[Characters] The Castle Crypt

[DaniLore]

Come and introduce yourselves, Challengers of Ravenloft. A spot has been reserved just for you...

[Humble Athena]

="Nikol" Name: Nikol Dravkin Race: (Human) Dhampir Class: Ranger Origin: Mordent Character Sheet   Appearance: Nikol is of unremarkable build. Slightly taller than average, he has broad shoulders but his body is lean from mild malnourishment. Once lightly sun-tanned, his skin has taken on an unhealthy pallid. His hair, when clean, is a dark blond, and roughly cut to keep it out of the way, though it quickly regrows an inch longer than ideal. His eyes are a clear pale blue. His attire is simple, practical, and unremarkable except for the telltale signs of frequent mending and mismatched cloth added on to increase size. Beneath his shirt though none bear witness, there are numerous shallow scars on his torso and limbs. Against this portrait of a peasant, an elaborate amulet of Holy silver hangs on a filigree chain around his neck, housing a brilliant garnet marred by a cloudy mist of black that creeps from left to right.   * Personality/Traits: Beneath his Who in Ravenloft doesn't have a heckload of 'em?myriad of emotional issues, Nikol has a soft heart. Too soft, his father would often say, usually shortly before a lesson designed to 'toughen the boy up'. He cares deeply for three people in the world- his mother Lizbet, his sister Amelia, and his best friend Stefan- but he hates to see anyone or anything living suffering. He carries a lot of guilt, both for initially being reluctant to follow in his father's footsteps as a defender of the people against the night, and for the pain of essentially abandoning his mother and sister in much the same way as his father did, even if it seems safer for them in the long run. Nik doesn't hold a lot of hope in his heart for a favorable outcome for himself, but goes on anyway, because the only other option is still unthinkable. He is driven to destroy as many monsters as he can with what life he has left, in hopes that even if he does turn fully, on the whole he'll still have tipped the scales toward good. Since the attack that infected him, he has both become far more of an introvert, yet also painfully terrified of being alone. Just like every other aspect of his life lately, it usually leaves him in a grey middle area, where he's drawn to being around other people- just not too close. Background: Haunted One Personality Classic: I don’t talk about the thing that torments me. I’d rather not burden others with my curse. Horror: Nothing is more important than Life, and I never leave anyone in danger. Ideals Classic: I kill monsters to make the world a safer place, and to exorcise my own demons. (Good) Horror: Obligation--I owe it to people to continue a vaunted legacy. Additional: Vow- My weapons are for monsters. I will never raise one against a human, except my fists if I absolutely must. Bonds Classic: I would sacrifice my life and my soul to protect the innocent. Horror: I'm desperately seeking a cure to an affliction or a curse, for myself Flaws Classic: Once I set my mind on thought or action, I find it very hard to see things any other way. Horror: I know my future is written and that anything I do will lead to a predestined end.   "Remember, son, there all kinds of beasts both natural and unnatural, and you must learn to recognize them by the signs they leave, whether in city or in wilderness. For that is how you will know what you hunt. If you do not know, then you cannot prepare, and if you do not prepare, then you will die." The young blond-headed child walked alongside his father, five little bouncing steps to his father's two, striding together across rocky ground towards a deciduous forest ahead. The boy was about six years old, dressed in a muted tan shirt that covered from head to wrist and swamp-green pants that had been patched several times, mostly on the knees. The brightest flash of color about him were his inquisitive blue eyes. The muscles beneath his clothes were already starting to become defined. Papa wanted a strong son, and the little boy wanted to make his father proud, so he did the exercises Papa had shown him every day. His father was still a fairly young man himself, straight of back and resolute of purpose. His hair was a little darker, a little sandier than his son's, but already starting to lose color to grey at the temples. His eyes were the same startling blue, and he had picked his son's clothing palette from the same muted colors with which he dressed himself. Added to that, hunter's boots and a leather satchel over his shoulder completed his attire. Child marched beside man without straying, too excited to be going out with his father to cause any mischief. Now and then he would start to reach a hand for his father's, but quickly drew it back, remembering. 'Big boys don't hold hands'. And Papa thought he was a big boy. The child wasn't going to disappoint his father, and maybe get sent home. He wanted to see Papa fight the monster! The duo stopped at the edge of the trees while the sun began to descend from the sky. The father's eyes searched out every shadow beneath the peaceful facade of the trees. Finally, he led the boy forward, to a circle carved in the earth beneath a great oak. Some dark substance had been poured into the crevice previously, and now the man inspected it to make sure it was still whole. Satisfied, he positioned the boy inside, and sprinkled a packet of herbs over the boundary. "Whatever happens, do not step from this circle until I give you permission." He instructed his son firmly. The little boy watched with curiosity as his father prepared another mixture and poured it on the ground a couple feet away. Then his father crouched with his back to a large tree, and waited. The little boy started getting restless, and he paced inside of the circle, but he was careful not to cross or disturb the circle. Papa had made it clear that was important. The sky was dark now, and the boy was occupying himself building a pile of pebbles. Suddenly, a motion approached, a blur of dark fur with the flashing pale of fang or claw. His father rose, strange weapons in hand. As the two began circling, a wet stain spread across the front of the boy's trousers, but he obeyed his father and stayed inside the circle. Suddenly the air shifted, and the two bodies rushed at each other. The young boy looked on with fear as the creature began to get the upper hand, brute strength overcoming his father's defenses. His legs felt weak, his heart was pounding. He wanted to run, but the thing would chase him if he did. But if it got Papa, ... what could he do? There were some large rocks coming up through the earth like teeth, and with a sudden decision, the boy stepped out of the circle and put both small hands around one that he could barely lift. It looked so big in his hands, but so small when he looked at the horrible thing that was fighting his Papa. Still, he couldn't lift the bigger stones, so this was the one he threw. The rock never reached the creature. It tumbled to the earth barely seconds after leaving the child's hands and rolled along the ground to stop a foot and a half away from the monster's feet. The monster turned its head, and the boy stood petrified, unable to get his legs to carry him back to the safety of the circle. But the distraction was all his father needed to plunge a blade into the monster's chest and cut off its head. Papa stood, panting, when all was done, wiping sweat and grime and blood off his face with his sleeve, He stood and walked over to where his son remained still as a statue for the first time in his energetic young life, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I told you to stay inside the circle and you disobeyed. For this I am disappointed. But I am proud of the courage you showed." The boy nodded, but his eyes didn't leave the body of the thing until his father took his hand and lead him home. Background:   Nikol's mother Lizbet was the daughter of the mayor of a small village in Mordent. His father, Emil, was a monster hunter who rescued her from the no-name vampire who kidnapped her and held her prisoner to feed on slowly. She fell in love with her dashing hero on the journey home, and insisted that she would wed no other. Because Emil had saved her, her father gave permission for the marriage, but the hunter was not trusted in town. Not only was he essentially an adventurer who was sure to bring trouble with him, but he was an outsider, originally hailing from Barovia. After her marriage, although Lizbet remained in her home village, she was treated with varying degrees of disdain or pity for her foolishness in choosing a union with this outsider, who left her alone for good stretches of the year as he continued to hunt monsters. Nikol was a happy infant, smiling often, and cooing along when his mother would sing to him. He was an angel of a child, except when taken by the occasional night terror that seemed to come without rhyme or reason.aThose first few years, Emil was a dutiful, if largely absent, husband and father. He made sure that his family was taken care of, though he never truly seemed capable of expressing love. When Nik's little sister was born, he doted on her completely, and couldn't understand why his father didn't seem very interested in the baby girl at all. Still, he could think no wrong of his father, and did his little toddler best to make the gruff hunter proud of him. Emil, for his part, treated the boy less like a son, and more like a future hunter whom he had the tedious task of training, and most all of his time with the boy reflected that. Even at that young age, the games he would play with Nik that were designed to push him; strength, speed, reflexes. The earlier he started, he reasoned, the more ready the boy would be to eventually take up arms beside him. It never occurred to Emil that the boy might want to do anything else. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ As Nik started to grow older, his idolation of his father began to crack, with each year of mostly absence, each year of rumors and scorn from the townsfolk, each year of his mother barely managing on her own. The more he heard whispers that compared his father unfavorably to that other hunter family, the less he wanted to risk his life for ungrateful, small-minded pissants. He spent less and less time following his father's training regime, and more time just exploring, or doing odd jobs around town when he could convince someone to pay him. It was during these years that he met another young boy, also considered an outsider due to Vistani blood. He and Stefan became fast, near inseparable friends, and it was with Stefan's encouragement that he began to foster a different dream. His voice had developed into a sublime instrument, but his father had always discouraged singing as a waste of time. But in his fourteenth year, a letter arrived for his mother that led to her spending three days shut in her room, weeping. When she finally emerged, she would not discuss the letter, only telling the children that their father would not return home any more, and that Nikol was now the man of the house. The youth gave up all pretenses at hunter training at this point, doing what he could to bring in money for his family, and dreaming of a different path. He picked up a taste for alcohol at this time, something his mother disapproved of but didn't have the heart to fight with him about. Fortunately, Stefan was able steer him from the worst of his new talent for vice. One birthday, Stefan gifted him a beautiful mandolin, and he accepted it without question, immediately devoting his evening time to trying to master it. By his twentieth year, he had saved up enough money and confidence, and made plans to travel to the big cities and try to make his fortune as a minstrel. The night before he was set to depart, he became quite inebriated at his farewell celebration. Feeling no fear in his village's relatively safe streets, he headed home, alone in the dark. He still doesn't remember exactly what happened that night. There was fear, and pain, and a frantic race for safety. Somehow he made it home, crawling into his room, and curling up in his bed. For days, he was delirious with fever. When it broke, he was cold- and discovered that his canine teeth had grown into a discreet pair of fangs. Grasping the implication and fearing what was to come, he decided to follow the hunter's path, after all. What else was he good for, now? Perhaps, in fact, this was punishment for abandoning his calling. As he prepared to make his delayed departure, he found Stefan waiting. Try as he might, he couldn't shake his friend's determination to watch over him, and he could not bring himself to explain why it would be unwise. So he accepted his friend's company, as they left home, together. But he soon realized that the curse was gaining strength faster than he anticipated. In desperation, he recalled a rumor of a nearby church that possessed an unusual artifact, a curse-eater amulet, that might be able to aid him. The problem was, the church did not offer aid to just anyone; only the richest could afford to be treated with it. Deciding that the church was just another predatory entity, the boys plotted to steal the amulet, though Nik still did not explain why he needed it. They managed to get the amulet, but were caught in the act. There was a mad scramble out the back exit, through the church's cemetery grounds. The boys were just about to be caught, when the mists reached out, and took them.

 

Experience: Been playing D&D for.... maybe twenty years now? But I've only dabbled in 5e a tiny bit. I've read up quite a bit on Ravenloft lore. Played through the 2e Ravenloft module once. Skimmed through CoS, but really only looked closely at the prelude adventure (because that's as far as my group got before it fell apart. Also, I was running in PF.)

 

HP: 11/11
AC: 15
Saves: Str +6, Dex +6, Con +1, Int +1, Wis +2, Cha +1

[case]

Stefan Belasco Name: Stefan Belasco Race: Human Class: Rogue Origin: Mordent Appearance: Stefan is shorter than average, a scrawny young man of twenty-two years. He has olive skin and long black hair that curls loosely at the ends. He typically wears it bound up in a messy knot tied at the back of his head. His face is angular, anchored by a prominent nose and big brown eyes, and a smile that’s convincingly disarming. He is particular about his clothing, particularly jackets. Right now he has a burnt orange jacket with colorblocked black trim, worn over a crisp white shirt and a brown vest, with dark brown pants and boots that come to mid-calf. He’s missing the pinky finger from his left hand, and his right arm is a little twisted from having the bone broken and healing not quite straight. Personality: Stefan is savvy and irreverent, quick with a quip or insult for those who deserve it, though he is a fiercely loyal friend and a keen observer of others. Many calculations run in his head at all times, and he can see the value in doing things both good and bad if the end result will be favorable. Stefan is not afraid to take a risk to make a bold move, but is paranoid about something happening to his friend Nikol. Stef doesn’t care about money but likes nice things, which is inconvenient.   “Are you wondering how I lost it?” Stefan Belasco put down his cards and held up his maimed hand, the left, pinky finger missing. The cut was clean, severed between the knuckle and first joint, the scar tissue shiny, pale on his olive skin. His companions at the table, strangers all three, eyed his hand without saying anything. Around them, the tavern was noisy and bustling, heavy with the smells of only slightly rancid stew and stale beer. “What if I told you it was a wolf? No? Too unbelievable? What about a shaving accident?” “How about you just play?” one of the strangers said. One corner of Stef’s mouth turned up at the corner. He had the look of what people called a ‘traveler’ if they were being urbane, though most rarely bothered such niceties. He’d been called more slurs than he could count. He was short and on the wrong side of scrawny, dark-eyed and dark of complexion, angular features anchored by a prominent nose and a smile that was convincingly disarming. He wore his black hair tied up in a knot behind his head, but when it was loose it flowed down his back, the ends wavy. Stef knew these strangers wouldn’t say the name outright, but some people back home did. Back in Mordentshire, there was plenty of talk: that his mother’s grandmother was Visanti, that she had escaped from some dark realm, that she had the gift of prophecy. No one knew if those stories were true, not even his uncle Davos. His mother swore on her grandmother’s grave all of it was true, but then again, she claimed to have the sight herself so she could tell fortunes and bilk the unsuspecting out of their money. Stefan made a show of counting his coins again. He pushed half of what he had to the center of the table, then followed up with the second half. “I call and raise,” he said. The strangers frowned and muttered to themselves. “Anyway, you’re thinking it’s too neat for an animal attack, right? You’re thinking it looks like something else. Like a knife. Like it was cut off on purpose. What’s the first thing your mind goes to?” One man sneered and threw down his cards. “I’m out. I’m not playing with a thief.” Another man eyed him. “You a thief? You’re cheating?” “Now that’s a heavy accusation. I’ll have you note that there’s nothing up my sleeves.” Stef pushed up the sleeves of his second-favorite jacket, a burnt orange number with colorblocked trim. His scrawny arms were laced with fine scars, and his right forearm twisted, like it had been broken long ago and never healed quite right. “No cards in my pockets, either, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He turned his pockets inside out and opened his jacket. It was lined with an exquisite green silk that complemented the green of his waistcoat and the matte grey of the multiple dagger hilts sheathed along his torso. “That’s it for me,” the second man said, and left the table. Stefan looked at the remaining man. “Well?” “I don’t like games,” the last man said. His friends had moved to the bar for a drink, but they were still watching them closely. “All right, all right, I’ll just tell you,” Stef said. “My uncle Davos cut off my finger because he thought I stole from him. But I didn’t.” “Yeah, right,” the stranger said. Stefan smiled. “If you know my uncle, you’d believe it was true. The cutting off part, that is. But you don’t know him, do you? Davos Belasco? Of the Mordentshire Belascos?” There were a fair share of rumors about that side of the family, but unlike his mother’s side, they were pretty much true. It was true his uncle was the head of the Belasco crime family. Most of the people that hung around his uncle’s place, he’d grown up calling auntie or uncle even though they weren’t really related. They’d taught him everything he knew. “Screw this.” The stranger pushed coins into the center of the pile with sudden violence. “You’re bluffing.” Stef raised his brows, and turned over his cards. The man gaped. “You were bluffing.” He sounded incredulous, in spite of his wager. “Of course I was. I had a **** hand. You have a **** hand yourself, if I’m not mistaken.” “Not as **** as yours,” the man said, sneering now, flipping his cards. From the bar, his friends whooped and pointed. “Idiot.” “I guess so,” Stef said. “Looks like you win.” When the man had collected his winnings and joined his friend at the bar, Nikol joined him at the table. “What was that about?” Nik asked, sighing heavily. “You just lost all your money again.” “Not all of it.” Behind them, the men were laughing. The winner loudly ordered another round for him and his friends. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” Stef threw an arm over Nikol’s shoulders and leaned close, murmuring now, mouth next to Nik’s ear. “I overheard them talking to each other earlier. From what I could gather, they kidnapped someone and are holding her for ransom.” Nikol’s expression sharpened and darkened, his blue eyes shifting somehow, turning the pale shade of a stormcloud. “‘Her?’” He was already staring at the men like the way wolves stare at hares. “Yeah. Sounds like her family’s holding out, so they’re frustrated. They came here to blow off some steam while their friend watches their captive. I thought we could follow them back to their place and rescue her. And, you know, take all my money back. And their money. And possibly get a reward, though the family sounds like tightwads.” Muscles twitched in Nikol’s jaw. “Stef, we need to get to the church.” There was something haunted in his eyes as he said it, something that was unlike the Nik he knew. Nik had been different, ever since that night back home, the night that Nik was supposed to leave but hadn’t. “Those men - ” “They’ll be too drunk to walk in the straight line, much the less put up a decent fight.” “No.” Nik’s eyes flashed now. “If we’re going to do this, it needs to be quietly. We sneak in and get her out.” At the bar, the men ordered another round. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Stef said. Background: Criminal Personality Classic I’m irreverent and act like nothing much affects me. It doesn’t. Mostly. Horror I let people underestimate me, revealing my full competency only to those close to me. Ideals Classic I’m loyal to the people I care about. If something happens to someone else, that’s too bad, but it’s not my problem, unless I can turn it to my advantage. Horror Escape--I believe there is something beyond the world I know, and I need to find it. Bonds Classic My family shaped me, but I don’t have to follow in their footsteps. Horror I have to save Nik. Even if it’s from himself. Flaws Classic I’m too willing to go all in when the odds aren’t good. Horror I’m a skeptic and don't believe in the power of rituals, religion, superstition, or spirits. I also don’t think this is a flaw. Background:   Stefan Belasco’s father was a noble knight. Or a long-lost royal, the second son of a heretic king from a distant kingdom. Or an exiled warrior poet from a monastic order who had broken his vow of celibacy in the name of love. Or one of twenty different candidates from a particularly wild pagan festival. Those were the stories his mother had told him when he asked her who his father was. Every story seemed more outlandish than the last, yet she told them with conviction that he didn’t know what to believe. When he asked his uncle Davos, Davos had gripped Stefan’s face with gentle violence and said, “Best you not ask about that, boy”, so Stefan never asked again. Once, when his mother was drunk, she told him his father was a fool and had died in prison. She seemed sad when she said it, so he decided he liked that story best. And so that was who his father was: a fool, a prisoner, a dead man. In Stefan’s head, his father had been a gambler, but not for mere sport. He’d had a talent with the cards, enough to make a decent living, but when he’d met Marta Belasco, he had fallen deeply in love. When he found out she was carrying his child, he wanted a better life for the three of them, so he had entered a high-stakes game to win enough coin that they could start a new life away from Marta’s criminal family. Against all odds, he had won, but his opponents could not stand for the insult. They arranged to have him imprisoned on false charges and later attacked. And there in prison he had died, never having met his son. And so Stefan had grown up in the Belasco crime family. His mother claimed that her grandmother was Vistani, a brave young woman who had fled a dark land, hunted because she had the sight, the gift of prophecy. Marta always claimed she had the gift as well, and told fortunes. She wore bright colors and dark makeup and affected an exotic accent and explained to wealthy widowers and those who had lost children that their loved ones were trying to contact them from beyond, or advised young nobles that a grand business opportunity was just around the corner, one they should invest in heavily. From behind beaded curtains and from under trap doors, Stefan had watched it all; sometimes he was charged with pulling near-invisible wires to move pottery, or to knock two bowls together to make hollow sounds. Sometimes he wore pale makeup and lurked outside the room when his mother conducted seances, appearing at the window at key moments. When he was eight, his mother crossed the wrong person, a nobleman with a vendetta, and so she needed to flee, which she did late one night, leaving her son behind. His uncle Davos raised him from that point forward, and he learned the Belasco family trade of theft and smuggling and bribery and spying and other, darker pursuits. He learned these things but did not love them; there had to be more in life. Later, he met another boy, a fair-haired adventuresome lad named Nikol. Nikol was not like anyone Stefan had ever known. He loved music and knew poetry and sang beautifully. Sometimes they explored the ruins in the forest beyond their village. Sometimes they just sat on a rooftop and looked at the stars and talked about what they wanted to do. Nikol wanted to be a musician, but his father didn’t approve and wanted him to be a hunter instead. Stefan understood, deep in his bones, how Nikol felt. He knew that Uncle Davos trafficked in rare instruments, so one night, he broke into Davos’ office, looked through his ledger, and found an entry for a mandolin that had been sold to a rich businessman two towns over. He went to the businessman’s home, broke in, and took the mandolin and a few other valuables, then threw everything but the mandolin into a deep pond on the way back. Two weeks later, he presented the mandolin to Nik for his birthday. The look on his friend’s face when he unwrapped his gift made everything that came next worth it. The day after Nikol’s birthday celebration, Davos Belasco called his nephew into his office and asked about the mandolin. “You told me never to steal from you, Uncle, and I didn’t,” Stefan said. Davos nodded slowly. “That’s very true. That’s why your punishment will be minor.” At that, Davos grabbed his arm, and suddenly a knife was in his hand, then the next thing Stefan knew, his left pinky finger was sitting on his uncle’s desk, very much apart from the rest of his hand. It had happened so suddenly it didn’t even hurt, but Davos wrapped it carefully and sent him on his way with an admonishment to keep the bandage clean. Stefan stayed away from Nikol until the wound had healed, and when Nik noticed it, he told him he’d lost it in a knife fight. He didn’t think Nik particularly believed him, but Nik also didn’t push too hard. Nikol began to talk even more about this dream of being a traveling musician, of going to big cities and earning a living as a minstrel and possibly earning enough coin to study with the greatest maestros. Meanwhile, Stefan’s dissatisfaction with his uncle’s cronies and his uncle’s assignments and his uncle’s rules grew. Eventually he left the Belasco family home and squatted in the basement of an old church that had burned down years before. He didn’t tell Nik that he was homeless because he didn’t want Nik to feel sorry for him, and he always pretended like he went home to his uncle’s house. He didn’t mind the loneliness. He didn’t mind the cold. What he was aware of was that being alone made him a target. The town saw its share of the restless dead, and Stefan was of two minds: first, he had personally seen how his mother used the idea of ghosts as a part of her con games. He himself had dressed as a ghost and had made noises and moved objects with near-invisible string in order to frighten and intrigue. He knew full well that there would always be those who took people’s healthy fear of the supernatural and used it to their advantage. It was the cynic in him, a knee-jerk reaction not to fully trust what appeared on the surface. At the same time, his uncle’s life lessons were strong. While it was true some ghosts could be tricks or even magic, there were plenty of ghosts that were actual entities, and like all dangerous entities, they were to be respected and avoided, because they could not be reasoned with or turned aside with an ordinary blade. There were other undead things as well, not just ghosts, but in a way, they were all the same, so he followed the ways that he had absorbed from Uncle Davos: learn their rules and stay out of their way. Even though he had no respect for the institution that it stood for, the old church was strangely useful as a makeshift squat, as no ghosts or restless dead haunted that formerly hallowed ground. Maybe the priestly magic was still present, or maybe the dead had just learned to avoid it, but he slept many nights in that cold basement and the dead never sought him out. When Nik told him he was leaving to finally pursue his dream of becoming a traveling minstrel, Stefan was overjoyed for his friend, who was finally going to escape the legacy he didn’t want. But the more Nik talked about what he would do and where he would go, he always said “I” and made it sound like he was picturing traveling alone. Was that what Nik truly wanted? To leave everything and everyone behind and start a brand new life? Stefan didn’t know and couldn’t bring himself to ask. On the night of Nik’s going away party, Stefan told himself he would tell Nik that he wanted to come with him. Tell him he would leave everything behind for him. He would confess how he truly felt. As the night went on, the other villagers bought Nik drinks, and Nik got drunker and drunker. Stef had a few too many himself as he tried to shore up his courage, and as the evening began to wrap up and the other guests had left, Stef tried to talk to Nik, but everything he said kept coming out wrong. Finally he just grabbed Nikol’s face and leaned forward but that was when the barkeep called out loudly that the bar was closing and everyone needed to leave. Nik was looking at him with a strange look on his face, one that he couldn’t interpret. Stefan jumped up and said he had to leave. He hurried back to the abandoned church but had second thoughts halfway, though when he backtracked to the tavern, Nik was already gone. Stefan looked for him on the road but couldn’t find him. He thought the worst, that Nikol left in utter disgust. Strangely though, Nik hadn’t left, but the next time Stef saw him, he seemed entirely different. Distant. Preoccupied. He made no reference to what had happened that night, and didn’t seem to remember it at all. Instead, he told Stefan he was going to become a hunter like his father had wanted all along. Stef didn’t know what had happened to his friend, and Nik wouldn’t tell him anything. Still, it didn’t matter. He told Nikol that he would come with him no matter what, and Nik finally agreed. Ever since then, they have been traveling together, no matter where the road takes them. Experience: About me - I’ve been playing D&D since I was eleven, which is many moons ago now. I’ve played several different editions but I’ve never played Curse of Strahd, though I’ve always heard good things about it. I applied to this game at Humble Athena’s invitation. I first met her in a Shadow of the Demon Lord game that just wrapped up. Her character nobly sacrificed herself so the rest of the party could escape, and the sacrifice was so tragic and beautiful I know the imagery will stick with me for a long time, and I wanted to keep playing with her. Posting Rate: 2x a week or more is good with me.   Stat Block Stefan Belasco HP: 9/9 | AC 14 | PP: 20 | PI: 21 | Prof: +2 | Status: Normal HD: 1/d8 | Feats/Traits: +1 to INT Can read lips of creatures speaking a known language +5 to Passive Perception +5 to Passive InvestigationObservant Feat | Deal +1d6 damage if attacking with AdvantageSneak Attack | Languages: Common, Mordentish, Thieves’ Cant

[AlphaZ]

Alessa Perilane Name: Alessa Perilane Race: Changeling (Eberron version) Class: Warlock (Archfey) Origin: Carnival Appearance: Crimson hair, piercing eyes, supernatural beauty, wrapped in the robes of a traveler and the leathers of an adventurer. Personality: Overtly convivial while inherently mistrustful, Alessa greets everyone like a friend but keeps them well at arm's length. It's better to be on good terms with the devil than to be in his way. Yet while friends are cheap, good friends can be costly. It's usually easier to just change her skin and disappear than to deal with someone getting too close. Her presence may at first be warm and inviting, but after a while you're forced to wonder how much of it is magic, how much is an act, and how much, if any, is real. But just like the carnival she came from, she only has to maintain the illusion for a few weeks before moving on. Background: Carnival Traveler Personality Traits I've been travelling as long as I can remember. One day I hope to discover where I'm truly from. I let people underestimate me, revealing my full competency only to those close to me. Ideals Loyalty--I have a responsibility to those I travel with. Escape--I believe there is something beyond the world I know, and I need to find it. Bonds I know I must have a family somewhere. Alive or dead, I need to find them. I desperately need to get back to someone or someplace, but I lost them in the mists. Flaws My past is a mystery to me so I often lie about it, even to my friends. I'm convinced something is after me, appearing in mirrors, dreams, and places where no one could.

Background: Alessa's earliest memories are with the Carnival. Her "family" was constantly shifting, always new faces in new places. She worked many jobs for the circus, from simple labor to magic shows, drawing on some mysterious connection to fey and their tricks. For years she settled for merely getting by in a place that demanded much and offered little. But eventually she grew weary of the fleeting connections and the endless, aimless travel that came with the Carnival. She craved more. She longed for a home and a family. Everyone else seemed to have that, even if they were running away from it. Had she run away too? From where? From whom?

She tried to push these concerns from her mind, but day by day and month by month the thoughts consumed her. She needed to know where she was from, who she'd lost or left behind, and hopefully why. She planned for a year before she finally chose the day and walked away from her life, all she'd ever known. But even as she did it seemed that hardly anyone took notice. The Carnival simply went on without her like she'd never been a part of it at all.

Newly free and without any leads she began to wander. Where would she go? How would she begin to find what she was looking for? It was a driving question that was slowly, quietly joined by another: who is following me? Someone, or something, seemed to be lurking. Just a glimpse here or a shadow there, but enough to let her know she was not alone. She tried to dismiss the idea many times but it simply could not be rationalized or willed away. Maybe someone from the Carnival? Or something that had always been there, waiting for her to be alone?

Now she's a wanderer, always searching, always hiding, looking ahead while looking behind. It's a complicated and uncertain existence, being so displaced and alone, yet not quite as alone as she might like. She's never sure where to go or whom to trust. But whatever happens she keeps moving. She has to keep moving.

Notes:

• Mirrors - They make her deeply uncomfortable. No matter what shape she takes, it's always a stranger looking back at her.
• Dreams - She keeps having the same one, or different ones of the same place. She's sure it's a real place, and suspects she's been there before. But she has no idea where it is.
• Shadows - She keeps seeing something that isn't there. Maybe it's where the rain doesn't fall, or where a branch moves and scares off all the birds. Something is there, watching.
• Friends - She's met a lot of people, and some she's charmed or endeared her way into their favor. She has "friends" everywhere, though no genuine friends anywhere.
• Enemies - She has also misled, manipulated, and beguiled plenty enough. As such she has a few enemies here and there. Luckily she can be hard to find.

Experience: I've played 5e in a handful of games, including as GM through Lost Mines & a homebrew continuation I wrote. My familiarity with this material does not extend beyond having heard of it (all good things) and what you wrote in the first post (which I'm still trying to wrap my head around). However, it seems to be quite a fan favorite so I'd love to have the chance to explore.

[Boogieman]

Click on pictures for CS

 

Quick Stat Stuff Odie, Club Member HP: 9/9 | AC 16 | PP: 14 | PI: 15 | Prof: +2 | Status: Normal HD: 1/d8 | Feats/Traits: Briefly surrounded by silvery mist, you teleport up to 30 feet to an unoccupied space that you can see. Verbal, Bonus ActionMisty Step 1/Long | +1 to Dexterity Proficiency with firearms Ignore Loading property with firearms No Disadvantage to atks with firearms within 5ft.Gunner Feat | Mark of Passage: Walking speed is 35 feet.Courier's Step | Whenever you make an Dexterity (Acrobatics) or an Ability Check involving operating or maintaining a Land Vehicle, you can roll a d4 and add the number rolled to the total ability check.Intuitive Motion | YouYou can cast the Misty Step spell with this trait. Once you cast this spell with this trait, you can't cast that spell again until you finish a Long Rest. Dexterity is your Spellcasting Ability for these spells.Magical Passage | the spells on the Mark of Passage Spells table are added to the spell list of your Spellcasting class. No access to Spellcasting or Pact MagicSpells of the Mark. Background Feature: No matter where you go, people are afraid of you due to your reputation. When you are in a civilized settlement, you can get away with minor criminal offenses, such as refusing to pay for food at a tavern or breaking down doors at a local shop, since most people will not report your activity to the authorities.Bad Reputation Languages: Infernal, Necril

Basics Name: Odie for Oriole Deepka Armadashort. Race: Human. Allegedly. Class: Rogue. Allegedly. Origin: Wash Street, Martira Bay, Jagged Coast, Darkon

Appearance/Personality 'Anabeco Diexfi' are the words he lives by.   Oriole Deepka Armada has been described in many ways. Many may describe Odie as princely. Simmering copper eyes, a regal broad nose, and voluptuous dark lips compliment deep brown skin. His falu red ochre locs are thicker than thumbs, streaking down his head like bloody lightning. Tattoos are on the back of each of his hands - a black boar left, a shining gem right - and the scar over his eye is as intense as his gaze. Edges of other inked-in pieces peek out from beneath sleeve hems and shirt collar. He holds his head straight, fixated on what is in front of him, a challenge to something only he seems to know is following. Some could accuse Oriole of suffering from good taste. Everything he wears is overpriced for the occasion, an allusion to some sort of city living. Each outfit is topped off with a dark red leather jacket and a soil brown, gold-flecked bandoleer. Piercings and jewelry are no strangers against his skin, and despite his many rings, a red-stoned statement ring stands out on his right hand. It bears a unique sign: an "A" formed by two pistols and a toothy grin. This symbol is also tattooed in a piece large enough to cover the entire front of his neck. Yet good taste could simply be the veil of vanity, it doesn't help that Odie seems aloof, lost in a way that seems self-absorbed to some extent. He often speaks in a detached way, vague bluntness and effortless criticism, woven between insightful inspection and outlandish jests. Though Odie’s words may be misconstrued as heartless, an astute listener may note his ability to waste less words than most. Out of all observers, a few could call him intense. The eyebags, scars, and callouses are surprisingly not indicative of an easy life. For all of his lazy affectation, Odie is always doing something. When he's not chewing on an oversized wad of chicle, he will be found fiddling with his rings and locs or smoking a cigar. But no matter what people think of Odie, most everyone agrees that he seems cold. Not just cold, but cold. His frigid force often slips out from behind his unfiltered gaze. It even seems to seep into his skin. To look at him is akin to looking at a cliff-side through falling snow. It isn't the sort of cold that cares to kill, but the sort of freezing that leaves your soul numb, leaving Odie’s features as immovable as a glacier's depths until a smirk breaks the ice. And beneath that ice is pure, unresolved terror.

 

“Traits” Background: Club Member Personality Classic I am always calm, no matter what the situation. I never raise my voice or let my emotions control me. Horror I have a personal ritual, mantra, or relaxation method use to deal with stress. Ideals Classic Family: Blood runs thicker than water. Horror Obsession: I've lived this way for so long that I can't imagine another way. Bonds Classic I have and would do anything for the other members of my old Club. Horror I lost people I care about, but I still see them in guilty visions, recurring dreams, or as a spirit. Flaws Classic When faced with a choice between morality and duty, I usually choose the more profitable one. Horror I know the ends always justifies the means and am quick to make sacrifices to attain my goal.

 

Background hundred years ago, before the King’s Tear hung in the sky, Club Escadrille had an established reputation as one of the dominating coteries. Their martial and political supremacy allowed them to maintain a larger swath of turf than their numbers accounted for. Pseudo-religious discipline retained their chains-of-command while a working relationship with the Baron proved profitable. Once they established an “understanding” with the Kargat, it kept them from being extinguished in a sea of scandals and backstabbing. Twenty Five Years Ago Yet any ship long enough at sea was bound to take on some water. Fresher, more emboldened coteries began to chip away at Club Escadrille’s membership. They used newer tactics, newer weapons. Escadrille’s increased losses were beginning to impact their numbers. That’s when they came. On a boat came Vill Deepka. With a company of men and women armed to the teeth, Vill was received onto the Martira Bay docks by Escadrille’s ruling family and given an armed escort to Escadrille’s estate. After several days, a strange deal was signed and sealed in blood. Vill’s entourage hailed from a mixed lineage of supernatural slayers. They offered their services to Escadrille. They sought to hunt for them, to fight their enemies, to serve them with their lives. They even offered their children to them. The three conditions were simple. First, they would be inducted into their ranks. While it was agreed that the majority of them would be dhamphirs, Vill had made it a point that a select few of their rank should be inducted in as vampires for accountability, solidarity, and the power to rival other vampiric rivals. Second, this family wanted to operate independently from their mother Club. They wanted to form their own "sub" Club, one that focused on honing their slayer arts into forming Escadrille’s point of the spear. Lastly was that their children were offered protection, to remain human so that their minds and bodies could adapt with ease to their training in this newly founded Club. When they became of age, they would receive the blessing of the night. In past years, it would have been a relatively preposterous idea; the Escadrille could have easily slain the assembly of humans on the spot, taken their weapons and hunted down their families. Who was the predator to align with their prey? Foolish. Insolent. Futile. And yet… The losses Escadrille suffered left them in dire straits, and their turf was on the edge of a complete takeover. These strangers brought them a promise of dedication, an extra measure of power in their time of need. Considering these slayers were confident enough in their craft to risk their families, it seemed there was little for them to lose. So with desperation and lust for power, the Escadrille agreed to the deal. Vill and her entourage were inducted into their ranks, with Vill herself and four of her aides taking on their new vampiric existence. Currently Club Armada had lived up to its word. Turf was claimed, enemies were put down. Their skill and willpower gave Escadrille the edge they needed to survive, even if it showed how much more they cared for their families than the mother Club they served. Despite their contributions, the last eight years had been hard. Between the power vacuum left by Azalin and the Shroud condensing the population, the Jagged Coast became a deadly pressure cooker. Practically daily, Martira Bay found itself with new coteries contending for the kingdom’s command. These threats strained the relationship between the Escadrille and Armada Clubs. Many of Escadrille’s ruling members wanted to use the human prospects of their child Club to make up for supply shortages. Others simply wanted to turn all of Club Armada’s members into full vampires to bolster their strength, but the ritual itself risked killing most of them. The comprise agreed upon was to move up the age where Club Armada’s families were to be inducted by five years. Oriole was scared, but he felt ready. Years of mastery and dedication had prepared him for this moment. No longer would he be a prospect, simply misleading fellow humans and risking his life sabotaging others. He would be a full member of the Club, a formidable force of the undead. The taste of immortality and the exercise of his family’s art was what he worked his whole life to achieve. On the night of his initiation, his mother Vill gifted him with the family heirloom weapon and an old journal. Of course, there was no time to navigate its pages. Oriole and his fellow prospects were escorted to the Escadrille estates to undertake their right of passage. Before they even arrived, tragedy had struck. The battle that took place was fervent. Club members were doing all they could to hold their own against a joint effort by the Kargat and other coteries. From where the prospects could see, it was a lost cause. Their family was strewn across the ground like trampled flowers. It didn’t make sense. To have gathered so many together alongside the Kargat…something had happened. From what Oriole could tell, this was more than territory taking. It was an extermination, one fit enough for enemies to agree upon, even if for one night. Oriole could recall looking through the corpses, fire, and rubble to spot the stylish silhouette of the Baron, her blade slipped through a member like a kebab. Despite the distance, Oriole stunned stupid standing in their carriage, the Baron’s gaze locked with his own. His carriage and cohort tried to get away. The bloody blur that followed was incredibly hazy as they made it to the docks. Oriole remembers the screaming, the blood, and the silence. There was no laughter, no viciousness. It was a cold business. Somehow Oriole made it to a boat and rowed away, into the Shroud. It embraced him, covered him... ...consumed him.

 

Exp/Post Rate Experience: I've been playing DnD and other TTRPGs off and on for over 15 years. But every time I've tried playing a Ravenloft-style game, it has died nearly immediately. I've since remained relatively ignorant of a lot of the lore and settings to give myself the benefit of discovery. As a writer, I've loved the idea of exploring this setting as the grittiness aligns with how I enjoy writing. Posting Rate: At least x2/week is perfect. Sometimes I'll post more, especially during combat.

[ArcZero]

Still deciding on how I will allocate a few stats, but here you go.

Character Midjourney and Photoshop Name: Elovhen "Quasid" Nenlith <= Character Sheet Race: Half-Mind Flayer, Half-High Elf <= Link to Illithid Race Template, chosen by DaniLore Class: Wizard (Will be Bladesinger at level 2 using this reworked version with a BYO Bladesong), Level 1 Bonus Feat: War Caster Origin: Bluetspur with a distant fascination of what he's heard of Dementlieu Background: Charlatan (With some Haunted One traits) Classic 1) I don’t talk about the thing that torments me. I’d rather not burden others with my curse. 2) I fall in and out of love easily, and am always pursuing someone. Horror I'm quick to jump to extreme solutions. Why risk a lesser option not working? Ideals Classic Creativity. I never run the same con twice. (Chaotic) Horror Adrenaline. I've experienced such strangeness that now I feel alive only in extreme situations. Bonds Classic I want to be famous, whatever it takes. Horror I desperately need to get back to someone or someplace, but I lost them in the mists. Flaws Classic I have an addiction. Horror I know the ends always justify the means and am quick to make sacrifices to attain my goal.   Appearance: Elovhen, or Quasid as he is known by his Illithid "kin" now, is a dark haired and olive skinned High Elf of fine features with a vacuous look in his golden eyes. If an automaton or other psionically inured being were to observe him, it would quickly become apparent that he is under psychological duress. Beyond Mount Makab and the vertiginous vistas that sap the memory and sanity of all who look upon them is an abiding sense of vacancy, trauma and disorientation upon Elovhen's face. A pretty but empty vessel. As is typical for Bluetspur, he was abducted by Mind Flayers. He is now a quasi-ceremorph, with vestigial psionics and a mouthful of pallid teal tentacles. When he hungers, he has little choice but to feed on a brain and to reveal his grotesque nature. Due to this curse, there are days that Elovhen is as fine-skinned and beautiful as any of his High Elven kind and others where great blisters, sores and bruises overtake him due to his obliterated wellbeing. He has no idea whether this alternate amelioration and sickness is just part of his physiology or if Mind Flayers sneak in to drug him during his fugue states. Quasid's finger and toetips are stained black by some oily or tarry substancebituminous ichor, a remnant of another unknowable experiment? His dashing good looks, quick wit, hands and feet are all leftovers of his previous identity, what is left of the confidence man he once was. His slender athletic frame and malleable neurons are grounds enough for the Elder Brains to deem him worthy of an immaculate foundation of Elven Bladesinging magic. It was extracted directly from an Archmage who had astrally projected to Bluetspur and was consumed by hordes of Mind Flayers. He thought himself safe to seek their magic, but their talons were longer than he bargained for. Now the knowledge waits to be awakened at the proper time and set him on the path to become the weapon the Elder Brains apparently desire. These latent memories can be seen even in the way he walks, to one trained in Elven magic or with a keen enough eye. He has a lilting step, whimsically moving forward and then back: qualities that place it somewhere between a drunken stupor and a wolf's hunting prowl. In fact, many of his actions seem automatic and rote, not including any of his former grace. There are moments of clarity that do allow him to charm, swindle and dance as he used to.   Personality: After his transformation, Elovhen was given the name "Quasid" by the Elder Brains. He is a hollowed out husk of his former self, where the sapping existence above ground wipes away his memories too quickly to fully comprehend his predicament. Sometimes he awakens in one of the cramped hovels, surrounded by other quivering mortals, and others he lays on a table or in some training den being psionically shrieked at by an Elder Brain to "fulfill his destiny". There are even times that he can feel the Elder Brains puppeteering him into luring unsuspecting humans and other mortals into the clutches of the Mind Flayers. The voice of the Elder Brains is so pervasive that Quasid often questions whether he is even a person at all, or merely some gangrenous limb of a body that he cannot see. His existence is suffering as the failed transformation causes him constant pain. Just enough memories left to come flooding back and creating an existential panic before his weakened constitution is overwhelmed again. But not enough of Elovhen to make him cogent or to craft a way out of this hellish landscape. He considers himself a tool for them and yet is aware that he suffers. Other Mind Flayers chatter within the hivemind and it is clear that they feel nothing of the turmoil, emotions and nightmares that he endures. He is clearly othered, different, than the slinking, stinking nightmare Illithids and their sepulchral Citadel Subterrene. In additions to the nightmares, he even has dreams of a distant family. Living on a farm, visits to a local tavern and conning others into handing over their life's savings before he and his daughter flee to a new town. In these dreams, he dances, serenades and loves men and women alike with great passion. He enjoys these glamorous dreams so greatly that he can hardly bear to think that was really him at one point. In these dreams, he is suave, conniving and debonair. He has a way of charming himself into other's lives and inheritances. He revels in soaking up their passion for life before leaving them with nothing. Someone could make a comparison between what he used to do and devouring someone's brain, taking their memories and strength. But he would firmly say eating someone's brain is infinitely more evil than conning them.   [b]Background: While the origins of Elovhen Nenlith are beyond him, he has a suspicion that the pleasantly vibrant dreams he sometimes walks through are, in fact, his past. He remembers swindling others, faking his way into their bedsheets and affections before skipping town. He remembers a little tawny-skinned daughter being the light of his life, before she inevitably disappears into a haunting Mist each time he embraces her. By fate, he found himself in Bluetspur. He knows not if his memories existed there before this madness or if he was whisked away from somewhere else into this Domain. This same fate, crueler than death, saw him abducted by Mind Flayers and then rescued. The heroic adventurers had fought into the den and rescued him and others, but it was too late. Only a spattering of Elovhen remained. The tadpole was excised before the ceremorposis could complete, but after it had ravaged his existing physiology. On top of this, his psionic awakening inevitably leads him back to his captors any time he gets an independent thought. What meager continuance of a life he has found in the slums has allowed him to gain a vicious addiction. Bumble, or Soothing Salts, is an addling drug half narcotic and half disassociative. It has become popular among the desperate for its ability to reduce the sensory information of viewing Bluetspur's impregnable, myriad landscape. It also has serious side effects and minimizes much of the brain waves that allow Illithids to hunt them. For Quasid, it helps him to maintain some sense of continual perception, avoid psionic control and dull his pain. When he runs out, the Illithids inevitably inject him with something that purges it from his system. Now he exists as a tool for them, undergoing procedures to make him a perfect infiltrator, not by virtue of being a spy, but merely by appearing Elven. The rest of his time in the chair is spent with a tutor parasite. It implants the Archmage's knowledge to later awaken bit by bit. The Elder Brains prefer to cultivate their agents by unnatural means. Rather than a typical spellbook, he has a cryptographic Illithid manual. Its pictograms induce a psychosomatic trance state that rearranges his mind to provide the spells he needs. His days are more tenuously strung together than ashes scattered at sea. But he hears of the God Brain's whispered plans. Of the lands that may be. He has heard through the hivemind of a place called Dementlieu. It is said that they spend all their days dancing, mingling and betraying each other. If Elovhen were fully conscious, he would love nothing more than to spend every waking moment bedding and tricking these elegant people. If only he wasn't a perpetual plaything for the Elder Brains and he could leave Bluetspur, he could process his feelings and memories. Heal his wounds and decide what kind of Elven monstrosity hybrid he would be. If it meant finding his daughter, the horror of his disgusting, vomit-inducing new diet would be a weapon to let him find her. No matter how many leads he would need to consume the memories of to find her.   Experience: I have been playing dnd for 15 years. 3.5, 4e, 5e, Shadowrun and more. I have played in a few PBP games years ago, Adventurer's League and dm'd five or more games of my own. I am just learning about Ravenloft but I am a huge horror fan: Lovecraft, psychological, body horror, gothic. I have not played the Curse of Strahd module, so I'm looking forward to surprises! I love playing weird builds that I can crunch to get them quite capable, then slap a flawed, nuanced personality on top. I equally adore the Hero's Journey and strong themes, as well as just having fun and enjoying the little moments.

[OsmundCinderholt]

Application Name: Elias d'Cannith Race: Human (Mark of Making, Dragonmarked House Cannith) Class: Cleric of Onatar (Forge Domain) Origin: Cyre 1313 Appearance: Elias is a handsome young man of sturdy stock. His frame is of a blacksmith, with broad shoulders and strong arms. His pale skin is speckled with freckles, most of which run across the bridge of his nose. He likes to say a freckle forms each time he strike a hammer-blow. Typical of the House of Cannith, Elias has a shock of red hair which has been cut short. The smith's eyes are an amber shade, and seem to glimmer with fiery intensity. On the inside of his right forearm is the Dragonmark of Making, which is a shimmer blue-green tattoo of sorts that seems to writhe with magical promise. His attire is of fine make, and he wears a silver signet ring with the gorgon sigil of House Cannith on his left ring finger. He also wears a silver necklace that serves as a holy symbol of the The Sovereign of Fire and Forge, Onatar. Over this all he has a full set of finely made chainmail armor, belted at the waist with a toolbelt that has smithing tools, but also another immaculately forged item, a warhammer. Slung over his shoulder is a backpack of gear and a steel shield with the symbol of Onatar on it's face. Personality/Traits:   Background: House Agent Personality Classic I "I'm always looking to improve efficiency." Horror I "I compulsively seek to collect trophies of my travels and victories." Ideals Classic | "Common Good. My house serves a vital function, and its prosperity will help everyone." Horror | "Escape--I believe there is something beyond the world I know, and I need to find it." Bonds Classic | "Someone I love was killed by a rival faction within my house, and I will have revenge." Horror | "I desperately need to get back to someone or someplace, but I lost them in the mists." Flaws Classic | "I'm obsessed with conspiracy theories and worried about secret societies and hidden demons." Horror | "I believe doom follows me and that anyone who gets close to me will face a tragic end." Backstory:   Elias was born in Metrol, the Rising City, the capital of the Kingdom of Cyre. He was from an unassuming family, and had little to no worries to note. Around the age of puberty, Elias developed his Dragonmark, the Mark of Making, denoting that his path in life would forever be tied to the venerable House of Cannith. His family couldn't be happier for him. So, they sent him to start his apprenticeship under their local House Cannith Viceroy, where there he learned the craft. Combining natural talent, with the Dragonmarked fueled aptitude, Elias found that he had found his calling. Along the way, he had also found spiritual strength through his crafting, and found himself as a fervant follower of the Soveriegn of Forge and Flame, Onatar. His devotion allowed him to suppliment his Dragonmarked gifts with miracles, which allowed the young smith to advance through House ranks swiftly. During his apprenticeship, Elias became close with a fellow young apprentice of the same age, a girl, named Samara. The two of them would spend long hours alone in the forges, critiquing each others work, and other cheeky things that teenagers think was subtle and hidden. However, there was another boy who had eyes for Samara, whose name was Omarion. Omarion's father was the Master of the particular workshop the three of them were in, and while Omarion had the Mark as well, he was poor at his craft. This other boy pestered and bullied Samara out of jealously, and Elias and he grew to be terrible rivals. A few times this caused them to come to blows, the outcomes tallying to both sides rather equally in combat at least. Eventually, their apprenticeships came to an end, and the three youth went their own ways to serve the House as the Patriarch wished. Elias had been assigned to an arms manufactory, to craft weapons for the ever escalating war that their country found themselves surrounded by. The work was monotonous, but it honed his craft even more. The monotony would, however, be cut by the screaming sirens above the city of Metrol. These sirens indicated an immediate evacuation, or to shelter in place. Little did Elias know, an event later known as the Day of Mourning was occurring. The first thing Elias worried about was his mother and father, then his thoughts went to the love of his life, Samara. These thoughts were dashed though, as the Master in charge of the arms manufactory began barking out a list of names to come forward and claim their ticket for a departing Lightningrail train, the Cyre 1313, as they were deemed an important asset to the Kingdom and the war effort. With hardly a moment to protest, Elias was shoved into a carraige with his ticket and their horses beat hoofs to the Lightningrail station, where a scene of absolute chaos was unfolding. It was a vicious riot of people, all of whom were fighting and struggling against the House Orien enforcers protecting the station doors. While being escorted and protected from the crowd, Elias spotted Samara across the way, seperated by the writhing mass. He called out to her, and she turned to see him. It was then that Omarion, the rival and jealous loser of a smith made a drastic action. Elias later found out that Omarion did not earn a ticket to the Cyre 1313, as his spot was reserved for his father instead. In a rash act of cold desperation, Omarion slid a knife through Samara's throat and robbed her of her ticket. Elias cried out in abject horror and distress as he witnessed this, but the writhing crowd pressed him ever forwards towards the doors of the Lightningrail's doors. Once at the door, a stressed out House Orien agent ushered him inside to his cabin. There was a great flash of light... and then there was nothing, execpt for Cyre 1313.   On Cyre 1313 Hundreds of years, or mere moments, it's hard to tell how long Elias has been on the Cyre 1313. It feels like the Day of Mourning is constantly still happening, and the memory of Samara being coldly murdered plays like a neverending play in his head when he sleeps. Worse yet, the 13 cars of the Lightningrail are cramped, and their orientation mindboggling. All of it controlled by the enigmatic "Last Passenger", the being who halted the Cyre 1313 when it was boarding to allow themselves and their retinue abord. It is because of them that they're dead. All of them. Stuck in this hellscape in the shape of a 'plush luxary lightningrail.' The only constants on the 1313 was his room on the sleeping car, and the dining car that attached to it. Elsewise, the orientation of the connecting cars changed by the very whims of the Last Passenger. Worse yet, even if he got to where he decided to go, he would faced with hordes of wailing passengers fomenting the coming desolation chasing them. However, Elias found purpose on the 1313, despite his despair. He was a member of House Cannith, and things would always need to be fixed or mended, or new things built and forged. There were others from his House, and they had formed a small community amongst themselves. Though, it was hard for them to really collaborate much on anything, due to the shifting cars. Still Elias earned himself a reputation as a man to ask for something fixed, but he asked only one thing as payment; The young smith demanded that they share any rumors of a fellow House Cannith artisan name Omarion. 'Tell him to find me, as I have a knife to give him.' But he never finds Omarion, perhaps the Last Passenger hears his pleads for vengence and shuffles the cars to make the hunt never end. Or perhaps worse, Omarion is in the Lead car with the VIPS and the Last Passenger himself. The tortured monotony of unlife on the 1313 became too much to bear one 'day' for Elias, however. Waking up in his sleeper car, Elias made his bed, got dressed, and packed his bag. Before leaving his room, he pulled from his pocket a folded piece of parchment, a love-letter written by Samara from their youth separated at their different posting. He read it for the last time, and he felt bitter hatred, sadness, loss... But the nature of his undeath allowed no tears. He stepped out of his car and stood upon the connecting walkway, peering out at the blurred background of only the Mist. Elias stepped off the train, thinking that whatever calamity that was chasing the Cyre 1313 would destroy him, and end his suffering on it. Instead was something far stranger. Elias took a gasping breath--- The first breath in what felt like EONS. He was alive, and stranger still... his feet were wet. The smith had found himself standing in a murky bog, knee-deep in muck. Then came the haunting voice, calling him to follow. Soon enough he found himself at an Inn...

OOC Stuff Experience: I started in High School in 2004 with 3.5 D&D. My friends and I played a lot of it, but we never played anything Ravenloft. I've since played loads of other systems and iterations of D&D. I've never actually played an iteration of Curse of Strahd, but have watched/listened to podcasts and actual play series on the subject. I've been having fun reading Van Richten's Guide and the other resources online to learn more about the world. What I have played a bunch of was Eberron stuff, and so when I saw that there was a Domain of Dread set on a Lightningrail, I had to play what I knew! Posting Rate: I can and will do my best to keep up with the pace of the other players, and post a quality post at least two times a week.

[Ballingray]

Ler Khona Basic Details Name: Ler Khona, the Shattered Sword Race: Human Class: Paladin Origin: Kartakass Appearance And thou art dead, as young and fair As aught of mortal birth, And forms so soft and charms so rare, Too soon return'd to earth ~^~ The man that looks at you through shadowed blue eyes seems barely more than a ghost himself. Or even if the man himself is not a spectre from the netherworld, if he is not an ethereal spirit that would haunt another, then he himself is haunted. Those eyes hold inside them something unspeakable. Something unfathomable. Demons and horrors that only one who has lived inside the Domains of Dread for their entire life the way that Ler has would understand. The Domains of Dread take their price. A payment of body. One of the flesh. One of the heart. One of the soul. Ler dresses in the trappings and accoutrements that one would expect a paladin to wear. Armour covers his body from head to toe, and strapped to his back is the sword that he wields. A sword that is wielded with the faith of a god and the belief that he still has inside of himself. Or at least that is what he wants to believe. And this appearance, up front at the very least, would have you believing that in front of you stood a holy warrior. One who was pure in heart, pure in body, and whole in his belief that he had the faith of his religion and his god behind him. A closer look, however, would reveal this fallacy for what it was. That Ler’s appearance was a lie dressed up in the illusory trappings of a falsehood. Pale skin, gaunt almost as it stretched over bone underneath. Eyes, sunken into his face, almost like a deathshead betray shadows that lie over heart, body and soul. Listless, lifeless dark hair hangs limply, falling to his shoulders. An expression that bears with it the hauntings of one who has seen too much. One that hangs on to his faith because it is the only thing that he has left, and this is the truth. For one who has lived his life amongst dancing shadows, painful memories and terrible nightmares, without that faith to cling on to, there would be nothing for him save pitiful madness. Personality Supposing that I should have the courage, To let a red sword of virtue, Plunge into my heart, Letting to the weeds of the ground, My sinful blood, What can you offer me? A gardened castle? A flowery kingdom? What? A hope? Then hence with your red sword of virtue. ~^~ It is strange, particularly for a paladin to admit, but virtue is a trait that the Shattered Sword has long since left behind, as it is simply unimportant to him. His world is a world of cold hard practicality. It is one where survival is the most important thing if all, and it is one where he has perfected the strands of his own illusory facade in order to maintain his position within this world of shadows and dark, decaying imagery. The Shattered Sword is, first and foremost, a lie. He is a weave of constantly confusing imagery and an aura that pervades reality, giving him the appearance of someone who lives with one foot in the world of the living and one foot in the world of the dead. This is not a fallacy, yet it is something that he uses to perpetuate his own self-deceptions and manipulate himself into believing that he is still the shining example of virtue that he wishes that he still was. Yes, Ler is a paladin. But, he is a paladin that is made and forged inside a realm of haunting dreams and horrific nightmares. He is a paladin that is uniquely made in the image of the Demiplane. Ler Khona is a paladin who strives for an ideal, one that he himself cannot live up to. But it is the desire to be what he wishes he could be that keeps him on the road of goodness and virtue……just. Yet, it is the shadows that swirl around him and lay claim to his heart that are forever tempting him to fall to shadow. And this is a precarious balancing act indeed. Ler Khona stands half in the light, and half in the dark, and it would only take a delicate shove to send him tumbling one way or another. Ler is very very aware of this. It is something that frightens him more than he would ever be willing to admit, even to himself, even if deep down he knows of the demons that encircle his heart and soul. Life in Ravenloft is hard, and life in Kartakass harder still. Beneath the veneer of civility that Kartakans possess lies a bestial savagery and a dark, beating heart, something that Ler has come to despise about the place he was born and the place that he has lived. The truth of the matter is that he has seen too many friends die, claimed by the darkness that lies at the heart of this twisted realm of lies and deceit. One in particular, and it is her death that has driven the Shattered Sword to the heart of the shadows that now seek to claim him as their own. His past consumes him. The land consumes him, and the only way that Ler can deal with this is to turn to the one thing that allows him to stay sane, even as it exacts it’s own price upon him. Alcohol. Each and every night Ler drinks himself to unconsciousness. It keeps the nightmares away. Ler has one more passion. One more thing that helps him keep the demons at bay, even if only temporarily. Ler loves to sing, and has done for as long as he can remember. When he does sing, his voice is loud and clear, and even if for a moment, his voice and the words of his song hold the evils of this twisted land back, for even they cannot pierce the purity of the songs that he sings. The day that Ler stops singing is the day that he will die. Backstory Now life is death and light is dark, My sins have left their precious mark, Again I've lost my only one, I have left you cold, The shadows won if truth be told, Once you leave for good, I let myself drown, The shadows haunt me, To my broken glass bed ~^~ Whatever happens. Whatever evil my befall us, whatever the world throws at us, I will defend you with all that I have. I will be there for you no matter what happens. I will not let the world drive us apart. This I do swear, with all that I have and all that I am. The early parts of Ler’s life are a blur. There is very little there that he can truly remember, yet the oath remains with startling clarity. It is burned across his consciousness like a flame searing through his memories and burning away the man he once was and the man he could have been. An oath made. An oath broken, to his eternal shame and damnation. From an early age that oath was all that drove him. The oath he made to her, and although he remembers fleeting memories as they pass him by, memories that fill him with the warmth of light and laughter on the very few occasions that he permits himself to feel anything other than the hollow nothingness that eats away at him from within. He remembers most of all that she loved his singing. That the sound of his voice would always banish away the darkness and the fears that would always threaten to overwhelm them. It is these memories that he clings to most of all with all that he has. It is these memories that, in his darkest moments when all seems lost reminds him that he is still human. Kartakass is a cauldron of horrors and animalistic rage hidden beneath thin illusory strands of culture and civility. Ler understood from an early age that what he was seeing was a carefully manufactured façade that was designed to draw attention away from the dark savagery that lay at the heart of Kartakass’s decadent, hate-filled society. That the songs and the pieces of art commissioned by high-paying burgomeisters to passionate artisans were all designed to tap into the primal animalistic rage that many inhabitants were subjected to and struggled to contain, that is if they even wanted to contain their dualistic nature. Yet even in this hate-filled cesspool of brutality there were some shining lights. She was one of them. Her name was Tara, and she helped keep the worst of his nature at bay as he did for her. He loved her, although to his shame he never confided this secret to her. They should have been a united front against the horrors of Kartakan society. While the two of them were pledged to keep each other safe from the evil of this place that pledge and that oath was ultimately broken. The evil in Kartakass ultimately claimed Tara’s life, and Ler was powerless to stop it. Another broken pledge in a land of broken promises. The nightmares started soon after, and inside them Ler saw her, every night, hands outstretched towards him as she implored, nay begged, him to save her. Ler tried his best, he tried every night to save her, but he was always too slow. Always too slow. And so Ler watched her die, night after night. Perhaps deep down Ler understands that if he can save her, just one night, in his dreams…if he can save her from the death that waits for her each and every night, this curse of nightmares will be broken, and his Tara will be returned to him as if she had never left. But each night he fails, and each night he watches her die again. In truth, Ler cannot do the impossible and he cannot turn back time, she will always always lie there, just outside the grasp of his outstretched fingers as she dies anew. So it was that Ler turned to alcohol as a recourse against the nightmares. Determined to block them out, he drinks himself into insensibility each and every night so they can’t hurt him again. Over time, his use of alcohol has turned into a dependency, one that he himself can’t break free from, even if he wanted to. It’s success is questionable, yes there are nights he is so drunk that he falls into unconsciousness and does not dream, but even this respite is only temporary. The nightmares come back eventually, as they always do. Over time, Ler came to a realisation. He began to realise that if he stayed in Kartakass he would die, and that was something he wasn’t going to do. Not yet, not in Kartakass, her memory would not allow him that. One day, Ler steeled his resolve and his heart. Gripping the last reminder of Tara he still had, a locket with her name engraved on it, he walked to the misty border. With a deep breath he stepped forwards into the mist. He never looked back. For how long he walked, he had no idea. Inside the mists both distance and direction mean nothing, not when you are lost as deeply as Ler was. Yet, eventually he came out the other side, to murky swamplands and a strange structure looming out of the fetid water on stilts. Realising at this point that the locket was gone, Ler, beside himself, climbed the ladder to the odd wooden building. With a deep breath, he opened the door and entered…. Other Information Experience: I’ve spent more time than is healthy playing D&D, and a lot of that time has been spent in the dark realms of Ravenloft. I probably have more knowledge and lore of the setting than is rightly healthy to have.

[Snicker]

Source: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/LAK1w

Sheet: https://www.rpgcrossing.com/profiler/view.php?id=91912

Name: Ida Blieckhaus

Race: Human

Class: Artificer

Origin: Lamordia

Appearance: Ida comes from hardy peasant stock, and retains a robust, thick-limbed build that was perhaps atypical among the other cloistered academics at Ludendorf University. Her skin and hair are pallid, as common for Lamordians, and unadorned with makeup or styling. Her clothing is similarly utilitarian, made of tough and easily-cleaned material, as fit for the rugged outdoors as it is for the laboratory. Her left eye is a blue gray more akin to tobacco smoke than the sky. Her right eye's pupil and iris are indistinguishably black against an off-white sclera.

 

Background: Sailor

Personality

• I value stoicism and hide my emotions from everyone, including myself.
• I speak of necessary sacrifices and the greater good, but when push comes to shove, my conscience gets the better of me.
• Corpses don't bother me, and I think nothing of performing autopsies on my opponents or pocketing body parts for my own purposes.

Ideals

• Knowledge: The pursuit of knowledge is virtuous in itself.
• Realization of Potential: I must prove that the knowledge gained by Ludendorf University is worth what was sacrificed to attain it.

Bonds

• I'm torn between the humble integrity of my family and the amoral intellectualism of the life I chose.
• I lost my father years ago, but I still see him in guilty visions and recurring dreams.

Flaws

• I have a superiority complex over where I came from and what I've accomplished, which masks an inferiority complex over where I came from and what I've accomplished.
• I'm a skeptic and don't believe in the power of rituals, religion, superstition, or spirits.

Background: Ida Blieckhaus (EE-da BLEEK-house) was born in Ludendorf to a whaler and a factory worker, the latter of whom died in childbirth. Her father, Ulrich Blieckhaus, was the captain of his whaling vessel and, from a young age, took Ida with him on whale hunts as a cabin girl. Despite the danger, hard work, and low pay, Ulrich was gratified by the companionship, responsibility, and consistency of his profession, but Ida grew more and more dissatisfied as she aged. Her mind demanded challenge and mystery. In her early adulthood, after a hunt went bad and a whale nearly capsized her father's boat, Ida told him she wanted to study at Ludendorf University. It broke his heart, and she saw it, but he accepted it. Paying for Ida's tuition took all the money the family had - they had to spend all of their savings, call in all of their favours, and go into debts they would never pay off: Ulrich mortgaged his boat and Ida sold flesh rights to her body. Ida herself nearly killed herself studying for the entrance exams. And yet, when she was finally accepted, she felt no pride, elation, or relief; she only knew the real work would begin now.

Ida was an anomoly within the University; others were children of factory barons or came from generations of education. Ida waffled between hiding her origins or playing them up to impress others with how far she'd come. Despite her sacrifices and studies, however, she was nothing special; a competent researcher and laboratory assistant, but no visionary. As the years wore on, she became plagued with self-doubt, wondering if she had been an imposter all along and, in truth, really was nothing more than one of the interchangeable labourers outside the University's walls. It only got worse when she was informed that her father had died on a hunting trip. After everything he'd sacrificed for her, he never even saw her prove herself. Most of what Ulrich owned was taken to pay his debts, including his boat and his body, but she collected a few mementos and kept them in her dorm, even as she chided herself for the pointless sentimentality of it.

Perhaps he had sensed this vulnerability. Klaus Wolfhaut, a senior student from a powerful baron family and contender to become Dr. Viktra Mordenheim's lab assistant, requested Ida aid him in a project inspired by Dr. Mordenheim's early notes. Ida had aided in many projects before, of course, but this one demanded secrecy and work after hours in laboratories provided by bribed or politically influenced faculty. Klaus implied that Ida's "unique perspective" would be invaluable to the project and promised renown once it was completed and he could reveal his findings. Ida agreed. Her role turned out to be the observation and careful application of alchemical reagents to a living man writhing in agony. By introducing specific chemicals to the brain and nervous system, Klaus explained to Ida, one could induce psionic abilities in a subject that had none before. Ida observed that these psionic abilities seemed proportional to the utter agony the chemicals induced in the subject. As Ida watched, the patient screamed and begged for death, but Klaus continued on with his experiments unabated, teasing various psionic effects from his suffering. It was nightmarish - and revolutionary. If one could induce this state in hundreds or thousands of people, Klaus crowed, imagine what it would mean for Lamordia!

Ida understood the potential. She knew her place was to seek knowledge and advancement at any cost. Just having her name attached to this project would make her famous. Yet, stangely, she couldn't stop wondering what her father would think of what she'd seen. She slept poorly, lapsed in her studies, and was wracked as the project neared its completion.

When it came time for Klaus to reveal his project to the University's staff, it was a disaster. The chemicals had scarcely been applied to the patient before he suffered a catastrophic reaction and died. It seems that someone had secretly dosed the patient with another chemical reagent that would react poorly to Klaus's. Klaus was humiliated in front of the staff, his discovery disregarded. In addition, it seemed someone had broken into his dorm room and destroyed his notes. Klaus was furious and promised revenge, but Ida wasn't there to see it. She'd already cleared out her room and left, traveling to Lamordia's borders and entering the Mists. She didn't know what she would face there, but her life in Lamordia was over.

Experience: I've been playing D&D since the early 2000s, when I started with 3.5. I played for about ten years, but then there was a big gap, and I only got back into D&D a couple years ago. In the mean time, I've played several other game systems, mostly Mutants and Masterminds and Palladium. I've played some Ravenloft homebrew and recently picked up Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft, but I know very little about Curse of Strahd except that it's very popular and it has a vampire in it.

Posting Rate: I can do three times a week or more if the game moves quickly enough. Sometimes, however, I suffer from analysis paralysis.

[MoldyNolds]

Application Lucastorquato27 on Deviantart Name: This is nothing more than an onomatopoeia of the haggard breathing sounds emanating from beneath his bone mask. Even in his most lucid of mental states Haas has no memory of any names or titles he might have held before his time in the Gravelands.Haas Race: Human (Variant)/Wererat Class: Combat focused. Great Weapon Master.Blood Hunter (Eventually Order of the Lycan) Origin: Falkovnia Touchstones: Geralt of Rivia, Max Rockatansky (Fury Road), Valkos (Glass Cannon's "Haunted City" Blades in the Dark Actual Play) Appearance: No one would fault a passing stranger for mistaking the dark, hulking, heaving form of Haas for a nightmare manifest. In a way, perhaps, he is exactly that. Over six feet tall, the permanently hunched... human? exaggerates each and every wet, ragged breath with the conspicuous rise and fall of his shoulders. What little clothing he wears is dirty. Torn, shoddily patched, caked in grime, and then re-torn, whatever colors or materials his duster and leggings originally were are now lost to the ages. Bare hands, and bare feet carry the residue of the land with him until rain or a dunk in the nearest body of water reveals streaks of pallid, greyish skin. But before any of that there is the mask. Unmistakably the first thing to be noticed upon sight, the elongated snout, flat teeth, and swooping horns suggest some sort of goat creature... or perhaps a bull? Whatever its source, bone obscures Haas' entire face, save a shock of oily, unkempt hair he keeps slicked back past his neck. And his eyes. Wild eyes... deranged eyes, that belie the deranged soul behind. The only other accoutrement of note for this particular blood hunter would be his sword. The two-handed, elongated cleaver-like blade is as much nicks and pits as it is edge and steel. What's more, it's just as likely to be found dragging behind him in the muck as holstered across his back. Perhaps proper care and maintenance of his tools is one of many lost habits? Best to give him the benefit of the doubt and not ask, lest you risk offense... Background: Haunted OnePersonality: The sentient mind can only carry so much stress, buckling under the weight before eventually fracturing... Residents of the Domains of Dread carry more than most. Haas' mind is in Harrowing Event: I was lost to the Gravelands for longer than is considered healthy... Relatively speaking, of course. Whether for days or decades, who can tell? Time became meaningless. Sleep became a luxury rarely sampled. The constant struggle for survival broke my mind and stole my memories.another class all its own. While technically still a functioning, conscious individual, the definitions of those words have been stretched to their limits. Much like whatever functioning neurons he has left. Most times his actions only make sense if one attributes Personality Trait: I have two attention spans; eerily fixated and anxiously inattentive with no middle ground. Personality Trait (Horror): I'm easily startled, but I'm not a coward!the instincts of the beast to his motives. One moment he may be caught staring at the object of his attention for an uncomfortably long silence. Disturbingly similar to a predator eyeing its next meal... Then, without warning, he seems to be jumping at shadows, as if prey ready to flee at the slightest perceived threat. It is not uncommon for that Ideals: There is no leisure. There is no recreation. Requiescence is death. There is only vigilant survival. Ideal (Horror): I've lived this way for so long that I can't imagine another way. In fact, I may very well flee from my best interests out of fear of change!proverbial coin to flip in the same breath, even. In a similar vein, Flaw: I see little value in risking my life without a clear benefit. This includes when innocent lives are in danger.altruism has no place in Haas' heart or mind. Doing Good for its own sake is a fool's road to a fool's death. If he were to take part in something that could be misconstrued as selfless, or in direct confrontation to Flaw (Horror): I'm convinced something is after me, appearing in mirrors, dreams, and places where no one could.his worst fears, there is no doubt a logic ladder that has justified his actions for his own self-interest. Despite his animalistic nature, or perhaps in service to it, Haas retains several "human" qualities. Should he encounter others that clearly demonstrate the ability to survive in these unforgiving places he is capable of Bond: I will latch on desperately to those who can keep me alive.forming pack-like bonds, complete with their own hierarchies, even if they exist solely in his own head. He also clings to certain... dreams? delusions? of his former life. Nothing so concrete as names or faces, mind you. More fleeting remnants of some ephemeral Bond (Horror): Though I can't remember names or faces, I know deep in my gut that somewhere there is a clan... a family... who misses me.sense of "belonging" that ultimately drives him forward instead of laying down to die peacefully. Backstory:   Montellerro Renier had always done his part for the clans. Tow the line. Make the sacrifice. Not out of fear or threat of reprisal... well not only those things. He truly believed in the strength of the clans. Monte knew the stories as well as anyone. How The Clawed led a righteous rebellion within his own family, defending wererat blood against his own human kin who would see them exterminated. How they were driven out of their home sewers and into the strange Mist. How they arrived in Silbervas and made their new home. He wasn't there for any of it. What he had seen with his own eyes was how the clans thrived in Silbervas. The Clawed was not loved by his people, not by a long shot. Those with whom he worked directly despised him. He was well-known for not delivering on promised rewards to his underlings. Threats, however, were always brought to bear swiftly. But Montellerro didn't have to worry about any of that, despite being able to claim he was a member of the Renier family. He had proven himself effective enough to rise within the ranks to Lieutenant. Just far enough to partake of benefits such as a private home, comfortable stipend, and sumptuous food and drink, all without drawing the ire and manipulations of Claude Renier himself. Oh, and the eyes of appealing partners. Monte loved his wife and she loved him, there was no question. But after their daughter was born Sabarra began to lose perspective. The constant and increasingly forceful demands to leave the clans, leave Silbervas, and "settle down" was anathema to him. She just couldn't see that the safest place for their sweet Romaellia was within the clans. Training her to survive. Under their protection. Eventually their relationship degraded to the point that love simply wasn't enough to keep them together; their principles got in the way. The breakup was hard on Monte, perhaps the hardest thing he had to deal with in his life thus far. Many weeks were spent in isolation, at the bottom of a bottle, sometimes leading to the dereliction of his duties. And if that was the most harmful thing he would ever have to endure most would consider that a privileged life. But alas, the Fates had more in store for poor Monte. By the time Darkov focused her attention on Silbervas, Roma had grown into herself. While not an official enforcer in the clans, Monte and his squad had become used to her tagging along on raids and heists, and Monte couldn't have been more proud. The Years of Impaled Rats was a harrowing time for everyone. Constantly fleeing, defending new positions, then fleeing once more. At the end Renier controlled little more than a single square block of undercity and less than two hundred wererats spread thin across six clans. When the Mists revealed themselves it was the only logical choice, as paradoxical as that sounds. In the mad dash to escape Darkov's death squads many were trampled and left to die. Monte struggled to keep his daughter close but in the end they were pulled from each other and, as they were thrust into unknown dangers, all he was able to snatch was a ribbon from Roma's hair... Surviving the Mists was a feat in itself, but what came next... there are no words to describe the waking nightmare that played havoc with Monte's mind, body, and soul in the time that followed. When he emerged in what he would later discover was the Gravelands, Montellerro was completely alone. Had the rest of clans not survived the trip? Had they all been scattered to the far corners of the Domains of Dread? What of the Reniers, his family? What of Romaellia? These were only fleeting questions, as legions of undead and creatures infused with negative energy began to harry Monte. Ceaselessly. The undead require no sleep, no reprieve, no comfort. They only hunger for the living... Specific memories of what followed has been lost to the recesses of this man's poor mind, and very well may never be recovered. Not that he would want that, such things are indescribable horrors best left forgotten. Fleshy nightmares. Toothy monstrosities. Chasing. Chewing. Whoever Montellerro was before the Gravelands, he is no longer. How he found the Mists once more and got spat out into Souragne likewise is unknown. What is known is the entity known as Haas had become nearly feral; a ghost of his former self. Gone were the responsibilities to Clan and daughter. Gone was the life he knew. There was only survival amidst endless death... Secrets...

Haas, Level 1 Human Blood Hunter Character Sheet Link Hit Points: 15/15 | d10Hit Dice: 1/1 | AC: While wearing scale mail armor.16 | Speed: 30 feet | Hemocraft DC: 13 | Hemocraft Die: d4 Proficiency Bonus: +2 | Initiative: +2 | Passive Skills: Perception (13) | Investigation (11) | Insight (15) Features & Traits: Haunted One Background Those who look into your eyes can see that you have faced unimaginable horror and that you are no stranger to darkness. Though they might fear you, commoners will extend you every courtesy and do their utmost to help you. Unless you have shown yourself to be a danger to them, they will even take up arms to fight alongside you, should you find yourself facing an enemy alone.Heart of Darkness | You have advantage on Wisdom (Perception) checks that rely on smell.Keen Smell | You have advantage on Wisdom (Survival) checks to track fey, fiends, or undead, as well as on Intelligence checks to recall information about such creatures.Hunter's Bane | You know one blood curse of your choice, detailed in the “Blood Curses” section at the end of the class description. You learn one additional blood curse of your choice at 6th, 10th, 14th, and 18th level. Each time you learn a new blood curse, you can also choose one of the blood curses you know and replace it with another blood curse. Each time you use your Blood Maledict feature, you choose which curse to invoke from the curses you know. While invoking a blood curse, but before it affects the target, you can choose to amplify the curse by taking necrotic damage equal to one roll of your hemocraft die. This damage can’t be reduced in any way. An amplified curse gains an additional effect, noted in the curse’s description. Creatures that do not have blood are immune to blood curses unless you have amplified the curse. Once you use this feature, you must finish a short or long rest before you can use it again. You can use Blood Maledict twice between rests starting at 6th level, three times starting at 13th level, and four times starting at 17th level.Blood Maledict: 1/1 | Blood Curses: As a bonus action, you mark a creature that you can see within 30 feet of you. Until the end of your turn, whenever you hit the cursed creature with a weapon for which you have an active crimson rite, you roll an additional hemocraft die when determining the extra damage from the rite. Amplify. The next attack roll you make against the target before the end of your turn has advantage.Curse of the Marked | Feats: Your hit point maximum increases by an amount equal to twice your level when you gain this feat. Whenever you gain a level thereafter, your hit point maximum increases by an additional 2 hit points.Tough | Dark Gifts: You are haunted by spiritual beings, whether the souls of the departed or entities from another plane. Their voices endlessly whisper, taunt, or cajole, sometimes rising to unearthly howls. Only you can perceive the spirits, unless you allow them to speak through you. The spirits are intangible and invisible; anyone who can see invisible creatures sees only fleeting glimpses of these spirits as they haunt you. Spirit Whispers: You learn the Message cantrip if you don't already know it, and require no components to cast it. When you cast the spell, the messages are delivered by one of your whispering spirits rather than you or the target's voice. Your spellcasting ability for this spell is Intelligence, Wisdom, or Charisma (your choice when you gain this Dark Gift). Sudden Cacophony (1/1): When you are hit by an attack roll, you can use your reaction to channel your haunting spirits, letting their voices howl through you. If the attacker isn't deafened, add your proficiency bonus to your AC against that attack, potentially causing it to miss. Once this trait causes an attack to miss, you can't use the trait again until you finish a long rest. Voices from Beyond (1/1): Immediately after you make an attack roll, an ability check, or a saving throw and roll a 1 on the d20, the haunting voices grow too loud to ignore. Roll on the Voices from Beyond table to determine the effect of these voices. Once one of these effects occurs, none of these haunting voices manifest again until you finish a short or long rest. You have disadvantage on the next attack roll, ability check, or saving throw you make. You are deafened by the voices for 1 minute. You are frightened of the creature closest to you, other than yourself, until the end of your next turn. If multiple creatures are closest, the DM chooses which creature you are frightened of. Within the next 10 minutes, you can ask your spirits about the results of a specific course of action that you plan to take within the next 30 minutes. You can receive an omen as if you had cast the Augury spell. The omen manifests as whisperings from your spirits perceptible only to you. Gathering Whispers Gear: +5 to-hit | 2d6+3 slashing damage Martial, Heavy, Two-handedGreatsword | +3 to-hit | 1d8+1 piercing damage | Range: 80/320 Simple, Ammunition, Loading, Two-handedLight Crossbow | Medium Armor | AC +4 | Disadvantage on Stealh checksScale Mail | Alchemist's Supplies, Bedroll, Mess Kit, Rations (10), Hemp Rope (50 feet), Tinderbox, Torch (10), WaterskinPack | Crowbar, Hammer, Holy Water, Manacles, Steel Mirror, Oil Flask, Wooden Stake (9), Tinderbox, Torch (3)Chest | 130 gold piecesCoin Pouch Ability Scores & Saving Throws: +3 | +3STR 16 | +2 | +4DEX 14 | +3 | +3CON 17 | +1 | +3INT 13 | +3 | +3WIS 17 | +2 | +2CHA 14 Skill Proficiencies: Arcana (+3) | Athletics (+5) | Insight (+5) | Religion (+3) | Survival (+5) | Light Armor, Medium Armor, Shields, Martial Weapons, Simple Weapons, Alchemist's SuppliesOther Proficiencies | Common, Primoridal, Sylvan, UndercommonLanguages

[ElderOblex]

Application Art (c) Mona Finden Name: Vilheim Elric Strann'yaztal, “Heim Halfhand” Race: aka Mark of HospitalityHin's Blessing Halfling Class: Sorcerer Origin: Rivalis of Darkon Background: Classic 1) I have an unquenchable spirit of optimism, no matter what obstacle I face. 2) I tend to think out of the box, going against convention and popular opinion. Horror I want to make a difference in the world, and I’d go to extreme lengths to prove myself. Ideals Classic Greater Good. Whatever I do, I do for the good of the many. (Chaotic) Horror Innovation. I’m inclined to push limits and break taboo because that’s what I really find exhilarating, intriguing, tantalizing; the forbidden. Bonds Classic Nobody else needs to die because of me. Horror When push comes to shove, I’d rather sacrifice myself - or my soul - than let a friend do the same. Flaws Classic I think laws and authorities don’t apply to me. Horror I know that actions have consequences. Sooner or later, my failures will catch up to me…   Appearance & Personality: Long blonde hair, thick and unkempt, top the sharp features of this three-foot tall Hin. He can be easily mistaken for a human boy, which irks him constantly. He’s Hin, ******! Not half-anything, either. Though the name they call him in the Springs - Heim Halfhand - he grudgingly allows. That was his most notable feature these days, after all: a gleaming, geometry-scoffing metallic arm. Heim’s sunken yet golden eyes betray deep personal trauma from having endured a near-death experience, losing friends and an old life, and the subsequent process of gaining a prosthetic arm, but his mischievous smile remains intact. He bears scars from that ordeal, as well as new ones from raids and skirmishes against the hated Kargat. His robes remain as red as ever, though now emblazoned with the emblem of the Eternal Order. Heim is used to barking orders, but balks at being given himself. Something he’s struggled with ever since working for the Order. He also has a streak of independence in both thought and action, and stubbornly holds on to that as much as possible. That’s not to say he doesn’t see the benefit in working with others, however. After all, he did run with his old gang back in Rivalis. Heim also will never admit this verbally, but he cares deeply for those few he considers friends. Perhaps, even too much. Their opinions and lives matter to him more than he would ever admit. In a world filled with undead, life - especially one shared with others - becomes that much more precious.   History: Slagge. I see them. Coming for me. They got me good. Shroud behind me. Didn't realize how far we were from the square. I look up and see the King’s Tear staring back at me, as if to laugh at my fate. Wall to my right. Too sleek, too high; I'd die looking a fool trying to scale that. Ferals to my left. They're slow, but they smelled me; they're out for blood. In front, the blasted Kargat. Moving in slow. For the kill. Most people would’ve killed to have a life in Rivalis. Quiet pleasantness, they would say about the place. No Shroud. No walkin’ corpses. No crime. ALL lies. I lived there, and I can tell you it’s just as rotten to live there as in blasted Il Aruk, except you got a plastered-on cover of idyllic rural living is all. The rich are ******ds and the poor live like rats in clogged sewage. I couldn’t stand it, so I did something about it. Me and my pals started to go on small raids - since we’re called smallfolk, those raids were tiny and insignificant enough not to draw attention - rob a wagon, steal a sleeping noble’s horse and purses, things like that. Then we’d use the coin to feed our families, our villages. Things got so good, people gave us a name: the Red Hin Hoods. On account of the cloaks we wore to disguise ourselves. The mayor of Rivalis and his mob-wannabe goons turned a blind eye to us, since he know his folk stood to gain much from what we did. He could never figure out who exactly were in the RHH though. We were outlaws. We were heroes. We were also cocky. After a couple more successful heists, we got news of a big haul headed for some bathhouse in Nevuchar Springs. I’d never been, but we heard it was a small town. Quiet. Just like Rivalis. Except it was a trap. Set by the blood-sucking Kargat, for some group that I’d never heard of before: The Eternal Order. Apparently the bathhouse was their turf, and those undead secret police blighters were getting their groove on to raid it. With me and my friends inside. Things happened fast and slow after that. They were coming, and we were trapped inside. Markus - my first mate who was as big as an orc (coz he was half one) and dumb as a wall - managed to get a hatch open. Some of us got out. I almost did. Markus stepped on a pressure plate. Old booby trap or something; doesn’t matter why it was there. Point was we didn’t notice it. I tried to pull him away. I failed. Then, BOOM. I remember a bright flash. I remember feeling the warmth on my face as it burned. I remember hearing a ripping sound near my left ear. I remember Markus’ scream, before the explosion. Guess Markus didn’t make it. I thought I wouldn’t either. So imagine my surprise when: 1) I woke up; 2) I woke up horribly scarred, missing my left arm, and feeling like I got mauled by a million bears; 3) I woke up horribly scarred, missing my left arm, feeling like I got mauled by a million bears, and discovered that I now have a new, strange, cold, metallic arm to replace the fleshy arm I lost, made of a material that sort of shifted and flowed the longer you stared at it; 4) I woke up realizing all this inside what seemed to be a facility of the Eternal Order. Saw their symbol in the room: a hooded human skull. Cardinna sells me a pitch; calls me a new Hin. Don’t know about that. I can’t deny she saved my life though; I owe her. That’s why I work for them now. Nah, it’s not because she’s got the face of an angel. She… She’s beautiful, I’ll give you that much. And her power… She saved my life. She… She’s good... ...Right? But I hear things. ‘Bout where the Order gets their power. I don’t know exactly, but… My mind is… messed up. I remember… things. Lots of screaming… and lots of… blood. I don’t know, hin. I do know one thing. I won't let them take me. So I step into the Shroud.   Experience: I’m pretty new to RPGs, all things considered. All in all it might be less than 5 years. I’ve played D&D5e mostly, but have dipped my feet in other systems, including FATE, Mork Borg, Trophy, and others. I’ve been playing PbP games for a couple of years, and have finished around 2 one-shots (both of which were D&D 5E). I have read about Ravenloft but and have played Curse of Strahd, but only until Vallaki. I also know there are tons of ways to tweak this game, so I’m looking forward to a unique experience!

[cottontailwind]

Application Name: Ragman Beob, Beobachterin Race: Just a normal fellow human, like yourself. Why, uh, do you ask...? Class: Paladin (intending to multiclass into one other class of either Cleric/Sorcerer/Wizard/Warlock) Feat: Heavy Armor Master, or; Resilient, or; Tough Origin: Falkovnia Appearance: He's called The Ragman for a reason. An odd, quiet fellow - pleasant enough - equipped with sword and shield, but completely covered in frayed wraps and rag strips. They're more of bandages, really. Most of his forearms and face are covered in them, and where they're not, his skin shows scarring and some sort of old bruising. But he seems to carry himself comfortably enough, so it musn't be any recent injury. A plague perhaps? But there are no coughing fits or fevered itching. In a land full of so many unspeakable and unknown threats, he could be an intimidating figure, if only he weren't so subdued. Head hung low. Speaking only as loud as the barkeep or merchant directly in front of him. And when he does speak, it's surprisingly... polite. Gentle. Melodic, even, like a singer at rest. Even when he's challenged. When his weapons and armor aren't enough of a display - and he has to show that he is in fact capable of recovering this stolen heirloom or fending off that banditry - Beob puffs out his chest and projects his voice with so much posturing that it's obvious he's only trying to be as intimidating as he wishes he could be. Despite his full size, it's the approach of a youth that's seen much hardship but is trying their best to put on a strong face in a big world. Beob moves a bit absently. A shamble, almost. He must really be lost in thought. Or has one of his legs gone bad? Now that you mention it... does his armor fit unevenly? The armor itself looks uniform. Is it that... one arm is bigger than the other? And one leg slightly longer than the other leg...? Must be a trick of the queasy, uneven lighting in here. What a strange sight he is. And smell. A touch of mildew, like a basement... how often does he change those wraps? Probably easier to avoid him for his oddities than for any overt danger he may or may not pose. Personality/Traits: Ragman Beob is more of a follower than a leader. Literally - he's likely to follow the most outspoken and confident of any group. Sullen-seeming and reserved, but after making his acquaintance (and showing that you're not going to chase him out of town with torch and pitchfork), he shows that he's really bright-eyed and curious about the world. And naive. Aloof. Well meaning, at least, which is unique among the sullen and colorless of the Lands of Dread. But some of the questions Beob asks of traveling companions - with a completely unsuspecting expression - makes it clear that either this strange, gentle, and very-bandaged man is either truly sheltered from the world, or he's not entirely there in the head. "Say, Everard... how do the villagers keep the cattle from uprising in a revolt? Just, you know, hypothetically." "Hey Everard - can't you just pack that wound in salt?" "Oh, Everard! Maybe we can just ask them to stop waylaying the townsfolk!" ... How has this Ragman survived this long on his own, anyways? Perhaps more weird than how concealed he keeps his face is his obvious optimism. Not overflowing with cheer or mirth. Something almost more alarming. A subtle hopefulness? Beob does seem to look for the potential in others as casually as others seem to have forsaken their own potential. Any who venture out with Beob for more than a day would know that he talks about having a wide variety of jobs in the past. If allowed to, he'll talk on and on and on to no real end. He was a crab fisherman on the coast. A carpenter in the big city. A homemaker, for a time. There's no real thread between them. Throughout all of it, however, he's been a traveler for as long as he can remember. There was however a time when he did finally rest his soles, and he lived in a big house as a manservant for someone very fancy-seeming, who was very nice and very pretty. Beob must not have been one for too much orderliness, since he left that gig rather quickly. Returned the road, Beob is not drawn to money or glory, but rather to any usefulness he can do for others. Dare it be said: he's searching for some greater good to be done...? Background: Haunted One Personality, Classic: I am haunted by my tortured past, and wake at night screaming at half-remembered horrors. Personality, Horror: I'm easily startled, but I'm not a coward. Ideals, Classic: Compassionate. I have suffered long at the hands of horrible things, and take pity and compassion on the suffering of others. Ideals, Horror: Promise. My life is no longer my own. I must fulfill the dream of someone who is gone. Bonds, Classic: A terrible guilt consumes me. I hope that I can find redemption through my actions. Bonds, Horror: I owe much to my vanished mentor. I seek to continue their work even as I search to find them. / I deeply miss someone and am quick to adopt people who remind me of them. Flaws, Classic: I've struggled with my past identity for so long that I don't fully know myself anymore. Flaws, Horror: I need to find the best in everyone and everything, even when that means denying obvious malice. Experience: have dabbled in DnD for many years, played heavily in DnD computer games in the past ~25 years, played tabletop more heavily in the past ~15 years. Probably too familiar with Forgotten Realms lore off the top of my head. Enjoying exploring new worlds and systems Posting Rate: Happy to pace with the group GM Only

Beobachterin, Level 1 ??? Paladin   Character Sheet Link Hit Points: 13/13 | Hit Dice: 1/1 | AC: 18 | Speed: 30 feet Proficiency Bonus: +2 | Initiative: +2 | Passive Skills: Perception (12), Investigation (9), Insight (14) Features & Traits: The presence of strong evil registers on your senses like a noxious odor, and powerful good rings like heavenly music in your ears. As an action, you can open your awareness to detect such forces. Until the end of your next turn, you know the location of any celestial, fiend, or undead within 60 feet of you that is not behind total cover. You know the type (celestial, fiend, or undead) of any being whose presence you sense, but not its identity (the vampire Count Strahd von Zarovich, for instance). Within the same radius, you also detect the presence of any place or object that has been consecrated or desecrated, as with the Hallow spell. You can use this feature a number of times equal to 1 + your Charisma modifier. When you finish a long rest, you regain all expended uses.Divine Sense (2/2), Your blessed touch can heal wounds. You have a pool of healing power that replenishes when you take a long rest. With that pool, you can restore a total number of hit points equal to your paladin level x 5. As an action, you can touch a creature and draw power from the pool to restore a number of hit points to that creature, up to the maximum amount remaining in your pool. Alternatively, you can expend 5 hit points from your pool of healing to cure the target of one disease or neutralize one poison affecting it. You can cure multiple diseases and neutralize multiple poisons with a single use of Lay on Hands, expending hit points separately for each one. This feature has no effect on undead and constructs.Lay on Hands (5/5), You are immune to any spell or effect that would alter your form.Immutable Form, You have advantage on Strength saving throws.Immovable, You have resistance to lightning and poison damage. And you have advantage on saving throws against poison.Resilience, You count as one size larger when determining your carrying capacity and the weight you can push, drag, or lift. Carrying Capacity = 600 lbs or 3 live deer Push, Drag, Lift = 1,200 lbs or 1 giraffe or 2 grizzly bears (Speed drops to 5 if over this amount)Powerful Build, Those who look into your eyes can see that you have faced unimaginable horror and that you are no stranger to darkness. Though they might fear you, commoners will extend you every courtesy and do their utmost to help you. Unless you have shown yourself to be a danger to them, they will even take up arms to fight alongside you, should you find yourself facing an enemy alone.Heart of Darkness, You can focus your deadly touch against your foes. As an action, make one unarmed strike. On a hit, the target takes an additional 1d10 necrotic damage. This damage increases by 1d10 when you reach 5th level (2d10), 11th level (3d10), and 17th level (4d10).Death Touch, When you hit a target with an attack roll and deal necrotic damage, you ignore the target's resistance to that damage.Inescapable Death, When you start your turn grappling a creature or grappled by it, the creature takes 1d10 necrotic damage.Withering Contact Feats: While you are wearing heavy armor, bludgeoning, piercing, and slashing damage that you take from nonmagical attacks is reduced by 3Heavy Armor Master | Dark Gifts: Your touch is pain, harming whoever you come in contact with. The deathly power within you is beyond your control, afflicting any who touch your bare skin. By the same token, you can deliver death to your enemies with your touch. Your body is nefariously altered, infusing you with deadly energies.Touch of Death Gear: +7 to hit, 1d8+5 slashing.Longsword, Shield, Chain Mail, +7 to hit, 1d6+5 piercing, 5' melee, 30/120' thrown.Javelins (5/5)| Bedroll Mess Kit Tinderbox Torches, x13 Rations, x10 Waterskin Rope, Hempen, 50' Holy Symbol, Hala Holy Symbol, Scarlet Maiden Trinket: Worn Storybook of Heroes PastPack | Crowbar Hammer Wooden Stakes, x3 Flask of Holy Water Manacles Flask of Oil TinderboxChest | 1 spCoin Pouch Ability Scores: STR 20, DEX 12, CON 17, INT 8, WIS 14, CHA 14 Saving Throws: STR +5, DEX +1, CON +3, INT -1, WIS +4, CHA +4 Skill Proficiencies: Arcana (+1), Athletics (+7), Insight (+4), Survival (+4) | All Armor Shield Simple Weapons Martial WeaponsOther Proficiencies | Common Falkovnian Lamordian InfernalLanguages

[ihinka]

Kosara ‘Hagbane’ Rusnova Name: Kosara ‘Hagbane’ Rusnova Race: Hexblood Class: Witch/Natural Magic Coven (souce) Origin: Tepest Background: Personality Traits: I was, in fact, raised by wolves… Well, an old woodland crone anyway. Horror Personality Trait - I must know the answer to every secret. No door remains unopened in my presence. Ideals: Change. Life is like the seasons, in constant change, and we must change with it. (Chaotic) Revelation — I need to know what lies beyond the mysteries of death, the world, or the mists. Bonds: I will bring terrible wrath down on all hags. Horror Bond - I’ve seen great darkness, and I’m committed to being a light against it—the light of all lights. Flaws: I will get distracted by mysterious, fascinating woodland phenomena, be it of animal, plantlike or any other nature. Horror Flaw - I’m convinced something is after me, appearing in mirrors, dreams, and places where no one could.”Forest Outlander” Personality: Kosara has lived most of her formative years and adult live alone in the forest with nothing but the trees and animals to keep her company. Back then she’d had no concept of the dangers and horrors that lurked in Tepest at each step. This, of course, had changed as she grew. And even though Sara resented her mother to this day, for abandoning her, she also understood the act for what it had been. An act of desperation from a woman terrified out of her mind. Sara’s loyalty may be hard-won, but once obtained, is fierce and boundless. Appearance: At 5’9’’ Kosara is not a diminutive woman. She is fit from all the running around in the forest. Her usual garb is a leather outfit that provides for a free range of motion with a leather crop top and leather skirt. Leather twines cover her legs and most of her arms. Leather sandals on her feet and an animal skin shoulder cloak finish off the ensemble. History:   ”Mommy?!?” The little girl whispered terrified. They were out in the woods together, gathering mushrooms. Her mom had even given her the responsibility of carrying the basket with the mushrooms they’d gathered so far. It was something Sara was not allowed to do anymore, because she would get distracted by one flower or another, put the basket down, move over to the next flower, and the next, and would eventually end up losing the basket. She’d gotten scolded often enough for returning home after hours of being gone, and no basket full of mushrooms to boot. Finally her mother had stopped taking her out mushroom gathering with her. They’d also forbidden her from going into the woods on her own. Her mother especially had been adamant the girl was not to tread the woods alone. She would get this pinched expression on her face. The one that said she was either supremely annoyed with Sara. Or terrified down to the roots of her hair of something. It was earie and Sara didn’t like it very much. What she couldn’t know was that years ago… In fact, the exact number of years as her own age, her mother had gone into the woods to strike a very particular bargain. And the reason she didn’t want Sara frolicking in the woods was, because instead of going to Mother and plead for the privilege of having a child, she’d gone to someone else. Someone who’d cut Mother with the deepest of betrayals. A woodland crone missing her left eye. But that day her mother had called her and told her they were going mushroom gathering and Sara’d been besides herself with joy. And when her mom had given her the basket to hold, she’d been ecstatic. Until she’d found herself alone in the forest. Her mom gone! The little girl ran and ran in the dark calling after her mother. Begging. Pleading her to come back. To come back and find her. Take her home! But to no avail. The mother, tired of keeping the secret of her conception with the help of Mother’s betrayer, had opted to simply allow her daughter to get lost in the forest. At least with the child gone, Mother would have no reason to bring the existence of the child under question anymore. The crone, for her part, had made her hideout deep in the Bentwitch Woods. The secret of her betrayal of Mother know only to her and Mother. And to escape Mother’s wrath she tried very diligently to stay out of the way of others. But every now and then someone with a wild request would seek her out and eventually find her. This prompted the old crone to fashion a cover for herself. But she needed to be careful. Any cover too powerful in appearance and Mother would come after her. Any cover too puny and it would defeat the purpose of the cover itself. So the crone decided on a name that would allude of a powerful hag, but at the same time would be no where near the level of a Baba - Mlada Yaga. Purported to lure little children to her hut that stood on a giant chicken’s leg with the purpose of eating them. So when Sara heard the sounds of shuffling humanlike steps this late in the night it meant it could be only one creature. So, sometimes in folklore Baba Yaga is a representation of three hags - Maiden, Mother, Crone. Mlada means Young in Bulgarian, so - the Maiden hag.Mlada Yaga! Sara screamed! And screamed and screamed, until she could scream no more. And she fell exhausted on the forest bed and fell asleep. When she woke up she was in a bed. In a small room. And next to the bed sat the sweetest looking old woman. An image marred only by the mangled, missing left eye. She was asleep. Sara’s attention shifted to a crude end table near the bed. There was a plate on. It had bread, cheese and all kinds of berries in it. “You must be hungry.” A kind, quiet voice spoke. Sara shifted her gaze to the old woman, spooked for a second. “Please, don’t be afraid, child. I mean you no harm. I found you unconscious in the woods and brought you home. Did you get lost?” The old woman asked. Then added gesturing towards the plate. “Eat, eat. And fret not. I will help you get home.” At those words Sara’s little child heart filled with resentment and anger. “I don’t have a home!” She chirped petulantly, grabbed the loaf of bread and began eating with vigor. “Oh?” The old crone questioned. But she’d already recognized her own brand of magic within the child and knew her to be the child of that one woman who’d sought her out with pleas for help in conceiving. I worned that trollop she would not be able to handle the pressure of keeping a secret from Mother! The old crone had thought then. The child would not be welcome in Viktal anymore. And Mlada Yaga would certainly not leave her to the mercy of the elves and the fey. Worse even, the drow. And she would not trust the child with any of the others living outside of Viktal. Which left only one other option. Raise the girl herself! Sara, of course, couldn’t know at the time Mlada Yaga’s true nature. After all, the child knew nothing of hags and their heinous nature. And, apparently Mlada Yaga had some sort of plans for the child, because she kept the ‘sweet ol’ lady’ act for years. While at the same time vilifying the entire population of Viktal in front of the girl. Who was already easily influenced where Viktal was concerned because of her personal history of being abandoned by her mother. So anytime Mlada and Sara would encounter a straggler from Viktal in the woods, Sara’s adoptive mother would convince her this was a terrible person, sent out to get lost into the woods on purpose, because they were evil. And so Mlada Yaga would have the girl help her lure the straggler to ‘safety’. Sara never saw any of them again. And whenever she would inquire after them, her adoptive mother always answered that she’d taken care of it. This went on for years as Sara grew. Mlada Yaga never asked of her anything too overtly despicable or evil. Still playing her role to perfection in front of the child. But when Sara’s eyes started opening to the world of horror and strife that was Tepest, the crone had no choice but to enact her plan of fully transforming Sara into a hag herself and having her serve Mlada Yaga’s every whim. Sara had been so stunned by the betrayal, she’d barely moved a muscle to defend herself from the ritual her monster of an adoptive mother had flung at her. Something had happened in that moment, however… Mist had swirled and risen off the ground. Swallowing Sara whole, pulling her forcefully away from Mlada Yaga, as the young woman yelled bloody murder and vengeance!