Appearance:
Marcel has dark brown hair that was perhaps at one time kempt, but now tumbles to his shoulders in unruly locks. He possesses dark brown eyes set into a face of sharp features and firm cheekbones.
Although he dresses for practicality, primarily, it is about as nice a practicality as you can find - the finest leathers worked with careful embroidery, dyed cloths, and well-crafted weapons.
Personality:
Although he has not always been this way, Marcel believes in planning, organization, and teamwork. The untamed wilds are places that need careful vigilance.
He hides his emotions most of the time and is loathe to show vulnerability. He thinks highly of his own competence and is often reluctant to place himself in the hands of others. The Varisians say that he has no passion, and while this is not entirely true, it is certainly something he keeps to himself, preferring instead to face each day as an exercise in survival and elements to be endured.
Background:
Marcel grew up in Korvosa in the southern reaches of Varisia to a religious family, the youngest of three children (he has an older brother and sister) The family followed suit with the Thrune's devotion to Hell. This upbringing, rather than cultivating a rigorous order in Marcel's personality, instead raised up all kinds of rebellion in him, ranging from simply replacing the pentagram above the mantle with Erastil's horns to petty vandalism and theft.
His father fretted over him and, one night, as Marcel was sneaking out of his house to steal a few coins from a local temple of Asmodeus, he overheard his father espousing the idea that he should turn the boy over to the law or the clergy.
Deciding both options were undesirable, Marcel fled for Harse. He got turned around, however, and ended up being lost in the Mindspin Mountains. It was there, after days of hunger and exposure, a far-ranging patrol of the Black Arrows found him on their way north.
The Arrows took him in, teaching him to survive in the wilds and work with others out of a sense of common survival which soon evolved into a common sense of duty. Although not so changed that he desired to join the more rigorously disciplined life of the Arrows, his outlook on life was very different. He knew he was only alive because of someone's sense of duty and the ability to work with others to survive. Those values were now his.
As a result, he began to hire himself out as a guide and protector in Turtleback Ferry to anyone needing to cross Varisia's wilderness. Most recently, he has escorted a pastry merchant whose unique Turtlecakes were commissioned to be given as prizes at the Swallowtail Festival in Sandpoint. His commission successful, he has decided to stay a few days to see the Festival before returning to Turtleback Ferry.
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I apologize to DMs and players. Work has changed dramatically for me recently. I'm trying to get to things as I can. Ask a DnD Monster
Last edited by MadSatyr; Nov 19th, 2009 at 09:25 AM.
Name: Amariya Zathin Gender: Female Race: Human (Varisian) Class: Bard Alignment: Chaotic good
Appearance: Tall and striking, Amariya certainly possesses her fair share of classic Varisian beauty. Often clad in flowing, frilly dresses practical only for performing, her figure is lush and curvaceous, her shapely limbs disposed to move with a dancer's grace from the tips of her long, tapering fingers to the callused soles of her feet. Thick dark curls, often woven with strings of brightly-colored beads and ribbons, frame a bold, handsome face with huge jet-black eyes and full lips. A few tattoos adorn her olive skin, twining about her upper arms and shoulders in intricate, enigmatic shapes.
Personality: Outgoing and vivacious, Amariya is most at home in the company of others and often goes out of her way to seek out new audiences to charm and entertain. If left by herself for too long, she often grows restless and short-tempered. For her, performing isn't a job or a business, but a way of life that she thoroughly enjoys. She approaches new situations and people with enthusiasm and is usually generous and accepting of others' differences. While her nomadic lifestyle has made her adaptable and open-minded, it's also instilled the mindset that she can pack up and leave whenever she feels bored or gets in trouble.
Background: Like all Varisians, Amariya was born into a wandering clan traveling from town to town as necessity or whim directed them. Because the clan matriarch is an ardent follower of Shelyn, holding her in equal regard with Desna, its members were encouraged to indulge their creativity and pursue artistic endeavors. As a result, many of its children grew up to be gifted singers, dancers and storytellers, and Amariya was one of these. When her clan visits a town or city, she's always proud to earn money and show off her talents by dancing and entertaining the townsfolk.
Recently, as her clan was traveling along the Lost Coast Road, they heard of the Swallowtail Festival and decided to pay the town a visit. Not only is merrymaking and festivities make for a pleasant stay, but they also make for a profitable one for the clan's performers and traders in art objects. Amariyah is especially looking forward to exploring a new town and being in the middle of the action at Sandpoint, as well as displaying her talents at dance and song.
Name: Arkann Gender: Male Race: Human (Shoanti) Class: Barbarian Alignment: CG-ish
Appearance: Arkann is short and squat, with unprepossessing features. His nose has been broken and set badly, his face is scarred and his hair is matted and untrimmed. He typically wears a rough tunic, and carries a heavy axe and shield. When in town, he will keep his axe slung over his back rather than at his belt - while he is ready for trouble, he does not wish to make the soft city-folk fear him more than they already do, and his belt knife is weapon enough. Personality: The Shoanti tribes are proud, complex and enigmatic to outsiders. What they do truly have in common is their stubborness, and Arkann is no exception. He is more talkative than some of his kin, more willing to accept the right of others to live in Varisia, and more open to experiencing other cultures, but he remains Shoanti and persists in thinking of himself as a tribesman.
Background:They call us Shadde-Quah, the Clan of the Axe. We are the blade of my people, the hard edge that faces the waves and defends the shore from all threats. We trust our brothers to guard our landward side, though the mountains and the marsh will aid them in that task.
I was born four-hand summers ago, as the winter approached and the autumn storms howled in from the sea. They tell me it was a hard winter, when the tribe's strength was tested and the cold seemed to eat the flesh from a man's bones. They tell me I was strong, even then, and howled back at the storm and waved my fists at the wind, as if all I needed was a blade that could cut the air.
In my sixth winter, the sea-caves flooded. The wind was high again, driving salt-spray and bitter foam before it, and the waters that carved our home returned to claim it once more. The tribe retreated into the mountains, suffering in the cold and the snow, until the waters receded and we could return.
In my eighth summer, my father gave me my first real axe. It was not a man's weapon, but it was not a child's toy, and that was when I left childish things behind me. I could not play with the children any longer, for I was to be a warrior of Shadde-Quah, and keep this land safe from the threat beyond the waves.
You ask me what this threat is, and that proves that you are not of the tribes. This is our land; it is an ancient land as we are an ancient people; but you are here to share it with us and that is right. The house-builders, your people, are newcomers here, but while there is room for both peoples, so both peoples should live. The Varisians, the travellers, the tinkers, this was their land perhaps before it was ours, though they lay no more claim to it than they do to any stretch of road below their wagon-wheels. This is our land, and we keep it safe.
The threat beyond the sea is a dark memory; the tribes know it though none has seen its face. It is the reason children fear the thunder, the reason brave men quake at the sound of a wolf's howl, the reason all peoples build their fires high at night. The threat beyond the sea is patient, and it may not return in my lifetime nor in my sons', nor yet in his sons' many times removed, but it will return.
Shadde-Quah will face it, and the tribes will be at our back, but it is the axe-blade that will turn away the storm. All I need is a blade that can cut the air.
Arkann is still a young man; his people do not count the years as closely as a city dweller might. He is unmarried and unencumbered, and free to travel as he wills. He believes that the tribe will need all the help it can get when the "threat beyond the sea" returns, and has spent most of this year travelling the western coast trying to raise support for his cause. Even if it is just persuading the townsfolk to form a militia, or to establish a watchpoint and beacon fires, Arkann believes that a tradition of readiness must be established among the settled folk as it is among the tribes. After all, he is old enough to realise that traditions start somewhere, and young enough to hope that he could start one.
His presence in Sandpoint at this time is fortuitous; he was close enough when he heard of the festival, and soon saw the possibilities for recruiting: men are more suggestible when in their cups.
Name: Pais Gonaldi
Gender: Male
Race: Human (Varisian)
Class: Sorcerer
Alignment: LG
Appearence: Short at 5 ft 1, and is usually mistaken for younger then he is due to it. Has various cultural tatoos on his arms, that connect around the back of his neck. Dark hair cut short, and fairly tanned skin.
Background: Pais was a young sorcerer who traveled extensively around the countryside with his friend and traveling companion, Syeira. Pais and Syeira had spent many years traveling around to all sorts of towns, cities, and other various natural wonders, taking in knowledge from many different cultures. About 5 years ago, they happened to come to the town of Sandpoint to spend what was meant to be a couple weeks before traveling on to wherever their feet took them.
Unfortunately, they picked just about the worst time possible to come, as it was right in the middle of the Chopper's month long reign of terror. On their first night into town, Syeira went out by herself to take a look at the landscape, while Pais worked out an arrangement with the local innkeeper. A few hours later, she was discovered dead, the latest victim of the Chopper.
Pais understandably was enraged over the death of his friend, and sought to find the killer himself, but to no avail. Despite his efforts, it would be the local Sheriff that would discover the killer and soon the Chopper was no more.
Pais stayed in Sandpoint after that, unable to move on, and thus 5 years later, he's attending a celebration for the rebuilding of the temple that had burned down soon after the end of the murders.
Personality: Pais is still a good natured fellow at heart, however the time that became known as the "Late Unplesentnes" has given him a hatred for criminals, and a personal complex to see justice done personally after what he believes to be a failure on his part to bring in the one that killed Syeira. Ever since that time, he's kept to himself in a small place he bought a shortly after everything had calmed down, spending his time wanting to grow stronger, feeling that he needed to improve himself to stop people like the Chopper from being able to harm others again. He does spend some time out about the town, and has gotten to know the people of the town well in the time he's spent since, occasionally helping with various rebuilding efforts. He also spends much of his time at the alchemical shop he created after he decided to stay in town. The upcoming celebration comes as a time of remembrance for him, as it also marks the 5th year anniversary of when he and Syeira first had come to town, to which Pais isn't really sure what to think. It wouldn't be right though to not at least show up for the festivities, after all that's happened.
Last edited by AdvanceStrat; Nov 19th, 2009 at 05:09 PM.
Name: Sartov “Oakheart” Gender: Male Race: Human (Shoanti: Shriikirri-Quah) Class: Druid Alignment: Neutral Good
Appearance: Sartov stands like a small brown bear (height: 6’5” and weight: 255lbs). Among his own people he is of average height but amongst the smaller city dwellers he is a towering and imposing man. His amber colored eyes only heighten the comparison of Sartov to the dark bears that hunt the Kodar Mountains. His head is shaved and decorated in the swirling tattoos typical of the Shoanti tribes. Unlike many in his tribe the Druid wears a reddish brown goatee that hangs 5 inches down his chest.
Sartov is twenty-nine but appears to be closer to thirty-five or even forty years of age. A physically hard life has left its mark on the druid and even more so tragedy and grief have scarred him both physically and emotionally, aging both his appearance and his soul.
Personality: Sartov is slow and deliberate in both his thinking and movements. Many people make the mistake of thinking that this purposeful nature makes him dim or even stupid, but a good look in the bearish druid’s golden brown eyes shows a depth of wisdom and insight beyond that of normal men. Since most do not look this deep they underestimate Sartov much like a city dweller might underestimate the cunning and speed of a forest predator much to his misfortune.
Sartov is a defender of both his people and the natural world. He takes both of these responsibilities very seriously, not so much in a flashy passionate way but more in a gritty, iron-willed determination like that of the granite mountains that stand against all that comes or that of the mighty oak that refuses to bend. The question that many who have known him for years ask is whether Sartov will learn to once again bend like the willow before the storms of the world shatter and break him.
Underneath his unwavering sense of purpose and his profound sense of responsibility lays an open wound from a moment of failure when his commitment to his tribe broke and people died. Memories of his collapse, of his breakdown haunt his dreams and many of his waking hours.
Despite his emotional wound and his iron determination to protect life, Sartov is not just a serious rock of a man. When with those he knows he is able to let the granite exterior fade a bit and his more mellow, and original, side shows through. While not the life of the party, the druid does display a gentle and deep devotion to his friends and has even been known to crack a joke once or twice in his deep gravelly voice.
Background: Sartov grew up as a member of the Shriikirri-Quah tribe of the Shoanti. As a child He learned the skills of his tribe by following his father’s footsteps. Providing and defending the tribe was a way of life for a man and Sartov learned to live these roles. The young boy learned to watch and study the animals and plants; to understand their ways both as a way to feed his people but also as a source of warning and knowledge.
Like most young men of the tribe, Sartov was married to a young woman in an arranged marriage when he was fifteen. These marriages were for the purposes of strengthening the people and producing the next generation of warriors, but Sartov and his wife, Kayda, found love. Their marriage was filled with a passion that shakes the soul. Even Sartov’s easy going and gentle soul was stirred by the depth of emotion that he felt towards his new bride.
The days went by, the seasons changed and with each new dawn Sartov opened his eyes and a smile of contentment spread across his face. The young man felt blessed by the gods to be living his life: he helped his people, he had a loving wife, and they were expecting their first child. The only thing that marred his peaceful spirit was the sense of a dark shadow that was coming. Sartov had no proof of his feelings just a lingering unease that death was approaching, but his life was good and he could only smile at the blessings of his future and so he ignored the stirring of his spirit.
On a rainy autumn night their tribe camped at the foot of the mountains. The rain was coming down so hard that the people could not even get their cooking fires started and they ate a cold and cheerless dinner. The storm created rivulets and then streams of water that flowed down the hill sides and through the camp. Sartov noticed the torrents of water cascading down the mountainsides and even noticed the rocks and mud beginning to be churned up by the flood of rain. His heart saw the warning signs and he sensed the shadow coming but he was lost in the need to comfort and care for his wife and ignored the foreboding cry of his soul.
During the second watch of the night, Sartov and the rest of the tribe were awakened by a deep rumbling sound. It sounded as if the mountains were grinding together. Through the darkness of the storm, by the brief illumination of a lightning stroke, the people saw the mountain side behind their camp shifting and sliding towards them. Like the end of the world, a wall of mud and rock was crashing down towards them. People began crying out in panic and terror. The entire tribe turned and ran for their lives. Parents burdened with children and those women who were great with child quickly fell behind. Sartov and Kayda joined the people in their dash from the death flowing towards them. In the darkness children became lost and families were separated. With a cry of pain Kayda seemed to stumble and fall. By the time Sartov turned and tried to find his wife she was lost to him in the darkness. The press of the fleeing tribe carried him further and further from where he had last seen Kayda.
With a cacophony that left everyone stunned, the mountainside buried their camp and the rock and mud flowed forward sweeping people from their feet. Finally the wave of earth lost its force and the night grew quiet. Where the tribe’s camp had stood was nothing more than a sea of mud and boulders. After a count was made a full quarter of the tribe had been wiped out in the catastrophe including many of the children. Amongst all the death and despair, Sartov stood weeping and howling against the darkness for when the earth settled no sign of Kayda could be found.
In the following days and months, Sartov was overwhelmed with his personal grief. The young man would simply sit staring off into the distance sometimes with no visible expression and yet other times deep wracking sobs would shake his frame as tears rolled down his grim face. His people suffered from the tragedy and Sartov did nothing but sit and grieve. Then one day, like a bear rising from its winter sleep, the young man shook his head and, with a deep growl, stood and began to move amongst his people. From that day forward Sartov worked hard to protect and provide for his people. The man had seemed to age with the tragedy and with his pain. Where once had been a gentle and peaceful man, a man given to smiles, now in his place stood a man of determined purpose and of rock hard conviction. Sartov felt the guilt of the certainty that if only he had listened to the warnings his soul had sensed in the world around him, if only he had heeded the sense of a shadow of death coming, then he could have saved his people, he could have saved Kayda. Empowered by this remorse and shame Sartov committed himself to defending life: the life of those he loved, the life of his people, and the life of the world. The young man began to study the ways of the tribe’s druids so that he’d have the power to stop death the next time the shadow came.
While the tribe’s elders appreciated Sartov’s commitment to helping his people, they also saw a man with a heart that had been hardened through tragedy, through pain, and through suffering. They gave the druid the name “Oakheart.” While many in the tribe saw this christening as a great honor, only Sartov had heard the whispered words of the elders as they gave him the new title. “If you do not learn to bend like the willow in the wind, then just like the mighty oak you will be broken by the storms of the world.”
Recently, Sartov has begun to feel that hint of a shadow again. There seems to be death in the wind and this time the druid has sworn he will heed his spirit. The search for the source of this shadow has led him to Sandpoint on the eve of the Swallowtail Festival. Sartov is determined to stop the shadow of death this time but will the shadow break him instead?
Sartov stares out over the patch of forest that sits like a green oasis between the Stony Mountains, the Red Mountains and the mighty Kodar Mountains. The only thing marring the serenity of the arboreal scene before him is the sight of circling vultures. Death was part of nature, predators hunted prey, creatures died from old age or accident; that was just a part of the world. Normally the towering Druid would not think twice of such a natural event as vultures circling, but Sartov senses something unnatural about the scene before him.
Stretching his long legs the powerful Shoanti man jogs down into the forest, weaving a path through the soaring trees until he reaches the site over which the vultures were circling. There, in a small forest glade, Sartov sees before him a mighty battle of love and devotion. In the middle of the sunlit clearing lays the corpse of a large Kodar bear. Its dark russet colored coat is pierced in several places by feathered shafts.
Who would have killed such an impressive beast without even harvesting the meat or fur? Damn wastefulness and wretched idiocy. His fingers tighten into fists at the thought of such stupidity. His knuckles whiten under the pressure of his anger at whoever killed this mighty bear for no reason. The Shoanti wouldn’t have done this so it must have been some of those Varisians or the wretched Cheliaxians. Rank stupidity seems to be almost a disease amongst that kind.
The bald-pated vultures settle in the clearing and begin hopping towards the bear’s corpse. As the large birds get near, a small ball of auburn fur rushes forth from under the carcass. With a growl that seems much too large for its small frame, a bear cub charges the ungainly vultures swiping its small paws viciously at the scavengers. The vultures leap back into the air with disgruntled shrieks and begin circling the clearing again. It does not appear that these birds of prey will be willing to give up on the feast lying before them in the forest glade.
The small cub walks back to what is obviously its mother’s corpse. With a nudge of its pink nose the young beast tries to get its mother to stand up, to move, to do anything. Getting no response the bear cub gives a forlorn cry and then settles back down in the soft fur along its mother’s neck.
Sartov’s amber eyes soften for a moment at the brave sight of the bear cub courageously defending its fallen mother. A valiant and devoted creature you might be, but eventually the vultures will have their supper. I don’t think I can let such a noble bear as you suffer the tearing beaks of the scavengers once you finally grow weak from thirst and hunger.
Walking into the glade, Sartov whispers quiet and gentle words to the bear cub. The bundle of fur rises up again and lets out a low growl, but the determined druid just keeps moving forward, making his gentle, calming sounds. The small bear eventually calms and simply stands there staring at this strange new friend. Taking the cub into his arms the amber-eyed man whispers words of comfort into the bear’s small fur covered ears. “My noble and brave friend there is nothing but death waiting for you here, but I will see to it that you get a chance at life.” The only answer the cub makes is another pitiful cry of grief.
Carrying the small bundle of fur in his arms, Sartov walks out of the forest clearing; leaving the vultures to their dinner.
†
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Gone for Good...Had to make a choice and Life won...Thanks for the many years of memories and adventures.
Last edited by Chrystrom; Nov 19th, 2009 at 09:09 PM.
Nov 18th, 2009, 06:37 PM
