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Old Oct 5th, 2022, 03:32 AM
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Touketsu Touketsu is offline
Mysterious Ice Ninja
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The Crew

Post your original application here, as well as a link to your character sheet.

Characters will begin at level 5, 27-point buy. Max HP at first level, after which you can roll for HP or take the standard for your class. Starting equipment and gold as per Class and Background (or you can roll for starting wealth), plus 700 gp to spend on non-magical gear.
I have taken the Oath!

Last edited by Touketsu; Oct 5th, 2022 at 03:34 AM.
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Old Oct 7th, 2022, 11:13 AM
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Frog of the Hybrid Geeks
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Hannah, Dwarven Gladiator
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Name: Hannah Volkan
Race: Dwarf (Mountain)
Class: Rogue (Swashbuckler)
Background: Gladiator
  • Personality Trait: Like a nomad, I can't settle down in one place for very long.
  • Personality Trait: When I see others struggling, I offer to help.
  • Ideal: Competition. I strive to test myself in all things. (Chaotic)
  • Bond: Nothing is more important than the other members of my family.
  • Flaw: I don't know when to quit. Especially when everyone else is telling me to.
  • Flaw: I'd rather eat my armor than admit that I don't know what I'm doing.
Appearance: Lithe and nimble, particularly so for one of her kind, Hannah turns certain dwarven stereotypes on their heads, while still managing to look like she was carved from solid stone. Her career has led her to eschew the quiet utilitarianism of her homeland, favoring the flashy yet still deadly. Iconic, eye-catching and heavily decorated, her armor and costume are perhaps not as effective as they could be, the audience likes nothing more than a little blood now and again. Her personal style mimics that of her equipment. Piercings, dramatic make-up, and a partially shaven head... all combine to give her a distinctive and memorable look.

Description: Hanna carries herself with all the confidence of a woman who makes a living knocking other people on their rear-ends. In combat she is brassy and bold, relying just as much on the force of her personality as on the tip of her sword. But outside the ring, she is (slightly) more reserved, with a quiet self-confidence and a dry wit. She has no need of the loud-mouthed braggadocio of some of her competitors. Still, for all her success and skill, the thrills of the arena and fighting for coin have begun to pall after many years. Perhaps there is something more out there?

Backstory: Seven sons, each broader and hairier than the last. Seven sons born to Jethro Volkan and his long-suffering wife. Seven sons... and one daughter. Hannah was the eighth and last-born child of Jethro. She was a small child, and though she grew up tall enough (Not too tall, of course. She's still a dwarf.), she never achieved anything close to the bulk of her brothers, which led to no small amount of paternal neglect. Jethro didn't need a child who couldn't work, he needed strong arms and strong backs to work his claim with him. When the orcish economy collapsed, increased raids upon the more remote dwarven settlements drove many dwarves to seek new homes. The elder Volkan chose to delve even further into the granite peaks, in search of riches buried deep in the heart of the mountain range. He had found his fortune, he knew it... he just needed the willpower and the workforce to extract from it's rocky tomb. But no matter how hard Volkan and his sons labored, the mountains refused to cede more than a pittance of gold to their efforts. In truth, the merest hint of gold was worse than finding nothing at all, because it fed Jethro's stubborn convictions.

This was the life Hannah found herself born into, a father who had no use for her, and a mother beaten down by life's hardships. To her brothers, she simply became eighth among their number. Brawling came naturally to her, and she soon learned to hold her own against the roughhousing and hazing that were the primary expression of affection among them all. She was younger and smaller than all of them, so she had to become twice as tough as any of them. And she did.

Her second eldest brother, Bix, was the first among them to leave. The walls of the bunkhouse reverberated with the argument he had with Dad the night before. He left with the dawn, putting the first cracks into their family. No, that was unfair. Just like chipping away at a fault in the rock, Bix hadn't put the cracks there... he'd simply let them become seen. There was no future to be had among these barren rocks, and Dad was too damned stubborn to see it. Slowly, but surely, the other six brothers started making their own plans to depart, to set off seeking their own fortunes. The mine had produced no wealth, but it had taught them all skills that would be useful enough elsewhere... in less impoverished regions. Except Hannah. She'd never worked the mines, all she really knew how to do was fight. As more brothers left, an icy sullenness settled across the camp and Hannah made her choice. She didn't know where she'd go, but she knew how to start. When you're at the top of a mountain, the only way to go is down.

The young dwarven lass could have become a soldier, or brigand or even an adventurer. It all depended on what she met on that road down into the valleys below, on which forks she took and which paths she spurned. In the end it was no more than happenstance that led her to Bjorn's, a disreputable roadside establishment with even more disreputable clientele. She had a hunger in her belly, little coin to her name and a sword strapped to her belt. A burly man, convinced by stupidity and drink of his own immortality, was challenging all comers... with gold on the line! That was merely the first bout of what would become a long-lived career. As she grew into her skills and persona, Hannah eventually graduated from sleazy knife fights to chasing glory among the glorious arenas of the southlands.

Hannah Volkan has traveled up and down the coasts of the Glimmering Sea and fought for her supper everywhere she went. But lately, the victories have felt hollow. The roaring crowds chant her name and her blood sings, but after the bout... what is left? Her sixth brother Hect settled in Silverpoint Harbor several years ago. He had always been the wisest and most level-headed of her brothers. Perhaps it was time to pay him a visit, to reconnect... to catch up... and to perhaps get his opinion.



ZendaCole SchneiderArtemis

Last edited by hafrogman; Oct 7th, 2022 at 01:35 PM.
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Old Oct 7th, 2022, 12:37 PM
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Name: Topip Tinkercase

Race: Autognome

Class: Wizard (Order of Scribes)

Background: Criminal

Description: Topip is a small robot - technically, a construct. His creator fashioned him after himself: a flowing (synthetic) chestnut beard, a jaunty blue wizard’s hat, two arms; two legs (both platinum), feet encased in (silver-iron magnetic) boots, a compact torso (perfectly rectangular), malachite-green eyes, and the faintest sliver of a mouth. You wouldn’t think it, but when he is well oiled, he can slip through the forest without a sound, metal feet on moss. The squirrels barely notice him. Nobody notices him, really. And that’s a bit of a problem for Topip, but also a blessing, I suppose.

You’d think a sentient robot would stand out in Silverpoint Harbor, but no. People assume he’s just some gnome’s creation: a clockwork plaything, a soulless assembly of metal, wound up, and wandering about. Who says good morning to Topip? Nobody. Who asks Topip how his day was? Nobody. Who sees Topip wander into people’s houses and rifle through all their possessions? Nobody…?

Backstory: Topip was created by a gnome wizard on the planet Reorx. His prime directive is to collect all known wizard spells in the universe and return them to his creator. Unfortunately, he has forgotten who his creator is. But if he ever finds them, he plans to kill them for inflicting this life upon him.

Topip is suffering from a rare form of robotic amnesia. He doesn’t know how he came to be in Silverpoint Harbor, or why he has no memory of it. All he knows is that he feels an uncontrollable compulsion to collect wizard spells.

He is aided in this pursuit by people’s general lack of interest in him. He learned quickly that he can go anywhere and do nearly anything he wants in Silverpoint Harbor as long as he keeps his mouth shut, plays dumb, and pretends to be a bit of clockwork.

He’s been in Silverpoint Harbor for well over fifty years now, but he hasn’t aged a day. Time drags on endlessly and monotonously. In his first few years in Silverpoint Harbor, he “discovered” nearly all the spells there were to discover and copied them neatly into his spellbook, which he hides in a small cavity in his torso.

His “discovery” process involved breaking into people’s homes, local libraries, town archives - really, anywhere with books or papers - in the dead of night, and searching through them for wizard spells. He doesn’t consider this stealing, exactly, since he doesn’t take anything; he just copies the spells down in his little spell book, puts things back, and lets himself out quietly. But on the few occasions when he has almost been caught, he has been accused of being some sort of thief or a criminal - a label that he doesn’t appreciate, but that is technically (and non-technically) true.

Most people in Silverpoint Harbor eventually came to recognize him, in one way or another, and decided that he was just part of the background of the town. For a while, he kept searching for spells, but he eventually gave up on that - there were just no more to find. He passed the time by studying the spells himself and slowly became a passable wizard.

Unsure what to do with the never ending abundance of time on his hands, Topip has been looking for a break. Something. Anything to end the monotony of his life in Silverpoint Harbor. He just needs to get somewhere that he can learn some new spells. Or, if not that, he would also be happy to find his creator and destroy them.



I have taken the Oath of Sangus

Last edited by O2CXt3; Oct 13th, 2022 at 12:42 AM. Reason: Adding stat block; changing cantrips; updating spells
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Old Oct 7th, 2022, 12:41 PM
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Name: Gloopglorp; or gloop or glorp; (a specific series of quivers and gas pocket evacuations)
Race: Plasmoid (medium)
Class: Monk (way of Astral Self the Primordial Ooze)
Character sheet

(Gloopglorp taking a nap on the stairs)
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Background: Anthropologist/spy/(custom)
Appearance: Born crystal clear, plasmoids become more opaque as they mature. Their color is that of what is absorbed, for Gloopglorp that would be inky black with some trace lines of gold here and there.
Description: A puddle in the shadows, a blob clogging a storm drain, a black onyx sculpture of an Adonis.
Personality: A mimic, both physically (form) and emotionally. Gloopglorp absorbs more than surface dust, they absorb vibes. If the vibe is tense, Gloopglorp is tense; if the vibe is chill, Gloopglorp is chill. Sometimes the energies they tune into are not really the ones they should be mimicking in a given situation, but they try. Who is Gloopglorp when they are alone? They are pensive and curious, enjoying puzzles and thought experiments. They love humans, and are particularly inspired by behaviors that favor the group rather than the individual. They also work out, continually practicing their humanoid forms, working hard to achieve more and more fidelity. The fine details of the human form are extremally difficult to form, like fingers or genitalia, but that doesn't stop Gloopglorp from trying.

Backstory: Gloopglorp arrived to this world in a diaspora cannister. Prior to arriving, there was only darkness and void. When the human child found and opened the cannister, there was suddenly light and color and food! Once enough organic matter from the child had been absorbed, consciousness was restored. Early communications with the indigenous lifeforms, specifically a series of screams and feral cries of a mother's anguish were not very productive nor informative. It proved much more advantageous to remain unseen, and observe from shadow.

Years passed. An identity was forged. Friends were made. A name was given, Li'l Gloop. Said friends were the humans who ran the Shambling Mounds, a local brothel. Li'l Gloop observed. Li'l Gloop protected. Li'l Gloop occasionally assisted. It was during one such assistance that Gloopglorp was introduced to the monastic order of Prime Self. After following this monastic client to their brotherhood, Gloopglorp observed. Gloopglorp learned. Gloopglorp eventually joined. The monks didn't care that they were an ooze, for to them a body and flesh were mere illusions. If anything, as an ooze, they were closer to the primordial self than one born human. The monastic order was comprised of humanoids in many different forms, from stocky and thick to long and frail, and Gloopglorp delighted in observing.

When it was discovered that the district the brothel was built upon was located on an ancient meteor impact site the humble brothel was suddenly under threat. Dwarven machines were already moving into position to start exploratory mining. Some warehouses were demolished and a hole was dug, a hole that would soon expand to claim the Shambling Mounds. GloopGlorp took it upon themselves to venture into the hole, which quickly opened up into a weird lacework of glass-like tunnels. Whatever had impacted here had melted the earth in fractal like ways. Some of larger chambers were coated in a strange slime that felt very comforting. Could this have come from the astral sea itself? Was this slime a clue to their own origins? After collecting a few samples, Gloopglorp emerged from the tunnel only to find a group of miners ready to drill further. The sight of a black ooze shambling out of the hole frightened them. Having studied humanoids, the ooze knew the power of fear. Gloopglorp extended pseudopod after pseudopods snaking toward the miners. Fear of strange alien creatures who were trapped below the earth quelled the desire to dig. When the monks of the Prime Self requested the site be declared a pilgrimage site, efforts to excavate the ruin were dropped. The Shambling Mounds could shamble on. Gloopglorp continued to explore the strange mine, alone able to traverse tight confines and cave-ins, until finally reaching the core. What they found there made them quiver in enlightenment. The monks were right, gloopglorp's mortal flesh was simply an echo of a greater primordial self.

Working collaboratively among humans from different backgrounds toward a goal of prosperity and enlightenment; utilizing martial discipline to unlock their true self; this is what brought Li'l Gloop joy.




Last edited by Still_Pond; Oct 14th, 2022 at 03:46 PM.
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Old Oct 7th, 2022, 01:37 PM
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Great Wyrm
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Lyra, Half-Elf Charlatan
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Name: Lyrindal 'Lyra' Moonbow
Race: Half-Elf
Class: Rogue (Arcane Trickster)
Background: Charlatan

Personality Traits:
  • I lie about almost everything, even when there’s no good reason to.
  • I have a joke for every occasion, especially occasions where humor is inappropriate.
  • Independence. I am a free spirit—no one tells me what to do. (Chaotic)
  • I fleeced the wrong person and must work to ensure that this individual never crosses paths with me or those I care about.
  • I can’t resist a pretty face.
Appearance: An attractive half-elf woman who stands at about 5'5 with dark brown hair and green-hazel eyes. She has a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks along with a ready smile and a twinkle to her eyes. Her favoured colour is purple and unless the situation calls for a disguise or something inconspicuous she prefers to wear at least some clothing with that shade, generally well cut, feminine and fashionable. She also always wears a hat.

Description: A stylish, witty and charming young woman Lyra is quick with a joke or flirt who is loyal to her friends if little else. In the company of those she dislikes her wit turns barbed and she has difficulty controlling her tongue unless she is pursing a con. She is proud of her wits and ability with magic and is almost as clever as she thinks she and even when not deliberately trying to make a coin out of it she delights in telling tall tales and seeing if she is believed. Unfortunately for her Lyra is vain, greedy and not very strong willed and her weaknesses - gold, a pretty face or sometimes the sheer lure of mischief against someone who deserves it - have tripped her up more than once.

Backstory: Lyra herself would tell you half a dozen fanciful tales about her origin but the truth is that she is a former pickpocket from the poor quarter of Silverpoint Harbor. She was assigned male at birth but always identified as female and eventually several years back found the money and contacts in the Mage's Guild to have her physical body polymorphed to match the person she was. At the same time she dropped the old masculine and very human sounding name her parents had given her in favour of the much more Elf sounding 'Lyrindal 'Lyra' Moonbow' (Lyra's parents were both half-elves themselves but had been humble folk not wanting to stand out.)

Her magical abilities developed after a chance dalliance with a handsome young illusionist named Rorik whom Lyra met at a card game. The romance was wild and short lived (though the two remain close friends) but the mage recognised Lyra's natural gift for magic and taught her a few minor spells. Lyra lacks the patience and work ethic to make it as a full wizard but she does find magic fascinating and has become quite adept at the tricks she knows.

Since her early teens Lyra has been a con-woman and scoundrel along with returning to her roots as a pickpocket now and then. She draws the line at murder and having grown up poor she won't steal from those who can't afford it at all but she has delighted in stealing from the rich and stupid and recently made a powerful enemy in the merchant's guild. She is now looking to lay low for a while or even skip town altogether until the heat dies down.

RP Sample:

The townhouse window opened and a lithe figure lowered a rope, working her way down with practiced ease and pausing only to make sure her plumed hat was in place. Dropping lightly to her feet in the alley Lyra smirked and untangled the rope, before making an arcane gesture and reciting a cantrip to close the window behind her. She knew well that guild master would not return to his townhouse for an hour yet and when he found both his new chambermaid and several of his more portable object d'art missing... well Lyra would be safely away by then.

The young half-elf cheerfully departed the alley, pleased not only with her success but also that after three days of wearing a drab servant's clothes in order to infiltrate the townhouse she could don her own attire. Long cons could make a lot of gold but by the gods they had their drawbacks...

A little later and she was enjoying her well (albeit dishonestly) earned lunch, and chuckling at the blacksmith's joke when the earthquake or whatever was struck. "Ye gods the pies aren't that bad!" she yelped, jumping to her feet and joining the confused throng as they moved outside.

Last edited by RossN; Oct 7th, 2022 at 08:01 PM.
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Old Oct 10th, 2022, 10:46 PM
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Grouchy Grouchy is offline
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Character Concept
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Name: The Honourable Reginauld Weatherby
Race: Giff
Class: Ranger 5 (Hunter)
Background: Same as Noble background, just extra focus on being pampered and spoiled Pampered Noble

Reginauld Weatherby is head and shoulders above the average man, with a massively thick torso and round belly and thick gray skin over heavy limbs. His head is an enormous muzzle with round protruding black eyes and a small snout, with a large mouth full of flat teeth. He wears a glass monocle over his right eye and on his head he is fond of a deerstalker cap with his family crest embroidered on the front of it. He wears a suit of mail with interlocking scales, the metal dulled with brown, with a dark green cloak thrown over his shoulders to better camouflage himself during his hunts. When not in his armor, he prefers to wear highly starched and pressed beige safari clothes with comfortable brown boots. In his massive hands he holds a well maintained and oiled hunting musket, and on a thick leather belt at his waist are a pair of oversized hunting knives. Reginauld stands with the poise and grace of one who was properly raised, and his deep booming voice is highly cultured and polished.

Reginauld grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth (actually - many of them, as he was quite the eater, but you get the point) and before he began running the spelljamming circuits he had never worked an honest day in his life before. As soon as he could walk his father thrust a musket into his hands, and Reginauld began joining the Baron Weatherby on his hunts. Reginauld proved to be a natural, and soon he spent every chance he could on the family land hunting game. He even had a tendency to skip some of his lessons and sneak off into the woods, much to the chagrin of his tutors. His parents spoiled him immensely so Reginauld was never dissuaded from his hunts, and soon the entire southern wing of their manor was dedicated to his hunting trophies. As Reginauld grew older, he bored of the more mundane hunts and began to hunt predators - more exciting and dangerous, thus more fun! Soon too he began to outclass these beasts, and grew immensely bored. He almost thought of giving up his beloved hunting and joining his father in the appropriate social circles.

As luck would have it, his father was searching for armed guards for one of his trading caravans and, seeing an opportunity, Reginauld volunteered. Although the Baron Weatherby tried to talk him out of it, he eventually relented (after all, they never said no to him much before in his life) and Reginauld joined the caravan. As luck would have it, they got into a bit of a scrap with a group of bandits. The caravan easily came out on top, but Reginauld's thirst was stoked in ways it had never been before. This is the true test of a hunter - comparing his might and mettle against the most dangerous opponents one can find. The joy of hunting was back in full swing for Reginauld, and he has since earned many a fair coin of his own hiring himself out as a mercenary. Of course, he still makes plenty of time for hunting too - wherever he travels to, he always tries to find what kind of dangerous beasts like in the area, and Reginauld then hunts them down and earns another trophy for the southern wing. He hopes through his exploits he can bring honor to the Weatherby name.

Backstory: A hodag was troubling some of the small villages and homesteads outside of Silverpoint, and a bounty was placed on it and word put out to those passing by. Reginauld has claimed the bounty and is in town waiting for the local taxidermist to finish treating and mounting the hodag's head so he can send it home to Weatherby Manor.

RP Sample:
Folding his arms over his quite prominent belly as he leans back in his chair, Reginauld takes a deep drag of his cigar and looks with a gleam in his eye at his captive audience. Smiling as only a giff can, he leans back in and in his polished tone he continues the story, his voice dripping with dramatic menace. "I could hear him in the bushes, you know. The clacking of his spiked tail. Claws raking along the dirt. The heavy breathing through sharp, deadly teeth. But with the darkness all around me, I couldn't pinpoint where... exactly... he was. All I could hear, was this..." The well dressed giff begins to scratch his fingers along the table, bringing them closer and closer to the slightly tipsy human with the bad teeth, who grinned and shivered in appreciation for the tale.

"But do you think that would stop me?" he continues, grinning ear to ear. "Ho-ho-ho, not a chance, my good chaps! I thumbed the hammer on my trusty musket, and slowly drew a bead on the encroaching noise. Slowly, I squeezed the trigger. Slowly... slowly... and then BAM!" he shouts, slapping on the table for good effect, before hurriedly continuing into the tale. "A hit! But just a glancing blow! Gentlemen, I thought my goose was cooked at this moment. Hurriedly dumping in another ball and powder as the nightmarish beast rushed me, its roar so loud I can still hear it now and get shivers in my nethers, I thought this was the end. But as luck would have it, the hammer was back and the musket was up in a flash, and with another report of my trusty musket, the beast was down!" He bows in slight appreciation for the scattering of light applause, then keeps going, now in a conspiratorial tone.

"Even in its death throes it was still a monstrous thing to behold. I waited until long after it was dead to even touch it, and longer still until I strapped it up and hauled it back to Silverpoint for the bounty. The bounty, of course, being paid in more drinks for one of the loveliest audiences I have had in a time!" The men cheered and clapped the giff on the shoulder as Reginauld smoothly hands off a handful of gold to the bartender and, with a gesture towards the men by him, gets them another round of drinks. Puffing on his cigar, he mulls briefly and then announces "You know, still not as treacherous as last summer. Now there was a beast of some renown...!"

Actions and Statistics

Bonus/Other Action:
Current Effects: None.

02/26/24 - New position and personal real estate work is keeping me busy, please PM me if I am running behind.

Last edited by Grouchy; Oct 10th, 2022 at 11:21 PM.
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Old Oct 11th, 2022, 11:21 PM
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Oskur Verit
If we are but Grains of Sand on a Vast Beach,
and the Gods are the Crabs that Walk Across Us...

What then is the Sea?
The BonesCharacter Name: "Old Oskur" Verit
Class: Twilight Cleric
Race: Aasimar
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Background: Silverpoint Hermit (custom based on Baldur’s Gate Hermit)
Personality Trait 1: Money or Social Graces won’t save you from the crushing force of Entropy, so Oskur gave those up long ago. Food in his stomach and a warm dry blanket is all that he needs now.
Personality Trait 2: The old Warlock often gets lost in his own thoughts and contemplations, becoming oblivious to his surroundings. He has learned much and forgotten more over the years, and he struggles to piece together fragments of memories into cohesive thoughts.
Ideal: Freedom. Oskur would rather suffer in freedom than thrive in a cage. No chains will hold him and no oaths will bind him. He will live or die on his own terms. (Chaotic)
Bond: He’s still seeking the peace that he pursued in his seclusion, and it still eludes him.
Flaw: Constantly looking for a bigger picture to perceive and understand, the old Warlock is a seeker of secrets. Uncovering lost knowledge has already led to disaster once, and may well lead to it again.
The Flesh
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He stands tall, or he used to. People tend to shrink with age, and Oskur hasn't been an exception. Almost six feet tall with broad but stooped shoulders, he sometimes remembers being a giant of a man. Light eyes are framed with wrinkled skin the color of sunbaked mud. It has been a long time since he has known a barber, and his steel-grey hair is long and wild. His beard is just as unkempt. The warlock stares deeply into the distance of his own mind. His clothes are roughly stitched together from discarded ship's canvas and the scraps one might find behind the leather worker's shop. Lost in thought, he effortlessly steps around horse droppings and over debris. Struck by a valuable piece of memory, the unarmed old man opens the battered brown journal he carries and quickly scribbles an illegible note between fragments of arcane formulae and amateur star charts.

The old man shows a sad sort of kindness. The citizens of Silverpoint that have sat and shared a bit of street food with Oskur remember him fondly. People who take the time to earn his trust find him to be a surprisingly insightful and dedicated friend. He never asks for anything unreasonable, and always shares more than he should with the hungry urchins and broken soldiers. He tells people that the Universe will provide again tomorrow with forlorn confidence and a haunted look.

Oskur Verit is plagued by visions of the stars and the memories of a horrible night he walked among them with his friends. He watches young adventuring parties wistfully, wanting to help while he still can but afraid he will be their doom. The world speaks to him, always. The wind whispers caution and the seas sing resilience. The night sky tells him to wait for the right time to travel again. Soon, the stars will align.
The Spirit

A native of Silverpoint, Oskur Verit was born into a prestigious bloodline and raised in the nice parts of the city. Gifted with a brilliant mind and an aptitude for magic, his future as an adventurer was a certainty. The boy was sent to study with the scholars of a local mage’s college after he came of age. Between spending time studying the world and studying the arcane, the young apprentice helped them recover lost tomes and artifacts for study. Soon enough a regular selection of assistants and bodyguards grew into a 'party' and together they delved into deep crypts and lost labyrinths. The Scion of the Verit family and his team soon became known for their ability to find anything, no matter how obscure, and were a favorite until the day they didn't come back.

After returning to Silverpoint, Oskur stuck to himself in the alleys of the harbor and open tenements. More than a few years had passed since he left to join the college, and there were few who would recognize him in his disheveled state. Slowly he pulled himself together, but he was still a pale shadow of the being he once was. Oskur felt that it was for the best that everyone assume that all were lost in the expedition.

He never returned to the college. A library worth of magic had been burned from his mind, and he couldn't focus long enough to try to memorize even a single apprentice-level spell. There were a few things that he retained a knack for, though. Daydreams and fragments of memory get jotted down in his leatherbound journal, collecting bits of odd ritual for him to piece together. Whatever he was, he wasn't a wizard anymore.

Over the years, he became an almost beloved fixture of the city's waterfront. Sometimes, the children of the dockworkers traded copper pennies for light shows. The addled Aasimar was recognized and appreciated in the slums and the alley camps. He was known for looking out for lost orphans and the beggars that grew too sick to care for themselves. The isolation suited him.
The Spark
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RP Sample

A bashful tiefling girl hides, partially obscured by a barrel of rainwater. She’s heard the stories of Old Oskur and she’s hungry. Parents long gone, the red-skinned little thing has been surviving off of crime and chance. Neither have been kind to her today. The crusty old man chews on the good parts of a moldy loaf of bread he found outside the ruined bakery. He doesn't seem to notice the child. Oskur's long coarse hair blends seamlessly with his overgrown beard like the main of a grey lion.

Knobby hands tear a large chunk off and toss it in her direction. Tucking a strand of black hair behind curling horns, the urchin reaches out and takes the bread hesitantly. "Eat child. No reward for hunger," the Warlock mutters while slowly turning his head to look at her. The freckles on her face resemble lost constellations. The stars provide. "Wanna see Magic?" He raises an eyebrow quizzically, "What child doesn't?"

She nods cautiously and slowly inches towards the sun-baked street mage. The miniature image of a tavern flickers into existence with deft hand movements and Oskur's chanted words. It is one she has seen before but never entered. "Recognize it, Girl?" he asks. She nods again. "Good, then go there," he reaches into a belt pouch and takes out a scrap of paper and a pair of pitted copper coins. The grey-haired caster pulls a charcoal pencil from somewhere in his beard and scratches a note on the paper before holding it out to her. "Take these."

After the girl takes the message and coins, the mage waves his fingers again. The image changes to a kind-faced halfling man with short dark hair. "Garret. He'll be there. He'll help." He nods firmly, like the matter is settled, and takes another bite from his moldy loaf of bread. Old Oskur doesn't look up when the girl leaves to meet the tavern keeper. If his memory serves, and it often doesn't, the halfling is still looking for a new dishwasher. Better that than some of the alternatives ahead of her.

As usual, his mind is already elsewhere. He watches the skies at night and the stars have been misbehaving. Far too many are falling and Silverpoint isn't due for any kind of prolonged shower. It may be foolish to think that it's connected to the incident at the bakery, but Old Oskur isn’t feeling like a fool. He pops the last of the bread into his mouth and chews on it idly while walking in the direction of the destroyed bakery. His curiosity demands answers.

rumblerumblerumblerumblerumblerumblerumblerumblerumblerumblerumblerumble CRACK!

Distant screams of panic follow close behind. Something curious is happening. Something curious indeed. Oskur picks up the pace...
Former GM: Oops! All Kobolds...
Retired Characters: Cade 'Sunspot' Taproot - Cain Swap - Stray - Jeremy Winthorpe - Ace Harlan
Taker of Oaths
I work at a Hospital but like to pretend that I can keep a regular schedule.

Last edited by Touketsu; Oct 14th, 2022 at 01:34 AM.
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