[D&D-5e] From the Shadows

[Nyx89]

Application Name: Kiaran Dalael Race: Drow Class: Sorcerer - Shadow Magic Alignment: Neutral Good Appearance: Kiaran is a short Drow woman with dusky purple-gray skin and braided white hair. Her eyes are a dark crimson. Personality: Kiaran is serious and studious by nature. With a keen mind and deep curiosity about the world and the knowledge that can be discovered, she is very observant and attuned to her surroundings. Not a social butterfly by nature, she is more reserved and closed off with her feelings, until she feels she trusts someone enough to reveal more of herself. Backstory: Kiaran's adoptive parents found her wandering the streets of Baldur's Gate alone when she was just a toddler. She didn't know her own name or what had happened to her or where her biological parents were. As Drow were still quite unusual and rare to see on the surface, this was a strange situation indeed. But Kiaran's adoptive parents were a pair of kind moon elves who couldn't have children of their own so they decided to take her in and raise her in their own culture. As a result, Kiaran knows very little of Lolthite Drow society, except what she's been taught by her parents and learned from rumors on the street. Being a Drow in a mostly human and elven society wasn't easy on Kiaran, and she faced quite a lot of stigma and discrimination wherever she went. So she was proud beyond measure when she was accepted to study at Candlekeep. After many years of study, Kiaran became a librarian of Candlekeep, a prestigious post and great honor. As she grew up and went through puberty, however, powers she never realized she had began to become apparent. She found that she could manipulate energy and even the shadows themselves, that she had an innate magical talent. This came as a great surprise to her, and she wondered if these new shadow abilities she possessed were somehow related to wherever she'd been before being found in a Baldur's Gate alley. Candlekeep was quite pleased with her new powers, and several loremasters became fascinated by her magic and unraveling the secrets of her past. They theorized that she had been touched by Shadowfell somehow, perhaps even been in that plane for a time, but Kiaran couldn't remember any of it. Because of her expertise in linguistics and her powerful magical abilities, Kiaran was tasked with going on many expeditions and supervising many magical experiments sponsored by the university. It was on such a mission that things went terribly wrong. While they were exploring a tomb to recover ancient tomes, they were beset by a powerful, enraged ghost, a lich of the tomb's inhabitant. The lich dispatched the expedition's bodyguards and scholars with little trouble. Watching her companions slaughtered in front of her, Kiaran tried to escape, but it was in vain. The last thing she remembered is a powerful sensation of coldness spreading throughout her whole body and then complete and utter darkness. RP Sample: They'd been digging for hours now, and yet they still hadn't breached the final sanctum of the tomb. Kiaran sat on the dusty floor with her legs crossed in front of her, journal on her lap, and quill in hand. Every now and then she moistened the tip of the quill with her tongue. She was studying the ancient runes inscribed over the doorway to the inner sanctum. The runes signified a form of language that preceded modern languages such as the Common tongue or Dwarvish. As Candlekeep's resident librarian of all things linguistic, she was tasked with deciphering the script. She'd also be the first one to take a crack at any valuable tomes contained within the inner sanctum. "Hmm, I think this is an early form of the Abyssal language," she muttered to herself, chewing on the nub of the pen. "So that rune there...it could be dark...no wait, death. That one means death...Well, that sounds appropriate for a tomb." It was just then that the hired laborers broke through into the inner sanctum. Kiaran heard the cheers and laughter as the men wiped the sweat from their brows. She was here with two other researchers from Candlekeep, a dwarven woman who was an expert on premodern societies, and a sallow-faced human man who was a very high-ranking librarian. They both had already scrambled toward the newly formed entryway into the sanctum. Kiaran got up and wiped the dust from her pants, stowing her journal back in her pack. She was just about to join her fellow scholars when one of the laborers began to scream. After that, everything happened very quickly. Someone...no, something emerged from the tomb, a horror such as Kiaran had never seen before. It was spectral, but its form could still make contact with the physical world, which it did by sinking monstrously long claws into the laborer's bodies. Their screams quickly turned into a sickening gurgling. The two hired bodyguards drew their swords, but the ghost, or whatever it was, blasted them with a dark magic that caused them to write and scream and gouge at their own eyes. Shock had frozen Kiaran to the spot, but now she screamed and turned to flee. She was not quick enough, not nearly quick enough. Before she could even reach the entrance to the tomb, she felt cold fingers grasp her shoulder and then a deep, cold pain in her back. Blackness took her before her body even reached the floor.

[ElderOblex]

Complete! Feedback Always Welcome @Miguel Mercado Name: Hirori Alignment: Chaotic Good Race: Moonfolk (Custom Lineage) Class: Clockwork Soul Sorcerer Appearance: Her pasty, alabaster-like skin, moon-white hair, and elongated earlobes differentiated Hirori from most human females. Not to mention her piercingly deep sky-blue eyes. She was as tall and slender as an elf, and didn't look the athletic type at all. Hirori had the air and smell of a scholar, for that was what she truly was. Hirori wore soft, flowing robes trimmed in gold and sapphire thread that looked more appropriate for a royal court than a seedy tavern. On her bare feet, she wore stark wooden clogs instead of boots. Personality: Possessing a profound sense of wonder and curiosity, matched by a formidable mind and will to make things practical. Yes, Hirori was a pragmatist, yet also had the depth to appreciate the ephemeral and aesthetic, like songs, stories, or soft, silken robes. She also liked to laugh. Magic and anything arcane was enough to make her giddy and bubbling with excitement, particularly clockwork contraptions. She is deeply passionate about discovery and innovation. Being an ancient, isolated people, Hirori understands the value of change in a society that tended to stick to traditions. Ways the reasons behind which have long been forgotten, but never questioned. No. Hirori asked questions. She pushed for answers; demanded reasons. It was part of knowing how things worked, after all. She firmly believed that her skills and gifts for magical innovation were important for that reason: the increasing benefit and improvement of the people around her. Character Backstory: Years spent in arcane research among the Emperor's Saiba Scholars granted Hirori the privileges and trappings of one of the most respected echelons in society. Many would prefer to stay in these luxurious laboratories in the floating islands, but Hirori longed for the field. Perhaps it was her father's stories of other realms, and even Planes in the multiverse. Though she was a somewhat accomplished artificer already, Hirori imagined the troves of knowledge that awaited out there, waiting to be harvested, assimilated, improved upon for the good of her people in the giant sky-city Otawara. Later, an opportunity presented itself. It came in the form of a clockwork contraption shaped like a porous sphere; a blood orenji. The overall aesthetic had a somewhat outdated, almost gothic vintage. Each facet seemed to glimmer with a different light swirling in some cloudy substance, as if hinting at access to different worlds. It even warped and distorted the very air around it somehow. The Saiba were curious, and so was Hirori. Soon it became a contest of who can unlock the fruit's secrets first. Hirori decided to conduct experiments on her own, determined to win these discoveries herself. No assistance, no support, no safety precautions. It was uncharacteristic of the scholar, but something primal drove her. Was it a thirst for glory? Perhaps. Hirori told herself it was her desire to learn, to discover, to innovate, to bring greater good into the world. And in the cusp of this revelation, in the last moments of her life, she knew. She knew that was a lie. RP Sample:   Tonight, when two of the five moons shone the brightest, moonfolk were supposed to be out celebrating. Not Hirori. She took advantage of the revels to sneak into the lab, alone. Undisturbed. The guards never looked twice, since she was, after all, a Saiba. After she walked past them into the restricted corridor, she ditched her clogs. Too noisy. Her hands nearly shook in excitement, barely holding her tongs and tweezers properly, lit with her magical tinkering. The orenji was exquisite in its beauty. No visible joints, transparent, enabling one to see its inner components, but so far impossible to pry open. The scholars had tried everything. Force, elemental, even necrotic magic. The orenji drank it all, and remained unchanged. It was a marvel. "Who made you, little fruit?" Hirori whispered to herself. It was increasingly evident that the sphere was not from this realm; perhaps not even from this Plane. The Emperor gave no further explanation other than it being found in his far travels and demanding it be studied and thoroughly examined. Which the Saiba did. But they could not produce any helpful, informative results. No one knew what it really did, or how to make it work. Someone obviously made this device. Someone knew. If only Hirori knew that someone... She looked away and sighed after a moment, thoughtful. "I wonder..." An idea suddenly struck her. She carefully removed the protective cloud-glass casing that boxed the artifact in, and set aside her tools. This would be unthinkable for the scholars. "Safety first", they taught in her first year in the Mysterium. Safety is for siss***, she thought. She reached out with her left hand, as if to touch the orenji. Wait, what was she doing? Hirori always abided by the rules. When she pushed boundaries - or at least attempted to - she had done so respectfully, mindfully. Tonight was different. Was it because of the Mjoyin's equinox? Hirori's fingers trembled as they caressed the sphere's surface. No scholar had ever tried attempting this. No scholar had been that stupid, or that brave. It felt warm to the touch. One of the sphere's facets suddenly popped open. "Oh, wha-" Finally! The Saiba were fools! They should have tried this weeks ag- Hirori's elation was short-lived. So was her left arm. The disintegration started in her index finger. Then her thumb, the entire hand following seconds after that. The orb glowed, and Hirori couldn't even cry out as she watched her own arm turn to dust in slow motion. The orb glowed brighter and brighter, then Hirori's vision was filled with a blinding flash. The laboratory structure shook as the explosion took out the room, the scholar, and rocked the entire building. Tonight was the night Hirori, Saiba Scholar of The Empire of the Five Moons, died.

[Insacrum]

@Carmac: You mentioned that it would be OK that our characters would be from other lands. Could we use the official free WotC Planeshift supplements (Collected here for ease of use)?

My initial thought was possibly a Kaladeshi Dwarf... but something else might catch my fancy as I peruse the settings, if allowed.

[Carmac]

If you stick to the sources in the OP then yes, you can use any land you wish.

[Nyx89]

Application complete

[Carmac]

All the apps are looking great so far

[Elanir]

Vasili the Thrice-Born Name: Vasili, known as the “Thrice-Born” Race: Human, variant (Barovian, adopted by the Vistani) Background: Entertainer (Violinist) Class: Rogue (Phantom) Alignment: (True) Neutral Appearance: Vasili is a man in his mid-thirties, at first look resembling one of the Vistani, though he is in fact Barovian. His skin is tanned, from having lived most of his life on the road, and his raven black hair and beard are unkempt and wild, as if no brush or comb could ever hope to tame them. Fine wrinkles can be seen on his forehead and next to his haunted eyes, while his irises resemble two dark pits of unfathomable depth. As some of the people who had adopted him do, he used to paint his eyes with kohl, but he currently feels no need for such vanity. It is dark circles one can now see underneath them, a proof of the fact that even sleep does not grant him true rest. The one point where he pointedly diverses from Vistani customs are the clothes that he wears. He can no longer tolerate the flamboyant garments of his chosen people, dressing himself in dark colors, mostly black, and choosing practicality over fashion. Personality: Vasili is a man who has been brought back to life a shadow of his former self. In typical Vistani fashion he used to be loud, emotional and gregarious, now he remains silent for the most part, looking around him for danger that he knows is always lurking nearby. Once optimistic, almost foolishly so, after the tragedy he has experienced, he no longer hopes for a better future, his single wish being to atone for the sins he inadvertently committed and the deaths he caused. Always reserved and suspicious of others, the only time he allows himself to open up is when playing his viol, though the only music birthed from his “Soul” is a sorrowful, melancholy one. Though the idea of death no longer weighs heavily upon his mind, knowing that it is a certainty, he is sorely concerned with time, fearing that he will not be getting the chance at making amends before it eventually runs out.   "Thank you for seeing me, Madam Magda." The light of the single sputtering candle inside the Vistani wagonvardo was so poor that Vasili wondered how the old woman before him would be able to see the cards of the tarokka deck she was holding in her wrinkled hands. Still, all the Vistani he had encountered after the… incident had spoken very highly of her. She was famous for having a Sight that could penetrate any obstacle, including the mists of the past and the future, and she had been leading this particular Vistani tribe as the leader of a Vistani tribeRauni for over half a century now. If anyone had any answers for him, it would be this old woman. "You smell of blood." The woman’s voice reminded Vasili of the creaking of old wood. "Some of it yours, most of it belonging to others. Is that not so?" The man nodded silently. The Raunie spoke truly. He was covered in blood, the blood of innocents. Madam Magda, I… The woman raised her almost skeletal hand and Vasili immediately fell silent. "You have not come here to speak, a friend of the VistaniGiogoto. You have come to listen. So, listen." Even the most famous Vistani male leader, second to the Raunicaptains would have been reluctant to question the words of a Raunie. For Vasili, a man without Vistani blood in his veins, such a thing was inconceivable. Besides, Madam Magda was right. He had come to her for answers, not to offer excuses. Without even looking at the deck of cards, her fingers, still incredibly nimble despite their age, chose a card and placed it upon the wooden table between herself and Vasili. The Philanthropist "Your real life begins with this one, a man with a kind heart. A father to you, though you do not share his blood. A mentor. A kindred spirit. You have the same soul, yes? It used to laugh all night long, but now it knows only to weep." Vasili bit his lips to keep back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. She was right of course. Mariusz had been more than a father to him. He had been everything, his entire world. It was this kind-hearted Vistana who had first become aware of a neglected five-year-old in Barovia and offered to buy him from his mother, a barmaid who had seen greater value in the pouch full of jingling coins she received than the hungry mouth she was forced to feed. It was Mariusz who had brought the child back to his traveling band, naming him Vasili and calling him his son. He had taught him how to live like a Vistana and the proper way to play the viol. He called it his “soul” and Vasili still had it in his possession, his father’s final gift to him… The fortune teller did not wait for confirmation. She needed none. Another card was drawn and placed before the grieving man. The Despot "This is the one you perceived as your enemy. A cruel man, but he had his reasons, reasons you were unaware of. You tricked this man, but in doing so you tricked yourself." This time Vasili nodded. This time it was anger that moved his heart, not sorrow. Burgomaster Andreji was a man of absolutes, a man feared by all who lived under his “protection”. He was a man who had been keeping his young daughter locked inside his cellar for most of her life, a tiny window protected by thick iron bars, the only thing that allowed her a glimpse of the world outside. At first it was only curiosity that led him to her. Vasili was intrigued by the story of the Burgomaster and his captive daughter and wanted to learn more so that he could write a song about them. His father had warned him not to dig too deeply in the affairs of others for one never knew what they would uncover, but he hadn’t paid any attention. He had waited for her to appear before her tiny window to see the sun rise and had not been able to believe his eyes. Irena was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And soon he realized that she was also the kindest. She did not even blame her father for keeping her away from the world like that. "He must have his reasons", she claimed and Vasili felt the blood boil in his veins. This was an injustice that could not stand. But he couldn’t right such a great wrong by himself. He needed help from the people who had taken him in, people who did not refuse him even though they knew that to do so was to cause them trouble. As the whole village danced to the music of the Vistani, celebrating the marriage of a local farmer to his chosen bride, Vasili sneaked inside the Burgomaster’s house and freed his own sweetheart, taking her away from her dark prison. By the time Andreji and the villagers realized what had happened, too drunk by flowing beer and strong wine, the Vistani and the girl had been long gone. Madam Magda looked at the man before her, her rheumy eyes piercing his soul. She knows. She sees everything, everything! Without a word a third card was placed next to the other two, concluding Vasili’s story. The Beast All color left the man’s face and he let out a gasp of surprise. He had been around fortune-telling Vistani his whole life, but Madam Magda’s skill seemed to be without equal. "Ah…", she said, understanding lighting her entire visage. "Not all beasts are horrible, yes? Some are pretty. Some are as gentle as doves. But their true nature cannot be denied. They have claws and fangs and they use them to deal death to all around them, even their friends, even their lovers." Had Irena been a beast? No! - and yes. At first the girl had been so thankful to be freed, so happy that she was allowed to sit next to the bonfire and listen to the jokes and songs of the Vistani. She was not part of the tribe of course, she could never be that. Vasili understood this. But he was prepared to leave his family in order to start a new life with her. His father was sad, but he too understood. Though he loved his adopted son with all his heart, there was no bond of blood between them. Vasili had been born a non-VistaniGiorgio and that was the life he would choose. It was inevitable. That did not mean that he would do so without the tribe’s blessing or a parting gift from him, the most precious gift Mariusz could offer. Was it the excitement Irena felt for starting a new life with her beloved? Was it the moon that was full in the sky, looking down uncaringly on the people of the land of mists, tiny and insignificant like ants? As the two came together as man and wife something woke inside her, something terrible, hungry for flesh and blood. Vasili was the first to fall, his throat and chest torn open by monstrous claws. Then Mariusz, who ran to see what was wrong with the young couple. Then the entire tribe. Not one soul remained alive, all falling before the werebeast’s insane fury. But this was not the end. For some reason Vasili was spared. He was given a second chance. As he came out of the vardo, his clothes still torn to shreds, he saw his Irena naked and covered in the blood of others, surrounded by a multitude of bodies that had once been people, weeping silently next to the smoking bonfire, her throat too raw from cursing herself for what she had done. He tried to comfort her as best as he could. He promised her that together they would find a way to end her curse. Irena was not listening, however. Though still alive, her eyes were completely empty, her innocence having died along with her victims. When Vasili finally finished digging enough graves for all of his loved ones and returned to Irena, he found her hanging from a tree, her slender body resembling a pale, rotten fruit of death. She had found a way to end her curse on her own. Vasili’s tears flowed uncontrollably now and he was sobbing like a child before the old woman in the dark vardo that smelled of incense and old leather. "Much blood, yes, many, many souls." If Vasili’s sad tale had shocked Madam Magda, she didn’t show it. Few things could still surprise her in her old age. She had seen almost all and had shed tears enough to fill a lake. It was the curse and privilege of her long years. "I still sense them around you, inside you. They are still there, no? They talk to you, like they did. They are a part of you. Do you seek to silence them?" Vasili looked at her through tears that clouded his eyes. "Yes! No... I seek atonement." The woman made a grimace that was difficult to interpret. Was it sympathy? Disgust? Something else? It did not matter. She would speak the truth as she always did. "Death will silence them soon enough. Not theirs, yours. You feel it too, no? Each breath you take is numbered. When you draw your last one they will be at peace. But not you, Vasili Thrice-Born. Your first life was given to you by chance. Your second by kindness. Your third to serve a purpose. Serve and wash yourself clean of your sins. A life lost is only repaid with a life saved. There is no other way." Vasili wiped his tears. They would not serve him now. He had to be strong to walk the path that was destined for him. It was Vistani karmaRema - no one could escape it. But before he embarked on his long journey, he had a final question for Madam Magda. "What about Irena? I do not hear her voice. Is she at peace?" The old woman shook her head. How could she have been granted peace after what she had done? "Her soul flutters around you like a wounded bird. Call her and she will come." Vasili bowed his head in gratitude and tried to take hold of one of the old woman’s hands to kiss it, but she pulled it away as if afraid to have it sullied. "Do not thank me, for I have not given you good news. You are dead, outcast VistaniMortu, you realize that? You will not live again, Thrice-Born. This will be your final life. Make the most of it."

[IrishKatt]

hmmm Idea for a Hexblood, not sure what class yet though

[DemonSlayer]

Hi there! This looks like it is going to be an interesting game- I love the darker tone of the Ravenloft setting, so I'd very much like to apply! My application is pretty much finished (though I will re-read it in case there are typos that need to be fixed). If you feel like I should change or add anything, please let me know!

Application Name: Falrinor Yinven Race: High Elf Class: Arcane TricksterRogue Background: Sage Alignment: NG Appearance Since returning from death, Falrinor's nature as something less than alive is easily recognizable by his sallow, greyish skin. Dark veins snake visibly in his neck and near his blue eyes, which despite retaining their sparkling brightness have grown sunken. As a result of his transformation, the elf lets his long, dark hair frame his face, rather than wear it in the long braid he wore in life. Its sheen has disappeared, replaced by strands of dull grey. Falrinor wears a long blue cape, its round bronze clasp keeping the garment in place around his shoulders and neck, obscuring more of his skin. Apart from this colourful cloak he wears simple, practical brown leathers, covered with small, dull metal plates, painted black to prevent them from reflecting light. His current attire is a far cry from the elegant, white and green robes Felrinor wore in life- a source of self-deprecating humour from the elf, even though he understands the need for such protection. Falrinor wears no visible jewelry of any sort, having long since pawned such things to provide for his colleagues and students. However, dangling underneath his leather armour he keeps a necklace. It is a simple, rounded stone thing, hanging from a leather string, coloured red and sporting a stylized setting sun displayed in orange. The trinket doesn't seem to have any monetary value, but seems quite important no Falrinor nonetheless. He has a tattoo of a similar symbol on the back of both hands. Personality Remembering his profession as a teacher and mentor, Falrinor often wears a warm, kind smile. He enjoys seeing others work on a problem, and will often stand by and watch, providing just enough clues to help them figure it out for themselves. Such moments fill him with pride, stirring memories of his past life guiding his students. However, Falrinor lacks the pride of many of his colleagues- he does not think of himself as being above his students, doling out wisdom like a benevolent master. Rather, he thinks of himself as a fellow seeker of knowledge, who happens to have come across answers others might seek- and he, in turn, appreciates the lessons his students might have for him. Falrinor possesses a quick wit, and an easy-going nature. He likes to crack jokes and has a generally positive attitude. Even now, in the morose lands of Darknor, the elf recognizes a few kind words and a laugh can be like a candle in the dark, lifting spirits and healing minds. Despite his reserved disposition, Falrinor is easily bored. As a student, long before finding himself in Darknor, the elf would often sneak out of the temple where he lived to go celebrate in town. While age has tempered his rebellious streak somewhat, the teacher is still prone to growing annoyed with the overly tedious. Since returning from death, Falrinor has acquired an obsession for revenge. Azalin's forces murdered his colleagues, friends and students- and Falrinor himself. While normally able to maintain his composure, the elf is consumed by a cold hate for these murderers and masters, and has vowed to deliver justice to as many of them as he can, in what little time he has left... Backstory Early in his childhood, Falrinor's parents, a pair of wealthy courtiers who felt their son should enjoy a proper education, sent him to study at a temple of Labelas Enoreth situated just a few miles out of town. The young elf proved himself an eager student, yet threathened to push his teachers to the brink of despair with his rebellious streak. As a child he would often act up, and during his teenage years he would often disappear from the temple grounds, sneaking off into the city to celebrate and blow off steam, or into the forests to hunt. Several times he was reprimanded for this behaviour- but far more often, he wasn't even caught. Eventually, as the years passed, Falrinor matured and lost some, though not all, of his wild streak. As he reached adulthood, Falrinor grew to admire the passing of knowledge to younger generations- even if he disagreed with the rather stuffy methods employed by his teachers. Eventually he himself decided to become a teacher, following the necessary courses until eventually, he graduated and joined the ranks of those he once rolled his eyes at. He quickly made a name for himself among the students as a kind, inspiring teacher, who taught his students through the use of compelling stories and thought experiments, rather than bore them with overly long lectures. And over the years, his colleagues grew to respect him and his methods, even if they themselves kept to the old ways. Then one moonless night, as the students slept and but a handful of teachers still pored over stacks of homework and lesson plans, the temple of Labelas was enveloped in a thick, choking mist. Unnerved by this unnatural phenomenon, the temple guards fetched some of the teachers to come and see what was happening. For a long time the teachers who followed the guards to the roof discussed the fog, but none of them could explain why it unnerved each of them so. That was, until one of them looked up, and to his horror saw that the stars had changed. When a pale sun announced the dawn, the elves of the temple found they were no longer in their homeland. Whatever the mist was, it had transported them to an unfamiliar, eerie land. Through prayer and study, Labelas' faithful tried to find a way to return to their homeland- but found none. Eventually the temple's supplies ran dry, and they were forced to go out into this strange world. For many years, Falrinor and his peers learned how to survive the darkness, vanquishing beasts and forming mutually beneficial relations with nearby towns. Until finally, one dark day, the soldiers of Azalin came. Whether they had come to secure the temple's tomes for their master, or simply sought to destroy the knowledge their jealous master could not claim was never explained. Labelas' faithful were killed- every student, every child, every teacher was put to the sword. Falrinor himself died upon the altar of his deity, trying but failing to ensconce his students there and dying in a futile attempt to protect them. The fight was over in less than an hour- the guards were few, and none within the temple's walls were trained to fight an army. That was not the end of Falrinor's story. On the night after the bloodbath, his lifeless corpse suddenly gasped, his ragged lungs taking in air once more. Surrounded by the corpses of his students, Falrinor could do naught but cry at their ill fate. Only when the sun rose did he finally rise, wondering why he wasn't dead despite the ugly, deep wound in his abdomen. Looking towards the blood-stained symbol of Labelas upon the altar, Falrinor reached the only conclusion which made sense to him. He decided the deity of time and knowledge had granted him a little extra time, to avenge the deaths of His faithful and theft of so much lore. Bow in hand, the former teacher set forth, deciding to punish as many of Azalin's minions as possible before Labelas would finally grant him peace. Knowing he could not face the evil of Darknor alone, Falrinor set out to find allies in his fight against Azalin. RP Sample 'Careful, now.' Falrinor looked over Katya's shoulder, the young Darkonian woman intently staring at the barely visible thread and the spring mechanism on the ground it was attached to. Ever so cautiously, she walked backwards towards her trap, gently testing the thread. 'Remember, pull to hard and you'll set off the spring. Leave the thread slack, and it will not trigger even if a bear stumbled upon it.' 'Yes, skolotasj,' the woman breathed, frustration evident in her voice. Her ire was caused by her task, not by the elf- but Falrinor made a far easier target to lash out against. Falrinor simply smiled. It was a familiar sight- a student so engrossed in their studies that any distraction provoked vexation. It were these students, the elf had found, which were often the most elated when they finally passed their exam. For Katya, the subject was more practical than for most, but it was a lesson nonetheless. 'I told you before, Katya,' the elf's voice croaked. Once, his voice had been soothing. But that was before. Now his words were raspy, his lips and mouth perpetually dry. But still the elven teacher evoked that same sense of calm, instilling his students with a tranquil patience. 'Call me Falrinor. I've not been with your village long enough to have earned that title,' he assured her. Skoltasj. Teacher, mentor. Master. Back in the temple of Labelas Enoreth, where Falrinor had taught several classes to a multitude of students, such honorifics might've been prudent- though Falrinor would never insist on them. But here? 'And I doubt I shall linger much longer,' he murmured. Katya kept her eyes on the thread, now mere steps away from the trap. But she could not keep herself from pressing the elf. 'You will leave soon, then?' she asked. There was a hint of dejection in the woman's voice, though she tried to remain nonchalant. 'Too bad. Few strangers in Darkon are kind. Few visitors lend a helping hand. You were different.' 'I know,' Falrinor said. It wasn't a boast- he had seen Darkonian hostility firsthand. It was born of desperation, of a life of poverty and want. It was something he could never learn- for he had not been born to this place, nor was he truly alive enough to concern himself with matters of survival. Knowing death was near erased the need to think about long-term survival. It was a burden he was sad to be free of. 'But there are things I must do, things I must achieve.' Murders he had to commit. 'And I do not know how much longer I have to complete my tasks.' If the reminder of Falrinor's fast approaching end still shocked Katya, she hid it well. But she did not reply. Instead, she focused on her trap. Carefully, she pulled the thread taut, gently manipulating the hook at its end with one hand and the crossbow-like device with the other. With great precision, she attached the hook to the firing mechanism, and withdrew her hands. Letting out a sigh of relief, she turned to Falrinor, who beamed with pride even as his pupil grinned her contentment. 'Well done!' he brought out, clapping his hands thrice. 'You've crafted the components, measured the distance between the pressure plate and the crossbow, armed the device, and connected the two. Any woodland critter coming through here is going to have a very bad day,' he laughed. 'Now,' he bid her, 'all that remains is to hide the trap. You've shown excellent progress in previous sessions, but there are a few more tricks I'd like to show you to better cover the components.' After all, the elf thought bitterly. A hare or pheasant might be fooled by the trap... But it would take more than this to trick Azalin's soldiers. Looking to Katya, Falrinor renewed his pledge to leave the young woman and her people with the knowledge they would need to protect themselves from their oppressors...

 

Falrinor Yinven, High Elf Arcane TricksterRogue (

• Personality Trait: I like to crack jokes to lighten the dark mood and ease other's suffering.
• Personality Trait: I am a teacher at heart, and love to see others discover new knowledge for themselves.
• Ideal: Knowledge. Passing on what we have learned to younger generations is the greatest goal we can aspire to.
• Bond: Azalin's forces slew everyone I knew- my colleagues and my students both. I cannot forgive them- what little time I have left I will spend hunting them.
• Flaw: If there's a plan, I'll forget it. If I don’t forget it, I'll ignore it.

Sage)

HP: 18 + 4d8
AC: 12
Speed: 30
Senses: Darkvision 60', passive perception 14

STR	10	+0
DEX	16	+6
CON	14	+2
INT	14	+5
WIS	12	+1
CHA	10	+0

Abilities & Saves |

Acrobatics	+6
Arcana	+5
History	+5
Investigation	+8
Perception	+4
Sleight of Hand	+6
Stealth	+9
Common
Elven
Draconic
Giant
Sylvan
Thieves' cant
Thieves' tools

Skills |

• : none yet!

Combat |

Save DC: 13, Spell attack modifier: +5
Cantrips	Mage Hand, Message, Minor Illusion, True Strike
Lvl 1	Disguise Self, Protection From Evil, Silent Image, Tasha's Hideous Laughter

Magic | none yet!Equipment |

• Researcher: Knows where to find information, within reason.
• Feat (Sharpshooter): Gain the following;
  * Attacking at long range does not impose disadvantage.
  * Ranged weapons ignore half and three-quarters cover.
  * Before rolling, you may take a -5 to hit penalty for +10 damage.
• Fey Ancestry: Advantage vs Charmed, can't be put to sleep magically.
• Trance: Trance for four hours instead of sleeping for eight hours.
• Elf Weapon Training: Proficient with longsword, shortsword, shortbow and longbow
• Cantrip: Knows one cantrip (Mind Sliver).
• Expertise: Double proficiency for two skills (Investigation, Stealth)
• Sneak Attack: When you have advantage, OR if you attack a target while an enemy of it is within 5' of it (provided you don't have disadvantage), you deal an additional 3d6 damage with finesse or ranged weapons (once per turn).
• Cunning action: May Dash, Disengage or Hide as a bonus action.
• Uncanny Dodge: When an attacker you can see hits you, you may halve the attacker's damage as a reaction.
• Magic Hand Legerdemain: Knows Mage Hand, which is invisible and controlled with a bonus action, and can perform the following additional tasks;
  * Stow (or retrieve) one object in a container worn or carried by another creature.
  * Use thieves' tools to pick locks or disarm traps.
  With a successful Sleight of Hand vs Perception check, you may perform these tasks without being noticed.

Special

Expendables
* Hit dice: 5/5 d8
* Lvl 1 slots: 3/3

[Snicker]

Application, WIP https://www.artstation.com/artwork/ELZ6yv Name: Nurufen Galanodel Alignment: Lawful Good Appearance: Nurufen is a moon elf of advanced age. Like most moon elves, her skin and hair are pale and her age is not obvious. While most clerics of her faith dressed in robes of grey or muted colours, Nurufen tends towards tastefully practical clothing of richer, bolder colours, trying to look pleasant and approachable while still maintaining an appropriate official dignity. Backstory: The Galanodels were a family of elves in a mostly human town. Though they were proud of their elven culture and heritage, Nurufen's parents had no choice but to allow their daughter to socialize with human children. In her earliest years, she adapted easily to humanity's faster pace of life, but as the years passed, she struggled with the ever-clearer reality that she and they were not the same. Her childhood friends, got married, had children of their own, and eventually died of old age before Nurufen was even considered an elven adult. Her parents told her it was the human way to die swiftly, and the elven way to not grow attached to such mayflies, but she thought so much more like her human peers than her elven parents. As she got older, against her parents' wishes and advice, she married a human man and had four children. In the years that followed, burying her husband was devastating. The only thing worse was burying her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Nurufen's struggle to cope with the death of her loved ones led her to the Church of Kelemvor, first as an adherent, then as a priestess. Kelemvor's teachings didn't just ease her pain, they caused everything to make sense - the necessity of death and, by extension, the purpose of life. Her many years of service focused primarily on the education and counseling of the dying and bereaved, but she did see combat - opposing monsters, despots, and others that would bring unnaturally early death to people, and in particular, laying the undead to rest. Somewhat soft-hearted for a cleric of Kelemvor, she held herself to these principles: Death is natural in every life. It is not to be feared, but understood, accepted, and in its time, welcomed. Natural death is at the end of a full life. Premature death should be avoided. Undeath should be rectified, not because it offends Kelemvor or any natural order, but because it prevents the undead from achieving their death. Death is not an end, but a point in the soul's journey. Death is the means by which we reach the reward of a well-lived life. Those that would bring death before its natural time, extend lives beyond their natural end, or violate the peace of the dead must be opposed. Nurufen's health took a turn for the worse around her 600th year - somewhat early for an elf. Perhaps it was all the necromantic magic she'd been opposed to in her career, or living so human a life had burned her out before her time, or maybe she was just not of long-lived stock. For years, Nurufen had wondered if she would face her end with the same dignity she tried to bring others, but as it approached, she found it not just easy to accept, but a relief. She looked back on her life with a human perspective, and the weight of those centuries seemed so burdensome to her. She had lived a kind, accomplished, and full life; she could not ask for more, and had no wish to. In her 626th year, in a comfortable bed with her affairs in order, she breathed her last, content with a life well lived and ready for what lay beyond. She is not happy to be back. Personality: Nurufen is quiet and reserved, rarely raising her voice above a soft conversational tone. She takes no pleasure in violence and avoids it when possible, and when she cannot, utilizes it surgically and decisively as to minimize bloodshed and suffering. As a priestess of Kelemvor, she felt her true calling was education and counseling, and she always seeks to lend the afraid and bereaved her utmost in empathy and support. Unlike most clerics of Kelemvor, she does not hate undead so much as she pities them. She sees them as having been robbed of the grace of death, victims either of others or their own fears. If possible, she will try to counsel them into accepting their death, though she knows from experience that this rarely is effective. She has a similar opinion of her own state; while she accepts the necessity of her current life (or undeath?), she does not appreciate her second lease on life, and hopes to return to death after her mission is complete. Roleplay sample: WIP