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  #31  
Old Jun 18th, 2021, 10:41 AM
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Couldn't help myself.HA! Frogman.
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  #32  
Old Jun 18th, 2021, 11:03 AM
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My application for my Bard/Fighter Solana is complete. I have a character sheet started, but it's not complete since a roll for additional coin is needed.
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  #33  
Old Jun 27th, 2021, 06:57 AM
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Bumping back up the list, still plenty of time for applications.
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Old Jun 27th, 2021, 02:56 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Drachenspirit View Post
My application for my Bard/Fighter Solana is complete. I have a character sheet started, but it's not complete since a roll for additional coin is needed.
Yes, a roller thread would ne nice so we could do a complete charsheet. I plan on using the 4d6 method b/c I believe in you, Lady Luck...

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Or this guy.
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  #35  
Old Jun 27th, 2021, 03:05 PM
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Originally Posted by Shula View Post
Yes, a roller thread would ne nice so we could do a complete charsheet. I plan on using the 4d6 method b/c I believe in you, Lady Luck...

Or this guy. <Pic omitted for post length>
Me too, IF... first level is at Max HP to start. Based on my Bio layou, I'll have to roll 3 x for Bard, and then 2 times for Bard/Fighter for HP.
For ability score rolls, that'll depend on what rolling method I am not above sucking up because my character is a Bard. our benevolent and oh so kind DM says to use (like drop any rolls of 1 for example).
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Last edited by Drachenspirit; Jun 27th, 2021 at 03:06 PM.
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Old Jun 27th, 2021, 03:42 PM
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Originally Posted by Drachenspirit View Post
Me too, IF... first level is at Max HP to start. Based on my Bio layou, I'll have to roll 3 x for Bard, and then 2 times for Bard/Fighter for HP.
For ability score rolls, that'll depend on what rolling method I am not above sucking up because my character is a Bard. our benevolent and oh so kind DM says to use (like drop any rolls of 1 for example).
As a Slav and thinking of Ivan the Terrible and Alexander II, I know how to 'Please, sir, I want some more.' or at least a re-roll of 1s.suck up to tyrants, err, I mean So benevolent that they should be marked for sainthood.benevolent DMs. And did I forget So kind, they put Mother Teresa to shame.kind?

Last edited by Shula; Jun 27th, 2021 at 03:48 PM.
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  #37  
Old Jun 27th, 2021, 06:34 PM
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Name: Tryggva Otvaszhovich
Race: Variant Human (Great Weapon Master)
Class: Barbarian 5 (Path of the Berserker)
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

 


Backstory: The kings and nobility that had founded the kingdom of Muscovy were brave Viking warriors who had risked everything for the chance at power and glory and won everlasting fame. Unfortunately, that wasn't Tryggva.

Tryggva has always known himself for a coward. Even as a young boy, in a culture where bravery and daring are everything, he always felt his stomach clench and his brow grow cold at the inevitable fights and risks of growing up in the clans. He tried for years to hide this; to prove to himself he wasn't a coward. He took dares other boys refused, stupid risks that smarter warriors refused, challenged men that logic said he would lose to. But always there was that inevitable hesitation and fear, overwhelming fear, blackening his senses and the knowledge that he would fail. Maybe not this time, but when it counted.

Unable to discipline himself to the rigid norms of a true warrior, he let his fear overwhelm him in actual combat, triggering a wild-eyed screaming attack that won him fights he had no business winning. In fact, he gained a reputation as a killer and a risk-taker. Ashamed to take credit for bravery he knew he hadn't shown, but unwilling to admit to cowardice that would shame his family and clan, he took to drink and a sullen anger. Eventually he left his village on the Baltic coast, traveling the roads, selling himself to unworthy merchants or selfish adventurers. That way when his failure came, it wouldn't hurt so much. Or so he justified his life to himself.

Now he has come to this tiny pisspot village and Ilianya had disappeared. Tryggva hadn't liked the too perfect swordswoman, stuck up, disapproving, better than thou bitch that she was. But he couldn't let a companion be taken and not do something about it. Not so much that it could have been him and she'd have come for him, that was her problem. But to not try to rescue her would inevitably splatter his name with more filth and imputations. He could risk being called a coward, especially since it was true. So once again, unwillingly, he was going to once again be forced to risk life and failure facing a legendary witch and possibly Death himself rather than continuing to escort fat lazy merchants for good money. Stupid, stupid stupid! But, what choice did he really have?



RP Sample:https://www.rpgcrossing.com/showthre...=191815&page=4

Tryggva knew he should run. He wanted to run. Everyone impulse in his brain said run. But somehow, he found himself on his feet. Oh no, oh NO, OH NO!

"Seriously, I'm buying you drinks and you want to fight? Hey bartender, screw the drinks on the house, this limp dick just screwed it up for everyone. "

And with that Tryggva whipped up his axe in a whine of rage and fear and slammed it into the smirking goliath. He then attempted to whip the axe back, but his movements were jerky, not fluid, and it glanced off the stony skin of the larger creature.

What is wrong with me? I am deliberately picking a fight I can run away from! Am I insane?

. . .

The smirk disappeared from the Goliath's face . . . well, actually the Goliath's face disappeared in a spray of blood and bits of bone and brain. Tryggva tried to control his trembling and bring his voice down from a not very scary squeak to more normal levels.

"The rest of you. You picked bad company, you picked a fight, you made a mistake. "

Tryggva dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper to keep it from breaking; he had fouled himself but hopefully no one would notice amidst the general stink and squalor.

"Now leave . . . and you might want to run! "


Last edited by penbeast0; Jun 28th, 2021 at 04:03 PM.
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  #38  
Old Jun 27th, 2021, 06:38 PM
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@penbeast

This is set in The Forgotten RealmsFaerūn not Muscovy. My character comes from an alternative earth material plane and has been magically sent to the Dalelands, also referred to as the Dales, which is a region in north Faerūn of dense forests and bountiful, rolling farmlands. It comprised a loosely-organized group of counties called dales that were as diverse as they were independent.

Last edited by Shula; Jun 27th, 2021 at 06:39 PM.
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  #39  
Old Jun 27th, 2021, 07:36 PM
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Not a worry, the only mention of Muscovy is in the opening sentence of the backstory and the GM can tell me the equivalent name.

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Old Jun 28th, 2021, 09:24 AM
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Ragnor Sigurdson
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Name: Ragnor Sigurdson
Race: Human
Class: Fighter (Champion)
Alignment: Neutral Good

Background: Folk Hero
Personality Trait 1: I judge people by their actions, not their words.
Personality Trait 2: Thinking is for other people. I prefer action.
Bond: I had a brother called Jorund, but he was murdered.
Ideal: There's no good in pretending to be something I'm not.
Flaw: I act first and ask questions later.

Description: Ragnor is a tall, broad-shouldered, powerhouse of a man whose years of military combat have produced a physique that his fellow warriors can only be envious of. What he possesses in terms of strength and battle proficiency, he lacks in care of his personal appearance; long dark blonde uncut hair hangs down over his shoulders while a thick heavy beard covers the lower half of his face. Being an older man, and not one for concerns over his appearance, the signs of age are creeping up on him; deep frown lines cross his forehead as if they were battle scars and crows feet lick at the edges of his eyes.

Personality: A stoic, battle-hardened warrior, Ragnor is first and foremost an excellent soldier. However, his lust for battle prevents him from becoming a true leader; a fact of which he is very aware and uninterested in changing, preferring to leave such matters as diplomacy in the hands of his brother Jorund - the leader of the village he calls home. He is however, incredibly loyal to his comrades and his family, and as such considers an insult or injury to one of them as an offense worthy of death at the mercy of his warhammer.

Backstory: Ragnor goes to war. Ragnor always goes to war. He loves the thrill of the fight, the smell of death in the air, and the screams of ones' enemies as they fall on the battlefield. His brother Jorund rules their village and commands their army, but he always allows Ragnor to indulge in his favourite hobby, even when the risks are great; because he knows that Ragnor is a competent fighter, and Ragnor will always return home victorious with some grand tale of a victory snatched from the jaws of death. Ragnor always delights the children with his numerous, often wild and unbelievable, stories of the battles that he takes part in. But this last time was different, because when Ragnor was away someone attacked the village, slaying his brother in the most gruesome of ways. On his return, full of the joy of another victory, Ragnor was stopped in his tracks as the intense sadness that gripped his fellow villagers seeped its way deep into his bones. He finds his brother laid to rest in a display of his glory, while his brothers' widow weeps beside him. She tells Ragnor that a young female elf murdered him, claiming revenge for the death of her own family. And she begs Ragnor to find this Elven girl and avenge her husband, his brother, Jorund.

Ragnor is no leader and chooses to leave his village. He wanders aimlessly, searching from place to place for the trail of an Elven girl on a murderous rampage, but continues to remain empty-handed. One day a group of adventurers passes his way and he agrees to join them if they help him seek his brothers' killer. Time passes and Ragnor grows accustomed to having his new travelling companions around him, like a new family, but never replacing his old one. And one day the group happen upon a young Elven swordswoman who laments the hollow victory of revenge and seeks a return to her homeland. What, if not the blessings of the Gods, is this unlikely series of events to Ragnor. He encourages his fellows to allow the Elven girl to join them so that he can watch her and wait for her to reveal herself as the very murderer he has spent so many years searching for.

RP SampleRagnor looks down upon the still body laying silent among a bed of flowers, gold and precious gems. The weeping woman leaning across the pale body, the man's wife and his sister-in-law, shudders and shakes with every breath she exhales and every suppressed scream that fails to pass her lips. He wants to comfort her but he doesn't know how to; he is a warrior; an unshakeable, unemotional killing machine that is good for one thing only. And it's not comforting the wives of his fallen comrades. But he has no choice about being here watching as this woman weeps over his dead brother. The saddest part of this situation for Ragnor is not that his brother is dead, but that his brother died the indignity of an assassins' blade rather than the honour of death by combat. This is an insult that Ragnor cannot bear for his only family, and yet it is one he must endure.

"My brother. You were an honourable leader who I was proud to follow and name as my kin. This treachery that has befallen you is a sin against our family name but I am sure that the Gods would accept you into the afterlife on the merit of your achievements. I will continue to fight in your name, for your name and with the priviledge of sharing our family name with you."

Ragnor places a hand, almost the size of his sister-in-law's head, on her delicate shoulder. She looks up from the corpse of her husband and stares directly into Ragnor's eyes; reaching deep into his soul as she makes one last request of him.

"Avenge him Ragnor. Find the Elven murderer and tear her apart, limb from limb, until she understands the pain and suffering that she has caused. And when she understands, and is ready to die, remind her that there is no place beside the Gods for dirt like her!"

Ragnor recoils slightly at the bile seeping from the mouth of this delicate flower. He's not repulsed by the language itself - he's often prone to bouts of foul language after a few mugs of beer himself - but he is shocked that this cowardly attack on his family should drive someone previously so tame, to call for the most excrutiating act of revenge against another living being. It's all he can do to nod solemnly at the request before he turns and leaves the grieving widow to tend her wounds.

"By the Gods, brother. I promise I will avenge your death. Even if it takes the rest of my life!"


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  #41  
Old Jul 2nd, 2021, 02:11 PM
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(image credit: Polina Mozgovaya (darrana))
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Name: Flint Alestone
Race: Dwarf (mountain)
Class: Fighter (leaning toward champion or samurai)
Personality Traits: (soldier background) "I face problems head-on." "I'm full of inspiring and cautionary tales liberally told through the exclusive lens of my personal experience and culture."
Alignment: LG
Bond: I would still lay down my life for the people I serve.
Ideal: Hard work and persistence serves me better than luck ever has.
Flaw: I obey the law, even if the law causes misery.

Description: A working class traditional dwarf who is shorter than average, though he prefers the word stout. He leans heavily on traditional dwarven values and is slow to embrace new ideas. Even though he may not agree with some, he serves loyally and does the best he can with what he's given, though he may grumble about it.

Personality: As a child, a soldier, and a citizen, Flint has always done what he has been told. He values tradition, including knowing one's station and rank. Some might say he doesn't think for himself, but he'd say he does his duty. He is bothered by 'modern' dwarves with their ideas of equality and their strange desire to fraternize with surface walkers. They say he has drank the piss-ale about dwarven exceptionalism and the propaganda of the ruling class. He thinks it is THEY who drink piss-ale when they adorn their beards with flowers. They say he clings to traditional ideology because he's insecure, afraid of new ideas. They say he doesn't respect female dwarves because he thinks they should stay within their traditional roles. They say he is racist when he won't deal with the elves even though their craftsmanship is some of the best of the surface dwellers. He stopped listening after piss-ale.

Backstory: Flint was raised in a traditional underground dwarven stronghold. From birth he was taught the value of tradition, duty and honor. Every male dwarf in his clan served in the stronghold garrison, and he was no exception. When not training, he worked hauling and hewing stone. What little of his own time he had he spent drinking or helping in the forge, a place he secretly wished he could work full time. This was Flint's life for fifty years, until fate intervened.

Years ago, Flint had been kind to the clan chief's nephew, Schist. Young Schist Greatstone followed him around like a puppy. It was fun at first, and he liked the lad even if he didn't much care for the Chiefton's sister-in-law, Lady Key Greatstone. She was one of those surface types who shaved. Time went on, and Schist found himself as an apprentice tradesman, a noble who trades with surface folk. It was Flint's fortune that when it was time to select his retinue, Schist chose Flint as his head of security. This meant that when Schist left the the stronghold, Flint did too. Even when Schist started traveling with an elf, some woman named Ilianya, Flint had to as well.

Now, after years of enduring the minor nobleman's eccentric pursuits and "adventures"; just when they were about to return to the dwarven stronghold with a new contract for lumber, Schist goes missing. A small group had formed around their mutual interests. The group was a capable and experienced crew, one Flint begrudgingly respected. Now half had gone missing and all signs lead to a mysterious forest hut. There is no way Flint can return without at least knowing what happened to his charge, and besides, he still liked the lad. It would seem his adventurers were not over yet.

Personal note: I've been wanting to play a "standard" dwarf lately, one that fits the trope. However, that can be a tired and overdone, so I thought about it and liked the idea of a "conservative" adventurer. Those two concepts seem to be contradictory - for to be an adventurer one must embrace risk, and one quality of conservatism is to minimize risk. I thought it might be fun to play with these themes and how they fit with some dwarven stereotypes. I also like the idea of playing a reluctant hero, someone who doesn't seek riches or glory but who is thrust into that lifestyle regardless.

Roleplay example
"You don't like her, do you...Ilianya? Why? And don't tell me it's because she's an elf."

Flint Alestone, son of Chip Alestone, looks over to the lake where the elf had gone ahead to scout a little. He says nothing to his young noble's questions. He didn't like it when she left the group. Alestone pokes at the fire, also annoyed that she insisted on lighting one. Fires drew attention, and he wanted to cross over the pass by tomorrow and that meant a nights rest; a peaceful nights rest.

"Well?"

So it wasn't rhetorical, the young master Greatstone wanted an answer.
"You said not to tell you."

Alestone grins a little through his wooly black beard and hopes that will be enough to end the conversation. The truth was the dwarf didn't like being out here at all, in the company of elves or otherwise.
"Doesn't matter if I like her or not, I'm here to protect us, elves included."

The guardsman spits some bitter root he'd been chewing into the fire to make his point. The young noble changes the subject, as his flighty mind was prone to do.

You ever been on a sailing boat? After this lumber deal, I think I want to see the ocean.

After this lumber deal, they were supposed to be going home. It had been years and Alestone was tired. Tired of the distracted young noble's side adventures; tired of his odd choice in friends; tired of sleeping without stone on all sides, and tired of these campfire discussions.

"Never been and won't be. Dwarves have no business on boats."

"Even a stone boat?"

Flint snorts at that.
"Stupid. Only a dwarf could build such a thing and no self respecting dwarf ever would."

Schist's eyes glittered. He had him. There was nothing Schist enjoyed more than to ensnare his uncle in theoretical discussions.
"You're probably right. A stone boat couldn't be made."

The fire crackles in silence for a time and Schist waited patiently, like a fisherman who knew the fish would bite.

"I didn't say it couldn't be done, just that it would be stupid. I'll bet it could be made from sheets of mica, maybe held by overlapping ribs somehow, or riveted. A boat would have to flex and bend and not break. Though, a dug out canoe might float, carved from granite maybe. Granite has a low absorption, that's why we use it for watertables. Amber and pumice float, maybe they could be made into pontoons?"

Alestone takes a sip from his flask. An ember pops out of the fire and he mashes it under his boot.

"A stone boat would be fire proof too. It wouldn't rust or rot. Still stupid though."

There is silence around the fire again, only this time the silence isn't comfortable. There is a stillness in the air that raises the copious amount of hair on Alestone's neck. He peers out at the lake in the fading twilight and grumbles,

"The elf should have been back by now."

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Old Jul 2nd, 2021, 05:33 PM
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I absolutely love that pic.

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Old Jul 2nd, 2021, 08:53 PM
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Thanks! I linked to the artist. She's got a lot of good dwarves!
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Old Jul 7th, 2021, 10:07 AM
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Stepping back. Good luck, everyone.
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Old Jul 7th, 2021, 03:15 PM
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Name: Eoghan Thomasson
Race: Variant Human
Class: Cleric (Life Domain) 4/Fighter 1
Personality Traits: I idolize a particular hero of my faith, and constantly refer to that person’s deeds and example. I am tolerant of other faiths and respect the worship of other gods.
Alignment: Lawful Good
Bond: I will do anything to protect the temple where I served.
Ideal: Tradition. The ancient traditions of worship and sacrifice must be preserved and upheld.
Flaw: My piety sometimes leads me to blindly trust those that profess faith in my god.

Description: Eoghan (pronounced Owen) Thomasson, 51 years of age, is a brawny human male, light-skinned and fair-haired, with a stoic demeanor. He is inconspicuous, save his size, and prefers it that way. He wears an unkempt beard, which he will occasionally trim with a pair of sheep shears when it begins getting caught in his chain mail. His armor is strictly utilitarian, with a simple black and yellow surcoat being the only adornment.

Personality: Eoghan is soft-spoken and agreeable, finding little qualm with those around him. As a devout servant of the god Ilmater, he cares greatly for those in need, especially those suffering, and will go to great lengths to offer aid when it is required. He prefers to avoid bloodshed whenever possible, but is an adept combatant nonetheless. He uses his martial skill exclusively for protection, either for himself or his companions, if he has them. While he has no apprehension slaying beasts or monstrosities when necessary, taking the life of a humanoid, be it human, elf, dwarf, or the like, causes him great grief. On the occasions he is forced to do so, he will perform funeral rites when feasible, or, at minimum, offer a prayer to Ilmater to guide them in the afterlife.

Backstory: The son of a priest, Eoghan grew up in a small community, in the shadow of the Cloud Peaks in the Greenfields. As a boy, he was taught farming, how to raise livestock, and the ways of the god of suffering, Ilmater. Such was life for Eoghan—and a satisfactory life it was. He enjoyed the quiet. The peaceful, rolling hills. The foggy mornings in the pasture. The morning sun, filtering through the slats of the old chapel.

His father, in addition to being an acolyte at the small church, was a sheep-herder. Eoghan joined his father in the fields, and it was here, protecting the sheep, that he first learned the ways of combat. Night in Faerūn brings many dangers, and beasts are ever searching for their next meal. Eoghan took quickly to the blade, finding it the most efficient tool for protecting his flock.

As he grew, so did his faith in his god. He followed his father's teachings, and longed to become a protector of those in need. It was for this reason that Eoghan decided to leave the Greenfields. As a young adult, he took his leave on a pilgrimage and traveled across Faerūn to the southern nation of Calimshan. Here, he spent his most formative years, adventuring in the name of his god.

Now, having made his way to the Dalelands, he looks to Ilmater for guidance as he hears an old friend is missing.
RP SampleThe bandit rushed toward Eoghan and Hulya, shortsword drawn. Eoghan raised his shield, parrying away the blade, but the bandit was quick and used the momentum to spin and slice into the side of the large cleric's thigh. Eoghan fell to one knee with a grunt, instinctively grasping at his leg to stop the bloodflow.

He heard a loud crack, followed by Hulya shrieking. He raised his eyes from the ground to see her arm twisted grotesquely in the bandit's grasp. She fell to both knees before the man, begging for her life.

"Shoulda listened," the bandit laughed. He twisted the already broken arm further, and Hulya screamed.

"No," gasped Eoghan. "Leave her alone."

The bandit did not hear him, or did not care. Either way, he did not stop. Rain began to drizzle and thunder rumbled in the distance. With all of his effort, Eoghan forced himself to stand and limped toward the bandit, his chainmail crunching with each step. He quickened his pace, fighting against the pain in his leg, until eventually he was at a full sprint. He was losing blood quickly.

"I said NO!" Eoghan growled into the night air. Forgive me, Ilmater. A tear streamed down his cheek, imperceptible in the rain. He brought his longsword around in a heavy overhand swing. The bandit turned in time for the edge of the blade to connect deeply with the left side of his face. Immediately, his dead weight dropped to the ground. Blood mixed with rain from the sickening wound in the bandit's head.

The last sound Eoghan heard before passing out was the sound of Hulya crying softly.

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