Elyse, Shifter Artificer:
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Born in the Eldeen Reaches, Elyse never quite fit in with the others of her
kind. Where they were rambunctious, she was more quiet, more apt to wait
things out and watch than to dive into a fight she might not win. She would
have been destined to become a ranger or a hunter like many of her childhood
aquiantences if not for one fateful turn of events. A small skirmish from
the War took place not far from their villiage. She did not know who was
fighting, or really even why at that age, but she remembers the victors
passed through her villiage on their way home. One, a human following in
the wake of a large metal man, had all kinds of bottles and fancy sticks on
his belt and vest. When the man jostled, and one of the sticks fell to the
ground, Elyse was quick to claim her suvineer of the day.
This stick was nearly the length of her short arm, made of ivory and gold,
and other things she had never seen before, it was wonderful. Keeping it
hidden, she played with it only when alone, more often than not swinging
it around like a club or a sword. That is, until one day, while she was
alone in the woods, jabbing at the air with her toy, it shot out some sort
magic that blackened a nearby stone. She dropped it with a hiss, and darted
behind a tree, watching it. But, the stick simply laid there on the grass,
like nothing had happened. From that day, she became obsessed with trying to
make the stick work again. Where her friends found joy and focus in hunting
a simple rabbit, she found her purpose in hunting how to work her stick,
to coax every secret from it. Her prey wasn't a living thing like the prey
of other Shifters, hers was the prey of accomplishment, of creation, of the
Artificer.
That was many, many years ago. Her childhood wand has long since been
drained of any magic it might have once held, but she carries it still,
safely tucked away in her pouch, a momento, an embodiment of the moment
her desire for knowledge had been sparked. One day, she'll learn how to
make it work again, to restore it's lost power, maybe even improve upon it.
But that day is not today, and it may not be tomorrow either. But unlike
others of her kind, just like when she was little, she knows how to wait,
for the right moment to strike at her prey, when she knows she will be
guarenteed of success...
kind. Where they were rambunctious, she was more quiet, more apt to wait
things out and watch than to dive into a fight she might not win. She would
have been destined to become a ranger or a hunter like many of her childhood
aquiantences if not for one fateful turn of events. A small skirmish from
the War took place not far from their villiage. She did not know who was
fighting, or really even why at that age, but she remembers the victors
passed through her villiage on their way home. One, a human following in
the wake of a large metal man, had all kinds of bottles and fancy sticks on
his belt and vest. When the man jostled, and one of the sticks fell to the
ground, Elyse was quick to claim her suvineer of the day.
This stick was nearly the length of her short arm, made of ivory and gold,
and other things she had never seen before, it was wonderful. Keeping it
hidden, she played with it only when alone, more often than not swinging
it around like a club or a sword. That is, until one day, while she was
alone in the woods, jabbing at the air with her toy, it shot out some sort
magic that blackened a nearby stone. She dropped it with a hiss, and darted
behind a tree, watching it. But, the stick simply laid there on the grass,
like nothing had happened. From that day, she became obsessed with trying to
make the stick work again. Where her friends found joy and focus in hunting
a simple rabbit, she found her purpose in hunting how to work her stick,
to coax every secret from it. Her prey wasn't a living thing like the prey
of other Shifters, hers was the prey of accomplishment, of creation, of the
Artificer.
That was many, many years ago. Her childhood wand has long since been
drained of any magic it might have once held, but she carries it still,
safely tucked away in her pouch, a momento, an embodiment of the moment
her desire for knowledge had been sparked. One day, she'll learn how to
make it work again, to restore it's lost power, maybe even improve upon it.
But that day is not today, and it may not be tomorrow either. But unlike
others of her kind, just like when she was little, she knows how to wait,
for the right moment to strike at her prey, when she knows she will be
guarenteed of success...
-X
Wow dude! Crucible backstory is great! Very well done Edy, not that we expected anything less. :D Thanks for sharing.
Actually, Crucible is my favorite PC out of all of these, I think he has the most potential for cool factor.
If fact, I just spent a good 2-3 hours expanding his background.
I'm putting the text from it up here for everybody, and I've also got it in a PDF for anybody that wants it.
Text:
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The Warforged Paladin
Character and Background by:
Edymnion
Prologue
Our story begins several years before the current day, during what we now call the Last War. Battles were fought daily, men and women died by the scores on both sides, while the Warforged soldiers marched relentlessly into the fray, unconcerned with if they lived or died. They had their orders, to fight until the battle was won. It is one such Warforged on which we shall focus our attention. Like the thousands upon thousands of other identical Warforged, this one has no name. However, that makes his tale a difficult one to tell, perhaps too difficult. So, for the ease of the listener and the teller alike, we shall refer to this nameless soldier simply as “Blank”.
Our tale opens with a recount of the days Blank spent in the war, but we shall not dwell on this, for in the grand scheme of things, it was unimportant. From there, we shall move on to Blank’s downfall, and the single act of kindness that would forever change, if not the world, than at least the life of a single soldier, who no longer had a purpose in life. Where the story goes from there, we do not yet know. That part of the story has yet to be written…
Chapter One
The day began in much the same way as yesterday had begun, and as the day before that had begun, and the day before that. Sunlight filters through the high, narrow windows, and falls upon the ceiling of the stark room he shared with nine other Warforged. As the light crawled across the ceiling and down the wall, Blank and his brethren stood motionless as statues, in neat and ordered rows. There were no beds, no chairs, no furniture or decoration at all in this room, merely four gray walls, and the stone floor upon which they stood.
Blank did not look around, he barely even thought, he simply waited. He knew that his unit were the only things in the room. Of his unit, half were general soldiers, their plating made from mostly stone with only small amounts of metal, covering only the most vital areas. The chorded darkwood, which served as their skin and muscle, stood exposed and vulnerable. Two were at the opposite end of the scale; great hulking masses of solid steel armor, with a layer of dark adamantine coating their central plates, like shadowy pewter.
The remaining three, including himself, were built as a balance between armor and maneuverability. Blank had no need of a mirror to know what he looked like, because he knew he was the same as these other two in every detail. The comparatively soft wood and chorded fibers were covered in sturdy steel plates reinforced in shining mithril. He was well protected. If not as heavily armored as the larger adamantine soldiers, he was faster and more nimble by far. As were his other two mithril brothers. Every Warforged had it’s place, from the brute strength of the adamantine line breakers, to the lightly armored foot soldiers, to his place as swordsman.
A human would have wondered what this day would hold, if it would be another silent day alone, if it would be a day of drills, or even if the unit would be called into battle. Blank, however, did not wonder. If something were to be done today, the human commander would come for them with their orders. If not, he would stand there, and wait for the next day. He was not happy, he was not sad. Neither excited nor bored. Blank did not question his existence, he simply existed, and followed orders. Little did he know, and impossible for him to predict, this day would not be like the others, not in the least.
Chapter Two
The door to the room opened, and the Warforged within snapped to a stance of attention at the same instant. The uniform crash of metal and stone echoed for several instants before dying. Blank looked straight ahead as his commander walked to the front of the room, and into his field of vision.
“Unit 733-2, Cyre Boarder Guard.”
The Warforged remained silent. The designation was correct. If it had not been, it was the duty of one of the basic model Warforged to respond with the correct unit information. There were many units such as his, and while rare, it was not unheard of for a commander to walk into the wrong storage room.
“By the terms of the Treaty of Thronehold, signed the 11th of Aryth, in the year of Galifar 996, the War has ended. Furthermore, the Warforged are officially recognized as sentient beings, with all of the rights and responsibilities thereof. You are each to be paid a sum of 100 gold galifars for your service to Cyre, and immediately released.”
With that, the commander turned, and left. Moving for the first time in days, several of the Warforged turned to look at each other, to see if the others had an answer. None did. A short time later, another human entered, and the Warforged once more snapped to attention. They were led outside of the compound to the training fields, to find other units similar to themselves, along with men standing behind tables with large bags. Blank and his brothers were arranged into lines, and cycled through to the tables. When his turn came, Blank approached as the man took a smaller purse and a scroll of paper from the main sack and handed it to him.
“One hundred galifars, and your release papers. Next!”
Before he really knew what had happened, Blank found himself, along with many others, standing outside the compound walls. They had not been given orders, and virtually all had returned to standing motionless outside the gates. They would have likely have stood there for days, had one of the human commanders not come out and told them that they had to leave the premise. Blank and his brothers were free, but no one had bothered to take the time to teach them what that actually meant.
Every day of Blank’s existence had been essentially the same. From the day he first awoke beneath the massive form of the Creation Forge, up to this morning, he had been given orders, told what to do, and when to do it. His life had had order, predictability. But not now. No one was there to tell him what to do, and for the first time in his life, Blank was afraid.
Chapter Three
In the beginning, Blank stayed with his unit as they began to explore. None understood the purpose of the pouch of metal disks they had been given, so they did not particularly care when, one by one, the pouches were taken from them. Although all Warforged could read written orders, their releasal papers proved equally useless.
And life on the outside was… confusing. The Warforged were used to strict, orderly conduct and purpose. The outside world though was chaotic. People came and went without rhyme or reason. Those that did not run away from them, screaming, that is. Those that didn’t run were often hostile towards them, although their attacks were mainly limited to thrown fruits and vegetables. Blank and the other Warforged did their best to avoid encampments of humans after a time.
As time passed, the unit began to fragment. Some simply vanished into the night, alone. Others, including the Warforged that knew how to make repairs, were destroyed by angry mobs. In short order, Blank found himself alone in his wanderings. Unable to perform even basic repairs upon himself, Blank’s body began to wear down. His once shining plate had long since been covered in the muck and grime of the world, and there was little he could do about it.
He found that the humans did not react as harshly to a single Warforged as they did to a group of them, but they still showed him nothing but hatred and disgust. Blank could see them laughing from far away, but he did not understand it. Happiness, anger, it was all alien to one that knew only fear, and despair.
Time passed, as it often does, and still Blank wandered. Not needing food nor rest, and with no place that would even allow him to stop, he had little choice. He longed for the simple life of order that he had been forcibly evicted from. He now found himself, as often as not, sitting in back alleys as the rain pelted down on his shoulders, or on the side of a sun parched road. Sitting, and looking inside of himself for answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask, and found only the vast expanse of nothingness looking back at him. Blank wondered what it would be like to no longer exist.
Until one day. He was sitting, alone, in the alley of some city, he knew not which, nor did he care. The scuff of footsteps made him flinch (if a Warforged was capable of such a thing, that is) as he looked up, expecting another kick, or thrown object. Instead, he saw something new. A slightly balding man stood there, but there was something about his eyes. Blank knew the look of fear, he knew the look of hate, but he did not know this look. It was a face full of pity, and sympathy.
When the man asked Blank to come with him, the Warforged did not argue, he simply followed. He was lead to a large building of grand design, and he stopped. Blank new he was not supposed to get near buildings such as this, the humans did not allow it. But, the man said it was alright, and to follow him, so Blank did as he was told, and took a bit of comfort from that fact.
Once inside, Blank was lead to a back room with a stone table. Several young men and women in simple robes entered, carrying cloths, tools, and water. With the utmost care, they cleaned the grime from his joints and fixed his hurts. Blank looked up at the man who had lead him in, and for the first time in many long months, spoke.
“Why have you done this? I have nothing of value to offer you.”
The man replied with the strangest answer that Blank had ever heard, one he could not then understand.
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
Chapter Four
After his repairs, Blank’s armor once more shown in the light, as it had once done in the morning sun in the barracks. He was shown to a simple room, with a bed, chair, and simple wooden desk. He was told that they were his, for as long as he felt that he needed them. These were the first things that had ever truly belonged to Blank, and he did not know how to reply.
For days, he simply sat in his small room, and watched the daily business of this place through his window. Things were still chaotic, but as he watched, Blank saw order as well. Things happened at roughly the same time every day, and he could see the daily chores of those that lived here. He watched the people start the day fresh, toil in the sun of the garden, and grow tired in the evening, to then retire to their own rooms for sleep. Then, they would do it all over again the next day.
Eventually, Blank began to walk some of the halls, and to go outside into the inner garden. On one such walk, he was passed by an old man, who carried a pair of water buckets across his shoulders with a wooden rod. Blank watched the man pass, and watched as he sat his burden down to rest. Without being told, he reached down and picked the water up, and asked the man where it should be taken.
“Ah, thank you my friend, may the Flame always light your path, but I will be alright, my bones aren’t so old yet, but I appreciate the offer.”
Flame? What flame? Blank looked around, but he could see no flame. There was the garden to his left in the sunlight, there was the stone covered walkway where he stood, and the wooden bench upon which the old man sat. There was no fire. When he asked the man what he meant, the old man simply laughed.
“Ho ho, metal man, don’t you even know where you are? You are in the great city of Flamekeep, and this is a temple of the Silver Flame, which lights our path and gives us guidance in our darkest hour.”
Guidance. That is what Blank had wanted, had needed since the day he was freed. After a brief talk, the old man conceded that if the Warforged really wanted to learn about the Silver Flame, that he was not the best one to do the teaching. Blank was introduced to someone the old man called “Father”, although it was quite apparent that this man was far too young to be the father of the elder. For the rest of the day, Blank listened, and he learned the purpose of the Silver Flame. To help those in need, as he had once been. To protect those who could not protect themselves, to be a light in the darkness.
Somewhere deep inside of himself, Blank felt something happen as he listened. There was a spark. Not a real one, but this was the closest comparison that he could draw. It wasn’t much, but after so long of having nothing inside of him, it was almost overwhelming to the Warforged. The Church of the Silver Flame existed to fight evil, that which was dark and wanted everything else to be dark as well. Over the next several days as he listened, Blank felt that initial spark grow larger, becoming a tiny glowing ember, and eventually a small flame, like that of a single candle in the night.
Finally, Blank understood what the main had told him the day he was brought to this place. The man had helped him, because it was the right thing to do! By the time all was said and done, Blank had committed himself to the Silver Flame. He had finally found a purpose to his life.
Chapter Five
Over the next few months, Blank devoted himself entirely to studying the scriptures of the Flame, and learning it’s ways. Even here he encountered those that showed him contempt for what he was, who called him little more than a sword without a battle. And, he realized, to some extent, they were right. He had been built as a weapon, built to fight. The War was over, but he still existed, he was still a weapon.
Regardless, he pushed on. And as he pushed, he found his own confidence growing. He learned that, to be taken seriously, he had no choice but to stand up for himself. If they thought he was a weapon, then that is what he would be. There was no denying what he had been made for. But now, he was his no longer a weapon of war, but a weapon of the light. And he was his OWN weapon now. Blank discovered that when he pushed, more often than not, he succeeded, and that emboldened him.
One thing held him back, however. Or at least he believed it did. His forehead was still engrained with the insignia of his unit from the War. He was, and would forever be, marked with the sign of what he had been. Or would he? It didn’t take Blank long to realize that he wanted nothing to do with what he had been, and wanted no reminders of being someone else’s tool. Two days later, he decided to do something about it.
One of the artisans of the temple was a metalsmith, whom Blank had befriended soon after arriving at the temple. It was from this smith, Galek, that he had learned to make his own repairs, and in the process, the intricacies of armorsmithing. Now he needed Galek’s help again. After Blank had detailed what he wanted done, Galek was reluctant. The procedure was not going to be an easy one, and it was going to be a painful one, even for a Warforged. Blank didn’t care, his had already decided, and over the months he had been at the temple, he had become rather bullheaded once his mind had been made up.
One week later, to the day, Blank was laying on a stonework table next to Galek’s forge. His steel and mithril faceplate now had a ring of holes drilled into it around his rune. A very unsettling thing, but it was nothing compared to what was to come.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, do it.”
Blank watched as the smith lifted the end result of a week’s work, a finely wrought crest bearing the emblem of the silver flame, made of rare flametouched iron, a holy metal, over his face, and laid it over his rune. As Blank found himself waiting yet one more time, he thought about how similar this must be to when a human dies, and the lid is slid over his coffin. Galek used a probe to line up the holes in Blank’s forehead to the holes he had drilled in the emblem’s outer edge. The symbolism of the death of the old and the birth of the new did not escape Blank as Galek drew a red-hot pin from his forge with utmost care.
While he was considering this, Blank’s head was filled with blinding, searing pain as Galek placed the still glowing pin into the hole, and slammed his hammer down, forever riveting it into place. The halls of the temple echoed with the unnatural sound of a Warforged screaming in pain. And then the next pin came. And the next. In all, five fiery pins were riveted into the Warforged’s skull, holding the symbol of his new faith in place. When it was all done, Blank ran his fingers around the edges of his new emblem, and realized that his old life was now truly gone. He needed a name…
Chapter Six
After the ordeal of having his emblem attached, Blank realized that he could do more. During the day, he developed his mind with the teachings of his religion, and the skills to repair himself from his metalsmith friend, Galek. At night, it was something different. He did not sleep, he didn’t need it, but he was still left with many long hours to himself, which he used to work on his body. Not as a human would work on his body, adding muscle, but in a much more literal sense. Many nights passed with the sound of his crafting floating in the air.
What plates he could remove, he did. Those that could not be removed, he reshaped. During this time, the Warforged wore heavy linen robes, concealing his unfinished body from prying eyes. A deadline was fast approaching, and he would have his new armor done in time for it, no matter what. Galek was the only one to have any idea what might be happening, as it was he that provided Blank with the extra steel, mithril, and other metals he required to finish his work. Then, early on the night before his deadline, Blank’s work was finished. He spent the rest of the night with a soft cloth and a ceramic jar of metal polish, and worked himself into a gleam before putting on his heavy hooded robe.
Chapter Seven
Blank stood in the stone hallway, fidgeting. It wasn’t something he had ever done before, but this was the single most important day of his life. Everything had to be just right, and he knew it. There is music in the air, a somber tune with an underlying current of boundless hope. There is a voice, someone is speaking, but not to Blank. Its coming from the next room, who’s door he new stands before. The music is climbing to a peak, and on cue, Blank drops his robe to the floor, throws open the heavy wooden doors, and strides into a warmly light temple filled with people.
The light gleams off of his rounded shoulder plates, and glints brightly off the gold trim of his gauntlet like hands. His bootlike feet click rhythmically on the floorstones as he strides purposefully towards the front of the chamber of the Silver Flame, where the man he once heard called Father stands. Where the man he now calls Father himself stands. Upon reaching the dais, the Warforged kneels, his heavy armor’s polish making it virtually glow in reflected light of the room as the Priest recites the blessings of the Silver Flame upon it’s newest representative.
The ceremony goes beautifully as he is charged with a lifelong duty to protect the innocent, to provide assistance wherever it is needed, and to defend the Light. Finally, at the end, the priest reaches a stumbling block.
“… here in the presence of your friends and your peers. Now rise…”
The Father stumbles, and then quietly says to the Warforged;
“I am afraid that I do not know what name you wish to serve the Flame in. What are we to call you now?”
Blank, who was Blank no longer, raised his head. He had been waiting patiently for this. He spoke in a strong, clear voice, the light in his eyes growing brighter with every word, until they were practically raging, like the flame that had grown inside the Warforged’s chest.
“Father, when I was first made, I was part of a greater whole. Together, we were as strong as the mountains themselves, or so we thought. One day, the mountain was sundered, and I found myself to be little more than a pebble, rolling down hill. When I had hit the bottom, I sank into the mud, and there I would still be if not for one man. He saw me, he picked the pebble up, and brought it here. While here, I was subjected to the Silver Flame, and my doubts and my fears were burned away, as the slag is burned out from the iron so that it can be shaped. I was forged strong as steel, and pure as silver into a weapon of the Light.
Now, I pledge myself to carry the Flame to others, so that they may be tempered, as I was. And from this purpose, I take my name. I am the Crucible, and through me the darkness shall be burned away, leaving only the Good behind, to shine forever in the eternal Light!”
Where the room was quiet before, now it is dead silent, save for the music. Not a single person dares so much as to breath as the Father smiles down upon Crucible.
“Very well. Then rise, Crucible, Defender of the Light, Paladin of the Silver Flame!”
The last words are almost drowned out in the thunder of applause and cheers that fill the room. The simple, unquestioning Warforged that was once a simple tool to be used until it broke, and replaced just as easily was gone. In his place stood a monument to perseverance and courage, gleaming in shining steel, gold, and flametouched iron. He was still a weapon, but now he was a weapon unlike any the world had seen before. And he was his own.
Character and Background by:
Edymnion
Prologue
Our story begins several years before the current day, during what we now call the Last War. Battles were fought daily, men and women died by the scores on both sides, while the Warforged soldiers marched relentlessly into the fray, unconcerned with if they lived or died. They had their orders, to fight until the battle was won. It is one such Warforged on which we shall focus our attention. Like the thousands upon thousands of other identical Warforged, this one has no name. However, that makes his tale a difficult one to tell, perhaps too difficult. So, for the ease of the listener and the teller alike, we shall refer to this nameless soldier simply as “Blank”.
Our tale opens with a recount of the days Blank spent in the war, but we shall not dwell on this, for in the grand scheme of things, it was unimportant. From there, we shall move on to Blank’s downfall, and the single act of kindness that would forever change, if not the world, than at least the life of a single soldier, who no longer had a purpose in life. Where the story goes from there, we do not yet know. That part of the story has yet to be written…
Chapter One
The day began in much the same way as yesterday had begun, and as the day before that had begun, and the day before that. Sunlight filters through the high, narrow windows, and falls upon the ceiling of the stark room he shared with nine other Warforged. As the light crawled across the ceiling and down the wall, Blank and his brethren stood motionless as statues, in neat and ordered rows. There were no beds, no chairs, no furniture or decoration at all in this room, merely four gray walls, and the stone floor upon which they stood.
Blank did not look around, he barely even thought, he simply waited. He knew that his unit were the only things in the room. Of his unit, half were general soldiers, their plating made from mostly stone with only small amounts of metal, covering only the most vital areas. The chorded darkwood, which served as their skin and muscle, stood exposed and vulnerable. Two were at the opposite end of the scale; great hulking masses of solid steel armor, with a layer of dark adamantine coating their central plates, like shadowy pewter.
The remaining three, including himself, were built as a balance between armor and maneuverability. Blank had no need of a mirror to know what he looked like, because he knew he was the same as these other two in every detail. The comparatively soft wood and chorded fibers were covered in sturdy steel plates reinforced in shining mithril. He was well protected. If not as heavily armored as the larger adamantine soldiers, he was faster and more nimble by far. As were his other two mithril brothers. Every Warforged had it’s place, from the brute strength of the adamantine line breakers, to the lightly armored foot soldiers, to his place as swordsman.
A human would have wondered what this day would hold, if it would be another silent day alone, if it would be a day of drills, or even if the unit would be called into battle. Blank, however, did not wonder. If something were to be done today, the human commander would come for them with their orders. If not, he would stand there, and wait for the next day. He was not happy, he was not sad. Neither excited nor bored. Blank did not question his existence, he simply existed, and followed orders. Little did he know, and impossible for him to predict, this day would not be like the others, not in the least.
Chapter Two
The door to the room opened, and the Warforged within snapped to a stance of attention at the same instant. The uniform crash of metal and stone echoed for several instants before dying. Blank looked straight ahead as his commander walked to the front of the room, and into his field of vision.
“Unit 733-2, Cyre Boarder Guard.”
The Warforged remained silent. The designation was correct. If it had not been, it was the duty of one of the basic model Warforged to respond with the correct unit information. There were many units such as his, and while rare, it was not unheard of for a commander to walk into the wrong storage room.
“By the terms of the Treaty of Thronehold, signed the 11th of Aryth, in the year of Galifar 996, the War has ended. Furthermore, the Warforged are officially recognized as sentient beings, with all of the rights and responsibilities thereof. You are each to be paid a sum of 100 gold galifars for your service to Cyre, and immediately released.”
With that, the commander turned, and left. Moving for the first time in days, several of the Warforged turned to look at each other, to see if the others had an answer. None did. A short time later, another human entered, and the Warforged once more snapped to attention. They were led outside of the compound to the training fields, to find other units similar to themselves, along with men standing behind tables with large bags. Blank and his brothers were arranged into lines, and cycled through to the tables. When his turn came, Blank approached as the man took a smaller purse and a scroll of paper from the main sack and handed it to him.
“One hundred galifars, and your release papers. Next!”
Before he really knew what had happened, Blank found himself, along with many others, standing outside the compound walls. They had not been given orders, and virtually all had returned to standing motionless outside the gates. They would have likely have stood there for days, had one of the human commanders not come out and told them that they had to leave the premise. Blank and his brothers were free, but no one had bothered to take the time to teach them what that actually meant.
Every day of Blank’s existence had been essentially the same. From the day he first awoke beneath the massive form of the Creation Forge, up to this morning, he had been given orders, told what to do, and when to do it. His life had had order, predictability. But not now. No one was there to tell him what to do, and for the first time in his life, Blank was afraid.
Chapter Three
In the beginning, Blank stayed with his unit as they began to explore. None understood the purpose of the pouch of metal disks they had been given, so they did not particularly care when, one by one, the pouches were taken from them. Although all Warforged could read written orders, their releasal papers proved equally useless.
And life on the outside was… confusing. The Warforged were used to strict, orderly conduct and purpose. The outside world though was chaotic. People came and went without rhyme or reason. Those that did not run away from them, screaming, that is. Those that didn’t run were often hostile towards them, although their attacks were mainly limited to thrown fruits and vegetables. Blank and the other Warforged did their best to avoid encampments of humans after a time.
As time passed, the unit began to fragment. Some simply vanished into the night, alone. Others, including the Warforged that knew how to make repairs, were destroyed by angry mobs. In short order, Blank found himself alone in his wanderings. Unable to perform even basic repairs upon himself, Blank’s body began to wear down. His once shining plate had long since been covered in the muck and grime of the world, and there was little he could do about it.
He found that the humans did not react as harshly to a single Warforged as they did to a group of them, but they still showed him nothing but hatred and disgust. Blank could see them laughing from far away, but he did not understand it. Happiness, anger, it was all alien to one that knew only fear, and despair.
Time passed, as it often does, and still Blank wandered. Not needing food nor rest, and with no place that would even allow him to stop, he had little choice. He longed for the simple life of order that he had been forcibly evicted from. He now found himself, as often as not, sitting in back alleys as the rain pelted down on his shoulders, or on the side of a sun parched road. Sitting, and looking inside of himself for answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask, and found only the vast expanse of nothingness looking back at him. Blank wondered what it would be like to no longer exist.
Until one day. He was sitting, alone, in the alley of some city, he knew not which, nor did he care. The scuff of footsteps made him flinch (if a Warforged was capable of such a thing, that is) as he looked up, expecting another kick, or thrown object. Instead, he saw something new. A slightly balding man stood there, but there was something about his eyes. Blank knew the look of fear, he knew the look of hate, but he did not know this look. It was a face full of pity, and sympathy.
When the man asked Blank to come with him, the Warforged did not argue, he simply followed. He was lead to a large building of grand design, and he stopped. Blank new he was not supposed to get near buildings such as this, the humans did not allow it. But, the man said it was alright, and to follow him, so Blank did as he was told, and took a bit of comfort from that fact.
Once inside, Blank was lead to a back room with a stone table. Several young men and women in simple robes entered, carrying cloths, tools, and water. With the utmost care, they cleaned the grime from his joints and fixed his hurts. Blank looked up at the man who had lead him in, and for the first time in many long months, spoke.
“Why have you done this? I have nothing of value to offer you.”
The man replied with the strangest answer that Blank had ever heard, one he could not then understand.
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
Chapter Four
After his repairs, Blank’s armor once more shown in the light, as it had once done in the morning sun in the barracks. He was shown to a simple room, with a bed, chair, and simple wooden desk. He was told that they were his, for as long as he felt that he needed them. These were the first things that had ever truly belonged to Blank, and he did not know how to reply.
For days, he simply sat in his small room, and watched the daily business of this place through his window. Things were still chaotic, but as he watched, Blank saw order as well. Things happened at roughly the same time every day, and he could see the daily chores of those that lived here. He watched the people start the day fresh, toil in the sun of the garden, and grow tired in the evening, to then retire to their own rooms for sleep. Then, they would do it all over again the next day.
Eventually, Blank began to walk some of the halls, and to go outside into the inner garden. On one such walk, he was passed by an old man, who carried a pair of water buckets across his shoulders with a wooden rod. Blank watched the man pass, and watched as he sat his burden down to rest. Without being told, he reached down and picked the water up, and asked the man where it should be taken.
“Ah, thank you my friend, may the Flame always light your path, but I will be alright, my bones aren’t so old yet, but I appreciate the offer.”
Flame? What flame? Blank looked around, but he could see no flame. There was the garden to his left in the sunlight, there was the stone covered walkway where he stood, and the wooden bench upon which the old man sat. There was no fire. When he asked the man what he meant, the old man simply laughed.
“Ho ho, metal man, don’t you even know where you are? You are in the great city of Flamekeep, and this is a temple of the Silver Flame, which lights our path and gives us guidance in our darkest hour.”
Guidance. That is what Blank had wanted, had needed since the day he was freed. After a brief talk, the old man conceded that if the Warforged really wanted to learn about the Silver Flame, that he was not the best one to do the teaching. Blank was introduced to someone the old man called “Father”, although it was quite apparent that this man was far too young to be the father of the elder. For the rest of the day, Blank listened, and he learned the purpose of the Silver Flame. To help those in need, as he had once been. To protect those who could not protect themselves, to be a light in the darkness.
Somewhere deep inside of himself, Blank felt something happen as he listened. There was a spark. Not a real one, but this was the closest comparison that he could draw. It wasn’t much, but after so long of having nothing inside of him, it was almost overwhelming to the Warforged. The Church of the Silver Flame existed to fight evil, that which was dark and wanted everything else to be dark as well. Over the next several days as he listened, Blank felt that initial spark grow larger, becoming a tiny glowing ember, and eventually a small flame, like that of a single candle in the night.
Finally, Blank understood what the main had told him the day he was brought to this place. The man had helped him, because it was the right thing to do! By the time all was said and done, Blank had committed himself to the Silver Flame. He had finally found a purpose to his life.
Chapter Five
Over the next few months, Blank devoted himself entirely to studying the scriptures of the Flame, and learning it’s ways. Even here he encountered those that showed him contempt for what he was, who called him little more than a sword without a battle. And, he realized, to some extent, they were right. He had been built as a weapon, built to fight. The War was over, but he still existed, he was still a weapon.
Regardless, he pushed on. And as he pushed, he found his own confidence growing. He learned that, to be taken seriously, he had no choice but to stand up for himself. If they thought he was a weapon, then that is what he would be. There was no denying what he had been made for. But now, he was his no longer a weapon of war, but a weapon of the light. And he was his OWN weapon now. Blank discovered that when he pushed, more often than not, he succeeded, and that emboldened him.
One thing held him back, however. Or at least he believed it did. His forehead was still engrained with the insignia of his unit from the War. He was, and would forever be, marked with the sign of what he had been. Or would he? It didn’t take Blank long to realize that he wanted nothing to do with what he had been, and wanted no reminders of being someone else’s tool. Two days later, he decided to do something about it.
One of the artisans of the temple was a metalsmith, whom Blank had befriended soon after arriving at the temple. It was from this smith, Galek, that he had learned to make his own repairs, and in the process, the intricacies of armorsmithing. Now he needed Galek’s help again. After Blank had detailed what he wanted done, Galek was reluctant. The procedure was not going to be an easy one, and it was going to be a painful one, even for a Warforged. Blank didn’t care, his had already decided, and over the months he had been at the temple, he had become rather bullheaded once his mind had been made up.
One week later, to the day, Blank was laying on a stonework table next to Galek’s forge. His steel and mithril faceplate now had a ring of holes drilled into it around his rune. A very unsettling thing, but it was nothing compared to what was to come.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, do it.”
Blank watched as the smith lifted the end result of a week’s work, a finely wrought crest bearing the emblem of the silver flame, made of rare flametouched iron, a holy metal, over his face, and laid it over his rune. As Blank found himself waiting yet one more time, he thought about how similar this must be to when a human dies, and the lid is slid over his coffin. Galek used a probe to line up the holes in Blank’s forehead to the holes he had drilled in the emblem’s outer edge. The symbolism of the death of the old and the birth of the new did not escape Blank as Galek drew a red-hot pin from his forge with utmost care.
While he was considering this, Blank’s head was filled with blinding, searing pain as Galek placed the still glowing pin into the hole, and slammed his hammer down, forever riveting it into place. The halls of the temple echoed with the unnatural sound of a Warforged screaming in pain. And then the next pin came. And the next. In all, five fiery pins were riveted into the Warforged’s skull, holding the symbol of his new faith in place. When it was all done, Blank ran his fingers around the edges of his new emblem, and realized that his old life was now truly gone. He needed a name…
Chapter Six
After the ordeal of having his emblem attached, Blank realized that he could do more. During the day, he developed his mind with the teachings of his religion, and the skills to repair himself from his metalsmith friend, Galek. At night, it was something different. He did not sleep, he didn’t need it, but he was still left with many long hours to himself, which he used to work on his body. Not as a human would work on his body, adding muscle, but in a much more literal sense. Many nights passed with the sound of his crafting floating in the air.
What plates he could remove, he did. Those that could not be removed, he reshaped. During this time, the Warforged wore heavy linen robes, concealing his unfinished body from prying eyes. A deadline was fast approaching, and he would have his new armor done in time for it, no matter what. Galek was the only one to have any idea what might be happening, as it was he that provided Blank with the extra steel, mithril, and other metals he required to finish his work. Then, early on the night before his deadline, Blank’s work was finished. He spent the rest of the night with a soft cloth and a ceramic jar of metal polish, and worked himself into a gleam before putting on his heavy hooded robe.
Chapter Seven
Blank stood in the stone hallway, fidgeting. It wasn’t something he had ever done before, but this was the single most important day of his life. Everything had to be just right, and he knew it. There is music in the air, a somber tune with an underlying current of boundless hope. There is a voice, someone is speaking, but not to Blank. Its coming from the next room, who’s door he new stands before. The music is climbing to a peak, and on cue, Blank drops his robe to the floor, throws open the heavy wooden doors, and strides into a warmly light temple filled with people.
The light gleams off of his rounded shoulder plates, and glints brightly off the gold trim of his gauntlet like hands. His bootlike feet click rhythmically on the floorstones as he strides purposefully towards the front of the chamber of the Silver Flame, where the man he once heard called Father stands. Where the man he now calls Father himself stands. Upon reaching the dais, the Warforged kneels, his heavy armor’s polish making it virtually glow in reflected light of the room as the Priest recites the blessings of the Silver Flame upon it’s newest representative.
The ceremony goes beautifully as he is charged with a lifelong duty to protect the innocent, to provide assistance wherever it is needed, and to defend the Light. Finally, at the end, the priest reaches a stumbling block.
“… here in the presence of your friends and your peers. Now rise…”
The Father stumbles, and then quietly says to the Warforged;
“I am afraid that I do not know what name you wish to serve the Flame in. What are we to call you now?”
Blank, who was Blank no longer, raised his head. He had been waiting patiently for this. He spoke in a strong, clear voice, the light in his eyes growing brighter with every word, until they were practically raging, like the flame that had grown inside the Warforged’s chest.
“Father, when I was first made, I was part of a greater whole. Together, we were as strong as the mountains themselves, or so we thought. One day, the mountain was sundered, and I found myself to be little more than a pebble, rolling down hill. When I had hit the bottom, I sank into the mud, and there I would still be if not for one man. He saw me, he picked the pebble up, and brought it here. While here, I was subjected to the Silver Flame, and my doubts and my fears were burned away, as the slag is burned out from the iron so that it can be shaped. I was forged strong as steel, and pure as silver into a weapon of the Light.
Now, I pledge myself to carry the Flame to others, so that they may be tempered, as I was. And from this purpose, I take my name. I am the Crucible, and through me the darkness shall be burned away, leaving only the Good behind, to shine forever in the eternal Light!”
Where the room was quiet before, now it is dead silent, save for the music. Not a single person dares so much as to breath as the Father smiles down upon Crucible.
“Very well. Then rise, Crucible, Defender of the Light, Paladin of the Silver Flame!”
The last words are almost drowned out in the thunder of applause and cheers that fill the room. The simple, unquestioning Warforged that was once a simple tool to be used until it broke, and replaced just as easily was gone. In his place stood a monument to perseverance and courage, gleaming in shining steel, gold, and flametouched iron. He was still a weapon, but now he was a weapon unlike any the world had seen before. And he was his own.
[thread=403354]Minor Conversion: Warforged Paladin[/thread]
So I can point somebody to it.
Interceptor the Warforged Monk
Entry 1
And so, I begin. A thought, a mental pulse, flashes through my core and is transferred to hand and then to paper. I sit, metallic joints folded beneath me in a cross legged position, and write.
I am unusual.
I am an Interceptor Class Mark 7. I do not understand why I was allowed to remain sentient, but my studies show all I should have been destroyed on the assembly line. However, I was not. While all of my sister Mark 7s were created, frowned upon, then scrapped, I alone was given a chance. I was shipped out and stood long hours in the shuddering belly of some iron beast, exited the cramped quarters into sunlight, then ushered along to the ‘front lines’. I made my way out onto the battlefield, unnoticed among the wave of steel. I hunted where I was told to, sometimes alone, sometimes among the Mark 8s. What an interesting bunch they are. Quiet, cold, almost emotionless. As I moved with them, I realized our differences, I reveled in the bloodshed, I found a place in the eye of the storm, a calm inside the maelstrom. They seemed bored by the ordeal. I often found myself reciting poetry in the heat of combat, and drawing strange looks.
Eventually however, mistakes were made. Someone noticed my differences, perhaps a particularly intuitive Mark 8. I do not remember much, although I know I was nearly dismantled completely. When I could move again, I knew things were different. I knew by the frost on my hands that winter had blown in, that I had been inert for months, or even years. I had forgotten my familiarity with my swords, how to crouch in the darkness without making a sound, how an arrow flew in the wind. My skill was dulled in the coma.
An interesting coincidence crossed paths with me though. A most remarkable man had found me on the battlefield and dragged me home. I sat for years propped against his backdoor. I am convinced he left me there even in lightning storms, since no mortal blow suffered in battle could have created the magnificent dent on my cranium. I sat there among weeds and rusting metal until he acquired the resources to repair me. His name was Rasic d’Cannith and he told me of my origins; how he had smuggled me off the assembly line, saving me from the fate that befell the other Mark 7s. I must admit, I admire the man. They had wanted to do away with my line, to eliminate me. Rasic told me it was because we derived joy from slaying, didn’t take orders well. It startled the customers. I read books and letters in his cluttered shops, some mentioning my Mark. “The mentalities of serial killers have no place in the minds of Canniths toy soldiers, a persuasive essay by Johanlin Sivas.” I tore that one in half. I am not just a killer. In an effort to prove so to Rasic, I am trying to find other hobbies, like this diary. Rasic has provided me with a pamphlet that he says will help. It speaks of calming exercises and meditations, contemplation and thought. With my now clumsy hands and the boredom of the stuffy little shop, I have given in and read it. Cover to cover. Many times.
So, here I am now. A warforged, alone, one of a kind. Intended for scrap metal, but sneaked out into the world to hunt. Dismantled, but given another chance. Now I have returned to one of the men who helped build me. My dulled edges still bother me. Accepting the fact that my assassination skills are gone, I have turned to what must be a desperate hope, what separated me from the Mark 8’s; my core and my spirit. Maybe I will find some achievement in my meditations. Perhaps, with the ultimate goal of mastering myself and achieving perfection, the warrior will return.
. Anyway, great job mate, thanks for posting !cheers
SeTh
PS: I have a party myself that I'm still fleshing out. Once finished I want to start an adventure where my players take these premade characters for a change and roleplay them instead of roleplaying their own inventions (and often just themselves) all the time.
I would be greateful if you could take a look at them, maybe help me here and there if they inspire you. (I would start a new thread ofcourse, not to spoil yours)
Btw, for anyone that is interested, I'm also making a mini for Crucible:
[thread=403354]Minor Conversion: Warforged Paladin[/thread]
Btw, if anyone is still interested, I FINALLY got around to finishing Crucible's mini. Check the link above, hit the last page, yadda yadda yadda.
I heartily encourage everyone to look and enjoy. Edy's paint work is excellent, definately worth the few moments of your time.
Bah, unless you're on CoolMiniOrNot, they're currently giving it a 4.3, below tabletop quality.
Bunch of snobbish S.O... nevermind.
Now I just need to find somebody that will draw me up a nice illustration of Crucible to put on the cover :D
I seem to recall that you are a fan of Rich Burlew's "The Order of the Stick" comics; you could see if any of the posters on the message boards over there would be willing to draw you a portrait in the OOTS style, or find a previous picture.
Bah, unless you're on CoolMiniOrNot, they're currently giving it a 4.3, below tabletop quality.
Bunch of snobbish S.O... nevermind.
;)
Actually, I'm not. I think you're referring to the website, or the thread? I forget where I saw it... Maybe a site referred to in a thread? :D
What do they mean by 'tabletop' quality? I did see some of the stuff show there (thread or site, whichever?) and it was good. But I think Crucible the fig has more character to it. Maybe because I know his character history, but the fig is really cool.
I seem to recall that you are a fan of Rich Burlew's "The Order of the Stick" comics; you could see if any of the posters on the message boards over there would be willing to draw you a portrait in the OOTS style, or find a previous picture.
Nah, I can do OotS.
In fact, I do do OotS. I had a mini Eberron OotS strip on the boards a while back.
I also enjoyed the elan, can we/I hear more about him aswell? :D
Great work man! You are very good at writing! Cheers!
Man I loved the warforged history! Any chance on writing some of his adventours?
I also enjoyed the elan, can we/I hear more about him aswell? :D
Great work man! You are very good at writing! Cheers!
Actually, I have tossed around the idea of writing a few short stories for them all. Maybe making a party out of all of them. We've got the zealous warforged paladin, the elan thats afraid of dying, the shifter with the wand...
If I would only get around to converting my faerun storm themed sorceress over to Eberron (which would give her a MUCH better fit as a half-elf with the Mark of Storms), I'd have a great little party going on!
Amythest, female Half-Elven Sorceress:
Show
"You noticed the ears, didn't you? Yeah, I'm a Khoravar, for what it's worth. Much to my father's shagrin, seeing as how he was human, and so was my mother. Yeah, you see the problem, right? Human plus human typically doesn't equal a khoravar, and my father knew it. Fact that we lived in the same quarter of Wroat as the Lylander enclave didn't exactly help matters either. My father always said I was adopted, but I think everybody pretty much put two and two together and figured out what happened, but dad kept the appearance up anyway.
Pretty normal childhood growing up. I always loved the rain though, and I don't know if you've ever been to Wroat or not, but it rains a LOT in Wroat. I loved splashing in the puddles. Still do, actually... Anyway, never was very close to my father. Oh, he was fatherly enough, in public where people could see, but in private, "distant" doesn't quite convey his attitude towards me. So, I spent most of my time as a child with my mother. Dad was a ledger, a book keeper for some minor noble or some such, and mom was a calligrapher. She had the prettiest handwriting you ever saw, and insisted that I learn to write properly as well.
Things were okay, until I was about 14, when mom died from the fever. Yeah, that one. For about a year after she died, I stayed with my father. Now that was a delicate situation, I can tell you that. Ever spend a year walking on eggshells? I did. Dad was distant when mom was alive, but with her gone, everything seemed to be my fault. Looking back at it now, I can't really blame him. I mean, people tell me I look just like my mother did at my age, except for the ears, and it must have been tough on him to have me constantly reminding him of what he lost. Especially when I also reminded him every day that he saw my ears that I couldn't have really been his. He never said it, didn't even talk about it when mother was alive, but I could see it in his eyes.
Then "it" happened. The one thing that he couldn't explain away to the neighbors. We were having a screaming match at each other, which had been getting more and more common, when suddenly the house was rocked by a blast of thunder. Which was odd to say the least, considering that was one of the rare days when the sun was shining in Wroat. He just sort of turned pale and took a step backwards, quite as a ghost, and I couldn't figure out why. He just mumbled something and left the room. It wasn't until I got to a mirror that I saw this.
*pulls down the top of her high necked shirt to show the base of her neck, and the sprawling lines of a dragonmark*
Its the Lylander dragonmark, the Mark of Storms they call it. No one would have put a blood member of House Lylander up for adoption, and everybody knew it. It was painfully obvious to anyone with eyes that my mother must have had an affair with one of the stormship captains, and there was no way dad could hide it anymore. As if that wasn't enough, turned out that I made the thunderclap. Didn't figure that out for a few days, but apparently the mark also came with some extras.
*holds up her hand as electrical sparks crackle up her fingers*
Seems I was also a sorceress. Dunno if the mark gave me the power, or if it was just a coincidence that they both appeared at the same time, but everything I can do seem to be tied to storms, so make of it what you will. Combination of the reminder of my... origins, and the fact that I was suddenly a lot more dangerous to have around, it was just too much for dad. Wasn't long before he kicked me out on the street. Oh, he gave me a big pouch of sovereigns and galifers and his best wishes, but he still kicked me out.
There I was, 15 years old, and alone on the streets of Wroat, and not a clue as to what to do. Ended up spending a few days at the Lylander enclave, the mark was more than enough to get me in the front door. But things got... uncomfortable... after a while. Wroat is infamous for political intregue and all that, and the enclave was no exception. It wasn't long before the half-elves were staring at me, and whispering behind my back, usually about who's daughter I must be. Nobody came forward, and they weren't about to have me move into the enclave for the rest of my life. Eventually, they very politely told me to leave. I bounced around for a few years after that, mainly staying with differant Khorvars for a few days, weeks, even months at a time. The hospitality of the khorvar may be famous, but its not unlimited.
I was pretty lucky, actually, what with being a sorceress and all. I don't even want to think what would have happened to me if I hadn't been able to defend myself from thieves and... worse types... with a flash of lightning or two. Eventually, it was a temple of Aureon that took me in. It was one of the priestesses there that helped teach me to control my powers. I had been using them out of instinct up until then, Elia helped me learn how to use them when I wanted, and more importantly, how NOT to use them when I didn't want them.
Elia, the priestess I was telling you about, she keeps telling me how I'm destined for great things, and that I can't "keep hiding here in the temple" as she puts it. That its a big world out there, and that I need to go out and see it. So, here I am.
Eh, my name? Well, the six forbid I shame my father any more than I have by telling people I'm connected to him. But, my mother always used to call me her little amethyst, because of my eyes. See? They're purple of all things, the same color as an amethyst. You know, a bit of a tweak, and it could be a name... yeah, call me Amythest."
Pretty normal childhood growing up. I always loved the rain though, and I don't know if you've ever been to Wroat or not, but it rains a LOT in Wroat. I loved splashing in the puddles. Still do, actually... Anyway, never was very close to my father. Oh, he was fatherly enough, in public where people could see, but in private, "distant" doesn't quite convey his attitude towards me. So, I spent most of my time as a child with my mother. Dad was a ledger, a book keeper for some minor noble or some such, and mom was a calligrapher. She had the prettiest handwriting you ever saw, and insisted that I learn to write properly as well.
Things were okay, until I was about 14, when mom died from the fever. Yeah, that one. For about a year after she died, I stayed with my father. Now that was a delicate situation, I can tell you that. Ever spend a year walking on eggshells? I did. Dad was distant when mom was alive, but with her gone, everything seemed to be my fault. Looking back at it now, I can't really blame him. I mean, people tell me I look just like my mother did at my age, except for the ears, and it must have been tough on him to have me constantly reminding him of what he lost. Especially when I also reminded him every day that he saw my ears that I couldn't have really been his. He never said it, didn't even talk about it when mother was alive, but I could see it in his eyes.
Then "it" happened. The one thing that he couldn't explain away to the neighbors. We were having a screaming match at each other, which had been getting more and more common, when suddenly the house was rocked by a blast of thunder. Which was odd to say the least, considering that was one of the rare days when the sun was shining in Wroat. He just sort of turned pale and took a step backwards, quite as a ghost, and I couldn't figure out why. He just mumbled something and left the room. It wasn't until I got to a mirror that I saw this.
*pulls down the top of her high necked shirt to show the base of her neck, and the sprawling lines of a dragonmark*
Its the Lylander dragonmark, the Mark of Storms they call it. No one would have put a blood member of House Lylander up for adoption, and everybody knew it. It was painfully obvious to anyone with eyes that my mother must have had an affair with one of the stormship captains, and there was no way dad could hide it anymore. As if that wasn't enough, turned out that I made the thunderclap. Didn't figure that out for a few days, but apparently the mark also came with some extras.
*holds up her hand as electrical sparks crackle up her fingers*
Seems I was also a sorceress. Dunno if the mark gave me the power, or if it was just a coincidence that they both appeared at the same time, but everything I can do seem to be tied to storms, so make of it what you will. Combination of the reminder of my... origins, and the fact that I was suddenly a lot more dangerous to have around, it was just too much for dad. Wasn't long before he kicked me out on the street. Oh, he gave me a big pouch of sovereigns and galifers and his best wishes, but he still kicked me out.
There I was, 15 years old, and alone on the streets of Wroat, and not a clue as to what to do. Ended up spending a few days at the Lylander enclave, the mark was more than enough to get me in the front door. But things got... uncomfortable... after a while. Wroat is infamous for political intregue and all that, and the enclave was no exception. It wasn't long before the half-elves were staring at me, and whispering behind my back, usually about who's daughter I must be. Nobody came forward, and they weren't about to have me move into the enclave for the rest of my life. Eventually, they very politely told me to leave. I bounced around for a few years after that, mainly staying with differant Khorvars for a few days, weeks, even months at a time. The hospitality of the khorvar may be famous, but its not unlimited.
I was pretty lucky, actually, what with being a sorceress and all. I don't even want to think what would have happened to me if I hadn't been able to defend myself from thieves and... worse types... with a flash of lightning or two. Eventually, it was a temple of Aureon that took me in. It was one of the priestesses there that helped teach me to control my powers. I had been using them out of instinct up until then, Elia helped me learn how to use them when I wanted, and more importantly, how NOT to use them when I didn't want them.
Elia, the priestess I was telling you about, she keeps telling me how I'm destined for great things, and that I can't "keep hiding here in the temple" as she puts it. That its a big world out there, and that I need to go out and see it. So, here I am.
Eh, my name? Well, the six forbid I shame my father any more than I have by telling people I'm connected to him. But, my mother always used to call me her little amethyst, because of my eyes. See? They're purple of all things, the same color as an amethyst. You know, a bit of a tweak, and it could be a name... yeah, call me Amythest."
Warning though, its a long one
Garrick Dorn, Human Rogue 1/Fighter X, Karnnathi
"Well, most of my past isn't something I'm too proud of. Lets just said I originally came from Aundair, where I did things I shouldn't have done, and was given the unnofficial option of leaving the country, or spending the rest of my life there, if I liked it or not. So, I left, and they were happy to be rid of me. For the better part of a year I bounced from place to place, still doing things best left unaddressed, until I heard about Fort Bones in Karnnath. They said that you could get a fresh start there. You could just walk in the front door, and you could sign up with no one questioning who or what you were. Well, like I said, I wasn't proud of the way my life was going, and this Fort Bones sounded like just like where I needed to be.
So, I crossed the border into northern Karnnath using a set of forged papers. Lets just say that nobody bothered to tell me to start out early in the year. Travelling during a north Karnnathi winter is damn near suicidal, but by the time I found that out, it was too late to turn back. Obviously I made it through, but its not something I'd want to repeat. Managed to scrape together enough galifers for the Lightning Rail, mostly by dishonest methods. It got me to Vulyar, and I walked the rest of the way.
When I first saw Fort Bones, it had to be one of the most horrifying things I'd ever seen. I mean, I grew up in Aundair hearing stories about the dead walking in Karnnath, but I had been in the country for months, and I hadn't actually seen any of them, until now. It was well named, the very walls themselves were made out of bones. Well, the walls were stone, but they were covered in bones of all kinds, including human. And on the tops of the walls, the dead wore armor as polished as the living, walking rounds. It was almost enough to make me turn back on the spot, but I had nowhere else to go.
So, inside I went. No one looked at me twice, nobody asked me what my business was, they didn't seem to care about one human walking in the front door on foot. I finally stopped somebody to ask how you signed up, but didn't get the first word out. He just looked me over, and told me to report to the administrative building, and told me how to get there. Once inside, it wasn't long before I was face to face with the Captain of the Skull. Meanest looking woman you've ever imagined. Didn't even bother asking who I was, or what I wanted, just asked me for my papers. She just scanned it down to where my false name was written, and asked me 'Garrick Dorn, do you relinquish all ties to whatever nation you hail from, and swear alliagance to Karnnath and it's king, Kaius the Third?' I said yes, mainly because this was not the kind of woman you EVER said no to, and that was apparent just by looking at her.
And with that, she absent mindedly tossed my papers into a brazier burning next to the table and told me I'd be issued new papers with my correct information on them. Next thing I knew, I was being issued armor, a sword, and shoved into the barracks. Didn't have a clue how to use any of it, never had to before. I was more the type to use a knife than a sword, and I was starting to worry that I had made the wrong choice. Especially when most of the other guys in the barrack wouldn't even talk to me. They all ignored me, actually, except for one of them.
Guess he saw my boots shaking, because he struck up a conversation, told me not to worry, that they'd teach me everything I needed to know in training. Khyber Week he called it. 'If you can make it through that, you can make it through anything.' Shook my hand by grabbing my arm, said he had duties to attend to, but if I needed somebody to talk to, he'd be back later. He was half way across the barracks, still pulling his boots on, when I remembered to ask him what his name was. Yelled around a mouthful of boot 'Jaron Gates' and was gone.
Few minutes later, the sergant came in, ordered us all into our armor, and outside for inspection. He wasn't amused to find out that I had no idea how to put on a breastplate, other than just putting it over my head. Chewed me out something awful while he cranked the straps about two knotches too tight and shoved me out the door. Was outside in the training field, doing my best to stand at attention when something out of a nightmare walked out. A man in a suit of black armor, covered in the bones of humans and elves. Deep voice echoed out of the closed visor, telling us that only the best would make it through the next week, with several veiled hints that the dead walking the walls didn't make it past Khyber Week either. It wasn't true of course, but it got the point across well enough. We had signed up for a year, and we were going to serve out that year one way or another.
Then I found out EXACTLY why they called it Khyber Week, because it was. It was pure khyber. No sleep, the more experienced troops yelling at us at every turn, and the constant drills. Marching, weapons training, armor training, combat training. I wasn't half way through the week, and I already felt like dropping dead, even if it did mean my body would walk the walls. But the man in the bone armor, the Bone Knight they called him, all he had to do was LOOK at you, and you kept going out of pure fear. Working yourself to death suddenly seemed infinately preferable to anything he would do to you if you failed.
And at night, when I was finally allowed to drag myself back to the barracks, Jaron was there with a bowl of hot gruel ready for me. Didn't know how he had the energy to go to the mess hall, much less bring anything back for me, but he did. Every single night. Didn't have the energy to talk much, but it was always fun to compare who got the worst bruise from training, something I unfortunately won more often than not.
I don't know how I made it through that week, but I did. So did most of the recruits, you didn't dissappoint the Bone Knight. The ones that did were never seen again. Oh, sure, we found out later that they were just kicked out of the fort and told not to come back, but at the time, it was a threat that was always lurking at the back of our minds. Anyway, end of the week, the Sergant was congratulating us, and telling us that it would get easier now, for a while. We'd be taught the finer points of combat, but that the hardest part of the training was behind us. You could hear the collective sigh of relief we let out from a hundred paces. Which turned out to be a BIG mistake. As if on cue, the Bone Knight came out from the side and roared that we were still inferior maggots. He walked down the ranks and glared at us. You couldn't see anything but his eyes surrounded by that black bone helm, but that was more than you wanted to see. He finally stopped right in front of me, of all people, grabbed my shoulder, and threw me out of formation.
'You, maggot! Show me what you learned, defend yourself!'
I nearly wet my armor at the sight of that monster coming at me with his sword bared. I barely had time to get my shield up to keep him from cutting me in two, and the blow still rattled through the shield and knocked me to the ground. Rolled to my feet like they had taught me and just barely avoided that sword from splitting my head open as it cleaved into the dirt. Got a few swings in, which just glanced off his own shield. 'This is insane' I thought, 'I don't know how to fight somebody like this!'. And I was right, the next instant my shield was in about a thousand pieces, and my arm felt like it was in similar shape. At least that was enough to make him stop his attack. He just laughed and called me pathetic. Grabbed my injured arm and yanked me up off the ground by it. 'Next time, I'll take it off!' he said, as his hand glowed and most of the pain vanished. Kicked me back towards the formation and told me to get back in line, and left.
Did I ever have a tale to tell Jaron that night, and a bruise running from my wrist half way up to my shoulder to prove it. Apparently he had already heard that the Bone Knight had picked me out, because he had some kind of salve from the medical building that must have been some good stuff, because it took the rest of pain out, and even cleared up most of the bruising.
For the next couple of months, we kept training, but at a slower pace. We learned the finer points of combat style, how to care for our armor and weapons, and the way the Karnnathi military worked. By the end, we were spending as much time reading books about tactics and the like as we were actually practicing fighting. That part wasn't so bad, actually, I even got paired with Jaron as a sparring partner.
When training was finally over, there was an elaborate cerimony where we swore a formal oath to Karnnath. Then, one by one, we entered a small stone building. And one by one, the others came out with a look of pride on their faces, and a wrapped bundle in their hands. When it was my turn, I walked into that small room, and there was the Bone Knight, and the door closed behind me. 'You again? So you made it all the way through, thats a surprise! Maybe even a mistake. Give me your sword!' So, I drew my sword and handed it to him. He looked it over, and told me that it was 'a sword of a proud cadet in the training of Karnnath' and that I had no right to weild it. He raised his knee, and snapped the blade in two like a twig. I was crushed, all of my work and training were going to be for nothing. Then, he did something odd. He stopped standing so rigid, reached into a container behind him, and pulled out a wrapped bundle just like the others had been holding. He unwrapped the top, revealing the pommel of a sword, with a silver skull decorating the hilt just below the blade. 'The sword of a cadet is not for you. You are now a full member of the Company of the Skull, and you will be outfitted as such!' He rewrapped the sword, and told me to report to the armory.
And I, like the others, walked out of that room literally beaming with pride. I had made it. Even the Bone Knight seemed proud. Not with me personally, but with the fact that I had passed the tests, that my training was complete. At the armory, they took my armor, that I had worn and cared for for months. The unadorned, plain metal vanished into a crate as they brought out a wonderful new suit, specially fitted just for me. It was dark steel, with a white laquered bone motiff that made it vaguely resemble a rib-cage. The right shoulder plate was fashioned into a stylized skull, the emblem of the Company. A similar shield was issued next, equally dark, also laquered with the skull emblem. Just like the ones worn by the men on the walls, both living and otherwise. Last thing they gave me was a new set of identification papers, with the once false name I now considered to be the new me written across the top. Garrick Dorn. Nationality, Karnnath. Order of the Skull.
I was moved from the cadet barracks into much more private quarters. Instead of sharing a room with a hundred, it seemed I was to share a room with only one other. You could imagine my relief when Jaron walked into the room. First thing he said was 'Wow, a lot nicer than the cadet barracks, isn't it?' Same thing I had been thinking. I didn't know if there had been a mistake or what, but we were in some of the finest quarters I had ever seen in the fort, which still wasn't lavish by any stretch of the imagination, though.
Apparently Jaron had already been to the quarters, as he flopped himself down on one of the beds without a second thought. Said we had better get some sleep, that we had patrol duty in the morning. So, I carefully packed my new armor and sword into the foot locker, and we called it a night. Next morning, I woke up from a pillow in the face and Jaron telling me to get up already. I was so eager to try on my armor, I finished my shower and was back in our room, halfway into the armor before he even walked in the door. Laughed at me for being too eager, and said 'Since you're already done with yours, help me put mine on, will ya?'.
I nearly dropped my new sword onto the stone tile out of shock.
Jaron had opened his chest, and was pulling out a pair of gauntlets. Jet black, and covered in bone.
'What, you didn't think you got quarters this nice on your own, did you?'
Jaron, my best friend for the past six months, was the Bone Knight. The monster I had hated and feared was the same man I had compared injuries to and swapped horror stories about the Bone Knight with. Jaron, the Bone Knight, just chuckled as I numbly helped put his armor on. There was no doubt about it once he clicked the helm into place. This was no joke, this was no mistake. My best friend, and my worst nightmare were the same person.
Turned out that he liked to go through the motions of the training with recruits every so often to... how did he put it... 'keep in touch with normal people', or something like that. He took a shine to me from that first day, said I reminded him of himself when he had first reported for mandatory military service when he was younger, and that he had seen real promise in me after our little duel. I was still half in shock when he took the helmet back off, slapped me on the back, and told me to get to the wall.
We stayed good friends, once I recovered from the initial shock, and he never did ask me about what I had done before I came to the Fort of Bones, which I never did truely thank him for. We spent a lot of time together on the wall, playing Conquerer while we watched the horizen for the elves. I don't know how many Valenar I killed while I was there, and I didn't really care. It became as much of a game as Conquerer, seeing how fast we could stop the damned elves in their tracks. My year of service came to an end, but I stayed on with Jaron, that was where I belonged.
Until the last big raid. The Valenar came five times as strong as they usually did, but Jaron and I rode out to meet them just the same, along with the other troops. Things didn't go well, for every one I struck down, it seemed like two more popped up to take his place, but we held. Then, one of them with a scimitar swung it like an axe, cut my sword in two like firewood. Jaron came through just then, and mowed the elf down before it could recover from it's swing, and then two more in quick succession. He took one look at the broken hilt of my sword, and tossed me his. A big black hilted sword, with as much bone on the hilt and back of the blade as was on the rest of his armor.
'Don't worry about me' he said, as he raise his hands and two of the fallen Valenar stood back up, 'I can take care of myself.' And he could, I knew that. So, I kept fighting. Unfortunately, I found out later that the other Valenar didn't take kindly to that act. They swarmed him on the other side of the field, there were just too many of the bastards. My friend Jaron didn't come back to our quarters that night, and he never would again.
After that, it just didn't feel right inside the Fort of Bones anymore. Every corner had a memory in it, memories I didn't want to be reminded of every time I turned my head. So, I requested extended leave, and here I am. I'm not ready to leave the Company of the Skull yet, but I couldn't stay there either."
Patting the hilt of his jet black sword, covered in bone, he continues.
"I've got some things I still need to work out, and a friend to honor as best I can. One day I'll return to Karnnath. Perhaps even to Fort Bone. But not today, and most likely not tomorrow. But some day."
"Well, most of my past isn't something I'm too proud of. Lets just said I originally came from Aundair, where I did things I shouldn't have done, and was given the unnofficial option of leaving the country, or spending the rest of my life there, if I liked it or not. So, I left, and they were happy to be rid of me. For the better part of a year I bounced from place to place, still doing things best left unaddressed, until I heard about Fort Bones in Karnnath. They said that you could get a fresh start there. You could just walk in the front door, and you could sign up with no one questioning who or what you were. Well, like I said, I wasn't proud of the way my life was going, and this Fort Bones sounded like just like where I needed to be.
So, I crossed the border into northern Karnnath using a set of forged papers. Lets just say that nobody bothered to tell me to start out early in the year. Travelling during a north Karnnathi winter is damn near suicidal, but by the time I found that out, it was too late to turn back. Obviously I made it through, but its not something I'd want to repeat. Managed to scrape together enough galifers for the Lightning Rail, mostly by dishonest methods. It got me to Vulyar, and I walked the rest of the way.
When I first saw Fort Bones, it had to be one of the most horrifying things I'd ever seen. I mean, I grew up in Aundair hearing stories about the dead walking in Karnnath, but I had been in the country for months, and I hadn't actually seen any of them, until now. It was well named, the very walls themselves were made out of bones. Well, the walls were stone, but they were covered in bones of all kinds, including human. And on the tops of the walls, the dead wore armor as polished as the living, walking rounds. It was almost enough to make me turn back on the spot, but I had nowhere else to go.
So, inside I went. No one looked at me twice, nobody asked me what my business was, they didn't seem to care about one human walking in the front door on foot. I finally stopped somebody to ask how you signed up, but didn't get the first word out. He just looked me over, and told me to report to the administrative building, and told me how to get there. Once inside, it wasn't long before I was face to face with the Captain of the Skull. Meanest looking woman you've ever imagined. Didn't even bother asking who I was, or what I wanted, just asked me for my papers. She just scanned it down to where my false name was written, and asked me 'Garrick Dorn, do you relinquish all ties to whatever nation you hail from, and swear alliagance to Karnnath and it's king, Kaius the Third?' I said yes, mainly because this was not the kind of woman you EVER said no to, and that was apparent just by looking at her.
And with that, she absent mindedly tossed my papers into a brazier burning next to the table and told me I'd be issued new papers with my correct information on them. Next thing I knew, I was being issued armor, a sword, and shoved into the barracks. Didn't have a clue how to use any of it, never had to before. I was more the type to use a knife than a sword, and I was starting to worry that I had made the wrong choice. Especially when most of the other guys in the barrack wouldn't even talk to me. They all ignored me, actually, except for one of them.
Guess he saw my boots shaking, because he struck up a conversation, told me not to worry, that they'd teach me everything I needed to know in training. Khyber Week he called it. 'If you can make it through that, you can make it through anything.' Shook my hand by grabbing my arm, said he had duties to attend to, but if I needed somebody to talk to, he'd be back later. He was half way across the barracks, still pulling his boots on, when I remembered to ask him what his name was. Yelled around a mouthful of boot 'Jaron Gates' and was gone.
Few minutes later, the sergant came in, ordered us all into our armor, and outside for inspection. He wasn't amused to find out that I had no idea how to put on a breastplate, other than just putting it over my head. Chewed me out something awful while he cranked the straps about two knotches too tight and shoved me out the door. Was outside in the training field, doing my best to stand at attention when something out of a nightmare walked out. A man in a suit of black armor, covered in the bones of humans and elves. Deep voice echoed out of the closed visor, telling us that only the best would make it through the next week, with several veiled hints that the dead walking the walls didn't make it past Khyber Week either. It wasn't true of course, but it got the point across well enough. We had signed up for a year, and we were going to serve out that year one way or another.
Then I found out EXACTLY why they called it Khyber Week, because it was. It was pure khyber. No sleep, the more experienced troops yelling at us at every turn, and the constant drills. Marching, weapons training, armor training, combat training. I wasn't half way through the week, and I already felt like dropping dead, even if it did mean my body would walk the walls. But the man in the bone armor, the Bone Knight they called him, all he had to do was LOOK at you, and you kept going out of pure fear. Working yourself to death suddenly seemed infinately preferable to anything he would do to you if you failed.
And at night, when I was finally allowed to drag myself back to the barracks, Jaron was there with a bowl of hot gruel ready for me. Didn't know how he had the energy to go to the mess hall, much less bring anything back for me, but he did. Every single night. Didn't have the energy to talk much, but it was always fun to compare who got the worst bruise from training, something I unfortunately won more often than not.
I don't know how I made it through that week, but I did. So did most of the recruits, you didn't dissappoint the Bone Knight. The ones that did were never seen again. Oh, sure, we found out later that they were just kicked out of the fort and told not to come back, but at the time, it was a threat that was always lurking at the back of our minds. Anyway, end of the week, the Sergant was congratulating us, and telling us that it would get easier now, for a while. We'd be taught the finer points of combat, but that the hardest part of the training was behind us. You could hear the collective sigh of relief we let out from a hundred paces. Which turned out to be a BIG mistake. As if on cue, the Bone Knight came out from the side and roared that we were still inferior maggots. He walked down the ranks and glared at us. You couldn't see anything but his eyes surrounded by that black bone helm, but that was more than you wanted to see. He finally stopped right in front of me, of all people, grabbed my shoulder, and threw me out of formation.
'You, maggot! Show me what you learned, defend yourself!'
I nearly wet my armor at the sight of that monster coming at me with his sword bared. I barely had time to get my shield up to keep him from cutting me in two, and the blow still rattled through the shield and knocked me to the ground. Rolled to my feet like they had taught me and just barely avoided that sword from splitting my head open as it cleaved into the dirt. Got a few swings in, which just glanced off his own shield. 'This is insane' I thought, 'I don't know how to fight somebody like this!'. And I was right, the next instant my shield was in about a thousand pieces, and my arm felt like it was in similar shape. At least that was enough to make him stop his attack. He just laughed and called me pathetic. Grabbed my injured arm and yanked me up off the ground by it. 'Next time, I'll take it off!' he said, as his hand glowed and most of the pain vanished. Kicked me back towards the formation and told me to get back in line, and left.
Did I ever have a tale to tell Jaron that night, and a bruise running from my wrist half way up to my shoulder to prove it. Apparently he had already heard that the Bone Knight had picked me out, because he had some kind of salve from the medical building that must have been some good stuff, because it took the rest of pain out, and even cleared up most of the bruising.
For the next couple of months, we kept training, but at a slower pace. We learned the finer points of combat style, how to care for our armor and weapons, and the way the Karnnathi military worked. By the end, we were spending as much time reading books about tactics and the like as we were actually practicing fighting. That part wasn't so bad, actually, I even got paired with Jaron as a sparring partner.
When training was finally over, there was an elaborate cerimony where we swore a formal oath to Karnnath. Then, one by one, we entered a small stone building. And one by one, the others came out with a look of pride on their faces, and a wrapped bundle in their hands. When it was my turn, I walked into that small room, and there was the Bone Knight, and the door closed behind me. 'You again? So you made it all the way through, thats a surprise! Maybe even a mistake. Give me your sword!' So, I drew my sword and handed it to him. He looked it over, and told me that it was 'a sword of a proud cadet in the training of Karnnath' and that I had no right to weild it. He raised his knee, and snapped the blade in two like a twig. I was crushed, all of my work and training were going to be for nothing. Then, he did something odd. He stopped standing so rigid, reached into a container behind him, and pulled out a wrapped bundle just like the others had been holding. He unwrapped the top, revealing the pommel of a sword, with a silver skull decorating the hilt just below the blade. 'The sword of a cadet is not for you. You are now a full member of the Company of the Skull, and you will be outfitted as such!' He rewrapped the sword, and told me to report to the armory.
And I, like the others, walked out of that room literally beaming with pride. I had made it. Even the Bone Knight seemed proud. Not with me personally, but with the fact that I had passed the tests, that my training was complete. At the armory, they took my armor, that I had worn and cared for for months. The unadorned, plain metal vanished into a crate as they brought out a wonderful new suit, specially fitted just for me. It was dark steel, with a white laquered bone motiff that made it vaguely resemble a rib-cage. The right shoulder plate was fashioned into a stylized skull, the emblem of the Company. A similar shield was issued next, equally dark, also laquered with the skull emblem. Just like the ones worn by the men on the walls, both living and otherwise. Last thing they gave me was a new set of identification papers, with the once false name I now considered to be the new me written across the top. Garrick Dorn. Nationality, Karnnath. Order of the Skull.
I was moved from the cadet barracks into much more private quarters. Instead of sharing a room with a hundred, it seemed I was to share a room with only one other. You could imagine my relief when Jaron walked into the room. First thing he said was 'Wow, a lot nicer than the cadet barracks, isn't it?' Same thing I had been thinking. I didn't know if there had been a mistake or what, but we were in some of the finest quarters I had ever seen in the fort, which still wasn't lavish by any stretch of the imagination, though.
Apparently Jaron had already been to the quarters, as he flopped himself down on one of the beds without a second thought. Said we had better get some sleep, that we had patrol duty in the morning. So, I carefully packed my new armor and sword into the foot locker, and we called it a night. Next morning, I woke up from a pillow in the face and Jaron telling me to get up already. I was so eager to try on my armor, I finished my shower and was back in our room, halfway into the armor before he even walked in the door. Laughed at me for being too eager, and said 'Since you're already done with yours, help me put mine on, will ya?'.
I nearly dropped my new sword onto the stone tile out of shock.
Jaron had opened his chest, and was pulling out a pair of gauntlets. Jet black, and covered in bone.
'What, you didn't think you got quarters this nice on your own, did you?'
Jaron, my best friend for the past six months, was the Bone Knight. The monster I had hated and feared was the same man I had compared injuries to and swapped horror stories about the Bone Knight with. Jaron, the Bone Knight, just chuckled as I numbly helped put his armor on. There was no doubt about it once he clicked the helm into place. This was no joke, this was no mistake. My best friend, and my worst nightmare were the same person.
Turned out that he liked to go through the motions of the training with recruits every so often to... how did he put it... 'keep in touch with normal people', or something like that. He took a shine to me from that first day, said I reminded him of himself when he had first reported for mandatory military service when he was younger, and that he had seen real promise in me after our little duel. I was still half in shock when he took the helmet back off, slapped me on the back, and told me to get to the wall.
We stayed good friends, once I recovered from the initial shock, and he never did ask me about what I had done before I came to the Fort of Bones, which I never did truely thank him for. We spent a lot of time together on the wall, playing Conquerer while we watched the horizen for the elves. I don't know how many Valenar I killed while I was there, and I didn't really care. It became as much of a game as Conquerer, seeing how fast we could stop the damned elves in their tracks. My year of service came to an end, but I stayed on with Jaron, that was where I belonged.
Until the last big raid. The Valenar came five times as strong as they usually did, but Jaron and I rode out to meet them just the same, along with the other troops. Things didn't go well, for every one I struck down, it seemed like two more popped up to take his place, but we held. Then, one of them with a scimitar swung it like an axe, cut my sword in two like firewood. Jaron came through just then, and mowed the elf down before it could recover from it's swing, and then two more in quick succession. He took one look at the broken hilt of my sword, and tossed me his. A big black hilted sword, with as much bone on the hilt and back of the blade as was on the rest of his armor.
'Don't worry about me' he said, as he raise his hands and two of the fallen Valenar stood back up, 'I can take care of myself.' And he could, I knew that. So, I kept fighting. Unfortunately, I found out later that the other Valenar didn't take kindly to that act. They swarmed him on the other side of the field, there were just too many of the bastards. My friend Jaron didn't come back to our quarters that night, and he never would again.
After that, it just didn't feel right inside the Fort of Bones anymore. Every corner had a memory in it, memories I didn't want to be reminded of every time I turned my head. So, I requested extended leave, and here I am. I'm not ready to leave the Company of the Skull yet, but I couldn't stay there either."
Patting the hilt of his jet black sword, covered in bone, he continues.
"I've got some things I still need to work out, and a friend to honor as best I can. One day I'll return to Karnnath. Perhaps even to Fort Bone. But not today, and most likely not tomorrow. But some day."
That's friggin' brilliant!Wow,amazing story.If you woudn't mind,I posted the backstory of one of my characters on another thread.If you get the chance,could you read it?Any comments are appreciated.There's a link to the thread in my sig.Thanks for the wonderful story.One question, if you don't mind. You didn't see Jaron as the Bone Knight coming, did you? Doubt you did, but when you found out, did the pieces click together enough to make it believable?
I didn't want to say it Edy, but I saw it coming as soon as he broke the sword. Before that I had my suspicions, but when I really think about that one aspect, its pretty obvious, just the sort of story that a future Karrnathi hero should have. With a story like that I'd actually expect him to be some long lost relative of Kaius', or some other destiny of greatness.
One question, if you don't mind. You didn't see Jaron as the Bone Knight coming, did you? Doubt you did, but when you found out, did the pieces click together enough to make it believable?
First, awesome story, I wish I had your skills.
Yes I did see Jaron as the Bone Knight but then I have always been good at picking things like that out.
Most of the time when I do not get it is when the foreshadowing is so bad that what occurs is really out of place. You did a great job.
Physical Description
Show
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 176 lbs.
Age: 24
Garrick stands several inches short of six feet, and despite a well toned layer of muscle, he still has an appearance of having a somewhat slim build. Its not something that is immediantly obvious, but as you look, you definately get the impression that he was once much lankier than he is now, and that his current strength is a relatively recent addition to his frame.
Short black hair, which appears to have been recently washed and trimmed, matches his equally dark clothes. While unadorned, they appear to be thick, sturdy, and well made, if of relatively simple design. Which, when taken into account with his armor, is likely quite intentional. Ornate and highly polished, he wears a breastplate of dark steel, inlayed with with several lighter colored steel bands across the chest, which give it an almost skeletal appearance. The right shoulder plate, which has been sculpted into a stylized skull only reinforces the bone motiff. Had the clothing underneath been equally ornate, it would have simply been a distraction. As is, it perfectly accentuates the quality of the armor without being intrusive itself.
While the armor gives the appearance of being bone, the sword hilt his hand rests upon is another matter. It actually IS bone. Or more precisely, it has a large deal of bone worked into it's design. The steel pomel is nearly pitch black, wrapped in black leather studded with small bits of bone for grip. The hilt itself seems to have bone embedded directly into the steel as well. Its rather morbid, managing to look out of place on him, even despite the skeletal theme of his armor.
A heavy black winter cloak draped over the back of the chair next to him, combined with the proudly maintained armor and the overall impression of death can mean only one thing. He's Karnnathi, and a soldier from the looks of it.
Weight: 176 lbs.
Age: 24
Garrick stands several inches short of six feet, and despite a well toned layer of muscle, he still has an appearance of having a somewhat slim build. Its not something that is immediantly obvious, but as you look, you definately get the impression that he was once much lankier than he is now, and that his current strength is a relatively recent addition to his frame.
Short black hair, which appears to have been recently washed and trimmed, matches his equally dark clothes. While unadorned, they appear to be thick, sturdy, and well made, if of relatively simple design. Which, when taken into account with his armor, is likely quite intentional. Ornate and highly polished, he wears a breastplate of dark steel, inlayed with with several lighter colored steel bands across the chest, which give it an almost skeletal appearance. The right shoulder plate, which has been sculpted into a stylized skull only reinforces the bone motiff. Had the clothing underneath been equally ornate, it would have simply been a distraction. As is, it perfectly accentuates the quality of the armor without being intrusive itself.
While the armor gives the appearance of being bone, the sword hilt his hand rests upon is another matter. It actually IS bone. Or more precisely, it has a large deal of bone worked into it's design. The steel pomel is nearly pitch black, wrapped in black leather studded with small bits of bone for grip. The hilt itself seems to have bone embedded directly into the steel as well. Its rather morbid, managing to look out of place on him, even despite the skeletal theme of his armor.
A heavy black winter cloak draped over the back of the chair next to him, combined with the proudly maintained armor and the overall impression of death can mean only one thing. He's Karnnathi, and a soldier from the looks of it.
It well written and the internal facts work quite well and once you've read the whole story, it makes sense that Jaron was the Bone Knight
I especially like the part where he says that he participates in the recruit training to "stay in touch with the normal people". It really made sense, as a matter of facts it is what made it fit in, really. Made the character more "human". Although another reason might be that he (Jaren) simply wanted to train with them to keep in shape...or something. Aren't Bone knights semi-undead by the way?
Semi-undead, damn physics and damn that Schrodinger and his cat. As you may expect I have not seen the Bone knight yet. Looks cool either way. At least according to the word on the street
You really gave me urge to write something about a Knight of Thrane or something like that (a holy/royal knight)
Aren't Bone knights semi-undead by the way?
Only the very high level ones. Their bonecraft armor gives them some nice properties, and it permanently fuses into their bodies making them very undead-ish, but thats only at the highest levels. Until then, they can take it off and look normal.
You really gave me urge to write something about a Knight of Thrane or something like that (a holy/royal knight)
Heh, did you read Crucible's story, up near the top of the page? :D
By the way, am I the only one that thought of the french foreign legion ?
Well, considering the piece in Five Nations there at the end specifically says "This was inspired by the French Legion" was a bit of a give away, yeah :P
Only the very high level ones. Their bonecraft armor gives them some nice properties, and it permanently fuses into their bodies making them very undead-ish, but thats only at the highest levels. Until then, they can take it off and look normal.Heh, did you read Crucible's story, up near the top of the page? :DWell, considering the piece in Five Nations there at the end specifically says "This was inspired by the French Legion" was a bit of a give away, yeah :P
I read Crucibles and I loved it especially the end. I also liked the one about Overdrive, really cool and somewhat futuristic. But as the saying goes, it all good.
Either way you did a damn good job, I really enjoyed reading it and I really want to develop a character at Fort Bone (and I want read the 5 nations too, lookes awesome).
X'en'aal --
Show
Corporal X'en'aal Na'kiir – b. Zarantyr/20/877 in Metrol, Cyre.
(A first level elven fighter aimed at BOTH the Bladesinger and Arcane Archer prestige classes)
The Na'kiir family has lived and served in the Cyran Arcane Corps since before the reign of King Galifar. The family traces its line back to Aerenal, with ancient ties to the Valaes Tairn, but has lived in Khorvaire for over 1200 years. While predominately martial, there has always been a strong affinity for arcane magic in the bloodline. After Wroann's betrayal of Queen Mishann led to war, X'en'aal was raised as a camp brat, traveling with her parents in defense of Cyre. Her father, Qale [Ftr5], was a Combat Archer in the Arcane Corps Support, and her mother, Val'aana [Wiz8] was a Combat Wizard in the Royal Cyran Arcane Corps. Young X'en'aal served as a back lines courier and runner, always finding a way to be useful, and always managing to get in some training time. Surprisingly, she was a very happy child, loved both of her parents dearly, and was very proud of the important work they did for Cyre. She spent almost her entire youth following the 10th Brigade, First Division, Arcane Corps as they engaged Aundair, Thrane, Breland, and Karrnath. Alliances faltered, goblin mercenaries entered the war on all sides, Karrnath adopted the use of undead warriors, new nations formed… many things changed during the war, but the thing that disturbed X'en'aal and her family the most was the appearance of the Warforged. This development struck at the heart of the soldiering families pride. Man-made warriors? Abominations! Sure, they were coming from the Cannith forge in Metrol, and pouring to the front lines of the beleaguered nation, but at what price? X'en'aal felt much as her parents did about the warforged… until she met some. In person, these new beings were very understandable to the young elf: they were soldiers. Just like her.
The new warforged troops helped stem the slow downward plunge of the surrounded nation, but soon, everyone else had warforged as well. X'en'aal could feel her nation being slowly eaten by the carnivores on all sides. She could not stand by and watch it happen. In Zarantyr 982, just after her 105th birthday, X'en'aal ran away from camp. She made it to Easton, lied about her age, and joined the 12th Brigade, 7th Division, Arcane Corps; "Wands Ever Ready" easily qualifying as a fighter support/wizard trainee. She served under Captain Vynce Halkeson, NE mH Ftr3/Wiz2: a good fighter, a good wizard, a good trainer, and a coward. He was amazingly adept at interpreting his orders in the safest light possible. He was, therefore, deeply loved by his unit. X'en'aal hated him with a passion, trying desperately to get the unit to light a fire under his ass. The veterans of the 7th Wands were not convinced. The corps was actually very good at what it did, simply cautious about when to do it. X'en'aal spent the next 12 years fighting with them, distinguishing herself enough to earn several field promotions. Her role as Arcane Support was crucial, but not combat intensive. A division can only spare so many fighters to protect their magic-users, so these few must be very good. Towards the end of Olarune, the 7th crossed the Brey into Thrane, effectively cutting off supply lines to Arythawn Keep. They were supposed to lay siege to the Keep, but needed to wait for back-up. Late in the day of the 20th, they learned that back-up would not be coming – ever. Cyre was no more.
Their Commander quickly ordered a retreat, with the majority of the 7th holding position just south of the Brey. The Arcane Corps was ordered to make their way through Breland to the Cyran border to investigate the rumours of her annihilation. Four days later, the advance scout reported sighting the wall of mist. The captain ordered the corps to fall back and set up camp. X'en'aal had had enough. For the first time in her life, she disobeyed an order, sprinting headlong into the murky haze. She wandered in the cloying mist for what seemed to be days, tired, thirsty, disoriented, scared and lost. At last, the vapors thinned. Stepping from them, she stared out over a dead blasted plain. Nothing seemed alive. In the distance, the ruins of Easton bore witness to the terrible powers that had devastated her homeland. She decided to head for Metrol, to see for herself how much of her land was affected. Surely, the reports that the entire Kingdom lay cloaked in the mist must be an exaggeration, rumours fueled by fear. The bizarre energies pulsing through the land disturbed her greatly. By Dolurrh, what manner of magic was this? Only hours into her journey and at last, something moved. A purple mist thickened, humped upon itself, and rose up, turning as if aware of her, chaotic energies swirling through the heart of the churning fog. X'en'aal called upon almost a century of martial training, and choose the course her soldier's heart dictated… she ran. A week had passed by the time she made it back to Breland. Sinking to her knees on the hated Brelish soil, the tears finally fell. Her parents, Metrol, Cyre, the Queen… all gone? She found her unit. Several other wandering clumps of magic-users had joined up with her corps, with Capt. Halkeson doing his best to maintain order and morale. She reported her findings to him, suffered his wrath, but was not disciplined. He left to report her reconnaissance to the Commander. She found the Fighter Support tents, scrounged a quick meal, and collapsed into her bedroll, emotionally and physically exhausted. Sleep probably saved her life.
X'en'aal awoke to the sound of distant combat. The Thranes from Arythawn Keep had followed and attacked in the dead of night, exacting revenge for the months of losses from the 7th. It was a rout. The Cyran forces lacked the heart to put up a good fight, and scattered before the warforged infantry of the Thranes like frightened sheep. The 7th was no more. X'en'aal quickly surveyed the camp and realized it had been taken, the warriors moving about her all bore the Arrowhead of the Silver Flame. She worked her way to the quartermasters tent, quaffed a potion of invisibility, requisitioned a handful of curing draughts … then made her way out of the camp and into the night, heading south. The next day she stumbled onto an Orien Trade Route. A steady stream of bedraggled refugees headed west, towards Sharn. She joined them, questioning anyone who would let her for particulars. There were none. There were a thousand rumours and fantastical tales, but very little that seemed reliable. She pieced together a few facts though: -- The war was all but over. -- No one seemed to know who did this horrendous deed, and none had claimed responsibility, though each person seemed to have a theory. -- There did not seem to be any Cyrans alive that had been within the area covered by the mist, though several had ventured in afterwards as she had done. -- Persistent retellings concerning a battlefield in southern Cyre seemed to lend credence to the reports of entire armies laying where fallen; yet not seeming to be truly dead since they did not rot. --There was also the oft-told rumour that Breland was offering a place of refuge in Sharn. She walked along with the herd, her Cyran uniform drawing jeers and insults from the Brelish guardsman that patrolled the clogged roadway.
Sharn. City of Towers. Beautiful, majestic, exotic, magical… the city lived up to its reputation. But to the weary refugees from Cyre, herded like cattle into High Walls, it was a prison. The district had been a detention camp during the war, and the only discernable difference now was that the gates stood open. Otherwise, conditions had actually gotten worse due to the overcrowding. There was not enough food, not enough shelter, too many rats, too much disease, and far too many Brelanders. The city took them in, but not with open arms… more like the beggar that you toss scraps to out the back door and then allow to weather the storm on the porch with the dogs.
Corporal X'en'aal has lived in High walls ever since, nearly four years. She volunteered to help Capt. Narain and Greykell; helping Cala train a few of the remnants of the Cyran Army in the use of the rapier, and serving under Greykell in the High Walls Militia. Greykell was forced to order her to stop wearing her Cyran tabard and cloak, but she still wears her army issue studded leather, marked with the insignia of the 7th, the crossed wands of the Corps, and the Star of Cyre. This last sigil also blazes from the pommel of her army issue rapier. While she still hates all things Brelish, Sharn is now her home. Yet, she seldom ventures out of High Walls, whose confines feel reassuringly familiar to this child of war; camp life is all she has ever known. She does not know what the future holds. She has found no living relatives. For now, she is content to help here in High Walls; New Cyre seeming to her a sad echo she would rather avoid. She considered briefly journeying to Valenar, but came to the surprising realization that she has more in common with a peasant from Breland than she has with her distant warrior cousins. (It was rumoured by gossips in the 12th Brigade that the Na'kiir Family had maintained ties to the Valaes Tairn. It was also rumoured that Val'aana was instrumental in suggesting to Queen Mishann that she call upon them to aide Cyre. But it was not believed that the family, loyal to Cyre above all else, knew of the planned betrayal and formation of Valenar, so X'en'aal suffered no backlash from these suppositions.) There is one desire that burns constantly in the breast of this young fighter, to be there the day that vengeance is exacted for the wrong done to Cyre.
X'en'aal acts frequently as a bodyguard to one of the few success stories to come out of High Walls; Alana is an actress whose star is on the rise, dating a lesser scion of one of the Sixty, and drawing the attention of Lady Celyria herself. Ambassador Jairain has taken an interest in her career as a public relations boon to the Cyran community. Additionally, X'en'aal's best friend is Tyrala, the Cyran spymaster who lives in Ambassador Towers. She has aided Tyrala in some of her schemes and intrigues, but has had no difficulty in refusing to participate in a venture she feels is too extreme or shady. The two remain friends in spite of this, both driven by a still burning desire for vengeance that Capt. Narain and Greykell do not share. She is wary of Doras, whose outspokeness seems destined to enrage the Brelish authorities.
X'en'aal's personality: She is cocky, arrogant, honorable, steadfast, honest, abrasive, short-tempered, decisive, glib, flippant, cynical, & a smart-ass. While she does not have a chip on her shoulder, she will not hesitate to prove her skill if pushed. Usually, she will try to warn the victim, but not always. The armor and weapons she wears seem well worn, and well cared for, simple & functional. Deadly serious about her combat abilities, she is still fond of making sarcastic remarks during a battle, to either friend or foe. Although quite confident on the battlefield, she is well aware that she has plenty of room for improvement. That said, she also knows that she is a better fighter than 99% of the planet. Extremely competitive, she will participate in almost any test, and bet on almost anything. Just past her majority, 120, she appears about 15. The young corporal wastes no effort towards her appearance. Nearly asexual, she is rarely concerned with 'exchanging fluids'. On the rare occasions when there are seven or more full moons, she will feel 'urges', which one quick tussle with nearly any available male of any sort will dispel. She is inordinately fond of heights. She does not like adventurers, referring to them as 'Scavengers'; from her point of view they waste time and talent grubbing for gold. She has always labored for a purpose, the defense of Cyre, and now that this focus is gone, strives to find a new reason to drive her. (Other than, of course, her burning desire for vengeance.) X'en'aal has several possessions she prizes above all others: A Master Rapier fighter's manual given to her by her father. A spellbook and Arcane primer written for her by her mother. (Both found in her backpack when she arrived in Easton). Her Cyran Army Tabard & Cloak. She is also never without the Na'kiir family crest signet ring she was given on her 100th; or the simple bluestone necklace and elegant gold ring, (a dragon biting it's tail) which she received from her parents upon her promotion to Corporal in 993.
Expletives, which she uses often:
"By the Dragons!"
"Dammit to Dolurrh."
"Shitfire and shoot the griffon."
"Aureon knows."
"Onatar's Brass Balls!"
"Ahhhh, Siberys smiles on me."
"Did you see that? Dol Dorn's Longsword, I'm good!"
"Well struck, you Spawn of Khyber."
"Tys the wrath of Shavarath."
"That one's for Cyre!!"
"By the Five Nations."
"Mishann's Ghost!"
Personal Quote: "I kill you, then we talk. Or the other way 'round. Your choice."
Corporal X'en'aal Na'kiir – b. Zarantyr/20/877 in Metrol, Cyre.
(A first level elven fighter aimed at BOTH the Bladesinger and Arcane Archer prestige classes)
The Na'kiir family has lived and served in the Cyran Arcane Corps since before the reign of King Galifar. The family traces its line back to Aerenal, with ancient ties to the Valaes Tairn, but has lived in Khorvaire for over 1200 years. While predominately martial, there has always been a strong affinity for arcane magic in the bloodline. After Wroann's betrayal of Queen Mishann led to war, X'en'aal was raised as a camp brat, traveling with her parents in defense of Cyre. Her father, Qale [Ftr5], was a Combat Archer in the Arcane Corps Support, and her mother, Val'aana [Wiz8] was a Combat Wizard in the Royal Cyran Arcane Corps. Young X'en'aal served as a back lines courier and runner, always finding a way to be useful, and always managing to get in some training time. Surprisingly, she was a very happy child, loved both of her parents dearly, and was very proud of the important work they did for Cyre. She spent almost her entire youth following the 10th Brigade, First Division, Arcane Corps as they engaged Aundair, Thrane, Breland, and Karrnath. Alliances faltered, goblin mercenaries entered the war on all sides, Karrnath adopted the use of undead warriors, new nations formed… many things changed during the war, but the thing that disturbed X'en'aal and her family the most was the appearance of the Warforged. This development struck at the heart of the soldiering families pride. Man-made warriors? Abominations! Sure, they were coming from the Cannith forge in Metrol, and pouring to the front lines of the beleaguered nation, but at what price? X'en'aal felt much as her parents did about the warforged… until she met some. In person, these new beings were very understandable to the young elf: they were soldiers. Just like her.
The new warforged troops helped stem the slow downward plunge of the surrounded nation, but soon, everyone else had warforged as well. X'en'aal could feel her nation being slowly eaten by the carnivores on all sides. She could not stand by and watch it happen. In Zarantyr 982, just after her 105th birthday, X'en'aal ran away from camp. She made it to Easton, lied about her age, and joined the 12th Brigade, 7th Division, Arcane Corps; "Wands Ever Ready" easily qualifying as a fighter support/wizard trainee. She served under Captain Vynce Halkeson, NE mH Ftr3/Wiz2: a good fighter, a good wizard, a good trainer, and a coward. He was amazingly adept at interpreting his orders in the safest light possible. He was, therefore, deeply loved by his unit. X'en'aal hated him with a passion, trying desperately to get the unit to light a fire under his ass. The veterans of the 7th Wands were not convinced. The corps was actually very good at what it did, simply cautious about when to do it. X'en'aal spent the next 12 years fighting with them, distinguishing herself enough to earn several field promotions. Her role as Arcane Support was crucial, but not combat intensive. A division can only spare so many fighters to protect their magic-users, so these few must be very good. Towards the end of Olarune, the 7th crossed the Brey into Thrane, effectively cutting off supply lines to Arythawn Keep. They were supposed to lay siege to the Keep, but needed to wait for back-up. Late in the day of the 20th, they learned that back-up would not be coming – ever. Cyre was no more.
Their Commander quickly ordered a retreat, with the majority of the 7th holding position just south of the Brey. The Arcane Corps was ordered to make their way through Breland to the Cyran border to investigate the rumours of her annihilation. Four days later, the advance scout reported sighting the wall of mist. The captain ordered the corps to fall back and set up camp. X'en'aal had had enough. For the first time in her life, she disobeyed an order, sprinting headlong into the murky haze. She wandered in the cloying mist for what seemed to be days, tired, thirsty, disoriented, scared and lost. At last, the vapors thinned. Stepping from them, she stared out over a dead blasted plain. Nothing seemed alive. In the distance, the ruins of Easton bore witness to the terrible powers that had devastated her homeland. She decided to head for Metrol, to see for herself how much of her land was affected. Surely, the reports that the entire Kingdom lay cloaked in the mist must be an exaggeration, rumours fueled by fear. The bizarre energies pulsing through the land disturbed her greatly. By Dolurrh, what manner of magic was this? Only hours into her journey and at last, something moved. A purple mist thickened, humped upon itself, and rose up, turning as if aware of her, chaotic energies swirling through the heart of the churning fog. X'en'aal called upon almost a century of martial training, and choose the course her soldier's heart dictated… she ran. A week had passed by the time she made it back to Breland. Sinking to her knees on the hated Brelish soil, the tears finally fell. Her parents, Metrol, Cyre, the Queen… all gone? She found her unit. Several other wandering clumps of magic-users had joined up with her corps, with Capt. Halkeson doing his best to maintain order and morale. She reported her findings to him, suffered his wrath, but was not disciplined. He left to report her reconnaissance to the Commander. She found the Fighter Support tents, scrounged a quick meal, and collapsed into her bedroll, emotionally and physically exhausted. Sleep probably saved her life.
X'en'aal awoke to the sound of distant combat. The Thranes from Arythawn Keep had followed and attacked in the dead of night, exacting revenge for the months of losses from the 7th. It was a rout. The Cyran forces lacked the heart to put up a good fight, and scattered before the warforged infantry of the Thranes like frightened sheep. The 7th was no more. X'en'aal quickly surveyed the camp and realized it had been taken, the warriors moving about her all bore the Arrowhead of the Silver Flame. She worked her way to the quartermasters tent, quaffed a potion of invisibility, requisitioned a handful of curing draughts … then made her way out of the camp and into the night, heading south. The next day she stumbled onto an Orien Trade Route. A steady stream of bedraggled refugees headed west, towards Sharn. She joined them, questioning anyone who would let her for particulars. There were none. There were a thousand rumours and fantastical tales, but very little that seemed reliable. She pieced together a few facts though: -- The war was all but over. -- No one seemed to know who did this horrendous deed, and none had claimed responsibility, though each person seemed to have a theory. -- There did not seem to be any Cyrans alive that had been within the area covered by the mist, though several had ventured in afterwards as she had done. -- Persistent retellings concerning a battlefield in southern Cyre seemed to lend credence to the reports of entire armies laying where fallen; yet not seeming to be truly dead since they did not rot. --There was also the oft-told rumour that Breland was offering a place of refuge in Sharn. She walked along with the herd, her Cyran uniform drawing jeers and insults from the Brelish guardsman that patrolled the clogged roadway.
Sharn. City of Towers. Beautiful, majestic, exotic, magical… the city lived up to its reputation. But to the weary refugees from Cyre, herded like cattle into High Walls, it was a prison. The district had been a detention camp during the war, and the only discernable difference now was that the gates stood open. Otherwise, conditions had actually gotten worse due to the overcrowding. There was not enough food, not enough shelter, too many rats, too much disease, and far too many Brelanders. The city took them in, but not with open arms… more like the beggar that you toss scraps to out the back door and then allow to weather the storm on the porch with the dogs.
Corporal X'en'aal has lived in High walls ever since, nearly four years. She volunteered to help Capt. Narain and Greykell; helping Cala train a few of the remnants of the Cyran Army in the use of the rapier, and serving under Greykell in the High Walls Militia. Greykell was forced to order her to stop wearing her Cyran tabard and cloak, but she still wears her army issue studded leather, marked with the insignia of the 7th, the crossed wands of the Corps, and the Star of Cyre. This last sigil also blazes from the pommel of her army issue rapier. While she still hates all things Brelish, Sharn is now her home. Yet, she seldom ventures out of High Walls, whose confines feel reassuringly familiar to this child of war; camp life is all she has ever known. She does not know what the future holds. She has found no living relatives. For now, she is content to help here in High Walls; New Cyre seeming to her a sad echo she would rather avoid. She considered briefly journeying to Valenar, but came to the surprising realization that she has more in common with a peasant from Breland than she has with her distant warrior cousins. (It was rumoured by gossips in the 12th Brigade that the Na'kiir Family had maintained ties to the Valaes Tairn. It was also rumoured that Val'aana was instrumental in suggesting to Queen Mishann that she call upon them to aide Cyre. But it was not believed that the family, loyal to Cyre above all else, knew of the planned betrayal and formation of Valenar, so X'en'aal suffered no backlash from these suppositions.) There is one desire that burns constantly in the breast of this young fighter, to be there the day that vengeance is exacted for the wrong done to Cyre.
X'en'aal acts frequently as a bodyguard to one of the few success stories to come out of High Walls; Alana is an actress whose star is on the rise, dating a lesser scion of one of the Sixty, and drawing the attention of Lady Celyria herself. Ambassador Jairain has taken an interest in her career as a public relations boon to the Cyran community. Additionally, X'en'aal's best friend is Tyrala, the Cyran spymaster who lives in Ambassador Towers. She has aided Tyrala in some of her schemes and intrigues, but has had no difficulty in refusing to participate in a venture she feels is too extreme or shady. The two remain friends in spite of this, both driven by a still burning desire for vengeance that Capt. Narain and Greykell do not share. She is wary of Doras, whose outspokeness seems destined to enrage the Brelish authorities.
X'en'aal's personality: She is cocky, arrogant, honorable, steadfast, honest, abrasive, short-tempered, decisive, glib, flippant, cynical, & a smart-ass. While she does not have a chip on her shoulder, she will not hesitate to prove her skill if pushed. Usually, she will try to warn the victim, but not always. The armor and weapons she wears seem well worn, and well cared for, simple & functional. Deadly serious about her combat abilities, she is still fond of making sarcastic remarks during a battle, to either friend or foe. Although quite confident on the battlefield, she is well aware that she has plenty of room for improvement. That said, she also knows that she is a better fighter than 99% of the planet. Extremely competitive, she will participate in almost any test, and bet on almost anything. Just past her majority, 120, she appears about 15. The young corporal wastes no effort towards her appearance. Nearly asexual, she is rarely concerned with 'exchanging fluids'. On the rare occasions when there are seven or more full moons, she will feel 'urges', which one quick tussle with nearly any available male of any sort will dispel. She is inordinately fond of heights. She does not like adventurers, referring to them as 'Scavengers'; from her point of view they waste time and talent grubbing for gold. She has always labored for a purpose, the defense of Cyre, and now that this focus is gone, strives to find a new reason to drive her. (Other than, of course, her burning desire for vengeance.) X'en'aal has several possessions she prizes above all others: A Master Rapier fighter's manual given to her by her father. A spellbook and Arcane primer written for her by her mother. (Both found in her backpack when she arrived in Easton). Her Cyran Army Tabard & Cloak. She is also never without the Na'kiir family crest signet ring she was given on her 100th; or the simple bluestone necklace and elegant gold ring, (a dragon biting it's tail) which she received from her parents upon her promotion to Corporal in 993.
Expletives, which she uses often:
"By the Dragons!"
"Dammit to Dolurrh."
"Shitfire and shoot the griffon."
"Aureon knows."
"Onatar's Brass Balls!"
"Ahhhh, Siberys smiles on me."
"Did you see that? Dol Dorn's Longsword, I'm good!"
"Well struck, you Spawn of Khyber."
"Tys the wrath of Shavarath."
"That one's for Cyre!!"
"By the Five Nations."
"Mishann's Ghost!"
Personal Quote: "I kill you, then we talk. Or the other way 'round. Your choice."
You've actually inspired me with this character. I'll be making my own Cyre refuge. ((hopefully))
Well, I was definitely influenced by the City of Towers novel, specifically the character of Daine...
BTW: the expressions that X'en'aal uses were such a hit that I've expanded them... post them in a bit, along with that promised group of 4 (+ sort of an NPC Artificer)
get em up soon...
Kit, m Gnome Ranger:
Show
~~ Kitar Merren Sivis, "Kit", was born 8/21/937 (3rd Sar, Barrackas) in Newthrone, Q'barra. His parents, originally from Korranberg, are both in the service of Duke Ven ir'Kesslan; His father, Ensu Merren Sivis [NG mG exp3], is the Duke's Librarian, and his mother, Bitha d'Sivas [NG fG exp4], is Chief Accountant. Members of the Notaries Guild of House Sivis, Bitha also has a Least Dragonmark. They have been with the Duke for years, so they both made/survived the pilgrimage to Q'barra in 928. Kit is proud to be a native son of the colony. Although not eligible for official schooling in the Duke's household, Kit was a particular favorite of the Duke's Tutor, Samm Chaelson [N m½L exp4]. Samm raised Kit on stories of the glories of Galifar, as well as tales of Calazar Tash, the Talentan trickster hero. The young Kit also loved to read articles culled from the pages of the Korranberg Chronicle about expeditions to Xen'drik, the Demon Wastes, and the like. He was a rambunctious child, forever traipsing off into the jungle on adventures of his own devising, often oblivious to the only too real dangers around him. His mother swore he'd never reach 40.
~~ Newthrone seemed quite removed from the troubles of The Last War, except for the occasional arrival of refugees, deserters, and outlaws. The colony busied itself with just surviving and trying to establish a permanent home. This meant that Kit was hardly aware of, or even affected by, the war. Until, of course, the Day of Mourning. Not only the shock of such an unparalleled event, but also the following influx of displaced Cyrans, woke Kit out of his naiveté and made him sharply aware of the realities of the world outside Q'barra. Only 57 at the time, Kit ran away from home, jumped a lightning rail to Fairhaven (?), lied about his age, and managed to join the Aundairian militia. (He'd wanted to fight for Cyre, tried to go there first…) He was too late. The war was basically over. He spent a pointless year marching in circles, and then was released from active duty. He decided it was time for the country boy to see the Big City. With the help of his Drill Sergeant, Kit applied for, and was greatly surprised to be accepted to, Morgrave University. The support of his parents was crucial to this acceptance; as they were willing to help him do anything rather than be a soldier. (Especially after he failed to manifest a dragonmark during his 'Test of Siberys' on his 60th birthday. (Much to his relief!))
~~ Kit has enjoyed the past two years in Sharn. Early on, he managed to befriend a fellow student, Tiph, a changeling born in rural Aundair. The two of them have spent as much time rampaging in the city as they have studying, always just managing to avoid any serious complications. They now live in Center Bridge, Lower Menthis, in a cheap, small one bedroom flat. Kit takes the couch. Tiph talked Kit into forming a musical troupe with her, and that is how they met the darkly quiet elf, Seledra, and the hulking giant of a warforged, Ansirius. This quartet of misfits, called Red Dragon's Breath, have made a small success for themselves on the chamber music circuit, mostly in the more bohemian back-alley cafes. Things are looking up though, as they recently managed to land a gig headlining at the Ten Torches, on a Far no less, and were quite well received. But there is no doubt in any of their minds what the future holds: Not school, not music.... but Adventure!!
Political views: Wants Galifar united again. Considers Queen Wroann and Breland in particular, as well as Thrane and Karrnath, to be traitors to Galifar. Views Prince Oargev ir'Wynarn as the rightful heir to the throne of Galifar.
Expletives: "By the Five Nations!", "Sovereign Lords!"
Personal Quote: "Let's go!"
Future dreams: Wants to explore underwater Xen'drik ruins… believing them to be less pilfered.
~~ Kitar Merren Sivis, "Kit", was born 8/21/937 (3rd Sar, Barrackas) in Newthrone, Q'barra. His parents, originally from Korranberg, are both in the service of Duke Ven ir'Kesslan; His father, Ensu Merren Sivis [NG mG exp3], is the Duke's Librarian, and his mother, Bitha d'Sivas [NG fG exp4], is Chief Accountant. Members of the Notaries Guild of House Sivis, Bitha also has a Least Dragonmark. They have been with the Duke for years, so they both made/survived the pilgrimage to Q'barra in 928. Kit is proud to be a native son of the colony. Although not eligible for official schooling in the Duke's household, Kit was a particular favorite of the Duke's Tutor, Samm Chaelson [N m½L exp4]. Samm raised Kit on stories of the glories of Galifar, as well as tales of Calazar Tash, the Talentan trickster hero. The young Kit also loved to read articles culled from the pages of the Korranberg Chronicle about expeditions to Xen'drik, the Demon Wastes, and the like. He was a rambunctious child, forever traipsing off into the jungle on adventures of his own devising, often oblivious to the only too real dangers around him. His mother swore he'd never reach 40.
~~ Newthrone seemed quite removed from the troubles of The Last War, except for the occasional arrival of refugees, deserters, and outlaws. The colony busied itself with just surviving and trying to establish a permanent home. This meant that Kit was hardly aware of, or even affected by, the war. Until, of course, the Day of Mourning. Not only the shock of such an unparalleled event, but also the following influx of displaced Cyrans, woke Kit out of his naiveté and made him sharply aware of the realities of the world outside Q'barra. Only 57 at the time, Kit ran away from home, jumped a lightning rail to Fairhaven (?), lied about his age, and managed to join the Aundairian militia. (He'd wanted to fight for Cyre, tried to go there first…) He was too late. The war was basically over. He spent a pointless year marching in circles, and then was released from active duty. He decided it was time for the country boy to see the Big City. With the help of his Drill Sergeant, Kit applied for, and was greatly surprised to be accepted to, Morgrave University. The support of his parents was crucial to this acceptance; as they were willing to help him do anything rather than be a soldier. (Especially after he failed to manifest a dragonmark during his 'Test of Siberys' on his 60th birthday. (Much to his relief!))
~~ Kit has enjoyed the past two years in Sharn. Early on, he managed to befriend a fellow student, Tiph, a changeling born in rural Aundair. The two of them have spent as much time rampaging in the city as they have studying, always just managing to avoid any serious complications. They now live in Center Bridge, Lower Menthis, in a cheap, small one bedroom flat. Kit takes the couch. Tiph talked Kit into forming a musical troupe with her, and that is how they met the darkly quiet elf, Seledra, and the hulking giant of a warforged, Ansirius. This quartet of misfits, called Red Dragon's Breath, have made a small success for themselves on the chamber music circuit, mostly in the more bohemian back-alley cafes. Things are looking up though, as they recently managed to land a gig headlining at the Ten Torches, on a Far no less, and were quite well received. But there is no doubt in any of their minds what the future holds: Not school, not music.... but Adventure!!
Political views: Wants Galifar united again. Considers Queen Wroann and Breland in particular, as well as Thrane and Karrnath, to be traitors to Galifar. Views Prince Oargev ir'Wynarn as the rightful heir to the throne of Galifar.
Expletives: "By the Five Nations!", "Sovereign Lords!"
Personal Quote: "Let's go!"
Future dreams: Wants to explore underwater Xen'drik ruins… believing them to be less pilfered.
WARNING: R RATED for Language. If it bothers you, don't read em!!
Feel free to steal any of the quotes that have Eberron references or obvious DnD references... the other more personal one's I would rather you stole the idea, but made up your own, K? (N.B. -- See the post in Eberron Expressions thread if you really need to know which ones are fair game)
~~ Oh, and the numbers are so I can roll 'em randomly while playing... so far, it's been a hoot!
~~Oh the second -- Anything set off in parens I use optionally
"Wow" and CRITS:
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1) "By the Dragons!"
2) "Sarlona's Shores"
3) "Mishann's Ghost!"
4) "By the Five Nations!"
5) "Eberron's Eyes!"
6) "By the Fury!"
7) "(That one's)For Cyre!"
8) "Remember the Mourning!"
9) "(Did you see that?) Dol Dorn's Longsword, (I'm good!)"
10) "****-fire and shoot the griffon!"
1) "By the Dragons!"
2) "Sarlona's Shores"
3) "Mishann's Ghost!"
4) "By the Five Nations!"
5) "Eberron's Eyes!"
6) "By the Fury!"
7) "(That one's)For Cyre!"
8) "Remember the Mourning!"
9) "(Did you see that?) Dol Dorn's Longsword, (I'm good!)"
10) "****-fire and shoot the griffon!"
Okay, got a new PC that I'm going to be playing here shortly.
I'll have to ask that your forgive how clunky the background is, I basically started with the concept of "A warforged with a shovel" and went from there.
Mattock
”What are you waiting for? The Thranes will be here by morning, and you still don’t have the trenches dug yet! I don’t have to remind you about the Thranes and their longbows, do I?”
“No Sir, we’ll have it dug within the hour!”
Once the mounted officer had ridden out of sight, the conscripts slumped out of attention.
”Jackass… like we don’t know how a Thrane fights.
But I just spent an hour polishing these boots to pass his inspection, and there’s no way in Khyber I’m going to get them muddy digging a bloody hole just so he can rail on me again. Get the mattock, make him do it.”
The warforged were created to be tireless combatants, but even the best of intentions sometimes go awry. Mattock is just such a case. Prepared mentally and physically for front line combat, he found himself assigned to work details, spending hour after hour digging trenches, latrines, and graves, jobs the conscripted city dwellers refused to do. Over the months though, he actually came to enjoy the digging. Without the need to rest, he could do the job of a human in half the time, and it amused him to see how the humans would find ways not to do it, simply because it made them dirty. Although, he did wonder if some them were simply not intelligent enough to dig holes. When one ex-city dweller called his shovel a mattock, a totally different digging tool, and the name stuck, he began to think he was right.
But, what Mattock did during the war isn’t nearly as important as what he did after it. When the war ended, and he was declared “free”, he eventually found himself in a miner’s camp, and again found himself digging. Only here, he wasn’t judged on what he was, but on what he could do. The miners would run competitions with each other, to see who could dig the farthest, haul the most ore, or work the longest for that particular day. For them, it was a hotly contested game that made the time and the work pass more easily, but for Mattock, it was how he proved himself an equal. He could haul with the best of them, and while not the strongest by any means, he set records for the shear amount of work he could get done in a day. Even when the day’s work was done, the miners still weren’t done competing. And while they quickly discovered that trying to out drink a warforged was an… unwise idea, that didn’t stop Mattock from getting in on the story telling competitions. However, he didn’t actually know any stories, but he picked the basics up quite quickly, and soon was spinning tales as adeptly as anyone else in the taverns after work.
Several years passed while he mined. A pick or a shovel in hand during the day, and stories pouring out around a half smoked cigar during the night, Mattock took on many of the traits of the miners he was with. Just because he had no need to breath didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the strong odor and taste of a good cigar, and he took to having one on hand whenever he wasn’t in the mines. And while he did not need to wear clothes for protection or modesty, they did at least keep his mithril plating from taking a beating. Soon, Mattock had become virtually indistinguishable, at least in his mannerisms, from the other miners.
But, like all good things, his time in the mines ended. The vein they had been tapping unexpectedly ran dry, and the camp began to dismantle itself. The group he had come to consider his friends, his family, were splitting up, going to different jobs across Khovaire. Instead of joining them, finding another mine, and continuing on as he had, Mattock decided it was time to see some of the world he had been telling stories about. To live for himself things that he had only heard about.
His shovel in one hand, his pick in the other, and a cigar butt hanging from his mouth, he set out to see what the big wide world had in store for him.
“No Sir, we’ll have it dug within the hour!”
Once the mounted officer had ridden out of sight, the conscripts slumped out of attention.
”Jackass… like we don’t know how a Thrane fights.
But I just spent an hour polishing these boots to pass his inspection, and there’s no way in Khyber I’m going to get them muddy digging a bloody hole just so he can rail on me again. Get the mattock, make him do it.”
The warforged were created to be tireless combatants, but even the best of intentions sometimes go awry. Mattock is just such a case. Prepared mentally and physically for front line combat, he found himself assigned to work details, spending hour after hour digging trenches, latrines, and graves, jobs the conscripted city dwellers refused to do. Over the months though, he actually came to enjoy the digging. Without the need to rest, he could do the job of a human in half the time, and it amused him to see how the humans would find ways not to do it, simply because it made them dirty. Although, he did wonder if some them were simply not intelligent enough to dig holes. When one ex-city dweller called his shovel a mattock, a totally different digging tool, and the name stuck, he began to think he was right.
But, what Mattock did during the war isn’t nearly as important as what he did after it. When the war ended, and he was declared “free”, he eventually found himself in a miner’s camp, and again found himself digging. Only here, he wasn’t judged on what he was, but on what he could do. The miners would run competitions with each other, to see who could dig the farthest, haul the most ore, or work the longest for that particular day. For them, it was a hotly contested game that made the time and the work pass more easily, but for Mattock, it was how he proved himself an equal. He could haul with the best of them, and while not the strongest by any means, he set records for the shear amount of work he could get done in a day. Even when the day’s work was done, the miners still weren’t done competing. And while they quickly discovered that trying to out drink a warforged was an… unwise idea, that didn’t stop Mattock from getting in on the story telling competitions. However, he didn’t actually know any stories, but he picked the basics up quite quickly, and soon was spinning tales as adeptly as anyone else in the taverns after work.
Several years passed while he mined. A pick or a shovel in hand during the day, and stories pouring out around a half smoked cigar during the night, Mattock took on many of the traits of the miners he was with. Just because he had no need to breath didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the strong odor and taste of a good cigar, and he took to having one on hand whenever he wasn’t in the mines. And while he did not need to wear clothes for protection or modesty, they did at least keep his mithril plating from taking a beating. Soon, Mattock had become virtually indistinguishable, at least in his mannerisms, from the other miners.
But, like all good things, his time in the mines ended. The vein they had been tapping unexpectedly ran dry, and the camp began to dismantle itself. The group he had come to consider his friends, his family, were splitting up, going to different jobs across Khovaire. Instead of joining them, finding another mine, and continuing on as he had, Mattock decided it was time to see some of the world he had been telling stories about. To live for himself things that he had only heard about.
His shovel in one hand, his pick in the other, and a cigar butt hanging from his mouth, he set out to see what the big wide world had in store for him.
However, I want a background on how he came to have an adamantite shovel. ;)
Great background, Edy.
However, I want a background on how he came to have an adamantite shovel. ;)
Eh, screw that. I'll figure something else out for him.
Mattock is definitely giving him a run for his money, though!Ditto for picks.
I've got a couple of new characters, but the background stories are kinda trite and obvious, so I didnt care to post them... but thanks for reviving the thread!!
Nice work... I agree that it is a great take on the life of a warforged... nice description too. Great character! One of those character ideas that just seem to leap off the page and immediately come to life
Yeah, its why I want to play him. Thing is, his background just sounds so clunky and dopey to me. I wish I could refine it down to the level I did for Crucible or Kencaide, but oh well.
Can't have a short story background for every character I play :D
[thread=500559]Mattock's Custom Mini[/thread]
I'll have his story up soon as I get some time to nail everything down.
Probably during church tomorrow. You'd be surprised how many great holy character ideas I get while at church :P
Untill this night I was tiring of roleplaying and entering one of my prolonged "pauses" from "The game".. then I accidently surfed into your thread and now I'm so inspired I want to game NOW!
So allow me to renew my offer of marriage ;) You are truly all a gamergirl can dream off. (Gods, my BF would kill me if he ever read these threads *lol*)
So allow me to renew my offer of marriage ;) You are truly all a gamergirl can dream off.
Watch it girl, I'm almost desperate enough to take you up on that offer :P
And you can play right now, anything you want.
Go to www.rpol.net, make an account (its free), and you've got access to thousands of games, with the best damn setup for play by post that I have *EVER* seen.
I'm not just an unpaid spokesman, I'm also a member
Galen Reddeck, Warlock of the Silver Flame
Like many, Galen grew up on the streets during the War. Karnnath was not faring well in conflict, and she had called all of her children that could fight to her defense, and all too often, it was the grandchildren of Karnnath that paid the biggest price. His father had fallen during the war, his mother to the fever several years before. Now, Galen lived off of whatever he could steal. Bread, fruit, an occassional coin purse when he could get away with it, he was a street urchin, exactly like the countless others in the city. A dirty face in tattered clothes, someone you shoo'ed away before they could fill their pockets with whatever they could grab.
When a grimey copper could make the differance between sleeping indoors, or out in the streets in a Karnnathi winter, one could imagine Galen's reaction when he saw a man dressed in gold and silks in the market one day. Galen couldn't have been more than 12, but he knew that anyone dressed like that would have more money than he could imagine. Enough to get him... if not off the streets, at least enough to mean he would never be cold or hungry again. The rewards far outweighed the risks, so he worked himself up, and darted in through the crowd. The man was soft, never even noticed that his purse was gone, it was too easy! Of course, it wasn't. The purse was no more in his hand than a guard yelled out. He had been seen, but he hadn't been caught, not yet, and he ran. Ran for all he was worth and more, but he could hear the noble calling for his head, or the head of the guards if they let him get away, and from the way the guards plowed people over in the street to get to him, he had no doubt that he really was running for his life now.
The problem with running on an empty stomach though is that you can't do it for very long, and soon Galen was looking for a place to hide. He stopped to look, and heard the guards just around the corner, and dived through the nearest door. The air changed as soon as he was through the door. It was quiet, still, and warm. The place was small, and cheaply furnished, but everything was well tended and polished. There were wooden benches, and a platform in the front, and behind it a large flame symbol made from tin, polished well enough to shine like silver in the candlelight. Didn't matter, he had to hide, the guards would find him soon. Under one of the benches in the back corner it would have to be! He dived for it, and curled himself into a ball, as tightly and as far into the shadows as he could squeeze.
A door opened, but it wasn't the ones he had come through, it was off to the side. There were light footfalls, and he could see another kid standing there. No, this person had white in his hair, not a kid, but the size of one anyway. He was wearing rough linen, but it was bleached very near to being white, and he was barely beginning to show a wrinkle or two around his eyes.
"You don't have to hide, you know. If you need somewhere to stay for the night, you're welcome to stay here."
When Galen simply wimpered and shook, the little man simply looked concerned. "Are you in some kind of trouble," he asked? The coin purse sat like a lead weight, and the youth threw it out from under the bench, in front of the priest, thats what he must be, a priest.
The man reached down and picked the bag up, loosened the bindings, and poured some of the contents into his small hand. "Oh my..." His hand was filled with gold coins, gemstones, and more.
"Where did you get this?"
"From the man... I was hungry, and he didn't need it... then they chased me..."
He could hear the guards shouting outside now, checking everywhere.
"So you stole it."
"Yeah, but now they want to kill me!"
"Now now, I don't think its all as bad as that, now is it?"
A woman screaming outside and the crash of pottery was the only answer to the priest's question.
"I see..."
Moments later, the front doors were kicked open, and the two guards poured into the middle of the room, with the small holy man standing there with the pouch in his hands.
"You! Flamer, where did you get that?"
They didn't sound amused before, but now they were downright distasteful sounding. Galen was sure this little man would turn him in, and it would be all over. So, he did all he could do, he prayed to whatever god would listen to him, prayed so hard he was sure everyone should have been able to hear him. He was going to die. He didn't want to die, but he was going to die. Why wouldn't someone stop them?
Then, as if his prayers had been answered, he suddenly heard the last thing he could have ever expected.
"I took it. The chapel needed repairs, and I didn't have the money, so I resorted to stealing it."
"Damnable Flamers! Come with us!"
Galen closed his eyes, hard, but he could still hear what was going on. The guards struck the priest, repeatedly, until the man's small form collapsed onto the ground. Galen could hear them cursing the man, and dragging him from the small temple. It was hours before the boy could work up the courage to move from his hiding place. The men were gone, he was safe. There was blood on the floor, not much, but there was blood. The coin purse still lay on the ground, it's contents scattered. The guards hadn't cared about the money at all. Why had the little man done it? He had taken the boy's punishment, but why?
He didn't dare leave, and stayed in the temple that night. Come morning, he finally went outside and asked what had happened. A woman nursing a broken arm told him what she had seen. The guards dragged the small man back to the noble, who had ordered the thief executed. A sword through the heart had been the reward the priest had earned for protecting Galen, only to then be thrown on the trash heap like so much rubbish.
"Such a shame, Lorian always seemed like such a respectable halfling. But, a thief is a thief." That was all the woman had to say on the matter, and went back to her chores.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen! Why had the man... the halfling... LORIAN! done it? Lorian was more important than some street urchin... there was so much that the priest could have done, if not for Galen.
The boy returned to the temple. By now, the candles had burned down, and it was dark inside, save for a bit of light filtering through the high thin windows. The polished tin flame shone and sparkled in the thin light. Galen was on his knees in front of it, in front of the blood and the spilled coins. A good, innocent man of faith had been murdered because of him. A man who never even knew his name. Over a handful of lousy metal disks and pieces of rock.
Kneeling there in the darkness, the boy sold his soul. Not to the Keeper, but to man's memory. There was so much good that the man would never do, because of him. Galen swore that no matter what happened, he would do whatever it took to make this priest proud of him, to try and right the horrible wrong he had caused!
He had been taught to read by his mother, so he read the book on the alter, and took every word there to heart. The word of the Silver Flame. But, the Silver Flame was despised by many here in Karnnath, and there was so much of what he had read that he didn't understand. He had sworn, but how could he do anything when he didn't know how? Galen didn't know who he prayed to, but he asked for guidance, and he got it. Despite the fact that the room was closed, a breeze picked up the pages of the book, blowing them back to the first page. Astonished, Galen read the page over, but there was nothing there. Just the name of the book, who had copied it, and where. Where? Someplace called Flamekeep, in Thrane. That was the answer, he would go to this Flamekeep, and ask them. They would know.
It took him months, almost all of the coin and gems from the pouch, and more than a bit of pure luck to get through the fighting, but he finally found himself in Flamekeep, or the gates to Flamekeep at least. But there he was stopped, the guards wouldn't let a dirty street ruffian into the city. He told them that he had come all the way from Karnnath, and that he had to be let inside, but that was the wrong thing to say. The guards crossed their halbreds, and told him to leave, he had no business in this holy city.
It had taken everything Galen had to get here, and he had nothing more to give. He could barely see through his own tears as all hope rolled down his face, one drop at a time. He would never be able to keep his promise, Lorian had died for worse than nothing, just a stupid kid that wasn't even good enough to walk into this stupid city! No! Lorian had been a great man! He didn't die for nothing, it was these two that were wrong and stupid! They had no right to stand in his way!
Tears of hopelessness turned to tears of anger. Not the kind of anger he had had before, hot and burning, but a cool, righteous fury. He was on a mission, and he would not let some stupid guards keep him from it! Galen didn't even see the look of amazement on the guard's faces. He didn't know his hands were wreathed in flickering silver flames. All he knew was that he had to get through! Suddenly, he stood panting and staring at his own hands. He didn't remember why, but he had thrown his hand up, and a line of burning white flames had lept out and struck the guard square in the chest, knocking him flat on his back. No! Not again! Somebody else had died because of him! It wasn't until the second time that Galen heard the guard moan, and realized the man wasn't dead, only stunned.
Soon, men in white and silver robes came, and escorted him inside the city walls. The people were pointing at him and whispering, but he only half saw them. Things were going to fast for him, he couldn't keep everything straight. But it didn't matter, he was in Flamekeep, he was here, everything would be alright...
That was nearly ten years ago now. In that time, Galen had grown in both stature and faith. He had been examined and tested by almost every priest of the Flame in the city, and had even once seen the Keeper of the Flame himself, and had had to tell his story over and over again. They had said his ability to channel the Flame directly had been some sort of miracle, but as his faith had grown, so had his control. Now, standing once more at those same gates as he had so long ago, he could call to the Flame at will, and it would come to him. He had trained, and he had learned. Now, it was time to keep his promise.
Around his neck hung his most prized posession, a single ruby the size of the last joint of his little finger, now set in gold and silver. The last part of the purse that had been the turning point in his life. His constant reminder of the debt he could never repay. Because of Lorian's faith in him, he had sold his soul to the Silver Flame, and a memory he could never live up to, but he had to try.
With an upraised hand, he fired a gout of Silver Flame up into the sky, and let it burn for all to see. He might not be able to make up for his past, but in the name of the Flame, he was going to try!
When a grimey copper could make the differance between sleeping indoors, or out in the streets in a Karnnathi winter, one could imagine Galen's reaction when he saw a man dressed in gold and silks in the market one day. Galen couldn't have been more than 12, but he knew that anyone dressed like that would have more money than he could imagine. Enough to get him... if not off the streets, at least enough to mean he would never be cold or hungry again. The rewards far outweighed the risks, so he worked himself up, and darted in through the crowd. The man was soft, never even noticed that his purse was gone, it was too easy! Of course, it wasn't. The purse was no more in his hand than a guard yelled out. He had been seen, but he hadn't been caught, not yet, and he ran. Ran for all he was worth and more, but he could hear the noble calling for his head, or the head of the guards if they let him get away, and from the way the guards plowed people over in the street to get to him, he had no doubt that he really was running for his life now.
The problem with running on an empty stomach though is that you can't do it for very long, and soon Galen was looking for a place to hide. He stopped to look, and heard the guards just around the corner, and dived through the nearest door. The air changed as soon as he was through the door. It was quiet, still, and warm. The place was small, and cheaply furnished, but everything was well tended and polished. There were wooden benches, and a platform in the front, and behind it a large flame symbol made from tin, polished well enough to shine like silver in the candlelight. Didn't matter, he had to hide, the guards would find him soon. Under one of the benches in the back corner it would have to be! He dived for it, and curled himself into a ball, as tightly and as far into the shadows as he could squeeze.
A door opened, but it wasn't the ones he had come through, it was off to the side. There were light footfalls, and he could see another kid standing there. No, this person had white in his hair, not a kid, but the size of one anyway. He was wearing rough linen, but it was bleached very near to being white, and he was barely beginning to show a wrinkle or two around his eyes.
"You don't have to hide, you know. If you need somewhere to stay for the night, you're welcome to stay here."
When Galen simply wimpered and shook, the little man simply looked concerned. "Are you in some kind of trouble," he asked? The coin purse sat like a lead weight, and the youth threw it out from under the bench, in front of the priest, thats what he must be, a priest.
The man reached down and picked the bag up, loosened the bindings, and poured some of the contents into his small hand. "Oh my..." His hand was filled with gold coins, gemstones, and more.
"Where did you get this?"
"From the man... I was hungry, and he didn't need it... then they chased me..."
He could hear the guards shouting outside now, checking everywhere.
"So you stole it."
"Yeah, but now they want to kill me!"
"Now now, I don't think its all as bad as that, now is it?"
A woman screaming outside and the crash of pottery was the only answer to the priest's question.
"I see..."
Moments later, the front doors were kicked open, and the two guards poured into the middle of the room, with the small holy man standing there with the pouch in his hands.
"You! Flamer, where did you get that?"
They didn't sound amused before, but now they were downright distasteful sounding. Galen was sure this little man would turn him in, and it would be all over. So, he did all he could do, he prayed to whatever god would listen to him, prayed so hard he was sure everyone should have been able to hear him. He was going to die. He didn't want to die, but he was going to die. Why wouldn't someone stop them?
Then, as if his prayers had been answered, he suddenly heard the last thing he could have ever expected.
"I took it. The chapel needed repairs, and I didn't have the money, so I resorted to stealing it."
"Damnable Flamers! Come with us!"
Galen closed his eyes, hard, but he could still hear what was going on. The guards struck the priest, repeatedly, until the man's small form collapsed onto the ground. Galen could hear them cursing the man, and dragging him from the small temple. It was hours before the boy could work up the courage to move from his hiding place. The men were gone, he was safe. There was blood on the floor, not much, but there was blood. The coin purse still lay on the ground, it's contents scattered. The guards hadn't cared about the money at all. Why had the little man done it? He had taken the boy's punishment, but why?
He didn't dare leave, and stayed in the temple that night. Come morning, he finally went outside and asked what had happened. A woman nursing a broken arm told him what she had seen. The guards dragged the small man back to the noble, who had ordered the thief executed. A sword through the heart had been the reward the priest had earned for protecting Galen, only to then be thrown on the trash heap like so much rubbish.
"Such a shame, Lorian always seemed like such a respectable halfling. But, a thief is a thief." That was all the woman had to say on the matter, and went back to her chores.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen! Why had the man... the halfling... LORIAN! done it? Lorian was more important than some street urchin... there was so much that the priest could have done, if not for Galen.
The boy returned to the temple. By now, the candles had burned down, and it was dark inside, save for a bit of light filtering through the high thin windows. The polished tin flame shone and sparkled in the thin light. Galen was on his knees in front of it, in front of the blood and the spilled coins. A good, innocent man of faith had been murdered because of him. A man who never even knew his name. Over a handful of lousy metal disks and pieces of rock.
Kneeling there in the darkness, the boy sold his soul. Not to the Keeper, but to man's memory. There was so much good that the man would never do, because of him. Galen swore that no matter what happened, he would do whatever it took to make this priest proud of him, to try and right the horrible wrong he had caused!
He had been taught to read by his mother, so he read the book on the alter, and took every word there to heart. The word of the Silver Flame. But, the Silver Flame was despised by many here in Karnnath, and there was so much of what he had read that he didn't understand. He had sworn, but how could he do anything when he didn't know how? Galen didn't know who he prayed to, but he asked for guidance, and he got it. Despite the fact that the room was closed, a breeze picked up the pages of the book, blowing them back to the first page. Astonished, Galen read the page over, but there was nothing there. Just the name of the book, who had copied it, and where. Where? Someplace called Flamekeep, in Thrane. That was the answer, he would go to this Flamekeep, and ask them. They would know.
It took him months, almost all of the coin and gems from the pouch, and more than a bit of pure luck to get through the fighting, but he finally found himself in Flamekeep, or the gates to Flamekeep at least. But there he was stopped, the guards wouldn't let a dirty street ruffian into the city. He told them that he had come all the way from Karnnath, and that he had to be let inside, but that was the wrong thing to say. The guards crossed their halbreds, and told him to leave, he had no business in this holy city.
It had taken everything Galen had to get here, and he had nothing more to give. He could barely see through his own tears as all hope rolled down his face, one drop at a time. He would never be able to keep his promise, Lorian had died for worse than nothing, just a stupid kid that wasn't even good enough to walk into this stupid city! No! Lorian had been a great man! He didn't die for nothing, it was these two that were wrong and stupid! They had no right to stand in his way!
Tears of hopelessness turned to tears of anger. Not the kind of anger he had had before, hot and burning, but a cool, righteous fury. He was on a mission, and he would not let some stupid guards keep him from it! Galen didn't even see the look of amazement on the guard's faces. He didn't know his hands were wreathed in flickering silver flames. All he knew was that he had to get through! Suddenly, he stood panting and staring at his own hands. He didn't remember why, but he had thrown his hand up, and a line of burning white flames had lept out and struck the guard square in the chest, knocking him flat on his back. No! Not again! Somebody else had died because of him! It wasn't until the second time that Galen heard the guard moan, and realized the man wasn't dead, only stunned.
Soon, men in white and silver robes came, and escorted him inside the city walls. The people were pointing at him and whispering, but he only half saw them. Things were going to fast for him, he couldn't keep everything straight. But it didn't matter, he was in Flamekeep, he was here, everything would be alright...
That was nearly ten years ago now. In that time, Galen had grown in both stature and faith. He had been examined and tested by almost every priest of the Flame in the city, and had even once seen the Keeper of the Flame himself, and had had to tell his story over and over again. They had said his ability to channel the Flame directly had been some sort of miracle, but as his faith had grown, so had his control. Now, standing once more at those same gates as he had so long ago, he could call to the Flame at will, and it would come to him. He had trained, and he had learned. Now, it was time to keep his promise.
Around his neck hung his most prized posession, a single ruby the size of the last joint of his little finger, now set in gold and silver. The last part of the purse that had been the turning point in his life. His constant reminder of the debt he could never repay. Because of Lorian's faith in him, he had sold his soul to the Silver Flame, and a memory he could never live up to, but he had to try.
With an upraised hand, he fired a gout of Silver Flame up into the sky, and let it burn for all to see. He might not be able to make up for his past, but in the name of the Flame, he was going to try!
-X
Another great background story Edymnion, keep it up and WotC will be knocking at the ol' door in no time
Nah, WotC doesn't pay attention unless you get published. And the only way to break into getting published, really, is through Dragon Magazine. And since I personally don't like Dragon Magazine, the chances of me sending them anything are only slightly better than my chances of winning the lotto. (heh, and I don't buy lotto tickets)
So, I'll make my stories for myself, share 'em with you guys here, and thats as far as they'll likely ever go. I'm just a guy that writes, not a writer (there's a big differance). And while I would love to get to work on a real book for the game, I have no desire to jump through all of the hoops to get there.
I'm keepin' it real wit muh peeps :P
Do you have a technique to come up with idea's and flesh them out ?
cheers
Seth
Do you have a technique to come up with idea's and flesh them out ?
Yeah, I have a three part format which all my best backgrounds follow.
Part I:
What did the character do before they became adventurers?
Part II:
What made them stop being the way they were, and change course towards adventuring?
Part III:
How do they react to that turning point, and why don't they go back?
Crucible was "Warforged Soldier", "Kicked out and then rescued by Silver Flame", and finished off with "Becomes a Paladin".
Kencaide was "City guardsman", "Having a Quori bound inside him", and "Stop the Quori while guarding his prisoner".
Garrick is "Thug", "Joining Fort Bones, and losing Jaren", and "Goes out to honor Jaren's memory".
Galen is "Street urchin", "Life saved through act of self sacrifice", and "Trying to make up for a past mistake".
Basically, show how the character started life, show where they stopped being just another average background NPC, and explain why they keep going.
As for coming up with the ideas in the first place, I just keep my eyes and ears open for tidbits. For example, Crucible and Galen both came to me while I was in church (hence why they are religious characters). Garrick came from reading about Fort Bones in Five Nations and how it was the "Doesn't matter what you did before, we'll let you start over" angle. Kencaide was actually built around the idea of a character that threw his shield as his main weapon.
The rest is just having read a lot and knowing all the basic ways a character develops, and knowing when and where to throw something in.
Eshrie Kessler, Lawful Neutral Human female Dread Necromancer
In war, all sins are forgivable, if committed in the defense of your homeland.
A great leader is one who knows how to take his greatest weakness and turn it into his greatest strength.
During the great war, we made mistakes, and soon the dead outnumbered the living in the Karnnathi ranks. With the help of the Blood, Kaius proved his greatness by turning defeat into victory. The fallen warriors rose once more to defend their homes, and thanks to them, Karrnath was able to hold its own. But still, every able bodied citizen was needed to serve their time as a soldier, and that’s where I come in. I was 16 when I reported for duty, and I didn’t expect more than a few years as a cook, or maybe a medic. Even Karnnath wasn’t desperate enough to put a young girl on the front lines, after all. Yeah, until I was tested. No one was more surprised than me when they said I had the potential to be a sorceress. It wasn’t strong enough that it would have manifested on it’s own, they said, but strong enough that it could be trained. And in Karnnath, during the war anyway, wielding arcane power meant one thing. Necromancy. Someone had to raise Karnnath’s undead armies, and I was it.
So, I had some basic training, and then was snapped up by the clergy of the Blood to be taught to harness my inner power. They taught me everything from how the body is merely an empty shell after death to how truly horrible death really is. There is no wonderful place in the sky for the dead like the Host teaches. Eternal bliss for the good and eternal damnation for the bad is a fairy tale, we all go to the same place, only to have our souls fade away into nothingness. And that’s if you’re lucky, and the Keeper doesn’t take you. Obviously not something anyone wants, but the only way to avoid it is to not die. Luckily, I wouldn’t have to worry about that little inconvenience. Thanks to the Blood, I discovered the way out. I could live forever, growing stronger every passing day, until I rivaled the power of the uncaring gods themselves. Don’t listen to what the Flamers say, undeath is not a curse, it is a blessing! And with enough work, it could be mine.
That is, until Kaius lost his nerve. The Blood had protected Karnnath throughout the war, and once it was over, he turned on them. On us. Just because he was short sighted, too blinded by the moralistic dribble about the dead that so many of the unblooded hold to. As if some rotting pile of meat could ever be someone’s loved one. Everything that makes someone you love who they are is torn away at death, leaving behind nothing more than an empty container. When you open a gift, you don’t put the empty box up on display, you dispose of it, or re-use it for something else. Those unfortunate enough to succumb to death are gone, and they don’t come back. Of course, the blessing of undeath isn’t something to bestow upon someone unexpected. If the mind is not prepared for the shock of the transition, it can go mad, or be damaged beyond repair. These poor souls are to be pitied, but can still prove to be useful.
Its true, some members of the Blood become too caught up in their quest for undeath, and are willing to hurt and kill anyone in their way to achieve it, but these are the deviants. The Blood teaches us that death is a horrible thing, and visiting it upon the innocent is an evil beyond all others. Life is to be protected, at all costs save your own. But when someone threatens your path to divinity, they have willingly forfeited their lives, and the study of death means you become quite proficient in it’s many uses.
Death is a predator, more powerful than any wolf or lion. A predator set upon us all by uncaring gods who are afraid of our ability to potentially challenge their power. The rest of you may be sheep, but not me. When death comes, I plan to fight back, fighting fire with fire, death with death. Who knows, I don’t have to fight it forever. In time, even Death itself may die…”
A great leader is one who knows how to take his greatest weakness and turn it into his greatest strength.
During the great war, we made mistakes, and soon the dead outnumbered the living in the Karnnathi ranks. With the help of the Blood, Kaius proved his greatness by turning defeat into victory. The fallen warriors rose once more to defend their homes, and thanks to them, Karrnath was able to hold its own. But still, every able bodied citizen was needed to serve their time as a soldier, and that’s where I come in. I was 16 when I reported for duty, and I didn’t expect more than a few years as a cook, or maybe a medic. Even Karnnath wasn’t desperate enough to put a young girl on the front lines, after all. Yeah, until I was tested. No one was more surprised than me when they said I had the potential to be a sorceress. It wasn’t strong enough that it would have manifested on it’s own, they said, but strong enough that it could be trained. And in Karnnath, during the war anyway, wielding arcane power meant one thing. Necromancy. Someone had to raise Karnnath’s undead armies, and I was it.
So, I had some basic training, and then was snapped up by the clergy of the Blood to be taught to harness my inner power. They taught me everything from how the body is merely an empty shell after death to how truly horrible death really is. There is no wonderful place in the sky for the dead like the Host teaches. Eternal bliss for the good and eternal damnation for the bad is a fairy tale, we all go to the same place, only to have our souls fade away into nothingness. And that’s if you’re lucky, and the Keeper doesn’t take you. Obviously not something anyone wants, but the only way to avoid it is to not die. Luckily, I wouldn’t have to worry about that little inconvenience. Thanks to the Blood, I discovered the way out. I could live forever, growing stronger every passing day, until I rivaled the power of the uncaring gods themselves. Don’t listen to what the Flamers say, undeath is not a curse, it is a blessing! And with enough work, it could be mine.
That is, until Kaius lost his nerve. The Blood had protected Karnnath throughout the war, and once it was over, he turned on them. On us. Just because he was short sighted, too blinded by the moralistic dribble about the dead that so many of the unblooded hold to. As if some rotting pile of meat could ever be someone’s loved one. Everything that makes someone you love who they are is torn away at death, leaving behind nothing more than an empty container. When you open a gift, you don’t put the empty box up on display, you dispose of it, or re-use it for something else. Those unfortunate enough to succumb to death are gone, and they don’t come back. Of course, the blessing of undeath isn’t something to bestow upon someone unexpected. If the mind is not prepared for the shock of the transition, it can go mad, or be damaged beyond repair. These poor souls are to be pitied, but can still prove to be useful.
Its true, some members of the Blood become too caught up in their quest for undeath, and are willing to hurt and kill anyone in their way to achieve it, but these are the deviants. The Blood teaches us that death is a horrible thing, and visiting it upon the innocent is an evil beyond all others. Life is to be protected, at all costs save your own. But when someone threatens your path to divinity, they have willingly forfeited their lives, and the study of death means you become quite proficient in it’s many uses.
Death is a predator, more powerful than any wolf or lion. A predator set upon us all by uncaring gods who are afraid of our ability to potentially challenge their power. The rest of you may be sheep, but not me. When death comes, I plan to fight back, fighting fire with fire, death with death. Who knows, I don’t have to fight it forever. In time, even Death itself may die…”
Who knows, I don’t have to fight it forever. In time, even Death itself may die…”
Thank you miss Dread Cthulian Necromancer. ;)
Thank you miss Dread Cthulian Necromancer. ;)
;)
Heh, it was just too good of a quote not to work in somehow.
Show
In the beginning of time, the world was already old, and had grown corrupt beyond redemption. In the end of days, that was to become the beginning, the three great dragon gods fought for control. Siberys fought to redeem the world, Khyber to destroy it, and Eberron to make peace between her kin. In the end, Khyber shattered the world along with his sister Siberys, and Eberron wept as she was forced to bind her brother within her own coils. She looked across the emptiness, and saw nothing but wreckage, so she lifted up her voice and spoke. When she spoke, the land reformed around her. She spoke and spoke, transforming her own body into the foundations of the world, while her tears for her sister's fate filled the crevices and formed the oceans.
Thats what the stories say, anyway. It might even be true, for all I know. What I do know is that words do indeed hold great power, and that it is quite likely that the world really was spoken into existance, because some of those words are still remembered. The dragons know much of this universal language, and it was they who taught it to the giants of Xen'Drik to repel the other worldly invaders. And it was from the giants that the elves stole the words of power before escaping their bondage. It is true that several of the first Deathless could speak words of this true language, perhaps even using them to aid in their escape.
Essentially, those that know how can speak the language of creation, and the universe listens to them, granting the speaker the ability to rewrite creation as they see fit. Is is the oldest, most pure form of magic, and the hardest to master. Should I manage to learn to speak the language of the universe, my place within the Undying Council would be assured. The only problem is that true speech was never intended to be spoken with tongues such as ours, and our minds cannot possibly comprehend all of it's intricacies. But even the simplest of words and phrases hold enough power to rival the greatest of wizards, enough to lay low the mightiest of warriors.
All I need are the words of power, and my place in eternity is assured.
Thats what the stories say, anyway. It might even be true, for all I know. What I do know is that words do indeed hold great power, and that it is quite likely that the world really was spoken into existance, because some of those words are still remembered. The dragons know much of this universal language, and it was they who taught it to the giants of Xen'Drik to repel the other worldly invaders. And it was from the giants that the elves stole the words of power before escaping their bondage. It is true that several of the first Deathless could speak words of this true language, perhaps even using them to aid in their escape.
Essentially, those that know how can speak the language of creation, and the universe listens to them, granting the speaker the ability to rewrite creation as they see fit. Is is the oldest, most pure form of magic, and the hardest to master. Should I manage to learn to speak the language of the universe, my place within the Undying Council would be assured. The only problem is that true speech was never intended to be spoken with tongues such as ours, and our minds cannot possibly comprehend all of it's intricacies. But even the simplest of words and phrases hold enough power to rival the greatest of wizards, enough to lay low the mightiest of warriors.
All I need are the words of power, and my place in eternity is assured.
It was a miracle that I made it back from Thrane. Not surprising, given the theocrats’ convictions regarding the blessed nature of their land. I doubt they had this kind of miracle in mind, of course… but I should start at the beginning, instead of the middle (or the end, as it turned out).
My former life was as common a cliché as a man could conceive (a statement that is, itself, a cliché). Korth has more than its share of war orphans, and I am far from the only one who saw the Last War for what it was: a rich man’s war, but a poor man’s fight. I wasn’t about to go to the front to fight for the crown when my sister needed me at home. What “my sort” do is as important as any shining knight’s battlefield honors. The streets have hungers that cannot be satiated by propaganda posters. There will always be goods that need to be somewhere they aren’t allowed by the decrees of the rich and powerful. That is where men of my profession come into the picture. If we take our own –paltry!- share, who is to say we are any different than the wealthy relations of the noble houses, with their mercantile empires and fine mansions? We all had a justification for walking the dodgy path, and that was mine.
I had all I knew to ask for; a way with words that got me past innumerable guards and borders, the respect of careful men, and the fear of violent ones. A smuggler’s fair winds and a thief’s cloudy skies were mine more often than not. To the street children and beggars of the poor quarters, I was the Lucky Devil of Korth… not too far from the truth, it turns out.
Lucky or not, it was only a matter of time before our beloved ruler’s dogs sniffed me out and grew tired of keeping me in prison until someone bailed me out. I was surprised at how generous their offer seemed to be. Work for the crown for a rate that was almost fair, and no more nights sleeping on prison cots? It seemed a godsend, and I have to admit I was taken with the romance of it all. No one is above the seductive lure of becoming a “hero,” especially if it lines your pockets with gold along the way!
Again, my luck fueled a string of successes that seemed never to end – guards slept whenever a creaky floor would have revealed my presence, Thrane clerics stumbled in their incantations searching for the goods I carried, and arrows that seemed to fly true fell short at the last moment. Eventually it caught up with me, and my handlers “requested” something more than casual smuggling. With the wealth they offered I could have kept my sister in a lady’s fine home amongst the respectable merchants catering to Korth’s well-heeled nobility, perhaps even taken my place amongst the city’s dons. When they sweetened the deal – I could keep as much flametouched iron as was captured from the shipment – they had me.
Of course, things turned out very differently than planned. Little of the shipment survived, and I was in no position to carry any back with me. Two years in the clutches of the church inquisitors! Two years alone in the dark, a toy for the self-righteous fools to play out their fantasies of “saving” me… No feigned conversion of mine was sufficient to fool them, what I believed didn’t matter to them as much as what I was.
I prayed to Kol Korran to bring some mercantile, corrupt churchmen to me, someone who could be bought or bargained with! It wasn’t the Merchant’s Friend who answered me… The whispering in the darkness explained the heritage I bore, and the barriers I had erected within myself crumbled. The flamist inquisitors were in for a shock when they came to check on their plaything… The whisperer was as good as its word, even as Kol Korran failed me. The inquisitors fell by song and sword, and I suffocated each in the dark.
I wonder what Celia would think of her brother now? If I had escaped earlier, I might have known, and If the Thranes hadn’t vented their self-righteousness on the poor quarters of Korth, she would still be here.
All that remains is for the Lucky Devil to live up to his name, and one day I will.
Oh, sorry, wasn't watching where I was going, my fault.
;)
Bored, Edy? Heheh...
Just don't want it to fall so far back that it gets pruned next time around.
This is the extent of what I have on him so far:
Race: Dwarven
Class: Martial Rogue (variant rogue from unearthed arcana, trades sneak attack for bonus feats)
Basic premise:
Carries a heavy crossbow as his primary weapon (which would be nearly as big as he is), named "Bessy". He's a foundling with the Mark of Warding, and spams the daylights out of his mark's Firetrap ability. Sort of a gruff street level chicago police officer type personality, who sees locks as an inconvenience, has no problems with "borrowing" anything he wants as he sees fit. Has a perpetual half-chewed cigar butt in his mouth, a flask of dwarven ale under his belt, and has a thing for halfling women because "they make him feel tall". Not much of one for subtlty, he's more of the kick in the door and start firing his massive crossbow type. In his off time, its time for big mugs of ale and lots of halfling wenching.
Going to have maxxed out ranks in Bluff, Gather Information, Knowledge (Local), Knowledge (History), Diplomacy, etc. In other words, he's going to be one to talk his way out of (and into) things, and have the history ranks needed to ensure that I don't really have to worry about seperating my metagame setting history knowledge from his in-game knowledge. He'll be a touch on the older side for a dwarf, so I can play him as a jaded "been there, done that" type. Still likes to get in trouble though, makes him alive. And given that he has no problems bluffing that he's a member of House Kundarak when it suits him, he's bound to get in trouble with the real Kundaraks sooner or later.
Spending the feat for a Repeating Crossbow would be both a good idea mechanically as well as making the character more unique, if you can afford the feat. (I don't think I've ever seen a Repeating Crossbow in any of the campaigns I've played in or run.) Heavy works better since it gains the most from the upgrade in terms of reload time.
Eh, why bother with Repeating when I can spend the same feat on Rapid Reload?
Even if you want to just attack once per round, you are only spending one full round to reload the clip 1 out of 6 rounds, so you're gaining 5 move actions. Not many fights last longer than 5 rounds, so it's not much of a loss. It benefits the shoot-and-scoot concept, which tends to be the rogue style of fighting.
Also note that Complete Scoundrel introduces the Crossbow Bayonet, which is a nice little add-on for the Crossbowman expecting enemies to get in close.
Rapid Reload only changes a Heavy Xbow reload from Full Round Action to a Move Action, limiting you to 1 attack per round and a 5' Step. Exotic(RepHvyXbow) changes the reload to a Free Action allowing you to Full Attack or Move + Attack.
Thats right, I had forgotten about that.
And yay, I got my thread back! Thanks Mel!
links on the first page are broke Edymnion.
Just the ones to other threads here on wotc, must have gotten pruned.
While another guy usually come up with good ones, I actually write them out in detail and add names (and general stats such as class and level) for NPCs who appear in the history. I think this gives a DM a lot of opportunities to make the character's background really mean something and bring it into play.
The only Ebberon character I've gotten to play (in an all-too-short campagn that died after a half-dozen sessions) was one of these.
Unfortunately, the full three-page history was lost when my computer burned out a year ago. Still, it covered the life of a noble Brelish who served with distinction as a cavalry commander in the war. He was at oen point tested and inducted into the Dark Lanterns, for which he used his noble birth as a front for traveling to other nations on business. He fell in love with an Aundarian and started a family.
During one of his long assignments, however, his wife's coach was caught in the midst of a battle with Thrane and both she and his son died. His only survivor was his young daughter, who was too ill at the time to travel and was left at his estate. As time went by, she came to blame him for the loss of her family because of his frequent and long absences. Her tutors explained to him her gift for magic and so he hoped to gain her favor - and do what he could to make her happy - by sponsoring her for attending school at Arcanix, which he could do as her mother's family had influence in Aundair.
In the campaign, several years had passed and the character, Lord Colin ir'Cajissa, Baron of a landholding south of Hatheril, was recalled to duty. He's not seen or heard from his daughter in all this time, and he's had his fill of sitting alone on an estate he's no longer interested in.
I really enjoyed the the complexity of this character. First, he's old. In his fifties, he's well beyond the range most players make their PCs. He's a noble with influence, he's traveled to many other countries, and he's got a big military victory under his belt that gets him esteem.
He's also lonely and old. His wife and son are long gone and his daughter apparently hates him. He's got nothing to live for but the Crown and his duty - to which he's already sacrificed everything that matters to him. He sees this assignment as the last chance he has to go out in a blaze of glory and end his boredom and suffering.
It was great fun to see the other PCs realize their wizened, noble and respected leader seemingly has a death wish.
And of course, he hates Thrane and the Flame.
Basic Concept
Dragonmarked Half-Elf Sorcerer that believes he gains his spellcasting power from his Mark of Storms, and thus subconciously develops only storm related spellcasting abilities. Wind, Lightning, Thunder, Rain. Believes he is a physical incarnation of the power of the raging storm, as well as being a marked scion of House Lyrander. As a high charisma sorcerer, a member of a dragonmarked house, and being a Khoravar (the "true children of Khovaire"), he tends to be boastful and a bit arrogant, tending towards overkill more than caution. "Shock and Awe" comes to mind, as he enjoys showing off his power in as flashy a manner as possible, but has no problems unleashing full fury on anybody or any thing that stands in his way. Enjoys skydiving, using his first spell learned (Featherfall) to give him a safe landing.
I read the first page of the thread and nodded to myself in respect. In my gaming group, I'm the only one who bothers to come up such detailed backgrounds.
I think I win the award for thoroughness of background. The character Kethet Trollbait in the No Love for the Goblins thread is the PC I play in Lordalm's game. Although I was considering retiring him so that I can use the character in a more direct role in the thread.
"The anchor holds, though the ship is battered.
The anchor holds, though the sails are torn.
I have fallen on my knees as I face the raging seas.
The anchor holds in spite of the storm."
Got me thinking, the Stormcaster PrC mentions that mostly evil characters go that path because of the violence it promotes, and I would see most of the storm worshippers being worshippers of the Devourer, so this character would need something to keep his feet on the ground.
If I make him someone that can be obsessional, that can get caught up in the storms he creates, he would need something to bring him back from the edge. Something, or some one. And with the Lyrander sailing tradition, the anchor metaphore would translate directly.
Have the cohort be the one that holds him in check. He has a bad habit of getting caught up in the orgy of power and chaos in the storm, threatened to be washed away by it, but she is the one that holds him back, the one little voice that tells him to stop, thats enough. His anchor in the storm.
I already had a scene in my head of the cohort getting struck down in battle, and him essentially going ape
on the opponent because of it, and this dovetails nicely into that. Also gives me a nice in character way of saying "I know what I'm doing sounds crazy, but I know what I'm doing, trust me." Go crazy with the storm, and still be able to say "the anchor holds" to relay that he is still in control of the storm, that the storm doesn't control him.I'm also thinking that at higher levels, he's going to need a base. Something the artificer girl cohort will enjoy helping build. I'm thinking he gets a rather large, if old and beat up, airship that they refurbish into a stormship. Need a name for it though. "The Eye" comes to mind.
Have the cohort be the one that holds him in check.
For something like that, you'd want familial ties to hold the link between the two. At least, you need someone just as obsessed with the Stormcaster as the Stormcaster is with the storm. The Stormcaster does not need to have the same feelings, but the Stormcaster at least needs to understand that he should have those feelings, and woould recognize the pleas and return, not because he felt that he needed to, but because he knows he should respect this person's wishes, even though he lacks the compassion to truly feel he has to stop. It depends on how much of a conscience you want him to have.
Little sister works well. Maybe even cousin. A friend desperately in love with him. But I think you need her to have something more than just a mutual friendship, because what you're talking about is him becoming dangerous to everyone around him, insluding himself.
Age 19, NG Rogue 1
Traits and Quirks:
- Fenton Taylor is the Human persona that he uses most of the time. Although he is capable of imitating others, he doesn't wish to do so until he is much better at it. He is thinking of creating a new persona as he does not wish to place his mother in harm’s way if it should ever come to that.
- Raph is left-handed.
- Although he is not a bard, he has a tendency to hum to himself while he investigates crime scenes. It helps him concentrate and also helps him to ignore that, sometimes he has to deal with dead bodies. He picked this up from his time spent with Jassan, his trainer.
- Raph's main motivation for adventuring is so that he can become well-known as a great inquisitive. As such, he is willing to do a lot for recognition; however, he knows that it is a terrible idea to be on the wrong side of the law. As he has seen Jassan in action, he knows that sometimes compromises have to be made in order to catch someone, so he knows that sometimes the law can get in the way of solving a case.
- Kisses his symbol of the Traveler whenever he believes something important is about to happen.
- Will make comments occasionally on someone's garments if they are or seem to be of high value (due to his training as a tailor in his earlier years). This is reflected in his Craft [Tailoring]: 2 Ranks.
Back Story
Raph was raised alone by his mother Aurora Taylor (Human Expert 2: Tailoring) since his father abandoned them shortly after Raph was born. Although she was extremely shocked both about Raph being born as a changeling and being abandoned by his father, she eventually came to learn to love Raph as much as she could (which is a lot, although sometimes Raph feels that his mother is somewhat resentful of him, due to the reminder of the pain his father caused her). She taught him to be careful of his Changeling nature, and oftentimes tried to keep him from changing persona, since it would be bound to bring trouble and suspicion to both of them. This has been a point of contention amongst the two, as now that he is older he is more interested in his Changeling heritage. Raph has been fairly careful about trying to not bring attention to himself. As he grew older he would try to imitate people he saw frequently in the privacy of the family's small flat.
He was taught how to read and write by his mother and neighbors; while not enough to make him greatly educated, he is intelligent to pick up information quickly. As he became older and older, he started helping out his mother more and more at work making clothing. The work, while interesting and fairly easy, did not do much to quell his creativity. During his teenage years, he would oftentimes save the small coppers and occasional silvers from wealthier patrons who ordered clothing from the two in order to buy detective novelettes and copies of the Sharn Inquisitive. It got so bad sometimes that his mother would yell at him for daydreaming too much, as he often daydreamed of being a famous and renowned inquisitive. He made quick prayers to The Traveler every day that this desire would be fulfilled. He decided that if he wanted to fulfill his dream, he would need money, training, and more importantly, someone to teach him the skills of an inquisitive. The money wasn't much of a problem; he could make extra dresses and pants and save some silvers for himself. Equipment and training would be a little harder...
After three years of hard work making clothing at his mother's side, he was finally able to save enough gold to get himself a weapon. Reading the work that inquisitives did taught him that one needed to be wary of enemies seen and unseen, who would try anything to prevent their work from being uncovered. After some searching, he was finally able to find an inquisitive who'd be willing to train him. Jassan Moonraker (CN Half-elf rogue 4/bard 3) was a fairly good teacher, and he taught Raph the tricks of the trade, how to effectively battle with a rapier, and how to investigate a crime scene. It was nice to be able to 'help' him solve cases, even if the 'help' meant that Jassan got all the credit for the work, most of the gold (although he was given a fair, if meager amount of gold), and that Raph nearly bungled two important cases during his first few months with him. However, he did enjoy learning about it, although he was anxious to go out on his own soon, as wanted to establish himself as an independent inquisitive. After 8 months at Jassan's side, he felt that he had the necessary skills to strike out on his own. With his rapier at his side, and leather armor, he tried finding work, thinking that it would come rather easily, but after 2 months of searching, he was finally able to find a case. He solved it, and the taste of his first victory made him want to continue. His prayers answered, he continues looking for more ways to make himself well-known as a detective, and eventually, become a master inquisitive.
From his first case, Raph was able to make a small amount of money to get a small room for himself near home, but most importantly, enough to send back to his mother. This has allowed Mrs. Taylor to hire a young girl as an apprentice and also help keep her more comfortable. His mother was initially worried that he would be hurt in dealing with dangerous organizations and peoples in Sharn, but she has eventually resigned herself to accepting Raph’s investigator. She is glad that he at least is doing well for himself, and he makes a point of visiting her whenever he has time (at least once every other week).
I basically started him off as a Rogue with the Changeling Rogue substitution levels at Lv. 1 and Lv. 3, then went with him to Master Inquisitive for 3 levels. I was planning to give him one more level of Master Inquisitive, followed by two or three levels of Urban Ranger and then finish him off with the rest as Rogue, but I had to drop out of the game. Hopefully I will either play him again or simply use him as a source of information for other PCs if I get to DM for them.
Little sister works well. Maybe even cousin. A friend desperately in love with him. But I think you need her to have something more than just a mutual friendship, because what you're talking about is him becoming dangerous to everyone around him, insluding himself.
I'm currently working on the idea that she's human, he's a Lyrander. The house "strongly discourages" marrying outside of your race. The whole forbidden "we can't admit that we have feelings" thing. Stargate SG1 with Carter and O'Neill comes to mind.
I've got a lot I want to cover, and while I have all the major events done, I just can't seem to get them into a format that doesn't make them sound stupid...
If your companion is always present, then try writing them from her perspective. I like the rare "letter" format. She writes home to her best friend about what he has done. That way the tales can be just a little bit wrong. It also leaves great swathes of story open for future definition in response to plot or story requirements.
I'm currently playing with making the background be in the format of an interview for the Korrenburg Chronicle after he's retired from adventuring, a sort of "We all know about what you've done, but where did you start?" kind of thing. Its being worded like a transcript of the interview as recorded on a "sivis scribing scroll". Essentially, think of how a modern reporter would carry a mini tape recorder to record an interview to go over later, so its got some back and forth banter between the interviewer and the character (apparently the interviewer got a little seasick from the bumpy ride up to the character's airship, due to the omnipresent storm surrounding it).
Both he and the cohort (by this point his wife, as I would assume by this point he had become so ridiculously powerful and important that nothing he could do could really be held against him, sort of like Merrix d'Cannith) would be there, so I can do just that, tell the story from multiple viewpoints.
The Lyrander Stormlord
Style: Interview for upcoming article
Time Period: Middle to late of career
People Interviewed: Taran Makani d’Lyrander and Aliya Makani
As dictated by Sivis scribing quill.
The Lyrander Stormlord
Interviewer:
“Testing, one two... yeah, its working. Okay, initial interview with Lord Taran d’Lyrander and his wife, Aliya Makani, on board the Eye of the Storm. To start, I would like to thank the both of you for taking the time to speak with me, I’m sure our readers will be thrilled to get this inside peek into the life of the famed Lyrander Stormlord.”
Taran:
“Not at all, its our pleasure. I just hope the ride up here didn’t bother you too much, I know how some people have... problems with it.”
Interviewer:
“Well, I have to admit that it did have it’s frightening moments, but I should have known it was perfectly safe. Lord Taran is referring to the skiff that brought me up to the Eye, his private airship, as the ride was fairly bumpy due to the omnipresent storm that protects the ship. Just how do you manage that storm, if you don’t mind me asking? The shear size of it is amazing, it must require massive amounts of magical energy to maintain.”
Taran:
“That was a surprise gift from Aliya, actually.”
Aliya:
“Yeah, it was back when we first got the ship. She was in pretty bad condition then, and we spent months getting her back into shape. I really wanted to surprise him, so I had one of my assistants working on it at night while he was asleep. Installed it just before we launched the ship, and you should have seen his face when the ship powered up and the clouds started forming all the way around it. By the time he brought her up to altitude, everybody in the region knew something was up when a storm blew in out of clear blue skies. He still likes to just go sit out on the deck and watch it. When he’s not flying around in it, that is.”
Taran:
“Yes, how many times do you get a present that changes the entire world just to suit your fancy? It was the second best present I ever recieved.”
Interviewer:
“What was the first?”
Taran:
“Aliya, of course.”
Aliya:
“Oh stop it, you’re going to sound like an old softy once that hits the papers!”
Taran:
“What? After all those years of having to keep it secret, what do I care if everybody knows I love my wife? If they don’t like it, they’re free to come take it up with me in person.”
Interviewer:
“Oh, I promise I won’t make this into anything overly maudlin, although I’m sure the ladies will get a kick out of it. If you don’t mind though, I’m afraid I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself, can we go back to the beginning for a few minutes?”
Taran:
“Of course.”
Interviewer:
“Thanks. We’ve printed numerous differant stories about who you are, and where you came from, but there has always been conflicting information, and the readers want to know just how it all started. Where did you get your powers from, and is it true that you’re actually half-elemental yourself?”
Taran:
“Ha ha, no, I assure you that I’m a full blooded Khoravar, as far back as anyone can trace my family line anyway. I could go into detail about being the third straight generation to carry the Mark of Storms, and my upbringing, but I’m sure your readers aren’t interested in all of that. You want to know about the accident, am I correct?”
Interviewer:
“Accident? I don’t believe I’ve heard anything about an accident...”
Taran:
“No, I’d expect not. Its not anything that was intentionally covered up, mind you, just something that was, while uncommon, not unheard of, and everyone wanted to put it behind them as quickly as they could. But, I’m getting ahead of myself, you’d want to hear this story from the beginning for your report, I’m sure.”
Interviewer:
“If you don’t mind, sir, it sounds like quite the scoop!”
Taran:
“Well, it started when I was 15 years old, which for humans would be the equivalent of about an 11 to 12 year old. My family has always had an abnormally high percentage of dragonmarked heirs in it’s ranks, which had made us fairly well off within the House. One clear summer day, my mother decided that we would go on a family outting and enjoy the weather, so father pulled a few strings and managed to get the use of an airship that was docked at port for a few hours. Mother packed a picnick lunch, and off we went.
Things were fine for most of the outting, I remember leaning out over the railings on deck to see the ocean far below us, and it was an all around normal outting, for a Lyrander anyway. The day wore on, and we had about decided it was time to return home when the weather changed and made the decision for us. A squall had blown up over the horizen without being spotted, and it was all hands on deck as the captain turned the ship back towards land and pushed the elemental for all it was worth, trying to outrun the storm. But I can tell you from personal experience, not even the fastest airship is capable of outpacing a determined storm, and this was one determined storm because it caught us before we had even made it half way back, still out over open waters.
My parents ran to help man the ship as one of the deckhands escorted me inside, and told me to stay inside, that it was going to get a little bumpy. That was one of the biggest understatements I have ever heard, even now, it felt the ship was being shaken by an angry giant, and the thunder was so constant you couldn’t really tell when one peal ended and the next began. I finally got so scared and worried, I disobeyed orders and went to find my mother. The thunder was even louder out on the open deck, and the rain was so heavy I couldn’t see the ship’s prow, but I went out in it anyway. Instantly soaked to the skin, it was all I could do to keep my balance as the ship heaved back and forth, and again, for a Khoravar that grew up on the decks of ships, its a rough sky that can knock one of us off our feet.
I slowly made my way out towards the middle of the deck, calling for my mother, but no one could hear me over the wind, rain, and constant thunder. After one particularly bad heave, I was thrown completely off my feet and went sliding across the deck, square into the railing, knocking the wind out of me. I clung onto that rail for dear life if the wind and the rain until my arms ached, but we finally made it out of the worst of the storm, the rain slacked up to a simple downpour as the ship finally moved over the land. I shakily stood up, not even half sure I still could stand up after all that, when my father finally spotted me. He cried out to mother, and they both dropped what they were doing and started running towards me. I was overjoyed just to see them, and started doing the same. I personally don’t remember what happened next, which is probably for the best, but they told me what happened later. Apparently the storm took it’s last shot at our ship, and sent a bolt of lightning crashing directly into the middle of the deck. My parents were just knocked off their feet and stunned by the impact, but it sent me flying over the rail. Once she came to her senses, mother worked that magic that only an angry woman can work. She suddenly became 20 feet tall and ordered the captain to turn the ship around, back towards the storm that was still crashing inland, to get me, or that she would start throwing crewmen overboard to walk back, starting with him. Needless to say, the captain did as he was told. A wise man that captain.
It took them a while to find the exact spot again, and by the time they did, the storm had whipped itself up to nearly hurricane force again. Didn’t stop them from driving that ship right down next to the ground to look for me, or my body, although no one dared say that to my mother. When they finally found me, she grabbed a feather token and jumped overboard while father was still trying to work the clamps on the skiff.
They say they found me just standing there. My hair was signed from the blast, and my clothes were ripped almost to shreds, but I didn’t have a scratch on me. When she asked me what happened, apparently all I said was something along the lines of “I fell down. My shoulder hurts.” One of the deckhands swears that almost as if on cue, a gust of wind kicked up and blew what was left of my shirt away from my shoulder, and that he could see the electric blue lines of the dragonmark that was covering my right shoulder all the way from the deck of the ship. Although, how he was supposed to have been able to hear me from that distance, through the driving storm is something he never did give a satisfactory answer to.
I personally don’t remember any of it. One minute I was on the deck running towards my parents, the next I was waking up in bed, at home.”
Interviewer:
“Wow, thats some story alright, but how does it explain your other powers? I mean, I see its how you got your mark, but it doesn’t explain how you survived the fall, or why you became the Stormlord. If anything, I’d never want to see so much as a drop of rain again after that!”
Taran:
“Actually, it does explain it. You see, it was the storm that awakened my dragonmark, the Mark of Storms, and it is from the mark that I draw my power. Ever since I woke up in my bed after that, I could feel the mark on my shoulder, and I could feel the power running through my veins, pulsing out not from my heart, but from the mark itself. Even though it took me some time to master the abilities the mark directly gave me, I had an innate feeling of how to use it’s other powers. For example, a few days after we had gotten back home, I did something that would have been outright foolish for anyone else to do. I intentionally ducked under the banister of the stairs, and jumped off. There was the rush of exhileration from the fall, until I simply decided to stop falling, and I did. I just hung there in the air for a moment before gently floating down to the ground.”
Interviewer:
“So you’re saying that your dragonmark gives you special powers that it doesn’t give to anyone else? Because there must be hundreds of people out there that have the Mark of Storms, but they’re not Stormlords. They can do some of the same things you can, but I’ve never heard of any of them coming anywhere close to what you can do.”
Talan:
“I don’t know either, and you can rest assured that I’ve pondered this question myself, but its the only thing that makes sense. Why else would these powers appear at the exact same instant as my mark? We’ve all heard of sorcerers that can use magic much the same way I can, but they can control what they learn to do, I can’t. I’ve seen humans cast some kind of magical bolts of energy that just automatically track down their targets and hit every time. I tried for months to figure out how they did it, but never could. The best I could do was learning to condense lightning down into a ball that I could throw at things, but I still had to actually watch where I threw them, they never just magically found their own way.”
Interviewer:
“Huh, but what about the storms themselves? How could you face one again after what it almost did to you?”
Talan:
“What almost? The storm gave me my birthright, and it gave me my power. Think about how you feel when there is a large storm gathering, the way the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and how you feel antsy, like something is about to happen. Thats how I feel all of the time, the tingle of electricity just under my skin, waiting to be released. And when I’m in an actual storm, the feeling is even greater. I can literally feel the storm outside this ship at this very moment. I can tell you when every lightning bolt is about to crack, if not exactly where, because I can feel the power for it charging up in the air. Its absolutely thrilling to simply throw myself into the gale, ride the currents, and become one with the storm. The only thing that comes close is... how to put this that it can be printed in a reputable paper? Spending quality time with my wife?”
Aliya:
“Oh, shush you!”
Interviewer:
“Well um, yes, I believe I understand what you are trying to say. Why don’t we take a short break, stretch our legs a bit, and then we can get back to it, alright? Now, how do I turn this thing off again? Oh yeah...”
Time Period: Middle to late of career
People Interviewed: Taran Makani d’Lyrander and Aliya Makani
As dictated by Sivis scribing quill.
The Lyrander Stormlord
Interviewer:
“Testing, one two... yeah, its working. Okay, initial interview with Lord Taran d’Lyrander and his wife, Aliya Makani, on board the Eye of the Storm. To start, I would like to thank the both of you for taking the time to speak with me, I’m sure our readers will be thrilled to get this inside peek into the life of the famed Lyrander Stormlord.”
Taran:
“Not at all, its our pleasure. I just hope the ride up here didn’t bother you too much, I know how some people have... problems with it.”
Interviewer:
“Well, I have to admit that it did have it’s frightening moments, but I should have known it was perfectly safe. Lord Taran is referring to the skiff that brought me up to the Eye, his private airship, as the ride was fairly bumpy due to the omnipresent storm that protects the ship. Just how do you manage that storm, if you don’t mind me asking? The shear size of it is amazing, it must require massive amounts of magical energy to maintain.”
Taran:
“That was a surprise gift from Aliya, actually.”
Aliya:
“Yeah, it was back when we first got the ship. She was in pretty bad condition then, and we spent months getting her back into shape. I really wanted to surprise him, so I had one of my assistants working on it at night while he was asleep. Installed it just before we launched the ship, and you should have seen his face when the ship powered up and the clouds started forming all the way around it. By the time he brought her up to altitude, everybody in the region knew something was up when a storm blew in out of clear blue skies. He still likes to just go sit out on the deck and watch it. When he’s not flying around in it, that is.”
Taran:
“Yes, how many times do you get a present that changes the entire world just to suit your fancy? It was the second best present I ever recieved.”
Interviewer:
“What was the first?”
Taran:
“Aliya, of course.”
Aliya:
“Oh stop it, you’re going to sound like an old softy once that hits the papers!”
Taran:
“What? After all those years of having to keep it secret, what do I care if everybody knows I love my wife? If they don’t like it, they’re free to come take it up with me in person.”
Interviewer:
“Oh, I promise I won’t make this into anything overly maudlin, although I’m sure the ladies will get a kick out of it. If you don’t mind though, I’m afraid I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself, can we go back to the beginning for a few minutes?”
Taran:
“Of course.”
Interviewer:
“Thanks. We’ve printed numerous differant stories about who you are, and where you came from, but there has always been conflicting information, and the readers want to know just how it all started. Where did you get your powers from, and is it true that you’re actually half-elemental yourself?”
Taran:
“Ha ha, no, I assure you that I’m a full blooded Khoravar, as far back as anyone can trace my family line anyway. I could go into detail about being the third straight generation to carry the Mark of Storms, and my upbringing, but I’m sure your readers aren’t interested in all of that. You want to know about the accident, am I correct?”
Interviewer:
“Accident? I don’t believe I’ve heard anything about an accident...”
Taran:
“No, I’d expect not. Its not anything that was intentionally covered up, mind you, just something that was, while uncommon, not unheard of, and everyone wanted to put it behind them as quickly as they could. But, I’m getting ahead of myself, you’d want to hear this story from the beginning for your report, I’m sure.”
Interviewer:
“If you don’t mind, sir, it sounds like quite the scoop!”
Taran:
“Well, it started when I was 15 years old, which for humans would be the equivalent of about an 11 to 12 year old. My family has always had an abnormally high percentage of dragonmarked heirs in it’s ranks, which had made us fairly well off within the House. One clear summer day, my mother decided that we would go on a family outting and enjoy the weather, so father pulled a few strings and managed to get the use of an airship that was docked at port for a few hours. Mother packed a picnick lunch, and off we went.
Things were fine for most of the outting, I remember leaning out over the railings on deck to see the ocean far below us, and it was an all around normal outting, for a Lyrander anyway. The day wore on, and we had about decided it was time to return home when the weather changed and made the decision for us. A squall had blown up over the horizen without being spotted, and it was all hands on deck as the captain turned the ship back towards land and pushed the elemental for all it was worth, trying to outrun the storm. But I can tell you from personal experience, not even the fastest airship is capable of outpacing a determined storm, and this was one determined storm because it caught us before we had even made it half way back, still out over open waters.
My parents ran to help man the ship as one of the deckhands escorted me inside, and told me to stay inside, that it was going to get a little bumpy. That was one of the biggest understatements I have ever heard, even now, it felt the ship was being shaken by an angry giant, and the thunder was so constant you couldn’t really tell when one peal ended and the next began. I finally got so scared and worried, I disobeyed orders and went to find my mother. The thunder was even louder out on the open deck, and the rain was so heavy I couldn’t see the ship’s prow, but I went out in it anyway. Instantly soaked to the skin, it was all I could do to keep my balance as the ship heaved back and forth, and again, for a Khoravar that grew up on the decks of ships, its a rough sky that can knock one of us off our feet.
I slowly made my way out towards the middle of the deck, calling for my mother, but no one could hear me over the wind, rain, and constant thunder. After one particularly bad heave, I was thrown completely off my feet and went sliding across the deck, square into the railing, knocking the wind out of me. I clung onto that rail for dear life if the wind and the rain until my arms ached, but we finally made it out of the worst of the storm, the rain slacked up to a simple downpour as the ship finally moved over the land. I shakily stood up, not even half sure I still could stand up after all that, when my father finally spotted me. He cried out to mother, and they both dropped what they were doing and started running towards me. I was overjoyed just to see them, and started doing the same. I personally don’t remember what happened next, which is probably for the best, but they told me what happened later. Apparently the storm took it’s last shot at our ship, and sent a bolt of lightning crashing directly into the middle of the deck. My parents were just knocked off their feet and stunned by the impact, but it sent me flying over the rail. Once she came to her senses, mother worked that magic that only an angry woman can work. She suddenly became 20 feet tall and ordered the captain to turn the ship around, back towards the storm that was still crashing inland, to get me, or that she would start throwing crewmen overboard to walk back, starting with him. Needless to say, the captain did as he was told. A wise man that captain.
It took them a while to find the exact spot again, and by the time they did, the storm had whipped itself up to nearly hurricane force again. Didn’t stop them from driving that ship right down next to the ground to look for me, or my body, although no one dared say that to my mother. When they finally found me, she grabbed a feather token and jumped overboard while father was still trying to work the clamps on the skiff.
They say they found me just standing there. My hair was signed from the blast, and my clothes were ripped almost to shreds, but I didn’t have a scratch on me. When she asked me what happened, apparently all I said was something along the lines of “I fell down. My shoulder hurts.” One of the deckhands swears that almost as if on cue, a gust of wind kicked up and blew what was left of my shirt away from my shoulder, and that he could see the electric blue lines of the dragonmark that was covering my right shoulder all the way from the deck of the ship. Although, how he was supposed to have been able to hear me from that distance, through the driving storm is something he never did give a satisfactory answer to.
I personally don’t remember any of it. One minute I was on the deck running towards my parents, the next I was waking up in bed, at home.”
Interviewer:
“Wow, thats some story alright, but how does it explain your other powers? I mean, I see its how you got your mark, but it doesn’t explain how you survived the fall, or why you became the Stormlord. If anything, I’d never want to see so much as a drop of rain again after that!”
Taran:
“Actually, it does explain it. You see, it was the storm that awakened my dragonmark, the Mark of Storms, and it is from the mark that I draw my power. Ever since I woke up in my bed after that, I could feel the mark on my shoulder, and I could feel the power running through my veins, pulsing out not from my heart, but from the mark itself. Even though it took me some time to master the abilities the mark directly gave me, I had an innate feeling of how to use it’s other powers. For example, a few days after we had gotten back home, I did something that would have been outright foolish for anyone else to do. I intentionally ducked under the banister of the stairs, and jumped off. There was the rush of exhileration from the fall, until I simply decided to stop falling, and I did. I just hung there in the air for a moment before gently floating down to the ground.”
Interviewer:
“So you’re saying that your dragonmark gives you special powers that it doesn’t give to anyone else? Because there must be hundreds of people out there that have the Mark of Storms, but they’re not Stormlords. They can do some of the same things you can, but I’ve never heard of any of them coming anywhere close to what you can do.”
Talan:
“I don’t know either, and you can rest assured that I’ve pondered this question myself, but its the only thing that makes sense. Why else would these powers appear at the exact same instant as my mark? We’ve all heard of sorcerers that can use magic much the same way I can, but they can control what they learn to do, I can’t. I’ve seen humans cast some kind of magical bolts of energy that just automatically track down their targets and hit every time. I tried for months to figure out how they did it, but never could. The best I could do was learning to condense lightning down into a ball that I could throw at things, but I still had to actually watch where I threw them, they never just magically found their own way.”
Interviewer:
“Huh, but what about the storms themselves? How could you face one again after what it almost did to you?”
Talan:
“What almost? The storm gave me my birthright, and it gave me my power. Think about how you feel when there is a large storm gathering, the way the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and how you feel antsy, like something is about to happen. Thats how I feel all of the time, the tingle of electricity just under my skin, waiting to be released. And when I’m in an actual storm, the feeling is even greater. I can literally feel the storm outside this ship at this very moment. I can tell you when every lightning bolt is about to crack, if not exactly where, because I can feel the power for it charging up in the air. Its absolutely thrilling to simply throw myself into the gale, ride the currents, and become one with the storm. The only thing that comes close is... how to put this that it can be printed in a reputable paper? Spending quality time with my wife?”
Aliya:
“Oh, shush you!”
Interviewer:
“Well um, yes, I believe I understand what you are trying to say. Why don’t we take a short break, stretch our legs a bit, and then we can get back to it, alright? Now, how do I turn this thing off again? Oh yeah...”
It would take me years to play through all of those characters.
Some pretty good stories in the above posts. Just one question Edy: How many games to you participate in? (or do you just die a lot)
It would take me years to play through all of those characters.
Combination of things really. One, I mainly play online these days (just no good groups around here, and my attempts to start one have yet to last more than a half dozen games), which means games come and go fairly frequently. Also, many of these have never seen any real gameplay (or not more than token play before the game they were in died), I just like to make characters. I'll get some cool idea stuck in my head, be it a build idea or a killer visual, or a theme, or whatever, and it'll rattle around for a while before I actually make a character out of them.
I save them to a file, and I have them ready as either NPCs, or as a folder full of fun premade characters that I just have to reach into and pull out whatever I want to play when needed.
Awsome characters, although how do you balance the gestalt character with the others?
I don't, really. He started out as a "How do you make Goku?" excersize, and just grew from there. He's the one I pull out for if I ever get into a gestalt game in Eberron. He's never seen any actual playtime.]
I am astounded though how much work you put in to those characters.
See, I don't consider it work. For me, just making the character is a lot of fun, if I ever get to actually play them or not.
The first part covered his origins. This second part covers how he gets his cohort and armor.
Stormlord Interview, Part 2
Interviewer:
“...we go, that should do it. Lyrander Stormlord interview, resuming after short break. Okay, so now that we know more about you, I’m sure the readers will want to hear about your lovely wife as well. How did the two of you meet?”
...
“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”
Taran:
“No, not precisely, but thats still a bit of a sad story for Aliya, and not one we like to dwell upon.”
Interviewer:
“I’m sorry, we can move on to something else if you prefer...”
Aliya:
“No, its alright, I want people to know what happened to my father.”
Interveiwer:
“Your father?”
Taran:
“Well, we had best start at the beginning then. In my youth, I was asked by my House to help settle issues with the Tarkannans, the self proclaimed ‘House’ of abberants. Anyway, after a rather sizeable victory, my friends and I were getting a much deserved vacation, and I had a Kundarak account full of gold for my troubles, and it was burning a hole in my pocket. I decided that I had had enough of being so vulnrable in a fight, you see armor normally impedes my ability to use magic so at the time I fought wearing little if any protection, so I was going to do something about it. I did my homework and pulled some strings with the House until I found the man with enough skill to craft me a suit of armor that would be light and flexible enough for me to wear without interfering with my spells, but still give me enough protection that I didn’t have to worry about someone getting close to me with a dagger. The only man for the job, so I discovered, was an Artificer living in the Lhazaar Principalities by the name of Garrin Smollen.”
Aliya:
“My father.”
Taran:
“So, I sent word and the basic outlines of what I wanted made ahead of me, booked passage on an elemental galleon, and went to Lhazaar.”
Aliya:
“Father was so excited when he got that letter, he said that some rich dragonmarked scion was coming to comission a suit of armor, and that it was going to mean that our money problems would be over, that we would get a small fortune out of him. I was 14 then, just a few weeks away from being 15, and I kept thinking of all the new stuff I was finally going to be able to buy.”
Taran:
“When I finally got there weeks later, with a few mishaps along the way, I found that Garrin was a human, I had been expecting a Khoravar, and that he had already drawn up detailed sketches of what he proposed to build for me, and had already invested most of his life savings into buying the materials so that he would be ready to start as soon as I gave the okay.”
Aliya:
“Oh yes, mother was furious at him for that. He spent every crown we owned and had gone into debt, but he managed to scrape together enough to buy several ingots of pure mithril, a bag of the highest quality dragonshards he could find, and all the rest, he really went all out.”
Taran:
“Needless to say, I was impressed by his initiative, and downright floored by the plans he showed me. He had actually drawn out lifesized schematics of every plate, bolt, and strip of gilding for my armor in perfect detail. When he told me about the enchantments he planned on weaving into it that would make wearing it as easy as wearing an ordinary jacket, I was sold. I immediantly sent out orders to have food delivered so we could have a small feast that night to celebrate my new armor. At dinner, he finally introduced me to his daughter, who had been hanging around like a fly the entire time he was showing me the plans and materials for the armor. ‘This is my daugher, Aliya’ he said. Told me that she was nearly as good at making things as he was, but that she was a bit of a tomboy and spent more time covered in soot and grease than she did in a dress, and joked that he would never have grandchildren at that rate.”
Aliya:
“Gods, I was so embarressed. Here is this rich, handsome half-elf having dinner with us, and my father is calling me a tomboy? He was right, but I still just wanted to crawl under the table and DIE.”
Taran:
“I had noticed how she kept looking at me whenever she thought my attention was elsewhere, and how red she got after that comment, but I just thought it was of passing interest. Frankly, having young girls swoon after me was something I was used to, and she was just one more to add to the list, so I ignored it. I had more important things to tend to than some young little human’s schoolgirl crush. It actually became rather annoying how she always managed to find a reason to hover nearby. Anyway, after the meal, I said goodnight and returned to the Lyrander enclave with promises that Garrin would start work on the armor first thing in the morning. What I didn’t know was that the Tarkannans had followed me.”
Aliya:
“A few days later, father had just finished that day’s work on the armor before locking the pieces away in the strongbox again for the night when a bunch of men with clubs and knives kicked the door in. They demanded to know what father was going to make for the half-elf, but he refused to tell him. My father was a proud man, he had made an agreement, and he wasn’t about to tell them anything. They threatened mother and I, and the next thing I knew there was a sharp pain on the back of my head and I hit the floor. When I came to, it was morning, and everyone was gone. No ransom note, nothing, just gone. So, I did the only thing I could think of, I ran to the Lyrander enclave to find the scion that father was working for.”
Taran:
“When I heard what happened, I was furious. Sadly, not because the girl’s family had been attacked, but because I wasn’t going to get my armor. I know, its a horrible thing to say, but I was so arrogant back then thats the only thing that really came to mind. I swore that I would track them down and get her father back alive, although I didn’t add that I was saving him so he could make my armor, and she insisted on coming with me.”
Aliya:
“It was my parents that were missing, of course I was going to go!”
Taran:
“Anyway, we tracked down where the Smollens had been taken, but when we found them...”
Aliya:
“...they were dead. Apparently my father had refused to talk, and the Tarkannans had simply killed them both. I just sort of went numb inside and clung onto Taran like a floater vest in a rough sea.”
Taran:
“Oh, I was furious at this point, because now I’d never get my armor, and I didn’t know if they had taken the plans or not, oh I was fit to be tied, and back then I had a bad habit of letting my temper get the better of me.”
Aliya:
“Yeah, you were very mad, but back then I thought it was over my parent’s death. See, I didn’t know he was just mad about his stupid armor back then. It wasn’t until YEARS later that he finally told me the truth about that, and by then he was so ashamed he couldn’t even look at me.”
Taran:
“Honestly, I was just a bad person back then. All I cared about was myself. My power, my glory, me me me. Aliya here was the one that cured me of that, but I’m getting ahead of myself. We redoubled our efforts to find the Tarkannans, and after the shock had worn off, Aliya had become as angry and out for revenge as I was. We finally found the first of the three responsible, and I just let the storm flow. Back then, I didn’t really care why I used my power, just the fact that I was getting the chance to cut loose was all I needed. The Tarkannan didn’t die easily, I drew it out longer than was necissary just so I could feel the rush of using my power for that much longer. After it was over, I was coming off my high and didn’t notice the look on her face.”
Aliya:
“I was shocked, I really was. I wanted revenge, I wanted to hurt them, but I didn’t want that. He didn’t just kill another human being, he practically tortured them to death. I mean, in reality, it wasn’t nearly that bad, but thats what it looked like to me back then, I had never seen anyone die before, much less die screaming like that, but I didn’t say anything. Frankly, Taran scared me after that. He wasn’t just a pretty lord, he had these terrible powers, and wasn’t the least bit afraid to use them. He enjoyed using them, with abandon even.”
Taran:
“Yes, like I said, I’m not proud of who I was back then. When we found the other two, we had cornered them in a dead alley, and I decided to really put on a show and enjoy myself. I poured cold fog across the ground, whipped up the winds, I literally crackled with energy and practically floated across the ground towards them. They must have seen what happened to their friend, because they seemed to know what was coming, and were cowering, almost pleading for their lives. I didn’t hear a word of it, they cost me my armor, and I was going to make them pay for it. I had just lifted my hand to launch the first bolt when the stupid little girl got in the way.”
Aliya:
“I couldn’t stand to see it happen again, I had to stop it. I had been yelling at him to stop from behind, but Taran was just oblivious. When he dips too deep into his powers, he sort of loses touch with reality, sort of like someone thats taken dreamlilly. When he wouldn’t stop, I finally ran around between him and the Tarkannans and threw my arms up.”
Taran:
“I was angry, and I was high on my own power again, and I didn’t care that she was there. I didn’t care that she was crying, and I didn’t care what she was trying to do. I was going to push her aside and finish what I had started. I had just taken the first step towards her when she said, barely above a whisper, “Stop. Just... please stop. That’s enough.” I don’t know how, or why, but that knocked me out of my stupor, and I stopped.”
Aliya:
“I was scared out of my mind, but I had to do something. I think I was more surprised than he was when he actually stopped and came to himself.”
Taran:
“There she was, defending the very people that had callously murdered her parents. She was scared to death, but it wasn’t of them, it was of me. Right then, it finally hit me. I was every bit as much of a monster as they were, probably more. I realized that I was the lowest of the low, nothing more than a drug addict who hurt people to get his high. For the first time in my life, I as utterly ashamed of myself, as well I should have been.
We took the two to the Deneiths to put them under guard, and then we buried Aliya’s parents. Her tough exterior had finally broken, and she had been sobbing all day. Her parent’s had been everything she had in the world. She didn’t have any other family, no one she could go to, and it turned out the debt her father incurred had used the house as collateral. She would have been put out onto the street as a beggar, thief, or... worse.
During the funeral, I had made up my mind. When it was over, I simply asked her if she was coming. She got her things from what used to be her house, and came with me.”
Aliya:
“There wasn’t really anything else I could have done, but you have no idea how thankful I was when he said that. I thought he was going to leave too, and I’d be all alone. I was still numb, but I went home to get my things, took one last look around, and left forever, or so I thought then anyway.”
Interviewer:
“Amazing. So did you ever go back?”
Aliya:
“Oh yes, but not for some time. Eventually, Taran surprised me with it as a birhday present, he had bought it back for me. Heh, he won’t like me telling the world this, but the big bad stormlord is really a big bad softy.”
Taran:
“That last part doesn’t get printed, right.”
Interviewer:
“Uh, yes sir, Lord Taran.”
Taran:
“Good. Anyway, several weeks later, I decided that I was going to throw a surprise party for her, to help cheer her up. Surprise ended up being mine though.”
Interviewer:
“How so?”
Taran:
“It turned out that among the things she had gotten from the house had been the contents of the strongbox. The armor plans, the mithril, everything. She had been holed up in her room for weeks, I thought she was just depressed, which is why I was going to throw her the party.”
Aliya:
“I was, but I knew I had one last thing I had to do for my father. That armor was his last dream. It was going to finally mean that we wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again, it was going to be his masterpiece. He had already finished the rough shaping of most of the pieces, and I couldn’t let his dream die half finished like that. Father hadn’t been exaggerating before when he said I was nearly as good as he was, not by much anyway. I had grown up watching him work the forge, tool the leather, and weave the magic into things, and while young, I had quite a bit of experience under my belt when it came to artifice. I finished the armor the night before my birthday. Not for Taran, but for my father. I made it a perfect match to his drawings, down to the smallest detail.”
Taran:
“She left the party long enough to wrap it up in linen to give to me as a gift. I think it was then, when I had unwrapped the cloth and seen what she had done, that I fell in love with her. She had proven her bravery by standing up to me in my full fury, and now she had shown a level of dedication that could only be called extraordinary to her father.”
Aliya:
“I told him why I had finished the armor, and why I hadn’t told him what I was doing while I helped strap him into it. I wanted somebody besides me to know what the armor meant to me.”
Taran:
“And I never forgot. The armor is practically light as a feather, but it carries a heavy burden. To this day, I can’t put it on without thinking about how it came to be, and that has helped me keep my feet firmly on the ground, even as I soared across the skies.”
Aliya:
“See, what did I tell you, big softy.”
Interviewer”
“Don’t worry sir, we won’t print that... in so many words anyway. Well, that was a big story, how about we take another break?”
“...we go, that should do it. Lyrander Stormlord interview, resuming after short break. Okay, so now that we know more about you, I’m sure the readers will want to hear about your lovely wife as well. How did the two of you meet?”
...
“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”
Taran:
“No, not precisely, but thats still a bit of a sad story for Aliya, and not one we like to dwell upon.”
Interviewer:
“I’m sorry, we can move on to something else if you prefer...”
Aliya:
“No, its alright, I want people to know what happened to my father.”
Interveiwer:
“Your father?”
Taran:
“Well, we had best start at the beginning then. In my youth, I was asked by my House to help settle issues with the Tarkannans, the self proclaimed ‘House’ of abberants. Anyway, after a rather sizeable victory, my friends and I were getting a much deserved vacation, and I had a Kundarak account full of gold for my troubles, and it was burning a hole in my pocket. I decided that I had had enough of being so vulnrable in a fight, you see armor normally impedes my ability to use magic so at the time I fought wearing little if any protection, so I was going to do something about it. I did my homework and pulled some strings with the House until I found the man with enough skill to craft me a suit of armor that would be light and flexible enough for me to wear without interfering with my spells, but still give me enough protection that I didn’t have to worry about someone getting close to me with a dagger. The only man for the job, so I discovered, was an Artificer living in the Lhazaar Principalities by the name of Garrin Smollen.”
Aliya:
“My father.”
Taran:
“So, I sent word and the basic outlines of what I wanted made ahead of me, booked passage on an elemental galleon, and went to Lhazaar.”
Aliya:
“Father was so excited when he got that letter, he said that some rich dragonmarked scion was coming to comission a suit of armor, and that it was going to mean that our money problems would be over, that we would get a small fortune out of him. I was 14 then, just a few weeks away from being 15, and I kept thinking of all the new stuff I was finally going to be able to buy.”
Taran:
“When I finally got there weeks later, with a few mishaps along the way, I found that Garrin was a human, I had been expecting a Khoravar, and that he had already drawn up detailed sketches of what he proposed to build for me, and had already invested most of his life savings into buying the materials so that he would be ready to start as soon as I gave the okay.”
Aliya:
“Oh yes, mother was furious at him for that. He spent every crown we owned and had gone into debt, but he managed to scrape together enough to buy several ingots of pure mithril, a bag of the highest quality dragonshards he could find, and all the rest, he really went all out.”
Taran:
“Needless to say, I was impressed by his initiative, and downright floored by the plans he showed me. He had actually drawn out lifesized schematics of every plate, bolt, and strip of gilding for my armor in perfect detail. When he told me about the enchantments he planned on weaving into it that would make wearing it as easy as wearing an ordinary jacket, I was sold. I immediantly sent out orders to have food delivered so we could have a small feast that night to celebrate my new armor. At dinner, he finally introduced me to his daughter, who had been hanging around like a fly the entire time he was showing me the plans and materials for the armor. ‘This is my daugher, Aliya’ he said. Told me that she was nearly as good at making things as he was, but that she was a bit of a tomboy and spent more time covered in soot and grease than she did in a dress, and joked that he would never have grandchildren at that rate.”
Aliya:
“Gods, I was so embarressed. Here is this rich, handsome half-elf having dinner with us, and my father is calling me a tomboy? He was right, but I still just wanted to crawl under the table and DIE.”
Taran:
“I had noticed how she kept looking at me whenever she thought my attention was elsewhere, and how red she got after that comment, but I just thought it was of passing interest. Frankly, having young girls swoon after me was something I was used to, and she was just one more to add to the list, so I ignored it. I had more important things to tend to than some young little human’s schoolgirl crush. It actually became rather annoying how she always managed to find a reason to hover nearby. Anyway, after the meal, I said goodnight and returned to the Lyrander enclave with promises that Garrin would start work on the armor first thing in the morning. What I didn’t know was that the Tarkannans had followed me.”
Aliya:
“A few days later, father had just finished that day’s work on the armor before locking the pieces away in the strongbox again for the night when a bunch of men with clubs and knives kicked the door in. They demanded to know what father was going to make for the half-elf, but he refused to tell him. My father was a proud man, he had made an agreement, and he wasn’t about to tell them anything. They threatened mother and I, and the next thing I knew there was a sharp pain on the back of my head and I hit the floor. When I came to, it was morning, and everyone was gone. No ransom note, nothing, just gone. So, I did the only thing I could think of, I ran to the Lyrander enclave to find the scion that father was working for.”
Taran:
“When I heard what happened, I was furious. Sadly, not because the girl’s family had been attacked, but because I wasn’t going to get my armor. I know, its a horrible thing to say, but I was so arrogant back then thats the only thing that really came to mind. I swore that I would track them down and get her father back alive, although I didn’t add that I was saving him so he could make my armor, and she insisted on coming with me.”
Aliya:
“It was my parents that were missing, of course I was going to go!”
Taran:
“Anyway, we tracked down where the Smollens had been taken, but when we found them...”
Aliya:
“...they were dead. Apparently my father had refused to talk, and the Tarkannans had simply killed them both. I just sort of went numb inside and clung onto Taran like a floater vest in a rough sea.”
Taran:
“Oh, I was furious at this point, because now I’d never get my armor, and I didn’t know if they had taken the plans or not, oh I was fit to be tied, and back then I had a bad habit of letting my temper get the better of me.”
Aliya:
“Yeah, you were very mad, but back then I thought it was over my parent’s death. See, I didn’t know he was just mad about his stupid armor back then. It wasn’t until YEARS later that he finally told me the truth about that, and by then he was so ashamed he couldn’t even look at me.”
Taran:
“Honestly, I was just a bad person back then. All I cared about was myself. My power, my glory, me me me. Aliya here was the one that cured me of that, but I’m getting ahead of myself. We redoubled our efforts to find the Tarkannans, and after the shock had worn off, Aliya had become as angry and out for revenge as I was. We finally found the first of the three responsible, and I just let the storm flow. Back then, I didn’t really care why I used my power, just the fact that I was getting the chance to cut loose was all I needed. The Tarkannan didn’t die easily, I drew it out longer than was necissary just so I could feel the rush of using my power for that much longer. After it was over, I was coming off my high and didn’t notice the look on her face.”
Aliya:
“I was shocked, I really was. I wanted revenge, I wanted to hurt them, but I didn’t want that. He didn’t just kill another human being, he practically tortured them to death. I mean, in reality, it wasn’t nearly that bad, but thats what it looked like to me back then, I had never seen anyone die before, much less die screaming like that, but I didn’t say anything. Frankly, Taran scared me after that. He wasn’t just a pretty lord, he had these terrible powers, and wasn’t the least bit afraid to use them. He enjoyed using them, with abandon even.”
Taran:
“Yes, like I said, I’m not proud of who I was back then. When we found the other two, we had cornered them in a dead alley, and I decided to really put on a show and enjoy myself. I poured cold fog across the ground, whipped up the winds, I literally crackled with energy and practically floated across the ground towards them. They must have seen what happened to their friend, because they seemed to know what was coming, and were cowering, almost pleading for their lives. I didn’t hear a word of it, they cost me my armor, and I was going to make them pay for it. I had just lifted my hand to launch the first bolt when the stupid little girl got in the way.”
Aliya:
“I couldn’t stand to see it happen again, I had to stop it. I had been yelling at him to stop from behind, but Taran was just oblivious. When he dips too deep into his powers, he sort of loses touch with reality, sort of like someone thats taken dreamlilly. When he wouldn’t stop, I finally ran around between him and the Tarkannans and threw my arms up.”
Taran:
“I was angry, and I was high on my own power again, and I didn’t care that she was there. I didn’t care that she was crying, and I didn’t care what she was trying to do. I was going to push her aside and finish what I had started. I had just taken the first step towards her when she said, barely above a whisper, “Stop. Just... please stop. That’s enough.” I don’t know how, or why, but that knocked me out of my stupor, and I stopped.”
Aliya:
“I was scared out of my mind, but I had to do something. I think I was more surprised than he was when he actually stopped and came to himself.”
Taran:
“There she was, defending the very people that had callously murdered her parents. She was scared to death, but it wasn’t of them, it was of me. Right then, it finally hit me. I was every bit as much of a monster as they were, probably more. I realized that I was the lowest of the low, nothing more than a drug addict who hurt people to get his high. For the first time in my life, I as utterly ashamed of myself, as well I should have been.
We took the two to the Deneiths to put them under guard, and then we buried Aliya’s parents. Her tough exterior had finally broken, and she had been sobbing all day. Her parent’s had been everything she had in the world. She didn’t have any other family, no one she could go to, and it turned out the debt her father incurred had used the house as collateral. She would have been put out onto the street as a beggar, thief, or... worse.
During the funeral, I had made up my mind. When it was over, I simply asked her if she was coming. She got her things from what used to be her house, and came with me.”
Aliya:
“There wasn’t really anything else I could have done, but you have no idea how thankful I was when he said that. I thought he was going to leave too, and I’d be all alone. I was still numb, but I went home to get my things, took one last look around, and left forever, or so I thought then anyway.”
Interviewer:
“Amazing. So did you ever go back?”
Aliya:
“Oh yes, but not for some time. Eventually, Taran surprised me with it as a birhday present, he had bought it back for me. Heh, he won’t like me telling the world this, but the big bad stormlord is really a big bad softy.”
Taran:
“That last part doesn’t get printed, right.”
Interviewer:
“Uh, yes sir, Lord Taran.”
Taran:
“Good. Anyway, several weeks later, I decided that I was going to throw a surprise party for her, to help cheer her up. Surprise ended up being mine though.”
Interviewer:
“How so?”
Taran:
“It turned out that among the things she had gotten from the house had been the contents of the strongbox. The armor plans, the mithril, everything. She had been holed up in her room for weeks, I thought she was just depressed, which is why I was going to throw her the party.”
Aliya:
“I was, but I knew I had one last thing I had to do for my father. That armor was his last dream. It was going to finally mean that we wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again, it was going to be his masterpiece. He had already finished the rough shaping of most of the pieces, and I couldn’t let his dream die half finished like that. Father hadn’t been exaggerating before when he said I was nearly as good as he was, not by much anyway. I had grown up watching him work the forge, tool the leather, and weave the magic into things, and while young, I had quite a bit of experience under my belt when it came to artifice. I finished the armor the night before my birthday. Not for Taran, but for my father. I made it a perfect match to his drawings, down to the smallest detail.”
Taran:
“She left the party long enough to wrap it up in linen to give to me as a gift. I think it was then, when I had unwrapped the cloth and seen what she had done, that I fell in love with her. She had proven her bravery by standing up to me in my full fury, and now she had shown a level of dedication that could only be called extraordinary to her father.”
Aliya:
“I told him why I had finished the armor, and why I hadn’t told him what I was doing while I helped strap him into it. I wanted somebody besides me to know what the armor meant to me.”
Taran:
“And I never forgot. The armor is practically light as a feather, but it carries a heavy burden. To this day, I can’t put it on without thinking about how it came to be, and that has helped me keep my feet firmly on the ground, even as I soared across the skies.”
Aliya:
“See, what did I tell you, big softy.”
Interviewer”
“Don’t worry sir, we won’t print that... in so many words anyway. Well, that was a big story, how about we take another break?”
I'll come up with a background for him later.
Monkey Grip might not be a bad idea for one of those empty fighter feat slots, unless you'd rather not go into the weapon size cheese aspect.
I considered doing Weild Oversized Weapon for a Large sized greathammer, but I'm rather grooving on the idea of a component "sheath" on his back. Essentially some built in clasps on his back that clamp around the haft of the hammer, and I don't see that really working with a hammer that big. Plus, I don't want to lose the 2h damage bonus by weilding it one handed. He'll start with as close to an 18 in strength as possible, so the damage reduction of going one handed is sizeable, especially when Power Attack is factored in.
I had a brief bit of gametime with him in an online game and found out real fast that a max strength adm body warforged with a greathammer can pretty much flatten anything that gets in his way. Its why I invested feats in his Slam. I plan on playing it sort of like Voltron. He gets in the fight, uses his slams as his primary weapon, and only when things get tough does he reach over his shoulder, grab the haft of his hammer, and the little pincher grips that hold it in place pop open and he whips that huge thing around. "Form Blazing Sword!"
Sort of the party "Okay, time to pull out all the stops and kick some ass!" signal.
I also plan on making him maximum height, and using the alternate weight charts. He's going to be nearly 8 feet tall, a quarter of a ton, with a hammer thats bigger than most of the other party members.
No being subtle, no finesse, just an unstoppable force that drives enemies into the ground like nails.
Crucible, Warforged Paladin
I do like your writing, but i dont like the Silver flame and never will do, makes me think to much of a certain "children of the light thingie"
i do like them as opponents though.
I like your write up of the Karnnath Legionnaire much more..
I happen to have a character atm:
"Borrosso Ir'Dhavaeus"
C.G. milil worshipping cleric 1/ Swashbuckler 3, 1/2 Huecuvas, was kidnapped from Forgotten realms, and mind switched with a proper evil Huecuva, left in a cell to trot all eternity and then freed by other pc's. Ends up in Karnnath of all places as the "spaceship" from a redone old 1st ed. module is being run by the DM has crashed in the Icetop Mountains.
I might do a proper writeup if and when i can.
I read the first page of the thread and nodded to myself in respect. In my gaming group, I'm the only one who bothers to come up such detailed backgrounds.
While another guy usually come up with good ones, I actually write them out in detail and add names (and general stats such as class and level) for NPCs who appear in the history. I think this gives a DM a lot of opportunities to make the character's background really mean something and bring it into play.
The only Ebberon character I've gotten to play (in an all-too-short campagn that died after a half-dozen sessions) was one of these.
Unfortunately, the full three-page history was lost when my computer burned out a year ago. Still, it covered the life of a noble Brelish who served with distinction as a cavalry commander in the war. He was at oen point tested and inducted into the Dark Lanterns, for which he used his noble birth as a front for traveling to other nations on business. He fell in love with an Aundarian and started a family.
During one of his long assignments, however, his wife's coach was caught in the midst of a battle with Thrane and both she and his son died. His only survivor was his young daughter, who was too ill at the time to travel and was left at his estate. As time went by, she came to blame him for the loss of her family because of his frequent and long absences. Her tutors explained to him her gift for magic and so he hoped to gain her favor - and do what he could to make her happy - by sponsoring her for attending school at Arcanix, which he could do as her mother's family had influence in Aundair.
In the campaign, several years had passed and the character, Lord Colin ir'Cajissa, Baron of a landholding south of Hatheril, was recalled to duty. He's not seen or heard from his daughter in all this time, and he's had his fill of sitting alone on an estate he's no longer interested in.
I really enjoyed the the complexity of this character. First, he's old. In his fifties, he's well beyond the range most players make their PCs. He's a noble with influence, he's traveled to many other countries, and he's got a big military victory under his belt that gets him esteem.
He's also lonely and old. His wife and son are long gone and his daughter apparently hates him. He's got nothing to live for but the Crown and his duty - to which he's already sacrificed everything that matters to him. He sees this assignment as the last chance he has to go out in a blaze of glory and end his boredom and suffering.
It was great fun to see the other PCs realize their wizened, noble and respected leader seemingly has a death wish.
And of course, he hates Thrane and the Flame.
Nice one, i also prefer to make up older characters, not just teens that go running around like adventurers....but also elder ppl who have their lives changed and react on it..
C.G. milil worshipping cleric 1/ Swashbuckler 3, 1/2 Huecuvas, was kidnapped from Forgotten realms, and mind switched with a proper evil Huecuva, left in a cell to trot all eternity and then freed by other pc's. Ends up in Karnnath of all places as the "spaceship" from a redone old 1st ed. module is being run by the DM has crashed in the Icetop Mountains.
You just made baby Vol cry...
And for the record, you are referring to Expedition to Barrier Peaks.
You just made baby Vol cry...
And for the record, you are referring to Expedition to Barrier Peaks.
Why did i make baby Vol cry?
and i think so, i am not familiar with that module by itself, so thanks for the reference anyway.
Why did i make baby Vol cry?
You don't see any problem with a cleric 1/ Swashbuckler 3 1/2 Huecuvas that was kidnapped in Faerun that crash lands in Karnnath aboard a stolen alien space ship?
, where did the stolen part come from?, not my campaign...anyway, i have not chosen to use the space ship, it was one of the original players of the game who bought that module and my dm was kinda stuck with it...
So me and DM came up with why i was kidnapped, to be used in the mind swap with said Huecuva...and he was aboard that Ethereal plane ship of those "catppl" who are at war with some alien Ethereal race as well...
(i left it to the DM to sort out what he really is etc. as to keep some surprise for me)
just sticking ends together..
Feel free to make another one for it if you want, but this one is for my stuff.
Yeah, I won't get into it here, as this isn't the thread for it.
Feel free to make another one for it if you want, but this one is for my stuff.
I did not know u were so greedy
, but NP, have fun...
Jarin
The character you see stands several inches under 6 feet in height, with dirty reddish hair pulled back into a rough pony tail. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in several days and hasn’t had much sleep, but his eyes are fiercely green. His armor is somewhat ragged and piecemeal, more than a little dirty and probably slept in on more than one occassion, but surprisingly sturdy. In his hand is an old beat up pole with a grungy cloth wrap around the middle, with more nicks and dings in the wood than you can count. The clothes under the armor look like they have been picked out of the trash, and are all half worn out, and repeatedly patched. In short, he looks like what he is, a Mourner that has been living in the slums of Sharn for several years.
“My name is Jarin Cannith, or at least it used to be. I was a successful armor smith in Making, always attending the dinner parties for important diplomats and Cyrian officials because they wanted to curry my favor, so I would squeeze an overly ornate breastplate into my busy schedule for them. I had a beautiful wife, and the most perfect little girl that any man has a right to ask for. A wonderful family, a successful business, and powerful friends. I even fancied myself as a dashing duelist of sorts, impressing friends and family with my flashy display with a quarterstaff . In short, I had it all. Sure, there was a war on, but who cared? We were safe in the heart of Cyre, among the high and mighty, aside from the money that was pouring in from the war effort, there might as well not even have been a war, far as I was concerned. It was something that was going on ‘out there’, it had nothing to do with me.
I remember the day that all changed though, a day I could never forget. I had gone to Breland to do the preliminary work on making a formal suit of armor for one of Boreneal’s sons. Five feet, ten and a half inches tall, thirty inch chest, funny how I still remember that. I was in my stateroom in the upper duras of Sharn when word came in. There had been some kind of accident, or disaster, all of Cyre was gone, everyone was dead. I thought it was some sick joke, you couldn’t destroy an entire nation overnight, especially not one like Cyre! But still, something didn’t feel right, and I ran to the nearest Sivis enclave and used my clout to push ahead of everyone else to get to a sending stone. I had to check in with my family, I had to know they were alright.
There was no answer. It wasn’t just that they didn’t have anything to say, the gnome said it was like there was just nothing out there for the stones to connect to, like it was just gone. That’s when I really panicked, I tore everything I had brought with me out of my room, and booked the next lightning rail back to Cyre to find out for myself. The next day, I saw for the first time that wall of fog, the dead gray mists that magically stopped almost exactly on the boarder. Most of the tree limbs that were sticking out of the mist were withered and dead. Some weren’t dead, but they were... wrong. I don’t know how to explain it, but they were just wrong, something about their shape, their color, the way the ends moved in the wind while the bases stayed absolutely still in the mist, I don’t know, they were just wrong.
The conductor was too afraid to go into the fog, and everybody was just milling around at the edge, like they were looking at the shadow circus off in the distance or something! I didn’t care, if they wouldn’t take me in, I’d go by myself! I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t have food, or water, or a weapon bigger than my belt knife, but I didn’t care, I ran into the fog without looking back. It took me two days of wandering through that blasted fog before I reached the other side and saw... it. My beautiful Cyre was gone. The land was black, charred, and twisted. The once green hills were littered with the skeletons of trees, and they almost seemed to undulate as I watched them. It was like a scene right out of a nightmare.
I think I knew then that nothing could have survived in there, but my friends, my family were in Making, I had to get to them, to see for myself, so I kept going. The dead limbs of trees would almost reach out to grab me as I forced my way through the twisted remains of a forest, they clawed deep scratches into my arms, nothing major, but the bleeding didn’t stop, the blood didn’t clot. It was another day before I found the body. I couldn’t tell if it had been a man or a woman, it was so badly misshapen. It was like the person had been desperately trying to crawl away from something, but their lower half had melted into the ground, merging with the dirt and stone. Their middle was desiccated, like dried meat, even though they couldn’t have been dead for more than a week. Their head and one outstretched arm were nothing but bones, still held in the air like they were reaching for something, help that never came maybe, I don’t know.
All I remember after that was screaming, and running. I wanted nothing more than to get away from there. So ashamed that I was running out on my family, but too afraid to do anything but run faster. I remember tripping over a stone that I’m sure wasn’t there before my foot struck it, and hitting the ground hard. Next thing I knew I was outside the mists, back on green grass with blue sky over my head. There were armed soldiers around, apparently a formal rescue operation had been mounted while I was gone, not for me, but for any survivors in there. After I had had a little to drink, just water though, none of them had any brandy though, I could have used some of that, they questioned me. I told them everything I had seen, how I had run. I wasn’t the only one stupid enough to try that, they said, but I was one of the lucky ones to make it back out alive. A few more hours in there, and I would have been dead from thirst, blood loss, exposure, any number of other things, they had pulled me out just in time, and it still took the little Jorasco half an hour of work before they were sure I was going to pull through.
There was something odd though. They were all polite enough, but they were a little too polite, if you know what I mean. Nobody would talk to me more than they absolutely had to, and as I walked around the makeshift camp, I noticed that whenever I walked by, conversations would suddenly stop, like they had been talking about me and didn’t want me to hear, and the whole time my damned shoulder kept itching. It wasn’t until that evening when I finally got a chance to wash up before bed that I saw it, right on the back of my left shoulder, an angry redness with a single black and red line in the center. I found the mirror and held it around to here I could see, and all over the back of my shoulder was a hand sized angry red scribble. I knew what it was immediately, no member of a dragonmarked house could mistake an aberrant dragonmark when they saw it.
I didn’t think it was possible, but life just went downhill from there. I went back to my enclave in Sharn, back to the Canniths, the only family I had left, and like a naive fool asked what I should do about the mark. That was a mistake. I should have hidden it, lied about it, pretend like it didn’t exist, but I was so sure at the time that my house wouldn’t let me down in my time of need that the thought never crossed my mind. I was practically excoriated on the spot. Oh sure, they put up airs of trying to be helpful, but the house had been broken as badly as I was by the loss of Cyre, and the last thing they had time for was coddling an abomination. With all of my influential friends laying dead in Making, it was only a matter of days before I was officially removed from House Cannith, as quietly as possible.
I was dirty in my haggard clothes, I had no money, no way to prove my identity to the dwarves, and no one would back me for a loan. All of my noble clients from only weeks before suddenly didn’t know me. And worse yet, I wasn’t alone. Refugees just like me were beginning to come in droves. If it had been just me, I might have had a chance at rebuilding, but I was quickly lost in a sea of dirty faces. I was a Mourner to the people of Sharn, nothing more. Oh how the mighty had fallen.
So tell me, what do you know of suffering? You think you know what pain is? Can you understand what it means to have everything you loved and held dear taken away from you? My beloved Cyre is gone, and the best hope I can have for my wife and my little girl is that their bodies are lying dead on the ground in that blasted wasteland. At least that way, they can be at peace... something I can never know again. Most nights I wake up in a cold sweat, them screaming to me for help as that fog rolls over them still ringing in my ears as the nightmare begins to fade. I welcome those nights. As horrible as they are, those nights are bearable. Its the other nights that I dread. The nights where I dream that they are still alive, and that we are all in our home, happy and carefree, those are the nights I can’t stand. For those few imaginary hours, I have my life back, only to lose it all over again when I wake up.
Where were you when my little girl died, Deneith? You were supposed to protect us, so where were you?!? And you, Cannith, did you know you were talking to an excoriate of your own house? Where were you when I was stripped of what little I had left, because of this stupid thing on my shoulder? Where was your high and mighty morals when they became inconvenient? Do you know what it means to have to sleep on a cold floor at night, because the inns won’t have you, even if you somehow managed to get enough money to pay for the room, because it might scare away the “good” customers? To have to dig through the trash just to find something to eat? Do you? Then don’t tell me how hard your perfect little life is. Go home to your warm bed and your hot meal, and leave me be. I don’t want your charity or your pity, just leave me alone...”
Jarin Cannith, now known simply as Jarin or Jay, is a human rogue/barbarian, originally from Cyre, and then the refugee camp within Sharn. A highly skilled armor smith and would be socialite before the Mourning, he has become just another face in the crowd of Mourners. An angry and rather bitter man that has, through personal experience, learned to be suspicious of the motives of anyone that tries to help him, always looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.
While still quite capable of making outstanding armor, he takes his excoriation from House Cannith seriously, if bitterly, and refuses to try and make a living through his craftsmanship. Even with his current situation, he’s too proud to resort to begging or stealing, and gets by on whatever menial (but honest) work he can get, although he is forced to hide the fact that he bears an aberrant dragonmark (which grants him Cause Fear) in order to find work.
While relatively unscarred physically, Jarin carries deep emotional scars which may never truly heal. His wife and daughter were the world to him, and their deaths knocked his feet out from under him in a way nothing else could have done. To this day, he carries two small carved wooden statuettes in his pouch, a woman and a child, representing his lost family. Every night he carefully takes them out, and relates the events of the day to them, as others would write in a diary, before wrapping them back in their protective cloth and putting them away again.
Although too proud and hard headed to admit it, Jarin has an underlying death wish. Not so much in that he actively wants to die, but that in he is tired of living. As such, he isn’t afraid to risk himself, and never backs down from a fight. In fact, he seems happiest when he is fighting. Truth be told, he doesn’t focus on a fight the way others do, the movements are familiar to him to the point he can go through them without thought, like a monk and their katras. During a fight with his quarterstaff spinning around him at blinding speeds, he is thinking of his family, and how his little girl would laugh and clap her hands as he went through his drills with the staff so long ago. If he should die while thinking of his family, so much the better. When he wins the fight, as he all so often does, he tends to be rather grumpy and sour at having to come back to the real world again. To avoid this, he will often try to intimidate someone into backing down, with his own anger at his lot in life providing ample fuel for his fire. When that isn’t enough, he almost subconsciously activates his aberrant mark, spilling a wash of fear through his opponent, which makes him look all the more intimidating.
Beyond this, his greatest personality quirk is something akin to flashbacks. He doesn’t think he is reliving any particular moment, even while in combat (which is more akin to daydreaming), but he has lost his ability to discern random girls from his own daughter in times of stress. Regardless of skin or hair color, or other obvious differences, in tense moments (like combat), all he can see is his own little girl standing there, and fights with all the strength and ferocity of a father defending his child, often calling the child by his daughter’s name (such as “Marrin, stay back!”). He always comes back to himself once the situation has been resolved, and will apologize for his mistake, but otherwise doesn’t want to talk about it.
“My name is Jarin Cannith, or at least it used to be. I was a successful armor smith in Making, always attending the dinner parties for important diplomats and Cyrian officials because they wanted to curry my favor, so I would squeeze an overly ornate breastplate into my busy schedule for them. I had a beautiful wife, and the most perfect little girl that any man has a right to ask for. A wonderful family, a successful business, and powerful friends. I even fancied myself as a dashing duelist of sorts, impressing friends and family with my flashy display with a quarterstaff . In short, I had it all. Sure, there was a war on, but who cared? We were safe in the heart of Cyre, among the high and mighty, aside from the money that was pouring in from the war effort, there might as well not even have been a war, far as I was concerned. It was something that was going on ‘out there’, it had nothing to do with me.
I remember the day that all changed though, a day I could never forget. I had gone to Breland to do the preliminary work on making a formal suit of armor for one of Boreneal’s sons. Five feet, ten and a half inches tall, thirty inch chest, funny how I still remember that. I was in my stateroom in the upper duras of Sharn when word came in. There had been some kind of accident, or disaster, all of Cyre was gone, everyone was dead. I thought it was some sick joke, you couldn’t destroy an entire nation overnight, especially not one like Cyre! But still, something didn’t feel right, and I ran to the nearest Sivis enclave and used my clout to push ahead of everyone else to get to a sending stone. I had to check in with my family, I had to know they were alright.
There was no answer. It wasn’t just that they didn’t have anything to say, the gnome said it was like there was just nothing out there for the stones to connect to, like it was just gone. That’s when I really panicked, I tore everything I had brought with me out of my room, and booked the next lightning rail back to Cyre to find out for myself. The next day, I saw for the first time that wall of fog, the dead gray mists that magically stopped almost exactly on the boarder. Most of the tree limbs that were sticking out of the mist were withered and dead. Some weren’t dead, but they were... wrong. I don’t know how to explain it, but they were just wrong, something about their shape, their color, the way the ends moved in the wind while the bases stayed absolutely still in the mist, I don’t know, they were just wrong.
The conductor was too afraid to go into the fog, and everybody was just milling around at the edge, like they were looking at the shadow circus off in the distance or something! I didn’t care, if they wouldn’t take me in, I’d go by myself! I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t have food, or water, or a weapon bigger than my belt knife, but I didn’t care, I ran into the fog without looking back. It took me two days of wandering through that blasted fog before I reached the other side and saw... it. My beautiful Cyre was gone. The land was black, charred, and twisted. The once green hills were littered with the skeletons of trees, and they almost seemed to undulate as I watched them. It was like a scene right out of a nightmare.
I think I knew then that nothing could have survived in there, but my friends, my family were in Making, I had to get to them, to see for myself, so I kept going. The dead limbs of trees would almost reach out to grab me as I forced my way through the twisted remains of a forest, they clawed deep scratches into my arms, nothing major, but the bleeding didn’t stop, the blood didn’t clot. It was another day before I found the body. I couldn’t tell if it had been a man or a woman, it was so badly misshapen. It was like the person had been desperately trying to crawl away from something, but their lower half had melted into the ground, merging with the dirt and stone. Their middle was desiccated, like dried meat, even though they couldn’t have been dead for more than a week. Their head and one outstretched arm were nothing but bones, still held in the air like they were reaching for something, help that never came maybe, I don’t know.
All I remember after that was screaming, and running. I wanted nothing more than to get away from there. So ashamed that I was running out on my family, but too afraid to do anything but run faster. I remember tripping over a stone that I’m sure wasn’t there before my foot struck it, and hitting the ground hard. Next thing I knew I was outside the mists, back on green grass with blue sky over my head. There were armed soldiers around, apparently a formal rescue operation had been mounted while I was gone, not for me, but for any survivors in there. After I had had a little to drink, just water though, none of them had any brandy though, I could have used some of that, they questioned me. I told them everything I had seen, how I had run. I wasn’t the only one stupid enough to try that, they said, but I was one of the lucky ones to make it back out alive. A few more hours in there, and I would have been dead from thirst, blood loss, exposure, any number of other things, they had pulled me out just in time, and it still took the little Jorasco half an hour of work before they were sure I was going to pull through.
There was something odd though. They were all polite enough, but they were a little too polite, if you know what I mean. Nobody would talk to me more than they absolutely had to, and as I walked around the makeshift camp, I noticed that whenever I walked by, conversations would suddenly stop, like they had been talking about me and didn’t want me to hear, and the whole time my damned shoulder kept itching. It wasn’t until that evening when I finally got a chance to wash up before bed that I saw it, right on the back of my left shoulder, an angry redness with a single black and red line in the center. I found the mirror and held it around to here I could see, and all over the back of my shoulder was a hand sized angry red scribble. I knew what it was immediately, no member of a dragonmarked house could mistake an aberrant dragonmark when they saw it.
I didn’t think it was possible, but life just went downhill from there. I went back to my enclave in Sharn, back to the Canniths, the only family I had left, and like a naive fool asked what I should do about the mark. That was a mistake. I should have hidden it, lied about it, pretend like it didn’t exist, but I was so sure at the time that my house wouldn’t let me down in my time of need that the thought never crossed my mind. I was practically excoriated on the spot. Oh sure, they put up airs of trying to be helpful, but the house had been broken as badly as I was by the loss of Cyre, and the last thing they had time for was coddling an abomination. With all of my influential friends laying dead in Making, it was only a matter of days before I was officially removed from House Cannith, as quietly as possible.
I was dirty in my haggard clothes, I had no money, no way to prove my identity to the dwarves, and no one would back me for a loan. All of my noble clients from only weeks before suddenly didn’t know me. And worse yet, I wasn’t alone. Refugees just like me were beginning to come in droves. If it had been just me, I might have had a chance at rebuilding, but I was quickly lost in a sea of dirty faces. I was a Mourner to the people of Sharn, nothing more. Oh how the mighty had fallen.
So tell me, what do you know of suffering? You think you know what pain is? Can you understand what it means to have everything you loved and held dear taken away from you? My beloved Cyre is gone, and the best hope I can have for my wife and my little girl is that their bodies are lying dead on the ground in that blasted wasteland. At least that way, they can be at peace... something I can never know again. Most nights I wake up in a cold sweat, them screaming to me for help as that fog rolls over them still ringing in my ears as the nightmare begins to fade. I welcome those nights. As horrible as they are, those nights are bearable. Its the other nights that I dread. The nights where I dream that they are still alive, and that we are all in our home, happy and carefree, those are the nights I can’t stand. For those few imaginary hours, I have my life back, only to lose it all over again when I wake up.
Where were you when my little girl died, Deneith? You were supposed to protect us, so where were you?!? And you, Cannith, did you know you were talking to an excoriate of your own house? Where were you when I was stripped of what little I had left, because of this stupid thing on my shoulder? Where was your high and mighty morals when they became inconvenient? Do you know what it means to have to sleep on a cold floor at night, because the inns won’t have you, even if you somehow managed to get enough money to pay for the room, because it might scare away the “good” customers? To have to dig through the trash just to find something to eat? Do you? Then don’t tell me how hard your perfect little life is. Go home to your warm bed and your hot meal, and leave me be. I don’t want your charity or your pity, just leave me alone...”
Jarin Cannith, now known simply as Jarin or Jay, is a human rogue/barbarian, originally from Cyre, and then the refugee camp within Sharn. A highly skilled armor smith and would be socialite before the Mourning, he has become just another face in the crowd of Mourners. An angry and rather bitter man that has, through personal experience, learned to be suspicious of the motives of anyone that tries to help him, always looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.
While still quite capable of making outstanding armor, he takes his excoriation from House Cannith seriously, if bitterly, and refuses to try and make a living through his craftsmanship. Even with his current situation, he’s too proud to resort to begging or stealing, and gets by on whatever menial (but honest) work he can get, although he is forced to hide the fact that he bears an aberrant dragonmark (which grants him Cause Fear) in order to find work.
While relatively unscarred physically, Jarin carries deep emotional scars which may never truly heal. His wife and daughter were the world to him, and their deaths knocked his feet out from under him in a way nothing else could have done. To this day, he carries two small carved wooden statuettes in his pouch, a woman and a child, representing his lost family. Every night he carefully takes them out, and relates the events of the day to them, as others would write in a diary, before wrapping them back in their protective cloth and putting them away again.
Although too proud and hard headed to admit it, Jarin has an underlying death wish. Not so much in that he actively wants to die, but that in he is tired of living. As such, he isn’t afraid to risk himself, and never backs down from a fight. In fact, he seems happiest when he is fighting. Truth be told, he doesn’t focus on a fight the way others do, the movements are familiar to him to the point he can go through them without thought, like a monk and their katras. During a fight with his quarterstaff spinning around him at blinding speeds, he is thinking of his family, and how his little girl would laugh and clap her hands as he went through his drills with the staff so long ago. If he should die while thinking of his family, so much the better. When he wins the fight, as he all so often does, he tends to be rather grumpy and sour at having to come back to the real world again. To avoid this, he will often try to intimidate someone into backing down, with his own anger at his lot in life providing ample fuel for his fire. When that isn’t enough, he almost subconsciously activates his aberrant mark, spilling a wash of fear through his opponent, which makes him look all the more intimidating.
Beyond this, his greatest personality quirk is something akin to flashbacks. He doesn’t think he is reliving any particular moment, even while in combat (which is more akin to daydreaming), but he has lost his ability to discern random girls from his own daughter in times of stress. Regardless of skin or hair color, or other obvious differences, in tense moments (like combat), all he can see is his own little girl standing there, and fights with all the strength and ferocity of a father defending his child, often calling the child by his daughter’s name (such as “Marrin, stay back!”). He always comes back to himself once the situation has been resolved, and will apologize for his mistake, but otherwise doesn’t want to talk about it.
AMERI d'CANNITH, 5th LEVEL HUMAN ARTIFICER
Ameri wasn't born to be more than an assistant. She was the youngest child of a large family, and really only counted as a member of House Cannith through birth, not through any real power, and she accepted this with a quiet stoicism which would mark much of her life.
Indeed, she took to the scholar's life with a certain amount of relish. She loved to delve into the past, to find the patterns which eluded others, and to piece together information to make a coherent whole. She practically lived in libraries, absorbing information at an almost worrying pace. Her parents were proud, her teachers stunned, and her brothers teased her mercilessly.
Eventually, however, her brothers turned from good-natured teasing to outright torment in an ongoing attempt to upset her balance. At first it was just small things, like accidentally-on-purpose spills of ink in her books, missing pages, glue mixed with ink to destroy quills.
Then it got nasty.
One of her brothers, a wizard in training, 'acquired' an old Wand of Missiles with only a few charges left, and decided to use it against her, not realizing just how devastating the effects would be upon his bookish sibling. Ameri almost died, and to this day she has a horrible scar across the side of her chest that never fades.
Nobody expected what came next. Instead of diving headfirst back into her books - although she did keep up a rather unhealthy amount of study - she insisted on being taught how to defend herself. Incapable of using magic, however, and certainly not strong enough for any real outdoor or martial training, it seemed for a time that her desire to rise above her ordeal would go unanswered, until the day that she found the wand that her brother had used against her, all but drained.
She couldn't use magic, surely this would be useless to her... but as she held it she heard a note in her head, a song that told her how to use it... And so she did, shattering her brother's seat beneath him during a House Cannith gathering. Standing as tall as her tiny, wounded frame would allow, she demanded to be taught the ways of the artificer.
There were doubts, of course, at first. Those doubts were washed away as soon as she picked up her first scroll and heard the song again, different this time, and the knowledge of how the scroll worked came to her in the notes. Sometimes the song would be sour, and sometimes her hearing would be off, but nobody could deny that she had a real talent for making things work.
Her audacity had gotten her that far, and her talent made her Favoured.
She never told anyone what she heard from the magic, not for years. Not until the day she was sent to Dernholm to help the new Consul, and Vayne d'Cannith drew from her all her secrets, all her hopes and fears and regrets from her short life. When he used those secrets against her in an attempt to flush out the rebels of the city, he smiled just as her brother had when he scarred her.
She hates him, and she is a woman who had formerly believed herself incapable of hate...
Other Stuff:
* STR: 8, DEX: 11, CON: 10, INT: 18, WIS: 12, CHA: 18 (Upped CHA at Level 4, wound up incorporating her lousy physical stats into her background, wound up making her MUCH more interesting)
* Only Lawful character in a party of nutjobs (LG in a party consisting of a CG and two CNs. Poor thing.).
* Seems to know EVERYTHING. (Translated: I score so many natural 20s on my Knowledge checks it's not funny, and as I maxxed out my Knowledge skills anyway...)
* Only member of the party not scared witless of death. Being MM'd in the back at thirteen will do that to ya.
* Currently acting as a Blastificer with the Point Blank Shot and Precise Shot feats, has more kills than the Barbarian/Fighter and the Hexblade combined. *Sigh* The rogue totally outdoes her in kills, though, by more than I care to admit.
* Owns about fourteen, maybe fifteen wands at this point (don't have my list right now).
* Is having a sneaky-quiet relationship with Larsa d'Cannith, none of us can believe they haven't been caught yet! Especially considering our Rogue, who makes it his business to know everything the rest of us are up to. Actually, the Barbarian/Fighter is the only one who has even an idea. That's kinda scary.
Storing a level by level feat breakdown for my hammer weilding WF, Maul.
I'll come up with a background for him later.
I take it that's what I can see from him in the coming levels?
Oh yeah, I forgot I had already worked up his feats, thanks for digging that back out for me, saves me a lot of trouble. ;)
Since you didn't wanna use the greathammer though, I'll actually have an extra feat to use. But then, I had blank slots in that build too, so whats one more? Be good for some flavor feats.
Anywho, after a long while, I've been struck by inspiration again.
I just finished watching the last Narnia movie in preparation for Prince Caspian next weekend, and bam, it hit. Think it left a bruise, actually...
Anyway, for those familiar with the movie, the events towards the end are what did it. Lucy and Susan passing word of Aslan's death to Peter via the trees, the army of Narnia with all of the animals, and the way nature and civilization co-existed in idyllic harmony.
I now want to play a Vadalis Druid. Not a "survival of the fittest tree hugging whatevers" type druid, not even a shapeshifting druid. I want to play a beastmaster. A Vadalis that is in touch with the "old magic, the magic of the land, the trees, and the animals". Someone that has been able to marry the supposedly rival ideals of untamed nature with tamed civilization. Someone who walks through the wilds unmolested and unconcerned not because he is part of nature in the way normal druids are, but because he understands and respects it's inhabitants.
Would make ample use of Summon Nature's Ally to call to his "friends" to aid him in battle, and the use of "old magic" to use nature against his foes (such as ample use of things like Entangle). Would avoid flashy spells, would avoid shapeshifting entirely.
I'll have to do some research to see if there are any mechanical options I can take to those ends, but in the mean time, I made a character portrait for him using a free online program I found the other day. Click on the pic to give it a try for yourself.
I'll let the details perculate in the back of my brain for a day or two, then write him up a good background.
Okay, I've had the idea of how to convert my storm sorceress over kicking around in my head for a few days now, and I think its finally gelled conceptually into something that will give the same feel and personality, while still being uniquely Eberron. In fact, I think I'm going to try doing the background story a bit differantly than I have before. I'm going to try telling it in First Person Narrative instead of Third Person Limited Omniscience.
Amythest, female Half-Elven Sorceress:Show"You noticed the ears, didn't you? Yeah, I'm a Khoravar, for what it's worth. Much to my father's shagrin, seeing as how he was human, and so was my mother. Yeah, you see the problem, right? Human plus human typically doesn't equal a khoravar, and my father knew it. Fact that we lived in the same quarter of Wroat as the Lylander enclave didn't exactly help matters either. My father always said I was adopted, but I think everybody pretty much put two and two together and figured out what happened, but dad kept the appearance up anyway.
Pretty normal childhood growing up. I always loved the rain though, and I don't know if you've ever been to Wroat or not, but it rains a LOT in Wroat. I loved splashing in the puddles. Still do, actually... Anyway, never was very close to my father. Oh, he was fatherly enough, in public where people could see, but in private, "distant" doesn't quite convey his attitude towards me. So, I spent most of my time as a child with my mother. Dad was a ledger, a book keeper for some minor noble or some such, and mom was a calligrapher. She had the prettiest handwriting you ever saw, and insisted that I learn to write properly as well.
Things were okay, until I was about 14, when mom died from the fever. Yeah, that one. For about a year after she died, I stayed with my father. Now that was a delicate situation, I can tell you that. Ever spend a year walking on eggshells? I did. Dad was distant when mom was alive, but with her gone, everything seemed to be my fault. Looking back at it now, I can't really blame him. I mean, people tell me I look just like my mother did at my age, except for the ears, and it must have been tough on him to have me constantly reminding him of what he lost. Especially when I also reminded him every day that he saw my ears that I couldn't have really been his. He never said it, didn't even talk about it when mother was alive, but I could see it in his eyes.
Then "it" happened. The one thing that he couldn't explain away to the neighbors. We were having a screaming match at each other, which had been getting more and more common, when suddenly the house was rocked by a blast of thunder. Which was odd to say the least, considering that was one of the rare days when the sun was shining in Wroat. He just sort of turned pale and took a step backwards, quite as a ghost, and I couldn't figure out why. He just mumbled something and left the room. It wasn't until I got to a mirror that I saw this.
*pulls down the top of her high necked shirt to show the base of her neck, and the sprawling lines of a dragonmark*
Its the Lylander dragonmark, the Mark of Storms they call it. No one would have put a blood member of House Lylander up for adoption, and everybody knew it. It was painfully obvious to anyone with eyes that my mother must have had an affair with one of the stormship captains, and there was no way dad could hide it anymore. As if that wasn't enough, turned out that I made the thunderclap. Didn't figure that out for a few days, but apparently the mark also came with some extras.
*holds up her hand as electrical sparks crackle up her fingers*
Seems I was also a sorceress. Dunno if the mark gave me the power, or if it was just a coincidence that they both appeared at the same time, but everything I can do seem to be tied to storms, so make of it what you will. Combination of the reminder of my... origins, and the fact that I was suddenly a lot more dangerous to have around, it was just too much for dad. Wasn't long before he kicked me out on the street. Oh, he gave me a big pouch of sovereigns and galifers and his best wishes, but he still kicked me out.
There I was, 15 years old, and alone on the streets of Wroat, and not a clue as to what to do. Ended up spending a few days at the Lylander enclave, the mark was more than enough to get me in the front door. But things got... uncomfortable... after a while. Wroat is infamous for political intregue and all that, and the enclave was no exception. It wasn't long before the half-elves were staring at me, and whispering behind my back, usually about who's daughter I must be. Nobody came forward, and they weren't about to have me move into the enclave for the rest of my life. Eventually, they very politely told me to leave. I bounced around for a few years after that, mainly staying with differant Khorvars for a few days, weeks, even months at a time. The hospitality of the khorvar may be famous, but its not unlimited.
I was pretty lucky, actually, what with being a sorceress and all. I don't even want to think what would have happened to me if I hadn't been able to defend myself from thieves and... worse types... with a flash of lightning or two. Eventually, it was a temple of Aureon that took me in. It was one of the priestesses there that helped teach me to control my powers. I had been using them out of instinct up until then, Elia helped me learn how to use them when I wanted, and more importantly, how NOT to use them when I didn't want them.
Elia, the priestess I was telling you about, she keeps telling me how I'm destined for great things, and that I can't "keep hiding here in the temple" as she puts it. That its a big world out there, and that I need to go out and see it. So, here I am.
Eh, my name? Well, the six forbid I shame my father any more than I have by telling people I'm connected to him. But, my mother always used to call me her little amethyst, because of my eyes. See? They're purple of all things, the same color as an amethyst. You know, a bit of a tweak, and it could be a name... yeah, call me Amythest."
:D :D :bounce:
After pouring through books, I have come to the conclusion that the character I have in mind is not playable under the current D&D ruleset. So much for that one.
You're not going to let a silly thing such as the current D&D ruleset get in your way though, are you?
You're not going to let a silly thing such as the current D&D ruleset get in your way though, are you?
No, of course not. I'll just build him in a more flexible, better balanced ruleset. Mutants & Masterminds 2e.
No, of course not. I'll just build him in a more flexible, better balanced ruleset. Mutants & Masterminds 2e.
I thought so.