Post/Author/DateTime	Post
Dipteran_Legacy 03-09-06, 12:29 AM	Greiz kirstall is a character I made for a game I just started in. right now he's a human barb1/fighter1. anyways, I figured I'd post m story on here, both on how to get feedback, and simply as a place to just sorta keep all the bits of info on him, as I'm probably going to write extra "chapters" on him later on. the setting is a homebrew campaign, and the DM was really strict on acceptable material (only core with a few homebrew feats-not even core PrC's!!!!!! :weep: ) soo, basically I got really creative with his backstory, and am going to use levels of cleric later on as a demonstration of outsider blood in his veins. the specific type of outsider I have left up to the DM, as I feel it will be much more powerful if I do not already know the truth behind my character when I discover the horrible / burdeningly glorious truth(whether he has infernal or celestial blood, or something else entirely....) anyways, I hope you enjoy, and if anything doesn't make sense, or you have any questions, just post your concerns/comments. thanks! The Funeral “It’s always hard to live up to others expectations, son. Having a Grandsire as great as old Elestarch Kirstall means that others will expect more out of you than most. Now, I’m not saying you should always worry about what others think of you, but you need to learn to be strong. When life tries to break you, you just have to suck it up and keep on going”. Greiz thought on those words a lot. He had ever since his dad had first said them, when he broke his arm at the age of four, horsing around with his brother. He had bawled and bawled, even as his father told him those words. He felt like that now, looking down at his mother. She looked almost happy, and the priests told him she was in a better place, but he still wanted to cry. His big brother hadn’t even come. “mama’s dead, going to see her wont bring her back. It’s like rubbin’ salt in a wound. You go see her anyways, greenhead. You go see her and cry all you want. Me? I’ll stay right here.” His brother had spent the whole day out by the lake near their manor after they found Mama dead. He’d been out there every day since, just starin’ at the lake, like he wanted it to swallow him up. Dad was gone, and now Mama was too. Greiz felt like his whole world was collapsing, and figured Bran’s was too. Greiz still held on, though. No matter what Bran said, he still thought Dad was coming back. Just a few days before the illness took Mama, Bran said Dad was never coming back. He told Greiz he knew because of a dream he’d had, but wouldn’t tell him anything else. He’d made Greiz promise not to tell Mama. Almost everyone else had left the funeral, while Greiz had been caught up in his thoughts. “I…I’m sorry, Mama, I’m sorry I didn’t even tell you Dad’s gone too” he said, fighting with all his youthful might to hold back the tears. “Mama….are you really in a better place now? Is dad there? * * * “Hah! Laughed the old man as the two companions walked along a winding road that sliced through the grey landscape like a scar. The laughter rung out across the frost-bitten hills, echoing off distant mountains and dead trees. His companion, a sullen looking youth, gave a start at the noise, and almost dropped the heavy pack he carried over one shoulder. The old man looked half proper knight, and half uncouth brigand. He wore a suit of chain-and-plate that looked almost as ancient as he, but careful eyes could see that despite its obvious age and heavy use, the armor bore not a spot of rust. His Tabard was a light gray-blue, and bore the symbol of The Holy Triumvirate, but his skin was ancient as leather-its many scars, deep wrinkles, and weatherbeaten appearance made one wonder whether or not the man was as wholesome as his Tabard would suggest. The answer lay in his eyes. Bright, shining eyes of pale blue. They had seen countless sunrises, but were always eager for the next. The boy that walked by his side-apparently his squire-was both a striking contrast and a fitting cohort for the grizzled knight. A gaunt youth, that seemed at one with the gloomy atmosphere. His skin was somewhat pale, with a hint of gray, and his hair was a dirty-looking dark grayish-green. He wore plain clothes, dyed in blacks and grays and browns, and made from the roughspun material worn by the priests of the abbey they were walking away from. Despite this, something about him would make one doubt he was a priest. Saying that he would blend with a crowd was an understatement. He was such an unremarkable individual, he even almost blended into the landscape, like he wasn’t there. Something about the way he walked, the way he moved, made one want to forget him as soon as possible. He walked with a slow gait, dragging his feet ever so slightly, and with his left shoulder hanging slightly lower than the other. He walked like he was already dead. If one thought themselves to be mistaken about this, they simply had to look at his face, which held more pain and hopelessness than one could imagine on an thirteen-year-old’s face. He wore a large, billowing scarf, of the same color as the older man’s tabard. It masked much of his face, and much of the scar that ran all the way from his hairline down past his left eye. His gray eyes gazed down, at the ground, as if not willing to look upon the path laid out before him. His eyes were what put him in stark contrast with the old knight. Dark, hopeless pools that radiated no emotion, except for slight bewilderment at the older man’s sudden laughter. “So lad, you lived with those monks and priests for seven years, and didn’t learn more than a smidge about religion!? Well, I guess that would make you your fathers child”. The man touched the golden trident emblazoned on his tabard, almost subconsciously. “You’re father never seemed to care much for religion, no matter how often I told him of the majesty of the Holy Triumvirate. Said it had something to do with your grandfather”. When the youth still said nothing, the weatherbeaten crusader continued “now, that’s a subject! Did they tell many a tale of your grandfather at the abbey?” The sullen boy still said nothing, merely shaking his head. He didn’t pay too much attention after the rambling old man started off with “Elestarch Kirstall was a man’s man, what a true hero should be….” He’d heard many of the tales before, in his childhood. His mother had been fond of them, and would often tell them to him and Bran while tucking them in. His father had never liked the stories, though. Mother used to bug him, ask him why he never told any tales about his own father to his children, or better yet, why he never told any of his own. His father had never raised his voice to anyone, least of all his mother, but Greiz remembered one time when he had come home, a somber look upon his face, and found his wife glowing with delight. She had been in a playful mood, and insisted that he tell the children a story, even after he declined. His father’s voice seemed quite as a whisper when he responded, but the sheer sound of the voice struck terror into young Greiz’s heart. It was the voice of someone who had killed, the sort that bad men had in fairy tales. A voice as sharp and cold as an assassin’s razor. All Greiz’s father said was “you know I don’t talk about my father”. Greiz had rushed to his room, that voice had been so terrible. He didn’t believe it could be the voice of the man who picked him up and tossed him in the air, the voice of the man who played tag with him and his brother. He had never viewed his father the same after that. He still loved him, of course, but now he knew. His father killed for a living. He had always viewed his fathers armor and sword as things of awe, but now they seemed the instruments of a butcher. The other thing he gathered, both from that single conversation, and from little bits he heard when guests came to visit his father, was that there was something odd about his grandfather, something that had been omitted from the tales people told of him. In all his dull youth, pent up in that somber walls of the abbey, he’d never discovered what it was. When the priests mentioned him, it was only with utmost respect. “Your grandfather founded this abbey, you know! You should show more respect!” “you ungrateful rat, stealing from the kitchens! If your grandfather weren’t the blessed man he was, we’d have thrown you out long ago!”. It seemed even the few other children at the abbey- either the rich parents of nobles, or orphans taken in out of charity- knew more about his grandfather’s exploits than he himself knew, and it was something his brother never failed to exploit. He hadn’t cared, though. Even running around a gray landscape, climbing scraggly, barren trees and stomping through choked, muddy creeks was more fun than sitting in a musty old library reading about someone he was related to. Not that he didn’t enjoy reading, but he figured what was the point of sitting in a dark room on a hard bench, reading about his own grandpa, when he could be outside, having adventures of his own? When the wind was in his face and the Abbey at his back, that was the only time he could push his mother’s peaceful face from his mind, the look of resignation as she went quietly into the ground. The Black Tower The brash youth banged loudly on the rusty knocker that barely clung to the rotted wooden door. The door itself, as decayed as it was, sat firmly in the doorway of the most Decrepit tower Greiz had ever seen. When the man in black had come to the Abbey, to take his brother away, Greiz had envied him greatly. He had spent many a cold, uncomfortable night on his wooden cot, dreaming of his brother sitting in the lap of luxury, eating grapes fed to him by invisible hands, that did whatever you desired at the snap of your fingers. His brother had laughed at him, too, when it happened. “did you hear that, Greiz? Dad’s friend just told the minister he wanted to see us, that we might have a great magic within us! Well, I’m sure I do, anyways, but maybe he’ll let you tag along, to clean my boots or something”. Greiz wasn’t even upset by his brothers words, this time. The man they had seen talking to the minister had a creepy look to him. He’d been skinny- the skinniest person Greiz had ever seen, and he had funny pointed ears. When the two had been taken before him, Greiz had trembled a little. The man told them that their father was a very talented man, and that it was likely that at least one of his children had great magical potential within themselves. He told them that if they did, he would take them to his tower, and raise them not only to unlock that power, and become a mighty magician, but would also tell them the little he knew of what had happened to their father, and give them the resources and aid to track him down. Bran, looking defiantly up at the man, said “but our father’s already dead, you old fool!”. The man in black had smiled, and simply said “that is not the whole truth of it, child. Now, close your eyes”. The man’s voice carried an odd compulsion, and even his brother obeyed without a fuss. The man whispered something Greiz couldn’t understand, and his right hand began to glow a faint green. He reached down, placing the palm of his glowing hand against his brother’s left eye, and then simply said “now, open your left eye”. Strangely, a blue mark in the shape of an eye appeared on the back of the thin wizard’s hand. “what? What sort of stupid test is this?” His brother said. The man’s thin lips curled into a smile “It does not matter, you have passed”. His cold, dark eyes turned, focusing on Greiz. “now, you be a good boy, and do the same”. Greiz felt like a mouse caught in a snake’s gaze, and his eyes timidly snapped shut as soon as he heard the words. He felt the man’s hand press against his eye, and the man said the same words he’d said to Bran just moments before. It felt like there were lead weights attached to his eyelids, or as if they’d been stitched together with roughspun yarn. His eye didn’t seem to want to open, but after what felt like an eternity in darkness, laboring against it, he managed to open his left eye. He gazed out upon a lake of fire, another world. He saw strange, inhuman forms, writhing in agony amongst the flames, contorted into impossible positions and skewered at odd angles with metal bars. The flames rushed up to greet him, to pull him in. He didn’t know how long he spent there, a guest privy to all the services that the metal bars and sea of flame could offer him, but he knew he was still screaming when he awoke, and the cold darkness that greeted him seemed even worse than the horrible tortures his mind was already fast erasing - or, more appropriately, sealing away in a shallow grave. The preists came eventually, and told him he had passed out when the man told him to open his left eye, and his face had been split open running up to his hairline and down to his jaw. Though the preists magic had stopped the bleeding, a deep, ugly scar had remained. According to their story, the man had apologized for not telling the priests of the danger involved in his test, but said that he would never have dreamed that the son of a man of such great caliber as their father would bear such a horrible curse. When Greize asked the priests what curse they spoke of, they said he was too young to understand, but that he should be grateful to even still have his life. He’d been out for a week, screaming in his uneasy slumber, and while he’d been suffering, his brother had been whisked away to a magical wizard tower. * * * Looking up at the crumbling heap of rocks the black magician apparently called a tower, Greize could not help but grin a spiteful grin. Maybe his brother hadn’t had it as easy as he’d thought, but he still felt obliged to thank the black magician for the scar he’d left on his otherwise rather plain face. He tingled with a mixture of emotions, wondering what he’d do if his brother tried to stop him. He slammed his bare fist against the door, cursing under his breath. He felt a sharp rap on the back of his head. “don’t you use the name of the triumvirate in vain, boy!”. No matter how old he got, Sir Arstan was still always trying to tell him what to do, and how to do it, especially when it came to his “holy triumvirate”. Sir Arstan was a paladin who Believed in the teachings of the Golden Trident – a religious doctrine that said Pelor, Saint Cuthbert, and Heironeous were three brothers who governed over the heavens and the realms of man together, to put it in a short and simple way(which was very much the opposite of how the order of the trident liked to put it, Greiz was reminded every night). “Patience is one of the nine golden virtues! You’d do well to learn a bit of it. At least that way you’ll be on your way to learning one of the virtues!” In no mood to put up with the old man’s preaching, Greiz tried the door. It was unlocked, to his amazement, and he pushed it open. No sooner had he pushed on the door than the handle melted in his grasp, though. It turned into a caustic ooze, searing his flesh and bone as he shook it off, screaming in a mixture of pain and anger. Sir Arstan reached out, and a soothin energy touched Greiz as the older man rested a gauntleted hand upon the seared flesh. “may Pelor heal your wounds” he said. Removing his hands, Greiz saw that his hand was no longer bleeding or in pain, but was still flayed and mangled. “May you take the Saint’s judgement with grace” said the old man, looking upon the damaged hand. “and…” he said, removing his left gauntlet and offering it to Greiz, “may Heironeous aid you in smiting the deceitful bastard responsible for this trickery”. Greiz took the Gauntlet and put it on, to cover his mangled hand, and they entered the dark tower together searching for the suspicious man who had appeared at the Abbey so many years ago, claiming to know Greiz’s father. Sir Arstan had accompanied his father on many an adventure, and Greize had seen him on occasion as a youth. He went with his father, on that last, fateful expedition when Greiz was four. He wouldn’t tell Greize all the details of what had happened to his father, but apparently the two of them had traveled with a few others to some ancient, faraway ruins of the cursed city called Nemkampal. His father wanted to learn something, something he told Sir Arstan he’d been trying to find out for a long time, pertaining to his father. He’d promised everyone involved that there would be wonderful treasures to be had as well, and his father had always been a very charismatic man. His father had disappeared in those ruins, but apparently he had forseen his end. The night before he vanished, he asked Sir Arstan to raise his children as his own, and to make sure they were brought up properly-being taught the ways of knighthood, chivalry, and all else that the golden trident held dear. Others in the party had vanished before that, and only Greiz’s father had kept them there-partially through his charismatic personality, and partially because the others worried that he may very well stay even if they left. Sir Arstan had never heard of the man in black, and Greiz’s father had never mentioned him. When Greiz told Arstan of the magician taking his brother, they had set out to find where they’d gone. It had been four long years of traveling-always searching, doing good deeds for those they met on their journeys, and almost never sleeping with a roof over their heads. Greiz hadn’t minded, though. In some ways, he enjoyed being so free. It was a stark contrast to the years he’d spent pent up in the abbey, more like his childhood. Even the old knight had grown on Greiz. He’d taught Greiz how to play the harmonica, and tried to teach him such things as chivalry, courtesy, and self control, but these things were mainly lost on him. Greiz did know how to fight, though. It came naturally to him. Even sparring with the old man, sir Arstan had been surprised at the vigor of the youth. When he got in to real fights, he was much more than vigorous. Sometimes it seemed like the old man was worried about him. After a battle he’d say things like “boy, I’m not so sure you’re going to grow up to be the type of knight your father was” His father had been a paladin, like sir Arstan. But even he had had shadows in his soul. Greiz would never forget how his father had sounded when he snapped at mother. He’d never forget how tired and miserable he looked when he came home after “doing the church’s bidding”. Even though he knew the old man worried about him, he just couldn’t see himself becoming that sort of knight. In contrast to the tired, miserable look upon his fathers face after battle, he only felt truly alive when fighting, like his entire life he’d gone about with a gray shroud over his face, blurring and muting everything, but when he was in battle, the shroud lifted. Fighting was-to him- a celebration of being alive. But nonetheless, he tried to heed the old man’s words, tried to work more technique and discipline into his fighting. Though he didn’t care much for the holy triumvirate of the golden trident, there were parts he found interesting-Pelor, though normally kind, also had a vengeful aspect, embodying the hot fury of the sun. Heironeous practically encouraged violence, as long as it was “in the name of good”. But Saint Cuthbert was the most interesting to him-once a mortal man, who had walked the world delivering judgement on the wicked, his credo was “an eye for an eye”. Greiz’s left arm had been broken by his brother, and never healed right. His left eye had been scarred by the Black magician, and now his left hand had been scorched and scarred by a devious trap, set by one or the other. As far as he was concerned, an eye was probably the least of what they needed to lose. The two searched the tower for any sign of the man in black, or of Bran, but they found nothing. Greiz often thought he heard voices whispering just out of earshot, and saw shadows moving on the edge of his vision, but ultimately, there was no one there. Paladins had a talent for rooting out evil, and even sir Arstan found no trace of them. They began to investigate the dank tower. It seemed much larger on the inside than on the outside-a full ten floors, all littered with magical notes, scrolls, and other such things. There were no windows, so he could not tell how far up they were, but from outside it had seemed little more than two stories, a crumbling heap of black rock. In the end, sir Arstan only took a few papers with him. “best not to meddle with the trappings of evil, lad” he’d said when he saw Greiz starting to fiddle with a particularly painful-looking dagger that had been lying on a table in there. The two of them were back out on the road, with little more than they’d had before. Sometimes he wondered if it was really worth searching for his brother. Red Dawn By the time he was twenty, Greiz had learned to temper his fury a bit, and had progressed considerably in his prowess. He’d still been no match for the gnolls, though. Maybe he was a bit too zealous, as sir Arstan had always said. He was amazed he wasn’t dead yet-laying on his side, in a pool of his own blood, with his blade buried in the ugly beast lying next to him, even as it’s axe still hung from his side. Sir Arstan was battling the last of them fiercely. They’d had another battle earlier in the day, though, and the knight seemed to have spent his prayers. The battle seemed to stretch out, agonizingly long for the helpless bystander. One gnoll went down, and then another. There was only one more, but it was the cheiftain. Even from this distance, he could seen the sheen of sweat on the old man’s forehead. Arstans hair seemed wet with perspiration, and Greiz swore he saw little rivulets of blood leaking out from the old knights armor, near where the beast-men’s axes and flails had struck. The two battled, parrying and blocking every move the other made. The huge gnoll brought his flail down upon the knight, and though Sir Arstan’s shield was there to block the blow, the strike shattered the shield to bits. The old man fell back, jagged splinters buried deep in his shield-arm. The gnoll, however, was relentless in his offense, and blow after blow from that terrible flai brought sir Arstan’s blade arm down enough for the gnoll to come in, catching sir Arstan on the side of the head. In the twilight, Greiz saw something spray forth as sir Arstan fell, and dreaded to think what it was. His vision grew blurry as he watched the gnoll thrash the now-still form, and it buried it’s greedy maw in the remains. “this is it….I’m going to bleed to death while watching my mentor savaged by some sick beast he could have slain if he hadn’t been worn down from the earlier fighting”. But death was not quick, and eventually the gnoll sated it’s gluttony. Standing, it turned and looked at him “oh god….dear god! Anything out there that can help me, please! I don’t want to be eaten alive!” Greiz tried to say, but the words came out as an unintelligable whimper. The gnoll advanced, and the last thing Greiz saw before darkness took him was the gnoll towering over him-seemingly the size of a giant. It licked blood and gore from it’s greedy maw as a fiery delight burned in it’s eyes, and it said, in words quite intelligable, “YEENOHGU SENDS HIS REGARDS”. * * * Greiz awoke, his body still very much intact, and the axe that was buried in his side now lay on the ground next to him. He jumped with a start, and looked around feverishly before feeling his body for wounds. Though he could hardly see in the darkness that hung heavy around him, it seemed the huge monster was gone, no trace of it left, but the other bodies were still there. All the gnolls corpses had been spread out, disembowled, and pinned to the ground with stakes through the hands and feet. They were all mutilated in other hideous ways, too, but they all shared those two things. Nausea roiled up in Greiz’s stomach as he surveyed the carnage, and then he laid his eyes upon sir Arstan. The old man had a peaceful look on his face. Apparently the blow to his head hadn’t been as bad as it had seemed last night, though his stomach did look as though the Gnoll had savaged it. Choking back his tears as best as he could, he took an axe from a nearby gnoll, and used it to begin digging a hole at the top of the hill where the canage had played out. He didn’t know how long it took, only that night did not relent, through the entirety of his task. He picked up the old man, who felt much lighter than he would have imagined, even with his armor, and dropped him into the hole as gently as he could. He tossed the splinters that were left of his shield in on top of him, as he’d always heard that a knight should be buried with his trappings. The old man’s sword came next, but Greiz kept his knapsack as it held food, coin, and some notes on their journey that the old knight wouldn’t let him see. He used the axe to toss dirt on the corpse of that great knight, trying to cover the horrible stomach-wound first, but eventually the earth consumed the Old knight in his entirety. The peaceful face brought back the image of his mother, and for a second he even swore it was his mother. As the first hint of gray touched the mist-shrouded hill, he piled all the gnolls on top of the grave, and set fire to them. He watched them burn, as a red sun rose over the snow-peaked mountains in the distance, but no tears ran down his frost-bitten face. When they had burnt down to ashes and bones, he marked the spot with a pile of stone, arranged in the shape of a trident, and looked out to the horizon. Half-expecting the gnoll, or his brother, or the Black Magician to appear, one thought kept running through his head “an eye for an eye”. END I apologize if it's a bit hard to read. I copied&pasted it, and went back to put in spaces and increase the size, but it still seems to sort of blur together on the forum page :( hopefully that doesn't discourage anyone from reading it.
Dipteran_Legacy 03-09-06, 06:14 PM	if it bored you or if there's any other reason you dont like it, feel free to tell me! :)
Deadlion 03-10-06, 10:30 AM	I only skimmed it, but it seems very well-written. Good stuff. One thing, though. "Grandsire" means the same as "Grandfather" All in all, though, it looks pretty good. I'll read it in more detail sometime and maybe comment again.
Ensjak 03-10-06, 05:16 PM	I read it all...very awesome, I want to hear more.
Urlic_Long_Beard 03-10-06, 09:41 PM	Yes i just went though it nice indeed, i would like to read more of it to ^.^
Dipteran_Legacy 03-10-06, 10:31 PM	thanks for the positive comments. I'm going to post a little blurb on my characters thoughts semi-weekly(hopefully every week, but I might skip a week every once in a while) it'll contain a few moments from the actual campaign, and more on my characters background, in flashbacks that somehow tie into current events. if I wind up running out of actual background material, I'll go through an actual telling of the campaign, tailoring it slightly to gloss over the slow parts, and make it seem more dramatic. but I'm hoping not to run out of background for a while, as Greiz was on the road from the age of thirteen to the age of twenty. anyways, here's the bit I posted this week. to summarize what happened previous, my friend(in and out of character) and I were both hired to assist in the recovery of some swords that were stolen from the nearby elven city. the rest of the party started gathering info on the swords a few sessions ago, but only now have the theives fled the city, and we were conveniently hired just in time to assist in the recovery. :D on the road pursuing the theives, we were ambushed by gnolls(oh no!) one was shot down by the party rogue and ranger, and I cut down the other, raging and holding my longsword in two hands. anyways, on to the good stuff! Greiz looked upon the corpse, huffing and puffing to catch his breath. There was a certain beauty in the way it lay, lifeless, and a perfection to the slash that had hewn it’s leg and arm off. The Elf ran up as Greiz began to regain his composure, and for a moment, Greiz worried The Elf might see the madness in his eyes, the bloodlust that took him when he became engaged in combat. But all the elf was worried about was the treasures on the Gnoll. Even as The Elf rifled through the gnolls belongings, Greize was captivated by the gnoll. If only he’d been so good at killing when he was sixteen…. He remembered the way the woman had gasped, the way she had pressed against him, struggling to pull his blade out of her belly. She’d come charging out of the woods just moments after the masked man on the road ahead had drawn his blade at Sir Arstan. He’d never actually used the short sword Sir Arstan had given him for protection, and only barely had it drawn by the time the woman reached him. He didn’t know whether he stabbed her, or she’d impaled herself on the blade, but she had gasped in pain, not uttering anything louder the whole time she died. His heart was pounding as she wrapped her hands around the weapon, and when he actually regained enough sense to pull the blade out, she held her hands up to her face. In the dim light he could see that they were slick with dark liquid. She stared into his face as she fell to her knees, and for the first time he really saw the woman. She was maybe a year or two older than he. In any other life, any other time, he could very well imagine himself laughing loudly with her in some tavern. She could have grown up with him in the monastary, whispering secrets to make him giggle when the preist was trying to teach them, or even mayhaps been Sir Arstan’s daughter…… But in this life, there was only death. His heart felt like it was about to leap out of his throat, it was pounding so hard. He could feel his pulse thrumming in his head, like a huge iron drum, as she collapsed, a wounded look on her face. Greiz felt naseaous. He crumbled to the ground, feeling bile creeping up his throat in tune to the drum in his head. He couldn’t pass out! What if there were more of the bandits!? He tried in vain to pull himself back up. His gaze was still locked on the girls face, twisted in pain and shock. He almost swore she said something to him, right before darkness swallowed him... Standing in the crisp autumn winds of Kensid, Greiz tried to force a smile to his face. He’d woken up with Sir Arstan wiping vomit from his face, as if he were some sort of babe. He was a man now, and he’d just slain a foul creature, not a young girl. He knew not why the sight brought that memory back to him. In general, killing came easily to him now. Sir Arstan had always warned that death should be avoided at all cost, even when wicked people were involved. Greiz had always claimed it was accidental when he’d taken the life of some foul goblin or worthless thug, at least in front of the old man. Deep inside, though, it was more like his heart had just grown too calloused to care. He didn’t like arguing over shades of grey. If a man was wanted dead or alive, best to get it done with quickly. A head is much more easily transported than a man, and it doesn’t try to get away. Looking down at the finely-crafted blade he now held-one Sir Arstan had had custom-crafted for him, with an elongated handle, as to easily be held in one or two hands, and a blade as sharp as any from Kensid’s master craftsmen- he wondered if when the time came, he could truly stay his blade from the neck of this man they were hunting… "the elf" is the ranger, and kensid is the area we're in, for any who got lost on those references.
WhrenKehrsyn 03-11-06, 11:32 AM	Very good and interesting =0)
Uberwoot 03-11-06, 12:39 PM	What are you, a novelist? A good read. I give this my stamp of approval. Edit: Oh yeah, as noted earlier, grandsire means grandfather, not grandson. /Woot
Dipteran_Legacy 03-11-06, 01:47 PM	Edit: Oh yeah, as noted earlier, grandsire means grandfather, not grandson. yeah, I fixed the grandsire thing, probably as you guys were reading it :D mistake on my part, I'm not sure what I was thinking when I wrote it. WhrenKehrsyn Very good and interesting =0) Uberwoot What are you, a novelist? A good read. I give this my stamp of approval. thanks. :blush: . I've long wanted to write, but haven't, mainly just out of...I dunno... a mixture of being too tired to write something long & serious, not having time, and general procrastination. when I showed this to my freind, he said pretty much the same thing, that I was wasting my time in my dead-end job :D I've been writing alot more recently, though. who knows? if I end up actually publishng something, I'll post on here. in the mean time, thanks a million, and check back time-to-time, as I'll try to post a bit of new info every week or so.
Need_A_Life 03-12-06, 04:31 AM	I just skimmed it, but I am going to read it in full as soon as I can print it! It's amazing!
Urlic_Long_Beard 03-12-06, 04:39 AM	Man you are awsome i must read it more plz keep the gold coming, plz plz plz plz plz plz and yet again plz. :) :) :)
Dipteran_Legacy 03-15-06, 05:03 PM	thanks for the positive feedback :) I'm bumping this because I'm not going to be around for a few days,(very few, probably what most people would call a 'normal, healthy' amount of time, as I'm on these boards a lot) so I'm bumping this so it doesnt fall off page one, but I'm gaming tonight, so I should have another entry written up when I come back ;)
Dipteran_Legacy 03-20-06, 03:02 PM	hey, anybody whos reading this! I've started working on the Greiz's next reflection, I should have it posted either tonight or tomorrow, unless I have some sort of unforseen problems....I've just e-mailed my group to get some facts I dont clearly recall from the last session, and while I was waiting, I thought I'd ask you guys something: what do you think greiz is lacking as a character? any hollow spots in his personality? I do have a lot of ideas in my head that I havent written out yet, so it may very well be that I've already worked out something that's currently missing, but you also might give me some more ideas to work with. do you want to see more of his time at home, more of sir arstan, or would you like to know about other people that may have been a part of his life, for however breif a time?
Ensjak 03-20-06, 05:06 PM	I think I'd like to hear more of Sir Arstan and what happened to Greiz's brother and the man in black. Personality-wise I definitely want to know what made him such a callous killer. It's not what I expected with him being around Sir Arstan during his formative years, but maybe hearing more will help to clear that up. Also, where did you get the name Greiz? Wasn't a Phantasy Star IV character was it? I remember a sega genesis game with a fighter type character named Greiz. I was wondering if that's where you got it from. [edit] Please note, don't take anything I say or any questions I ask as pointed criticism. I'm not a writer or even an exceptional roleplayer...I just enjoy reading these stories.
Dipteran_Legacy 03-21-06, 02:38 AM	no offense taken..... Greiz's become a harsh person due to both the hard life he's had, and the outsider blood boiling in his veins. this may sound sorta weird and/or complicated, but I'm taking a very non-standard route to Greiz's outsider blood, simply expressing it through levels in cleric as his supernatural powers develope(though this hasn't started happening yet) basically, even though I dont know what exactly Greiz is descended from, I developed him with the point of view that the blood of any sort of powerful outsider mingling with the blood of a mere mortal would produce an individual with some degree of mental instability; sorta like the blood wasnt meant to mix. even though he's a somewhat dark hero, with my talks with my DM it's been decided that he could be decended from good or evil outsiders very easily, due to this fact. I myself wont know until the truth is unveiled(probably very, very late game, as there's a good chance greiz might do something dangerous to himself or others after discovering) he's a very "human" character-he always wants to do the right thing, but he usually takes the easy way out, or simply screws things up. he tries to live up to the standards sir arstan set for him, but often falls short. anyways, I dont want to explain his entire character here, as it would probably be somewhat boring, and possibly ruin some of his adventures by making them more predictable than they'll already be. ;) as far as the name, I honestly made it up. I grew up with the nintendo's, so I missed out on phantasy star, shining force, and all the other sega RPG goodness's that were to be had :( thanks a million for the feedback. while I'd also like to hear more about my brother and the man in black, and even wanted to do a short story on my brother's youth, and first few years in the tower, the DM said that stuff was out of my hands, as official "DM" material :( Be assured that any points in the game in which they return, I'll definately write up a detailed account of. Thanks again, and I'll definately flesh out the years between 16 & 20, especially after arstan died.(my friend and I started the game working together, so I'm waiting for him to finish his characters background before I write any of Greiz's post-Arstan recent past) any one else have anything to add?
Dipteran_Legacy 03-21-06, 08:21 PM	sorry for the delay, anyways, here's some more(finally)! One-man Funeral Greiz slowly opened a small wound in the rich earth. By the time it was deep enough to fit what was left of the poor man, the sun was lazily climbing above the craggy peaks of the windmorn, dispelling the wisps of mist that still clung to the moist earth. Covering the man’s shallow grave, Greiz recalled the many funerals that took place at the abbey. People were always dying in the gray lands, and many sought to be buried at the abbey, like good, god-fearing people should. As a child, the small quarters given to Greiz and Bran had a small window, which overlooked the expansive graveyard that stretched out alongside the the church. He hated having that room. It made him think of his mother. Sometimes he’d dream that she’d come floating through the window, to tell him a bedtime tale. Those were the good dreams. More often than not, though, he’d awake in the middle of the night, swearing he’d heard his mother’s voice beckoning him out the window. Walking to the window and looking out upon the sad, Gravestone-littered plain, he’d often wonder if it was truly a dream, or if his mother was lonely, all alone in her grave. He’d close the window whenever he could, but this often got him into trouble with his older brother, who preferred the window open. Whenever Bran would come into the room to find the window closed, He would punch Greiz. One time Greiz had tried pleading with his brother, telling him that he heard their mom when the window was open. Bran had taken it upon himself to beat some sense into him, calling him stupid, that mom was dead, even as his blows rained down upon the curled ball Greiz had become. After learning that painful lesson-that the window shouldn’t be closed, if there was even a chance of his brother seeing- Greiz would often stare out the window, wondering about all the people buried there other than his mother. What had their lives been like? Had they been happy? Had they done anything important with their lives? Did anyone remember them, or were they lying, lonely and forgotten, even as the harsh winds scoured their names from the cold stones that summarized their entire lives… Greiz pondered what he wanted out of his own life. He knew he wanted to find out why Bran was following in the doomed footsteps of their father, but there had to be more to life than that, didn’t there? They would return to Kensid, their hostage in tow, and be rewarded for services rendered. That would be it. A simple “thank you, here’s your cash, have a nice day!”. Then Maurice and himself would be back in the bars, looking for another freelance job… His Grandfather had been a hero still talked about nowadays in the Gray lands, and even his Father had achieved a certain reputation….He, on the other hand, had left those frigid wastes at a young age, and no-one had really noticed him go, other than the priests, which were glad to be rid of him. He had achieved little and less in his time on this earth, and wondered exactly what one must do to be considered a ‘hero’. He placed the last stone on top of the small cairn he had made for the man, and stood, stretching his joints in the morning sun. He heard his companions call out that they would be leaving soon, and looked off across the distance, as if trying to divine his own future from peering at far-away lands hard enough. As he clambered back down the hill, he wondered to himself “will I be remembered when I am gone? Will anyone bother to dig a grave for me, or will I be forgotten, like that poor fellow nearly was?” this one is kinda boring, with nothing even remotely resembling action. hopefully the character's morbid reflections will be interesting enough to hold your attention :)
Dipteran_Legacy 03-26-06, 11:40 AM	bumps! anyone read the last entry?
Dipteran_Legacy 03-29-06, 11:25 PM	:bump: I'll have another one soon, if anyone's curious
Dipteran_Legacy 04-12-06, 03:40 PM	anyone else have any feedback, anything they'd like to see/learn/know about this guy, or anything I could add to flesh him out a bit more?
Ensjak 04-17-06, 12:23 PM	Hey, so when's this next one coming? I need some reading material. I'm interested in how he hooked up with these other fellows since Sir A. died and where he went from there.
ShiverTheBard 04-18-06, 01:50 AM	This is the kind of hero I love to see. He is human and does not play up any pretensions about his morality. This so far has a real gritty and almost dark anti-hero feel to it. Keep up the good work man! (Not that I would know anything about writing, only being a particularly verbose individual.)
Dale warrior 05-27-06, 08:33 AM	revive cant let such good storytelling die gotta admit i like reading your tales
club2bash 06-04-06, 09:06 PM	Holy Crap!!!!!!!!!! Thats awsome!!! :eek: Does he actually know he has outsider blood? :angelhide What level in what classes is he know? Begin critisising... NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!! :rant: :censored: :pbbbtt: :yuck: :noway: :ayyyy!: :rofl: :bow: :bounce: :thinks: :shocked: :mymy:
Dipteran_Legacy 06-07-06, 12:54 AM	Wow!!! It's still alive!!!!! :D :dancin: :ayyyy!: :rofl: :evillaugh The campaign was progressing real slow for a good while, and just started picking up recently. I sorta slacked off on writing flashbacks, for a number of reasons, but this last week I've been thinking of writing another one. seeing as how th thread is still alive, I think I'll definately have to. :D Greiz is 2barb/1ftr right now, but I hit fourth level at the end of last session. I'm taking cleric for my fourth, but need to work out some variants with the dm. with my terrible cha and general dislike of turning, we're working out some sort of alternate, firey ability that will give me a little bonus, without giving too much. apparently he has something really crazy worked out for next session, as he talked to me about not using any spells until the right time, which will apparently be obvious without any hints, so I'm guessing it's something pretty crazy. Greiz has been sorta...off, lately, so I've been wanting to write what's going on in his head. I also want to turn the campaign into a story when we're done with it, though it'll obviously take alot of editing, as there have been some pretty boring parts. thanks a mil for the support! I'll try to get another "flashback" type blurb written in the next week, and might even start on the actual adaptation of game --> story. ps-no, he doesnt know he has outsider blood, and probably wont find out for a good while still. he knows he has some sort of curse upon him, though. or at least thinks so, considering what happened, and some events that have ocurred in the game
club2bash 06-07-06, 01:46 PM	cool. maybe he could use his con modifier for spell cause they put some sort of strain on him.