[Characters] Character Roster

[voodoozombie]

 

Princess Cricket,

Name: Princess Cricket
Race: Human
Class: Warlock Hexblade: Infernal Pact (Blue token)
Background: None
Theme: Infernal Prince (used extra human feat)
Tokens left: White and Red. Will use for magic items.

Description and Personality:
I take great pains to always look my best and follow the latest fashion trends. In other words I'm high maintenance. I don't like to get my hands dirty. That's what peasants are for. And I won't be caught dead in unsuitable accommodations. Did I mention that I'm high maintenance? I also KNOW that everyone is beneath me. I sometimes(well...always) let everyone know this. Having royal blood is great!
As far as humans go I'm about 6'tall, with very black hair and blue eyes with red irises. My skin is pale and silky smooth. Who want's to get their skin all brown and burnt? That kind of thing causes....wrinkles! How dreadful! So I spend most of my time indoors and out of the sun as much as I can. I also always wear the best and finest clothing, they type only fitting for a Princess. Nothing less will do!


Background:
My family can trace their ancestral bloodline back to some Prince, many generations ago. Despite the long distance between the first ancestor of my family and that of the Prince, every generation one person is born blessed with the strong power of our ancestral blood. This blessed family member will have normal colored eyes, except the irises will be red. Such person is considered a direct bloodline descendant of this Prince and thus is a Prince or Princess. It's also these blessed people who receive special tutors and special teachings. These Princes and Princes are given anything they want and have the best of everything. They never want for anything. They are after all royalty!

And now it's my turn to be the blessed one this generation. The second I was born and my parents saw my eyes, they knew that I was a Princess. And like those before me, I had it all. That was until one of my special tutors got the bright ideal that I must go out on my own and become a more independent person. And despite all the protesting I did, nothing I did or say could change my parents minds. This whole thing sucks!!!

Now I must prove that I can handle myself without the coddling of my family. I'm doing this against my will. The tutors had advised my family that I should be more 'independent' if I'm ever to rise up with in the ranks of the many Noble houses that are out there . My family saw this as an opportunity to not only get in good with an Royal family but to gain new alliances with with other noble houses. So they pushed me out the front door and sent me on my merry way. My house's alliance with the another noble families they already have must be sustained at all costs. Which is another reason why I'm being forced to do this. By sucking up to the Royal House, my family hopes to form an alliance with the Royal family and to also strengthen their ties with other noble familes, thus move up the social ranks even more.

Thus my parents pushed me out the front door and told me to do the family proud. I no interest in the problem at hand what so ever. My family is just using me to suck up to the Royal family so they can get in their inner circle of friends. I know this but I doesn't care. The only thing that I'm worried about right now is that I have to mingle with the unwashed masses. And, heaven for bid, I might actually have to talk face to face with a peasant!

[Jeffkevlar]

 

Name:Ismark Indirovich
Race: Human
Class: Ranger

Description: Many people who live in the mists of Barvovia look much older than they actually are. Ismark is no exception. While his face is unlined and retains some youthfulness, his hazel eyes are deep set within dark sockets. His hair, that hangs to his shoulders has white hair shooting through the dark black at the temples. His beard, once shaved away each morning, now stands in rough stubble on his cheeks and chin, wirey white hairs mixed with the others. His clothing, while simple and designed for travels through the woods,is well made and his fine boots give him away as a man who comes from means. His hide armor is old but well cared for. The two swords that he straps to his back, are of very fine work, heirlooms of his house.

Personality: Ismark thinks he can remember a happy childhood. One where his mother loved him, his father was a good strong man who took care of the town that he served as Burgermeister, and a sweet adopted sister. He hopes these memories are true and not fantasies he has built for himself. Because the reality now is far from happy.

Ismark cares deeply for his town. He has always sought to protect it, choosing to travel with and learn from the men of the woods who protected the villiage from the wilderness. It is his great sorrow and shame that the mists of Strahd has covered his town, harming and twisting his people.

Backstory: Ismark has always felt the need to serve his home. His father chose politics but Ismark felt the need to have a more tangible effect. He chose to take to the woods with his uncle, learning woodcraft and how to battle. Together they protected the town from the things that have always lurked in the woods.

He has always cared for and loved his adopted sister, but something terrible has been happening with her.

His uncle died from a wolf attack shortly after Stahd’s mists covered the valley, and the rest of the woodsmen have been killed, lost or have just given up. Ismark feel as if he alone stands between the monsters in the mist and his home.

[Darkfeather21]

 

Name: Oran Kintel Race: Revenant Class: Warden Pictured right: Oran before their death and rebirth.Appearance: Oran is taller than the average Revenant, due in part to the fact that they have rather large horns protruding from their forehead and spiraling upwards about 5 inches, one of the few indicators that they were at one point a Tiefling. Their skin is an ashen grey, but otherwise completely flawless, leaving a marble-smooth surface of muscle. Raven-black hair frames their usually expressionless face, where two glowing green eyes sit and stare. Near the ends of their arms and legs are rough, black scales, one of the constants of all Revenants. Personality: Oran is... New, would be the best way to put it. They do not understand how things work in this world quite yet, even if they had their memories. As such, things like humor and metaphors tend to pass them right by. Background: LITERALLY NOTHING. But more seriously, in their previous life, Oran was a Tiefling necromancer. One of the more well known ones, in fact, who fought against the Order on the side of Strahd. However, this was over three hundred years prior to their rebirth as a Revenant, and the old name has faded from all but the most dedicated of historians. It was their work as a Necromancer that has prompted Mother Night to select them as a warrior in the fight against Strahd and his ilk, due to a sense of irony.

[Roekahs]

Name: Garvyn Jerenar
Race: Human
Class: Druid (Circle of the MoonPrimal Guardian)

Description: Garvyn’s hair is long and dark and appears largely unkempt. Beneath the dark locks is a boyish face which remains without a hint of facial hair. Garvyn is a burly young man with a broad chest and thick legs. He wears furs crudely sewn together at (apparently) useful locations to keep them confined to his body.

At first glance he appears quite formidable, but one prominent feature lends some doubt to that initial assessment. Garvyn’s right arm is less defined than the left and seems to hang uselessly at his side. The arm is not completely useless, however, as he holds a strangely writhing implement in its grasp.

Personality: Garvyn is as wild as the forest where he calls home. While he is generally quiet and reserved, there are times that his emotions will erupt – often in odd moments – and his convictions will be strongly voiced. Garvyn tends toward peace, but does have a violent temper. Often, there are obvious signs of his displeasure before the eruption, like thunder warning of the approaching storm.

Garvyn rarely shows his emotions while in human form, preferring to transform into an animal he has observed exhibiting the emotion. Even when he does show an emotion in human form, it is often disjointed and confusing since the vast majority of his time has been spent around animals rather than people. Perhaps because of this lack of connection, Garvyn is fiercely loyal to anyone he deems a friend.

Backstory: Garvyn’s shoulder got stuck during birth and when it broke free the damage was irreversible. He was always burly, but his decrepit arm left him vulnerable physically as well as emotionally. The other children picked on him constantly and he received little sympathy from adults who viewed him as a pox on the tribe. His parents still loved him, but only in secret.

Over time, Garvyn began to predict where the blows were coming. He didn’t have the strength or quickness to get out of the way, but he could adjust his body to take the blows in less painful ways. One day when he was just eight years old, the other kids cornered him. He had always taken the blows without even crying out, but this day was different. The children who witnessed the events claimed that a bear appeared where Garvyn had been and attacked the largest boy beating him. While the stories were largely taken as an exaggeration by the adults, the strange scratches on the boy made a few wonder. When a similar event happened just a week later, the adults made a decision: Garvyn would be exiled from the tribe.

So, at just eight years old, Garvyn was chased from the village and left to fend for himself in the wild forest. His survival instinct was strong and the magic dwelling in him was even stronger. Left to fend for himself, Garvyn found he was stronger than even he imagined, not in body but in mind and spirit. His fury over his exile lasted for a few years until he really found his way with the nature magic raging inside. After that, Garvyn was one with his surroundings and roamed the forest freely, able to disappear and appear whenever he wished.

A Unique Find: When Garvyn was first chased to the wild, he was angry and would lose his temper and become destructive quite often. While some of the occasions were justified, Garvyn would feel awful afterwards. After one especially severe outburst directed at no one in particular, he slaughtered an entire family of weasels, Garvyn ran into the forest weeping. He fell to his knees in a clearing sobbing at the unnecessary destruction he had wrought. As his knees hit the ground, the right one fell on a gnarled piece of wood causing it to jut up from the foliage. His tears fell near it and the dense foliage of the forest floor seemed to reach out and curl around the gnarled wood. Amazed, Garvyn watched momentarily before intervening. He gently plied one of the straining vines from the dirt and wound it about the wood. Much to his amazement, the vine stayed in place and pulsed with a strange energy. Without knowing why, Garvyn was compelled to return to the site of the weasels’ destruction. Filled with shame, he turned to leave but as he did a gentle rain began to fall despite the dense canopy above. Garvyn heard a rustling behind him and turned to find a whimpering pup clinging to life. The small creature looked to him for help. Without knowing what to do, Garvyn stood there with the stick in hand as the rain continued to fall. It took some reflection before he realized that the rain only fell in the clearing that day. Every time Garvyn has lost his temper after that day, he has found new growth in the forest and added it to the gnarled wood. The plants on the wood – of which there are many now – all flourish despite a bizarre fluctuation: each plant on the totem slowly dies beginning at one end of their length only to rejuvenate later, creating a strange mixture of life and death on the gnarled wood.

[The Third]

Ireena Kolyana

Ireena is a striking young woman with auburn hair. Although she appears mild, she has a strong will. She doesn't remember her early past, nor where she came from before being found alone in the woods.

She hails from the small village of Barovia, where her adoptive father was the burgomaster...until last week. He died, and her and her adoptive brother, Ismark, had to see to his funeral arrangements.

All her known life, others have been looking after her, as if she were fragile, a thing easily broken. Thus, Ireena has focused on honing her skills - strengthening herself not just to be able to defend her own person, but those around her too. But even now, her brother wants to see her to safety.

As the strangers passed through the village, Ismark asked for their aid. They were to travel to Vallaki, to seek safety within the town's walls...but Strahd's forces were at work even then, so they had to keep on moving. Of course, she isn't looking for safety - she's looking for a fight.


<human fighter (Battle Master)>

[Berith]

Application - Nessima Name: Nessima Khidell Race: Human (variant) Class: Bard 2 / Warlock 2 (Celestial) Patron: a Lillend named Thireahl, called "Iri" Alignment: Chaotic Good   Background: Far Traveler (Halruaa) Traits: I have my own ideas about what is and is not food, and I find the eating habits of those around me fascinating, confusing, or revolting. I begin or end my day with small traditional rituals that are unfamiliar to those around me. Ideal: Everything is new, and I have a thirst to learn. Bond: Though it was my choice, I lament having to leave my loved ones behind. I hope to see them again one day. Flaws: I have a weakness for the exotic beauty of the people of different lands. I am secretly (or not so secretly) convinced of the superiority of my own culture over that of foreign lands. Overview: She's much more of a storyteller and orator than a musician/singer/dancer. She uses stories and speeches to entertain, encourage freedom and autonomy, and try to lead others to lead good lives. She prefers to use stories and allegories rather than overt political rhetoric. She's made her peace with just authority, at least somewhat, but hates tyranny and oppression. Goals: The world is full of stories! So many are lost or forgotten, and Nessima is driven to rediscover them. So many are happening as we speak, and Nessima is driven to chronicle them. The great and the humble both have something to teach us - this is something she knows very deeply. Stories uplift, stories transport, stories change the world. That's why those who would oppress others often seek to hide, change, or destroy stories that give hope and light to their victims. Quietly and calmly, Nessima will work to undermine those who hold power unjustly, who use it to crush others. History: Nessima Khidell was one of the first babies born in the restored Halruaa, growing up in a place that was simultaneously ancient and brand new. The daughter of a minor cleric of Mystra and an archivist in the great Library of Mount Talath, her earliest memories are deeply embedded with the smell of old parchment and her father's musical laughter as he and her mother discussed philosophy and history. Magic was as common for her as snowfall in the northern reaches, and she grew up loved, indulged, and encouraged. She was enrolled as an Acolyte of Mystra at an early age, and while Mystra's yoke is gentlest of all, still Nessima chafed. In her spare moments and whenever she could conveniently absent herself from her duties, she'd be found in the great library, immersed in legends of old. By the age of seven, she could recite long passages of lyric poetry by rote, and by ten she would regularly enthrall hordes of young children with her stories and myths. "She's not called to serve," her father often remarked to her mother. "And she'll tire of these dusty stacks soon enough," her mother observed in kind. Her inclinations clear by now, Nessima was allowed to leave Mystra's service and set to study with those who understood the subtle magics that connected people - the magics of mind, voice, and motion; story, song, and dance. From the beginning, she excelled. There are few bards who lack wanderlust, and her parents understood her better than she did herself. As her early training drew to a close, Nessima found herself drawn to chronicle the stories of others - great and small. So many deeds go unnoticed every minute. So much good forgotten, so much evil ignored. To be out in the world, living amongst those who strove and struggled, sharing their lives and stories...this became her driving passion. After a time of wandering, Nessima found herself in a tidy little house in the village of Juniper's Bend. It's the perfect home base - ignored by the world around it, self-sufficient, and close to Baldur's Gate, one of Faerun's preeminent cities. Here, she can write and reflect, yet still have access to all that the world has to offer. Meeting her Patron: Iri revealed herself to Nessima late one night, when Nessi was hard at work translating some fragments of heroic poetry she'd found in a bazaar in Waterdeep on one of her travels - a poem written in an old Mulhorandi dialect. "You humans," Iri had said, "It's so hard for you to understand anything." She flew over to Nessima and rested a hand on her shoulder. The ancient words shimmered before her eyes and resolved themselves into clear writing in the common tongue. "I could help you, you know," the strange creature said.

[ihinka]

 

Application Complete Name: (Lady) Malovinda Rostek Strugfalten von Brum; just call her Mal Race: Aasimar Class: Ranger (Beast Master) Alignment: CG Appearance: Mal is tall and austere looking. She is lithe and fit from long treks through the woods. She has a long, silky blond hair and blue eyes that are almost purple. Her facial features are quite aristocratic, with high cheekbones, straight nose and rich lips. Mal wears a dark hooded cloak almost all of the times lest she be recognized. Personality: Mal is usually quite and subdued. Having lived for as long as she had with her duplicitous family, she prefers to speak with her actions and to judge people and creatures by their actions. She would sooner speak with woodland creatures than most people. However, if you have managed to prove your worth to her and Mo, her faithful companion, she will be as kind to you as she is to her beloved forest creatures. Personality Trait: I feel tremendous empathy for all who suffer. Ideal: Free Thinking. Inquiry and curiosity are the pillars of progress. (Chaotic) Bond: I entered seclusion to escape from my parents' crazy scheme to masquerade me as my dead brother and marry me off to a rich heiress. I must keep on the move lest their spies find me and drag me back to pay one way or another for ruining their plans and reputation. Especially their reputation! Flaw: I’d risk too much to uncover a lost bit of knowledge. Background: Hermit   Mal is an heiress to a very old family of aristocrats. She was born into a world of protocol and two-faced pretense. Everything her parents did was for the benefit of the family and Mal and her older twin brother were raised to be calculating and self-serving. And always to put the interests of the family first. From very young both Mal and her brother Jorf knew what was expected of them and what their lives were meant to be like. Jorf would inherit the family name and carry on the family business of fleecing the peasantry of their region with unnecessary taxes. While Mal was to be married to the old widower of one town over to add his riches to the von Brum wealth. All her parents' plans, however, went to hell when her brother went and broke his neck during a boar hunt. And suddenly the planned marriage to the super rich heiress of a famous noble family was in jeopardy. Mal's parents were livid with her dead brother but since they couldn't vent their anger on poor Jorf, the went after their daughter. Suddenly all the misgiving they had with Mal's beloved activities of taking care of all sorts of animals, wild and domesticated alike, surfaced in stark relief. They started harping on her to begin acting the part of the young lady of the house of von Brum. And at that precise moment the wheels began turning in their heads. The death of poor Jorf wasn't yet announced and he and Mal were the spitting image of each other. The plan was hatched then. They would announce Mal as the one having perished, even though she never once went boar hunting with her brother. But her parents' weren't sweating the details. Mal would transform into Jorf and would from hence on play the role of her brother. No consideration were ever made of Mal's opinion. Or of the fact that she would have to live a lie for the rest of her life. Neither her mother, nor her father stopped to consider what would happen after the wedding when the groom would be expected to perform in certain ways that Mal wasn't capable of. Mal knew then she had to get away! She had always felt like a stranger among her family anyways. Where they were greedy and cold, she was generous and kind. Where the were cruel and calculating, she was gentle and caring. And so... Mal ran away! She took to the woods among the wild animals she'd always felt more of family to her than the one she was born in. Still a youngster of twenty she spent her days meditating in the woods and frolicking among the wildlife. It was during those deliriously happy days that she had a fateful encounter. One afternoon she was having a sweet nap under an old tree when she had a strange dream. Or rather a vision. But she realized that much later. As she slept a figure approached her that looked like a... fairy... or something. And it spoke 'Save me! Save me!'. Mal woke up with a start and could hear the sounds of a scuffle nearby. As she rushed to inspect she saw the most peculiar of sights. A strange gelatinous monstrosity was oozing all over a nest of some sort, constructed of spider silk, dry grass and leaves. It was no ordinary bird's nest for sure and Mal could clearly see the ooze being attacked, by some strange flying beastie. What she could clearly see were some eggs still outside of the jelly's reach inside the nest. And whatever was attacking the ooze seemed to be trying to keep it from snatching up those eggs. Mal quickly clamored up the tree, determined to save the eggs from the gelatinous monster, but by the time she managed to get up there, only one was still untouched. She quickly snatched it and scrambled down the tree. A portion of the ooze detached itself from the main body and gave chase, but it was stopped dead in its tracks. And as Mal turned to look back as she was running for safety with the egg, she could see a swarm of flying creatures, brightly colored, obviously hurt, launching themselves at the ooze. The young ranger redoubled her efforts to get away from the ooze and reach her humble shack in the woods. Once there she made sure to bundle up the fragile egg in cloths to keep worm. She wondered what kind of creature it was that she'd saved. For she had never seen anything like those flying beings before. They weren't birds. They had wings like bats, but snakelike bodies. If anything, they resembled flying snakes, though she'd never seen such creatures nor heard of something similar either. And they were very brightly colored. And all very, very pretty. Even hurt and beaten as they'd been. That same night Mal had another dream. This time she saw the figure of a beautiful woman appear before her. "You have served me well child!" The woman had spoken to Mal. "Know that I am Mielikki and you have done as I asked of you." The figure had then gestured toward the bundled egg. "You have saved one of my most precious forest children as I've asked of you. For this you shall have my favor. Now take this little one where I shall instruct you to be raised among its kin. The goddess had than given Mal directions where to take the egg and leave it be. Seeing the young woman's saddened face at the prospect of parting with the rescued egg, Mielikki had spoken once again. "But fret not, my child, for the kindness that you showed today to this creature of the woods, would be forever imprinted onto it and the two of you are now and forever more connected." With this Mielikki had touched Mal's forehead and disappeared. The next morning Mal set off to follow the goddess' instructions. Years passed where the now adult ranger would only rarely thinks of the egg she'd once saved from the weird monstrosity. All that is left is the yearning to reconnect. One day as Mal was trekking through a new forest, trying to learn its ins and outs. Mapping routes, trails, animal sightings and the such she was suddenly beset by a rather pesky... something. At first she couldn't tell what it was as the little puck was evading her sight and keeping hidden. It kept hurling nuts and barriers at her face and as Mal turned and turned to try and catch a glimpse of her assailant, she spotted brightly colored, blue tail just out of the corner of her eye. The mischievous flying creature was getting away from her. "Oh, no, you don't, you little puck!" Mal had growled and gave chase. "You've got jokes, huh!" Mal grinned a wicked grin as she was chasing the flying annoyance when their eyes met. There was a moment of recognition, closely followed by a strong sense of connection. "You!?!" Mal had gasped excitedly and made a grab for the creature. It allowed itself to be captured as Mal brought it to her face in a gentle hug. "It really is you! Just like Mielikki said." Mal pulled the flying being away from her face to look at it lovingly. "Oh, you've grown so much!" She'd said with a gentle smile. From that day on the two were inseparable! It was only later that Mal learned about the flying snakes of Chult and that it was precisely what Mo, the name she'd given to her fated companion, had turned out to be.   Plus the added bonuses for Beast Master   Str Dex Con Int Wis Cha Abilities 4 18 11 2 12 5 Saving Throws -4 +4 +0 -4 +1 -3 AC 16 Init +4 Speed w30, f60, s30 HP 16 Hit Dice 2d4 Skills: Flyby. The snake doesn't provoke opportunity attacks when it flies out of an enemy's reach. Senses: Blindsight 10 Ft., Passive Perception 11 Actions: Bite. Melee Weapon Attack: +8 to hit, reach 5 ft., one creature. Hit: 1+2 piercing damage plus (3d4) poison damage.

[Phil]

 

Knight Commander Jaxon Raze
Class- Paladin (Conquest)
Race- Half-Elf
Background- Soldier
Alignment- Lawful: he brings the law, he is the law.
Role- Control, Face, Tank

History- In the lawless world of Enseya, the six Pyrian City States are the lone bastions or Order in a land of chaos. Standing watch over the States is the Order of the Burning Blade, knights devoted to keeping the forces of chaos at bay. Each City State is governed by a Knight Regent whose authority is unquestioned, military states where adherence to the law is absolute. Within the walls of each city teems a massive population, kept in line by the Knights Justicar. Outside the walls, where the staggering quantities of food to feed the City States are produced, their hold on order is more tenuous, a line held only by the Knights Exemlpar. Knight Commander Jaxon Raze of the City of Starhold is one such Knight, famous for his brutal campaigns against the Smuggler King, the Opium Cartels, and the Reavers of Bloodgorge Pass.

Jaxon's defeat of Sturm the Howler, leader of the Bloodgorge Reavers, marked Jaxon's Thirty-Second victory in battle in command of his legion. This feat earned him the rare privilege of becoming a Knight Superator, the right to ride his legion into the wasteland and found a new City State. Few ever earned this right, and fewer still claimed it. To this date only seventeen Superators have ever successfully carved themselves a new State from the chaotic waste of Enseya, and of those seventeen City States only the six remain. It's a daunting challenge, one that Jaxon was still pondering on his return journey to Starhold when an unnatural mist halted his legion's progress. Jaxon called out to his men, but heard nothing in response. His men were gone... or somehow, he was gone. Is this an attack? A foul curse by one of the Howler's witches? Jaxon drew his blade, prepared to face his foe.

Personality- Jaxon is utterly devoted to the concept of Order, specifically the tenants of the Order of the Burning Blade from his homeworld of Enseya. He is a believer in fate, a logical consequence of a universe with inherent order, and is likely to interpret his transposition to this domain as a sign that he's to bring it to Order. If he accepts this mission, as a Knight Superator he becomes unbound by many of his order's stricter guidelines of conduct, allowing him to make temporary alliances with chaotic factions or individuals to turn chaos against itself, to form it into an ordered state. He was raised in a relative metropolis, and spent much of his adult life making war in rural regions, and as such is anxious in wide open spaces, and distrusts those who consort overmuch with the natural world. He lives on a strict ritual: when and what he eats, when he sleeps, when he rises and the rest of day is to meet an exacting schedule. He gets cranky if something throws his day off.

Appearance- Pure-Blooded Elves and Humans no longer exist on Enseya; the two peoples have blended together entirely. Everyone is dome degree of admixture between Elf and Human, and Jaxon is no exception, though he shows more of his human ancestry than elven. He wears a full beard, grey with age, face scarred in a few places from a lifetime of combat. His armor is standard-issue chainmail for a Knight Exemplar; he hadn't been wearing his platemail when he was taken by the fog. The chainmail is a dull grey, steel with a mundane weatherproof coating. Over his mail is a tabbard, gold on black, depicting a firey sword, the sigil of his order. His platemail, should he retrieve it or commission a new set, is black and gold, designed to be imposing, commanding attention and respect.

Minor Magic Item- Sigil of the Burning Blade. This emblem is worn as a broach, amulet, or belt buckle. While worn by a Knight of the Burning Blade, anyone who can see the emblem knows that knight's name and rank, and the wearer cannot lie about his identity. Anyone who can see the emblem is intuitively aware of this effect.

[Dorack]

 

Application Name: Alaria the Swift Concept: Charming swashbuckler with a few magic tricks Race: Half-elf Class: Rogue 3 (Swashbuckler) / Wizard 1 (going for Warrior Battlemaster next) Background: Charlatan Alignment: Neutral Ideal: I have survived till this day and will continue to do so. Flaw: I can’t fully trust anyone. Bond: I answer to no one but myself Backstory Through the rough and dark underbelly of Waterdeep, Alaria came to be. Born and raised in the streets as one of the countless urchins in the metropolis, the girl learnt soon enough about her mixed heritage, yet had no clue about her family. Alaria navigated with shrewdness and luck the dark corners of the City of Splendors, whose glittering marvels seemed like a universe apart for the young half-elf. The girl grew pretty, which made her target for pimps and worse, until one of them showed up floating by the docks with a knife in his eye. From that day on, Alaria was given wide berth. She soon joined a petty gang lead by a low life Half-elf like her called Maernis. He was coarse and mean, but he taught Alaria the tricks of the trade and to handle her blades properly. After a few years, Maernis crossed the wrong person and showed up hanging from the walls; soon the urchins disbanded and parted ways. Alaria navigated the underworld of Waterdeep and the unsavory but fascinating sights of Skullport, selling her services as blade for hire and petty thief, always staying clear of the main guilds battling for dominance of the shadows. Wit and steel, and luck, allowed her to stay a step ahead the many dangers she courted. Paying close attention to the nobles and rich merchants, she picked up the proper way to address people and the subtlety of good manners. After investing in a few fancy clothes, Alaria found herself being hired by richer and richer patrons. The young girl was graceful as was skilled in her deadly trade and made better company than most of the thugs that offered such services. Alaria delighted herself in those borrowed moments of glamour and pleasure, only to return to her squatted refuge, a cold, damp, filthy attic of an old warehouse. She hid her bitterness, promising herself she would carve a way out of her misery through charm and steel and whatever else was necessary. In a true twist of destiny, Alaria came into service of an old wizard called Astunge that came to live in Waterdeep. She was his guide and bodyguard thru the city, showed him the way around the shops, which merchants to trust or not and even ran some small errands like looking for hard to find or rather illegal components down by Skullport. As part of her payment, Alaria moved into the Wizard’s Manor. Alaria finally had a room for herself, and it was dry, warm, and well lit. It was the most amazing place in the world. Alaria found the magic of his patron quite interesting, and even though she thought the idea of a scholarly life boring to the death, she persuaded the mage to teach her a few tricks that would help Alaria in her night-time errands and endeavors. After some time, Astunge declared he had to make a short journey to the Mechanus plane, and bid Alaria to take care of the Manor. Three years have passed, and the wizard has yet to return. In the meantime, Alaria returned to her old roguish ways, gaining gold, friends and enemies and an open tab at the Yawning Portal. She continued to train her steel and charm, the only things that kept her past miseries at bay. <Player’s note: I’m leaving the last part of the backstory as open as possible; perhaps a magical incident with one of Astunge’s portals was what pulled Alaria to the Demiplane of Dread; if you like that idea I can elaborate>   Alaria kept quiet behind the illusion she had cast a moment ago as her mark kept busy opening the safe. The damn thing was a sort of magical wonder and only opened for its owner. It took her a fortnight to devise a way to access it: simply to let Bregol unlock it for her. The warrior spoke a soft word to the wall. With a low rumble, a set of bricks pivoted outwards. Inside, the prize of the night. And… that's my cue… She took a step forward thru the now fading illusion. The circular room, about 40 feet wide, had only two openings: the guarded door besides her, which she promptly locked from inside, and the curtained window Alaria had opened earlier, overlooking the city 200ft below them. If you managed to spoke so softly more often, you could even have a chance at getting a girlfriend, Bregol. You would be amazed at what else could open wide for you with a few, well-chosen words... she said with a playful half-smile. The man turned, unsheathing his broadsword. Alaria could see him filling with fury… and leaving the safe open. His temper was well known to all. The gambit was paying off, but she had yet to collect. What is the meaning of this intrusion!? He growled. GUARDS!!! Loud thumps and shouts began from the other side locked door. Alaria shook her head slightly. You are all mine tonight, Bregol. Don’t tell me this is your first time alone with a lady… are you afraid? Bregol charged, his broadsword up and to left, ready to cleave the girl. What?! No foreplay? Outrageous… smirked Alaria. He let the man close into her like a charging bulette and with a deranged look in his eyes. Then, in a flash, she ducked and rolled to his right. Her enemy´s blade hissed close, but not close enough. Alaria tumbled forward, towards the safe. In an instant she was by the opening. Now came the most dangerous part. Alaria could hear Bregol puffing behind her, preparing his next attack. She had but a moment before her foe came after her again. She extended her arms and grasped inside. For a desperate moment she felt nothing … and then, her left hand caught it. The scroll case, finally in her grasp. She turned, and saw death coming to claim her. Bregol was upon her, his brutal weapon thrusting forward like a battering ram towards her belly. He was faster bastard than Alaria had expected. Instinctively, the half-elf extended her right hand towards the incoming weapon. ELLUMNA!!! she shouted, and a crystal-like, oval shaped, shielding force field extended from her fingers, deflecting the blow to her left. Bregol made a high arc and attacked again and again, yet the arcane ward would not yield. He paused, just for an instant, and as Alaria saw confusion in his eyes, she pushed forward with all her strength and made the warrior stumble back a few feet. Alaria let the fizzling arcane energy dissipate as she rolled the case playfully in her left hand. Ahhh… thank you so much for this, dear Bregol. How could I ever repay you? Her free hand unsheathed her blade. A dance... perhaps? The warrior raised his fist. I WILL HAVE YOU FLAILED AND SKINNED, YOU KIELLIA!!! Alaria shrugged playfully. She had not heard that word before but was pretty sure what it implied. She knew it in all too many languages already… Bregol attacked; Alaria was ready. To his heavy blows and large swipes, Alaria replied with quick parries and dodges, denying him again and again. But the warrior was skilled in his trade, and Alaria had no reason to kill him tonight, so she had to wrap up before she made a mistake, a very deadly one. The locked door, that never stopped banging, began to crack. Alaria kept her defense up. You know… it’s been a lovely evening, darling, yet I’m afraid I will be leaving shortly. She feinted an opening and the brute took the bait. He slashed right as Alaria parried the blow and took three steps towards the window. With her left hand clutching the prized scroll case she shoved the curtain aside, revealing the dark night outside. She turned yet again to her enemy, as the door finally cracked open and the halberdiers rushed inside. Alaria put up her blade in guard stance. Oh boys! I’m flattered, yet I’m not the kind of girl that welcomes large groups of unwashed men to have fun with her… at least not yet. Did you brought anything to drink at least? ENOUGH!!! Bregol howled. You stupid, insolent, thief! We will see how much chatter you can manage after I rip your tongue off! I will crush your kneecaps and make you crawl down to the dungeon! The warrior took a step forward, as did his henchmen, closing on their prey. There were no openings for her now, none but one. Alaria took small jump backwards and stood on the windows ledge. Crawl? My brutish friend, why crawl when one could fly… She raised the hilt of her blade to her chin as a form of salute, and as the steel of her enemies closed on her, she leaned backwards, into the dark void outside. Alaria´s heart pumped wildly as she fell. She had done it many times before, yet it still was as exciting as the first. It was indeed like flying, if only briefly. She saw the shadowy ground approaching fast. Urull… she whispered, and her fall slowed gently, and moments after, she was on the ground, outside the Keep. She looked up. Bregol was at the window, cursing as a mad man, too far up to discern his rambling. His men would fill the street in a few moments, yet Alaria only needed one to vanish into the shadows. This was her city after all. She sheathed her weapon and put away the scroll case. Looking up one more time, she bowed gracefully, smiled again and disappeared into the night.

[ParzivalFair]

 

Application Name: Wrenton "Wren" d'Orion Race: Human Variant (War Caster) Class: Wizard 3 (War)/ Fighter 1 Background: Soldier Age: 26 Gender: Male Alignment: Lawful Good Magical Item: Wand of the War-Mage, Uncommon   Description: Tall and wiry, Wren is a man of sleight build and serious demeanor. He is reasonably handsome and has dark hair paired with piercing blue eyes he inherited from his mother. His skin is of a smooth olive complexion, reminiscent of his father's, and he bears his dragonmark on his right cheek stretching from his cheekbone to his jawline. Wren can usually be seen in his armor, or a sturdy outfit in white and sky blue that is subtly enchanted to shrug off stains and dirt. He usually has on a heavy leather trench coat and matching leather gloves, and wears a sword or his wand sling and a fighting dagger on his hip. Personality Traits: I face problems with a cool head. A thought-out, tactical solution is the best path to success, and leaves room to adapt. Ideal: Greater Good. Our lot is to lay down our lives in defense of others, even if they cannot accept who you are. Bond: My House would have abandoned me or worse, if it weren't for my Mark. I'd rather deal with the poorest pauper than the wealthiest nobleman. Bio: Born in the city of Passage in Aundair, Wren is the son of a minor House Orion noblewoman and her steward. The steward was summarily fired, and the noblewoman disowned. Upon his birth, however, his Dragonmark was discovered, and Wren and his mother were allowed back into the fold, albeit in a downplayed way. Wren's childhood was spent receiving the training and education one might expect of a nobleman, but despite his Mark and natural gifts for education, magic, and swordplay, Wren's uncouth birth was a constant source of ridicule and humiliation. This is what led him to choose a career as a soldier, instead of the life of a courier, as most bearers of the Mark of Passage did. This infuriated his family, but that didn't bother Wren in the slightest; if anything, his Mark was more a blessing to his life as a warrior than it ever was before, and his aptitude for combat and arcane prowess quickly proved him to be a worthy wandslinger, rising through the ranks quickly. This changed, however, the last time he used his Mark t teleport. He'd been training, not in any real danger, running drills with his men when he engaged in a routine maneuver in which he used his Mark to flank the enemy while his comrades hammered from the front. But instead of teleporting thirty feet forward, behind a line of faux hostiles, Wren found himself alone in a dark, misty forest he didn't recognize. What's more, since he found himself in this new land, Wren's Dragonmark no longer seems to work.

[Zinrokh]

Sulla Einarii Sulla Einarii Corvus (familiar) Name:Sulla Einarii Race: Human (variant) Home Plane: Forgotten Realms; Thay, Ravenloft (past 50 years) Class: Wizard, School of Divination Alignment: Lawful Evil Background: Sage/HermitRed Wizard of Thay Ideal: Power. Knowledge is the path to power and immortality. Bond: My life's work is a series of tomes related to a specific field of lore; The mysteries of Barovia Flaw: Secretly, I believe that things would be better if I were a tyrant lording over the land. Description: Sulla is a human male of advancing years with full grey beard and cold violet eyes. His silver locks now disguise the tattoo sigils of his former life. His face is often stern and dour. He favours ostentatious clothing, finely embroidered silks and embossed leathers, yet he disdains jewellery and gaudiness of all forms. His wardrobe is of beautiful craftsmanship; regal yet functional and befitting his place within noble circles. His avian familiar often sits upon his shoulder.   Overview: Sulla was born on a different world, a distant memory that he has faded but never forgotten. He has been in the Strahd's domain for the vast majority of his life stranded and imprisoned here almost 50 years ago. He was once a Red Wizard, an elite of the lands of Thay. Tenacious and astute he had a bright future ahead of him under the tutelage of a Zulkir. Sulla was arrogant youth and it was his hubris that left him stranded within the demiplane of dread. He had pursued power uncaring of the repercussions of his desires. He courted evil, dealing with devils and dark gods and cared little for the suffering his pursuit might cause. He sought out knowledge, lore and paths to power caring only for what a mortal "could" learn rather than that which a mortal "should". 50 years of imprisonment in this dreary realm have done little to soften the mage, yet the fiery passions of his youth have given way to a clinical coldness now. He is far more cautious of engaging in the follies he once ran blindly into, far more scholar than zealot, pursuing arcane knowledge and understanding as a path to power and his freedom. Since his imprisonment he has integrated himself into Barovian life. His dress, accent and manners now imitate of the Barovian mold, only his exotic name and appearance mark him as being of a foreign world. Sulla has lived amongst the nobility of Barovia for many years. He offers his services as advisor and tutor to those that make up the aristocracy of this twilight realm. Much of his energies have been poured into his studies of Barovia's over abundance of undeath. Far from provoking fear or disgust in Sulla they have only provoked curiosity and fascination. His eccentricities and condescending manner are willing overlooked by those whom he serves since his knowledge and wisdom have guided many to achieve their own desires. He does not shield his students or those he advises from the darkness or warn them from it but shows a disconcerting neutrality in all matters. When the lord of your land is referred to in hushed whispers as "The Devil", a grim and imperious court wizard hardly stands out. Recently Sulla has haunted by dreams and visions of "The Temple", a repository of power and knowledge which may hold the secret to finally escaping this twilight realm. Perhaps fate might finally bring him to this place.

[Ysolde]

Name: Mikayla Smith

Race: Human

Class: Artificer

Description: Standard beauty seems to have missed this average height woman with little in the way of curves. Her face is a deep tan and her brown hair is a bit sooty in addition to being colored by the sun. She wears a leather outfit that might clearly put her at a forge if one were nearby and she smells much the same. She holds a wooden staff in hand with an artistically rendered cap on it's top showing an anvil.

Background: Mikayla is a smith and an alchemist as well. Give her a forge and some time and she will make you armor or weapons, give her chemical components and she'll brew you a potion. Whatever it is that might be needed Mikayla is there to either craft it on the spot or figure out where it can be crafted. She comes from a family of smiths so old that their surname is Smith. Unfortunately she's the daughter the girl who wouldn't bake bread and who wasn't interested in dolls or toys. She watched her father and begged and pleaded for his attention and to learn the trade. When she didn't get it she experimented on her own time with etching and acids trying to show her worth and ending up with a rather gruesome acid burn on her back.

She ended up learning everything that her father could teach and more. She's a prodigy in her home town and has only decided to go out into the world because her brother will inherit the business. She may be a smith and she may have the skills, but without a shop full of tools she won't get anywhere. That is what puts her on the road and she is determined to make her fortune. Her only fear is disappointing her father. Her biggest flaw is her ego the stubborn belief that she can build it, that she can make it, that her artistic abilities are the best. She was a big fish in a small pond and the world might just be waiting to show her up.

[Dargos]

 

Nikrial Name: Nikrial Deepwinter of Waterdeep Race: Human (Variant) Class: Bard (College of Swords) Age: 29 Alignment: CN Background: Entertainer Traits: I change my mood or my mind as quickly as I change key in a song. Ideal: The world is in need of new ideas and bold action. Bond: I want to be famous, whatever it takes. Flaw: A scandal prevents me from ever going home again. That kind of trouble seems to follow me around. Backstory: Nikrial is the younger son of Lord Deepwinter of Waterdeep. Unlike the rest of his siblings Nikrial had no desire to enter the family business. He always found the idea of spending all day in the Dock Ward supervising the workers in constructing yet another ship boring. Growing up his passion was always the theater, a passion always encouraged by his mother, the Lady Deepwinter. A born showman Nikrial would at any chance he had find himself in the South Ward enjoying the theater. Nikrial felt that life should be enjoyed to its fullest, not slaving away in offices or shipyards. Disappearing for weeks at a time Nikrial would under a disguise join one of the local troops and perform for the masses. This is where he found the most enjoyment, in the tiny hole in the wall theaters performing for the common man. Much to the dismay of his father Nikrial’s actions were not approved of and he had a falling out with the old man that caused him to leave Waterdeep with a circus traveling the North. Not looking back he was able to spend many years traveling from city to city. Baulder’s Gate, Silverymoon, Luskan, Neverwinter and even for the dwarves of Mithrial Hall. A jack of all trades, he enjoyed everything from reciting poetry, singing and dancing on stage, but what he was most famous for was his rendition of Samular Caradoon the Knight of Tyr who was recognized as a hero in the second Trollwar, and went on to form the Holy Order of Samular. His performance was well known and many trolls were slain night after night in spectacular fashion. Sooner or later all good things must come to an end and the circus closed. Always one to take full advantage of every situation he is in Nikrial decided to return home the long way around by dropping in at every inn, tavern and watering hole possible from Silverymoon to Waterdeep. It was time to make it a one man show. Unfortunately he never made it home.… Personality: Nikrial lives for the moment, for him life is meant to be enjoyed, What better way than to travel to all the ends of the earth performing? Life is about making friends, making them laugh, making them cry, even for just one night. A serious performer on the stage sometimes Nikrial can be reckless off the stage. This has gotten him into trouble more than once. In the end things work themselves out, even if there are a few bumps in the road getting there. Nikrial enjoys performing, but there is a part of him that wants to be more than just an actor that plays the hero. He wants to be the hero, maybe if he becomes the hero then a hundred years from now another bard will sing his tale.

[Zwingli]

 

Name: Kurnos'ildur
Race: Wood Elf
Class: Gloomstalker Ranger
Appearance: Over time, Kurnos'ildur's once tanned, olive skin became as pale as the bleak landscape of Barovia; his once-golden hair was now too bereft of color, having faded to grayish white. Only his eyes remain the vibrant green they once were, though they have since burned with a darker sort of life. In the wilds he looked like a ghost; pale, tall, slender and sneaky, wielding a black longbow almost as tall as he with uncanny accuracy. He wears a thick, dark cloak over the studded leather armor on his chest to keep warm, though the absence of a smile makes him seem just as cold as the weather.

Personality: Kurnos isn't one for social graces; having lived off of the wilds for more than four decades, he is comfortable even in the harshest outdoor conditions, and seems more out of place inside a warm tavern than in the snow-capped forest. He is often blunt and straight to the point, which is refreshing to some, but unappealing to others. Though his exterior would paint him as gruff and unforgiving, he is not beyond showing kindness to others, such as helping lost travellers find their way to town, or protecting a caravan from wolves without asking for payment. He dismisses compliments brought by these acts as trivialities, yet would often feel slighted if he is ignored or disrespected.

Backstory: The ranger was a slave, a long time ago.

He existed as the property of one called a Zulkir in a land far removed from Barovia, where those with arcane powers ruled in absolute authority. He was little regarded and therefore relatively safe from abuse (though his owners and their servants who were superior to him called him 'Churl' instead of his real name), yet Kurnos quickly grew to have great contempt for the ruthless, callous, and duplicitous nature of power-grabbing ambition that he saw so often among his masters. Many of his contemporaries suffered as collateral damage from these individuals; some of them were summoned for a task or errand, then were never seen again.

The worst occured by chance when Churl was tasked to deliver a missive to one of the Red Wizards, a young mage named Sulla. The elf of course had never spoken to the man, but heard of his ambition and relentless pursuit of power. The missive was never delivered, however; when Kurnos found the wizard, it was in one of the lowest levels of the stronghold, down where prisoners were held for questioning. It was there that he witnessed in a dark room a large circle drawn with chalk illuminated by well-placed candles. In the center lay a body wearing the livery of servants, which looked at least a week dead. Standing over it was the young human, chanting phrases repeatedly in a language Kurnos recognized as the language of the underworld. The rest of what would happen in that chamber would haunt the elf's dreams up to this day. He left the missive on the floor of the threshold and ran, hoping that he would somehow forget what he had just witnessed; yet something inside him knew that that dark ritual would scar him for life.

Kurnos refused to eat, nor speak to anyone for the next few days. He knew that confronting the mage would most likely kill him, or worse he too would find himself the subject of who knew what other manner of necromancy or black magic his masters practiced. When the elf finally worked up the courage and a plan to confront Sulla, it was the day he betrayed his master and was banished face-first into a weird shimmering portal. Realizing there was an opportunity for freedom and he would never resolve what he saw in that chamber if he would not face Sulla, Kurnos himself rushed to the magical opening...

... and ended up in this dark, bleak dimension.

That was more almost fifty years ago, now. Kurnos has had a fresh start since then, living off the harsh wilderness and sharpening his skills to survive; mastering both land and beast. Sometimes he would see Sulla and stalk him while he travelled from city to city; but somehow Kurnos never found it in him to talk to the mage. His nightmares continued to taunt him, and more often than not refused to let him trance in peace. In time, a few villages grew to be in cooperative terms with him, though he always felt that his welcome was short and not always warm. The wandering Vistani proved to be the most friendly; almost always he would be invited to share their fires, their stories, their meat and their mead. Often Kurnos would give them with elk or rabbit as well, depending on what was available. Yet visions of that violence and gore and the scream of a reanimating corpse would invade his mind, and drive all thoughts of civilized conversation away.

Yet here too, in this strange land, the corruption of ambition and total dominion echoed in Kurnos' perception. People went missing, lives were lost, and no one cared. The villagers were either too weak or too frightened to change their circumstances. Here too, the plague of undeath seemed to grow and fester, in a way much worse than he had seen in Thay. Was Sulla involved in all this somehow? Was he in league with this Count Strahd he had heard hushed whispers about? Now that he was fifty years older and Sulla himself was white haired and no longer an arrogant youth, Kurnos would have his answers, even if it would cost him what little sanity he had left...