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Old Nov 5th, 2010, 09:50 PM
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Finder of Paths Finder of Paths is offline
& Treasure!
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Please copy your application here, and hyperlink your character sheet.
Very sick at the moment, posting only rarely when I can think clearly.
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Old Nov 11th, 2010, 07:10 AM
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HenryLockwood HenryLockwood is offline
Barbarus sum
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Name: Altraminus Bereth
Race/Class: Human Alchemist

Alignment: Chaotic ("What? You've got a problem? Oh, sorry, I was thinking of something else.") Good ("Well, of course I'll help. What was the problem again? And where are my flasks?").

Description: Altraminus is a tall, thin man with untidy hiar. Untidy, perhaps, is not the right word: irrelevant, or distracting, is how he would put it. Regardless, the irrelevant hair (a sort of mousy brown, for those who care about such things) matches the irrelevant beard (also straggly, also mousy brown) and the sometimes-relevant-but-not-really clothing (brown, with the occasional burn-mark or chemical stain). Clothing does matter, of course, because the north wind blows cold in Magnimar, but so long as it keeps the breeze away from where the breeze is not wanted it does its job.

Altraminus is long-winded, verbose, and occasionally sesquipedalian. He mumbles and mutters to himself, often while absent-mindedly chewing some piece of plant that he's grabbed from the wayside, and if anyone asks what he's talking about he's likely to give a tetchy answer about "Blast it! Can't you see I'm busy? I was thinking about the congruence problem, and how you can't possibly..." At some stage, these answers dissolve back into semi-audible (and semi-coherent) muttering.

"Eleder? Hmm, what? Wasn't he that god who... no, wait. That's Aroden. Or was. Is. Maybe. Anyway, Eleder. It's a town, don't you know, in Sargava. Never been there myself. Quite warm, pleasant climate, out of the cold wind. Jungles, lots of jungles. Good for plants. Take this one, f'rinstance."

Altraminus interrupts his monologue to rummage in his pockets, eventually producing what looks to the untrained eye like any other bunch of leaves.

"This! This is a Mwangi Red Devil, or that's what they called it in Magnimar. No-one else seemed to recognise it. Not that much of them care..."

When his audience still hasn't gone away, and in fact one of them - the short one, he thinks, though it could have been the fat one - prompts him to carry one, Altraminus resumes his rambling.

"Oh yes, this ship, and why I'm here. I want to find out what this plant is, where it comes from, and if there are any other interesting things out there. I can do quite a lot of experiments back in Varisia, of course, but there's nothing quite like a bit of fieldwork.

Oh, and if you call me Al again I bear no responsibility for the consequences!"

The young man's voice rises to something like a shriek at the end; he clearly intends it as menacing but the overall effect is closer to a temper tantrum. Whether he's aware of this or not, he quickly returns to his contemplation of the leafy bundle, turning it this way and that in the lanternlight, and absentmindedly breaking off a piece to chew.
On vacation - back in August!
Maps for my Wrath of the Righteous game
Pronouns: he/him/his, etc.

Last edited by HenryLockwood; Nov 11th, 2010 at 08:17 AM.
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Old Nov 11th, 2010, 08:31 AM
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Peter172 Peter172 is offline
Great Wyrm
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Name: Bingus Rotafuge

Race/Class: Gnome/Bard

Alignment: CG


Sheet coming soon.

Last edited by Peter172; Nov 11th, 2010 at 10:17 AM.
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Old Nov 11th, 2010, 09:08 AM
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Cherubaddon Cherubaddon is offline
Laputan Machine
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Koril the Dark
"Like a leaf upon the wind."


Race/Class: Human Sorcerer (Verdant)
Alignment: Neutral so far. He is fairly young and inexperienced, has not yet been thrust into any marking events forcing him to choose sides, and is too worried about what is happening to him to think much about philosophy. All of this may well change during play.

Description: Although born to an affluent merchant family from the old capital of Westcrown, no observer would assume Koril to be of Chelish descent: neither short nor tall, his skin is tan (hence the nickname), so unlike the prized pale teint of Cheliax, and his features appear almost crude in contrast to his family's delicate, aquiline traits. This effect is, however, offset manifold by his eyes: when Koril manages to put his reserve behind, the sense of trust and personal magnetism emanating from his shining emerald gaze is considerable.

Ever since leaving Westcrown, Koril dresses simply, as a traveller would. Leather boots, a thick woolen cloak appropriate for any weather, a rustic tunic - nothing to betray his heritage or somehow make him stand out in the crowd of pilgrims, smugglers and other journeymen boarding from the Chelish ports. The thing people might remember about him is that is left arm seems broken, heavily bandaged and hanging in a makeshift sling. Which, of course, is just what Koril wants them to believe.

Koril is a reserved fellow. He does not understand very well what is happening to him, and until he has come to terms with that, he is careful with new acquaintances. He has no very clear idea of where he is going or what he might be fleeing from, and the blind, almost slavish following to the vague call resonating in his head is making him rather insecure. He realizes he is not yet aware of the full extent of his powers, nor the full extent of control the parasite is exerting over him, and until he is, he would remain on the safe side.

Background: Koril has, to this day, no idea how it happened. It just did. He was not visiting a mad mage's laboratory, he had not made enemies among the Infernalists, and nobody in his family controlled the kind of arcane energies that would have been required to cause it on purpose. Today, it appears most likely that it has in fact always been there, growing ever since his birth, and that he only noticed it once it grew large enough. Or perhaps he did once obliviously come into contact with some strange substance or artefact. Perhaps he will never know.

The fact remains that, over the course of last year, Koril fell prey to a violent illness. Abnormally high fever, nausea and delirious visions of fantastic tropical jungles were only some of the symptoms that left all consulted physicians perplex. And although he was, at the time, incapable of communicating it to anybody, he also felt a change taking place within his own mind: people were growing less and less distinct. Oh, he could still see them - but out of sight, out of mind. He was having trouble memorizing faces, occasionally confusing people with one another, or at other times failing to remember events and anecdotes told to him by even close friends and family members. In his haze, it seemed as though all human beings had become predictable, bland and vaguely irrelevant.

But the plants! Oh, the plants! It seemed as if, for the first time in his life, he could see clearly. At first, it was only the tree outside his window, then, once he had recovered enough to walk around, the flowers in the garden, and finally the entire flora of Westcrown. Where before, it had all been uniform green matter, now bloomed an awesome spectrum of colours, sounds, smells - of, for lack of a better word, character. Not content with telling apart different species, Koril soon identified every individual plant. Having never had any botanical education to speak of, he resorted to naming them himself, and very soon, every last plant in Westcrown had a name. He cared for them, he spoke with them, told them of the annoyances of people beseeching him daily for reasons he could not quite remember, and sometimes, he fancied, they answered in kind.

The day it happened, it happened very fast - yet Koril can still remember every detail of the scene, as if he were visualizing a mental fresco of that fateful day. They were tearing down Mayandalar. Mayandalar was a majestic ash tree that had stood inviolate in the garden of an old manor for as long as Koril could remember. As befitting his age, Mayandalar was wise, knowledgeable in the ways of the land, and ever since Koril had begun speaking to him, he had answered him with his deep, fatherly voice. Koril cannot remember why they were cutting him, and quite likely did not know even then. It didn't matter. He was coming back from his birthday concert given by Ulmizar's daughters, the three mourning willows by the riverside, when he heard the sound of screaming from his destination. Terrible, inhuman screams. Filled with a sense of dread, he hastened his pace, and emerged in the small garden to a scene of horror: three men with axes were working under orders of a fourth, richly-garbed, trying to bring down the venerable tree. They had almost cut through the trunk, and Mayandalar's screams galvanized the reclusive boy into action. He yelled at the slaves to stop, and when they did not react, he turned to their master. The man said something. Koril cannot for the life of him remember what it was. He cannot even remember what he looked like. He can remember that one way or another, the man refused. So Koril strangled him.

It wasn't exactly a conscious decision, either. At the precise moment Mayandalar finally succumbed to the axes, Koril's left arm shot out, seemingly of its own volition, and seized the man by the throat. The man laughed - Koril was not particularly strong, and the man well-built. But it didn't help him. Without waiting for Koril's decision, his fingers closed like a vice. The man's face turned blue, blood began running between Koril's fingers, but the hand remained clenched until several minutes after the man had stopped thrashing. And looking down, Koril saw that his arm had changed: at first, he thought it was covered in bark. But turning what he took to be his hand a few times showed his mistake. It was not covered in anything. His arm had ceased to exist. In its stead, there were now several tangled vines of great strength, strung together like a heavy, wooden tentacle, with only their prehensile tips separated to serve as "fingers". He could use it all right - the "arm" still obeyed his commands like the old one did. Most of the time (it once shot a venomous dart at an aggressive thug, but that's another story). At other times, it seemed to be having a mind of its own, and over the next year, Koril felt the primitive yet powerful sentience slowly merging with his own. Bringing him sights of places he had never seen, calling him to unknown destinations, giving him the "intuition" to act one way or another without quite knowing why.

That all of this might be somewhat weird did not occur to him much later. At that moment, he only felt numb. The screaming had stopped. Oh sure, there was other screaming now, screams of the slaves and townspeople confronted with the blood-soaked treeman, but he barely heard them. They were like buzzing flies to the mighty, thunderous waterfall that had been Mayandalar. Nobody tried to stop him when he left the garden. He just left. Started walking in one direction until night fell, kept walking, and dropped from exhaustion the next evening. By that time, it was clear he could not go back. So he pressed on. Following the call of his arm. And where it leads - who can say?
Things without all Remedy should be without Regard. - Shakespeare, Macbeth

On holidays until mid-January. Apologies for intermittent posting.

Last edited by Cherubaddon; Nov 15th, 2010 at 04:19 AM.
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Old Nov 11th, 2010, 09:24 AM
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arguilios arguilios is offline
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Welter Balagan

Human sellsword

Physical Description: Tall, wiry & muscular
Personality: Quietly sarcastic, occasionally contemplative

The Character
"The details of my life are quite inconsequential...very well, where do I begin ..."

Like most Balagans, he's been in the trade of the blade since the day he was made. See, they're a fighting breed, and he is his father's son - one of many.

Mardigan Balagan, the family patriarch, has been known to say that dwarven craftsmen forged their family steel ... and thereafter fearing the consequence of what they'd done invented whiskey to keep the Balagans from ruling the world. Of course, Mad Mardigan's been known to say a great many things once he's got a snoot full. Truth is: Balagan men're sellswords 'cause that's what they know. There's a familial knack and no shortage of work.

Welter Balagan is a human sell-sword, not a philosopher as such. There's only one thing he's ever been good at, and with a blade in hand, he's a force of nature.
The Concept
Think Kwai Chang Caine wandering the land with a sword ... and some attitude. But, he's not all that humble. And, he's no priest nor even particularly spiritual. He's not searching for lost family. ... Okay, I guess he's not much like Caine, but that bit about the sword - all true.

So, he's more of a laconic sell-sword looking for mercenary work. Why? He can't sing. He doesn't know another trade and doesn't care much for leisure. So, this is what he does.

Physically, he's broad-shouldered, squared jawed, and sun browned; where his close-cropped hairline ends and his muscular neck begins isn't clear without close scrutiny. And, that isn't advisable. While he may be ruggedly handsome by human standards, he's neither flirtatious nor particularly responsive to that sort of attention. He's the world-weary model of a seasoned man in the trade of arms, suspicious of kindness without an obvious price tag and inclined to keep his own company. Gregarious with the common man he is not.

He's for hire, and whether he presents himself as more of a veteran soldier cutout or a skilled tactician depends on the group's particular needs, which is to say: Are we there yet?

He'll train green troops if well paid and it seems in his survival interest, but he's not the first to take avuncular interest in every callow youth claiming to be a fighting man. And, where some village-minded folk might think this attitude paints him as hardhearted, even unkind, Balagan will smile coolly and remind such folk that experience is a harder teacher, and he's inclined to let aspirant killers test their mettle in her class before welcoming farmer's sons and daughters in his.
The Introduction
"Look, all I asked was, Why'n the hells would I do that?" Balagan said matter-of-factly. The shackled human looked again at Draven for moral support. The halfling girl's head lolled to one side; she'd clearly drifted off to sleep again. Lucky bunny. Balagan sucked air through his teeth with an irritable cheep. He considered smacking the little thief upside the head but guessed his story wasn't pressing, and she'd had already heard it a couple of times. Besides, the diminutive cutpurse might suss out an escape plan after forty winks. Better not to upset her, Balagan reasoned.

With a dejected sigh, the lanky human stretched as much as he could under the circumstances and turned once more to regard their confinement. He and about 20 others were shackled hand and foot to a short chain through one of many rings set in stone at their feet. They sat side-by-side in their own filth in a stonework trench six hands deep and just so wide under a creaking lattice overhead with holes big enough for their pirate jailers above to amuse themselves with aimed spittle target practice on their prisoners below. ...or worse.

Balagan wondered how they'd escape this predicament. It wouldn't be easy. The big wooden sluice gate at the far end of the gaol made clear how easily the pirate captain could put down any revolt and ensure the prisoners' silent compliance in this hidden gulag, someplace the men above call Port Peril. At any time, the canal could be flooded, drowning any troublemakers and all the rest at once. Twice daily, the guards used this system to flush out the filth and keep down the stink of feral men - for which those chained upstream could be truly grateful, the men further downstream not so much. Balagan wondered how he could get himself stationed at the end of the line, a wicked plan forming. He sneered in the foul shadows.

Balagan is a human sell-sword, not a philosopher as such. There's only one thing he's ever been good at, but that couldn't help him at the moment. A lucky bottle to the base of the skull left him to wake in this hole, an unarmed prisoner without means to bargain. If he could get his hands on a blade that would change. Word has it a ship called Jenivere is standing in a nearby bay, and that could be a hasty way out. A few coins to a boatswain's mate could slip him aboard among the deck crew, and.... Where do I get the coin? Risk entry as a stowaway? Anything's better'n here! First things first; he'd have to get himself relocated to the end of the line.

"Oi, Lovely Nellie?" Balagan jeered at a cross-eyed pirate passing overhead. "How's a fella lodge a complaint with the ship's steward? These blokes're fair ripe. How's about my seating at a better table?"

Last edited by arguilios; Nov 11th, 2010 at 09:39 AM.
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Old Nov 11th, 2010, 12:02 PM
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Aldra Aldra is offline
Master of the Final Words
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Name: Gardrel Pikmer
Race/Class: Halfling cleric of Desna
Alignment: Chaotic Good

Description: Gardrel could perhaps be best described by a good heart in a happy-go-lucky shell. The Halfling is almost always excited, bemused, jovial, or otherwise in a positive mood in all but the most serious of situations. He greets each new day as an opportunity, each new road an adventure, and each new person he meets as a potential friend. He is as likely to explore a town from the rooftops as the streets, and cares not what others think of him for it.

That’s not to say that he’s completely wild, however. He helps others whenever possible (sometimes when he isn’t really wanted), and is wise enough to not do anything that would cause real trouble for anyone. On the contrary, dreams from his patron goddess, Desna, tend to lead him to where he needs to be to do the most good. Often times, his help, along with a bit of divine luck, keep a potential disaster from getting anywhere near that point. He can also be serious when the situation calls for it, though of course he is usually the first to try and change the mood once said situation is over.

As might be expected, the 2’ 9” Halfling dresses in a miniaturized form of Desna’s ‘clergy’s’ garb, complete with a holy symbol and a pair of decorative starknives. Opting to stay barefoot in the way of most Halflings, both his feet and his head are topped with a wild mass of fiery red hair, the latter mass of which seems to be in constant danger of falling into his green eyes. The constant exercise of travelling keeps him at a trim 34 pounds, though he doesn’t keep much muscle, giving him a softer countenance than might be expected from an extensive traveler.

Background: NOTE: Clocks in at about 3 pages in Word. You have been warned.

For such is the nature of men, that howsoever they may acknowledge many others to be more witty, or more eloquent, or more learned;
Yet they will hardly believe there be many so wise as themselves: For they see their own wit at hand, and other men's at a distance. -Thomas Hobbes

Last edited by Aldra; Nov 12th, 2010 at 12:09 PM.
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