Post/Author/DateTime	Post
Shaggy_Shaggs 02-22-06, 05:47 AM	This is the background for a changeling barbarian, son of two human parents (it's explained), in the first person. Feedback would be appreciated. EDIT: Current version is further down the thread. My name is Sim Red-River. My mother is Kayla of the Red River, and she was a warrior until my father passed away. She got her name from her trademark fury leading people to think she constantly had the Curse, and the nickname stuck and was passed down to me. My father was a priest - Clarion of Pelor - and he and my mother traveled and fought together for years, sharing many wild times. Like when they learned my mother was carrying me - they were in everchanging Limbo, recovering from a noble fight with a death slaad that was secretly leading a guild of assassins here on the material plane. They were ambushed by a huge chaos monster when they slept. The beast grabbed my mother first, and her body started to dribble and melt; but my father healed her. Then he said a prayer to send her home to the material plane, and turned to fight the beast as they faded away from Mother's sight. That was the last she ever saw of him, and when he didn't come home after a week she knew he was gone for good - she'd been in too many fights to have any doubt how that one turned out. In mourning, and with a baby on the way, she hung up her sword for good. When I was born, my features were smeared and indistinct, and changed when I cried. A healer told my mother the attack of the monster in Limbo must have had some effect on me in the womb, and it would probably get worse as I aged. She raised me well enough in our nameless little town, and taught me to fight to protect myself from people who would hurt me for being different. There was a lot of teasing while I was growing up, but I inherited Mother's quick temper, and while they would talk, most of the other kids wouldn't actually fight me after seeing me go a little crazy and beat one senseless. Mother would scold me for it, but I knew that, deep down, she was proud. I tried going to school but that didn't work too well... I was starting to get my body's changes under control, but I was too much distraction to the other students, and I think I frightened the schoolmarm a little. So my mother taught me instead. She taught me a lot of important lessons, like Never turn your back on a skinny leatherclad guy with a knife; Always have a weapon that cuts, a weapon that crushes, and a dagger; Practice swimming even if you don't like water; and If a man in a dress is shouting gibberish and waving at you, he's probably not just saying hello. In the week leading up to my sixteenth birthday, Mother made a big deal of an important lesson I was going to learn, and a special gift she would give me. I was terribly curious, and so excited when the morning finally came! Mother made a big breakfast before dawn, and insisted I eat every bit first. I kept asking her what would happen today, but she really kept me in suspense, and wouldn't say a word. Finally, when I finished and the sun was just rising, she handed me a long, canvas-wrapped bundle. I unwrapped it eagerly, and gasped when my eyes fell upon the faded leather grip, the age-darkened guard, and the worn, yet dutifully sharpened blade of my mother's own sword... the blade she had wielded from her training as a youth, right up till the day my father was lost. I was humbled and speechless, and caressed the flat of the blade reverently as I looked at her. She was smiling, but her eyes looked sad to me. "Son," she said, "I have only one last lesson for you. The world is a far better teacher than any one woman can be, even your mother. She's a strict teacher, and her lessons are sometimes painful, but only out in her can you learn truly who you are." She pulled a loaded shoulder pack and a small pouch of coins from behind her seat, and set them down by my feet. "I love you, Sim, now go. Go and find your fortune and yourself. And you be careful out there, you come back to me." Mother fell silent at that, but I knew she was thinking of my father. I gave her a long hug, and picked up my things and her sword. I didn't want to leave, but I knew that I needed to. I headed out with a lump in my throat, and didn't look back for fear of changing my mind. I don't know where the road will take me, but I'm going to make her proud.
Shaggy_Shaggs 02-22-06, 06:48 PM	Dang... :bigeyes: not one single response? So much for the power of peer review. :allalone:
interpretivechaos 02-22-06, 08:27 PM	After reading through it, the main thing that bugged it was the school part. School's in the typical medieval world would only be for the nobility (and of course the clergy would educate their own). It may just have been the way you put it, (the few teachers would either be young nobles serving a household or a paid scholar etc.) So, the conflict with a retired barbarian and a school setting seems odd. Perhaps replacing it with bids for apprenticeship, or even mere scorn from the children his age. Other than that I might see a bit more developing his realization of the deception he could perform (and to account for his Changeling bonuses to bluff and sense motive), but all in all it seemed pretty good.
Shaggy_Shaggs 02-22-06, 08:35 PM	Thanks for the input, I'll work on that.
WhrenKehrsyn 02-22-06, 10:10 PM	Definatelly a good start. Like Mr.Chaos here said, the school portion seems alittle out of place. Of course I dont know the setting youre playing in. Some more about the development of his shape changing would definately be neat. I imagine discovering something of that sort, especially at that age where most feel theyre strange or awkward to begin with, is probably going to be a big source of angst and frustration. Also how did he learn to control it? Was someone able to help him and if not how did he manage on his own? I like how he left, a definate change to the 'I lost a loved one/all my loved ones' style that is usually used (not saying that is bad, the easiest way to get someone out on the road is to remove any ties they had to thier home) and its refreshing to see. I would expand a bit on this though. Where will he go? He certainly wasnt planning this but he must have some idea of where hed like to go, and what hed like to do. Often in the first person narrative the character is looking back on events and usually this is to tell someone his or her story or to recall events of importance of sometimes for documentation (in this final case he may be writing it down rather than telling someone). But whatever the reason the narrative should bring him to where he is now. So he must be somewhere telling us this, or writing it down. With that in mind try to bring us there with him. If hes a new character maybe hes just still sort of in shock and recalling what brought him to where he is. The point of all this is to tie in with the previous paragraph, where did he go? Hope this helps, and it is an interesting and very promising start =0)
Shaggy_Shaggs 02-23-06, 06:58 AM	Alright, I've made some changes to address the realism and detail issues. Please let me know what you think. EDIT: Current version is further down the thread. My name is Sim Red-River. My mother is Kayla of the Red River, and she was a warrior until my father passed away. She got her name from her trademark fury leading people to think she constantly had the Curse, and the nickname stuck and was passed down to me. My father was a priest - Clarion of Pelor - and he and my mother traveled and fought together for years, sharing many wild times. Like when they learned my mother was carrying me - they were in everchanging Limbo, recovering from a noble fight with a death slaad that was secretly leading a guild of assassins here on the material plane. They were ambushed by a huge chaos monster when they slept. The beast grabbed my mother first, and her body started to dribble and melt; but my father healed her. Then he said a prayer to send her home to the material plane, and turned to fight the beast as they faded away from Mother's sight. That was the last she ever saw of him, and when he didn't come home after a week she knew he was gone for good - she'd been in too many fights to have any doubt how that one turned out. In mourning, and with a baby on the way, she hung up her sword for good. When I was born, my features were smeared and indistinct, and changed when I cried. A healer told my mother the attack of the monster in Limbo must have had some effect on me in the womb, and it would probably get worse as I aged. She raised me well enough in our nameless little town, and taught me to fight to protect myself from people who would hurt me for being different. There was a lot of teasing while I was growing up, but I inherited Mother's quick temper, and while they would talk, most of the other kids wouldn't actually fight me after seeing me go a little crazy and beat one senseless. Mother would scold me for it, but I knew that, deep down, she was proud. I tried hard to be normal, growing up, and carried a handmirror with me everywhere, to keep track of the way my appearance would change. I learned over time that the way I looked at any given time was reflexive, and changed with my mood. Like when I was fighting mad, I'd see I had a mouthful of fangs, I was a little taller than normal, and my eyes burned red like a glowing coal; or when I was afraid I'd shrink some and my features would round out and soften, a little bit like a pitiable baby that nobody'd want to hurt. I spent many long hours staring at my mirror, straining to control the changes, and eventually found that I could "fake it" enough to change my form on purpose by thinking about something sad, or funny, or maddening, that sort of thing. It was still hard to make exact shapes the way I wanted them, but it was a good start. I grew up fast, with a hard fist and keen wits, and wanting to make something of myself, I tried to get apprenticeships with the local masters - the blacksmith, the limner, carpenters, even a scribe who'd settled in town to get away from the pressure of life in the big city - but that didn't work out well. They all found my appearance far too distracting, and I think I frightened the scribe a little. So my mother taught me instead. She taught me a lot of important lessons, like Never turn your back on a skinny leatherclad guy with a knife; Always have a weapon that cuts, a weapon that crushes, and a dagger; Practice swimming even if you don't like water; and If a man in a dress is shouting gibberish and waving at you, he's probably not just saying hello. Of course all the hells broke loose in my thirteenth year. That was the year I started to notice girls, and I had to get some spare clothes cut way too big for me, to cope with my unthinking bids to look more well-muscled and virile. Talk about a pain in the butt - most people have no idea how hard it is to even walk straight when every time you see a pretty girl you grow about a foot taller, your chest puffs up and your pants don't fit anymore. And forget sympathy, if anything the taunting and mockery increased tenfold. Luckily the winter that year was especially harsh, and the freezing cold put enough of a damper on the wild changes in my mind and body that I could slow down and think, and learn to control it the same way I did the other changes. The extra challenge and practice paid off, by spring I could pretty much look however I wanted with no mistakes. It was around that time I learned to change my voice - the way it cracked and squeaked while it was deepening, was really embarassing. But I noticed while I'd practice changing my face and body, that the way I sounded changed a little bit, too. Late at night I'd lay in bed with my eyes closed, talking quietly to myself and focusing on the sound of my voice; listening for the different tones and accents, and figuring out what thoughts went with each one. When I'd go out I'd pay careful attention to the people, seeing which sounds went best with different looks and situations, and after about a year of watching, listening and practicing, I pretty well mastered it. I put my newfound skills to good use, too. Maybe the girls were none too interested in Sim Red-River the freak, but they were plenty impressed with the steady stream of mysterious, dashing travelers through town - rugged John Carver the Lionhearted, spry Reilly Quickfingers, exotic Ahzin of the Eastern Moor, and a score of others - they all got plenty of attention, and a few shared a young maiden's bed. Heh... funny how easy it is to tell a girl just what she wants to hear, when the motivation is right. I found guys were just as easy to fool, with a little more practice - I could learn a lot pretending to be someone else, and use the information to help me later. I got a lot of discounts on things pretending to be the various shopkeeps' good friends. In the week leading up to my sixteenth birthday, Mother made a big deal of an important lesson I was going to learn, and a special gift she would give me. I was terribly curious, and so excited when the morning finally came! Mother made a big breakfast before dawn, and insisted I eat every bit first. I kept asking her what would happen today, but she really kept me in suspense, and wouldn't say a word. Finally, when I finished and the sun was just rising, she handed me a long, canvas-wrapped bundle. I unwrapped it eagerly, and gasped when my eyes fell upon the faded leather grip, the age-darkened guard, and the worn, yet dutifully sharpened blade of my mother's own sword... the blade she had wielded from her training as a youth, right up till the day my father was lost. I was humbled and speechless, and caressed the flat of the blade reverently as I looked at her. She was smiling, but her eyes looked sad to me. "Son," she said, "I have only one last lesson for you. The world is a far better teacher than any one woman can be, even your mother. She's a strict teacher, and her lessons are sometimes painful, but only out in her can you learn truly who you are." She pulled a loaded shoulder pack and a small pouch of coins from behind her seat, and set them down by my feet. "I love you, Sim, now go. Go and find your fortune and yourself. And you be careful out there, you come back to me." Mother fell silent at that, but I knew she was thinking of my father. I gave her a long hug, and picked up my things and her sword. I didn't want to leave, but I knew that I needed to. I headed out with a lump in my throat, and didn't look back for fear of changing my mind. I didn't know where the road would take me, but I was determined to make her proud. I decided my first order of business should be to find a dragon to slay, since all the really good stories have a dragonslayer in there somewhere, so I took the three day walk to the next town over. You can barely call it a "town", more like a collection of little shacks built up around a popular roadside inn/tavern, the Dying Dragon. I figured it'd be a good place to collect tips on slaying my first dragon, but most of those were along the lines of Don't try it if you want to live, so I stopped to have some drinks and plot a new course of action. I must have had more to drink than I meant to... things got pretty blurry for awhile and the next thing I knew, I was signed on with a quirky handful of other travelers, searching for fortune and glory as a team. Damn the drink, I'm not sure how I got into this, but there was my mark right on the contract, and they tell me it's binding. At least they come up with ideas safer than going after dragons, for now. And I think my cover is still good. They seem pretty convinced I'm Sindar Gemflower, grugach explorer fresh off the wild frontier. I'd better brush up on my Elven. A bit of clarification, Sim is illiterate and very new (level 1, 0 xp, hasn't yet joined a game, hence keeping things somewhat general). He hasn't said the stuff written here to anyone, it's more along the lines of how he might introduce and explain himself if the fourth wall were momentarily broken to allow him to speak to the DM and/or players.
Shaggy_Shaggs 02-23-06, 08:52 PM	:bump: More input please? :)
Harrow Blade 02-23-06, 10:33 PM	Seems like a good back ground to me. I didn't see it here but have you decided on an alignment? It seems to me from the way he has no problems morally when decieving people for his own needs that he would be chaotic or neutral. Also what really drives him to try and then stay in the adventurers life? You have told us his mother sent him out into the world to learn but for what reason? I would think that after losing her lover that way she would be against sending her only son away to possibly the same fate. Some sort of external pressure is usually a good start. perhaps for reasons unknown the Death Slaad with which is parents fought did not actually die but is now interested in your character. Perhaps he wants to recruit you to fufill some twisted plot. This may also open room for your dm to add plot hooks for your character. Perhaps a barely sane prophet came to your town spouting prophesies of doom that sounded a little close for comfort. Eg. A child torn from choas' maw By holy servant of the law Will hold the balance in shifting hands To bring war or peace unto the lands Sought in darkness, sought in light Only blood's red flow can make aright (we all know that mad prophets can speak in anything by rhyme) hope that helps
Shaggy_Shaggs 02-24-06, 06:49 AM	I like the mad prophet idea, Harrow Blade, but I want to keep things more general rather than tying them to specific worlds and NPCs that may or may not be there. With a couple swapped words and names, the background as-is could be transplanted to most any world, but the more I tie it to a particular setting the harder it'll become to put it into something else. I'd like to get the opportunity to play Sim but I don't know when or where that'll happen yet, so I'm trying to keep it easy for a DM to fit him in anywhere. As for Sim's alignment, I intend for him to be CG with a bit of a selfish streak as a conflict there. This background seems to get longer each time, here's the latest version. Feedback is once again requested. :) And thank you all for your help so far. :bow: My name is Sim Red-River. My mother is Kayla of the Red River, and she was a warrior until my father passed away. She got her name from her trademark fury leading people to think she constantly had the Curse, and the nickname stuck and was passed down to me. My father was a priest - Clarion of Pelor - and he and my mother traveled and fought together for years, sharing many wild times. Like when they learned my mother was carrying me - they were in everchanging Limbo, recovering from a noble fight with a death slaad that was secretly leading a guild of assassins here on the material plane. They were ambushed by a huge chaos monster when they slept. The beast grabbed my mother first, and her body started to dribble and melt; but my father healed her. Then he said a prayer to send her home to the material plane, and turned to fight the beast as they faded away from Mother's sight. That was the last she ever saw of him, and when he didn't come home after a week she knew he was gone for good - she'd been in too many fights to have any doubt how that one turned out. In mourning, and with a baby on the way, she hung up her sword for good. When I was born, my features were smeared and indistinct, and changed when I cried. A healer told my mother the attack of the monster in Limbo must have had some effect on me in the womb, and it would probably get worse as I aged. She raised me well enough in our nameless little town, and taught me to fight to protect myself from people who would hurt me for being different. Sometimes I resented her for leaving me to my own defense, and thought she should protect me from the others, but from her stories and my own experience, I see now what I didn't understand back then. She was trying to do right by me as well as she could. We weren't nomads, and I didn't grow up wandering over the plains in a tribe like Mother did, but even in town she was raising me the same way she'd been brought up. She understood she couldn't always be there for me, and that I had to get tough and clever, and learn to stand on my own feet. By leaving me to fight my own battles, and restraining her desire to shelter me in the short term, my mother saw to it that I'd be able to protect myself in the long run. There was a lot of teasing while I was growing up, but I inherited Mother's quick temper, and while they would talk, most of the other kids wouldn't actually fight me after seeing me go a little crazy and beat one senseless. Mother would scold me for it, a nod to living in a civilized town I guess, but I knew that, deep down, she was proud. I tried hard to be normal, growing up, and carried a handmirror with me everywhere, to keep track of the way my appearance would change. I learned over time that the way I looked at any given time was reflexive, and changed with my mood. Like when I was fighting mad, I'd see I had a mouthful of fangs, I was a little taller than normal, and my eyes burned red like a glowing coal; or when I was afraid I'd shrink some and my features would round out and soften, a little bit like a pitiable baby that nobody'd want to hurt. I spent many long hours staring at my mirror, straining to control the changes, and eventually found that I could "fake it" enough to change my form on purpose by thinking about something sad, or funny, or maddening, that sort of thing. It was still hard to make exact shapes the way I wanted them, but it was a good start. I grew up fast, with a hard fist and keen wits, and wanting to make something of myself, I tried to get apprenticeships with the local masters - the blacksmith, the limner, carpenters, even a scribe who'd settled in town to get away from the pressure of life in the big city - but that didn't work out well. They all found my appearance far too distracting, and I think I frightened the scribe a little. So my mother taught me instead. She taught me a lot of important lessons, like Never turn your back on a skinny leatherclad guy with a knife; Always have a weapon that cuts, a weapon that crushes, and a dagger; Practice swimming even if you don't like water; and If a man in a dress is shouting gibberish and waving at you, he's probably not just saying hello. Of course all the hells broke loose in my thirteenth year. That was the year I started to notice girls, and I had to get some spare clothes cut way too big for me, to cope with my unthinking bids to look more well-muscled and virile. I spent most of my time in a daze... I was bewildered, overheated, frustrated and even intimidated most of the time. I wanted so much to be noticed, but at the same time the thought of being laughed at and made fun of went from irritating to terrifying. Needless to say this wreaked havoc with my body, and for the time, shyness overwhelmed my mettle. I spent a lot of days locked up in my room. I'd timidly peek out the barely-opened shutters, hiding the deranged jumble of mismatched parts I'd become to match the way I was feeling, after some vivid dream, or bumping into a girl that was starting to develop. Like the time a buxom young lady by the name of Mae was running across the little square, crashed into me and we both hit the ground with her right on top of me. I squeaked out a yelp, I grew hair all over the place - in uneven patches of blonde, auburn and black, by the way - one eye bugged out, my nose stuck out at least four inches longer than it belonged, and all my skin turned blue! I'm sure I was more freaked out than she was, but she must've been a close second with the way she screamed, jumped up and ran away from me. Ugh... I'd rather not delve any deeper into that memory. Talk about a pain in the butt - most people have no idea how hard it is to even walk straight when every time you even see a pretty girl you grow about a foot taller, your chest puffs up and your pants don't fit anymore. And forget sympathy, if anything the taunting and mockery increased tenfold. Sometimes when I'd get sent out to buy milk and eggs and such, bullies who didn't dare fight me directly would shove a girl up against me to unnerve and embarass both of us. It was Hell. A few times I'd drop everything and fight them, but then my mother scolded me for spilling and wasting the food, so I mostly just tried to hold my anger in, and not let it show on my face. I wanted to do right by everyone, but it was so hard when it seemed like everyone but my mother was against me. But it all changed when the leaves turned and fell to the ground. That winter was like a miracle sent straight from the gods just for me. The cold was unbelievably brutal, the harshest winter anyone who lived in the area could remember. Not many people went out, and when they did, they were bundled up heavily and you could hardly even tell whether it was a girl or a guy except by the face, if they were looking right at you. It was too cold to even think about girls... much. I still felt pretty weird inside, and I spent a lot of time hairy that winter, but at least I could finally calm down a little. It gave me more time to practice making faces, and getting the different body proportions right. Even better, quite a few of the travelers through the area decided it was too cold to be out trekking all over the place in the ice, and decided to stop and spend the winter at the local inn. There were a lot of new faces, body types and mannerisms for me to try to mimic - lots of unusual humans, some dwarven prospectors, a half-orc missing one eye, a handful of elves, a gnome and a halfling that acted like brother and sister, and even a big brawny warrior who said he had an ogre for a grandmother! The best part was, none of them knew my voice and they all drank so much to stay warm, they didn't notice when I changed a little, and they didn't taunt me or shun me. I even got a few of them to teach me some of their own languages, bringing them drinks and telling them stories of mother and father's adventures. They were surprised and impressed at how fast I picked up new words, and to be honest, so was I - I think that without thinking about it, I was changing my throat and tongue to fit around the strange words better. Late at night, after I'd said my prayers to thank the gods for the horrible weather and all the nice things it was doing for me, I'd lay awake talking quietly to myself, replaying conversations at the inn from memory, and practicing the foreign words to help me remember them. I'd focus and listen to the sound of my voice when I said the words, compared to the travelers' voices in my mind, and note the differences in tone and accent. I noticed sometimes I sounded closer to the travelers than other times, mostly when we were trading stories and I got really into them. Looking back over my life, I realized I'd always had a habit of subtly changing my voice to better fit my thoughts and feelings. It wasn't anything major or especially difficult, it seemed like my voice changed as easily as most people's expressions - and like people's expressions, it wasn't something I really thought about much when I was doing it, it just happened. With the time spent with the travelers, my confidence picked back up and I started going out to places besides the inn a lot more, and paying more attention to the way I sounded when I talked with people. I practiced trying to talk the way I chose to sound, rather than however I unthinkingly felt was the most appropriate for the way I was feeling. I mingled as much as I could - as hard as that was - and studied other people's voices, the way a hunting hawk studies a the long grass for a fat field mouse to pluck out. I found my voice wasn't nearly as mutable as my face and my body - having a much more limited range - but in time I mastered what little I could do with it, and grew comfortable matching voice tones with faces. It was almost as simple as flexing a muscle, and the overall effect was amazing - people took my looks much more seriously when the voice that went with them was right. I put my newfound skills to good use when spring came, too. Maybe the girls were none too interested in Sim Red-River the freak, but they were plenty impressed with the sudden steady stream of mysterious, dashing travelers "passing through" town rather than staying - rugged John Carver the Lionhearted, spry Reilly Quickfingers, exotic Ahzin of the Eastern Moor, and a score of others - they all got plenty of attention, and a few shared a young maiden's bed. Heh... funny how easy it is to tell a girl just what she wants to hear, when the motivation is right. I found guys were just as easy to fool, with a little more practice - I could learn a lot pretending to be someone else, and use the information to help me later. I got a lot of discounts on things pretending to be the various shopkeeps' good friends. And I could also make things better for other people, not just myself! Little children who tripped and skinned their knees didn't want any help from that weird guy their folks said had a curse or something, but they had no problem getting helped up and bandaged by a handsome, kindly stranger just got into town, especially when he had plenty of sweets to take their minds off the scrape - thank you again, easy discounts. The man running the general store didn't want to see ghoulish old Sim around, but he sure appreciated when an extra half-orc porter would appear, to help wrestle barrels of new supplies off the wagon and into the back of the shop. Whenever somebody needed an extra pair of hands, I was there, and though I still harbored some frustration over their refusal to accept me as I was, it felt so good to be accepted as anybody, and able to do things with them, that I couldn't help but get involved. And for some reason it just felt good to do nice things for people in general. Not that it didn't feel good to sneak around having things my own way, too, but working to make life better for people was a different kind of good... a better kind. It opened up a lot of good opportunities to keep practicing changing myself, too. By the time I reached the age of fifteen, technically an adult citizen but not quite ready to leave home, it didn't even take much thought to change - I'd just imagine somebody I wanted to be, form the mental picture in seconds and I was that person. I felt useful and happy, and about as comfortable in my own skin as I think I ever can be. In the week leading up to my sixteenth birthday, Mother made a big deal of an important lesson I was going to learn, and a special gift she would give me. I was terribly curious, and so excited when the morning finally came! Mother made a big breakfast before dawn, and insisted I eat every bit first. I kept asking her what would happen today, but she really kept me in suspense, and wouldn't say a word. Finally, when I finished and the sun was just rising, she handed me a long, canvas-wrapped bundle. I unwrapped it eagerly, and gasped when my eyes fell upon the faded leather grip, the age-darkened guard, and the worn, yet dutifully sharpened blade of my mother's own sword... the blade she had wielded from her training as a youth, right up till the day my father was lost. I was humbled and speechless, and caressed the flat of the blade reverently as I looked at her. She was smiling, but her eyes looked sad to me. "Son," she said, "I have only one last lesson for you. The world is a far better teacher than any one woman can be, even your mother. She's a strict teacher, and her lessons are sometimes painful, but only out in her can you learn truly who you are." She pulled a loaded shoulder pack and a small pouch of coins from behind her seat, and set them down by my feet. "I love you, Sim, now go. Go and find your fortune and yourself. And you be careful out there, you come back to me." Mother fell silent at that, but I knew she was thinking of my father. I gave her a long hug, and picked up my things and her sword. I felt foolish for not having seen this coming - Mother's love had always been tough, and lately she'd been telling stories again of how she set out on her own once she became a woman. I should have realized she meant to send me away now that I was a man, to find my own direction and make my own life. Living in a little town where things are more or less the same every year was a good place to be safe, but we knew I needed to go forth and have more - to hunt, learn, strive, experience, love, see the world and find my own way to relate to it - even if I didn't want to admit it to myself at the time. I didn't want to leave, and I think it was probably the hardest thing my mother ever did to send me out. We of all people knew the risks, having lost my father before I was born. But is a long life in shadows and quiet, never rocking the boat nor pushing your own limits, really better than a short life well-lived, regardless of how it ends? I headed out with a lump in my throat, and didn't look back for fear of changing my mind. It was the best thing for me, and we both knew it. I didn't know where the road would take me, but I was determined to make her proud. I decided my first order of business should be to find a dragon to slay, since all the really good stories have a dragonslayer in there somewhere, so I took the three day walk to the next town over. You can barely call it a "town", more like a collection of little shacks built up around a popular roadside inn/tavern, the Dying Dragon. I figured it'd be a good place to collect tips on slaying my first dragon, but most of those were along the lines of Don't try it if you want to live, so I stopped to have some drinks and plot a new course of action. I must have had more to drink than I meant to... things got pretty blurry for awhile and the next thing I knew, I was signed on with a quirky handful of other travelers, searching for fortune and glory as a team. Damn the drink, I'm not sure how I got into this, but there was my mark right on the contract, and they tell me it's binding. At least they come up with ideas safer than going after dragons, for now. Fighting bandits and protecting peasants from wild beasts sounds kind of fun. One of them mentioned something about musty tombs filled with ancient treasures and the living dead. It surprised me that he knows about that stuff, maybe his parents were travelling heroes too. Mother said she used to carve her personal mark in important places she went to, I wonder if I'll find any. And I think my cover is still good. They seem pretty convinced I'm Sindar Gemflower, grugach explorer fresh off the wild frontier. I'd better brush up on my Elven.
Shaggy_Shaggs 02-25-06, 03:12 AM	:bump:
WhrenKehrsyn 02-25-06, 03:19 PM	Looks like a great solid story and backround =0) I liked the little story about crashing into the girl. Little touches like that can make world of difference in making characters feel more real and allowing others to feel more connected with them. If you want to keep it world generic for now then I wouldnt I add anything more in depth about the town or the geography. As for the suggestion of giving him a bigger reason for leaving I dont think its entirely necessary. The idea of his adventurer mother wanting him to go experience the world seems good enough to me. Sure shes been dealt heavy blows, but I imagine someone with that sort of backround would see someone so young staying in a little safe town and never going out into the world as living, at the expense of life. I think its perfectly reasonable for her to think or want him to experience the world despite its dangers. After all, challenge breeds strength and character.
Shaggy_Shaggs 02-25-06, 09:18 PM	:cheer: Thanks for the advice and help folks. :w00t: And WhrenKehrsyn, I about fell out of my chair when you had anything good to say about it. Having seen the amazing stuff you write... well it's just very unexpected and an honour. :bow:
Grizzled Gryphon 02-25-06, 10:02 PM	Shaggy, you know it HAS to be good if Whren likes it. Just out of curiousity, do you happen to own a copy of Manhunter? The name and race of this fellow brings that game to mind. In that game, there are people that are made, not born. They are called Sims, as in simulated humans. You can have them made to look any way you want... Nice background, though. I only wish the players in my groups had backgrounds HALF this good.
Shaggy_Shaggs 02-26-06, 02:18 AM	Just out of curiousity, do you happen to own a copy of Manhunter? Never heard of it, must be a coincidence. Nice background, though. I only wish the players in my groups had backgrounds HALF this good. Thanks for the vote of confidence, man. :) What the heck is Manhunter, anyway?
WhrenKehrsyn 03-01-06, 10:50 AM	And WhrenKehrsyn, I about fell out of my chair when you had anything good to say about it. Having seen the amazing stuff you write... well it's just very unexpected and an honour. lol, well I think thats a little much, dont hurt yourself lol I do appreciate that though =0) Grizzled Gryphon, I saw you post something similar in another thread about wishing your PCs made backrounds like this and I was thinking, if youre having trouble finding people with compatible play styles maybe you could try play by post or play by IM games. Im sure you wouldnt have too much trouble finding people (In fact Shaggy here said this character was looking for a game so maybe if you ask nicely you could get him in).
Shaggy_Shaggs 03-01-06, 10:20 PM	Never been a big fan of the idea of play by post but hell, I got my start playing via chat prog and even today I do my gaming via IRC. If the timing is suitable I'd be up for adding another weekly IRC game.
WhrenKehrsyn 03-02-06, 04:59 AM	Ive done both and I think both types have thier pros and cons. I ran a very successful Star Wars game on AIM for alittle over a year. Was great fun. Id like to run another some day. Play by posts can be very good, since all the rolling and whatnot is done on the DM side its very good for RP, very character driven with a huge emphasis on creativity. The major drawback is that the game moves at a snails pace. More often than not players with busier schedules will post once a day while others may post several times a day and this can lead to spotlighting on certain players. Also thier slow pace has a tendency to cause players to lose interest and in my experience this often leads to an otherwise wonderful game dieing out.
Shaggy_Shaggs 03-02-06, 05:05 AM	Yeah, that snail's pace thing is an issue for me. Dang it, if I'm playing an especially dimwitted half-ogre barbarian who wears a pointy hat and screams out 'Magic Missile!!' before pelting an enemy with a ten-pound pinecone, I want live reactions, not what people say after they've had a chance to think it over. :rofl: (Yes, I am insane and no, not all of my character ideas are as serious as Sim.)
WhrenKehrsyn 03-02-06, 05:08 AM	lol I have a feeling youd certainly be an interesting player to have in a group.
Shaggy_Shaggs 03-02-06, 05:30 AM	:blush: Awww, too much nice to say, you're gonna make my ego swell.