven heritage. Her more than shoulder-length shiny white hair, which she had bound to a pony-tail, and her dusky grey skin hinted at a few drops of drow blood in her genes. If I didn't know better, I'd say the woman was a half-drow with distinctive elven features.

She brushed her watering dark-red eyes and looked for a free table. Her expression was slightly aloof but not unfriendly and only emphasized the prettiness of her dusky-grey face. Guessing her age was hard. If she had been a human, given her confident manner, I'd have estimated her to be in her early thirties.

The woman's profession wasn't evident at all. I could see a rapier at her hip. She didn't give rise to doubts that she wasn't proficient with it, and I probably wouldn't want to meet her in a dark alley if I were cross with her. The woman seemed to have found a seat that suited her. Her gracile gait was mesmerizing, and her cloak was flowing behind her as she walked to the place. The last thing I noticed before I had to leave the inn was that she had ordered a glass of expensive green elven wine.
Back StoryOver a century ago, Vierna Vandree was born as the fifth daughter of Fiirnel'ther Vandree, now matron mother of House Vandree, Menzoberranzan's eighth house. As all promising daughters of a noble house in the City of Spiders, Vierna was educated as a priestess of Lolth. She was sent to Arach-Tinilith and showed not only a considerable talent as a cleric but also as a spy for her house. Vierna understood that Lolth was the measure of all things and that there was no deity besides her. She liked and participated in the scheming of her people. The typical cruelty and hatred of the other drow were foreign to her, however.

She was on good terms with her younger sister Aunrae. Her elder sister Greyanna became afraid of the influence that Vierna and Aunrae had together. Greyanna wasn't helpless, though. She not only managed to put Aunrae away permanently, but she also managed to lay the incident at Vierna's door. All that Vierna could do was to pack up and leave her house and Menzoberranzan immediately. She swore to take revenge on Greyanna. One day she would come back and avenge Aunrae's death and her forced leave. However, what Vierna also had found out was that her sister Aunrae had been involved in something concerning a legendary forge of spells. Apparently, another reason why she had been killed was to protect the knowledge of the forge's existence. So another reason for Vierna to leave her home was in an attempt to track down her younger sister's killers.

House Vandree had always been a house that was very interested in Surface affairs, so Vierna knew more about the Lands Above than most of her kin. Because of this and as she didn't want to go into hiding in another drow settlement in the Underdark, Vierna's escape led her finally to the Surface. Knowing that the surface dwellers wouldn't welcome a drow, even less a priestess of the Spider Queen, she used cremes to lighten her jet-black skin so that it appeared in a dusky grey. With this cosmetic preparation, Vierna successfully masqueraded as a half-drow rogue, an offspring of a human and a drow parent.

Living on the surface wasn't always easy. The biggest problem for Vierna was the sun. Her sensitive eyes weren't made for the brightness of the fireball in Toril's sky. She often had to seek the shelter of shadows to bear the burning rays. For reasons other than this, rainy days were dangerous for her as well. The creme she used as part of her disguise wasn't completely waterproof. A few times, she had only narrowly escaped her unmasking. She dreaded to think what the common folk would do to her should ever be uncovered that she was a Lolthite cleric and not a half-elf with distinct drow features.

It was clear in her mind that she had to return to her house in Menzoberranzan the sooner the better. She just couldn't come back empty-handed. It then happened that she found a trail of the killers. The trail led her towards the town of Phandalin and the name she kept hearing was the "Spider". During her investigations as she was approaching the town of Phandalin, she happened to interrogate the wrong people (who were in league with the "Spider"). They saw through her disguise as a half-drow. As they knew from the "Spider" that one drow Vierna Vandree might pry into their affairs and because one didn't meet a drow on the surface by chance, they easily put one and one together. And then the band of red-scarved bandits imprisoned her, while they were waiting for the "Spider" to decide what to do with her.
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Old 12-07-2018, 07:16 PM
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Hadarai Deorla
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Name: Hadarai Deorla (Darai to friends & family)
Race: Half-Elf
Class: Bard (College of Lore)

Personality Traits:
I know a story relevant to almost every situation.
I am driven to see and experience new things, places and people.

Ideal:
The stories and legends of the past must never be forgotten, for they teach us how the world works.

Bond:
One day I will return to my parents and share with them my experiences.

Flaws:
I find it hard to adapt when things don't go as I expect them to.
Despite all my knowledge I have little practical experience.

About Me:
Let me tell you a story.

It began thirty-four years ago, in a town called Secomber. It was a small town, one of those places that exists primarily to break up the monotony of travel. Traders, travellers and adventurers passed through it on their way to and from such fantastical places as Waterdeep, Llorkh, Uluvin, the Greypeaks, and the High Forest. They rarely stayed for long. Other than its carefully-tended public gardens Secomber had little to recommend it. But it is important to our story, for it was there that the most classic tale of all played itself out again: a man met a woman, and they fell in love.

The man was my father, Roland Deora. He was a clerk for the town judiciary, the grandiosely-named Rods of Justice. Not the most exciting job, but it taught him his letters and gave him access to the town archives. Nestled among the accumulated bureaucratic records he discovered books describing far off lands and times long gone, and he found that he could live an adventurer's life through the words they had left behind.

The woman was my mother, Quelenna Selvarun. An elf from the High Forest, she passed through as part of a trading caravan. She was a jeweller of some small skill, ostensibly with the caravan to find new buyers for her wares. In truth she was possessed by wanderlust, and used the caravan as an excuse to see the world beyond the trees.

While the caravan stopped in Secomber there was a dispute between the locals and the elven traders. In truth I cannot say what the dispute was - my parents have made sport of exaggerating the occurrence beyond all sense of reality, and painting one side or the other as foul vagabonds preying on helpless innocents. It matters little, for the true import of this event was to bring my parents together when the Rods of Justice convened in judgement. I do not know what it was, precisely, that attracted a wandering merchant to a quiet clerk thirty years her junior, but a bond formed between them. Quelenna stayed behind in Secomber when her caravan left, and before long she and Roland married.

Shortly thereafter, I entered this story.

My life was good, growing up. My parents were kind to me, and provided for me well. They taught me to read and write and do sums, a valuable skill indeed in such a small town. From my father I learned how to do simple magics, and from my mother I learned how to fight - though I never did get the hang of the bow, to her eternal despair. Both of my parents told me stories of their people, and I soon developed an insatiable love for them. I devoured every book I could get my hands on, and by the time I was twelve I could have recited three score tales word perfectly. This sharing of stories was the greatest gift my parents ever gave me.

I discovered that, in contrast to either of my parents, I am very much a people-person. I am good-humoured, quick-witted, and I connect easily with people. People are easy to understand, you see, all you have to do is comprehend what role they see themselves as playing. That role is, I think, what makes each person so special. Everyone is the hero of their own story, with their own concerns and challenges and antagonists. Infinite stories, all intertwined in a chaotic but glorious tapestry.

Before I knew it I was an adult, looking much as I do now. A hair under six foot, and light of build - I take after my mother there. Her blood gave me pointed ears, too, and golden eyes too bright to be human. My father gave me his hair, much darker than my mother's, and a voice that can carry across a village when I need it to. The ears got me some odd looks in Secomber, but I got little grief for it. Sleepy though it was, it saw enough travellers to be at least somewhat cosmopolitan. There were a few who objected to my parents relationship, and took it out on me, but my mother taught me that the words of fools and bigots were as wind.

Though my parents tried, there came a time when they could educate me no further, when my demand for knowledge had outstripped the capabilities of Secomber. Somehow, and I will never ask how lest they tell me, they found the money to hire a true bard to take my education further. He was a gnome called Fablin Munggen, though understandably he preferred Fablin the Fantastical. From him I learned the art of oratory, the playing of the lute, the melding of spell and sword, and how to shape people to my ends. Fablin stayed with us for only a half-year, but I will be forever indebted to his teachings.

It soon became apparent that my parents' quiet life was not right for me. I had inherited my mother's wanderlust, but it was not tempered by a bond to a spouse and an established home. I had inherited my father's curiosity, but it was not sated merely by words in a book. The walls of Secomber were too small for me, and the world beckoned. The path of the wandering bard called to me.

I'd like to say I set out one day and never looked back. That's how it always goes, in stories. But I could not quite reach that ideal, and I looked back often as my sleepy home faded into the distance. I will carry a piece of it with me always, and I have not left for good. I will return and walk those familiar streets again, up to the slightly-lopsided cottage and all the fond memories it holds. And I will share with my parents all the stories I have gathered and experienced, and in doing so finally repay them for their greatest gift to me.

So there it is, that's my story. It's not the best story in the world. It's a bit too reliant on cliches, and it's frankly lacking in excitement. But it's mine, and that makes it dear to me. And do you want to know the best thing about it?

It isn't finished yet.

Last edited by Maladict; 12-07-2018 at 07:29 PM.
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