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  #1  
Old 01-13-2019, 12:56 AM
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Last edited by Krow Nest; 01-13-2019 at 12:56 AM.
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Old 01-13-2019, 10:54 PM
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Cheryl Abryn Cynth
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Name: Cheryl Oberyn Cynth

Race: Human

Age: 19

Class: Inquisitor ArchetypeMonster Tactician

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Deity: Shelyn

Description: Standing at an average height of five foot eight, with shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes. As a Varisian, her skin is lightly tanned. Furthermore, as a devout follower of Shelyn, her appearance is well-kempt and her face, if not for the subdued beauty of her figure, she is a soft sight for sore eyes. She is dressed in rather boyish attire, consisting of pants, boots and doublet, all made of leather, the boots and sleeveless doublet, however are dyed a darker tone than her breeches. Under the doublet is a fitted linen shirt, bleached impeccably white. To adorn her outfit, the buckle on her belt as well as the amulet about her neck are the songbird symbols of Shelyn. Carried with her is a well-made glaive, covered in a leather blade-sheath.

Traits: Blade of Mercy and True Devotion

Drawback: Vainglory

Backstory: Cheryl is a native to Ustengrad and, in the early years of her life, her family had moved to settle in the town of Thrushmoor seeking opportunity in making a claim as one of the first merchant families in town. They were not the only ones, but they did compete in the selling of cloth goods, for how much the market needed them. As a child, Cheryl was the youngest member of her family in town, and she had two older brothers to compete with the vie for the attentions of her perpetually busy father and mother.

In the efforts to seek attention, Cheryl and her brothers oft got into small fights that she had no chances of winning. There were times too where she wandered outside her household on her own. That is when she had witnessed a dire rat lurking the streets within town. She followed it for a time being to a nest, and from there she ran, but the beasts had not given chase. She, while growing up and exploring town, had seen more of such beast, but had been unharmed in these encounters fermenting more fascination rather than fear.

Years later, during adolescence, her parents, seeking a use for a girl that now showed an interest in monsters, if the drawings under her bed were any evidence, decided it would be best to send her away to some church for schooling. And, outside the provinces of Ustlav she was sent, seemingly at random to a church of Shelyn. Typically artists whom have lost their inspiration sent themselves to learn from the Eternal Rose. There was some confusion as a merchant's daughter, not an aspiring artist came to their beacons of culture.

Abandoned there, Cheryl learned. Her gift with drawing was poor, her paintings lacked spirit and she could hardly carry a tune. But she was patient, and the priests were patient with her. She learned how to tell stories and how to give speeches. She was taught how to wield a spear the way a painter wields a brush. Many summers had passed since she was abandoned to the possibility of becoming a divine muse. Instead she, through revealing some controversial stances on beasts and other monsters in regard to their beauty, she was taken in by reformists, taught a gentle touch on how to not harm living creatures with the work of the blade and how to persuade, at the very least, sentient beings how to channel their energy in more constructive ways. By the end of her training she was seemingly beholden to no vow or guidelines. She became an inquisitor of Shelyn as a grown woman.

With the ink barely damp on the marks the recognized her as a low-ranking official within the faith, Cheryl received a missive from home. Her eldest brother had died, and the middle child had gone missing. So now she returns home to Thrushmoor to attend her brother's funeral and to visit her family. Or at least, that was the plan...
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Old 01-14-2019, 12:33 AM
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Thurodall
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Name: Thorudall
Race: Half-Orc
Class: Ranger (Hooded Champion)
Alignment: CG

Description: The first thing one would notice about Thorudall would be his skin, and if not that then his height. His orc features, which greatly overpower his human traits, have given him a dusky-blue tone to his skin making him stand out almost immediately, and that's not taking into account his six and a half foot height. Towering and imposing, Thorudall is quite an intimidating figure, and it doesn't help that he has something of a permanent frown on his brows despite being a polite and amicable individual. He has a somewhat rounded head with broad and strong jaws that meet at an equally broad chin, above which are his too-long filed tusks. One would also notice the fact that Thorudall is mostly bald, save for a single ponytail which he keeps as a reminder of the orc tribe he comes from. He's mostly seen wearing old and worn leathers that have seen years of use, a tattered and half-ruined cloak, and a cloth which he wears over the lower half of his face to hide his tusks when among humans.

Traits: When attempting Craft checks, you take no penalty when using improvised tools. At the GM’s discretion, you can attempt certain Craft checks even when no tools are available, though you take a –2 penalty.Self Reliant, Enduring stoicism

Drawback: You take a –3 penalty on Diplomacy checks to gather information or improve a creature’s attitude.Stigmatized

Backstory: Thorudall was raised on the fringes of civilization by his orc mother, deep in the wilds and far away from any sort of human contact. At a young age he was taught how to hunt, track, and forage. His mother teaching him to become incredibly self dependant, often even telling him to go hunt food for them before he reached the age of twelve. As he got older, his hunting and tracking got better, he learned to become one with his environment and how to use patience to his benefit, oft times lying in wait for hours to catch his prey.

At fifteen, his mother gave him the furs, meats, and other assorted items of game that they'd hunted the past couple of days and told him to go sell them in a nearby town, giving him the directions to reach it. It took him several hours, but once he did, he was in wonder. It was his first encounter with a town and the large buildings, raised roads, carts, and people everywhere were astounding. He'd come across humans before during his hunts, often exchanging few words or sharing knowledge on where the game had trailed off to. But he'd never seen so many in one place.

One thing he didn't expect however was the animosity he garnered from them. It was outright, but he felt it. The looks, the way the guards kept their hands on their weapons when he was around, and the general unease of shopkeepers when he tried to sell them furs, skins, and meats. He worried little about it however, since he assumed it was because he was relatively new to the settlement. What he didn't know however was that the town was plagued by constant orc raids, and he'd left from his third visit another had happened. On his return to the town several days later, he was driven away with arrows and mounted knights from a nearby city.

Upon asking his mother what had happened she told him that her clan was responsible, that they were a fierce and power-hungry lot that revelled in destruction and death. Feeling a sort of kinship with the humans, he asked his mother if they would speak the tribe on their behalf but she told him it would be a terrible idea. It took him the better part of a week, but eventually he managed to make her cave, and they went to the tribe and garnered and audience from the chief. Thorudall presented his case, and believing himself one of them had made the mistake of comparing himself to their proudest warriors. The chief, in his anger ordered his warriors to show him just how different they really were and Thorudall was up for the challenge.

His mother stepped in however, saying she would take her life for his. The chief accepted and his mother was slaughtered in that tent before his eyes. He was told to walk away and that if he was seen again he would follow his mother's fate.

Angered, hurt, and enraged beyond belief, Thorudall took it upon himself to hunt down the orcs in the area and slaughter them as they slaughtered his mother. He spent several years in the wilds, hunting and ambushing orcs, dwindling their numbers over time. He was such a thorn to his clan's side, having sabotaged raiding plans, killing off hunting parties and specific leaders for raids, that they decided to lead an assault on him in hopes of drive him out.

He considered it a personal win when the amassed orcs had garnered the attention of a local lord who then sent a small regiment to drive the clan out of the region. With his clan either gone or slaughtered, Thorudall moved away from the woods he grew up in and seeks his fortune elsewhere.
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Old 01-14-2019, 12:47 AM
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Elijah Johnstone
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Name: Elijah Roy Johnstone, Major in the Lone Wolf Division
Race: Peri-blooded Aasimar (Scion of Humanity and Replaces Racial SLA
Dice * PF Aasimar Trait Table:
1d100 15
"Once per day, when you are at 0 hit points, you can take a full round of actions without losing a hit point and falling unconscious."
with alternate trait)
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Class: Wizard ArchetypeSpellslinger
Traits: Rich Parents (Social, PF); Enduring Stoicism (Campaign, Strange Aeons)
Drawback: Haunting Regret
Alignment: Taking the "equal parts opposites"/centrist perspective, rather than the "neither/nor" perspective.True Neutral
Deity: So far in life he hasn't taken the time to pay attention to any of them.

Description/Personality:

Elijah is naturally a somewhat imposing person. Strong "commanding" features placed on a six-foot-three frame are just the foundation -- his sparkling amber eyes speak of well-honed intellect that is as useful as it is dangerous. He is not charming per se, so much as you simply realize you're around someone who knows who they are and what they are doing...and that you had best not get in the way. At his core, he is still just a good-hearted young man with a bit of a "my life, my way" attitude. The problem, of course, is that he has long practiced overriding this core, which means that most of the time you'll feel the side worn into him by the service. In this case, that means someone that doesn't see life as all that valuable, who dismisses tragedies without compassion, and whose only prevalent goal seems to be whatever suits him the most. On the flip side, the fact that his "outer shell" is a result of military service also means that he highly values close friends (even if he doesn't entirely trust them), is absolutely committed to a goal once he actually sets one, and ultimately considers self-sacrifice as part of the job.

His clothes are what he's taken with him from the job, and are also gifts from his parents. Greyscale Snakeskin chaps with attached boots, fur-trimmed officer's trenchcoat with gold thread on the cuffs, silk vest, and wide-brimmed hat with matching cold thread...he finds it comfortable, but it also sends a message about the type of person he is and the type of job he has. As does the gold pendant he wears -- a simple chain with a wolf's head, the symbol the Lone Wolf division of the military. His second, wider belt holds his pistol, too -- at a glance just a fine pistol, but there is something strange about it you can't quite peg...or perhaps it's just the aura of the man himself. The pale skin and bright amber eyes have -- along with the reputation he has among people that recognize his pendant -- suggested to some he might not actually be human after all. Then again, anyone who watches him closely would notice that behind the rough mask, the heart of him does show through. He's prone to place a lot of value on the small things, never really being one to care if he gets credit. Finding a child's lost toy, feeding a stray dog, mending an old man's hunting rifle, or even just putting a wounded butterfly on a flower in the sunlight. The strange, spontaneous little actions that, if truth be told, likely mean more than the carefully calculated actions for which he feels so conflicted.

Backstory:
Spoken late one night...
It haunts me, you know? Sometimes...sometimes I wonder where the line between good and bad is. I was a smart kid, and probably a bit of a trouble maker, but in the end I was still a good kid. Parents gave me a better life than most, I got trained in the best schools, and then sent to the military academy. My folks have always been military as far back as anyone bothers to remember, and I was rowdy enough for it to appeal to me. I always had that kind of camaraderie with the guys, and people tend to look up to me. Honestly I can't remember a damn thing from the first couple decades of my life I really regret. I made do with standard military, but we were just stationed at the capital, so I was in my home city anyway.

Problem was when we were sent active duty during a minor conflict. Simply put, my superiors hated my whole personality but loved my talents. I was already in a specialist unit that used firearms, but I found a way to use my gun that went far beyond anything anyone else could do. So, I was trained to be one of their "Lone Wolf" soldiers. Long story short, I was happy until I found out it was a fancy name for someone sent to do the work they couldn't officially send anyone else to do. First few years I was a total mess. Oh I did the job, don't get me wrong, but I handled it like paper handles fire. Time and habit, though...they can do something.

I didn't go the route of some people in my job. Some of the guys I knew...they were just monsters on a leash. They enjoyed their job far too much for any sane person. Others I knew, rest their souls the stress got to their heads and broke them. Me? I learned to detach. No matter what I saw, no matter what I did, I could wrap a wall around my mind and soul and keep things down to just doing what I did. The problem though...the problem is that it doesn't really work entirely. I've been doing this job for nine years. Nine years.

You know, sometimes I just wonder if I'm actually doing the right thing? I like to think I'm still the good guy, but sometimes being the good guy in this job doesn't seem good at all. That's the whole reason I'm on leave right now. First time I've taken leave for more than a couple days. I've been in the service as active duty for ten years total -- one year in the conflict before I was re-assigned -- so in honor of ten years of service they agreed to give me off for as long as I wanted to get my head straight. I just...I've got ghosts, you know? I drink too damn much, smoke whatever the local apothecaries and herbalists recommend. Helps keep me clean of the ghosts. Not the real ones, of course -- not sure if I believe in them, because if vengeful ghosts exist I'd probably be dead by now, or maybe I'm just loaded with blind luck. But after this much time, the walls I built for my mind have been worn down in places. When I'm awake I try to keep busy or at least occupied with whatever will keep my mind from wandering out of it's safe little box, but sleeping is another matter. I can't maintain the walls then.

It's not trauma. I've seen men who jump at the sound of a fork on a plate because they think someone is pulling a knife on them. Seen people who jolt out of sleep looking for assassins that are never there. I'm not that guy. I'm not the best, but I'm good at what I do, and have tricks most people wouldn't dream of. Nah, for me, I guess it's guilt. I think some deep part of my knows that there is no way some things I've done are good, and I hate it...but I can't undo it. I can't keep myself from seeing innocent faces, ruined lives, chaos...because of me. Sure, I'm supposedly keeping order and peace and law, but...still.

Anyhow, that's the whole reason I'm off now, really. Damn my tenth year of service, I don't care. I like fighting. Problem is you can't really call what I've been doing "fighting" or "soldiering" at all, and when you start to question the morals, motives, and nature of your superiors and orders...it's time to slip off the insignia and get yourself straightened up. Unfortunately...this happened. Whatever the hell "this" is. I've seen some crazy stuff in my days, but this tops them all. It's weird, because it's all like some kind of messed up dream. I'd call it a nightmare, but like I said. I've got too many of my own ghosts for something like this to get to me. I guess when you deal with demons it starts taking more than hell to scare you.

Besides, I'm a soldier, right? That's the whole point. Get these cobwebs out of my head and get back in the field. In my job we don't have time for fear. I remember reading a poet somewhere wrote a line I used to live by: "Theirs is not to reason why, theirs is but to do and die." If this...thing...that happened turns out to be part of something new I'm gonna be dealing with, perhaps shooting it out with some real monsters will be just the thing the doctor ordered. After all, when is the last time getting all worked up helped anyone?

Overall Party Notes
Role: Ranged Damage + Primary Caster

Elijah is a wizard, with wisdom as a low stat. He's not an "actual" gunslinger -- instead he combines the role of Ranged Damage and Primary Caster into the same person. That said, he is primarily a Ranged Damage character who happens to have casting too. My focus is more towards that role largely due to the school limitations and simply the intent of the character. I'd like to end up going Eldritch Knight (if the campaign runs that long/it's allowed) to take advantage of a better BAB progression. Dip into Urban Barbarian for a nice floating boost on demand and the weapon proficiency.

The reason he can actually do good damage despite his BAB is twofold.

1) Sacrificing spells = +1 enchantment/spell level for minutes/spell level. I can add actual enchantments as well. This is the most efficient way to do things at low levels since the gun is more dangerous than any spell at level 1. It's already a masterwork gun, and he's got decent attack, so all told he'll most likely hit (esp against touch AC), and then slap on the pistol damage plus XYZ enchantment. Something like 1d8+1d6 is a decent lvl 1 damage, and that effect would last for 1 minute, so instead of a single spell I could do that for a whole encounter if I needed to (or multiple encounters). Obviously as I get more/higher level spells this becomes more useful.

2) Shooting spells: he literally shoots all ray, ranged touch, cone, and line spells through the gun. Based off the text this doesn't make them all attack rolls (although ones that do need attack rolls get a boosted crit multiplier), but what it DOES do is boost the DC by the gun's enchantment. So since I'll just be sacrificing a spell to boost the gun anyway, essentially while I'm already boosting attacks I can further boost my spells for free. Works out rather nicely. Especially by low-mid levels when I've manually enchanted the gun so I get it passively.


Also, the nice thing is that unlike other ranged characters he NEVER has to worry about ammo. The spells Blood Money and Fabricate Bullets means that he can literally just cut his palm and turn his blood into bullets, which is probably the most badass thing about this whole archetype. Sure, it's not the most efficient way. But that right there is COOL. (As a side note, without needing STR Blood Money is an easy answer to most component problems, even with Eschew Materials).


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Old 01-15-2019, 08:51 PM
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Khuddeak Flintbraid

Name:Khuddeak Flintbraid

Race: Dwarf

Class: Druid

Alignment: True Neutral

Traits: Orphan, Twitchy

Drawback: Paranoid

Backstory: No one knows who Khuddeak's parents are. Not the dwarf himself, nor the kindly matron of the orphanage he spent his first decade of life at, nor the officials of his small hometown who shut the orphanage down when tax money grew too scarce to keep it running. Dumped onto the street at a young age, Khuddeak lived out his next decade as an urchin, the townsfolk appending "Flintbraid" to his name for the way he kept his coarse and prodigious dwarven hair in check. It was a harsh life, Khuddeak helpless to do anything but watch as the handful of other orphans who had been ousted alongside him were transformed into hateful, bitter folk. Eventually, at the young age of 22, Khuddeak decided that he would rather risk death in the wilderness than face the horrors of society.

He wandered for many years before happening upon the peaceful, pristine basin that he would call his home. He rarely encountered more than the unusually intrepid traveler seeking a shortcut off the beaten path, most of his interaction coming from an uneasy tolerance from local groups of satyrs and pixies. Much of his survival skills were learned from observing these satyrs from afar, and in exchange Khuddeak agreed not to interfere in their affairs with travelers.

He spent many decades living off of this basin, developing a certain relationship with nature that he had never had felt while living among people. As such, he could feel it in his very being when it began to... change, somehow. A sinister air, the likes of which the dwarf had never experienced, seemed to fall over the whole area. The satyrs, the pixies, and even the small woodland creatures with whom he conversed had all left, and the basin was quiet in a way that it had never been before. Khuddeak was uneasy, but refused to abandon his home, praying to the basin that had sustained him all these years before falling asleep.

He awoke in the middle of the night with a start, a peculiar bubbling sound coming from the middle of the basin. Khuddeak watched for several long moments, an inexplicable horror like a knot in his chest, growing like a crescendo. Then, the bubbling stopped, and a massive, monstrous figure began to rise from the basin. Khuddeak did not, could not, stay to observe it. He turned and ran, abandoning the one place he had felt at home with a scar on his very mind. Even now, he dreams of that monstrous figure in the basin, facing him, seeming almost to speak to Khuddeak before he awakes in a cold sweat.

Fears: Huge or larger aquatic creatures, corruption of the natural order
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