[Characters] Dramatis Personae

[Exfilia]

Please copy your character's background into a post here. Please include a link to your character sheet.

[Elanir]

Yrse Name: Yrse the „Gale“ (aka Frost Maiden) Gender: Female Race: Human (Variant), Fruztii (Suloise/Suel) Class: Barbarian (intended: Path of the Totem Warrior) Alignment: N Deity: Osprem (N), goddess of voyages, ships and sailors Background: Sailor (Pirate) Physical Description: Yrse, standing at 5 feet 8 inches tall, is rather short for one of the Fruztii, even for a woman. Her small stature often makes others underestimate her, a mistake they usually don’t repeat. A lifetime of swimming in the stormy waters of Grendep Bay has toned the young woman’s muscles and provided her with strength, quickness and stamina. All pure-blooded Fruztii have pale, almost white hair and skin, but what is common in the lands of the north is extremely rare elsewhere, making Yrse a sight to behold. Unwilling to be seen as a porcelain doll for men to play with and deeply detesting her nickname, the „Frost Maiden“, the woman paints her face in the most „barbaric“ way she can think of. If paint isn’t enough to dissuade potential lovers and suitors, her stormy gaze usually is. Personality: Yrse of the Fruztii is just as changeable as the sea she loves. The warrior is usually serious and will tolerate no nonsense, but will also laugh as heartily as a drunken sailor at a good joke. She is practical and realistic, but can also spend countless hours listening to the murmur of the ocean or seeing the waves crushing on the rocks. Above all, she is open to the world around her and the experiences it offers. She will fight her enemies, defend her friends, serve those she respects, steal from those she despises, laugh and weep, but anything she does, she does because she has chosen this course of action freely. No slave to fate or her own expectations, she will always try to make the best of a situation. Trait 1: My respect is hard to win. I value skill, passion and commitment. Trait 2: I have no time for playing with words or hiding behind my finger. I always prefer an honest, direct way. Ideal: Optimism. The only thing that cannot be changed is death. Every other situation can be improved if one is clever and persistent enough. Bond: I feel a strong connection to the sea. I often bring to my ear my conch shell and listen to the sound of the waves until sleep claims me. Flaw: I am distrustful of men and their motives. They usually only care for a pretty face and a night of passion. I will not be reduced to „property“ for any reason.   Yrse claims that as a child she could hear the voice of the sea calling her. Whether this is true or not, one thing is certain: her bond with the sea is stronger than any other connection she has had to a person or cause. Born among the Fruztii, the frost barbarians of the north, Yrse received a boy’s training in hunting, fishing and war, for her father sired only daughters and she was the eldest one. Her passion for the open water led her to the sea from a very young age and the girl soon became familiar with the boats and longships of her people. With sixteen years of age she joined her first summer raid against the Sea Barons, a year later her second. The king of the Fruztii happened to watch her dispatch the enemies of their people and grew fond of her curves and soft skin. When the time came to celebrate for the raids had brought great loot that year, he called the girl to his throne and asked her to sit at his feet. Surprised by the lord’s request, but believing that he desired to honor her for her skill and bravery, Yrse complied. The moment she felt the king’s hand touch her shoulder in a manner more intimate than was appropriate towards a warrior, she stood up and punched her liege, breaking his nose. Not wanting to lose face before his men, the king laughed and praised her spirit, at the same time planning to secretly have her dealt with as soon as possible. Yrse’s mother realized the king’s true intentions and it was that very same night that Yrse stole a boat and left the land of the Fruztii, never to return. At the time she had only seen seventeen summers. For the next four years the girl-turned-woman wandered lands near and far. She hunted and fished, robbed passersby and stole when the chance presented itself, defended merchant caravans and highborn ladies, manned trader ships and sometimes boarded them to get her pale hands upon their riches, she even worked as a farmhand for a moon. Her reputation eventually grew, especially among the captains of merchant ships, who dreaded the sight of her cold fury in battle. They called her the „Gale“ and the „Frozen Maiden“, though Yrse hated to be called either frozen or maiden. Yrse’s life gained a certain constancy only after her fateful meeting with the Captain. A group of bandits led by a brute of man called Grygor „Bloodaxe“ -a silly nickname for the man wielded a gigantic club not an axe- recruited Yrse to attack a merchant caravan headed for Woodsage. Since the pay was good, the Fruztii warrior agreed and shook the „Bloodaxe’s“ hand. In a few days time the bandits attacked the caravan defended by no other than the Captain and his people. The fight was hard and things could have gone either way, when Yrse saw out of the corner of her eye that the bandit leader had caught a woman by the hair and tried to drag her out of the battlefield. The barbarian woman immediately realized the scoundrel’s intent, the look on his face passionate and cruel. Abandoning the fight herself, she stealthily approached the bandit and buried her axe in his back. Finally his nickname made sense. Seeing their leader slain, the bandits retreated and Yrse soon found herself surrounded by the Captain’s men. Things would not have gone well for her, had the woman she had saved, in fact the merchant’s wife, intervened. Touched by the woman’s pleas, the Captain decided to give the savage fighter a chance. If she chose to join his mercenaries she would be treated fairly and receive gold enough to let her live an honorable life. Yrse readily accepted and never regretted her decision. It was only after the Captain’s final journey that Yrse realized how different the people of Keoland were than the northern barbarians. No child of the Fruztii would ever dream of joining a monastic order or begging in the streets as long as they could still hold a blade. She found the veteran‘s plan a waste of skill and potential and a shameful way to wait for one’s end – and made sure to make her opinion known to him. One had time enough to spend with the gods when one died. This life was precious and not worth squandering. She left the Captain with a sad smile and a last piece of advice. If he were to spend his last days scraping the floors of a temple made of stone or marble, he had better do so at a place next to the sea. It would be a consolation in the boring days that he had before him.

[SnakeOilCharmer]

Application Name: Vymani Sillafu Race: Human Variant Age: 24 Class: Sorcerer (Divine Soul) Background: Inheritor   A native of the Pale born to parents of mostly-Flan blood, Vymani Sillafu came into the world with a pair of birthmarks, one a crescent facing downward, beneath it an uneven line, bent upward in the middle. Since she was an infant, Vymani's mark made her beloved in her home village, but put her in danger from the Theocracy of Pholtus. As a young child, she couldn't understand why the villagers told her both that she was special - marked by a god, no less! - but in the same breath insisted she hide that blessing away. Fortunately, her village was in an isolated area, otherwise she might well not have lived to adulthood. Nevertheless, there were a few moments when the young Vymani almost gave herself away to officials or supporters of the Pholtine Theocracy who passed through. As a child, Vymani was a bundle of energetic curiosity, nigh-on impossible to keep in one place. Her parents consistently scolded her for wandering off, but they could not stop Vymani from exploring the countryside around her home village. Every new tree or patch of dirt discovered was a thrill for a moment, but the joy soon faded, replaced by a burning desire for the next discovery. In her early teens, Vymani felt her day of greatest sadness - the moment she had found everything there was to be found within a day's walk of her home. For the rest of her adolescence, she continued to wander, but it was an aimless sort of movement, which did not bring her satisfaction but felt akin to eating a poor-quality meal to satiate the pangs of hunger. Still, the Sillafu girl knew well enough that she was not ready to venture out into the world just yet, and she had too much love for her parents to leave them without a clear idea of where she intended to go. She was never entirely sure whether this desire to see new places was related to her birthmark, or whether having been told she was marked by the god of travel, she had become conditioned to seek out what lay just beyond the horizon. As she hit her teens, though, the answer became clear. Vymani started to manifest strange abilities, not always but primarily when in the presence of travellers passing through her village. Her fingernails would often glow with a faint white light, and she always had an unerring intuition of the direction from which visitors had travelled, even when she had not witnessed their arrival. The young woman would question any visitor about their homeland almost to the point of rudeness, so great was her curiosity about far-off places. Her fellow villagers would often find themselves apologizing for the interrogation afterward, but most took it as harmless youthful exuberance. Vymani's signs of sorcery were apparent to her father, Drhys, a shoemaker and leatherworker, who encouraged the girl to meditate in order to better understand her talent. Drhys knew that the nature of her blessing, combined with the Palish authorities' hostility to non-Pholtus gods, fated her to leave the village sooner rather than later, his sole desire being to ensure that, when the moment came, Vymani was ready. She complied - mostly - with what he asked of her, although the time spent being entirely still felt like torture to her at first. Still, at least she was able to scout the area again, trying to find the perfect place to reflect on the magic which waxed inside of her. Eventually, on coming of age, Drhys presented his daughter with a pair of especially sturdy boots he'd crafted, and a map. It was, her father explained, something that had been in their family at least since her great-grandfather, but as far as he could ascertain, it may well have been much older still. Vymani's parents couldn't even tell her which realm the area depicted was in, beyond the fact that the just-about-still-legible placenames suggested that it was in the Southwestern part of the Flanaess. With the blessing of family and community (for all had known the day would come) Vymani set off on her travels, heading initially for Midmeadow, and shortly thereafter Rel Mord. From there, she criscrossed Eastern Oerik, taking jobs as a messenger or courier, and when none were available, played the flute in any tavern that was lacking a bard and would give her board for the night in return for her performance. As she travelled, she sought out any stories or lore about Fharlanghn, the deity who had marked her, yet whose very name was forbidden in the Pale. Month by month, her powers grew, until she figured out how to use them to defend herself. This was a source of deep joy to Vymani, as it offered her an additional way to get paid for travelling - as a mercenary attached to trade caravans. This was a good source of regular employment, for it seems that merchants could never find the number of mercenaries they wanted to brave the roads of the Flanaess. Over the last year or so she has found herself being pulled inexorably towards the Southwestern Flanaess, the combination of lucrative jobs and the intriguing mystery surrounding her map joining together to lead her toward Keoland. Reaction to the captain's career change: Vymani understood, at a deep level, the idea of feeling a religious calling, so she didn't resent the Captain's decision at all. After all, this series of deliveries was probably the longest period of time she's kept one group of travelling companions since she left the Pale for the first time. On the other hand, she found it deeply surprising. Personally, Vymani could think of few things worse than spending the rest of your life in the same monastery, and he certainly didn't seem the type. Still, she thought, Given how much I love to see things that are new and different, I can hardly grouse when someone has a very different view to me on what constitutes the good life. Why does adventuring appeal? Vymani loves variety, and no two dungeons are ever the same. Adventuring provides an opportunity to indulge her compulsion to travel. Additionally, she hopes to undertake the Endless Pilgrimage at some point, but would very much like to have saved up plenty of funds to do so, as well as improved her skills in order to safely traverse less oft-travelled parts of Oerth. She also hopes to locate the area depicted on her father's map, in order that she might return home just once more and tell her parents of her accomplishment.

[JohnGrady]

Character Introduction Name: Gnarik Gender: Male Race: Mountain Dwarf Class: Rogue Background: Criminal Personality Trait #1: I am incredibly slow to trust. Those who seem the fairest often have the most to hide. Personality Trait #2: The best way to get me to do something is to tell me I can't do it. Bond: I'm guilty of a terrible crime. I hope I can redeem myself for it. Ideal: People. I'm loyal to my friends, not to any ideals, and everyone else can take a trip down the Styx for all I care. (Neutral) Flaw: I turn tail and run when things look bad. Appearance: Standing only 4’5” and weighing a shade more than 147 stones, Gnarik is smaller than the average dwarf. This was a fact his two, older brothers reminded him any chance they could. His light brown hair is thinning on the top resulting in his common practice to keep his hood pulled about his face. He keeps a feathery mustache and braided beard that hangs just shy of his navel. He has heavily tattooed arms that carry the scars of his life. He wears hardened leather armor under a patchwork of dark, worn clothing. Personality: Coming from a lower class family, Gnarik knows his place and is respectful, if not, dutiful to his superiors. He never speaks openly about his past. Rather, the dwarf asks probing questions of his companions keeping the spotlight away from himself. He is stubborn but not argumentative, choosing to act rather than discuss. He does not fear death, having nearly died in a mining accident several years ago which prompted him to stop work as a miner and start a regrettable life.   Gnarik fondled the dagger with a loathing touch. Running a calloused finger along the blade confirmed the edges were keen. The dwarf nodded slowly. His palm drifted to the antler handle, worn smooth from years of use. What terrible deeds had the dagger fulfilled by his hand? They were not of his making, he thought. He was but the hired hand that wielded the blade. He did not command those deeds nor set them in motion. He merely started the final movement, and the blade brought the deed to its conclusion. For nearly half a year, the blade had remained dry. He had not allowed it to finish this deed, nor would he ever. He couldn't remember deciding not to draw the blade. He had taken no vow to leave it sheathed. His hand had just refused. Gnarik had every opportunity. Many times he stood over his mark, asleep and unaware. Hours would pass and his hand would not move. Night after night, he watched the mark sleep guarded by the hand hired to kill. It should have been easy. Infiltrate the caravan. Gain their trust. Take the watch. Finish the movement. Return to Niole Dra for the gold. But something changed. Joining the caravan had been easy enough. The Captain looked for those willing to protect the caravan for a price. One look in Gnarik’s eyes, and he knew the dwarf was not afraid of death. But something deep within the dwarf made the Captain pause. Why, he had asked. "Gold," Gnarik responded dryly. "I’ve spent enough years searching for it under the ground. This is easier." A few minor skirmishes during the first trip Gradsul had confirmed Gnarik’s worth. Before the caravan returned to Niole Dra, he was tasked with a solo watch. That was the first night he had stood over his mark. He stood there every night until the caravan’s return. As the dwarf followed the wagons into the capital, he knew that the faceless man would be waiting, ready to pay if the movement was completed. "Not yet," was all Gnarik would provide. His reputation was known. The deed was considered an inevitability. Two more trips to the Azure sea and still it was not done. This time the faceless man was not waiting and Gnarik did not tarry. The dwarf knew another would be sent. For his mark and for himself. The fourth trip was the last. Gnarik had stood by his mark each night and waited, but it did not take long. Gnarik survived the night, as did the mark. Others were not as lucky. The Captain was shook to his core and took to the cloth. Gnarik shrugged at the loss of his employment with the caravan. He cared little for the Captain and less for many of other guards. He still had a job. One that did not pay with gold. One for which he was not hired. One that he had chosen. He still does not understand why his hand would not move to the dagger in the darkness of those nights. What had brought the change. He cared for reasons unknown to him, and for the first time, he felt regret. Regret for all those times his hand not refused and the dagger had found its mark. He said no vow. He was irredeemable, he knew that. But the mark must live, and so, he followed.

[pallen]

Taen Name: Taen Gender: Male Race: Human (variant) Class: Cleric of Kord (Tempest domain) Background: Sailor Personality: Trait: My friends know they can rely on me, no matter what. Trait: To me, a tavern brawl is a nice way to get to know a new city. Bond: I owe my life to the priest who rescued me from drowning. Ideal: Respect. The thing that keeps a ship together is mutual respect between captain and crew. Flaw: Once someone questions my courage, I never back down no matter how dangerous the situation. Physical description: Taen is slightly taller than average, lean, and muscular. He has sandy brown hair, tanned skin, and piercing blue eyes. He proudly wears his holy symbol of Kord on top of his worn suit of armor and simple clothing. His typical expression is an innocent smile, as if he's just happy to be here. Application: Since being rescued from a shipwreck, Taen has taken his direction from the signs that Kord sends him. Sometimes, it's a marking on a rock. Other times, the name of a tavern. These signs led him to the guard captain. And being a caravan guard wasn't that different from being a sailor on a ship. You take orders from your captain, look out for your crew, and deliver goods safely from one place to another. It was a natural fit. When the captain swore his oath, Taen understood. The gods have a plan for us all, and if we're lucky, we're wise enough to follow their plan. But truth be told, he was a little disappointed when the captain didn't pledge himself to Kord. After all, it was plainly Kord that got them out of that scrape, and Kord doesn't ask anyone give away their armor and beg for a living. But the captain had made his choice, and Taen respected him for keeping his oath, even if the execution was a bit misplaced. This turn in their fortunes seemed a good one to Taen. Guarding caravans was a noble profession, keeping people and their possessions safe from bandits and wolves. But he felt that Kord had bigger plans for him. There were bigger problems than highway robbery in the world, and all of the signs pointed to Taen's role in dealing with them.   Taen doesn't remember a time before he lived on the Peregrine, a sleek merchant ship that sailed the waters of Keoland. He doesn't remember his mother either. Just growing up on a ship with his father. Taen grew up swabbing decks, rigging sails, and listening to the other sailors' tall tales. His father was lost in a storm, knocked overboard by a wave that broke the main mast in half. Taen stayed on board, having nowhere else to go. He eventually took on a role as the surgeon's apprentice. Taen wasn't much for book learning, but blood never bothered him, and he had a knack for figuring out what was ailing a person. For years, he couldn't imagine a life anywhere else. But the Peregrine had a run of bad luck, and the captain started to take risks for better profits. Which led to the ship and its crew sailing through the worst storm that any of them had ever seen, including the one that killed Taen's father. The ship was tossed around for hours, taking on water and springing leaks. In the end, the captain made a desperate attempt to steer the ship towards the coastline, and the Peregrine was smashed against the rocks. Taen somehow survived the destruction of the ship, but was badly wounded. He struggled in the water for hours, and was fortunately rescued just as things were looking their worst. Brother Josef, an aging fisherman and priest of Kord, was his savior. Josef helped Taen recover from his wounds and from losing most of the people he had ever known. To repay his kindness, Taen became Josef's apprentice -- first at fishing, then at the small village church where Josef ministered. Taen stayed in the village for three years before he pledged himself to Kord. The next day, Brother Josef told Taen that he had to leave the village and find his own path. Taen traveled throughout Keoland for the past few months, following the signs that Kord sent him. He's protected the weak, helped the innocent, and gotten into a few bar brawls along the way. That led him to a captain who was leading a group of caravan guards...

[Noquarter19]

Jekarrin "Jak" Quickstep Name:Jekarrin "Jak" Quickstep Race: Halfling (Lightfoot) Class:Rogue (thief) Background: Criminal (Burglar) Personality: I am always calm, no matter what the situation. I never raise my voice or let my emotions control me. I don't pay attention to the risks in a situation. Never tell me the odds. Ideal: I'm loyal to my friends, not to any ideals, and everyone else can take a trip down the Styx for all I care. Bond: I’m trying to pay off an old debt I owe to a generous benefactor. Flaw: An innocent person is in prison for a crime that I committed. I’m okay with that.   It was a setup. That fact was apparent from the moment he crept in through the third story window. The thieves guild of Gradsul had let him have the tip, a bit too readily, now that he thought about it. Gareth had looked positively smug when he gave the details. But Jak needed the work, or more specifically, he needed the money, and lot's of it, so he hadn't picked up on what should have been obvious cues. Greed makes you blind, he reflected, as he watched members of the city guard close off the alleyway he had just vacated. Greed, and desperation. He was in hock to Marcus, his fence contact down by the docks, for... He closed his eyes. He didn't want to even consider the amount. Focus. Only way out is forward now. Panic gets you nothing. The job was a simple break-in, in theory. A collection of gemstones in a wooden box, as well as some sort of pendant. Third floor, second door on the right, third drawer down in the wooden dressing table. The residents were away on a vacation at the resort palace of the duke in Sanduchar. In and out. Well, clearly not, he groused. The house was dark, so he crept along on tiptoe, mindful of any furniture in his path. The hall was narrow; spreading his short halfling arms he could touch both walls. At the second gap in the wall on the right, he felt for a knob. Unlocked. A twinge of unease at that. Was that a ragged breath he heard? Only way out is forward now. He turned the knob. There were two. He couldn’t see them in the dark, but he heard two separate sets of breathing. The dressing table was straight ahead; in the light of the moon streaming in through the window he could see his faint reflection in the mirror set atop the fancy table. They were going to let him hang himself, he determined. So be it. He crept forward. The room was a bedroom, a large canopied bed to his right, bookshelves to his left, and in the corners behind him, a large writing desk on his left and a canvas partition screen on his right. The one behind the desk had a wheeze when he breathed, and the one on the right wouldn’t stop shuffling his feet. Not thieves… more city guards? Irrelevant who they were, focus on the job, focus on the escape after. He crouched down before the drawer. Annoyingly, this lock would need to be picked. Just more of the game. Removing his thieves’ tools from a pouch in his jacket, he began to work the lock by feel alone. It was a snap to pick, even in the dark. He reached in to the drawer, and as he grabbed the box, the voice to his right said, “Get him.” The good news was that the bed was in between Jak and the window. The bad news was the three-story drop. Jak darted to his right as the man from behind the desk sprinted toward him. Tucking the jewelry box into a pocket, he sprang onto the bed. The two men rounded toward the bed, arms clutching for him. Jak braced himself, and using the bed as a springboard, he dove headfirst through the window. The first-floor awning was a welcome surprise that broke what could have otherwise been a nasty fall to the terrace below. He tumbled forward and hit the ground in a roll, springing to his feet. The alleyway window he had climbed into was on the side of the house; he was now on the rear side. Most of the city guards in the alley had not seen him, but the sound of shattering glass and shouts from the third-floor window alerted them. Hearing the stomping of feet and shouts moving toward him, Jak took off running. It took a half hour of ducking through yards and scaling walls to elude the guards, but Jak eventually made his way down to the docks. His fence Marcus was based out of a warehouse down by the waterfront. For all anyone knew Marcus was a legitimate businessman, but he was an integral part of the thieves’ guild’s success in the city of Gradsul. The port city saw thousands of ships a year, and Marcus kept track of every one that dropped anchor. If you needed it moved, Marcus was your man. And he got a cut of all of it. “Heard you might have had a little trouble tonight Jak,” Marcus muttered as Jak entered the secret entrance to Marcus’s office. Jak’s breath was a bit ragged from the exertion of evading the guards, and his muscles felt like rubber, but he was calm. ”Might have. You wouldn’t know anything about it now, would you Marcus?” The room was dimly lit with a couple oil lanterns, and cast a flickering glow on the massive oak desk that dominated the room. Dampness had curled the pages of the multiple shipping ledgers that littered the desktop. Marcus’s eyes gleamed. “Might be you weren’t meant to get away. Might be you were meant to end up in jail. Or dead. And might be I know why.” He grinned. ”You’re not the only one who knows a thing or two. The thieves guild betrayed me. Gareth finally found a way to remove me from the picture. His one mistake was trying to get me arrested. If he wanted it done right, he should have sent an assassin.” Marcus laughed, and got to his feet. “That he should have. Jak, we’ve got a problem. Or, I should be more specific, you’ve got a problem. The guards were tipped off, you’re right, but they also know to look for a brown haired halfling. I don’t know what you did to set the guild against you-“ ”I do. They’re jealous because I’m the best thief in the city, and Gareth used to be top dog. I guess I should have seen this coming.” “You’re quite right. It’s a shame to lose you; you brought in a lot of coin.” ”Not enough, unfortunately; I still owe you more than I care to think about.” A month earlier a heist had gone bad and ended in a ship full of goods bound for Irongate consumed by flames. That deal had been tied to Jak, even though he hadn’t even been onboard at that point, and he had been left responsible for recouping the loss in profit to Marcus. It was my deal, but I’d let Gareth handle the exchange. He cursed silently. He was trying to get me out of the picture even then. What a petty little man he is. He looked at Marcus. ”You said the guards know who I am?” “They know everything but your name. I wouldn’t go home, not for anything. They know where you live. You were lucky enough to get away as it is. Did you get the jewels?” Jak patted his pocket. “Good. Give them to me.” Jak handed the box over, reflecting on what a miserable life being a thief could be sometimes. ”These should square my debt with you Marcus. At least something good came out of tonight.” Marcus sighed. “Oh, Jak. How do you think Gareth knew so much about where these were? You think it was coincidence?” He opened the box, revealing what ended up being a handful of granite stones of various sizes. Rocks. He had stolen rocks. He chuckled. It was the perfect parting joke. “Do you know whose house you even broke into? Nobody told you?” Jak just stared. “The house belongs to the sister of Duchess Maressa, who you may have heard of. You should have. Her husband rules the city and controls the navy.” Marcus placed both hands square on his desk and stared intently down at Jak. “You can’t stay here anymore.” ”I wasn’t going to ask to stay in the warehouse.” “I wasn’t talking about the warehouse. You wouldn’t have made it here alive if I thought they’d connected you to here. One of my men would have made sure of that. No, I was talking about Gradsul. You need to leave the city tonight.” Jak just stared at him. This was a waking nightmare. ”Any ideas on how I can do that, what with the city guard on the lookout for a halfling that looks just like me?” His voice was pure venom. But Marcus looked strangly calm. “Turnips.” ”Turnips? How are turnips going to get me out of the city?” Surely this was some sort of joke. “Just listen. Todric Mudwallow, Fat Tod as he’s known as around here, he’s a farmer and a hobbit. He keeps a stall on the west end of the city. Well his son Bedric is about your age, looks passably like you. He runs a wagon between the city and the Mudwallow farm east of Oakroot. I may be able to put a little word in the ear of one of the guards that poor Bedric is the hobbit they’re looking for.” The idea of setting some poor farmboy up as a patsy to save his own hide should have make Jak feel guilty, but his sense of self-preservation was strong, and he pushed the thought aside. ”You still haven’t explained the turnips.” “Just listen. All of the unsold produce that doesn’t sell at the market stall gets donated to the Monastery of St. Cuthbert. Bedric makes the trip once a week. So if Bedric is going to play the part of Jak,…” ”…then I get to play Bedric the poor farmboy. And, what, deliver turnips to some monastery?” “You don’t want to go anywhere near that monastery. You’d have to go through Oakroot to get there, and someone would surely notice you’re not the same hobbit when you go by the farm. You’re going to go southwest at the fork toward Daerwald and work your way around heading north toward Niole Dra. Once you’re there, one of my contacts has a job for you. It’s a…” He paused. “It’s a legitimate business opportunity. There’s an opening as a caravan guard. Well. Mostly you guard the shipments. From time to time, maybe you let one of my contacts in the city know of some particularly juicy shipments. Do you catch my meaning, Jak?” Jak sighed. ”So I’m a mole now. I guess it’s better than prison. Do you have any clothes I can wear out of here? I don’t exactly look much like a farmer.” “I’m sure I’ve got something around here in one of these boxes. Now one more thing, my contact in Niole Dra is a half-elf named Hammett. Just tell him you had been messaged about a job opportunity; he’ll be expecting you. I have riders bringing shipments and information up and down the River Road every day. With you taking the long way around to the city, the rider I send today will beat you there by days.” Marcus whistled, and a beautiful woman came in. “This is Nell. She’ll set you up with a horse and wagon cart. When I know you’re out of the city safely, Nell will put a little bird in the ear of one of the guards to check the Mudwallow market stall for the hobbit they’re looking for.” Jak stood there quietly for a moment. ”Why are you doing all this Marcus? Why not just wash your hands of me and let the guard take me? What’s in it for you?” Marcus just chuckled. “The money. You still owe me for that ship and its cargo. This way you can still work for me, and I can rest easy knowing you’re safe.” Jak was under no illusions that Marcus truly cared about him beyond his ability to generate revenue. ”When do we leave?” Jak asked, addressing the dark-skinned Nell. “We leave now,” she replied in a heavy accent. “Chin up, Jak, a fortnight from now, you’ll be resting comfortably in Niole Dra. A whole new opportunity is ahead of you now.” He nodded to Nell and returned to his seat. Newly clad in garb that made him look like a fish out of water farmer, Jak followed Nell out through the secret entrance. As he trudged behind her trying to keep up with her longer strides toward the turnip cart that would lead him to escape, he thought, This new opportunity smells like a cowpie.   The job was practically over before it began. Marcus had called it a 'whole new opportunity.' After fleeing from Gradsul in the early morning dressed as a farmer, he had ridden what felt like a month along roads that devolved to rutted trails. The mule had died a half day's ride from Watershead. He had abandoned the cart and continued on foot for a time, but footsore and weary, he stole a pony. He avoided the roads for several miles, until a river outside of Laketowne forced him to rejoin the road. He had never been an especially hairy halfling, but weeks on the road had turned his head into a mop of matted brown tangles. He needed a bath and a drink. This journey couldn't end soon enough. He let the pony run free two miles outside of Niole Dra, hoping its discovery wouldn't be linked back to him. His clothing reeked; thanks to the guards who had been watching his home, he had been unable to bring any other changes of clothes. He washed up on the bank of a river running parallel to the road, and let the sun dry him as he walked. The city guards looked at him with suspicion, a halfling walking alone with no seeming purpose. Thankfully, Jak could be quite charming when he put his mind to it, and his small stature did much to make him appear nonthreatening. When he stated he was there for a guard job opportunity with a local trade caravan, the two seemed amused, but they let him pass. It didn't matter; they could have laughed themselves silly, but they let him pass, and that was what mattered. It was not long before he met up with Hammett, Marcus' contact in the city. The man was a sniveling toad, but it didn't matter – he was just the middleman. “You're late by a week, hobbit.” He sneered. “Did you lose your way?” ”Mule died. I made it here as quickly as I could. Where's a comfortable inn? I could sleep for a month.” Hammett directed him to a run-down hostel that charged too much and had roaches on the floor. It was a palace in Jak's eyes; he slept for fourteen hours. After waking, Jak made his way to a pub and bought a mug of ale and a bowl of stew. That done, he evaluated his current savings. He had enough to buy a new pair of shoes and a new outfit, and meals for a week. He was able to haggle the price down on some new clothing, but the shoemaker was a stodgy old man who seemed to harbor resentment toward non-humans and refused to budge on price. Jak knew better than to push the issue; he wasn't in a position to generate too much ill-will toward himself, having just arrived. Newly attired, and with his belly full, Jak went to meet the caravan driver Hammett had directed him toward. The captain seemed like a nervous sort, with shifty eyes and trembling hands. Jak didn't know how he had ended up as captain of the caravan guards; it seemed as though a stiff breeze would blow him over. This is going to be a cinch, Jak mused. Hopefully the caravans will be worth a good amount; I can't imagine what sorts of guards this weak fool keeps in his employ. Unfortunately, the best laid plans are soon waylaid. Upon meeting the other three caravan guards, Jak knew the plan was anything but a cinch. The other three guards were tough, surprisingly so, and Jak knew that any attempts to assault a caravan guarded by this crew would be a real challenge for Marcus's men. His only hope was to wait and to watch, and hope that one of these shipments would be worth the risk of assault. He couldn't wait too long, however. Marcus had set him up with the position as a means to settle his debt, and working the guard job was a perfect cover. Jak watched and waited, and hoped. The first few shipments were mundane. Spices. Textiles. Fruits and vegetables. Some iron ore. Nothing worth risking life and limb. The fourth shipment was different. A mine rich with silver had struck a new vein, and along with some precious minerals, a wagon nearly full of silver ore was set to travel down to Gradsul. Jak was a touch uneasy – not about Gradsul; they had made the trek back to his former city thrice before, and as a guard with the caravan, he had bore no notice. What he was nervous about was the risk. It was one thing to be working a job himself, where he and his senses were pitted against whatever he was trying to accomplish. This was different. There were two different factions at play, and he was playing the role of infiltrator. Should Marcus's men be unable to subdue or kill the other four members of the caravan guards, there might be questions. Jak was also concerned about the idea of fighting against Marcus's men if push came to shove. He was deft with a blade and had no concerns of his own skill, but he would be walking a tight line trying to appear to defend himself while not going after Marcus's men too vigorously. It wouldn't do to be the one who killed them. It ended up being a moot point. The attack came halfway between Gradsul and Sayre, just north of the Dreadwood and a few miles northwest of Oakroot. Jak reflected later that Oakroot was where the Mudwallow Farm was located. He wondered about the unfortunate Bedric Mudwallow. Last he had heard from one of Marcus's men, the unlucky hobbit was rotting in a cell in the Gradsul dungeon. He reminded himself it was hardly his fault. There were five of them, and they had been hiding amongst the trees and thickets lining the road. When the attack came, it was swift, but the guards were prepared. The Dreadwood was notoriously dangerous, and the guards' senses were heightened as a result. It was over quickly. All five attackers were slain. The fifth had wounds which were not immediately fatal, but, sensing he would be questioned and might give up Hammett or Marcus as the orchestrator of the assault, Jak slit his throat to silence the man. Casualties on the guards' side included an arrow through a shoulder, a sword slash to an arm that cut nearly to the bone, and the captain's mental fortitude. The man was a blubbering mess, and upon eventually reaching Niole Dra, he up and quit his position, divvied up the proceeds from the job amongst the four of them, gifted them the horses and mules that had been part of the caravan, and fled to the monastery. Probably a safer bet, Jak opined. The caravan job was through without ever having yielded a score for Marcus, or for putting any sort of dent into what Jak owed. The only bright spot was the fact that, a failure though the assault had been, Jak's involvement had not been revealed at alll. They would have killed him on the spot had they known it was Jak's intelligence that had prompted the attack. Luckily, that information would never be revealed. So now, standing at a literal and figurative crossroads, Jak pondered his future. He knew nearly nothing of the city; his one employment opportunity had died on the vine, and aside from the weasel-faced Hammett, whom he didn't trust further than he could heave the man, he knew nobody in the city he could rely on. Well. With three obvious exceptions. He turned to the other three guards. ”Well now, looks like we're all in between opportunities. I don't suppose any of you have any ideas on where an out of work halfling could get a decent job in the city? Something with a little flair, perhaps?” One of the guards (he hadn't yet really learned their names, preferring to not get too close to people he might end up having to help kill) mentioned a woman offering 125 gold each to recover two fools who had gone into some ancient ruin. Jak didn't know anything about any ruins, and didn't care about finding some young fools with straw for brains, but the notion of 125 gold, with the possibility of 125 more should the two be found alive, appealed greatly to Jak's sensibilities. Jak pondered the adventurer life, and weighed the risks and benefits against turning back to his previous career as a burglar. Adventuring through ancient ruins may not be the job for me, but until I find something else that pays better, it's the job I'm going with. ”Enter a cave to look for two fools and their signet rings? Sounds just up my alley. What do you think, gents?” (Alignment note: Upon writing Jak's backstory, I was starting to question if his actions reflect more of a neutral evil alignment. I originally had him down as chaotic neutral. My goal with Jak, based on the background ideal I picked out was to have him eventually bond with the other three guards in the party. But yeah, I guess he ended up turning out to be a bit more of a jerk than I anticipated. It sure was fun to write though. )

[ElilHroiRah]

Hope Name: Hope Class: Hexblade Warlock Race: Tiefling Age: 17 Background: Folk Hero (kinda) Trait: She's constantly on the look out for things and/or opportunities others have missed that might make her more powerful, or just more generally able. Therefore she's quick to try and grab and interrogate anything strange or exotic seeming, and quick to explore any side tracks off the beaten path. Ideal: Audacity. In her mind there is truly nothing she can't do, there are merely things that are temporarily beyond her, and even then she has to test her current limits to know where they really are Bond: To her a hero, a person of renown, is not just a fanciful title, it is a role with important responsibilities to those who lack a hero's power. In her mind even if you cannot help those who are lesser than you, it is your responsibility to maintain an aura of calm, authority, and resolve, to take responsibility for those below you should you find them abandoned by others, and to act decisively on their behalf Flaw: She is excessively self-confident, and truly believes there is nothing she can't do, and that her estimations of her abilities and of how the world is are always accurate   Did you know, that there's a layered and structured order to all things? All things to their required roles, elevated from the ground up to their layer of purpose, set by the degree of their means. These layers repeat, on and on, down and down. An imperial quartermaster feeds a nation, a local lord feeds his fort of soldiers, a farmer feeds her children. Kings declare war and the fate of thousands below them, lords gather their retinues and dash them against each other in petty border squabbles, an angered man draws his blade on another who besmirched his name. This tends to proceed with little in the way of actual acknowledgement, and when done so it proceeds well. But there are some who recapitulate, at the lowest levels, shadows of the acts of those in lofty perches high above, and can't help but feel helplessly diminished. Which brings us to the story of Hope, with a brief stop at the nature of her infernal parentage. For as the devilishly charming agent of a Devil Prince's court might hold forth to the mortal plane with the enviable task of seducing a noble king down a path of debauchery littered with golden orgies and buxom water nymphs boiled in the decadently decorated belly of an overfattened Fire Giant, for every such dark game of lust and temptation and the thin skein between nirvana and damnation, there are the many unwanted and malnourished fiends who slip into the cracks by the armpit of the mortal realms and while away their eternity drearily luring fat farmers out to spill their infidelious seed onto the haystacks piled up in the most out of the way stablehouse. And so it was that the culmination of such an act of dreery debauchery was the birth of young Hope, the Tiefling child of a fierce but simple-minded daughter of some farming folk, and a bone idle incubus plying their trade at a local tavern. Scarcely could less auspicious a background be asked for. For out in the middle of land so far out on the outer rim of places worth knowing, being born the bastard child of a deadbet devil was very far from a blessing worth bragging of. And yet. For Hope it most certainly was. For you see one of the unacknowledged benefits of lacking the grand oversight that sees everything in its proper place in some ordered "way of things" is that you’re free to take any markers of your idiosyncracy and project them into the entirely imagined stratosphere of Importance. And so for Hope the fact that she was so obviously different (not obviously of Infernal heritage, mind, for who was there to know enough to even tell her such with certainty?) clearly meant that she was so obviously destined for Importance. So obviously in fact that right from when she was old enough to stumble upon this self-evident truth she got right to working on being ready for the role. Traveling bards passing through village centres on the aimless path from nowhere to nowhere sang vague and pretty sounding songs of vaguely effusive heroism, and in so hewing their role in so outside a place they had a tremendous impact on the direly limited worldview of the villagers who heard them. From these sparse tales Hope’s starved imagination conjured a whole world of necessities that were most definitely expected of her as someone of Importance, by all those wise enough to have the Proper Expectations (i.e. *not* the small people of her small village where no heroes lived and of which no songs were sung by bored bards passing through dreary taverns). And so she practiced vigorously all the necessary rituals of her Role. She practiced perching on one-foot at the peak of any precarious place on the farm, from which she would send forth dramatic proclamations of purpose to the wilds. She swung sticks with practiced fluidity till she was exhausted so she could practice the proper way to swing sticks when one is exhausted, for heroic fights are always desperate ones. She practiced unselfconsciously the dramatic poses affected by the bards seeking to capture the heroic visage of beings they themselves could only glimpse in the tales of the bards before them. She yelled bombastically at those townfolk who at times came around to keep a neighbourly eye on the spawn of sin that festered out in the far-reaches of the farmland, loud defiance further excavating the depth of the concern and the concern further fueling the flames of defiance. Her mother thought of all this what she thought of most things. Not much. But in a way that was fiercely supportive. When the occasion would arise to think on her daughter she’d take a short mental circuit around a well-worn field of flat, dutifully visiting each of the Thoughts she believed she ought to have before coming convincingly to the conclusion that her daughter was a perfectly daughterly one. And so, confident, fiercely supported and fiercely impatient, Hope hit the road; the first proper step on her journey. Was she prepared? Yes? No? One the one hand, she left town a rake of a girl, barely passed 15. On the other, when you truly believe your destiny is not just greatness and heroics but a whole predetermined path from now to there, how are you really supposed to prepare? When you’re on the right path, isn’t every step the right one? If you believe that as strongly as Hope does, wherever you are you’re always perfectly prepared for whatever you come across. There’s always death to serve as the final proof against, but then convincing arguments do little when falling on the deaf ears of the dead. Now in this much larger outside, Actual World many are of the bizarre opinion that those things that look alike must also be alike. Such an opinion must be bizarre and outlandish, for this is the only explanation for why Hope did not foresee the immediate problem that befell her. Here was the problem: townsfolk who knew that horns are always a sign of a devil nature, observed Hope’s horns and came to the conclusion that she had a devil’s nature.For the crime of having such a nature it was requested that she leave town. They even tried to put holes in her, as if that would aid her in leaving faster. She disagreed with their conclusion, but the weight of their argument, as with all arguments, was proportional to the number of people willing to take up swords and put holes in her to prove it. There were many such people, and so the argument was foolproof. That is, none were foolish enough to risk their ire to disprove the claim. Later, outside of the town, Hope reflected on the encounter. She had been recognised as a Noteworthy Individual because of her horns. Therefore her horns were good. But they were misleading as to the nature of her importance. She did not need people to know she was noteworthy, so she didn’t need her horns. And so she took them off. As bandanas were more acceptable forehead adornments than horn stumps, she further decided to wear a bandana instead. Later still, Hope decided that because she didn’t like living hand to mouth waiting for destiny to happen across her, she didn’t have to. She presented this persuasive argument to several mercenary captains who were paid to put holes in anyone who tried to forward the argument that some goods under their purview would better serve some different owner. None listened much to the substance of what she had to say, but one found her manner of doing so endearing enough. So she was accepted as an amusing hanger-on to his band of men-with-arms. This entailed she work menial jobs for the captain while the band escorted caravans, with the promise that should she work well each day she would be fed and rewarded a small amount of coin. Stripped of the circumstance that she was running errands for men-with-arms, this existence was very much like the one she’d lived before joining. But for Hope because the dressing was different, the entire way of life must be different too. And so it was different. What follows are, what follows is...time. Days to weeks to months spent in steps taken. Shifting landscapes becoming a crude diorama of blunt colours faintly blurred by motion. Then, one day, there’s a change. The slowly rolling gears of doldrum fate halt. On some path to some where Hope spies an obvious trap out in some heavy mist. The fact of its being a trap she does not spy, and in rushing off to pursue it finds herself falling into a trap in the form of a sudden drop into some old ruins of some forgotten place. Details escape her interest. Dust and furniture, old tomes and stone, thick rugs and dilapidated walls. The same schema repeated. Cracks and hidden holes between rooms are made doorways in her mind’s eye and her thin frame bounds through them. Next room. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. This continues for a time, yet time has no hold on the little flame that fires her tireless engine. Then, something. An onyx plinth looms in the centre of a nondescript space. Atop it, an ivory white basin cradling solid black shadow frozen in a daggerform. She stalls, her awareness expands. Patterns on the walls around resolve themselves into banners, reliefs, all of a single eye, lidless and staring. Her own eyes dart back and forth to the dagger at the centre of everything. Her mind feeds on the ambiguity, takes it and spits it out in her shape, freshly minted in gold certainty. The room is a place of power. The dagger is a weapon of ritual. The basin awaits to catch blood sacrifice. The single eye demands an eye in imitation. So she takes up the dagger, her blood hot in her veins but her heart calm. And drives it into her right eye. Then as pain screams unheeded by her iron red certainty, she bows her head over the basin to feed it her blood offering. … The experience of godhood is an experience mortals consider beyond imagination. Beyond imagination, in a relatable way. Somehow. As the moving hand of fate wrote the completion of this act faintly in the margins of grand and complete history, the essence of this room, steeped as it was in the worship of the Mad God Vecna, tugged lightly on this thread of connection, whatever it was. And somewhere within the godhood of Vecna, relatably unimaginable, in the shadows cast by the afterthoughts of his awareness, there was a shift. A mortal form materialised on the distant horizon, small but distinct from the surrounds, and wavering, unsettled. A million times, a million blank faces, exaltation, arrogance, cowering, craven, cunning. The forms of ritual repeat, the eyes turn away from this dull certainty. Many forms and histories, cast in the same stone; the rigid, unchanging, supplicant. Then, a faint idea forms in the shape of distant humour. A sudden spark and the thrilled clapping of some startled child. The stone cast is cracked, incredulously. A faint idea forms words in the voice of a wind passing far beyond mortal ears. I mean...I guess they can technically do many things. But, seriously? Why the dagger in the eye? No fear nor arrogance, just brashness and certain ignorance. ...and what else does this thing do? And so the words spoken sealed a bond all parties bound were (mostly) unaware of. Back in an entirely concrete world the wound in Hope’s eye atrophied, and consumed it. In its place, a new eye, entirely functional, but now in the image of Vecna’s own. And far beyond the conscious touch of her will, a door was opened. A newly cut portal into the torrid nightmare of eldritch horror, spanned by a great byzantine web. Its perilously thin strands strung between torn windows that peak in on hidden truths of eldritch knowledge. A tempting reward for those mad-brave enough to traverse these winding ways. The outcome of this, to keep it short? Hope had managed to blunder her way into the path of destiny. Thrilling, terrifying travels through an incomprehensible storm of dreams and she awoke with powers of an incomprehensible magic entirely from nothing. She was ecstatic. Now finally, regarding the question of how she responded to the captain bailing to be a beggar: Then, later, her captain seemed to find the low stakes of being a caravan guard too high stakes for him. Hope, young and inexperienced as she is, similarly experienced very real fear from the life-threatening exercises that drove the captain to the monastery. However, she is also defined by her singular belief that a life of risk and drama and death-defiance is her operatic destiny, what she was made for and therefore the only life worth living. This belief holds strong in a bubble impenetrable by lesser things like fear. So she is incapable of comprehending how trauma might serve as an actual deterrent from a life of risk. Thus her captain fled from low stakes, for nothing in the life of a caravan guard could be high stakes by definition, resolving his character into the form of one who achieves no things of note. So resolved he was Understood, the question of his existence Answered, meaning there was nothing left of him to consider. And so he fell entirely from her consideration.

[Gadron]

Corrin Garethson Character Sheet Origin   Ultimately, there are two fates that await all farmers on Oerth: death or taxes. The family of Gareth Horstson weren't any different. Gareth chose to risk the frontier rather than submit to the slow, steady death of a tenant farmer on some lord's land. All things considered, he was better at it than most - it took thirteen years before a goblin tribe migrating through the area ransacked and burned their farmstead. When the goblins came, Corrin was away from the homestead clearing a field. He was thirteen, after all. A man his age had to pull his weight. He looked up from his work to see smoke coming from the direction of the house and barn, and for a moment all he could think was that his father was likely to be upset. He always taught them to avoid smoky fires - attracts goblins, you know. Reality came in the form of screams from the house cut short, and Corrin rushed towards the blaze with only his brush-clearing tool - a billhook - in hand. He arrived to the usual tragedy: bodies riddled with spears and arrows (mother, sister, and baby brother, he noted in order), the house on fire while goblins carried off all the food and easily-lassoed livestock, and his father desperately fighting a few cackling stragglers with his woodcutting axe and a wound in his side. His father's last words to him were to run. His goodbye to his father was to obey. Corrin ran, letting his unconscious knowledge of the terrain guide him while his conscious brain was still caught in the moment before his tiny world ended. He had only been running a moment (or possibly hours, time seemed funny at that point), when he came upon a goblin attempting to drag one of their mules through the woods. Even later in life, Corrin couldn't recall the fight. He just recalled seeing the goblin after which the events of the day seemed to press in on him. He felt dizzy, then sick, and then he heard a scream and a shriek. Then, he was standing above a goblin with its head nearly severed and a great deal of blood on his billhook. He stood there for an indeterminate amount of time, staring at the tool in his hand. Corrin had not been raised on deep thoughts, but in that moment it occurred to him that he was something different now. A few hours ago he was a farmer's son with a tool - now he was a killer with a bloody weapon. It wasn't good, or bad, but he was very definitely something different. Slowly, driven by the same dogged and unspoken determination that has pushed men into the frontiers of the world for generations, Corrin climbed onto the mule he'd saved and rode south. He remembered his father always heading south for the market at Regin. He couldn't just stand around and weep - he was thirteen, after all. A man his age had to pull his weight. Reaction to the Captain's Decision   Upon finding out that the Captain intended to join a temple, Corrin was nonplussed at first. The gods were fickle at the best of times - only the fools and the blessed ever voluntarily joined their service, and he was pretty sure the Captain wasn't blessed after that last fight. Once he heard about the promise the Captain had made, though, he understood. A man keeps his oaths, no exceptions, and especially when those oaths were made to the extremely fickle gods. He parted ways with the Captain with an understanding nod and a firm handshake. Reason for Adventuring   At the end of the day, Corrin's only tradeskills were in the raising of barns and the sowing of fields - and he'd seen what the world had in store for farmers. The other legacy of his upbringing, though, was a towering physique courtesy of a life of manual labor and a rugged tolerance for pain and discomfort. Those gifts saw him through years of mercenary work, leading up to the last caravan company. Now with this rescue and a chance to make some real money, adventuring didn't seem like that big of a next step to take. Description   Like most Keolanders, Corrin is of mixed Flannae and Suloise stock: from his mostly-Suel father he took his height and broad-shouldered build, as well as fair skin often slightly burned by the open sun and gray eyes flecked with hints of lighter blue. From his mostly-Flan mother he took his dark-brown hair, wavy and nearly black unless it catches the light. His line of work over the last few years has generally relegated him to shaving with a knife in a roadside camp, so he generally sports a short beard cropped as close as can be safely done under those circumstances. A long, faint white scar traces from the corner of his left eye down his cheek like the path of a pearly tear - a legacy of his first encounter with battle, the specifics of which he'll never remember. He has yet to acquire any of the other inevitable scars that mark a professional doer of violence, and while he endures a frequently filthy line of work he apparently prefers to keep himself fairly clean when possible. His clothes and gear are always worn and well outside of anything that could be considered fashion, but maintained well with an experienced hand. His voice is a rough baritone, with an unmistakably rural accent and diction that he makes no effort to hide. He's soft-spoken most of the time, but sounds as if he could manage a considerably intimidating volume without that restraint. He projects a sort of serene, blue-collar confidence - the aura of a man already inured to hardship, who wants for little that his own hands can't provide. Writing Sample   Regin wasn't much of a town, by worldly standards. A cluster of basic services along a muddy trade road, it mostly served as a collection point for local farmers to bring their crops in before they were shipped off to feed their betters. As a result, it was by and large a rough-and-ready sort of place with the notable exceptions of a well-guarded caravan depot and tax collector's office. Corrin had called it home for more than a year, now, but he couldn't bring himself to like it. When he had limped into town, filthy and leading a half-starved mule, nobody had taken much notice. Another tramp from the hills, they likely thought to themselves, though whether they thought it with scorn or with pity didn't seem to make much difference as none went out of their way to help. It wasn't new. At first, Corrin simply wandered - it never occurred to him to beg, but he kept expecting somebody to offer to help. On the few occasions he remembered travelers visiting their farm, they'd always fed them and put them up in the barn. It was another, similar country habit that wound up saving him; as he stood to the side of the main road, he insisted on brushing out his mule with his fingers as best he could and scraping its hooves clean with the blade of the billhook he'd stubbornly held on to. The sight of a beggar boy (by appearance, at least) continuing to care for an animal with some amount of competence on the side of the street caught the eye of the local innkeeper who took Corrin in as a stable boy. On the day in question, Corrin was caring for the horses of a small mercenary band who'd ridden into town that day along with the latest caravan when he heard a commotion from inside the inn. At first, he gritted his teeth and ignored it - the sounds of violence still put him on edge more than a year later, but barfights happened most every day and were relatively harmless. This time, though, he heard a metallic ring followed by a sharp thunk. The sounds of one metal edge hitting another and embedding in wood, unmistakable once you'd heard it before. Mortal fear gripped Corrin, but it was resisted by angry determination as well and it was the determination that won out. Corrin grabbed his tool-turned-weapon and ran into the common room. He saw a brawl in process, nothing unusual, but in the midst of it were two men with weapons drawn. One was standing over the other having clearly knocked him down, and was raising an axe over his head with a bestial snarl of alcohol-induced race on his face. Corrin didn't know who had started the fight, who was right or wrong, but in that moment it didn't particularly matter. The axe-wielding man was about to kill someone, so Corrin ran. At fourteen summers and change he was still a boy by all but the most rural definitions, but he'd always been big for his age and as a result the wooden tool handle he struck the axe-wielding man with had a rather considerable amount of force behind it. The blow struck the man in his stomach, and as he wasn't wearing armor it doubled him over and forced all the breath from him. He toppled forward with a surprised wheeze, and was quickly pinned by the other man he'd knocked down earlier. Panting heavily, the sword-bearing man looked up appraisingly at the boy who'd saved him. "That your weapon, son?" he asked, nodding to the billhook that Corrin was gripping in his white-knuckled hands. It took Corrin a moment to respond, staring at object in question, before he nodded. "I...s'pose it is, sir," he murmured quietly in response. The man gave a firm nod back before extending the hand that wasn't pinning his previous opponent to the wooden floor. "Then I think I've got a job for you."

[Exfilia]

Meepo, with Hope's hand on his shoulder, leads the way through a corridor with a right-angle bend and up to a 19door with a bell set as an alarm. He points it out to the goblins.

"You guys did that? Nice work."

The door is unlocked. Hope and Meepo proceed down the corridor...for a few steps.

Meepo did mention that he hadn't been this way before, right? That he worked over on the other side of the kobold area, where you met him?

Maybe that's why he didn't know about the Detecting said pit requires a passive perception of 15. Hope's is 9. Meepo's is 8.pit

Only 10' deep, and no spikes. Hope takes 2 damage. Meepo takes 4, and is stunned--Hope fell on him.THUD!

The goblins look like they might be thinking about doing a runner, but then they see Corrin bringing up the rear and change their minds.

And another bell jangles, this one at the opposite end, as the door opens to reveal a squad of well-armed kobolds. The goblins' arms immediately shoot up over their heads.

"We surrender! We surrender!" babbles the first.

"Yeah," says the other, looking down into the pit, "and we didn't do it!"

What would you like to do now?

[Oakie]

Amos Knutter Character Name: Amos Knutter (Character Sheet) Race: Human, Variant Class: Barbarian, Zealot Alignment: Chaotic Good Background: Folk Hero Characteristics: Trait 1: I judge people by their actions, not their words (or their titles). Trait 2: Thinking is for other people. I prefer action. Ideal: Sincerity. There's no good in pretending to be something I'm not. Bond: I protect those who cannot protect themselves. Flaw: I have a weakness for the vices of town, especially hard drink.   Amos Knutter is a fairly average looking young man in his mid-20s: average in looks, average in height at 5'8", strawberry hair just starting to recede, sideburns, heavily freckled with the slightest ruddy tan, and blue eyes. He's more heavily muscled than average, what the locals call "a stout fellow," but not remarkable and far from a candidate for circus strong man. The only thing that sets him apart is the strain on his face, as if he's already forgotten joy at his young age. In dress, he's a walking advertisement for his trade: shirt and slops in fine, cool knits of undyed linen, with some elaborate knotwork in the shirt for style and ventilation. His colorful sash and wallet, shady hat, and sandals are all hand made of thicker cotton, linen, or jute yarn with intricate weaves and decorative beads, fringe, and knotting patterns. He has even knitted his own water-resistant but light wool pancho, which he pulls out on chilly evenings and for the rain.   A Saltmarsh area local, Amos was born into a local knitting and net-making family, the Knutters. When he was six, he, his parents, Alfred and Edith, and his older sister, Hilda, were hand-line crabbing at in inlet away from town. Hoping to catch Saltmarsh unawares, raiding goblinoid pirates set ashore there, surprising his family. His mother managed to hide him under some driftwood. Peeking out, he saw his parents and sister slaughtered. After the pirate raid, he was taken in by his Uncle Gordon and Aunt Almira, who brought him up as their own and taught him the family trade. A few years ago, his wife Anna, pregnant with their first child, was raped and murdered by three drunken pirates from the Empty Net who wandered over to their small cottage nearby. Amos had been out, returning in time to see the pirates but not in time stop their crimes. He went more than a little crazy. Calling out to Tritherion for vengeance, he took up his wife's washing bat and beat all three to death with it, nearly dying from his own wounds. In the process, he became something of a local hero. The intervening years have not been kind to him. Still awash in grief, he has not remarried. He still lives in the tiny cottage, no longer the tidy home Anna kept but the sad, filthy hovel of a bachelor. Though a skilled knitter of clothes, accessories, nets, hammocks, charpoys — really anything that can be knit, knotted, plaited, or braided out of fiber — but he is too irregular in his business habits to be prosperous. Dark moods and occasional drinking benders kill his focus. He barely scrapes by, mostly on small jobs from family and friends. A few times when the ire has risen in him, he has met out rough justice in the name of Tritherion on monsters and evil doers in the area, working alone or with others as chance has it — usually without the blessing and oversight of the local authorities, especially Captain Fireborn, who doesn't appreciate his vigilantism. Though most of the townsfolk respect and accept him, he is also pitied as a "broken man" and a "tortured soul." "And who can blame him," they say, "after everything he's been through? Such a brave and sad young man."