[Characters] Giant Slayers

[G in Japan]

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[Fadonsuded]

 

Application Name: Casmin Scrollgaxer Class: Wizard Race: Deep Gnome Alignment: Neutral Good Background: Cloistered Scholar Personality: Personality Traits: I'm used to helping out those who aren't as smart as I am, and I patiently explain anything and everything to others. Ideals: Knowledge: The path to power and self-improvement is through knowledge. Bonds: I work to preserve a library, university, scriptorium, or monastery. Flaws: I am easily distracted by the promise of information. History: Casmin was once a sheltered gnome. Well, as sheltered as one could be in the Underdark. He was small, even for his race. He was a scholar, from a line of scholars, one of many who were tasked with maintaining the great library at the Svirfneblin city of Blingdenstone. In school his love of books made him a regular at the library. He once discovered a rare tome on an obscure subject, and solved a riddle that barred entry into a locked door. Though his family was relatively well off he still had to take odd jobs like delivering mail, transcribing books, and tutoring his classmates to make ends meet while in school. He has a knack for dragonchess and was a member of the school's chess club. After graduation he became a scholar at the library like his parents. He enjoyed his job, with it's mundane daily regimen punctuated by the occasional excitement of discovering a new alchemical recipe or creating a device to turn pages. He had never ventured outside the city, and was content not to, satisfied with a life devoted to books and research. Life had other plans for him. In 1371 DR the Drow of neighboring Menzoberranzan sacked the city. The library's knowledge was useless against the demonic magic of the Drow. The sack forced many deep gnomes, including Casmin, to flee the city. Forced to live on his own in the hostile environment, Casmin quickly discovered the best way to survive was to be unseen and unheard. In 1440 DR the deep gnomes, with the aid of Mithral Hall and Silverymoon retook Blingdenstone from the Drow. The library where he once worked had fallen into disrepair under the Drow, and many books had gone missing or were destroyed. Casmin, along with many of his fellow former scholars, has been tasked with exploring the overworld to rediscover the lost knowledge, and maybe even find some new ones. Xanathar's Guide to Everything Flavor: Spellbook: A battered tome filled with pictographs Ambition: Magic is a dangerous tool. You use it to protect what you treasure. Eccentricity: You never enter a room without looking to see what’s hanging from the ceiling.

[Tahlon]

 

Name: Thurkild Baldrekr
Race: Mountain Dwarf
Class: Ranger (UA Revised)
Background: Outlander (with slight modification)
Personality Traits: Life is an adventure, so I follow wherever it leads and hold on to my hat.
Ideals: Freedom. To live your life as you wish, risks and all. Sometimes you don't miss it until it is gone.
Bonds: I feel a need to help when there is preventable suffering around me, or when I can break the chains that bind others in slavery.
Flaws: I am competitive. Just a bit. OK, maybe a lot. But I'll beat you to the top of the mountain.
Alignment: Neutral Good

 

Thurkild is tall for one of the bearded folk, as well as a bit more agile than your average dwarf. He has deeply tanned skin, medium-length, wind-tossed brown hair, and a fairly short beard. His steel-gray eyes have creases around them from squinting into the sun, and a large, somewhat squashed-looking nose sits between them.

Thurkild favors dark, earth-toned clothes, and when exploring he dons a matte-black breastplate with dark-gray leather. A gray cloak hides two pairs of handaxes that hang from a pair of baldrics that cross his chest. Another pair hangs low on his back, where the baldrics cross again. A warhammer and a wicked-looking pick hang from his sides, and a pack and a large crossbow share room on his broad back. His large, weathered hands sport a pair of intimidating fingerless gauntlets. They stretch into the sleeves of his cloak, dark leather ribbed and studded with black steel.

 

While Thurkild retains a healthy dose of dwarven gruffness, he is much more open to and curious about other races than many a dwarf. This curiosity often leads him to start a conversation in earnest with a non-dwarf before he remembers that he ought to be gruff, and, at that point, why bother? In general, Thurkild is more interested to discover something new than to abide by stuffy rules, and more interested in helping than in keeping up an uncaring image. He takes what life gives him, mostly without complaint, and is not terribly afraid of his luck running out- hanging from a sheer rock face, only a piton’s breadth from death, will do that to you, especially when you decide to try it again afterwards!

 

The Baldrekr clan has supplied smiths to Citadel Felbarr for generations, and Thurkild was meant to be one of the next generation of smiths. Not that anyone asked him, of course. Thurkild was always a bit odd, for a dwarf. While the other dwarves preferred climbing in and under mountains, he spent whatever time he could climbing on the outside of the mountain. Rather than see how low under the earth he could go, he wanted to see how high he could make it. Thus Torval, his father, should not have been surprised when Thurkild, on his fiftieth birthday, received the new smithing apron, the hammer, and the tongs gratefully- but informed his father that he had no intention of putting all his training to use beside him at the forge. Thurkild left Citadel Felbarr without quite receiving his father’s blessing that day, but he spoke quickly enough not to receive a thrown hammer to the back of the head, either.

Thurkild had always been oriented up and out, and so the next few years were spent travelling to various mountains, and then straight to the top of each. He usually traveled on his own, but once in a while he did meet up with other climbing enthusiasts, most of them human. Once he was climbing a peak in the Spine of the World and, right when he hit a precarious outcropping, he saw an orc. At least, he thought it was an orc. Brek turned out to be a half-orc who discovered his love of climbing while trying to escape some prejudiced villagers. Although their meeting was a bit rocky, with Thurkild trying to hurl an axe while hanging on with one hand, Brek and Thurkild actually became friends and companions for a while. Climbing is much safer in pairs, so they were able to tackle more difficult routes together. Still, theirs is not a safe hobby, and the friendship seemed to come crashing to an end when an avalanche carried them away. When Thurkild woke, bruised, bloody, and half-frozen, he tried to search for Brek, but the dwarf had to give up to save himself. He still raises a pint in the half-orc's memory every now and then in a pub.

In his travels to conquer the mountains of the North, Thurkild encountered other things to be conquered- including some evils. One mountain village he came across had been completely destroyed by one or more giants, judging from the tracks, and others had been decimated by orcs or goblins. Guilt gnawed at his conscience that he was spending his life and skills selfishly. One day, then, as he was visiting home, he came across a representative of the Lord's Alliance trying to drum up support at Citadel Felbarr. Over a few pints, the rep, a half-elf named Rauvsten, told him story after story of the suffering that the Alliance fought against, and of their many victories, large and small. The hook was well-planted. Thurkild talked it over with his father, who saw this as a better legacy for his son than climbing rocks, and then Thurkild told Rauvsten that he would like to join.

The half-elf took Thurkild back to Waterdeep with him for preliminary training as an agent. Accustomed as he was to nature and solitude, with only occasional visits to Citadel Felbarr, Thurkild was quickly overwhelmed by the city. He also had never been a very good student- sitting and learning history lessons and the like was not his strong suite- and thus got antsy quickly. So Rauvsten suggested that Thurkild break up the training with a ‘training exercise’ which would allow him to be useful to the Lord's Alliance immediately. Thurkild accepts immediately, both to escape the huge city for a time and to prove himself worthy of trust by the Alliance.

[Anea]

Name: Bovur Fell-Hand
Race: Sky Dwarf
Class: Artificer, Gunsmith
Alignment: Lawful Neutral
Faction: Lord’s Alliance
Character Sheet: Here
Physical Appearance:
Bovur is a lean and wiry fellow, standing in at an average 4’4” and weighing 145 lbs, with rough hands from hauling cannon to the gunwhale and rappelling down ropes. His coarse beard is kept roughly trimmed so that it may be covered by his helmet. His copper skin is pockmarked and occasionally discolored due to alchemical experiments as a child. His piercing blue eyes, as bright as a flash of lightning, shine with a keen intellect and attention for the smallest detail. A bit of his left ear is missing, a result from ship to ship combat with the a cloud giant, for which he is lucky considering the circumstances.


Background: Sailor
Personality Traits: Ruthless in both trade deals and war, let's make a deal!
Ideals: Respect the Code, then yourself. All other things come after
Bonds: The Banuk floating port of Mirak-Thur holds my allegiance. I explore, trade, and fight for the honor of my clan.
Flaws: The rush of claiming new sources of Aether and gold is a tough high to match, and I will do almost anything to gain either.

Backstory:

Generations ago, the Banuk Clan was part of a large dwarf kingdom known as Kazvrak in the eastern foothills around the Grey Peak Mountains. They acted as the bulwark of defense from the wild lands beyond their borders. Over time, the human and dwarf allies they protected became too comfortable in their positions and soon their aid in both military strength and prosperous trade ran dry. Desperate to protect themselves from constant orc raids and hostile wildlife, the Kazvrakians focused all their resources on a melding of alchemy, smithing, and arcane magics to produce Aether, a rare arcane metal that allowed many new things possible, the most formidable of which was the Aether Rifle. Devastating firepower now protected dwarf fortresses where gods and allies had failed before, but new strength encourages challengers.

With such a rival in his way, Warchief Thromkar united the roving bands of orcs under his banner and attempted to conquer Kazvrak. The dwarves knew they could not face this onslaught alone, and so resolved to flee their ancestral homeland. A few clans, including the Banuk, used their knowledge of Aether smithing and created Sky Ports, floating cities powered with Aether and gold. Over time, the dwarves who lived in these cities lost their stone sense, for they cared little for earth now that they were no longer bound to it. While still a hardy people, these Sky dwarves placed much more focus on the advancement of their Aether smithing than on the martial prowess that had won them renown in ages past. Each Clan established their own Sky ports and they trade amongst each other the goods their expeditions retrieved throughout the world, as well with the locals along the Sword Coast.

Bovur was on a mining expedition as a fighter escort to the Spine of the World mountain range along the Sword Coast. When first arriving on station, the Aethernaught company marines had to push back against a wild human tribe that was performing sacrifices to their profane dark gods upon the mountain tops. Though fierce, the human barbarians stood little chance against massed volleys of Aethershot fire. Scores of humans were brought low in the initial skirmishes, and seeing no way to best the dwarves themselves, the humans retreated further down the mountain. There they continued their sacrifices and rituals with renewed vigor while still probing the defenses of the mining camp.

Months passed as the dwarves delved deeper into the rock, extracting as much gold as the camp could store before the relief fleet of air-frigates and cargo transports arrived. Thankfully, the barbarians must have given up removing the dwarves from their lands as the raids ceased and the humans seemed to leave their lower encampment. Once the relief fleet arrived, reinforcements took over the outpost and Bovur's unit boarded the sky vessels for a journey home. This was not to be however, as they were ambushed in the clouds by a rampaging Cloud Giant. Seeing their ancestral foe rage amongst them, Bovur and his squad's frigate volunteered to stay behind to act as a distraction to protect the rest of the fleet. The Sky's Vengeance fought valiantly, but was torn asunder by the giant's bare hands. Bovur survived the crash in the northern reaches of the Reghed Glacier and made his way to Bryn Shander, vowing vengeance on the giant and seeking passage back home.

[Huhart]

NameWenceslas Goodkin
Race Half-Elven
Class Druid; Circle of the Land (Arctic)
Background Far Traveler; Exile from Sossal
Personality Traits I have a strong code of honor or sense of propriety that others don't comprehend.
I express affection or contempt in ways that are unfamiliar to others.
Bond I hold no greater cause than my service to my people.
Ideal I have much to learn from the kindly folk I meet along my way.
Flaws I have a weakness for the exotic beauty of the people of these lands.

Personality
Wenceslas is a kind and gentle soul. He has a soft spot in his heart for children. He often crafts small toys to give as gifts to the youngsters. He enjoys his pipe and delights in blowing smoke rings. The druid has a hearty laugh. He has a fondness for deer and other antlered ungulate. He wears a red fur coat.


Backstory
From the frozen north, he came. Some guess Sossal, but he'd never confirm it. What happened in the past, is past. Wenceslas looks toward the future, a future denied to him in his homeland.

The Goodkin clan had long resided in Sossel, descended from a mixed breed of hearty men and snow elves. They worshiped the mountain goddess, Skadi, who gave her blessing to those who honored the balance of nature. Wenceslas was a faithful follower of her druidic teachings. He lived in the village of Sombertown. It was once a quiet little burg, until a man named Berger came to town.

Berger brought goods in from the coastal city of Naupau. With him came soldiers, mostly caravan guards. These soldiers were often drunk and belligerent. The villagers took to hiding in their houses when the soldiers were around. Complaints were made to the village elders, but they did nothing. The elders wanted to stay in Berger’s good graces, since he brought them much needed merchandise. Wenceslas decided to take matters into his own hands. He confronted Berger, insisting that the merchant keep his men under control. A heated debate ensued, which led to fisticuffs. The fight ended with two guards unconscious and Berger with a broken nose. Berger packed up shop and left town with his guards and all.

For a few months, peace was restored to Sombertown. The town council was angry with Wenceslas, but the druid endured their wrath stoically. Then, Berger returned, this time with an army. The soldiers swept in and took over the town. Berger disbanded the council and declared himself “Meisterberger”, Lord of Sombertown. Wenceslas was found, beaten, thrown into the deepest dungeon and left to rot.

His friends Jangles the warlock and the sorceress Jessica helped to free him from captivity. But there was nowhere to hide from Meisterberger’s men. With a heavy heart, Wenceslas left his beloved town and went to Naupau. But, the coastal town was not safe for him either. He was a wanted man with a price on his head. Twice he had to fend off bounty hunters.

Seeing no alternative, Wenceslas left Sossal altogether, travelling south across the Ice Sea and the Great Glacier. The journey was long and harrowing. Wenceslas only had the companionship of his pack animal, an elk named Blitzen. There was little food. They had to rely on the magic of Skadi to survive. The way became more dangerous when they entered the realm of the evil frost giant “Snow Mizer”. The giant caught them on an open plain with nowhere to hide. Wenceslas magic was not strong enough to defeat the mighty giant. But, the heroic Blitzen sacrificed itself so the druid could escape. Alone and with no supplies, Wenceslas entered into the region of Icewind Dale. Now, he now wanders the Savage Frontier, looking for a new home and a purpose.

 

[Sassafrass]

 

Vanoriana Silverlute
"You're going to need more handkerchiefs, if this next song is half as good as the last."

Name	Race	Class	College	Sheet
Vanoriana Silverlute	Moon Elf	Bard	College of the LoreFochlucan	Here

Background	Personality Traits	Bond	Ideal	Flaws
Entertainer	Nobody stays angry at me for long, since I can defuse any amount of tension; I'm a hopeless romantic, always searching for that special someone	Creative: The world is in need of new ideas and bold action	My instrument is my most treasured possession, and it reminds me of someone I love, though I don't remember them	I have trouble keeping my true feelings hidden. My sharp tongue lands me in trouble

Description: Riana is a cacophony of contradictions, all based on expectations. She looks like she might be an aloof entertainer. She looks like an Elf. She is, and she is not these things. Her dress is accented in earthy tones that make her pale, translucent Moon Elf skin seem to be more made of earth than stars, her auburn hair seems to make it more grounded. Her dress revolves around those earthen tones, often a brown leather vest with a color of her choosing for the evening, mostly blues or greens, whichever suits the tone of the situation more. She is prone to boots and pantaloons, yet never seems anything but feminine. Her eyes are large emeralds, fitting into the thin slits commonly found in Elves. Her hair is long, but in a bun or braid that drapes around her neck like a vine. Her ears are often tucked into her hair, or just peering out. Her mouth wears her emotions openly, and can move rapidly between these. She is never without her silver-trimmed yarting, a stringed instrument with a rapid sound that moves her feet and keeps her aloof.

That word perhaps describes her best. She is home nowhere save her own skin, and wears that fact openly for all. She is gregarious, exceedingly so, and has a hard time staying mad at any of the mortal folk, no matter their injury to her or their ill temper. She is an entertainer, and enjoys the spotlight; she has no qualms reminding herself that all folk love the attention of others, in some form or another. Even devils need mortals to make their deals. She cannot stand prejudice, cannot stand deceit, but most importantly, she cannot stand a frown the most. She is dramatic, good at playing a part, and has no qualms with bending the truth for a laugh, but outright deceit for a darker purpose rubs her the wrong way. She is a solo performer and while she does make her own material, she is often embarrassed to play it and prefers the songs of others. But she is aloof, ready to play into the hearts and minds of everyone. At least, superficially.

Most of her content, and her wordplay, and her song choice, comes from her need to feel loved. What connections she's had is in the community of players, her colleagues and teachers and mentors. Most of whom are now dead, sadly, but in them she found solace. Love is not something she's terribly experienced with, but is highly interested in and somewhat obsessed with. It pays to be single-minded. Despite recent insistence that she is something she is not, Riana is willing to take all comers, at least, but does so with a grain of Calimshite salt.

Backstory: A good tragedy has to be spiced with mystery. Two Elven merchants, their names unknown, the carriage destroyed, and the only sign of the source of that destruction and their deaths were giant imprints on the ground. What kind of imprints, a young, interested, perhaps sad Riana would ask her adopted family? Why, no one seemed to know. Old Jolena seemed to think it was a Dragon from the Spine of the World, come down to repay them for a faulty trinket; hoshposh, said Blind Mag: it was a Storm Giant, sent by their King to get revenge against them for bearing such a beautiful daughter with hair that rivaled the Fire Giants. But it was her near-father's answer that always intrigued her. "You'll have to wait until you're old enough to find out, my dear; and Elves do live so long, who knows when that'll be?" It infuriated her to no end when Darketh Bramblewheel, Halfling Merchant of Luskan, told her that.

The babe who would be Vanoriana Silverlute was found in a tree, her basket having been flung from the ruined cart, her parents battered bodies buried beneath a billowing ash on the round from Silverymoon to who-knows-where. She was found by the Halfling merchant and his caravan on their way to Triboar, and they adopted the babe then and there. Thinking her a Half-Elf from her growth, they soon discovered her slow development and moonlit skin proved more Elven than not. She was raised in a community of traveling artists and merchants, able to play both roles with great familiarity and depth, and the caravan's constantly changing faces left her with a permanent sense of impermanence. When she was 40, still a child by her people's standards, the now-elderly Darketh, in his final voyage from Waterdeep to Silverymoon, returned her to her presumed ancestral home of that good city, and there, left a sizable sum to pay for her schooling in professional loremastery and lute-fiddling. A final gift was parted that would not be delivered until her 100th nameday, whence she would be an Elven adult. Darketh would not live long enough to see that day, but he was the closest thing she came to having real family, and a real father besides.

The money therein paid for her to have an education at the college of Fochlucan, a wizen university of music and history and lore and goodness, tied to the Harpers. Fond of that organization, her time in the caravans made her less reserved than her Elven kin, though she learned their ways almost like a second skin. Her accent is second-hand, her manners over-enunciated, her style perhaps garrish for an Elf. By the time she was 115, she was so done with being an Elf she all but gave it up. By then, she was living on her own, the last of her artistic family dead, and she took care of herself, often through her performance and the networks she made. At her coming of age performance at the Fochlucan, she was finally given her present from Darketh by her favorite teacher, a Human Druid-Singer named Leloch: a Amnish lute called a yarting, trimmed with a silver tree and moon. Hence came her title: Silverlute.

Since then, for the last two years she has traveled the North, as far south as Neverwinter, as far north as the edge of Ten-Towns, playing, looking for life and love and laughter, and spreading cheer where she can. Recently, a stranger claimed the mark on her back, which she always thought was strange when others brought it up (just above her shoulder blades, it is visible to her only in a mirror and apparently is some kind of bird; she thinks it more a blob) was proof she was needed for something special.

She knows she's special, but she's not anyone's savior, or queen, or whatever it is.

[Spizzow]

 

Name: Ackley Dagwood
Race: Half Elf
Class: Paly - Oath of Vengence
Age: 59
Sex: Male
Deity: Silvanus - God of wild nature - Oak Leaf
Character Sheet: Here

Appearance:

 

Personality:

 

Background:

 

Ackley grew up in Bryn Shander. It was one of the few places that would accept his single mother, and her half elf son.
Ackley's human mother was killed by a white dragon, when he was 17. He never knew his elven father. The sudden loss of his mother forced him to look for work, quickly. He eventually fell in with a small temple of Silvanus. At first doing small chores. After a while Silvanus teachings really started to connect with Ackley, and he joined the faith. He began working his way up through the ranks. Years passed, and the interest in Silvanus dwindled in the small town. The last of the human clerics passed due to age, leaving Ackley alone again.

Ackley took the skills and ability that he learned through Silvanus and joined the town guard. His abilities quickly begain to outpace the other grunts of the militia, but he had no interest in working towards leadership. Instead he holds small prayer sessions in the name of Silvanus with any of the guards that will listen. Hoping to re-ignite Silvanus' teaching in Bryn Shander.

[chri2m]

 

NAME: Gwyo Tesivaar

RACE: Tabaxi
CLASS: Fighter (Eldritch Knight)
GENDER: Male
AGE: 31
ALIGNMENT: Lawful Neutral
BACKGROUND: Soldier

PERSONALITY & APPEARANCE: WIP

BACKSTORY: WIP

[Silk]

Amya Falone Name: Amya(Om-yah) Falone Race: Human (Turami) Class: Bard 4/Fighter 1 <Weather Amya goes Bard or Fighter for leveling will depend on how the game was role played up until she was ready to level> Alignment: Chaotic Good Background: Far Traveler <a Wanderer from Mulhorand> Far Traveler Feature: Amya's accent, mannerisms, and dark complication mark her as Foreign where ever she goes in the northern part of the Sword Coast. Discription: Amya has creamy brown skin with piercing black eyes and waist length flowing black hair. In her native land, she where's loose clothing and leather armor only when needed. She likes to feel the wind on her skin. Up in the northern lands Amya has gotten used to wearing pants and heavy cloths to word away the cold. She prefers a chain shirt when armor is required but will readily remove it in towns. She has a Khopesh long sword and six daggers on her. Two in her boots, two fastened to the back of her sword belt, and two opposite her Khopesh. She is not afraid to loose daggers at need. While she loves the Lute and Shawm(Egyption Flute) she caries with her from her native land, she also has a Lyre(European design) and can play a Horn, though she does not carry one with her. Personality Trait: I begin my day with small traditional rituals that are unfamiliar to those around me. <first drink of a new dawn is held up to the rising sun in the east before drinking, she likes feeling the wind on her skin so she can be found outside even in freezing weather with little protection against the elements from time to time, & she say's a quite prayer to Bes in her native Turmish language over her food> Ideal: Adventure. I'm far from home, and everything is strange and wonderful(Chaotic) <New sights, songs, and culture, are what she desire's most> Bond: My freedom is my most precious possession. I'll never let anyone take it from me again. <being imprisoned twice, once falsely, has caused her to value her freedom greatly> Flaw: I pretend not to understand the local language in order to avoid interactions I would rather not have. <while always interested in something new, she does not like new insults directed at her and has found it best to ignore such> History: 1) Born with great looks (+1 CHA) 2) She is a rabble rouser. She alone has started five riots (+1 CHA) 3) She chopped wood for day's at a time after her last breakup (+1 STR) 4) Traveled with a Carnival. Worked with the Knife Thrower (+1 DEX) 5) Competed in a strong man event. Came in third (+1 STR) 6) Lived with a native tribe for a while. Learned to forage berries (+1 WIS) 7) Part-time Grave digging work (+1 STR) 8) Tortured to reveal a partner's location (+1 CON) <part of #9> 9) Escaped prison after she was wrongly arrested (+1 DEX) 10) Arrested. Sentence, Infantry Service [Move to Military Table] ----->Marched barefoot for 20 miles (No Stat Increase) 11) Screwed up. Got put on potato peeling duty (+1 DEX) 12) Inspired a dying soldier (+1 CHA) Stat's with Human bonus's: STR: 14, DEX: 14, CON: 12, INT: 11, WIS: 12, CHA: 14   Backstory: Amya was a beautiful girl born in Maerlar, a small town in Mulhorand to Amya Falone, who she is named after, and Diero Falone. The joy of the moment of her birth however was forever tarnished by Amya's mother dying shortly after giving birth to her daughter. Diero Falone was always struck by wanderlust and had only agreed to settle down with Amya to build a family together. Naming his daughter after his dead wife might seem strange to some but Diero hoped his dead wife's spirit would agree with it. With her gone, Diero learned how to take care of his infant daughter and continued in his wanderings, unable to stay in the town she had died in. Amya herself has no memory of the place other then one night when she and her father passed through the town when she was nine years old. Amya as it turned out was just like her mother but filled with more spirit then even Diero could handle. Before her fifteenth birthday Amya had personally started five riots by herself against perceived injustices, and had joined several others. This only hastened Diero and Amye's wanderings as Diero had no illusion's that those Amya had started the riots against would not hold back their retribution against her even though she was a child. Deciding Amya needed a stabilizing element in her life Diero arranged his daughters hand in marriage to a merchant's son in Calimshan. He expected the fight he was going to have with his daughter and hoped for her eventual agreeing to the marriage. Which, in the end she did agree to marry him and it was to be held on her sixteenth birthday. What Diero did not expect was the boy in question to run away with a bar made a month before the weeding. He also did not expect his daughter to take an ax away from the servant boy and chop wood in anger for two and a half days. However, Amya eventually cooled down and they continued their wanderings. It was only a week later when they came across a traveling carnival that was heading back north and Amya made a decision. Diero did not like the wet lands of the north but Amya was curious about this place where snow fell all year round. She had only seen snow fall once when they were traveling through the mountains between Calimshan and Tethyr during winter and loved it. In the end Diero realized his daughter had gained her wanderlust from him and needed to do this on her own. If he could try and marry her off, she was old enough to be on her own. Getting a promise from her daughter to come back and visit one day, and a promise from the Carnival leader Elisabeth to treat Amya as her own daughter, Diero watched his little girl head off to the bitter north. Amya was good with her lute and learned a few tricks from Angie the knife thrower and Hark a Dwarf who was in charge of seeing to the strong man competition. She traveled with them for a couple months until they were a weeks travel out from the boarders of Cormyr, the country they were from, when the traveling Carnival stopped at a village of natives who were all Halflings. They called themselves the Hamaneya. While Amya admitted to herself the natives were a bit uncivilized, she was fascinated by their culture. It took some doing, okay a lot of doing, but Amya finally managed to get Elisabeth to agree to leave her here where she could learn more of the natives culture. Giving a promise to follow Elisabeth's instructions North and to visit them in the city of Saerloon, she enjoyed a lovely two months with the Hamaneya natives. By the time she got to Cormyr and the city of Saerloon Amya was running low on money. When she heard that Elisabeth and her traveling Carnival was invited by the ruler of Cormyr to entertain in Suzail, she used some of the last of her money to send Elisabeth a message saying, 'I made it to Saerloon and am going to do a few odd jobs playing songs to earn some cash and then I will meet you in Suzail.' Fate had other plans and the next two and a half years were the roughest of her life. It was a shock to find out that the people of Saerlaon did not want a bard to sing Mulhorand, Calimshan, or Tethyr songs. The few songs Amya knew of the north were still new to her and her accent made the words not flow that well. In the end she took up any odd job while practicing the strange songs. And one of those odd jobs was as a grave digger for the poor. It was a sad duty but Amya did it with respect to the dead and added her prayers after everyone was gone. To say she was surprised to be arrested for the crime of grave robbing would be an understatement. Everyone despises a grave robber and when she was tortured for the whereabouts of her supposed partner, she was not surprised. Amya managed to escape with four other prisoners but was caught only a few days later. It turned out they caught the real grave robber and his partner but Amya had assaulted the warden of the prison where she was held and helped four other convicted prisoners to escape. The judge decided to be lenient on her and only sentenced her to two years of Infantry Service. Even though the charges of grave robbing were dropped, the stigma stayed with her and during training someone took her boots so she had to march for twenty miles barefoot. Of course, Amya's mouth got her in even more trouble and she spent quite a lot of time honing her potato peeling skills. She thought many times of just running away but figured two years wasn't that bad. She even made a friend here and their, stigma or no stigma. Amya's best friend, Gorman Kalden, was a young man from Suzail a year older then her. It turned out his family had a relative that had caused their family name to be stigmatized in Cormyr and that was why he was serving in the Saerloon Infantry as Saerloon was not part of Cormyr and they did not care much for what happened in other country's. Amya told Gorman about where she was from and some story's of her land. Like how the Mulhorandi were brought to Toril from a different world by the Imaskar Empire for slaves and how they later displaced her people, the Turamil. She even mention that the Mulhorandi gods came to this world at their plea for aid and rescued their people from slavery. Amya even mentioned that she worships Bes, the Mulhorandi god of Chance and luck, even though it is rumored that the Mulhorandi gods have left Toril. Gorman loved to hear Amya's stories and she secretly thought Gorman was more in love with her then her story's, but he never pressed the issue. It was three weeks before her sentence of two years of forced Infantry service was up when the small fort they were guarding was attacked by brigands. Amya never found out why they attacked, and frankly, afterwards she did not even care. For three days the battle raged, with the wood and stone fort being breached multiple times. It was on the third day that Amya saw Gorman ran threw. To this day she does not remember how she killed his attacker, or what she said to Gorman after. All she knew was that Gorman raised up holding his guts in, and rallied everyone around around him in a charge that routed the brigands once and for all. After the battle, their Sargent found Amya laying Gorman's body strait and he said, "He was a hero of Saerloon." She shook her head, unable to cry for her friend and said, "No, he was a hero of Cormyr." Two weeks and four days latter saw a changed Amya walking away from Saerloon and vowing to never visit the place again. Where before, she would sing to fill the lonely trail with noise, Amya walked quietly, a void following her footsteps. She rarely smiled anymore, only fleeting glimpse's here and there. Once she got to Suzail, she stared at it from outside. Shur, she could go in, try to find Gorman's family, but at that moment, she was afraid to confront them. Amya ended up walking completely around Suzail until she reached the road that lead through the Stormhorns mountains and further east. Guided by directions from locals she meet on the way, she made it through the wilderness that was to the east of Cormyr and came upon the city of Baldur's Gate. Once again she did not want to enter the city, and so she started making her way north. Every time she came across a big walled city, she walked on or went around. From Waterdeep, to Neverwinter, and even Luskan she avoided. Though it was probably best to have avoided entering that last city. Amya eventually found herself in a small town called Hundlestone where the the roofs were peeked and the air was crisp and just seeing it seemed to ease something in Amya chest. Going to the Inn, she asked for a single room with a window as she had so many times by now. The women seemed to get excited once she saw Amya's lute and asked if she as a Bard, Amya reply of "No!" came out a little to forcefully and she sighed looked down, "Not today, just...just the room please." Once in her room, Amya sat staring out the open window at the picturesque town for some time. Downstairs someone with less skill at a harp then her started up a song. It was something she did not know and even badly sung, spoke to her. But she could not bring herself to listen to closely and found herself taking up her lute. At first she just strummed a melancholy tune but soon she was humming along and words came to her, He is a hero of Cormyr, A hero tall and strong, He is a hero of Cormyr, As just and kind as all, Amya sung a few more verses, trying some out, discarding others. Until she came near the end when tears started fall from her eyes. He..he was a.. a hero of Cormyr..., He <snif> He was a..a hero tall and strong, He was a hero...a hero of C-Cormyr... But she could not finish and ended up holding her lute tightly as she finally allowed herself to cry for a dear departed friend. Not once noticing in her greef that the music from downstairs had stopped. Amya's tears eventually slowed and she continued to composing her 'Ode to Gorman Kalden, a Hero of Cormyr'. Down below, hardly a word was spoken and nary an eye dry as the women in the room above pored her heart and soul into a song about a dead hero of Cormyr. And she was determend to make it her best work yet, so that his family could once again, hold their heads up high.

[PalladiaMors]

Shivara Name: Shivara Race: Dragonborn Class: Sorcerer Background: Noble   Shivara is a female dragonborn with dark, silvery hide, piercing blue eyes, and long white hair that tumbles over her shoulders like snow from a mountaintop. She's a bit short by dragonborn standards, standing at six feet even, with a slender build that is likewise lighter than average. While hardly weak she lacks the bulk of most of her kind, her form clearly meant for agile movements rather than brute strength. Her voice is just on the deep side of sultry and most of the time she doesn't speak so much as purr, speaking with a leisurely drawl even in hectic situations. Every word is deliberate and the tone and manner of her speech tends to be rather captivating. Shivara dresses well, but shamelessly, a combination of scales, resistance to cold, and the belief that a form as perfect as hers should be flaunted. Naturally the opinions of those who disagree are to be discounted as petty jealousy.   Trait: I don’t like to get my hands dirty, and would prefer for others to handle anything... messy. Trait: I work only that I may enjoy the fruits of those labors, but would still rather avoid if when I can. Wealth is meaningless if it is not used for indulgences. Ideal: I like to live well, as befits my station, but not at the expense of others. Such is the behavior of tyrants, and we are better than that. Bond: I will not allow shame to come to my name, my family, or my kind. Honor above all. Of course it's my own brand of honor, which is hardly as uptight as say, Tyr. Flaw: It's not that I think I'm better than everyone. I know it. Shivara is, in a word, a hedonist. Having been raised in luxury with few worries other than how to avoid boredom, she is used to enjoying herself and being waited on. To say she's been spoiled is an understatement but at the same time she's had a strong work ethic when it comes to things that actually interest her. Shivara has quite an ego, befitting a noble. She expects to be treated with the respect she's due and expects others to listen when she speaks. She's confident to the point of arrogance sometimes, though to her credit it's never a matter of belittling others so much as extolling her own virtues. For all of this however she can be both charming and likable. Her ego never quite strays into the realm of condescension and if nothing else she knows how to have fun. She tends to be brazen without being rude, keeping insults confined to subtle sarcasm.   Shivara is part of a clan of dragonborn in the service of an ancient silver dragon that lairs in a mountain in the Spine of the World. Her clan has served the dragon for generations, and some say are all related to him if one looks back far enough. For the most part the clan acts as the dragon's representatives when dealing with mortal races. Those in need make a pilgrimage to the mountain to ask for aid, with the dragon sending members of the clan to handle said tasks. Over time though the dragon has had fewer and fewer visitors. Either the tale of the great dragon in the mountains has become nothing more than legend or the people who live on and around the mountain no longer need his aid. But for the last few decades there has been little if anything for them to do. Shivara was born into this clan with no clear purpose ahead of her, as it seemed their noble goals and duties were no longer needed. As a result she grew up as nobility with no serious challenges, the elders having become a bit lazy from the lack of activity. When her magical abilities emerged she was trained in their use but learned most of it on her own. A lack of discipline and lack of boredom resulted in her being somewhat of a wild child, all too eager to leave the clan's grounds and see the world around. But with the uprising of giant and other dangers emerging around the great north, it would seem the dragon's hibernation and the clan's lack of purpose has been alleviated. It would seem the legends were not entirely forgotten, as a traveler has arrived at the dragon's mountain to ask for aid in defending the land against the giants. Shivara's father, eldest prince of the clan, saw an opportunity to teach her some responsibility. And so, against the better judgment of some of the elders, she was sent to answer the traveler's call.

[Dorack]

Alkarak Name: Alkarak Concept: Questing Paladin of Vengeance, former slave pit fighter Gender: Male Race: Dwarf Class: Paladin Alignment: Neutral Good Background: Folk Hero Character Sheet Personality: Alkarak has a tranquil demeanor. His frightful countenance means he is usually given wide berth, so he enjoys spending time alone, specially sitting at the sun. When he speaks, he does so calmly, in a deep voice that is both sad and rejoiceful. He enjoys the many little things he was denied for so long. Slow to anger, wary of violence unless no other choice is at hand, he will unleash a deep-seated fury into those he deems his enemies. In combat he is a brutal foe and employs any and all the tricks he learned at the fighting pit, honor and chivalry be damned. Ideal: One idea drives Alkarak above all; to end slavery, to free the last of the poor souls in chains. He is perfectly aware he will never achieve such goal in his lifetime, yet that won´t stop him from trying and helping as many as he can in the way. Flaw: Alkarak feels deep sorrow and regret for those he slew at the pits and take great pains in comforting those in need where he finds them, giving him a blank spot, an Achille’s heel to be used against him. Bond: Alkarak knows nothing of his original clan and has so far not found any clue or hint about them. The only earthly bonds he feels are for the two young boys he spared at the fighting pits, called Guerned and Trellem. Appearance: Alkarak is strong and burly. Most of his body show the scars of the life of a slave, and a pit fighter at that, and his back’s skin is a tapestry of lashes. Upon his face, on his right side, he bears a Drow mark of slavery, a gift from his former master. Where the sigil was carved upon his flesh, no beard ever grew back. He keeps the rest of his beard short, as he was forced to as a slave. He will not grow it longer until his mission is ended. Backstory   Alkarak is a dwarf with a tormented past. From very young age, he was enslaved by Drow raiders preying on isolated dwarf outposts. Of his clan´s fate, he knows nothing certain, yet he assumes the worst. As a slave, he was raised an orphan among other dwarf captives, and thru them, he learned what he could of their people and traditions. As he grew older and stronger, he ended up as property of a Drow Priestess that run a Lolth temple afar from Menzoberranzan. She had him branded by magic fire, an elaborate drow sigil of ownership that ran from his eyebrow, down his temple, most of his cheek and down to his chin. Where his skin was branded, his beard grew no more. The Priestess delighted in gladiatorial pit fights, using slaves, captives and even wild beasts her servitors managed to catch to put up deadly fights. Alkarak was forced to fight for his life, sometimes alone, sometimes along other slaves, in bizarre deathmatches against all sort of people and creatures. He taught himself how to fight, and how to kill. Still, he always felt a deep disgust, paying lip service to his master and her void flattery. He was no gladiatorial champion: he was a slave forced to kill or be killed, and he hated himself for it. One day, he was ushered into the pit. On the other side, his foe awaited. But when Alkarak saw what his opponent was, he froze. A very old dwarf stood proudly, dagger in hand, his old scars and powerful arms marking him as a warrior, and in his chest, a symbol that gave Alkarak a flashback, to a shrine, old and beautiful, of a god that watched over his kin. A word formed in Alkarak’s conscience: Moradin, the Allfather. The old warrior looked at Alkarak for a brief instant and sighed. In a low grumble, he said You are too young to die here, at my hands. Live another day, and each day your life may last, live humbly and free. And then, the old warrior opened his throat with the dagger and bled to death as Alkarak watched in shock. Time passed and every now and then Alkarak had to fight in the pits. Still, every night his mind returned to the old dwarf. His calmness, his stoic stance in front of impending death. The scene changed him, and in his soul, he started searching for that inner peace he glimpsed among the horror. Alas, one day, he was ushered to the pit like countless days before. And there they were: two young dwarfs, probably twins, mere boys at half Alkarak’s age. He saw them wielding their daggers clumsily, the look of terror in their eyes, looking at each other in despair. Above them, the Priestess laughter could be heard over the deranged cheers of the onlookers. Alkarak closed his eyes for a moment, and the boys were replaced by the old warrior, the one who chose to give his life before taking him’s. Moradin, father, I can’t do this… A sense of calm filled the dwarf as the rumble around him receded to a faint echo. He could feel his heart pounding, the dagger´s pommel in his hand, and a deep sense of determination. Alkarak had never felt anything like it. He opened his eyes and looked at the terrified boys. He smiled, briefly, and then, he turned like a whirlwind and sent the dagger flying towards the Priestess. The dagger flew true, towards its target, and for a moment, Alkarak felt victorious. The blade bounced off the arcane ward and fell to the pit. The whole chamber went silent. The Priestess seethed in rage. Fool with a fool´s hope. I intended to let you die in glorious battle! Isn’t that what your petty kin wishes the most? Now you will die of pain, lashed unto death. Alkarak was taken away, chained in a torture chamber, and lashed, and lashed, and lashed, until his tormentors grew tired, or perhaps could not find any more skin to tear, and left him for dead. The dwarf endured what he could, until his body and will could stand no more and he fell into darkness. Yet Alkarak did not die. For Moradin came to his son´s aide. Strange dreams befell him. Dreams of calmness, of a loving embrace, of life renewed, and then, dreams of fury, of combat and carnage. Dreams that felt real: Drow’s screams, warm blood in his hands, and cool breeze in his face. And then, silence and darkness, and peace. When he woke up, he was in a green field, the sun high in the sky. Alkarak had not felt it in a century or more, he could never be sure. He looked around and saw he was among raged men and women, dwarfs and elves, and more, including the two dwarf boys he faced in the pit before. His body was broken, but healing. When he asked what happened, the slaves told him how he had burst out of the cell and with a divine aura around him, had killed and drove away the Drows, releasing the prisoners, guiding them to the surface. They told him how he looked like a dwarven god incarnate, beautiful and terrible to behold, as he lay waste to his foes. Alkarak could not remember any of this, yet in his heart, he knew it to be true. The freed slaves slowly parted ways, each returning to their homes, yet Alkarak had no home to return to, not that he knew of. So, he stayed with some dwarfs and other survivors, and made a vow not to let any other people suffer what they had suffer, not while he could do something about it. So began his path of Paladinhood, devoting himself to Moradin Allfather and promising to erase the scourge of slavery form Toril, or die trying. RP Sample   Alkarak came out of his stupor. The numbness that had followed the indescribable pain was no more. He felt calm, warm, utterly at peace. He realized then he was no longer in chains, hanged from his wrists the way his tormentors left him to die. The pain was no more; the warmth of his blood running thru his back and legs, or the burning fever, were no more. He laid on his back, on the ground, and his head rested atop something. A lap. Someone was holding him. Alkarak felt the hands of the stranger, strong and powerful, yet careful and kind, one on his forehead, the other atop his chest. He could feel life flowing from those hands into his body. Alkarak tried to look up, yet he could not move his head. Rest, my son. Rest. The voice sounded like the depths of the world had spoken, yet Alkarak could not tell if he heard it of felt it in his soul. It was a voice of countless eons, of infinite wisdom, of unspeakable wrath, and of deep, deep sorrow, deeper than the Abyss itself. I... sighed Alkarak... I.. could... not... yet words failed him. You did what you thought best, and I'm proud for it. Now rest, for tomorrow, you will break your bonds, you will bring reckoning to those that that defiled you. Tomorrow you will free those that suffer with you in this hellish place. Alkarak could barely give meaning to the words that echoed in his head. He was but a spoil, broken. Still, he could feel life flowing back. H..how... I... Rest, Alkarark, my son, for tomorrow I will be at your side. Alkarak tried to look up once more, but his strength failed him. With a whisper in his lips, he abandoned himself to sleep and heard no more.

[LinguaManiac]

Hosvir Brokestone
(Sheet)

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Mechanics Race: Dwarf, Hill Age: 47 Class: Cleric, War Domain Background: Soldier Virtues (Personality Traits): I am companionable, always ready for and with a story or drink. Battle thrills me, and while I don’t seek my destruction, I don’t exactly avoid it either. Ideal: Honor Defend your homeland, your companions, your friends. Last man to retreat, no man left behind, never surrender. (Lawful) Bond: I will defend my homeland with my last breath. Mithral Hall is home and it will Stand. Vices (Flaws): I want to be famous and talked about and get resentful when I don’t get the attention I think I deserve. I am a very linear thinker. Some of it’s being a Dwarf, some of it’s being in the military, some of it’s just me. I don’t do well with those who are more scattered and who do not know discipline and I often overlook the subtle. Description: Hosvir looks the average dwarf. He is neither particularly tall nor particularly wide. His whiskers are oiled and groomed, but not more than any young man’s should be. His armor is pristine, his weapons ship-shape, but there is no excess wealth there. His skin is a deep clay-red, like sun-kissed earth, but even that’s not really uncommon for dwarfs. He is, in almost every way, fairly average. Except the eyes. A deep and almost unique green, they glare out or crinkle up, expressing every drip-drop of emotion he needs. These are not eyes that lie, and indeed Hosvir almost never does and is bad at it besides.

Backgstory   I’ve always felt overwhelmed by humans. Most of them have their whole life set up by the time they’re twenty. Even the laggards don’t take longer than thirty. It’s true that Dwarfs and Humans reach physical maturity at the same age, more or less, but that doesn’t tell half the story. Humans are no longer young by thirty. Dwarfs are young until fifty. Humans get sh*t done. I was born into one of 10,000 smith clans in the heart of Dwarf opulence – in Mithral Hall. I grew up in peace and prosperity, with glorious achievements in our collective past but without even my parents (pushing seventy as they both were when I was born) having known war. In other words, I was bored. I wanted true recognition, excitement, adventure. And independence. A Dwarf clan is a network of relationships stretching back a dozen or ten-dozen generations, intermingling and intermarrying with a dizzying array of other clans. They make up tribes and, in turn, kingdoms. Nothing is quite so stifling as a clan gathering of several hundred extended family, all of whom one is supposed to know and all of whom one is supposed to entertain. I guess that’s why the ale comes so in handy. Nothing’s quite so glorious, though, as a rousing family song where the whole clan – from Great-great grandfather Orsik to young three year old Torgga – joins together. I wanted my independence, so I told my parents outright – at about twenty-five, because I wasn’t stupid enough to kindle their wrath while still a kid – that I wasn’t going to be a smith. I went upland, out into the great expanse of sky, and pulled in money and made my way as I could. I stayed close to Mithral Hall, setting up shop just East, in a small trading town on West bank of the Surbin river called Hothwine. There, I led too rich humans on ‘dangerous’ expeditions into the Northern mountains. Really, I didn’t go much past the places adolescent Dwarfs dare each other to go, but it kept me in meat and mead, so I didn’t complain. At least, at first. Prolonged exposure to these humans was what made me so enamored with them. I remember in particular Jonny Redface. He was a merchant’s son from Silverymoon and when I first met him, he was a decade younger than I, seventeen to my twenty-seven. (I guess he’s still probably a decade younger than I am.) He loved the trip – best thing in his life, he kept saying. The lad had something on his mind, which I didn’t learn that first trip. But he came back two years later, and he told me. His options had been to follow his father’s merchant steps, marrying into a more powerful merchant house, and rise those ranks. Or, he said, he could take the money he’d made in his father’s shop and study magic. At the summit of the Sarr Thrasher mountain, four days’ hike North of Mithral Hall, he decided to study magic. Jonny Redface came back several times over the next decade. Every time he returned, he had a new story of adventure and learning. He’d married, he’d made up with his father, and he’d even lost that horrible name. He was just Jon Red, now, on account of his cloak and because it sounded so damn cool. So much change in a decade. I felt small. So I took inspiration from Jon Red and all the other humans I’d met and decided to no longer sit on my tuchus staring at my unmoving future. Back in Mithral Hall, I found an academic expedition that was heading North. This was back in 1474 and the peace with Many-Arrows had been going on for longer than my parents had been alive, or close to. We headed North, into the expanse. Throf Tarshield was in the lead. A Priest of Dugmaren Brightmantle, he was a large Dwarf for a scholar. But he was one of the most learned men in Mithral Hall. I’d thought perhaps I’d be a scholar myself. As we winded our way Northeast along the Surbin and past the Cold Wood, I got my feet under me for real hiking. My three-day or seven-day adventures were nothing to day march upon day march. And I wasn’t even fully bedecked, as Throf was. The greybeard wore full plate and carried an axe made for men’s skulls. I once asked him about it, about why a scholar was dressed as a soldier. We had soldiers with us, just in case. He said, “Hosvir, I may have dedicated myself to knowledge and to the Lady of the Scroll, but this world isn’t fair. I’ve lived a long time.” He was over two-hundred. “And if I’ve learnt anything, peace doesn’t last. One must be prepared to defend what one loves.” And boy was that old Priest right. We’d gone less than two days into the mountains of the Many-Kingdoms when the Orcs set upon us. It was first light, not half of us had awoken, and they were there – just there. I almost took an axe to the face, but a shield came down and stopped it – Throf. The man battled like a true Dwarf Berserker, although of course he wasn’t. There were ten times as many Orcs as there were of us. They were also everywhere. There was no place to run. I scrambled around for a while, just trying to stay alive. Throf was a Dwarf possessed, cutting down an orc in almost every slash. Most of the soldiers didn’t last so long. I remember one going down right in front of me, the snarling, slavish fangs of an orc almost in my face. He pounced at me and I dodged. In the Grace of Clanggedin Silverbeard I was that day, for my deformed roll that was my attempt at a dodge brought me close to a hammer. I grabbed it, turned, and caved the orc’s face in with it. Never have I felt such a rush. Headless of my unarmored state, I rushed in and cleared the field as I could. In the end, only Throff, Yedin, a cartographer, and I were left alive. But we’d killed the orcs to the last. Throff had taken the brunt and born it too. Injured, my rudimentary knowledge of medicine saved him. Yedin and I took turns carrying him, which we could only do by stripping him of his armor. We saved his orc splitting axe, though. One of us would carry him; the other would carry our supplies and the weapon. We were heroes for a week, having ale bought to us and our whiskers tugged. That didn’t matter to me, so much. I mean, it was nice (don’t get me wrong). But my brain was elsewhere. I joined the Army the day after the feasting stopped. Over the next ten years, skirmishes along the Mary-Arrows line were increasingly common. I partook in several myself, feeling the epic satisfaction of revenge every time my hammer crunched an orc’s face. But we also lost many, too many. After more than seventy years we were not ready. We weren’t properly trained and, worse, we didn’t have proper assistance. Thinking of Throff and his work on the first of my battle fields, I petitioned my commander for leave to train in the healing arts. I became a Priest. I was still a soldier, still a trained killer, and I still liked it. Clanggedin Silverbeard, god of battle and bravery, saw me through my first battle and I dedicated myself to him seeing me through till my last. Less than eighteen months later, I had all the chances I needed for that last battle. Out of the North, out of the Many-Arrows Kingdom streamed a hoard of orcs. They descended and laid siege to Mithral Hall and half-a-dozen other Dwarf cities nearby. With the other soldiers, I sallied forth. I didn’t take point now, though. We had warriors for that. I sat back, protecting the wounded, healing the wounded, and keeping the supply lines safe. That was slightly disappointing, but I did my job. I’d get a chance for blood later. After the battles that led to our victory, to King Bruenor I was called. He explained that the ferocity of the tribes, that the suddenness of their descent, that none of it made sense. He was sending me (and a group of others – not just me) to Mirabar and then on to Luskan, to see what they knew and if we had to face anything worse in the coming years. Our group set out on a clear day. But we didn’t exactly get that far. Not halfway through The Lurkwood, we were set upon by Giants. Giants! They hadn’t gone below the Spine of the World for centuries, possibly a millennium or more. (I didn’t actually know history that well. So much for those childhood hopes of being a scholar and all.) We had no chance. There was battle and blood and when the last of my companions fell, I buried a borrowed axe in a giant’s leg and high-tailed it out of there. So now here I am, alone, bereft of companions I let die by my incompetence and inability. All I can do is try to make it to Mirabar. But where exactly ‘here’ is, I haven’t the foggiest.

Goals and Secrets   Character Goal: To get word to Mithral Hall and figure out what the hell happened. To fulfill his orders. Player Goal: In many ways, this background is the ultimate ‘put something we love in danger’ cliché. With giants descending, Mithral Hall will be in danger. He wants to stop that danger (not that he knows the giant thing was anything other than a fluke). Like always, too, I want to see if the character will be able to overcome his flaws. Secret: Friends, Relatives, and Enemies: Jon Red: Wizard out of Silverymoon Throf Tarshield: Priest out of Mithral Hall Yedlin Earthsplit: The cartographer Veit and Kristryd Brokestone: My parents, now a bit over 100 years old. Another several hundred “close” family.