[D&D-5e] Storm King's Thunder

[LinguaManiac]

Note I've created my background as if the year were 1485 DR, which is when a random Forgotten Realms fansite told me this campaign was set. If that's changed (or, you know, wrong), please let me know and I can modify my background. I left the end of it a little vague, so that you could slip me in wherever you'd need.

Hosvir Brokestone

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Mechanics Race: Dwarf, Hill Age: 47 Class: Cleric, War Domain Background: Soldier Virtues (Personality Traits): I am companionable, always ready for and with a story or drink. Battle thrills me, and while I don’t seek my destruction, I don’t exactly avoid it either. Ideal: Honor Defend your homeland, your companions, your friends. Last man to retreat, no man left behind, never surrender. (Lawful) Bond: I will defend my homeland with my last breath. Mithral Hall is home and it will Stand. Vices (Flaws): I want to be famous and talked about and get resentful when I don’t get the attention I think I deserve. I am a very linear thinker. Some of it’s being a Dwarf, some of it’s being in the military, some of it’s just me. I don’t do well with those who are more scattered and who do not know discipline and I often overlook the subtle. Description: Hosvir looks the average dwarf. He is neither particularly tall nor particularly wide. His whiskers are oiled and groomed, but not more than any young man’s should be. His armor is pristine, his weapons ship-shape, but there is no excess wealth there. His skin is a deep clay-red, like sun-kissed earth, but even that’s not really uncommon for dwarfs. He is, in almost every way, fairly average. Except the eyes. A deep and almost unique green, they glare out or crinkle up, expressing every drip-drop of emotion he needs. These are not eyes that lie, and indeed Hosvir almost never does and is bad at it besides.

Backgstory I’ve always felt overwhelmed by humans. Most of them have their whole life set up by the time they’re twenty. Even the laggards don’t take longer than thirty. It’s true that Dwarfs and Humans reach physical maturity at the same age, more or less, but that doesn’t tell half the story. Humans are no longer young by thirty. Dwarfs are young until fifty. Humans get sh*t done. I was born into one of 10,000 smith clans in the heart of Dwarf opulence – in Mithral Hall. I grew up in peace and prosperity, with glorious achievements in our collective past but without even my parents (pushing seventy as they both were when I was born) having known war. In other words, I was bored. I wanted true recognition, excitement, adventure. And independence. A Dwarf clan is a network of relationships stretching back a dozen or ten-dozen generations, intermingling and intermarrying with a dizzying array of other clans. They make up tribes and, in turn, kingdoms. Nothing is quite so stifling as a clan gathering of several hundred extended family, all of whom one is supposed to know and all of whom one is supposed to entertain. I guess that’s why the ale comes so in handy. Nothing’s quite so glorious, though, as a rousing family song where the whole clan – from Great-great grandfather Orsik to young three year old Torgga – joins together. I wanted my independence, so I told my parents outright – at about twenty-five, because I wasn’t stupid enough to kindle their wrath while still a kid – that I wasn’t going to be a smith. I went upland, out into the great expanse of sky, and pulled in money and made my way as I could. I stayed close to Mithral Hall, setting up shop just East, in a small trading town on West bank of the Surbin river called Hothwine. There, I led too rich humans on ‘dangerous’ expeditions into the Northern mountains. Really, I didn’t go much past the places adolescent Dwarfs dare each other to go, but it kept me in meat and mead, so I didn’t complain. At least, at first. Prolonged exposure to these humans was what made me so enamored with them. I remember in particular Jonny Redface. He was a merchant’s son from Silverymoon and when I first met him, he was a decade younger than I, seventeen to my twenty-seven. (I guess he’s still probably a decade younger than I am.) He loved the trip – best thing in his life, he kept saying. The lad had something on his mind, which I didn’t learn that first trip. But he came back two years later, and he told me. His options had been to follow his father’s merchant steps, marrying into a more powerful merchant house, and rise those ranks. Or, he said, he could take the money he’d made in his father’s shop and study magic. At the summit of the Sarr Thrasher mountain, four days’ hike North of Mithral Hall, he decided to study magic. Jonny Redface came back several times over the next decade. Every time he returned, he had a new story of adventure and learning. He’d married, he’d made up with his father, and he’d even lost that horrible name. He was just Jon Red, now, on account of his cloak and because it sounded so damn cool. So much change in a decade. I felt small. So I took inspiration from Jon Red and all the other humans I’d met and decided to no longer sit on my tuchus staring at my unmoving future. Back in Mithral Hall, I found an academic expedition that was heading North. This was back in 1474 and the peace with Many-Arrows had been going on for longer than my parents had been alive, or close to. We headed North, into the expanse. Throf Tarshield was in the lead. A Priest of Dugmaren Brightmantle, he was a large Dwarf for a scholar. But he was one of the most learned men in Mithral Hall. I’d thought perhaps I’d be a scholar myself. As we winded our way Northeast along the Surbin and past the Cold Wood, I got my feet under me for real hiking. My three-day or seven-day adventures were nothing to day march upon day march. And I wasn’t even fully bedecked, as Throf was. The greybeard wore full plate and carried an axe made for men’s skulls. I once asked him about it, about why a scholar was dressed as a soldier. We had soldiers with us, just in case. He said, “Hosvir, I may have dedicated myself to knowledge and to the Lady of the Scroll, but this world isn’t fair. I’ve lived a long time.” He was over two-hundred. “And if I’ve learnt anything, peace doesn’t last. One must be prepared to defend what one loves.” And boy was that old Priest right. We’d gone less than two days into the mountains of the Many-Kingdoms when the Orcs set upon us. It was first light, not half of us had awoken, and they were there – just there. I almost took an axe to the face, but a shield came down and stopped it – Throf. The man battled like a true Dwarf Berserker, although of course he wasn’t. There were ten times as many Orcs as there were of us. They were also everywhere. There was no place to run. I scrambled around for a while, just trying to stay alive. Throf was a Dwarf possessed, cutting down an orc in almost every slash. Most of the soldiers didn’t last so long. I remember one going down right in front of me, the snarling, slavish fangs of an orc almost in my face. He pounced at me and I dodged. In the Grace of Clanggedin Silverbeard I was that day, for my deformed roll that was my attempt at a dodge brought me close to a hammer. I grabbed it, turned, and caved the orc’s face in with it. Never have I felt such a rush. Headless of my unarmored state, I rushed in and cleared the field as I could. In the end, only Throff, Yedin, a cartographer, and I were left alive. But we’d killed the orcs to the last. Throff had taken the brunt and born it too. Injured, my rudimentary knowledge of medicine saved him. Yedin and I took turns carrying him, which we could only do by stripping him of his armor. We saved his orc splitting axe, though. One of us would carry him; the other would carry our supplies and the weapon. We were heroes for a week, having ale bought to us and our whiskers tugged. That didn’t matter to me, so much. I mean, it was nice (don’t get me wrong). But my brain was elsewhere. I joined the Army the day after the feasting stopped. Over the next ten years, skirmishes along the Mary-Arrows line were increasingly common. I partook in several myself, feeling the epic satisfaction of revenge every time my hammer crunched an orc’s face. But we also lost many, too many. After more than seventy years we were not ready. We weren’t properly trained and, worse, we didn’t have proper assistance. Thinking of Throff and his work on the first of my battle fields, I petitioned my commander for leave to train in the healing arts. I became a Priest. I was still a soldier, still a trained killer, and I still liked it. Clanggedin Silverbeard, god of battle and bravery, saw me through my first battle and I dedicated myself to him seeing me through till my last. Less than eighteen months later, I had all the chances I needed for that last battle. Out of the North, out of the Many-Arrows Kingdom streamed a hoard of orcs. They descended and laid siege to Mithral Hall and half-a-dozen other Dwarf cities nearby. With the other soldiers, I sallied forth. I didn’t take point now, though. We had warriors for that. I sat back, protecting the wounded, healing the wounded, and keeping the supply lines safe. That was slightly disappointing, but I did my job. I’d get a chance for blood later. After the battles that led to our victory, to King Bruenor I was called. He explained that the ferocity of the tribes, that the suddenness of their descent, that none of it made sense. He was sending me (and a group of others – not just me) to Mirabar and then on to Luskan, to see what they knew and if we had to face anything worse in the coming years. Our group set out on a clear day. But we didn’t exactly get that far. Not halfway through The Lurkwood, we were set upon by Giants. Giants! They hadn’t gone below the Spine of the World for centuries, possibly a millennium or more. (I didn’t actually know history that well. So much for those childhood hopes of being a scholar and all.) We had no chance. There was battle and blood and when the last of my companions fell, I buried a borrowed axe in a giant’s leg and high-tailed it out of there. So now here I am, alone, bereft of companions I let die by my incompetence and inability. All I can do is try to make it to Mirabar. But where exactly ‘here’ is, I haven’t the foggiest.

Goals and Secrets Character Goal: To get word to Mithral Hall and figure out what the hell happened. To fulfill his orders. Player Goal: In many ways, this background is the ultimate ‘put something we love in danger’ cliché. With giants descending, Mithral Hall will be in danger. He wants to stop that danger (not that he knows the giant thing was anything other than a fluke). Like always, too, I want to see if the character will be able to overcome his flaws. Secret: Friends, Relatives, and Enemies: Jon Red: Wizard out of Silverymoon Throf Tarshield: Priest out of Mithral Hall Yedlin Earthsplit: The cartographer Veit and Kristryd Brokestone: My parents, now a bit over 100 years old. Another several hundred “close” family.

[MoldyNolds]

Greetings GinJapan and other potential players! I present my application for this campaign. I am new to the site, however I am very active on gamersplane.com and looking to branch out a bit. On a side note, I did take a few liberties with Raamiz's backstory regarding some established NPC's in Faerun fiction. I tried to use second and third-tier characters and kept it vague, but let me know if I need to change anything. I hope to be gaming with you soon!

Application Name: Raamiz el Ostak Race: Air Genasi Class: Bard Background: Noble Personality: -->Personality: My eloquence and haughtiness may delight and entertain some, while offending others. -->Bond: While I love and respect my family and wish no dishonor upon them, they have forced me to marry someone I do not love and for that I have fled my obligation to wander and adventure in freedom. -->Ideal: Optimism. The open road holds untold wonders and adventures with each new dawn, and we are lucky to be witness to them. -->Flaw: Yes, in fact, the world does revolve around me. Backstory: Descended from the powerful el Ostak bloodline and small-time lieutenant in the El Khamir crime family, Raamiz grew up in lavish luxury as a young noble of a Calimshan crime family should. He spent his days overseeing simple collection runs throughout Memnon businesses and nights wining and dining the ladies. Until the day he became a man. His Great Uncle and patriarch of the el Khamir, Basad el Ostak, was always complimenting Raamiz on his djinn ancestry and when it became clear that Basad had agreed to marry Raamiz off to an El Pesarkhal daughter in order to consolidate power, Raamiz decided it was time to leave the family business. Saida el Pesarkhal was pretty enough, beautiful in fact, however Raamiz had no intention of being used because of his noble and djiin blood. Leaving a note for his Uncle and wishing the family no ill-will, Raamiz left in the dark of night to travel the world and live free from obligation. For years he wandered, learning what he could from the many strange and wonderful people and places he visited. When he traveled to Waterdeep he caught the eye of a spoiled and selfish fool by the name of Danilo Thann. Despite his oafish outward appearance, Raamiz treated Danilo with respect and the two became fast acquaintances. When the College of New Olamn was founded, Raamiz was handpicked by Danilo to become one of its first students. For the next few years Raamiz learned art, history, and swordplay from Danilo and the other bardic tutors of New Olamn. He also discovered (perhaps because of his Air Genasi lungs) that he had a natural talent with the Longhorn; a sophisticated and difficult-to-master flute. However, it didn't take long for his wanderlust to resurface. With rumors abound of giant incursions in the North, Raamiz left with Danilo's blessing to learn what he could of these unfounded speculations and if there was a credible threat that needed to be addressed. And so Raamiz el Ostak returned to the road and quickly found himself overlooking Hundlestone with the Spine of the World looming closer than he had ever gotten. Sensing a new adventure just around the corner, Raamiz hustled with renewed excitement to uncover new discoveries...

[theoryaction]

Unholy Protector 'I will use my ill-gotten power to defend the innocent and to strike down the wicked.' Name: Hadrion Severos Race: Protector Aasimar Class: Warlock Background: Proficiencies: Insight, Deception Feature: SAFE HAVEN As a faction agent, you have access to a secret network of supporters and operatives who can provide assistance on your adventures. You know a set of secret signs and passwords you can use to identify such operatives, who can provide you with access to a hidden safe house, free room and board, or assistance in finding information. These agents never risk their lives for you or risk revealing their true identities. Tool(s)/Language(s): Common, Goblin, Elven, Celestial Trait: I am always calm, no matter what the situation. I never raise my voice or let my emotions control me. Trait: I hate seeing suffering, especially in the weak and poor. Trait: I am ashamed of my relationship to my dark patron, and I attempt to hide it from most people. Ideal: Compassion is the most valuable virtue, even compassion for one's enemies. Bond: I can't stand by, and watch people suffer without offering aid or protection. Flaw: I despair that my soul is lost, and though I can save others, I can never save myself.Faction Agent (Order of the Gauntlet) Soundtrack: Compassion | Destruction Physical Description/RP Sample: The old door to the warehouse crashed in and was torn off its hinges in an angry cacophony of wrenching metal and splintering wood. In the remaining doorframe, stood a tall figure, heavily armored, with glowing eyes, and sheathed in a halo of piercing light. As he strode forward, great wings of brilliant energy sprouted from his back, and bore him up into the air. On the ground below, three men - two were thin and one fat, but all three wore ratty beards, mismatched armor, and the low hygeine standards of cheap thugs - cowered around a small fire they had built on the warehouse floor. They scrambled for their crossbows, but before they could attack, the voice of a god struck them to their cores. The Celestial being did not move his mouth, but from him, a pure, calm voice washed down over the men, with such power and volume that it caused them to cower and quake. "Where are the prisoners?" the voice demanded. Three pairs of eyes darted to the crates stacked to the North of them, but the fat man managed to croak out, "Ain't no prisoners", and he brought his crossbow up and fired at the god that towered above them. The bolt went wide, and passed through one of the great wings of light, without effect. The angelic being began to bear down on the men, which caused them to shout in panic. Two more bolts flew up, one glanced off his leather armor, but the last caught him in the seam in his armor at the shoulder. The man's godlike poise wavered, and he grunted in pain. With a savage snarl, he dived toward the men, stretched forth his hand, and flames leaped down over them. Bathed in fire, the three men screamed and writhed while their hair and clothes sizzled and smoked. From the outstretched glove reached dark, crackling energy that stood in stark contrast to the Celestial features of the man. The bolts of energy struck the three men, causing each to first stiffen, and then crumple to the ground in a smoking pile of human wreckage. The winged man drifted down to the smoking corpses and knelt beside them, offering a quiet prayer of dedication. When the ritual was completed, he strode over to the prisoner crates that had been identified earlier by the furtive glances of the now-dead captors. He found the doors, and with a staff, he broke the rusted padlocks off of the latches. Each door swung open and revealed a small group of cowering women and children covered in dirt and filthy rags. The man spoke in his own voice, surprisingly passive for a man who had so casually dispatched three armed and armored men. "I am Hadrion Severos", he said to the prisoners in the crates, "You are safe now. I am an agent of the Order of the Gauntlet, and I will not harm you, nor will I allow harm to come to any of you. Please, follow me, and I will get each of you food, clothing, and a place to stay until we find a way to return you to your homes." Pensively, the prisoners crept out of the crates, and looked around at the warehouse, and over at the still-smoking corpses that had been their captors. A young boy ran forward and wrapped his arms around Hadrion's waist, and through sobs said, "Thank you, sir." Uncomfortably, Hadrion patted the boy on the head and on the shoulder, looking down at his scorched leather gauntlet that had just moments earlier seared the life from three living beings. He snatched his hand away from the boy, and backed away from him. He looked up to the others and said gruffly, "Let's go." Background: Hadrion Severos started his military career as an enlisted crossbowman, but he struggled watching the innocent and the weak suffer the most in war. After a particularly bloody battle, with many military and civilian deaths, the carnage that Hadrion inflicted attracted the interest of the Archdevil Mephistopheles. The fiend offered Hadrion greater powers of destruction in return for an oath to maintain the slaughter for the rest of his life, and to dedicate all of his kills to the glory of Mephistopheles. Hadrion was in the depths of despair about his inability to save the innocents from the reaper's scythe of war, and so he accepted the Archdevil's pact. Since then, Hadrion has left a path of destruction in his wake, but his constant slaughter of the wicked has resulted in the safety and well-being of many more innocent souls. The gratitude of those innocents that are helped by Hadrion, offer little consolation to the man, but driven forward by his dark oath, Hadrion Severos unceasingly seeks new targets to sate the hunger of his patron.

[Ed Starwind]

Is this solely for players experienced in 5e? I have played Pathfinder PbP, as well as 4e and a little 3.5 tabletop.

[G in Japan]

Originally Posted by Ed Starwind

Is this solely for players experienced in 5e? I have played Pathfinder PbP, as well as 4e and a little 3.5 tabletop.

No experience needed. We were all knew to 5e at some point.

[Silk]

I might be interested but got three game app's up pending for decision's this week. If I don't get into at least two I'll put up an app.
Also, I'm new to 5th edition and only really played the system as part of a Hyperlanes game.

Just one question though. What level are the characters going to be at?

[G in Japan]

Originally Posted by Silk

I might be interested but got three game app's up pending for decision's this week. If I don't get into at least two I'll put up an app.
Also, I'm new to 5th edition and only really played the system as part of a Hyperlanes game.

Just one question though. What level are the characters going to be at?

They are at level 5.

[Dorack]

Just to let you know, I think there is a free adventure for lvls 1 to 4 that acts as an introduction to this campaign. Perhaps you already ran it....

[Dorack]

Ok, I decided to apply with 2 chars, one I crafted specifically for this Campaign (the Paladin) and other that I used to apply to a different game but that I really liked and thought it would be a good fit too (the Wizard). Please forgive any typos or mistakes, English is second language for me.

Update: I just might give Alkarak 1 or 2 lvls of Barbarian, to represent that reckless, savage fighting he learned at the pits. Its something that ocur to me after writting the char; not really sure, just an idea.

Alkarak Name: Alkarak Concept: Questing Paladin, former slave pit fighter Gender: Male Race: Dwarf Class: Paladin Alignment: Neutral Good Background: Gladiator or Folk Hero? Personality: Alkarak has a tranquil demeanor. His frightful countenance means he is usually given wide berth, so he enjoys spending time alone, specially sitting at the sun. When he speaks, he does so calmly, in a deep voice that is both sad and rejoiceful. He enjoys the many little things he was denied for so long. Slow to anger, wary of violence unless no other choice is at hand, he will unleash a deep-seated fury into those he deems his enemies. In combat he is a brutal foe and employs any and all the tricks he learned at the fighting pit, honor and chivalry be damned. Ideal: One idea drives Alkarak above all; to end slavery, to free the last of the poor souls in chains. He is perfectly aware he will never achieve such goal in his lifetime, yet that won´t stop him from trying and helping as many as he can in the way. Flaw: Alkarak feels deep sorrow and regret for those he slew at the pits and take great pains in comforting those in need where he finds them, giving him a blank spot, an Achille’s heel to be used against him. Bond: Alkarak knows nothing of his original clan and has so far not found any clue or hint about them. The only earthly bonds he feels are for the two young boys he spared at the fighting pits, called Guerned and Trellem. Appearance: Alkarak is strong and burly. Most of his body show the scars of the life of a slave, and a pit fighter at that, and his back’s skin is a tapestry of lashes. Upon his face, on his right side, he bears a Drow mark of slavery, a gift from his former master. Where the sigil was carved upon his flesh, no beard ever grew back. He keeps the rest of his beard short, as he was forced to as a slave. He will not grow it longer until his mission is ended. Backstory   Alkarak is a dwarf with a tormented past. From very young age, he was enslaved by Drow raiders preying on isolated dwarf outposts. Of his clan´s fate, he knows nothing certain, yet he assumes the worst. As a slave, he was raised an orphan among other dwarf captives, and thru them, he learned what he could of their people and traditions. As he grew older and stronger, he ended up as property of a Drow Priestess that run a Lolth temple afar from Menzoberranzan. She had him branded by magic fire, an elaborate drow sigil of ownership that ran from his eyebrow, down his temple, most of his cheek and down to his chin. Where his skin was branded, his beard grew no more. The Priestess delighted in gladiatorial pit fights, using slaves, captives and even wild beasts her servitors managed to catch to put up deadly fights. Alkarak was forced to fight for his life, sometimes alone, sometimes along other slaves, in bizarre deathmatches against all sort of people and creatures. He taught himself how to fight, and how to kill. Still, he always felt a deep disgust, paying lip service to his master and her void flattery. He was no gladiatorial champion: he was a slave forced to kill or be killed, and he hated himself for it. One day, he was ushered into the pit. On the other side, his foe awaited. But when Alkarak saw what his opponent was, he froze. A very old dwarf stood proudly, dagger in hand, his old scars and powerful arms marking him as a warrior, and in his chest, a symbol that gave Alkarak a flashback, to a shrine, old and beautiful, of a god that watched over his kin. A word formed in Alkarak’s conscience: Moradin, the Allfather. The old warrior looked at Alkarak for a brief instant and sighed. In a low grumble, he said You are too young to die here, at my hands. Live another day, and each day your life may last, live humbly and free. And then, the old warrior opened his throat with the dagger and bled to death as Alkarak watched in shock. Time passed and every now and then Alkarak had to fight in the pits. Still, every night his mind returned to the old dwarf. His calmness, his stoic stance in front of impending death. The scene changed him, and in his soul, he started searching for that inner peace he glimpsed among the horror. Alas, one day, he was ushered to the pit like countless days before. And there they were: two young dwarfs, probably twins, mere boys at half Alkarak’s age. He saw them wielding their daggers clumsily, the look of terror in their eyes, looking at each other in despair. Above them, the Priestess laughter could be heard over the deranged cheers of the onlookers. Alkarak closed his eyes for a moment, and the boys were replaced by the old warrior, the one who chose to give his life before taking him’s. Moradin, father, I can’t do this… A sense of calm filled the dwarf as the rumble around him receded to a faint echo. He could feel his heart pounding, the dagger´s pommel in his hand, and a deep sense of determination. Alkarak had never felt anything like it. He opened his eyes and looked at the terrified boys. He smiled, briefly, and then, he turned like a whirlwind and sent the dagger flying towards the Priestess. The dagger flew true, towards its target, and for a moment, Alkarak felt victorious. The blade bounced off the arcane ward and fell to the pit. The whole chamber went silent. The Priestess seethed in rage. Fool with a fool´s hope. I intended to let you die in glorious battle! Isn’t that what your petty kin wishes the most? Now you will die of pain, lashed unto death. Alkarak was taken away, chained in a torture chamber, and lashed, and lashed, and lashed, until his tormentors grew tired, or perhaps could not find any more skin to tear, and left him for dead. The dwarf endured what he could, until his body and will could stand no more and he fell into darkness. Yet Alkarak did not die. For Moradin came to his son´s aide. Strange dreams befell him. Dreams of calmness, of a loving embrace, of life renewed, and then, dreams of fury, of combat and carnage. Dreams that felt real: Drow’s screams, warm blood in his hands, and cool breeze in his face. And then, silence and darkness, and peace. When he woke up, he was in a green field, the sun high in the sky. Alkarak had not felt it in a century or more, he could never be sure. He looked around and saw he was among raged men and women, dwarfs and elves, and more, including the two dwarf boys he faced in the pit before. His body was broken, but healing. When he asked what happened, the slaves told him how he had burst out of the cell and with a divine aura around him, had killed and drove away the Drows, releasing the prisoners, guiding them to the surface. They told him how he looked like a dwarven god incarnate, beautiful and terrible to behold, as he lay waste to his foes. Alkarak could not remember any of this, yet in his heart, he knew it to be true. The freed slaves slowly parted ways, each returning to their homes, yet Alkarak had no home to return to, not that he knew of. So, he stayed with some dwarfs and other survivors, and made a vow not to let any other people suffer what they had suffer, not while he could do something about it. So began his path of Paladinhood, devoting himself to Moradin Allfather and promising to erase the scourge of slavery form Toril, or die trying. RP Sample   Alkarak came out of his stupor. The numbness that had followed the indescribable pain was no more. He felt calm, warm, utterly at peace. He realized then he was no longer in chains, hanged from his wrists the way his tormentors left him to die. The pain was no more; the warmth of his blood running thru his back and legs, or the burning fever, were no more. He laid on his back, on the ground, and his head rested atop something. A lap. Someone was holding him. Alkarak felt the hands of the stranger, strong and powerful, yet careful and kind, one on his forehead, the other atop his chest. He could feel life flowing from those hands into his body. Alkarak tried to look up, yet he could not move his head. Rest, my son. Rest. The voice sounded like the depths of the world had spoken, yet Alkarak could not tell if he heard it of felt it in his soul. It was a voice of countless eons, of infinite wisdom, of unspeakable wrath, and of deep, deep sorrow, deeper than the Abyss itself. I... sighed Alkarak... I.. could... not... yet words failed him. You did what you thought best, and I'm proud for it. Now rest, for tomorrow, you will break your bonds, you will bring reckoning to those that that defiled you. Tomorrow you will free those that suffer with you in this hellish place. Alkarak could barely give meaning to the words that echoed in his head. He was but a spoil, broken. Still, he could feel life flowing back. H..how... I... Rest, Alkarark, my son, for tomorrow I will be at your side. Alkarak tried to look up once more, but his strength failed him. With a whisper in his lips, he abandoned himself to sleep and heard no more.

Tiripsas Name: Tiripsas the Eccentric, or Tiri for short (it's pronounced tee-ree) Concept: Oddball Dwarf Transmuter Gender: Female Race: Dwarf Class: Wizard (Transmuter) Aligment: Chaotic Good Backgound: Sage Personality: Tiripsas is a charming, outspoken young dwarf. She is the family’s black sheep, but in a good way. Since she was little her parents accepted her daughter was simply different and loved her and nurtured just like her siblings. She took from the dwarfs the values of hard work, persistence and love for crafting, and gave them a personal interpretation: hard work is important, but do it with a smile, and you will bring about wonders. Ideal: The Arcane Art is just another tool, one that dwarven kin must learn to accept and embrace; doing otherwise is simply foolish and in our own detriment. Flaw: Is hard for me to keep my mouth shut, specially about suggesting other people how to do their job properly. But I only want to help! Bond: Family is most important; though they don’t understand me, they love me, and I would do anything for them. Appearance: Short and stocky, Tiri is pretty good-looking yet she never payed much attention to that. She keeps her hair in elaborate braids and usually wears comfortable, durable outfits. She has bigger things to pay attention to than looks. Backstory   Tiripsas was always the odd gal. She was charming and good humored, and had a way with people, but kept straying away from the rules and traditions of his beloved kin. It was not laziness, malice, nor a sense of superiority. Tiripsas was simply curious about other ways and customs, and specially, magic fascinated her like nothing else. It came to no one’s surprise when the young dwarf announced she would depart to Candlekeep to become “the greatest transmuter the ages would know”. No one was sure what a “transmuter” was though. Many of her old folk were even relieved to see the eccentric young dwarf put some distance between herself and their orderly lives. So, with a tap in her back and a few coins in her pocket, the eager aspiring wizard left her home and headed to the Sword Coast. Tirispas was quick to learn, and her young years in the dwarf hold had taught her discipline and patience, even when she whined about it. Her good humor was welcomed among her classmates and she was always ready to prank someone, even some of the tutors, or challenge anyone to a drinking contest. She focused specially in the transmuting field. She found it fascinating. In her mind, she was simply taking the love of dwarves for crafting and building and taking it to a new level. She was not interested in the flimsy conjurations or illusions that looked flashy but lacked substance. Tapping the inner work of matter itself promised important, lasting impact for the dwarf. The day came when she finally passed her tests, on the third try, but passed none the less. Eager to leave Candlekeep once for all, she decided to pick up a trail she had discovered in his years as an apprentice, and headed north, towards Mithral Hall. Sample roleplay   Why in the nine hells would I journey all the way to Mithral Hall, you ask? Tiripsas puffed from her pipe, grinning as always. Because it just might yield a very important clue about the very nature of reality, my lad, hehehe. She watched the townguad drinking his beer across the table; his perplexed expression was delightful. You may or may not have heard about Gollin Ironbeard. One of the greatest smiths of the Dwarven Race ever to live. Well, what you most certainly wouldn’t know is that one of his best apprentices, Maese Ludlum, appears to have been much more than a mere assistant smith. Tiripsas extended her hand, catching a ring of smoke she had just puffed. The smoke swirled above her palm and gained color and shape, showing the image on an old parchment with a deteriorated dwarf portrait in it. Maese Ludlum was a crafty fellow, but above all, was a practical minded dwarf, very much like me, who had no qualms about approaching the Arcane Art without the preconceptions our kin are so fond of. The dwarf moved her hand towards the mug as the floating image dissolved in the air. I will spare you the interesting details. Summing up, if the hints and clues I’ve collected over the past 15 years are true, Maese Ludlum seems to have unlocked the secret of intrinsically, spontaneous, magical crafting. You see, all the classical process of magic crafting revolve around the same principle: you take a very good base item, like a sword or a rod, and infuse it with magical energies that spring from an external source until you bind the arcane energy to the material vessel. Voilá. Classic. Well tested. Done deal you might say. Tirispas made a pause, not that it might help her drinking partner to keep up with her. Pppffhhh… that’s the elvish paradigm of arcane crafting. It works, yes, but at an immense cost and effort, and with only a handful of magic practitioners being able to pull it off. Maese Ludlum explored another way. The dwarf leaned forward and dropped her voice a bit, like she was about to reveal the greatest mystery of the ages. If magic permeates all of reality, then all material object or items are intrinsically magical, even if they are so in a very infinitesimal way. That applies to you and me too. Neat, uh? So, what if the magic crafting process could be not about infusing external magic to an object, but tapping and unleashing the intrinsically magical nature of its composing elements? It is well known that magic attracts more magic, so even a miniscule magical spark could very easily grow exponentially. She searched the guard’s eyes. She hid her disappointment… the lad seemed quite bright this morning... but perhaps he was not a good prospect for a guide to the old dwarf hold after all. She leaned back again and gulped the last of his ale. What I’m trying to say is that Maese Ludlum might have found a way to do magic crafting by non-magic users. Imagine: any skilled smith being able to craft a magic sword or armor. No powerful artifacts or anything like that, but weapons and materials that perform better, last longer and can help keep the evil and darkness at bay. She turned his head towards the windows besides him. Dusk was upon them. She sighed and continued. The chances that any of this are remotely true are so low that I don’t think they can be described mathematically. Maese Ludlum could have been quite a charlatan. But what I found about his work correlates nicely with other findings of my own. And should they prove truthful, then not only we would be at threshold of a new era of understanding reality, we could change, for better, the lives of all peoples. Isn’t that worth the risk?

[Silk]

I was going to wait until I saw how many games I got into but then I got curious and rolled on your alternate background and stat generator. It's been rolling around in my head for a few days and I decided I just had to make an application and so Amya Falone was born

One question: Is khopesh's just considers a different version of a Longsword? Or are they still exotic weapons in 5th edition?

Amya Falone Name: Amya(Om-yah) Falone Race: Human (Turami) Class: Bard 4/Fighter 1 <Weather Amya goes Bard or Fighter for leveling will depend on how the game was role played up until she was ready to level> Alignment: Chaotic Good Background: Far Traveler <a Wanderer from Mulhorand> Far Traveler Feature: Amya's accent, mannerisms, and dark complication mark her as Foreign where ever she goes in the northern part of the Sword Coast. Discription: Amya has creamy brown skin with piercing black eyes and waist length flowing black hair. In her native land, she where's loose clothing and leather armor only when needed. She likes to feel the wind on her skin. Up in the northern lands Amya has gotten used to wearing pants and heavy cloths to word away the cold. She prefers a chain shirt when armor is required but will readily remove it in towns. She has a Khopesh long sword and six daggers on her. Two in her boots, two fastened to the back of her sword belt, and two opposite her Khopesh. She is not afraid to loose daggers at need. While she loves the Lute and Shawm(Egyption Flute) she caries with her from her native land, she also has a Lyre(European design) and can play a Horn, though she does not carry one with her. Personality Trait: I begin my day with small traditional rituals that are unfamiliar to those around me. <first drink of a new dawn is held up to the rising sun in the east before drinking, she likes feeling the wind on her skin so she can be found outside even in freezing weather with little protection against the elements from time to time, & she say's a quite prayer to Bes in her native Turmish language over her food> Ideal: Adventure. I'm far from home, and everything is strange and wonderful(Chaotic) <New sights, songs, and culture, are what she desire's most> Bond: My freedom is my most precious possession. I'll never let anyone take it from me again. <being imprisoned twice, once falsely, has caused her to value her freedom greatly> Flaw: I pretend not to understand the local language in order to avoid interactions I would rather not have. <while always interested in something new, she does not like new insults directed at her and has found it best to ignore such> History: 1) Born with great looks (+1 CHA) 2) She is a rabble rouser. She alone has started five riots (+1 CHA) 3) She chopped wood for day's at a time after her last breakup (+1 STR) 4) Traveled with a Carnival. Worked with the Knife Thrower (+1 DEX) 5) Competed in a strong man event. Came in third (+1 STR) 6) Lived with a native tribe for a while. Learned to forage berries (+1 WIS) 7) Part-time Grave digging work (+1 STR) 8) Tortured to reveal a partner's location (+1 CON) <part of #9> 9) Escaped prison after she was wrongly arrested (+1 DEX) 10) Arrested. Sentence, Infantry Service [Move to Military Table] ----->Marched barefoot for 20 miles (No Stat Increase) 11) Screwed up. Got put on potato peeling duty (+1 DEX) 12) Inspired a dying soldier (+1 CHA) Stat's with Human bonus's: STR: 14, DEX: 14, CON: 12, INT: 11, WIS: 12, CHA: 14   Backstory: Amya was a beautiful girl born in Maerlar, a small town in Mulhorand to Amya Falone, who she is named after, and Diero Falone. The joy of the moment of her birth however was forever tarnished by Amya's mother dying shortly after giving birth to her daughter. Diero Falone was always struck by wanderlust and had only agreed to settle down with Amya to build a family together. Naming his daughter after his dead wife might seem strange to some but Diero hoped his dead wife's spirit would agree with it. With her gone, Diero learned how to take care of his infant daughter and continued in his wanderings, unable to stay in the town she had died in. Amya herself has no memory of the place other then one night when she and her father passed through the town when she was nine years old. Amya as it turned out was just like her mother but filled with more spirit then even Diero could handle. Before her fifteenth birthday Amya had personally started five riots by herself against perceived injustices, and had joined several others. This only hastened Diero and Amye's wanderings as Diero had no illusion's that those Amya had started the riots against would not hold back their retribution against her even though she was a child. Deciding Amya needed a stabilizing element in her life Diero arranged his daughters hand in marriage to a merchant's son in Calimshan. He expected the fight he was going to have with his daughter and hoped for her eventual agreeing to the marriage. Which, in the end she did agree to marry him and it was to be held on her sixteenth birthday. What Diero did not expect was the boy in question to run away with a bar made a month before the weeding. He also did not expect his daughter to take an ax away from the servant boy and chop wood in anger for two and a half days. However, Amya eventually cooled down and they continued their wanderings. It was only a week later when they came across a traveling carnival that was heading back north and Amya made a decision. Diero did not like the wet lands of the north but Amya was curious about this place where snow fell all year round. She had only seen snow fall once when they were traveling through the mountains between Calimshan and Tethyr during winter and loved it. In the end Diero realized his daughter had gained her wanderlust from him and needed to do this on her own. If he could try and marry her off, she was old enough to be on her own. Getting a promise from her daughter to come back and visit one day, and a promise from the Carnival leader Elisabeth to treat Amya as her own daughter, Diero watched his little girl head off to the bitter north. Amya was good with her lute and learned a few tricks from Angie the knife thrower and Hark a Dwarf who was in charge of seeing to the strong man competition. She traveled with them for a couple months until they were a weeks travel out from the boarders of Cormyr, the country they were from, when the traveling Carnival stopped at a village of natives who were all Halflings. They called themselves the Hamaneya. While Amya admitted to herself the natives were a bit uncivilized, she was fascinated by their culture. It took some doing, okay a lot of doing, but Amya finally managed to get Elisabeth to agree to leave her here where she could learn more of the natives culture. Giving a promise to follow Elisabeth's instructions North and to visit them in the city of Saerloon, she enjoyed a lovely two months with the Hamaneya natives. By the time she got to Cormyr and the city of Saerloon Amya was running low on money. When she heard that Elisabeth and her traveling Carnival was invited by the ruler of Cormyr to entertain in Suzail, she used some of the last of her money to send Elisabeth a message saying, 'I made it to Saerloon and am going to do a few odd jobs playing songs to earn some cash and then I will meet you in Suzail.' Fate had other plans and the next two and a half years were the roughest of her life. It was a shock to find out that the people of Saerlaon did not want a bard to sing Mulhorand, Calimshan, or Tethyr songs. The few songs Amya knew of the north were still new to her and her accent made the words not flow that well. In the end she took up any odd job while practicing the strange songs. And one of those odd jobs was as a grave digger for the poor. It was a sad duty but Amya did it with respect to the dead and added her prayers after everyone was gone. To say she was surprised to be arrested for the crime of grave robbing would be an understatement. Everyone despises a grave robber and when she was tortured for the whereabouts of her supposed partner, she was not surprised. Amya managed to escape with four other prisoners but was caught only a few days later. It turned out they caught the real grave robber and his partner but Amya had assaulted the warden of the prison where she was held and helped four other convicted prisoners to escape. The judge decided to be lenient on her and only sentenced her to two years of Infantry Service. Even though the charges of grave robbing were dropped, the stigma stayed with her and during training someone took her boots so she had to march for twenty miles barefoot. Of course, Amya's mouth got her in even more trouble and she spent quite a lot of time honing her potato peeling skills. She thought many times of just running away but figured two years wasn't that bad. She even made a friend here and their, stigma or no stigma. Amya's best friend, Gorman Kalden, was a young man from Suzail a year older then her. It turned out his family had a relative that had caused their family name to be stigmatized in Cormyr and that was why he was serving in the Saerloon Infantry as Saerloon was not part of Cormyr and they did not care much for what happened in other country's. Amya told Gorman about where she was from and some story's of her land. Like how the Mulhorandi were brought to Toril from a different world by the Imaskar Empire for slaves and how they later displaced her people, the Turamil. She even mention that the Mulhorandi gods came to this world at their plea for aid and rescued their people from slavery. Amya even mentioned that she worships Bes, the Mulhorandi god of Chance and luck, even though it is rumored that the Mulhorandi gods have left Toril. Gorman loved to hear Amya's stories and she secretly thought Gorman was more in love with her then her story's, but he never pressed the issue. It was three weeks before her sentence of two years of forced Infantry service was up when the small fort they were guarding was attacked by brigands. Amya never found out why they attacked, and frankly, afterwards she did not even care. For three days the battle raged, with the wood and stone fort being breached multiple times. It was on the third day that Amya saw Gorman ran threw. To this day she does not remember how she killed his attacker, or what she said to Gorman after. All she knew was that Gorman raised up holding his guts in, and rallied everyone around around him in a charge that routed the brigands once and for all. After the battle, their Sargent found Amya laying Gorman's body strait and he said, "He was a hero of Saerloon." She shook her head, unable to cry for her friend and said, "No, he was a hero of Cormyr." Two weeks and four days latter saw a changed Amya walking away from Saerloon and vowing to never visit the place again. Where before, she would sing to fill the lonely trail with noise, Amya walked quietly, a void following her footsteps. She rarely smiled anymore, only fleeting glimpse's here and there. Once she got to Suzail, she stared at it from outside. Shur, she could go in, try to find Gorman's family, but at that moment, she was afraid to confront them. Amya ended up walking completely around Suzail until she reached the road that lead through the Stormhorns mountains and further east. Guided by directions from locals she meet on the way, she made it through the wilderness that was to the east of Cormyr and came upon the city of Baldur's Gate. Once again she did not want to enter the city, and so she started making her way north. Every time she came across a big walled city, she walked on or went around. From Waterdeep, to Neverwinter, and even Luskan she avoided. Though it was probably best to have avoided entering that last city. Amya eventually found herself in a small town called Hundlestone where the the roofs were peeked and the air was crisp and just seeing it seemed to ease something in Amya chest. Going to the Inn, she asked for a single room with a window as she had so many times by now. The women seemed to get excited once she saw Amya's lute and asked if she as a Bard, Amya reply of "No!" came out a little to forcefully and she sighed looked down, "Not today, just...just the room please." Once in her room, Amya sat staring out the open window at the picturesque town for some time. Downstairs someone with less skill at a harp then her started up a song. It was something she did not know and even badly sung, spoke to her. But she could not bring herself to listen to closely and found herself taking up her lute. At first she just strummed a melancholy tune but soon she was humming along and words came to her, He is a hero of Cormyr, A hero tall and strong, He is a hero of Cormyr, As just and kind as all, Amya sung a few more verses, trying some out, discarding others. Until she came near the end when tears started fall from her eyes. He..he was a.. a hero of Cormyr..., He <snif> He was a..a hero tall and strong, He was a hero...a hero of C-Cormyr... But she could not finish and ended up holding her lute tightly as she finally allowed herself to cry for a dear departed friend. Not once noticing in her greef that the music from downstairs had stopped. Amya's tears eventually slowed and she continued to composing her 'Ode to Gorman Kalden, a Hero of Cormyr'. Down below, hardly a word was spoken and nary an eye dry as the women in the room above pored her heart and soul into a song about a dead hero of Cormyr. And she was determend to make it her best work yet, so that his family could once again, hold their heads up high.

Put the Backstory in a spoiler. It got a little long.

[Ed Starwind]

Here is my submission. He is a little different that most characters I have made, but I hope Arranis is a good fit. Thanks for your consideration.

Technicalities / Basics Name - Arranis Liadon Race - Wood Elf Class - Monk Alignment - Lawful Neutral Background – Hermit

Personality / Description Personality - Eager to share the wisdom of St. Cuthbert Ideals - Logic – Emotions must not cloud our judgement, but once that judgement is made, embrace the heat of the moment. Bonds – I am still seeking the enlightenment and reverence my parents had. Flaws – I still harbor dark thoughts and once my mind is set on something, it will not let go easily. Description – Arranis is a typical young male Wood Elf. He stands about 6’4” and weighs in at a lean 128 pounds. He has pale skin and black hair. His eyes are a pale blue that almost seem to spark like lightning, especially when he embraces his emotions and the zeal of contest. He is usually seen in simple clothing, a pack on his back that has crossed mountains, and a look that knows trouble, but does not seek it. He also carries a simple, but battle-hardened staff.

History Backstory – Born in the Nether Mountains, above the Forest of Arn, lies a small monastery that those who know of it call the Temple of the Four Winds. It sits in the bend of the mountain range where passing storms can cause the wind to howl from all 4 directions. It is here and in the forest below that my father, Adran and my mother, Enna of the noble Galanodel family found the beauty hidden in the rage. The balance of the raging storms. A small group of humans and halflings had been traveling through the mountains and got caught up in one such storm. They had been fleeing south from Ascore and were trapped in the mountains. Arranis’ parents helped them shelter in the mountain and spoke of their newly found wisdom. They decided to build a temple there to honor St. Cuthbert, the God of Common Sense and Zeal. The group welcomed all who would come to learn and trained them in the way of martial arts and meditation. Their temple was hewn from the mountain, with a special area of meditation and training in the space between mountains, where clerics seek the wisdom of the winds, and paladins accept the power of the storm. Arranis was born on such a stormy night the year of his parents 300th birthday. His mother barely survived childbirth and died in the weeks that followed. His father was wroth with anger and sorrow. He climbed to the peak of the mountain to center himself and mourn. He was never heard from again. The elders took the young lad and trained him in the ways of his parents. They had hoped he would be blessed with the power of the paladins, or the magicks of the good Saint and his priests, but Arranis was neither priest, nor mighty paladin. Instead, he was touched by the storms in ferocity and the winds in their grace. His body was a whirling tempest. His feet are like thunder, his hands as lightning, but his mind is wise beyond his years. He was a true monk of the Four Winds. It was a year ago today that Arranis first felt the change in the wind. He sensed a darkness that he had not felt before creeping upon the land. Determined to protect his home, Arranis set off toward the Spine. It was there that St. Cuthbert declared he would face his greatest challenge and quell the coming storm.

[G in Japan]

Silk: There are no exotic weapons in 5e. I've found stats that have the khopesh stated as either a longsword or a scimitar with an additional property (Bonus Action: Deal an additional 1d4 piercing damage on a successful weapon attack).

I would be willing to discuss how to stat one up.

[Silk]

I'd prefer it being more as a longsword as then it would be something she could wield as a Bard.

Nice to know there are no exotic weapons in 5th ed.

[G in Japan]

There seems to be a good selection of applications in, so unless someone else expresses interest in the next 24 hours, I am going to close them. The group just got to a new town, so I'll be looking to introduce new PCs pretty quickly, so expect an announcement within a day of apps closing.

[theoryaction]

Just a final comment before determining players: I started on this site with a game back in Feb '17. Even though several people have come and gone, I'm still there posting regularly. I've outlasted many games, and I'm looking for something for the long run.