[Multiple Systems] Characters Whose Games Died

[rhaiber]

Help Me Find a Home for These Characters

So I get pretty deeply invested in the character-building process sometimes. I create involved backstories, fleshed out with a variety of NPC relationships. I do extensive research on archetypal figures in history and literature. I even study dialect and linguistics to be able to write each character with an authentic and unique voice. I'm not trying to brag here, just explaining my process. If anything, it's more of a flaw: how my OCD can manifest and take over.

The point I'm trying to get at is that sometimes I spend a lot of time (too much probably) building my characters. This can make it especially frustrating when the games they are created for fizzle out prematurely. It feels a bit like losing a friend. Sometimes, I am able to recycle these characters when I find a different game being advertised that seems to suit them. But there are others that I have a tough time doing so for.

So I thought I might flip things around the other way. If you are looking for one more player/character to fill out your game, take a look at some of these fully developed characters and see if any of them fit the bill.
-Note: while these characters were all originally written for one or another specific system, I am fully willing to modify or adapt them to fit another system/setting. The mechanics are far less important to me than the characterization.
--If you see something you like, shoot me a PM

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Kelzitar, the Trickster God Kelzitar The trickster god Name: Commonly known as “Kelzitar - the god-thief.” His mortal name was actually simply Kelz. “Itar” was a title in the forgotten tongue of his people which roughly translates to “man-god.” Original System: This character was originally written for a Pathfinder campaign using mythic rules. He could be adapted to most PF/D&D style systems, but works best in a high-level campaign where the characters could be demigods or near-gods Race: Originally he was designed as a custom race, but changeling (the Eberron version), doppleganger, kitsune, or any other shape-shifting race works well. Human can also work if the system allows for him to have some form of shape-shifting abilities. Domain: Trickery. Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Class: Flexible. Has been skinned as a bard, trickster, and an eliciter in the past, but there are a lot of ways one can be a trickster   Appearance: Kelzitar is a trickster and a deceiver, and as such, he is constantly altering his appearance. Even when in his true form, those who meet him later find it difficult to describe him with any detail, tending to refer to him as “average height, average build; not quite old, but certainly not young either” In his most common guise, he appears as a human male (though he often takes on the features of whichever race he is interacting with), dressed in the shabby attire of a vagabond. His hair is generally unkempt and his face marked with stubble that never quite forms a full beard. Despite this, there are a few common features that sometimes appear even when in the most elaborate disguise. Though his hair ranges in color across the spectrum, it always seems to have a faint reddish highlight to it. Likewise, no matter how hard he tries, he can never mask the color of his mismatched eyes: one steel-grey, the other ice-blue.   Personality: Kelzitar is the consummate trickster. He is extraordinarily clever and takes pleasure in demonstrating his superiority over those he deems more ignorant than himself. He delights in practical jokes, particularly those that target figures of authority to “take them down a notch.” For these reasons, he is despised by many other gods who view him as an insubordinate, disrespectful upstart. Despite all this, he is a deeply dedicated and caring leader to his people and would do anything in his power to protect them. Unfortunately, during his long absence, his people scattered and dispersed. Having intermingled with other tribes, they have become largely lost to him. As a result, behind the mask he wears of the irreverent fool hides melancholy of a chieftain with no tribe. In the absence of a tribe connected to him by blood, Kelzitar has taken to looking after underdogs and outcasts and he has become a fierce defender of those who have no one else at all.   Background: The Legend of Kelzitar the Trickster Prologue: Crash! The boy darted wildly about the side of the wagon and collided directly into what felt to him like a brick wall. On closer inspection, as he looked up from the ground where he had fallen flat on his back, he realized that this particular brick wall had a more decidedly human shape. ”Damn it, boy!” The burly man growled as he stooped to begin picking up the tentpoles and iron spikes that had clattered to the ground around him, ”Watch where you’re going!” ”Sorry, Uncle Delon,” the boy murmured shamefully. To be honest, he wasn’t entirely certain that he shared any blood with the man, since his own pale skin and gangly limbs bore hardly any resemblance at all to the swarthy man whose shirt was stretched to its limit by the rippling muscles it struggled to contain. But that was the way of the caravan. They had all been traveling the Shrouded Lands for generations and everyone was referred to as aunts, uncles, and cousins, though drawing a true family tree was beyond the capabilities of anyone other than perhaps the most senior of their company. It was very rare indeed that a stranger joined the caravan - a stranger like the storyteller. The boy looked up again somewhat sheepishly at the man he called uncle, ”Ummm … Uncle Delon … have you seen the storyteller?” “Bah,” the large man spat as he lifted another iron spike from the ground, ”That old grifter is always happy to sit by our fires and partake of our dinner every night, yet he’ll never be found when there’s work to be done. You’d be better off without his lies, boy.” “Ummmm, sure. Thanks anyway, Uncle Delon,” the boy replied as he clambered back to his feet and darted off once again. Thinking of the surly advice he had just received, the boy walked away from the bustling activity of breaking camp and began walking along the outer edges of the caravan. After a few minutes of rounding the camp, a glimmer of light seemed to catch in the corner of his eye. Turning away from the camp, he made his way towards a lone tree that rose up from the field of long grasses. ”Hello again, boy.” The voice issued forth from behind the tree before the boy circled around to catch sight of its source, ”What brings you here, praytell?” Sitting leisurely with his back against the tree trunk was the storyteller. His mud-caked boots were stretched out before him at the ends of long wiry legs. Both of his hands rested on one knobby knee, fingerless soft leather gloves allowing his nimble digits the freedom to drum out a curious pattern. His slight frame was wrapped in an old travel-worn cloak, the hood of which rested lightly on a mop of unkempt auburn curls, casting shadows over his rough and stubbled face, but not nearly enough to hide the spark in his oddly mismatched eyes. ”Well … sir …,” the boy stammered as he mustered up the courage to speak before the strangely intimidating figure, ”I had to leave the campfire last night while you were still talking and I … I wanted to ask if you could tell me the end of the story.” ”Hmmmmnn…, the storyteller mused as his mismatched eyes peered deep into the boy’s own. Time seemed to stand still for the boy. The only movement he could sense was a single blade of grass perched in the corner of the storyteller’s mouth that bobbed up and down as the eccentric man chewed absently upon its end. ”No lad, I’m afraid I can’t do that, because you’ve asked the wrong question. You see, true stories have no endings, just places where we stop listening.” The boy couldn’t help but feel that he was being made fun of and that feeling tinged his retort with an edge of spitefulness. ”You know, my Uncle Delon says you’re nothing but a liar.” “Is that so?” the storyteller asked with an air of mock surprise laced so heavily in irony as to effectively suggest that there was nothing the boy could tell him that he did not already know. ”Well, your Uncle Delon prefers to deny his Kharak heritage.” “Wait, Uncle Delon is a Kharak?” the offense the boy had taken a moment ago melted under the burning flame of curiosity that the storyteller’s words had now kindled within him. The storyteller shrugged dismissively. ”Eh. Hard to say if there is any Kharak blood in him. After the First of All Wars, the Kharaks more or less went into hiding. Those that survived were blamed for the war, and so in order to survive they blended in with the other tribes. Many of them intermarried, thinning out the bloodline. Now in this age, there may only be one true-blooded Kharak out there. But your people’s lifestyle on the other hand, now that is unmistakably Kharak.” “What do you mean by that? And why did everyone hate them so much?” ”Ah, my young friend,” the corners of the storyteller’s mouth turned upwards in a delighted grin as light seemed to shine out directly from his mismatched eyes. ”Now that is an excellent question, and a story all to itself.   “I’m sure you’ve heard it said that forever ago, before there was a before, Telari was the only god and that she brought the whole of Ardein into existence? Well, that is only partly true. Telari had a twin brother, Oros the one-eye. While Telari did indeed bring form to chaos, it was from Oros that the elements of primal chaos themselves came into being. He belched forth the very building blocks with which Telari made the world as we know it, and when he saw what she had begun, he joined in the game. While Telari shaped all that is beautiful and intricate and ordered, Oros built that which is rough and wild and untamed. And in their union, the first mortal life was born. “Now in the beginning, there were no differing races - no elves, nor orcs, nor dwarves, nor jotun. All mortals were of one people.” “Wait … but that’s not what books say. The elves say they were here before all other races. And the dwarves -” ”Of course they tell a different story. Do you think the elves want everyone to know that they’re not as special as they pretend to be? Come now lad, you’ve a brain in that skull of yours, haven’t you? It’s an insult not to use it. “Now then, where was I? … Ah yes! So at first all mortals were of one people, but as time grew on, they began to separate, to form tribes. Each tribe laid claim to different lands. They developed their own customs, their own vocations, their own ways of life. But still they were of the same race. That is, until the Great Selection. “You see, the tribes of man were not the only ones dividing at that time. For Telari and Oros had birthed another form of life , beings that would come to be known as gods. These young godlings were very interested in the mortals that walked the ground beneath them. Each wanted mortals that would be their very own, to do with as they pleased. And so, Telari summoned all the tribes to Great Plain, where they would present themselves before the godlings and each god would select a tribe to be theirs. Each of the young gods promised great gifts to their new followers, granting them great strength, or swift and nimble fingers; sharp minds, or mastery of crafts. And this, young one, is where the tribes further diverged into the races you know of today. “But there was one tribe that did not bow and present themselves when the other did. The Kharaks were a proud people. They did not confine themselves to one land, as so many of the other tribes did. Rather, they roamed free, with all realms under the great sky belonging equally to them. Nor did they choose a single vocation as other tribes did, be it farming or fishing, mining or the art of the forge. Rather, they dabbled in all arts. What they did excel at above all others was their cleverness, and they used it to forge deals and bargains favorable to themselves. For this, the other tribes grew jealous of the Kharaks, often accusing them of living off the work of others. “The cleverest of all the Kharaks was their chieftain, Kelz. He discovered that Telari had decreed the youngest of her godlings would choose first at the Great Selection, followed by the second youngest, and the third youngest, and so on up the line, with the oldest and most powerful of the gods selecting last of all. For this reason, Kelz chose not to arrive when he was summoned, as the other tribes did. Instead he waited patiently in hopes of securing the greatest of blessings for his people. “And so, when the last of the godlings had selected the last of the tribes that presented themselves at the field, great Oros one-eye rose from his mountain throne just as a great trumpeting broke through the air. From out of the mists and onto the field, the Kharak tribe rode out, sitting tall upon sleek stallions whose coats gleamed in the light of the setting sun. Once, twice, three times they circled the ancient god before halting in perfect formation. From their ranks, forth stepped Lókirály, king of horses and steed of the great Kelz. The Kharak chieftain gazed with his steel-grey eyes up at the god who towered over him, the last ray of the setting sun caught and reflected in his proud smile. “’Great Oros, One-Eye!’ he cried aloud for all to hear, ’I Kelz of the Kharaks - citizen of all lands, student of all arts, author of contracts - do present myself here to claim your blessing for my people. We shall be yours for all time, as you shall be ours.’ “Great Oros did not reply. Instead he turned his fearsome eye away from the Kharak chieftain. His gaze slowly turned and scanned the distance. There was what seemed to be an interminable silence. All creation held its breath in that moment, until finally, so it seemed, something caught the attention of Oros’ terrible gaze. His lips curled in a horrifying smirk before he finally spoke. “’You may choose me, oh Kelz of the Kharaks, but I do not choose you or your people. I choose no man. Instead I choose the beasts of the earth, for they have no god yet they have more humility than you or your kind will ever know.’ “Wait a second.” The young boy interjected himself once more into the storyteller’s tale. ”So if the gods each made their followers into the different races, then what race did the Kharaks become?” ”Why, no race at all, my young friend, no race at all. For you see, they had no god -” “But that doesn’t seem fair.” “Of course it wasn’t fair! Boy, where did you come across this ridiculous notion that the world is fair? It’s never been fair, but it is true. And the truth is that ignorance will never be able to abide cleverness. So while the tribe that would become dwarves boasted of their skills at the forge and were rewarded with even finer metallurgy, and the tribe that would become orcs boasted of their strength and were rewarded with even greater physical prowess; when the Kharaks demonstrated their cleverness, they were unduly punished with complete and utter abandonment. Fortunately our story does not end there. Now … where was I before you interrupted me … Ah yes! “For you see, they had no god … at least not yet.” The storyteller’s voice became a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned in so close that the boy could see himself reflected in the mismatched eyes that locked him in their gaze. ”But Kelz would not let that stand for long. He was determined to earn a godly blessing for his people, and if he could not win one through selection, then he would find a way to steal it!   “After the Great Selection, Oros One-Eye retired to his kingdom beneath the mountains, refusing to see any of the tribes of men ever again, and only meeting with the beasts that were his ‘people.’ It was for this reason that Kelz sought out the assistance of Kit the Fox-Lord, and found him creeping through the grasses, stalking his prey, Rabbit. “’Well met, Lord of Foxes!’ Kelz exclaimed gleefully, causing Rabbit to leap up and dart away. “’Well met indeed,’, grumbled the Fox-Lord as he watched Rabbit’s tale disappear down a burrow, his tone making it clear that did not think it very well at all, ’What business brings you to me, praytell?’ “’No ill will, I assure you, oh great Kit, Lord of Foxes. Only that it occurred to me that we have much in common, you and I.’ “’Ha!’ Kit laughed, ’You have my sympathy, Kelz of the Kharaks, for you have no lands, no god, and no blessing. But sympathy is all I share with you. We are not alike, for I am beloved of Oros, greatest of all the gods.’ “’Eh, Kelz shrugged dismissively, ’Hard to say for sure. I mean certainly you belong to Oros One-Eye, but I’m not sure I’d call you beloved. After all, you are undoubtedly the cleverest of beasts, but why then is Lion called King of All Beasts instead of you? No, the truth is that ignorance can never abide cleverness, and that is how we are alike. For what does Lion have to qualify him as king that is greater than your own cleverness?’ “Kit the Fox-Lord blinked twice and stared hard at Kelz of the Kharaks as he contemplated his response. ”Perhaps it is because of his strength?” he suggested. “’Eh, Kelz shrugged once again, ’Does Bear not have as much strength as Lion? Or Eagle as much valor, or Peacock as much pride. No, the one thing Lion has that the others lack is his golden coat. That is what sets him apart and makes him truly regal. Of course … if you wanted to … I could fix that for you.’ “’And how could you do that? Kit the Fox-Lord asked, his curiosity piqued. “’Well, as you know, my people dabble in all arts, and in my dabbling I have discovered the secret of weaving gold. If you would but leave your coat of fur with me for, say, a fortnight's time, I could weave it into a coat of purest gold. Not just golden in color like Lion’s coat, but a coat of purest golden fibers.’ “Kit narrowed his eyes, warily as he stared back at Kelz. ’I am clever, as you say, Kelz of the Kharaks. I have heard of how you tricked Eagle into shaving his head, Oyster into giving up her pearls, and Dog into … well, let’s be honest: practically anyone could trick Dog into doing practically anything. But I am not as simple-minded as they. Tell me what is in this for you?’ “’Simply this:’ Kelz replied, ’I seek an audience with Oros to beg forgiveness, but he has sworn that he will never meet with me. But you, the most clever of his subjects (and soon to be King of All Beasts), if you were to put in a good word with Oros One-Eye, perhaps he would grant my audience and hear my plea.’ “Kit smiled to himself. It would be easy enough for him to convince Oros to meet with Kelz, but he also knew that no amount of pleading from the Kharak would be able to move the great Oros to forgive him. And so he agreed. Kit the Fox-Lord removed his coat of fur, handed it to Kelz, and left to return in a fortnight.   “It should come as no surprise that Kelz did not in fact turn Kit’s coat of fur into spun gold. Instead, once the Fox-Lord had left, Kelz the Kharak slipped into the fox skin and made his way to the undermountain domain of Oros. “At the gate of Oros’ domain, Kelz came upon Greymane the Wolf, who was charged with standing guard. ’Who goes there?’ Greymane demanded. “’It is I, Kit the Fox-Lord. Kelz answers slyly, ’I have come to speak with great Oros One-Eye.’ “Greymane eyed the man in fox’s clothing suspiciously. ’I know this red coat and it’s smell, but why do you not look quite like yourself today Fox-Lord?’ “’Ha’ Kelz laughed mirthlessly, ’Am I not the cleverest of all beasts? There are a great many things I do that you could never hope to understand.’ “Greymane bristled at the indignity of being spoken to thus, but he could not deny the truth of the words, for the Lord of Foxes did many things that he did not understand. And so, in the guise of Kit, Kelz was admitted directly to Oros One-Eye’s chamber. “’Great Oros!’ the false fox greeted the elder god, ’I bring great news! I have discovered a most amusing game with which we may entertain ourselves.’ “Kelz drew forth a bag containing the pearls he had tricked Oyster into giving him, emptying them out onto the floor. Kelz then taught Oros a game that he had just invented, but that was much like the game we now call marbles. Since the game had just been invented, Oros had no marbles of his own, but Kelz kindly offered to loan him half his own to start the game. Oros quickly won several of Kelz’s marbles, and took great joy in watching his pile grow. The god’s enthusiasm for the game continued to mount as he took one after another of the marbles and added them to his own. Soon the space before the false fox was bare, while the entire horde of pearls lay in front of Oros. “’Ha’ the ancient cyclopian laughed with sheer glee, ’What a delightful diversion you have brought me indeed. Such a shame that luck was not with you this day, old friend’ “’Now, now,’ Kelz offered calmly, ’No need for the game to end quite yet.’ “The Kharak chieftain raised one hand up to his face, then lowered it again, placing a single object on the cave floor between them, a steel-grey eyeball ripped from its own socket. Oros could not resist the challenge, but it soon became apparent that Kelz had only been toying with the great god, allowing him to win for a time. Kelz quickly took back the marbles he had lost, and then some. But proud Oros was not one to take losing easily. He fought back ruthlessly against the false fox. For three days and three nights the contest was waged, the tide turning back to Oros, then to Kelz, then back to Oros again. But Kelz was more than the student of all arts and author of contracts; he was also the maker of games, and the game has not yet been created at which the great Kelz could be beaten. Soon, it was Oros whose place was empty. The elder god followed Kelz’s example and removed his one and only eye, placing it inside the ring himself. “’Well, two can certainly play at this game.’ the god announced, ’Let us continue and I shall show you once again how a god claims victory.’ “The now-blind god stretched hi hand outward to once again lay hold of his eye, but found the circle surprisingly … empty. “’Where is it?’ the elder god howled with rage, ’Fox-Lord, what have you done with my eye?!?’ “At the sound of Oros’ fuming and screaming, Greymane the wolf came running, followed by a whole host of the now-blind god’s beastly retinue. Bear and Manticore, Lion and Hydra, even the mighty Dragon scoured the cavernous passages or Oros’ domain searching for Kit the Fox-Lord. But of course, they did not find him. However, after some time, Oros heard a familiar and none-too welcome voice hailing him. “’Great Oros, I came running when I heard your cries,’ the voice said to him, ’I know you did tell me never to seek you in your realm again, but I hoped to offer you my aid in your time of need.’ “’I know that voice,’ Great Oros rumbled, reaching out a massive hand to feel the contours of Kelz’s face (the fox coat now safely tucked away from sight) and confirmed what his eyes could not, ’Kelz of the Kharaks, how did you gain entrance to my home, when my guards have strict orders to bar your passage hence?’ “’Oh, that?’ Kelz replied nonchalantly, ’Well, I would’ve asked your guards permission before entering, but it looked like Greymane the Wolf abandoned his post right before I could get the chance. … Say, isn’t he close friends with Kit the Fox-Lord? Maybe Kit could tell you why Greymane left your gates unguarded.’ “The eldest of all gods bellowed furiously, ’Begone, Kelz of the Kharaks! I want you out of my sight!!’ “’Well, strictly speaking -‘ Kelz began, though he never finished his statement as his words were drowned out by the roars of the enraged god. As Oros flailed madly and the beasts ran about in a panic searching for a fox they would never find, none noticed that only a single steel-grey eye now shone in the face of the chieftain of cleverness, while its partner gleamed with an ice-blue glow. “And so Kelz of the Kharaks returned to his people and brought them back the blessing they had long been denied, now claimed by right.”   The boy grinned broadly as he clapped his hands once. ”So the Kharaks had a happy ending after all!” The storyteller narrowed his eyes as he glared at the source of yet another interruption. ”Were you not paying attention before? True stories have no endings, just places where we stop listening. “Kelz of the Kharaks did indeed bring back the Eye of Oros and bestow blessings on his people. In gratitude, they gave him the title ‘-itar,’ which in the ancient tongue of the Kharaks meant ‘man-god’” “Wait a second!” the boy leapt to his feet, ”You mean Kelz of the Kharaks became Kelzitar? Kelzitar the God-Thief?!?” ”Really?” the storyteller blinked twice and paused, ”Of all the things I’ve told you, that’s what you find most surprising? “Yes, over time Kelz became inextricably linked with his title. You see at that point he was the one and only mortal to ascend to godhood by his own devices. Sure nowadays everyone and her sister is doing it, but back then it was just him and that made the title unique to him. Soon, people started saying it all together like it was one word: Kelz-Itar became Kelzitar. “But remember: the Kharaks were a proud people, and the line between proud and boastful is one too easily blurred. It was not long before they spread the news of Kelz’s triumph over old Oros One-Eye, and while his title was seen as a sign of honor and respect among his own people, others said it with disdain at the temerity he had for acting as an equal to the gods. They added the epithet God-Thied to his name (and, depending on where they were, sometimes even more odious titles as well). “Inevitably, the story of Oros’ humiliation at the hands of Kelzitar came back to the blind god himself. Great Oros raged and fumed when he learned the truth of who had wronged him. He demanded that his fellow gods help him seek justice. Some joined with Oros out of fear for the elder god’s retaliation should they refuse. Others feared if Kelzitar was left unpunished, then what was to stop some other mortal from stealing their power. There were a small number of gods who did not care to see Oros restored, but the most they would do was abstain from the fight. None dared to side openly with Kelzitar. “Thus began The First of All Wars. Of course, it was something of a foregone conclusion. Kelzitar and his little band of Kharaks stood alone against the combined forces of nearly all the gods and their peoples. Even with all his cleverness, it did not take long before Kelzitar stood as a prisoner before Blind Oros. Oros demanded that Kelzitar return his eye before he was executed, but with smirk, Kelzitar clamped his eyelid down and squeezed it shut. Try as they might, even with all of their combined strength, the army of gods could not pry Kelzitar’s stolen eye open. “For thirty days and thirty nights, they wrestled with the Man-god’s stubborn eyelid. They clawed at his face with talon and fang. They battered him with wind and rain and storm. They tossed him about the Great Plain like a rag-doll. They burned him with fire and froze him with ice. They offered him gold and jewels and the company of women. They plunged him into drowning waters and left him to bake on the desert sands. But through all of this, Kelzitar remained unmoved. “Finally, when the younger godlings grew tired and moved to give up, Blind Oros flew into a rage. He lifted Kelzitar up and took hold of the Man-god’s tongue in his massive fist. “’Where now are your pleas and your bargains, your contracts and your games?’ Oros demanded, ’Have you nothing to say, deceiver? Then let none ever suffer from the poison of your words again!’ So saying, Blind Oros ripped Kelzitar’s tongue from his mouth. Oros then rent the Man-god’s body limb from limb. Into one hundred pieces he tore the flesh and flung them wildly to the farthest reaches of the world.” The boy gulped suddenly and so loudly that he almost startled himself. ”So … Oros killed him?” ”Sadly, no,” the storyteller replied with a touch of melancholy in his voice, ”You see, lad, it takes a great deal more than that to truly kill a god, and since Kelzitar had never released the eye, the powers of a god still flowed through him. It was enough to keep his body from dying, even in its shattered state, but that was about it. The pieces of the Man-god were scattered across all the lands, and though he was still alive, still aware, there was absolutely nothing he could do, not even to piece himself back together again. He remained helpless as his people were punished by the other tribes, forced to scatter to the winds, to deny their heritage and hide themselves in plain sight, mingling with the other tribes. As age upon age passed, the world moved on, and soon Kelzitar was all but forgotten.” There was a span of silence as the storyteller finished, but still the young boy sat motionless, barely able to breathe. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of unbroken stillness, the storyteller flicked the blade of grass he had been gnawing on back into the fields and stretched his hands high over his head, arching his back. As the vagabond moved to stand, the boy finally broke the silence. ”But that can’t be the end, can it? Because people haven't forgotten him, have they? Everyone knows his name now, so did someone put him back together again? How did they do it?” A wide grin spread across the storyteller’s face. ”All excellent questions, lad. Unfortunately, I’m afraid they’ll have to wait for another day.” The boy was about to protest, but something in the storyteller’s mismatched eyes caught his own and made him stop. Looking carefully at those eyes for what he realized was the first time, the boy noticed the ice-blue eye gleaming with a light that seemed to come from within, while the steel-grey eye reflected his own face back at him. ”BOY!!!” a gruff but familiar voice calling from behind him made the boy jump and turn. Sure enough, there was Uncle Delon making his way through the long grasses. ”There are horses to be harnessed, Jek. Get over here and lend a hand.” “Yes, Uncle Delon,” the boy named Jek replied as he turned back to the tree, only to find himself alone in the field. Stunned, he looked all about before he finally walked back towards the caravan campsite. Meeting with the man he called Uncle halfway, he could not help but ask, ”Ummm, Uncle Delon, did you see where the storyteller went. He was just here.” “Bah,” the gruff man snorted, ”It’s just as I told you. He heard mention of work and disappeared like the wind. Mark my words, Jek. You’d be better if you forgot about him altogether.” WIP- To be Continued

Dr. Seamus L. Kirwin, PhD Name: Dr. Seamus L. Kirwin PhD. Original System: Pathfinder and/or D&D Race: Tinker Gnome Class: Gearhead (but could be adapted to Artificer, or any number of similar classes) Gender: Male Age: 67   Personality Personality: Dr. Seamus L. Kirwin, PhD. is the perfect example of an absent-minded professor. He is light-hearted and jovial, always eager to teach, but he is also very easily distracted and his mind is often elsewhere. Not only does he frequently get carried off on tangents, he has also been known at times to abruptly halt a conversation so that he might jot down an entirely unrelated idea that just occurred to him. He is a man obsessed with physics and mathematics. He believes that everything can be explained simply and scientifically, and grows frustrated with anything that refuses to follow the laws of physics. As such, he has an intense resentment towards magic of all kinds, going so far as to actually deny its existence. His power of disbelief is so strong that at times it seems to even penetrate non-illusory magics. However, when confronted with what others would view as undeniable evidence of magic, Dr, Kirwin must adamantly rationalize it away as an entirely ordinary and natural phenomenon that fits within his frame of reference before he can possibly turn his attention to anything else. Alignment: LN or CN depending on how you look at it. He sees himself as LN, because, as a scientist, he believes that everything within the universe follows a strict and immutable system of rules. However, others see him as CN because he is somewhat absent-minded and tends to cause a great deal of chaos by accidentally causing things to explode.   Appearance Description: Seamus stands just over 3 feet tall and is slight of build. It is clear that he spends far more time with his books and his inventions than he does engaging in physical activity. His head is topped with a mop of flaming red hair which is perpetually unkempt. His green eyes seem to sparkle behind the round wire-rimmed glasses that sit crookedly on his round little nose. Unlike most gnomes, Seamus has no beard. This in no way reflects any sort of meticulous attention to his personal grooming. Rather, it seems that any time he has grown a beard, it becomes singed off or caught within clockwork gears. As a precautionary measure alone, he tries to keep his chin relatively hairless ... when he remembers. Seamus' attire reflects that same careless lack of attention. His workman's boots and heavy trousers have clearly been chosen for function rather than fashion. His linen shirt may have once been white, but is now mottled with stains from axle grease, soot, rust, tarnish, and a variety of chemical agents. His belt positively bristles with all manner of minute tools and devices, the purpose of which boggles the imagination. However, despite all the unusual elements which contribute to the doctor's rather eccentric appearance, none draws more attention that the enormous pack strapped to his back. Not only is the heavy pack stuffed to the gills, having run out of interior space, Seamus seems to have resorted to strapping all manner of bits and pieces, odds and ends, knick-knacks, and bric-a-brac to the outside of the pack which clink, clatter, jingle, and jangle with every step he takes.   Background Background: Seamus was always a small, slight lad. He was rather unsuited to the sort of physical activities that engage most youngsters, and spent more time alone with his books. This lack of socializing caused him to become very nervous around others. He found personal interactions to be too difficult, too unpredictable. He much preferred the stability and predictability of mathematics and science. It quickly became apparent that his aptitude in these fields more than made up for his lack of social graces. He became the youngest student ever to graduate from Urgl College before going on to earn PhD.s in both Physics and Mechanical Engineering from the prestigious Engywook University. He later returned to Engywook as a teaching professor, where he sought to establish a unified field theory (a theory that allows all of the four fundamental forces between elementary particles to be written in terms of a single field), but was constantly frustrated. Despite all his efforts to simply and irrefutably explain the natural world around him, there was one thing that consistently refused to obey the immutable laws of physics: magic. Magic was neither quantifiable, nor verifiable. It was not reliable and certainly did not stand up to reasonable logic. Dr. Kirwin could only come to one conclusion: despite the inconsistent and spurious evidence to the contrary, magic simply did not exist, and he set about to prove it. After years of calculating and contemplating, tinkering and toiling, he developed his greatest invention ever. Using a system much like that of the steam-powered difference engine, Dr. Kirwin created an analytical device that he dubbed the Reality Verification Engine, which could mathematically and irrefutably calculate the exact probability or improbability of a particular subject's existence. It was a triumphant day for Professor Kirwin when he unveiled his great development before his colleagues. The dean of the Physics department was due for retirement soon and this was sure to make Seamus the front-runner for his replacement. It didn't even bother him that the deans from the various "schools" of "magic" were all in attendance, looking incredulous. He was soon to put them all out of jobs. Dr. Kirwin gave a short lecture on the sound theory behind the creation of his Reality Verification Engine, making sure to give appropriate thanks to his talented research assistants, and then it was time for the demonstration. Barely able to contain his own anticipation, Seamus input the proper variables into the Reality Verification Engine by turning a series of knobs and flicking a battery of switches. Finally he turned the crank and set it loose. Steam hissed as it flowed through the various pipes and valves. Massive clockwork gears ground against each other as the turned. Cylinders large enough to squash a full-grown troll rose and fell methodically. The Engine worked exactly as planned. Its calculations proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that magic not only did not but absolutely could not exist. Dr. Kirwin's exuberance over his success was rather short lived however. Prior to his studies, his world had been one positively replete with magic. Magical creatures flitted about on magical wings in magical cities suspended magically in the air over fields of magical plants which magical druids coaxed magically out of the magical ground. One could say magic made the world go 'round without being accused of any sort of exaggeration. With the entire existence of magic being suddenly and irrefutably disproved, the entire plane folded in upon itself and winked out of existence. * * * Dr. Kirwin stood up slowly and brushed himself off. Why was he lying in the middle of the street? This didn't make any sense. And where was this place anyway? He gazed about at his surroundings - the unusual buildings so foreign to him. They seemed out of place - all of them. Each building seemed to be of an entirely different architectural style than any of its neighbors. It was almost as if someone had reached across a multitude of different nations, maybe even different planes of existence, and snatched up as diverse a hodge-podge of structures as possible then dumped them all together in one place. His gaze drifted up to the massive tower that dominated the skyline. What was that it was made of? Some wort of smooth crystalline quartz? He was almost certain that if something that unusual had been constructed anywhere near the university he would have noticed it. Wouldn't he? So how did he get to this strange place anyway? The last thing he remembered was preparing the demonstration of his Reality Verification Engine before the deans of physics, applied engineering, mathematics, and "magic" ... Wait a second! That was it! Those damnable magic professors must have done this. He was about to show them all up as frauds and they knew it, so they must have sabotaged him somehow, used their chicanery to spirit him away in his moment of triumph and thus discredit him. But how did they do it? He knew if he ever asked them, they would smirk and claim it was "magic" but that was utterly preposterous. He knew the boys in particle physics were working on that instantaneous transportation theory of theirs, but it was still years from practical application, and they surely couldn't be in on this, could they? No, they must have somehow drugged him, snuck him ways and let him believe he had been "magicked" to another world. In fact, some of the drugs must've still been in his system, because it appeared to him as though a bizarre, many-eyed creature was floating down the street toward him. Luckily his mind was too sharp and rational to believe the delusion, so he approached it calmly, confident that it was simply an ordinary person underneath his drug-induced visions, which would have to work their way out of his system sooner or later anyway. "Excuse me sir," he addressed his delusion politely, "could you direct to the Fulton Lecture Hall. You see, I was in the middle of a rather important dissertation and I really must get back there as soon as possible." "Well," the delusion answered, equally politely, "can't say that I've heard of that one, but you should probably try looking in the Cosmos." "Well of course it's in the cosmos," Dr. Kirwin hurrumphed, "The cosmos is rather all-encompassing. It's hardly possible to not be in the cosmos." "No, not the cosmos," the delusion responded patiently, "The Cosmos! You know, the center of all arcane learning? Just follow this road until you reach the magically floating stone stairways ..." Dr. Kirwin did not really listen to much of what was said after that. Great. The delusions were not only visual, but auditory as well.

Rylee Tanner (and the Talking Toaster) “Rylee Tanner” Name: Rylee Tanner Original System: This is one of my favorite characters and she has already been brought back for several different games, each time with a slightly different spin on the character. The first version was for a d20Future game; she was later rewritten for a Masks (PbtA) game, and then again for a D&D5e game using UA materials for advanced tech. Race: Human Class: Engineer (this is highly adaptable to whatever class in the current system most closely fits)   Background Background: Early Life Rylee Tanner is a farmgirl from Goab, a remote backwater colony on the fringes of Tyral and Amalheim, populated by frontier ranchers who struggle to eke out a subsistence living. The farmers of Goab are fiercely independent and consider themselves outside the bounds of the major nations of Arros. Of course, those other nations do not recognize Goab’s independence, but since the territory has little in the way of resources to offer, they can neither be bothered to assert their dominion over the ragtag collection of ranchers. Rylee’s mother passed when she was very young and while her father was loving, he had no idea what to do with a young daughter and therefore raised her just the same as he did her three older brothers. With no maternal figure anywhere within a twenty-mile radius, she quickly developed into a tomboy. Though her small size left her unsuited to much of the manual labor on the ranch, Rylee strove to earn her keep in some other way. She discovered her niche quickly enough once she got herself under the hood of a tractor. She became a remarkably, almost unnaturally skilled mechanic and tinkerer. She probably would’ve lived out her life in mundane obscurity on the family farm, were it not for the night she witnessed an “eerie glow” out in the fields. When Rylee went to investigate, she discovered a strange impact crater surrounding a rather large humanoid robot. The robot was severely damaged in the crash and barely functional, but seemed to Rylee to be almost alive. When Rylee came into contact with it, the android immediately reacted to her. In a desperate act of self-preservation, it somehow established a link with the young girl and begged for help. Rylee snuck the mechanoid back to her father's farm where she hid it in the barn that she had converted into a workshop and garage. Over the next few weeks, Rylee looked for every opportunity to sneak out to the barn to work on repairing the robot. It didn’t take long to restore the central processing unit and basic motor functions but extensive damage made it nearly impossible to access much of the robot’s memory and many advanced features remained inaccessible. Though the robot was advanced enough to be practically alive, it had no name, only a technical classification that Rylee found etched on the inside of an access panel. Rylee affectionately refers to it as “the Talking Toaster.” Technical Designation 74-6f-61-73-74 (AKA The Talking Toaster) has little to no access to any data timestamped prior to his meeting the small human girl (designation: Rylee Tanner). His physical form had sustained severe damage. This caused a self-preservation protocol to execute which established a datalink with the human girl. While this link has remained even after his physical form was repaired, he has not been able to consciously access these advanced communications features since, and has therefore been unable to establish a similar link with any other lifeforms. Leaving Farm Life Behind Contrary to Rylee’s initial assumptions, she was not the only one aware of the Talking Toaster’s arrival. It wasn’t long before a pair of stern looking men in dark, well-tailored suits came knocking on the door. They identified themselves as government agents sent to reclaim “government property,” but Rylee was reluctant to trust them. However, when they threatened to forcibly remove Toaster, she suggested to the agents that she could talk Toaster into going along willingly as long as she stayed by his side. The agents agreed and took them both back to an unidentified but heavily guarded underground installation on the outskirts of Arklight City. I did not take long for Rylee to realize that things at the Facility "weren’t exactly all hunky-dory," and that the scientists there seemed to be more interested in dissecting Toaster than fixing/healing him. Rylee objected, but the guards made it clear they didn’t care what she thought and tried to silence her with the blunt end of a rifle butt. Seeing his only friend slump to the ground, Toaster went berserk. Defense protocols initiated and weaponry he didn't even realize he had sprang into action. It did not end well for the guards. Cradling Rylee’s unconscious body with surprising gentility, the Talking Toaster forcibly created his own exit and fled. When Rylee and Toaster fled the Facility where Toaster was being experimented on, the two became fugitives. With no resources to speak of and knowing no one in the area they could trust, they didn’t make it very far. They ended up scrounging on the streets of Arklight’s lowest level, where Rylee struggled to keep Toaster hidden from view. After a few weeks of dumpster-diving to get by however, Toaster decided that he needed to do something to help his only friend. Well aware of Rylee’s admonishments about staying unseen, he waited until the middle of the night to approach a bodega that had closed for the night on a street that was largely uninhabited at such a late hour. Having no concept of personal property, Toaster simply forced the door open and gathered up things that looked like food his young friend might eat. When Rylee awoke to find herself surrounded by stolen goods she panicked, certain that this would bring about exactly the sort of attention they were trying to avoid. In a desperate attempt to correct Toaster’s well-intentioned criminal activity, Rylee rushed back to the scene to return everything before someone noticed, but it was too late. She reached the store just moments before Lower Security Officer Donnelly arrived in response to a reported break-in. Arms laden with pilfered packages of food and a 6-pack of beer (Toaster knew that hydration was vital to human sustenance, though he could not distinguish between the various different fluids available for consumption), Rylee had been caught red-handed as far as Officer Donnelly was concerned. He took her into custody as a runaway and a thief. Standard procedure called for returning her to her parents … only the the young girl refused to provide any information about her identity or her family. Officer Donnelly surmised (though wrongly so) that she must’ve been fleeing an abusive home. In truth, she was worried that if she gave her name,the mysterious agents from the Facility would somehow catch wind and track her down. When hours of questioning met with a dead-end, Donnelly decided to pass Rylee on to the foster care system.   Personality Rylee is a bit of a country bumpkin. Some might say she was raised in a barn, but she’ll be the first to correct you. “I was not raised in a barn. My family just happens to own a barn … where I was born … aaaand spent most of my formative years” She is straight-forward, honest, and direct. There wasn’t really much use for lying in a backwater town where everyone knew each other and had a pretty good idea of everyone else’s business anyway. So, from lack of experience, Rylee is actually pretty bad at lying. She is aware that others immediately judge her as a backwards redneck, and is therefore fairly uncomfortable with life in the big city and with city folk in general, and can become something of a shrinking violet in social situations. However, when she is in her own element, it is a totally different story. When dealing with machines and computers, she is completely confident in her abilities. This, combined with her direct nature and inexperience with social norms, can often make her come off as brash. Toaster: With severely limited access to his memory banks, the Talking Toaster has the mind of an innocent child. He views the world with wide-eyed wonder because he is truly experiencing everything for the first time. He is fascinated and sometimes overwhelmed by simply beauty of seemingly insignificant things that humans take for granted, like the patterns formed by sunlight trickling through the leaves. As a result he is easily distractible. Though he shares an intimate bond with Rylee and cares for her deeply, he sometimes feels profoundly lonely, recognizing that there are no others of his kind on this planet and feels doubly isolated by his inability to communicate with any living being outside of Rylee. Rylee and Toaster are both profoundly connected with each other. Each is very protective of the other in their own way. Rylee feels an almost maternal responsibility to guard the gentle giant from those who would seek to use and abuse his innocence, as well as those who feel he should be dismantled out of fear. The Talking Toaster feels indebted to Rylee and is willing to enact countermeasures with extreme prejudice against any who would put Rylee in danger. .   RP Sample: The cafeteria. This was the part of Rylee’s day that she had been dreading the most. She wasn’t sure if there even this many people in all of Goab, let alone all gathered together in one place. Even worse, all eyes were on her. She certainly wasn’t used to being the center of attention. With her gangly limbs and knobbly knees, she’d never been a head-turner her whole life. She didn’t even reach five feet in height, so she was used to people literally overlooking her. Combined with her round, cherubic face and the freckles that dotted her features, most people had a tendency to view her as a child . Even those who had every reason to know better still treated her like one. Under normal circumstances, the only feature of hers that really caught people’s attention was the mass of bright copper curls she tried desperately to pull back into a simple ponytail, though errant wisps continually refused to be contained and tumbled down in front of her face, forcing her to stop whatever she was doing and petulantly push them back behind her ears. But now, everyone was staring directly at her. This was without a doubt the worst part of her day. Which was not to say that any part of her day had gone swimmingly so far. Her day started with literature. Rylee was pretty sure having to suffer through lit class first thing in the morning constituted cruel and unusual punishment, but she didn’t really have much choice. The group home that officer Donnelly had placed her in insisted that she regularly attend Guylan Kurfow High School, a school primarily populated with students from Arklight City’s middle tier. It had been Rylee’s first foray into the institution of public schooling. Back in Goab, Rylee was homeschooled for most of her early years - although “self-schooled” might have been the better term for it. Not having taken much to formal schooling himself, Dale Tanner didn’t see much use in having his daughter spend half her day just traveling to and from the nearest school when she could learn more about real life right at home on the farm. Of course, Dale wasn’t really sure how to go about educating a girl as whip-smart as Rylee and before long she was designing her own curriculum, researching topics she found interesting and supplementing what she couldn’t figure out for herself with online courses. Rylee’s self-styled curriculum was highly advanced, though equally highly disorganized, focusing only on those areas that interested her. By the age of twelve, she had nearly completed enough online courses to earn a college degree in engineering, while at the same time her study of literature and history lagged a fair amount behind that of most students her own age. Rylee had tried to point out that she would be perfectly fine educating herself, but the social worker at the group home was unconvinced. And this is why, at 7:35 AM, Mr. Williams was standing at the front of the room droning on about the requirements for the next project. Apparently they would each have to conduct a thorough analysis of a soliloquy from some play written by some old dead guy, then recite that soliloquy in front of the class. “Yeah, Mr. Williams sir,” Rylee tried to make use of as much politeness as she could muster, “I think I’m just gonna sit this one out.” “Miss Tanner,” the old rake-thin man began his response with the bizarrely formal tone adults use when they think they are being respectful, but actually comes off as remarkably condescending, “I’ll kindly remind you once again that we raise our hands in this class when we wish to speak. And secondly, you may not ‘sit this one out.’ This is a required assignment. It is designed to develop the sort of analytical and oratory skills you will need, regardless of what path you choose to pursue in the future.” “Reeeeaaaaallllly?” Rylee asked incredulously, “‘Cuz far as I can tell, about the only profession that requires the skill of reading bad poetry out loud to a couple dozen teenagers is your job, and you don’t seem too jazzed about doin’ it for the rest of your life, let alone the rest o’ mine.” And that pretty much got her kicked out of class. Her first class. Sadly things didn’t get much better from there. Having learned her lesson from Literature class, Rylee kept her head low and tried to remain invisible. This seemed to work out alright in civics class. She avoided speaking and everyone seemed to more or less ignore her. Sadly this was one class where it might’ve been helpful if she had spoken up, since she had no clue what they were talking about. Before she came to Arklight City, back in Goab, Rylee’s father had pretty much let her set her own homeschool curriculum, and systems of government were never really that high on her priority list. It didn’t make matters any better that her class was made up almost entirely of other students who had taken the course before. As a result the teacher - who looked like he only got into education so that he could coach JV football, choosing to teach social studies only because there weren’t enough jobs in P.E. - expected them to have already heard all they needed to know about the difference between parliamentary and presidential governments and seemed to feel all that was left was for them to quit being slackers. After passing out a stack of photocopied articles to read and charts to fill out, the teacher Rylee had come to refer to as Mr. No-Neck sat himself down at his desk, only peeping out from behind the screen of his newspaper to intermittently bark out orders to put their phones away and get back to work. As unpleasant as the morning was, Art was where things veered towards truly awful. Art had always been a bit of a mixed bag for Rylee. She did enjoy things like perspective drawing. Working with angles and geometry to create precise renderings was actually kind of fun, a bit like working out a puzzle. In her homeschool days, she had figured out a way to satisfy required art credits through some CAD courses she had taken online, and those actually seemed pretty useful. Unfortunately, today’s lesson was nothing like that. Mrs. Potts had them making quick sketches in different artistic styles (cubism, abstract expressionism, minimalism, and the like). This was the part about art that Rylee couldn’t stand. Why on God’s green Earth did people put so much effort into deliberately drawing something that looked nothing like it was supposed to? That still wasn’t the worst part. After the class completed their sketches, all the drawings were shuffled together and passed back out. They were supposed to look at the sketches of an anonymous random classmate and guess which style they were attempting to emulate. As Rylee flipped over the papers in front of her, she quickly realized that, though anonymous, there was nothing random about them. Among a few slips of paper covered with swirls of color or blocky geometric shapes was one depicting a crudely drawn yet unmistakable figure with curly red hair placing her head in a noose. A scribbled caption read “Try it. You might like it. We all would like it if you did.” Rylee felt her eyes burning as she balled the paper up in her tightly clenched fist before ramming it down into the bottom of her bag. She cast furious glances about the room, but no one seemed to be looking her way, none giving any clues as to who might’ve been responsible for the message. Rylee nearly dove out of her seat when the bell rang to signal the end of class. And that brought her to her current predicament in the cafeteria. Rylee certainly wasn’t fixin’ to initiate the awkward and embarrassing ritual of attempting to sit near some stranger and see how they and their other friends reacted. Instead she scanned the room until she spotted an empty table. Not only was it entirely empty now, but even the nearby seats at other tables were left vacant, as though the lonesome table was to be avoided like the plague. Placing her tray down on the leper table, Rylee slid herself onto the attached bench and prepared to force herself to ingest the foul concoctions these big city folks thought qualified as food (what the heck was ‘scrapple’ anyway?). She was just in the midst of convincing herself that having a table all to herself was better anyway when she heard the clatter behind her. She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see a massive glob of mashed potatoes land on that same shoulder. Something brown and slimy that the city folk called gravy but in her mind bore more resemblance to the aftereffects of a dog’s loose stomach dribbled down her arm. Through it all, she heard the not-at-all sincere voice that came broad shouldered varsity jacket with an impeccably coiffed hairdo that went by the name of Jason Torsten mumbling, “Ooops! Sorry... My bad.” Rylee seethed inwardly, her knuckles turning white as they clutched at the edge of the table. Still, she was determined to hold her temper in check ... that is until she heard the bully muttering under his breath, “freak.” Rylee slammed her tray down upon the table and sprung from her seat. She whirled about to face the bully. “I’ve had just about enough o’ yer s***, Jason Torsten. Y’all got yer noses so high in the air, you could drown in a rainstorm. If y’all got somethin’ to say to or about me, ya need to find yer ballsack and say it to my face, else I’m like ta knock you into the middle of next week looking both ways for Sunday!” Rylee tried to get her face right up in Jason’s as she said this, but the fact was that even stretching to her full height and rising up to the tips of her toes, her eyes only came level to the larger boy’s mid-chest. She was forced to crane her neck to look nearly straight up into the bully’s eyes. Realizing that the figure she created might be more comical than imposing, she decided to punctuate her point by jabbing an outstretched finger into Jason’s chest. “And I know this may be expectin’ a lot o’ ya - since we all know if you ever had an idea in that head o’ yers it would die o’ loneliness - but callin’ me a traitor implies I musta actually liked ya at some point afore betrayin’ ya, an’ we all know there ain’t no one around here that actually gives two shakes about ya’”

Application: Red-Haired Moll Red-Haired Moll Name: Molly McBride (Red-Haired Moll) Original System: D&D 5e Race: Half-elf Class: Fighter (Champion)/Warlock (Hexblade)/Rogue (Swashbuckler) Schtick in a Nutshell: Red-Haired Moll is a Pirate Queen. She is also a warlock whose pact weapon is an enchanted cannon. Because of the multi-classing needed to make all this work, she is best as a mid-to-high level character.   Appearance It’s been said for generations that somewhere in the distant past, the McBride clan mingled with the native fey that ruled before men set foot in these lands. Of course, if that ever happened it was long ago, and the fair folk had not been seen in these parts for so long that any fey blood there was had certainly been diluted in the line. Still, every so often subtle features would pop up in one of her clan: a slightly pointed ear, or an almond eye. In Molly however, the blood seemed to be particularly strong. Though she no doubt maintains her bright ginger hair from her human heritage, her complexion seems to be surprisingly pale, almost ashen. Though she spends a great deal of her time exposed to the elements, her skin never takes on the bronzed look of her fellow sailors. But even more striking is the magic in her blood. She has an innate talent for bending light and shadow to her whim. Other than that, Molly is accustomed to being underestimated due to her petite stature and her slight frame.   Personality Moll makes up for her small stature and slight frame with a truly over-sized personality. She is friendly and gregarious, quick with a story or a joke, easy to laugh loudly and boisterously, with an ever-present, slightly-lopsided smile on her lips, suggesting a hint of mischief always lying underneath everything she says.   Backstory Molly grew up in a small rural seaside fiefdom caled KilGarin. Her family was probably the closest thing to aristocracy in the area, a clan of small-time merchants living among farmers and fishermen. If there was any real class difference, it was hardly noticeable in her upbringing. Perhaps she had a bit more freedom and less responsibility than those around her, but she certainly wasn’t treated like any sort of noble lady. She spent most of her time down on the docks, practicing tying knots, hauling nets, and hoisting sails. All in all, it was a good life … that is, until the Imperial Troops arrived. The Empire claimed dominion over their lands, set a local governor in place, and began demanding tribute. When the people of KilGarin objected, the Imperial Troops stepped in to subjugate them swiftly and brutally. Molly’s father saw it as his duty to oversee and protect his people. He and his seven brothers organized a rebellion against the Imperial Occupation. Unfortunately the ragtag group of farmers and fishermen that they led onto the field were ill-equipped to stand up to the might of a trained Imperial Legion. Molly would never forget the day the Governor rode into the center of town and returned her father’s head, along with those of her seven uncles. The Empire assumed that would be the end of the local resistance. With the heads of the clan quite literally removed, they did not believe they had anything to fear from the young girl they left behind. They could not have been more wrong. Molly knew that her people stood no chance meeting the Imperial troops on the open field of battle, but she also knew that they were far more accomplished sailors than any man-jack in the Imperial Navy. They took to the waters and became vicious raiders, striking out against the ships of the Empire, stealing back the ill-gotten treasures the Empire claimed for themselves. They struck swiftly in the dead of night, and retreated to sheltered coves unknown to the outsiders. They soon began disrupting trade routes, and hampering the Empire’s supply lines. It was a war of attrition that took years, during which tales of “Red-Haired Moll” spread like wildfire. She was said to be daring almost to the point of recklessness, diving into battle against foes who strength far outweighed her own. And yet she was also known to be clever, striking enemy ships before they even knew she was there. Eventually, her piracy grew from a nuisance to a severe liability for the Empire and they sought a truce. The people of KilGarin would be granted autonomy, on the condition that Red-Haired Moll cease all her activities and never be seen within the Empire again. Although her people had come to view her as their leader, sometimes even dubbing her “the Pirate Queen,” the Empire refused to acknowledge Moll’s role and would only treat with a distant cousin of hers whom they installed as local magistrate. Moll was big enough to swallow her pride though, recognizing that independence was best for her people, even if it meant she had to step out of the limelight. However, having tasted the freedom of the open seas, Moll could not bring herself to accept a quiet retirement on the land. And so it was that Red-Haired Moll placed her home in her wake and charted a course for the open horizon … and adventure!

Professor Doctor Barnabas Q. Culpepper Name: Professor Doctor Barnabas Q. Culpepper, MD, PhD, and QVC Race: Changeling Profession: Snake-oil Salesman (Life Cleric / Lore Bard) Role: Healer and Persuasive Face Description: Like most changelings, he is apt to change his appearance to suit the needs of the moment. However, also like most changelings, he has a preferred persona that he adopts most often, that of Professor Doctor Barnabas Q. Culpepper, MD, PhD, and QVC. The professor appears to be a human man in his mid-to-late fifties, with bushy salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard. His features wizened features are a testament to a man who has lived his life on the road. Yet from underneath that travelworn surface, hints of a soft and affable nature peak through: round rosy cheeks, an ever-present wry smile, and eyes that always seem to twinkle with conviviality and just a hint of mischief. He is noticeably taller than the average man, though not particularly imposing. He gives the impression of one who was quite lanky in his youth, before his metabolism lost the ability to keep up with his appetite, resulting in an unmistakable pounch. Background: Snake-oil Salesman (Custom Background) Personality Traits: I lie about almost everything, even when there's no good reason to. I use polysyllabic words to convey the impression of great erudition. Ideal: People. I'm committed to the people I care about, not to ideals. Bond: I fleeced the wrong person and must work to ensure that this individual never crosses paths with me or those I care about. Flaw: I'm convinced that no one could ever fool me in the way I fool others.   Roleplaying Sample: While the Patron’s other agents made their quick descent to Cliffside via lightning rail, one of them opted for an alternate and decidedly more leisurely mode of transport. In part this was because he had every confidence that any matters of true importance would have the decency to wait until he arrived before they let themselves occur, but also in this instance his particular choice of conveyance also served as a storage for a number of personal effects that he was reluctant to let out of his sight. And so it was that just as the sun reached its zenith and shone done directly through the high towers of Sharn, allowing its rays to penetrate unimpeded all the way to the lowest levels of the city, those very streets had the clearest view to the arrival of a small, yet singularly remarkable covered wagon being drawn behind a thoroughly unimpressed specimen of a mule. The wagons muslin sides were somewhat weather-worn and faded, but from beneath the layers of road-dust bright gilded lettering could still be seen announcing that within one was certain to find: “Enigmatic Elixirs,” “Curious Concoctions,” and “Time-Tested Tonics.” As the cart reached the entry to the old tavern, the driver made a tremendous show of reining in his beast of burden as though he were halting a team of wild horses rather than a solitary plodding mule. ”Hold, Menelaus! Hold!” he called out raucously, though the old mule in question had clearly already ceased his forward progress. Grasping the dashrail firmly in his hands, he somewhat-less-than-gracefully lifted himself over the side of the wagon and dropped down to the street. Before approaching the entrance of the tavern, he fumbled about the folds of his coat for a moment, finally producing a saffron-colored carrot which he held just out of reach of the mule’s nose. ”You’ll receive the first half of this remuneration presently, Menelaus. If you want the rest of it, you’ll need to maintain vigilance over our tumbrel until I return.” Snapping the root vegetable in half, he offered one piece to the mule before returning the remainder to his pockets. He then spun upon his heels with a flourish and pushed open the doors to the Tipsy Pixie. Upon entering the tavern’s common room, the peculiar peddler provided the patrons with their first clear glimpse of this unorthodox traveler. He stood easily a full head taller than the average man, a stature that was only enhanced by the towering stovepipe hat perched atop the bushy salt-and-pepper hair that flowed seamlessly into a matching wooly beard. Together, hair and beard served to frame a bulbous nose and ruddy cheeks. Scintillating eyes seemed to shift continually with the light, such that it was nearly impossible to be certain of their color, though they immediately conveyed both an affable nature and perhaps an underlying element of mischief. ”Hail and well met, my fine fellows!” He announced to anyone who might care to listen, his voice immediately filling the room, drawing the attention of every ear in the vicinity somehow without ever seeming to shout. Turning to address the nearest barmaid, he quickly added, ”Could you perhaps point me toward the proprietor of this fine establishment?” The startled serving-girl quickly ushered the bombastic barker into the back room where he found the others (who perhaps chose swifter and more reliable methods of transportation) already settled about the table in the midst of their conversation. He proceeded to greet the gathered group with a gregarious grin. It was the sort of amiable smile that immediately set audiences at ease. ”Felicitous salutations, my erstwhile cadre of companions and compatriots! Now you,” he paused for a moment to cock one eyebrow and waggle a finger in the direction of Nendra, ”You I recognize (quite glad to see you well, I might add. Never doubted for a moment that you had it in you to make it out of that last scrape.), but I can’t say for certain that the rest of you fine folk have yet had the pleasure of my acquaintance. Please, allow me to exposite myself. I am Professor Doctor Barnabas Q. Culpepper, M.D., Ph.D, and Q.V.C., Purveyor of premium panaceas par excellence. And most exquisitely at your service.” So saying, the Professor doffed his hat and executed an elaborate bow, the pomp and circumstance of which was only slightly diminished by the ever-present wry smile that graced his lips. He righted himself to standing just in time to hear the waitress‘ offer of additional refreshments. The added information that all would be placed on Lady Sapphire d'Phiarlan's account brought an instant gleam to his eyes. ”Splendid!” the professor exclaimed as he brought his hands together with an enthusiastic clap. ”Lets have a bottle … no, no, make that two bottles of your finest Windshire wine, the rainbow varietal if you please. Perhaps a selection of roast pheasant as well, if you have any on hand.” With a decidedly self-satisfied smirk, the Professor slid himself into a chair at the elbow of Elayla. He nodded in recognition to the elven songstress. ”I do believe I heard you mention performing for nobility? So good to find oneself in the company of veterans of the court. Why, I myself served as senior surgeon to the Sultana of Syrkarn … for a time.”

BoomCrow Name: BoomCrow Original System: Pathfinder 1e Race: goblin Class: Alchemist (Gun Chemist) Background: BoomCrow was birthed and reared in GoblinTown. But before she saw passing of twelve winters, Mother and Father sold her to be slave to High Mucky-Muck Dark Wizard. Him order all goblins to call him Master. Him command goblins through fear. But BoomCrow not so stoopid as High Mucky-Muck Dark Wizard think. BoomCrow make big big discovery: Wizard magick have nothing do with mumbo-jumbo wordspeak or waggly-waggle fingers. High Mucky-Muck Dark Wizard just use them to make fear-belly in stoopid-stitious goblins. But BoomCrow not stoopid. She see real magick come from thing hoo-manz call sines. BoomCrow learn bout kemickals. BoomCrow discover hoo-manz sines is real way to make one thing be what it is not, real way to make feel power in belly, real way to make things go ->BOOM<- (tee-hee-hee!) One day what always happens happened. Big stoopid hoo-manz murderhobos come to castle, kill High Mucky-Muck Dark Wizard. Many goblins die. But remember: BoomCrow not so stoopid. BoomCrow see what 'bout to happen, she run, take many of High Mucky-Muck Dark Wizard's kemickals. BoomCrow 'speriment mixing kemicals, become wizard herself. No, not wizard (magick be for stoopid-stitious); BoomCrow become sinetist! Personality:BoomCrow may not be highly educated, but she is exceptionally clever, especially among goblins. She is a keen and perceptive skeptic. Having been duped by someone she now views as a charlatan (the High Mucky-Muck Dark Wizard), she now believes all magic to be some form of false trickery. She is convinced that there is some form of simple science behind all magic, but that the established elites have cloaked it all in superstition so that they can use it to subjugate the masses. This has made BoomCrow something of a fiercely independent defender of goblin rights. When BoomCrow heard the rumors that the Overlord somehow magically resurrected himself, she dismissed it right away as obvious lies (magick be for stoopid-stitious, after all), but she did recognize something: even though this new Overlord couldn't possibly be magic, the goblins still needed a strong leader, someone who could help them secure their place in the world and make sure no one ever made them into slaves again.

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The One Who Has Come to be Known as Khyyra-zvon Name: Khyyra-zvon Original System: The character was written for Hyperlanes (a futuristic sci-fi setting based on D&D5e rules), but could be adapted to any sci-fi setting. She was also once written as a character for a game of Masks (the PbtA superhero genre game) Age: equivalent to a 14-year old human Race: “The People”: Psychic Humanoid (Hyperlanes allows for custom alien races. If adapted to another setting, she could be modified, but ideally would still be from a telepathic, hive-minded species) Class: Ambassador (Hyperlanes); Outsider (Masks playbook); adaptable depending on the system   Appearance Khyyra-zvon has roughly the shape and form of a 14-year old humanoid female with long, flowing hair. However, most similarity ends there. Her skin appears transparent, though no internal organs can be seen through it. Instead her body appears to be composed of swirling motes of light floating in a sea of inky darkness, almost like she is a miniature galaxy in the shape of a girl. With her seemingly transparent skin, one would expect to see straight through her, yet oddly, on closer examination the cascading void within her seems to stretch on impossibly far. Gazing too deeply into her can have a dizzying and disconcerting effect on those not of her people.   Background: Khyyra-zvon (sometimes called Khyyra for short) hails from a secluded planet of telepaths. Her people communicate through a free and open exchange of thought. As a result, they seldom use verbal language. To attempt to capture complex ideas such as the identity of a person and distill it into a single word is something they consider severely limiting when one is able to instantaneously project a full impression of a person through sensory images, experiential memories, and evaluative impressions. Therefore among her people there are no names as we know them. Khyyra-zvon is only what she has come to be called by the “mouth-speakers” on the Earth, and she recognizes that being able to refer to her by this name simplifies things for those who cannot “think-speak” as she does. Because her people (who refer to themselves only as “The People”) were always able to see into each other’s thoughts, they developed something of a hive mind, with each individual acting for the greater good of the society. Negative thoughts and emotions were avoided since they can be harmful to others who pick them up, while seeking to please others became the standard since each member was able to literally share in the joy and pleasure of their fellows. This idyllic utopian society became remarkably insular, though not due to xenophobia, but rather to contentment. Feeling that they had all they needed, The People felt no desire to expand beyond their perfect world. That all ended with the arrival of the H’kharr Ssisslah. The H’kharr Ssisslah were an expansionist empire of ruthless reptilians, always seeking out new planets to conquer and new peoples to enslave. Having never experienced war, The People were an easy target, and a full-scale planetary invasion was completed in a matter of days. For generations The People remained enslaved while the H’Kharr Ssisslah plundered the resources of their home, until one day a saviour was born into their midst. This saviour was a brilliant tactician who made use of The People’s telepathic hive mind to coordinate their resistance. When they were finally prepared to strike back, their victory was as swift as it was decisive, and the H’kharr Ssisslah were driven off of their world. After their liberation, The People were changed. They still prized the greater good of society over the needs of the individual, but they now had a de facto leader of sorts. They also realized they could no longer remain isolationists. In order to ensure their safety, it would be necessary to send forth emissaries to establish peaceful relations with other cultures, to stave off future conflicts and to develop allies they could call on should they ever face another foe like the H’kharr Ssissla. Though this new role was highly lauded, it was not without its sacrifices, since traveling far from The People meant leaving behind the connection to the hive mind. Khyyra-zvon was among the first to volunteer to act as an emissary, feeling that as daughter of the Leader, her acceptance of this duty carried both political and symbolic significance for both her own people and outsiders. Mentor Narrative: Khyyra-zvon’s relationship with her father is complicated at best, largely because her father is unlike any other among the People. The Leader was the first among their kind to exhibit a strong sense of individuality. He was also unique among the People in his skill at selectively revealing and concealing his thoughts, as well as his ability to manipulate the thoughts and feelings of others. While these traits all proved essential in winning the war against the H’kharr Ssisslah, they were less useful in connecting with his child. Most parents among the People develop a deep and profound bond with their children, forging a completely open rapport that allows them to share all their thoughts and feelings with one another. However, Khyyra-zvon’s father was never able to open himself up to his daughter that way, his experiences as a war-time general leaving him remarkably guarded and distant among the People. This atypical estrangement has only made Khyyra-zvon all the more desperate to earn her father’s approval. This is why she volunteered to be an emissary to Earth, hoping that she can demonstrate her ability to be a representative for her people. It is also why she has joined with the team of young heroes on Earth, to protect and defend those in need, just as her father did when he fought against the H’kharr Ssisslah. However, what Khyyra-zvon does not know is that part of why her father remains guarded is that he does not want her or anyone else to know his motives, for although the People enjoy peace once again, he is reluctant to give up his position of power. In part this may be from paranoia (justified or not), that an absence of leadership will invite another invasion like the H’kharr Ssisslah; or perhaps the Leader has simply become intoxicated with the sense of his own power. Either way, in an effort to maintain his position, he has even begun using his power to subtly manipulate the thoughts and feelings of his own People.   RP Sample: The patrons inside the Gersedo cantina are treated to a rather peculiar sight this afternoon as a singularly unusual life form arrives on the promenade outside the cantina’s main entrance. Even in a place with such species diversity as the Celadon Caravan, this one is truly a rare sight indeed. The being bears roughly the same size as shape as a adolescent humanoid female, with a slight frame and standing just under five feet in eight. If seen only in silhouette, she might be mistaken for a girl of around 12-14. However, any similarity to most known races ends there. Her skin (if it is even skin) appears transparent, though no internal organs can be seen through it. Instead her body appears to be composed of swirling motes of light floating in a sea of inky darkness, almost as if she is a miniature galaxy in the shape of a girl. With her seemingly transparent skin, one would expect to see straight through her, yet oddly, on closer examination the cascading void within her seems to stretch on impossibly far. Gazing too deeply into her can have a dizzying and disconcerting effect on those not of her people. She appears at first to have long, flowing hair, but it is more like an artistic representation of hair as made by one who has only seen the hair of others from afar, without ever examining it up close. In fact, it is not composed of individual fibres, but rather only an outline which conforms to the shape of physical hair, while the interior is simply a continuation of the scintillating void that makes up the rest of her body. This “hair” seems to be constantly flowing behind her, as though caught in some perpetual yet imperceptible breeze, or as though suspended within an invisible viscous fluid. Her eyes are two pupil-less gleaming points of light that remain fixed against the ever-swirling shapes that float within the inky darkness of her form. Despite the various peculiarities of her appearance, what really draws attention is the behavior of the visitor. She stares intently at the door, cocking her head first to one side, then to the other. It seems as though she is trying desperately (and somewhat unsuccessfully) to comprehend the mechanics of the door itself. Whenever her gaze meets that of one of the patrons on the other side of the glass, she greets them with a wide, guileless grin for a few moments before returning her attention to the door itself. Eventually, after several minutes of intense scrutiny during which she observes several patrons entering and exiting, her look of puzzlement shifts to one of sudden realization. Slowly, tentatively, she reaches out and grasps the door handle with both hands. She gingerly pulls the door toward herself before striding triumphantly into the cantina. Those close to the doorway are struck by a sudden wave of emotion. Feelings of pride and joy wash over them, though with a slight undercurrent of trepidation. These emotions are as foreign as they are alien, but just as they seem poised to assert dominance, they are replaced by a momentary glimmer of self-conscious shame before dissipating altogether. Once inside the cantina, she takes a few steps then stops abruptly She stands awkwardly for some time, scanning the room and taking in the assorted patrons. It becomes apparent that having been entirely focused on working out the simple, yet surprisingly involved task of opening the door, she has not given any thought to how she will proceed next. As her gaze swings across the room for the third or fourth time, she catches sight of Alakynem’s arm raised into the air. A bright beaming smile spreads across her face as she bounds across the room, approaching the bar with a soft, gliding gait that seems to barely touch the floor. Stopping directly in front of the dragonborn, she draws in a deep breath before announcing exuberantly, ”I acknowledge your universally-accepted sign of greeting and extend to you the salutations!” Her voice is soft and melodic, yet somewhat stilted, as one who has practiced speaking a great deal, but alone in front of a mirror without anyone to engage in dialogue. “You may notice that I have received much training in the art of the mouth-speak. I have the understanding that many who cannot think-speak are made uncomfortable when The People think-speak with them. Though I can never experience the inadequacy you must feel at being unable to think-speak, I do have the sympathy for your feelings. Therefore I shall endeavor not to enter your thoughts unless you will it. Also, for your convenience I have taken a mouth-speak name. Those who mouth-speak refer to me as Khyyra-zvon. It is an appellation derived from the mouth-speak patterns of the H’kharr Ssisslah. If my translation is correct, it has the meaning of ‘open heart,’ though I also have the understanding that this meaning is ‘met-a-phor-ical’, following the curious mouth-speak tradition of using words which do not precisely mean that which they refer to. In this case, I do not actually possess the referent internal organ labeled as a ‘heart,’ but rather the name refers to the manner in which I freely share my emotional status with others. “Now, I also have the understanding that it is the custom of mouth-speakers to exchange names when meeting new acquaintances, so I will pause now to allow you to complete your portion of this ritual, should you have the desire to do so.” The one who has come to be known as Khyyra-zvon grins once more as she waits, rolling back on her heels and feeling fully confident that she is well on her way to the forming of the positive relationships.

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Application for Service as a Troubleshooter ~Obligatory Theme Song~ Name: Brit-R-PVC-1 Original System: Paranoia, although it might be possible to reskin her to fit another sci-fi game with a tongue-in-cheek attitude, like Hitchiker's Guide or maybe even SpellJammer Appearance: Brit is slim (but not out of any sort of vanity or desire to look different, of course not. That’s just how my metabolism kinda works. If you think I should go get it checked out by a Med-Bot, I’ll go right away, honest!), petite (but well within the realm of ordinary, believe me, not standing out in any way. I bet when I wear these thick-soled boots, I’ll look just like a normal person … I mean, because I am a normal person), and has an exceptionally long mane of honey-blonde hair (wait, did I say exceptional. I so didn’t mean that, at least not the way it sounds. If I put my hair up, I bet you won’t even notice anything about it - please don’t report me).   Personality (check one): [ ] Option 1: I am naturally happy about all aspects of my life in Alpha Complex [ ] Option 2: I am heavily medicated so as to feel happy about all aspects of my life in Alpha Complex Identify two skills you are good at: Oh, I am really good at Management, because I just love interacting with other people. After all, a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met … unless they’re a Mutie, a Commie, or a Traitor, in which case, EWWWwww... Also, I am pretty good at Software I guess, because information is kinda my thing. Y’know, knowing where stuff is, accessing databases, identifying who’s supposed to be here and who doesn’t really belong, giving directions to the nearest Re-Education center, all that kinda stuff. Identify two skills you are not good at: Definitely Violence. Hate it. Don’t use it. Stealth seems kinda pointless to me. I mean the Computer already knows all and sees all. Why would anyone want to hide stuff … y’know unless they were a Mutie, a Commie, or a Traitor Service Group Assignment: Housing Preservation and Development & Mind Control (HPD&MC) - I work as basically a tour guide and welcome wagon, helping citizens newly transferred to my sector to acclimate to life here in this amazing and wonderful part of the glorious Alpha Complex. Of course, sometimes there are certain … unfortunate types of people that … have trouble fitting in. So I help identify who should probably not be living … I mean living here, of course. And then I politely recommend them for … relocation. Secret Society:   I said no peeking   Roleplaying Sample: Hello and Welcome fellow citizens ! My name is Brit-I-PVC-1. There are some who call me Brit for short (which is, of course, ridiculous since intentionally altering an official designation could be construed as a lack of faith in the validity of Friend Computer’s infallibility in assigning official designations), so you can call me Brit-I-PVC-1. It’s my job to welcome you to Sector PVC. While Sector PVC is objectively no better or worse than any other sector in our glorious Alpha Complex, I feel certain that you will be very happy here, since Friend Computer’s infallible algorithms have determined that this is the optimal placement for you, and your happiness is essential. If you’ll kindly follow me, I’d be happy to show you around and help you find your bearings. To your right, you’ll see our state-of-the-art algae chip dispensary. If you don’t already love the taste of algae chips, you will soon! Our PLC Commissary crew works tirelessly to produce them with optimal efficiency, even taking the utmost care to include actual flavour (so long as it doesn’t negatively impact their overall efficiency). Now as we continue along, ahead on our left you’ll find Sector PVC’s very own subdivision of the Central Processing Unit. Oooooooh. A very important location to remember, particularly for those citizens who want to help improve not only our Sector but all of Alpha Complex by providing useful feedback. We have a saying here in Sector PVC: “If you see something, say something … then immediately report to Medical Bay 984-XN to have your ocular receptors checked for accuracy and potential replacement if necessary.” Continuing along, once we pass the Basic Consumer Goods Exchange Center, we’ll be arriving at your new home! Dormitory Complex 24601! The complex has recently been renovated to include all the amenities allowed for a citizen of your clearance level, including an optimally calculated average of 3.5 walls and your choice of either a floor or a ceiling! (But don’t worry if that decision seems like a lot on your first day, because Friend Computer has already pre-selected for you based on a careful analysis of your personality profile ). Now if there are any questions before we move on .... What’s that you say? … You don’t think you’ll be happy with these accommodations? … Well, that doesn’t make much sense. Your happiness was an important factor in Friend Computer’s carefully executed assignment algorithm, but I’ll be happy to file an error report on your behalf recommending immediate relocation to another sector. … Oh, don’t worry. Any rumors you’ve heard about “relocation” being a euphemism for “termination” are clearly erroneous. You can be certain that your happiness is super-important to Friend Computer. That’s why every citizen I’ve ever filed an error report for has been immediately removed from Sector PVC and I’ve never seen them again, so they must clearly be enjoying a fulfilling life in some other sector entirely. Still, I will be happy to note your concerns over both the efficacy of Friend Computer’s algorithms and your concern over potentially treasonous conspiracy theories in the appendix to my report.

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Moriko Name: Moriko Original System: Pathfinder (but easily transferable to D&D or most any fantasy system) Race: Human Class: Unchained Monk(Flowing Monk Archetype) Age: 17 Alignment: LG Social Class: As a monk from a secluded shrine in the mountains, Moriko exists outside of the standard class structure, though she would probably have more in common with the lower class than the aristocracy. Appearance: Everything about Moriko’s appearance exudes a childlike innocence. Her short stature causes many to believe that she is younger than her years. Combined with the slightness of her frame, this often leads others to underestimate her. Certainly few would ever suspect the strength that lies behind her seemingly delicate and lithe limbs. Moriko dresses simply and modestly in the unadorned robes of the ascetic. This mode of dress and her smoothly shaven head might almost cause one to mistake her for a young boy, were it not for the simple beauty in the soft, round features of her face and her piercing ice-blue eyes. While nearly everything else about her appearance seems common and unimpressive, those eyes draw focus in a startlingly captivating manner, at once conveying both wide-eyed naive wonder and a penetrating wisdom beyond her years. Personality: Moriko is deeply naive due to her sheltered existence in the monastery. She is guileless herself and cannot fathom why anyone would ever say something other than what they mean. She is incurably optimistic. Having never encountered evil within the confines of the monastery, she truly believes that all people are good at heart. She realizes that there is much she does not know about the outside world, and therefore attributes any conflict to a basic misunderstanding that must be resolved. Moriko is also insatiably curious. She knows it is her duty for now to explore and learn more of the outside world, and she hopes to do so. She looks upon all the unfamiliar minutia around here with a sense of awe and wonder. Despite her intense martial arts training, Moriko is actually something of a pacifist. The belief system instilled upon her at the monastery centered around seeking harmony with nature. To her, all living things are worthy of respect and deserving of their lives. The thought of intentionally taking the life of another is appalling to her. When she must fight, she will always seek to disarm and/or incapacitate before doing lethal harm.   Background: This is the story of Moriko, but it begins with Moriko’s mother. There was once a young priestess, a miko in her village. She performed the rites to honor the ancestors and to appease the spirits. She tended to the needs of the villagers and oversaw important ceremonies. She was honored and adored by the villagers … perhaps adored too much. The priestess was beautiful and she had many suitors, but she refused all suitors who came before her. Soon the villagers began to talk. How could it be that the beautiful young priestess had not taken a husband? Rumors spread that she had lain with a spirit. When the young priestess grew large with child and no man of the village claimed responsibility, the villagers decided that their suspicions were confirmed. For laying with a spirit, the young priestess was driven out of the village with little more than the clothes on her back. Friendless and penniless, the young priestess began the long trek up Mt. Nagareru, hoping to seek sanctuary in the monastery at its peak. Sadly, the young girl was greatly weakened in her condition and the winds atop the mountain were harsh and cruel. One morning, as Master Chien walked along the path from the monastery, something caught his eye, something out of place. A flash of bright scarlet cut across the winter white of the snow, like a fresh wound gouged into the face of the mountain. As he approached, he immediately recognized the ceremonial robes of the miko, though he did not recognize the girl within them, slumped as she was against the side of a tree. He also recognized that there was nothing he could do for her; her light had clearly left to walk among the spirits of her ancestors. His heart ached for a moment when he observed the bitter irony: had she walked but 50 yards more, she would have seen the monastery, half a league and she could have lain her hands upon its gates. Master Chien was just reminding himself that this was the way of nature, that all lives must pass in their way, when he was startled by a tiny sound not unlike the cooing of a dove. Drawing near, he caught sight of what he had missed before - cradled in the arms of the frozen priestess was the tiny infant she had borne, her last breath becoming the child’s first. Master Chien’s heart wept as he lifted the babe into his arms. “You shall be called Moriko,” he said, “for you are a child of the forest.” Moriko was taken back to the monastery where she was raised, the only girl among a compound of men. Moriko quickly learned the ways of the monks, mastering their teachings and their arts. It came easily to her, having never known any other way. Moriko never knew anything of her true parentage. Not only did it never occur to her to ask, it never even occurred to her that there was anything to ask. Having lived her entire life in the monastery under the tutelage of the monks, she remained blissfully unaware of the outside world ... that is, until the day that High Master Shiro told her she must leave.   RP Sample: “Mori-chan, please sit.” Moriko sank to her knees upon the floor to sit on her heels, her body descending as smoothly and gracefully as the snowfall on the mountain. “Mori-chan, please pour the tea.” Moriko nodded and reached for the kettle on the low table before her. Balancing the handle of the kettle in the crook of the fingers of one hand, she gently cupped her other hand under the kettle’s spout, applying just enough pressure to tilt it, sending a smooth stream pouring out, first into High Master Shiro’s cup, then into her own. “You are, perhaps, wondering why I have summoned you before me today,” High Master Shiro began. It was true. Moriko’s eyes briefly met those of the High Master. She was usually able to sense the feeling that lay behind another’s eyes, but today the High Master was inscrutable. Aware that others often found the penetrating gaze of her ice-blue eyes to be unsettling, Moriko glanced downward so as not to show disrespect to the High Master. “I have met with your teachers. Master Kai speaks very highly of your progress in your exercises. He tells me that you have mastered forms which elude Masters with twice your years. He also tells me …” Moriko truly meant to listen to all that High Master Shiro had to say, but as the ancient master continued to speak, his words began to blend together in her ears until they resolved into a dull but persistent drone, not unlike the buzzing of the cicadas in summer. Her attention was irresistibly drawn to the details of her surroundings. She watched the ripples form on the surface of High Master Shiro’s teacup as he set it down upon the low table. She watched the sunlight that reflected off of those ripple to form dappled patterns upon the ceiling. Out across the courtyard, she watched as a young squirrel danced upon the limb of a cherry tree. There was much to be learned from the grace of the squirrel as he delicately leapt along the tree branch, never once disturbing the soft blanket of snow that lay heavily on the ends of the same branch. Moriko began to wonder if she too could move with the light steps of the squirrel. She watched intently, committing ever move of its muscles to her memory. Suddenly the squirrel stopped and raised its head, its ears twitching back and forth. Had it felt her gaze, or was it simply scanning for dangers, ever alert to its surroundings, always attentive to … “Moriko! Are you even listening to me?!?” The young monk sat bolt-upright, her spine straight as a bamboo pole and her eyes snapping forward, locking on a point directly ahead of her. She did not dare to answer the question. To say no would be a grave sign of disrespect, yet to answer yes would not be entirely truthful, and therefore disrespectful in itself. After a brief pause, the ancient master continued, “As I was saying, it comes as no surprise that Master Chien speaks well of you. However, Master Kazé has expressed some concerns. While he acknowledges your ability to articulate the teachings is satisfactory, he tells me that your focus on your studies can at times be …” Moriko tried desperately to keep her focus directed on the ancient master’s words, but could not help noticing the squirrel once again. Even as it sat perfectly still, only its ears darting back and forth alert for signs of potential predators, it was unaware of its brother squirrel - equally silent though clearly not as light-footed - climbing along the branch above, his less careful tread dislodging a clump of snow. Moriko struggled to suppress her laughter as the soft pillow of snow landed squarely on the first squirrel’s unsuspecting head. “Mo-ri-ko.” High Master Shiro spoke firmly, but calmly, snapping the young monk from her reverie and pulling attention back to the conversation, hoping she had missed nothing important, “It is time for you to leave the monastery.” “What?” Moriko blurted out, the sudden revelation hitting her exactly as a lump of cold snow might strike an unsuspecting squirrel upon the head. Unlike many of the other monks who had come to the monastery at their own time and of their own choosing, Moriko had spent her entire life within its walls. Her only knowledge of the outside world came from the books which Master Kazé insisted she read and transcribe, and which could never truly hold her attention. “I don’t understand.” “I know,” the aged master replied, “and that is why you must go.” Moriko paused to absorb this and weighed her next question more carefully before replying. “If it pleases the venerable master, will this one be returning?” “Perhaps.” “And may this one have knowledge of when she may return?” Master Shiro paused. This time it was he he gazed deeply into Moriko’s eyes. “When Mori-chan understands why she must go, then, perhaps, she may return.” Moriko nodded silently. She had pondered enough of them in her time at the monastery to know a riddle when she was presented with one. “Moriko will have many more questions, more than even she realizes at this time, but the answers will not come from this one. It is time for her to go and seek the answers herself.” “Thank you, venerable ancient master,” Moriko intoned as she bowed her head solemnly. In a single, smooth movement she rose nimbly to her feet, any rustle her robes may have made muffled as a whisper lost on the back of a hurricane. “One more thing, Mori-chan,” Master Shiro interrupted Moriko as she made to leave. The young girl turned back to see the aged master holding out a long shakujo staff. As Moriko grasped the shaft of the staff, its four brass rings released a gentle jingling that carried softly across the open courtyard. “My last gift to to you, so that the squirrels will know that you are coming.”

[rhaiber]

ADOPTED:

These characters were once without homes, but have now found games where they can live again ... at least for now.

Ginnifer Gooseblossom Name: Ginnifer Gooseblossom Original System: DnD 5e Age: 9 Gender: Female Class: Sorceress/Wizard/Witch Race: Human-ish (according to her backstory, she was conceived from pure magic, so she appears human, but depending on the setting may mechanically be some other race) Appearance: At first glance, Ginnifer could easily be mistaken for a gnome or some diminutive fey creature. On closer inspection it becomes clear that she is actually little more than a child. Standing just over four feet tall, her gangly frame supports cherubic face of fair complexion, sprinkled with freckles that seem forever on the verge of taking over her entire face. Her broad guileless smile reveals a sizable gap where a new tooth is just beginning to push its way through the gum-line. Knobby knees peek over the tops of bright red galoshes and out from under the hem of an old tweed coat that appears several sizes too big for her tiny form. Overall, she seems to have the generally disheveled look of a child who has not yet learned how to be insecure about her appearance. Personality: Traits: Nothing can shake my optimistic attitude; I would rather make a new friend than a new enemy. Ideals: Charity. I always try to help those in need, no matter what the personal cost. Friendship. Material goods come and go. Bonds of friendship last forever. Bond: Everything I do is for the common people. Flaws: I overlook obvious solutions in favor of complicated ones. I can't keep a secret to save my life, or anyone else's.   Backstory Once there was a witch. She was both ancient and powerful ”Oooh, was she me?” Honestly child, I’ve just told you she was ancient. Are you ancient? ”Well … no … I guess not” And are you powerful? ”I don’t know. I could be.” She wasn’t you, dearie. Now may I get on with the story? Now this witch was also very kind and very wise. She saw to the well-being of all those who lived in the realm - as is the responsibility of any good witch worth her salt, as I’m sure you remember. She tended to the elderly, cared for the sick, and played midwife to their women when they were with child. But, though she ushered nearly every new life into the realm, the witch had no babe of her own. ’Always the midwife, never the mother,’ she used to say. At first it was said with a smile and a laugh, but over time something began to change. The words grew sour within her mouth, and her heart ached a bit more each time. As she thought on it, it hardly seemed fair, for who knew more about the care of children than she? Who could make a better mother than she? And so the witch made up her mind: she would have a child of her own. But what man could she enlist to take part? The witch was very discerning, after all, and only the finest specimen of man could be good enough for her daughter-to-be. She thoroughly examined every option within the realm, and found flaws in all of them. But do you think she gave up, little one? ”Nope, because witches always find a solution, no matter how … um … orthodontic?” It’s ‘no matter how unorthodox,' luv, but your intent is still true. If the witch could not find the conventional means, she would find her own way. She reached into the sky and plucked the light of the crescent moon. She cupped her hands around a breath of wind. She lifted the babble off of a babbling brook. She gathered them together and bathed them all in the colors of the rainbow. Sculpting the pieces and giving them form, she drew her creation to her breast and gave it a piece of her own heartbeat. And so her babe was born, a child of magic, pure and raw. ”Yay! I love happy endings.” It’s not an ending, child. True stories never have endings, just places where people stop listening. Now where was I? ”Ummm, the baby?” Ah, yes. Well the witch soon discovered that her plan had its own flaws. You see, to wield magic takes control, it takes discipline, it takes understanding - things that can hardly be expected of a babe. In order to protect the child as well as those around her, the old witch used her own magic to construct a barrier within the child’s mind, restricting her access to the magicks coursing through her veins, at least until she had time to teach the girl. And there was much to be taught - not only how to use magic, but also when and why. But holding raw, unfiltered magicks in check proved to be quite taxing for the witch. As each day passed into the next, she felt more of her own magic fading. Though she had walked the earth for centuries, it was the first time she had ever felt … old. As the girl’s years drew close to three times three, the old witch knew that she did not have much time left. She only hoped that she had taught the child enough, even as she knew there was much the child would have to learn for herself. ”Mother, that was a strange story. I’m not sure I understood it.” You will someday soon my luv. You must.

[ryator]

Any desire to adapt one of these to Pathfinder 2E for an Extinction Curse game?

[rhaiber]

ADOPTED:

Mew (and Mrrowr) Name: Mew Original System: Pathfinder, but could be adapted to any other fantasy setting Race: Awakened Cat Alignment: CN Class: Witch originally, but flexible to adapt to other types of spellcaster Party Role: Sneaky Scout / Blaster / Skill Kitty (“Skill-Monkey??? Are you joking? Do you know how filthy and disgusting monkeys are? I mean they’re nearly as bad as humans. No offense Mrrowr, you at least have halfway decent grooming.)   Appearance Mew is a mostly white short-haired house-cat, though spots of deepest black stand out in sharp contrast to his snow white coat, including a large patch around one eye, a "saddle" across his back, and a mischievous little speck that dots the side of his otherwise pink nose. He stands about 9 inches tall, with a lean, wiry body. His wide golden eyes gleam with an intelligence and a curiosity that can be a little unnerving when his stare seems to look directly through others. His tail is longer than average for his size and seems to be eternally swishing about as though it had a mind of its own. His small, triangular ears are ever-alert, twitching and swiveling at the slightest sound. Mrrowr is a young human female of about 16 with auburn hair. She has wide, expressive eyes that display an almost feline intelligence. Some of the (more tolerable) humans that Mew has interacted with have told him that Mrrowr would be considered rather comely for her species, but it's hard for Mew to really judge that objectively.   Personality Mew is an independent loner who sometimes comes off as a bit of a gruff misanthrope. He particularly has little patience for most humans, other than his former "partner" Rhiamon, and his familiar Mrrowr. Mew thinks of Mrrowr as more than just a pet, she is pretty much like a member of the family. He has a paternal affection for her and is fiercely protective of her. He is not particularly fond of other people though, and is not shy about it. Humans in particular are always so loud, messy, and seem like they can never sit still. They're basically giant, hairless kittens that never grew up. He lives with the frustration of knowing that he is often the smartest one in the room, and is almost never recognized as such. This has led to a never-ending disdain for stupidity that typically manifests itself through a biting sarcasm. That being said, underneath his gruff demeanor is an essentially kind heart. He has a soft spot for strays and helpless children, and would never do anything to harm another (except for prey, of course, but there wasn't much he could do about that, right?). Mrrowr is a loving and faithful pet who enjoys nothing more than to have her master curl up in her lap. Being a human raised by a cat, she doesn't always fit in well with other humans, who find her behavior a little ... odd. She is very curious about her human heritage and about their bizarre customs, though she is also rather shy to interact with other humans and feels as if she is constantly being judged for not knowing their strange ways.   Background Mew was once the familiar to a powerful human witch named Rhiamon. Rhiamon was a reclusive hermit who lived alone in a cottage in the middle of the dark forest, her only companions were Mew and her communion with the powerful forces of her patron. Eventually Rhiamon used the powerful magics at her disposal to awaken Mew so that she might better relate to her only living companion. One day, Mew noticed a strange change had begun to occur in his human friend. Rhiamon’s belly grew large with child. This seemed rather strange to Mew, since he had never seen her with interact another of her kind, but the child was brought to her by her shadowy patron. Sadly, what first appeared to be a great blessing soon turned tragic. It was a complicated pregnancy and Rhiamon did not survive the birthing process. Mew vowed to care for the child, who served as a reminder to him of his faithful friend, Rhiamon. Mew named the young girl Mrrowr and raised her as if she were his own kitten. Over time, it gradually became apparent that even in the absence of Rhiamon, Mew mysteriously remained connected to the arcane forces that had once bound him to the witch. Even more surprising, he discovered that the powers that were now his to command seemed inextricably linked to the child, though the roles had become reversed, with the cat now acting as the witch and the human child as the familiar. Mrrowr herself turned out to be a sweet, endearing, but relatively simple and naive girl, with no chance of ever understanding or controlling the eldritch forces herself. Luckily, she had Mew to look out for her; otherwise she would be hopelessly lost. Though Mew would've been perfectly content to stay at home with his pet human for the rest of his days, he is keenly attuned to the mystic forces that permeate the world and this has made him aware that something is not right with the world, and he feels a sense of obligation to investigate and do what he can to set things right.

[TyranntX]

I have a Homebrew Campaign (5e) that still has room. so if you are interested you can use one of them here.

https://www.rpgcrossing.com/showthread.php?t=206176

[Silver Sonome]

I'm working on a campaign with the very objective to give orphaned characters a home, a multiversal poker tournament. I come from the troubled lands of mRPG, a mobile app for TTRPGs, which sadly has an extremely high amount of dead campaigns and characters who never saw the light of day, from various RPG systems. I like the idea of having a post with the characters we haven't been able to play, would you mind if I plagiarize this idea for my own characters? And naturally, once I start my own campaign, would you like to join in as well?