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  #1  
Old 09-09-2018, 11:24 AM
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The Heroes of Waterdeep

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Old 09-09-2018, 11:25 AM
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Character Name: Zlog "Greenblood" Dundragon also known as the Killer Cook of Beauvilliers'
Class: Cook (Barbarian)
Race: Half Orc
Age: 27
Alignment: Chatoic Good
Physical Description: Zlog has his mothers green eyes and brown hair but his orc heritage is easy to see as long orc fangs protrude from his mouth. His hair is long an unkempt from his years of slavery but he his body has been toned to be a powerful machine. He towers over all those around him, big even for an orc. It is obvious that he could free himself from human control at any point in which he desired to do so.

Personality: The biggest thing about Zlog is not his strapping muscles or his hulking green frame. It isn't his fury in battle, although that is something to be admired, no it is his heart. Zlog has known little of compassion and much of perseverance. He swore to his mother before he was ripped from her that he would always do the right thing, no matter how hard. Zlog quickly discovered how hard of a price that was to keep. He is quick to anger when he sees someone mistreated, especially if they can not defend themselves. Most of all Zlog does not trust magic and will only suffer the usage of it from those he trusts.

Background:
Most definitely not a man, but neither an orc either Zlog was someone who was of two worlds, but belonged to neither. Hatread and bigotry followed him at every step, hunted by the Orcs who had raped his mother and subjugated by those who feared who he was and what he could do.. The only love Zlog ever knew was stripped from him. The great endearment the large orc held for his human mother knew no bounds for his mother suffered greatly in his birth and for the first five years she sheltered him as her son. She of course had no choice in the matter, it was the damn orcish raids. When the Orcs came they took everything that conquered as their own, gold, weapons, treasure, and most importantly... women. Zlog has a special place for the orcs that found his mother on the night of that raid and wishes very specific type of vengeance on the orc horde who raped her.

Before that she was engaged to a highly decorated Captain of Baldur's Gate who was said to love her deeply, but when it was revealed that she had conceived an orc child he could no longer honor such a promise. Shortly after his true colors began to show as it was revealed that he was a Mercenary Veteran who in fact had lead to the infiltation of Baldur's gate. The soldier fled never to be seen again leaving him and his dishonored mother to fend for themselves. The two made a spectatcular pairing as she attempted to teach him everything she new about being a credible man. Complex concepts didn't seem to sink in for Zlog very easily, but when she simplified them he began to understand what it meant to be good and to have honor. Just when he felt like he was finally figuring out a way to fit in with all the other human children things changed. It wasn't long after Zlog's 10th birthday that the men came and took him from his mother. They told her that a Greenblood had no place but to serve them and he was met with the bonds of slavery. Zlog had no idea what they meant, his blood wasn't even green. He promised his mother he would be good and always protect those weaker than himself, but the men insisted he was a danger. In truth they were terrified of him.

The farm that they had assigned him to was owned by a family known for their love of Orc slaves. It was in fact the first time Zlog had gotten to meet any of his own kind. At first he was shunned, thought of as an outsider within the small community of slaves, but soon he began to prove himself. Picking up the elderly and weak when they fell and pulling their share of the work. When a wheel broke off one of the carts they had loaded with grain he saved a slave who had been trapped underneath before pulling the cart all the way to the blacksmith. The respect he earned gave him a small community. They had told him that he had the look of a great orcish line, but would not admit its name for fear he would seek vengeance. It had become clear to everyone that he was not physically bound to be a slave, he stayed because he chose to. He learned the proverbs of his people and their ways amongst the scythe and grinding grain. Then one day he was tasked to ride a cart to the city for a grain delivery. In hopes of possibly seeing his mother again he rode eagerly, but soon found nothing familiar.

The city was rustling and bustling with action, so much so many things went unnoticed to the eyes of most. Zlog however took it all in with wonder, that is how he saw her. A young girl, probably in her early teens at most was venturing down an alley. Her bright cloak had drawn him in, it was the deepest shade of crimson he had ever seen. Looking at it among her other attire it was clear the girl knew her preference in color. She also had no keen eye for danger as a group of ruffians surrounded her. Memories of what his biological father had done started to cascade through his mind. He knew he was told to stay with the wagon, they had even chained him to it. He had tried so hard to obey their stupid human rules to let them feel safe... but there was something in the air that made everything just feel foul. The girl was in danger, just as his mother had been all those years ago.

For the first time Zlog broke his bonds.



As they pulled at the girls red cloak and began to tear it Zlog stormed toward them carrying a large barrel of grain he launched it against the wall behind them letting it explode in warning. Grabbing the girls arm he swung her behind him.

"Stay put Red... you are safe now." he ordered as he turned to the ruffians who had brandished daggers. For the first time Zlog let himself get angry and a fire like none other burned through him and erupted in rage, He grabbed one of the planks from the broken barrel and beat the men into bloody submission not relenting until his master had called the authorities.

The girl now safe clung to him and it wasn't until someone had summoned a member of her house that she finally let go. The constable was discussing with the slave owner what to do with the orc who was obviously a danger to them. It was then that the offer was made by house Beauvilliers to purchase him as their servant. Their cook had just suddenly... been alleviated of their duties and they needed a replacement. One who could pull his load without complaint.

Work in the kitchens suited Zlog more than anyone could have ever predicted. In fact he seemed to have a knack for it. Taking hold of most of the duties he was a master of the stew pot, and artist within the culinary delicacies and he had a special habbit of sending treats to one young Beauvilliers girl who had a preference for the ones with the red icing. She would visit him from time to time and he would do whatever he could to watchover her. Zlog had lost track of what had happened to his mother, where she was or if she thought of him. He did however remember her lessons and it had brought him to a great trade he loved. Zlog was so gratful of such an opportunity he swore to protect the girl he had learned was named Maxine. She was a lot different than him and he greatly admired it, but worried of her sense of adventure. One night he caught her sneaking out of the keep. Stopping her he insisted that she bring some of the spiced rolls she seemed to love so much and that she also let him walk with her until he thought she was safe. She reluctantly agreed not quite understanding what he meant. He has been traveling with her ever since, a large spoon in hand and a pot on his back. In time he finally conceded to investing in some real weapons but only because Max convinced him she wasn't safe, she's regretted it ever since.

Background: Slave (custom)
Skill Proficiencies: Athletics, Survival
Tool Proficiencies: Smiths Tools, Herbalism Kit
Equipment: A small knife, a map of the city you grew up in, a pet mouse, a single gauntlet inscribed with a fire motif and an unfamiliar name in Primordial., a set of common clothes, and a belt pouch containing 10 gp

FEATURE: CITY SECRETS
You know the secret patterns and flow to cities and can find passages through the urban sprawl that others would miss. When you are not in combat, you (and companions you lead) can travel between any two locations in the city twice as fast as your speed would normally allow.


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Last edited by Avner; 09-18-2018 at 12:34 PM.
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Old 09-09-2018, 11:26 AM
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Maxine
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Name: Maxine Orianne Beauvilliers
Class: Wizard
Race: Human
Age: 26
Alignment: Neutral Good
Background: Waterdhavian Noble
Game: Dragon Heist

Trait 1: Despite maintaining an air of aristocracy, I pride myself in not possessing the aloofness of my peers.
Trait 2: Magic is an exciting prospect of study, and provides me with a power that I otherwise personally lack. I become more confident as my command over it grows.
Ideal: I am the scion of the Beauvilliers line, a position which I cannot treat or throw away lightly. Any activities not befitting my station must not be traced back to me.
Bond: Zlog is an odd choice of partner, to say the least, but I rely on him to have my best interests at heart.
Flaw: I appear collected and certain, but if a situation were to grow too stressful or dangerous, I cannot guarantee any semblance of rational thought or action on my part.

Appearance & Personality: Maxine's gangly form is hidden easily enough behind properly-tailored clothing, but her height is not — she towers over most human women, and even some of the unluckier men. The manner in which her brown hair falls to her shoulders, the shades of red of her makeup, the way her pristine gold glasses sit at the edge of her nose are all calculated to embody an elegance that looks effortless but truly implies a great deal of effort. She tends to stay away from dresses, excepting in formal events, instead favoring more practical outfits, and preferring high-end chic equine attire. When wishing to move freely among a more common crowd, she ditches the glasses and dons simpler patterns and muted colors, though her scarlet-red hood and shawl is a sure-fire way to recognize her — for the few who know to look for it.

A life of nobility is undoubtedly one that many people would kill for — and many have. But despite the comforts of the lifestyle, it remains driven by the stresses and responsibilities of the station. Constantly walking on eggshells can be exhausting; and sometimes, Maxine just wants to escape it all, to take refuge in a more common lifestyle, and to do so without opening up a tin of worms. Reading cheap romance novels, drinking a pint that can be paid for in copper and has probably been cleaned with spit, singing along with the cheerful lyrics of folk songs, are all indulgences which ground her, keep her feeling human. Zlog has been good for that.

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Old 09-10-2018, 12:50 PM
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Name: Mist in the Meadow
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Class: Bard
Race: Tabaxi
Age: 18
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Background: Charlatan

 

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Old 09-10-2018, 08:14 PM
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Cyrus Marlowe
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Class: Cleric of Mystra (arcana domain)
Race: Human (variant)
Age: 24
Alignment: Neutral Good
Background: Reclusive Scholar (hermit)

Description: Cyrus is tall, slim, almost painfully so, pale, studious, and serious. His dark hair is long, though from lack of care rather than affectation, and from a pronounced widow's peak is gathered behind his crown in a pair of vertically stacked knots. Bluish-purple circles most often shadow his eyes, which themselves are set deep beneath a heavy, furrowed brow, prematurely lined into the aspect of a much older man.

Near-indelible ink stains darken the skin of Cyrus's fingers. Evidence of innumerable hours spent poring over, and making notes on, obscure texts on every topic from agriculture to ontology. A result of which is his somewhat eclectic, but comprehensive, knowledge of theories practical and philosophical.

He typically wears simple linen robes. Though, when the occasion calls for it, Cyrus has been known to don a suit of antique scale mail, a well-cared-for heirloom bequeathed by the will of some distant forebear of his with a curiosity for such things. Similarly, a small round shield engraved with the star of Mystra, to match the amulet about his throat, is counted among his notable possessions.

Despite these warlike trinkets, Cyrus has no fondness in him for violence. Particularly he bears a strong distaste for weaponry, and carries with him only a simple staff of ash-wood capped with iron as both walking aid and deterrent for those less disinclined toward violence than himself.

History: Cyrus's father, Nathaniel, was a bookkeeper, respectable, but far from well noted. His mother, Simone, was a botanist of well-to-do, though not noble, birth. The pair met when Nathaniel's services were procured by Simone's father, William, to set his books in order in advance of a prospective business venture. Theirs was far from a whirlwind romance, and certainly not one that would be commemorated in the livid sonnets of popular poetry. It was a slower thing, but no less powerful for that.

What had been intended as a temporary engagement for Nathaniel grew into a more permanent attachment. William's venture prospered beyond anyone's expectations, and the young bookkeeper was put on a permanent retainer to deal with the household's increased finances. In the meantime, Simone's work on cultivating foreign specimens in the absence of their natural climate had been garnering a degree of renown among the Waterdhavian nobility, particularly those disinterested wives of whom epected their lives to be a constant barrage of colourful exoticism.

The window of Nathaniel's assigned study happened to look down upon the greenhouse in which Simone conducted her own work. And through that pane of glass, at an uncommon degree of distance, the pair began what was to be a prolonged courtship. All of which started with a single wave.

They were eventually married, and a child came soon after. Given grandfather William's inclination toward social climbing, and the studious bent of his parentage, Cyrus found his early attentions directed toward academic pursuits. The boy developed a passion for the obscure though, and the arcane, and so was eventually drawn toward the Mother of Magic.

The blithe, self-involved studiousness of the mage was not for him. Cyrus, after his parents, sought always a reason to which his research might be applied. Mystra became his answer, his reason.

Mystra became his purpose.

Acquaintance (Yagra Stonefist):

Cyrus blinked rapidly. The last few second's worth of violence had shocked him into inaction. "You shouldn't be so hostile to your admirers, Yagra." Cyrus bent and wiped a little of the blood from the unconscious man's mouth. He pressed a pair or fingers quickly against the man's jugular, just to check that he'd survived having been rebuked. "He was only trying to pay you a compliment. Even if it was... let's say sub-optimally phrased. And, while I absolutely agree it wasn't necessary for him to be so crude about it, they do look rather appealing, given your chosen state of dress..." Cyrus trailed off, looked about, then added. "That said, it wasn't necessary for him to try and get a fistful right off the bat. Is that a tooth in your knuckle?"
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Last edited by ByronBulb; 09-10-2018 at 08:39 PM.
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Old 09-12-2018, 01:04 PM
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Name:Urser the Turtle
Class: Fighter
Race: Tortle
Age: 15
Alignment: LN

A tall and imposing figure with mottled green skin, tough as boiled leather. Even without his shell, he is easily three hundred pounds of sinew muscle and bone but with it he is more in the neighborhood of four hundred and fifty. His heavy curving beak looks as though it could tear through dense plant matter or flesh with equal ease, though it does seem that it would be difficult him to form some common sounds with it. His strange attire with its odd platform shoes, baggy pantaloons, enormous neck beads and oddly attached headscarf mark him as someone who is definitely not native to Waterdeep. Hanging from the sash at his waist are an exquisite paired set of swords with emerald green hilt wraps and sheathed in wooden cases with pale lacquer work.



 


 

Last edited by kanly; 09-17-2018 at 04:27 PM.
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Old 10-18-2018, 10:14 PM
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Khoji
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Name: Khoji
Race: Warforged (Envoy)
Class: Mystic (Nomad) 1
Alignment: Neutral

Background: Seeker (Investigator)
Traits: I would rather observe than meddle. I prefer to listen to all sides before making a decision.
Bond: To find out who made me and why is my highest priority.
Ideal: Everything is new, and I have a thirst to learn.
Flaws: I am easily distracted by the promise of information. I harbor dark, bloodthirsty thoughts.

Appearance: Tall, slender, and female, but clearly not human. No, Faerun is full of non-humans. Clearly not living. At least, neither in the traditional way nor in the degraded manner of the undead. Magic-wrought metals cover much of her exterior, clearly reminiscent of skin, but skin of dull steel, shining silver, and gleaming brass - often intricately chased and worked. Where there is no metal, it's sometimes possible to see glimpses of what looks like an inner structure made of dark, smooth wood and cunningly-fashioned gears and rods.

History: She couldn't even remember forgetting. Was she broken? A spell gone wrong? Was she being punished? She had no idea. Khoji, if that even was her name, remembered a little bit of when she came into the world. It was bright, it was warm, and sound was everywhere. "My khoji," he'd said. From that first memory until she'd found herself in an abandoned house in Waterdeep, there were only fragments. Shards. She remembered reading. She remembered being in the air, but not how or why. She remembered wanting to hurt someone. She remembered that word, Khoji.

It wasn't her name, but she made it her name. Inside, in the place where the thoughts live, she felt a tremendous pressure to know. No, not quite. Tremendous pressure to find. Find who she was. Find who made her. Find why she was here. She felt like she would be good at finding things.
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Last edited by Berith; 10-19-2018 at 09:25 AM.
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Old 10-19-2018, 04:45 PM
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Darmu
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Name: Darmu

Race: Loxodon

Class: Monk 1

Background: Sage

Age:200

Gender: Male

Alignment: Lawful Good

Description: Darmu is a massive loxodon whose nimbleness is hidden by his sheer size. He stands 7ft tall and weighs over 300lbs. While this makes him fairly average for his race, he certainly stands above the crowd. He has brownish grey skin that is covered by small coarse hair and his heavily muscled body moves with a fluid grace. His large ears are adorned with massive bronze hoop earrings. He wears deep blue robes with a golden sash that hangs long off of his hip.

Personality Traits 1:I can find common ground between the fiercest enemies, empathizing with them and always working toward peace.

Personality Traits 2:I am always calm, no matter what the situation. I never raise my voice or let my emotions control me.

Ideals: Charity. I always try to help those in need, no matter what the personal cost. (Good)

Bonds: I protect those who cannot protect themselves.

Flaw: I secretly believe that everyone is beneath me.

Background: The world is full of wise men...and women. Darmu would like, before his days are through, to be counted among them. The tranquil Loxodon has left his home, the Monastery of St. Fanal to seek out the wisdom of all the world's sages. His monastery is dedicated to the pursuit of learning and Darmu carries that charge with him as he travels. The monk has worked his way north from Calimshan, ferreting out the lost wisdom of the ages.

Darmu entered the monastery at a young age and has immersed himself in the pursuit of knowledge throughout his stay. However, when it became clear that to continue his studies he would have to venture out into the world, Darmu began to study the more martial aspects of his monastic order. The monk does not approve of violence and he was a particularly slow learner when it came to honing his fighting skills...but the Loxodon is persistent.

Darmu plans to travel freely and learn deeply. He relies on his size and calm...yet loquacious demeanor to smooth over any waiting confrontations but he rests easy secure in the fact that he can handle himself if the need arises.




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Last edited by Begon Ugo; 10-19-2018 at 05:09 PM.
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Old 10-20-2018, 02:35 AM
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Ulgrum Thrulgar
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Name: Ulgrum
Race: Hill Dwarf
Class: Sorcerer 1
Alignment: Chaotic Good

Background: Guild artisan

Appearance: Ulgrum is short and relatively slight for a dwarf. If he were to shaved off his beard, you might mistake him for a hobbit. He wears well made, but plain clothes, passing easily as a senior guildsman, with a simple, beautifully wrought axe hanging at his thigh. His black hair and beard are neatly kept and frame a handsome face, which has odd faint freckle-like marks on his cheeks and nose. But the thing that grabs your attention is those orange flecks in his dark, near black, eyes. They seem to dance - if you talk to him for a while you risk behind entranced by them.

Personality: Ulgrum’s clumsiness put its stamp on him from an early age. He hates it. Its not funny and he does not want to be defined by it. He has fought to learn how to avoid situations where it can be exposed, always holding on to banisters and taking extra care to carry tankards with two hands.

Associated with being clumsy is his inability to stay still. If he sits, his leg is always a-jiggling and where others may stand quietly, he will pace up and down. This restlessness is not confined to the physical. His mind is racing just the same. If he is not paying attention he’ll mutter a stream of consciousness, just raising his voice a little when he wants to say something for others to hear.

But with all that he is charming. Its partly those eyes, but mostly it’s the fact that he likes people. He likes to talk and joke with them. He wants to know their stories. And he wants to join in. He learned this as the different boy amongst his brothers and cousins. It was either that or isolation.

His family trade has given him a keen eye for manufactured beauty. While he lacks the skills to create these pieces, he has the true craftsman’s appreciation for them. He grew up surrounded by this beauty, but he wants to own some for himself. From his own hand. And if he cannot make them, perhaps he can put his powers to some use to be able to buy them.

History:. Ulgrum is the third generation son of the famed Thrulgar jewellers. The family trade brought the wealthy from Waterdeep trekking to their mountain forge for custom designed pieces. The brothers Thrulgar were taught their delicate arts from as young as twenty, starting on a hundred year path to mastery. This mastery means the Gladron Thrulgar, the patriarch of the family, is sought after to personally craft the finest guildsmen’s badges of office and the wedding jewellery of the greatest families. He has parlayed this attention to acceptance into Waterdeep’s high society.

Ulgrum is different. He was born so. The Thrulgar’s were typically born with a fine dextrous fingers, skilled and the most intricate manipulation. They move with grace and ease that would stand out in the community of Elves, let alone dwarves. Yet Ulgrum was born clumsy. Not just a little bit awkward, but positively accident prone, forever with scuffed knees and knocking things over. In his teens, it was already clear that the family business would not be for him. So he did not feel left out, his father would give him plain rocks to shape with his jewellers tools, while his brothers would make their first cuts in low-value gems.

And it was in one of those lessons that Ulgrum’s life changed. It was a fairly ordinary rock, if a little light, but when Ulgrum struck it the rock shattered in blinding orange flash. Fragments peppered his face and arms and temporarily blinded him. However, he recovered fast from these minor injuries, but this strange stone left a lifelong mark. Rather than scarring the the pockmarks left by the stone brought interest to his face. And sometimes they glowed. They glowed when the strange things happened. When pots and pans would spontaneously float around him; when strange fires would light as he passed through a room; when lizards would come crawling out of fractures in the rocks as he hummed a popular ditty.

Gladron diagnosed wild magic as the source of this strange power around his great grandson. He used his Waterdeep contacts to find a sorcerer tutor to help Ulgrum bring some control, then mastery over this power. Ulgrum grew in confidence, finding new joy in his difference and competence. But with that confidence came a restlessness. Ulgrum had the feeling he could do anything, yet all House Thrulgar did was produce exquisite decorations for others. He needed to go out into the world. To test his powers and shape a life beyond that of the jewellers skill in shaping the finest rocks of the earth. Gladron furnished him with introductions to to the treasurer of the jewellers’s guild in Waterdeep, Rigart Smolbard, and ensured he had lodging in his home. For the past week he had been getting to know the cosmopolitan world of this great city.
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Old 12-11-2018, 07:11 AM
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Character
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Name: Cassandra of Waterdeep

Alignment: Neutral Good

Sex: Female

Race: Protector Aasimar

Class: Paladin

Oath: Oath of Redemption

Angelic Guide: Tadriel (stern and judgemental)

Age: Unknown

Background: Far Traveler

Personality Traits: I'm confident in my own abilities and do what I can to instill confidence in others. I'm always polite and respectful.

Ideal: Redemption. There's a spark of good in everyone. (Good)

Bond: I protect those who cannot protect themselves.

Flaw: I am dogmatic in my thoughts and philosophy.

StoryAs was always the case after an extended period of hibernation, it took me a long time to orient myself after I had woken up or, rather, had been awoken. I opened my eyes and looked at a low ceiling made from roughly worked wood. Beneath me, I felt the coldness of a stone floor seeping into my bones. A groan escaped my lips as I managed to sit up. It would take some time until I would be in full control over my muscles.

I didn't remember my previous mission, where I had been and what I had achieved before I had been put once more to a deep slumber. I never remembered my past life. And as was always the case, I was ignorant of my current whereabouts and what important task was lying ahead of me. All I knew was that I would have to find out and that my actions would make a difference for my patron, Helm, the Vigilant One. I wasn't allowed to fail him.

Carefully, I looked around. I was located in a kind of storage shed. Lots of tools and junk was partly stacked in shelves, but mostly lying around. With shaky legs still, I stood up and looked down on myself. I was naked. I had the body of a young human woman, but I knew that I wasn't entirely human. I was something else; I was the tool of a god, a being not native to this plane.

An old mirror stood on the floor a few yards away from me. Swayingly, I walked over to the silver surface and looked at myself in the mirror. I remembered my looks. I had long black hair, which was parted in the middle. The lustrous black hair framed a pale face. At first appearance, I would have rather been associated with a dark power than with a god who commanded celestials. The gothic impression would have been perfect if it hadn't been for my eyes and their blue irises, which almost seemed to radiate, that revealed my true nature as an aasimar to the well-versed.

After a while, I had reclaimed the control over my body and felt more confident. Searching through the junk stored in this shed, I found some clothes to clad myself and to cloak my nakedness. I also found an old suit of chainmail. There were also a shield and a silvery longsword in the vicinity of the chainmail. When I picked up the shield and saw a silver gauntlet with a watchful eye on its back emblazoned on the shield, I knew that I hadn't found the arms and armor accidentally. They had been placed here on purpose, for me to equip myself.

I donned the armor and strapped the sheath on my right hip. The sword was safely stored inside. I didn't intend to make use of it. My duty on this plane was to show its mortals the way to redemption and to shine a light on the path to benevolence and justice. Violence would only throw me back.

When I left the building, I turned around one more time. How often had I been put to hibernation before only to be woken up when my services would be needed once more? Would this be just one of the many episodes of my life, an adventure I would forget as I had forgotten all previous ones? Would I be successful on my current mission, whose object I could not even divine? I was still stripped of most of the power I must have been able to wield. I would have to prove myself once more, and if I were worthy in the eyes of Helm, I would gradually regain my power.

The street was bustling. I conjectured that I was in a large city. Mostly humans, but also members of other races, elves, dwarves, halflings, and even less common folk were populating the streets of this metropolis. They conversed in a language I didn't recognize, but which I was miraculously able to understand and to speak. As it seemed to be the common language of all the people here, I decided to call it Common.

"Cassandra!" a young man greeted his wife on the other side of the street and kissed her. They seemed to be happy. It came to my mind that I had no name. I rummaged in my mind, but I remembered no name. Had I never been given a name? Having a name was handy, I thought, so I decided to call myself Cassandra as well.

As I was walking the streets and avenues of this grand city, I learned that it was called Waterdeep by its citizens. As I still had no last name, I chose my full name to be Cassandra of Waterdeep. It made me smile. In some sense, it was a patent lie. Indeed, I didn't hail from this city, nor did I know anything about it. But I liked the ring of this name.

Blending in with the crowds came naturally to me, and I spent the full day just walking and listening. As it got dark, I reminded myself that I needed a place to sleep. I had seen many inns during the day, so I selected an arbitrary one. I had learned that the people used copper, silver and gold pieces to pay for goods and services. Fortunately, I had found some coins in the pockets of my belt so that I could pay for a meal and a stay in the inn.

As I finally lied in my bed, I closed my eyes and drifted slowly to sleep. I was fully asleep when Tadriel, my deva, stern and judgmental as always, began to speak to me...
Character Sheet
 
__________________
Playing: Maja human mystic Cassandra protector aasimar paladin Thora sun elven fighter Vierna dark elven cleric
DMing: Out of the Abyss Taken the Oath of Sangus.
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