My Talenta Ranger's Backstory: Share Your Backstories! - Downloaded from the Wizards Community, all coding removed by Solauren

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#1 Cyber-Dave Jul 27, 2009 14:16:01	I just thought I would share the backstory I wrote for the Talenta Ranger I will be playing in an Eberron game starting on Sunday August 2nd. To the other members of my group (other than Shane, who is our DM), eyes off. :P As for everyone else, either comments on my character's backstory, or a sharing of your own character's backstory, would be appreciated! Show I was born 20 years ago to a small tribe on the plains of the Talanta. My first memories are of war. From the south Valenar raided. From the North came Karrnathi, more dead than alive. To the east the Ironroot Mountains and the Endworld Mountains locked us in the middle of a war that was not ours. The only land to move into was Cyre, to the west. Some of the tribes did. But Lath Toebo and Shaman Tabi did not. No matter how often our tribe would move from place to place, no matter how many Karrnathi we killed, no matter how many Valenar we had to feed to herds of clawfeet and carvers, the Lath and our shaman would not allow us to “become like our enemies. To raid and murder the Cyrans on their own land was to become like the Valenar butchers.” Instead, Lath Toebo found a Cyran general and made an alliance. We would provide hunters, scouts, and he would help to defend our land. On my 15th name day I joined our hunters in battle against those that would attempt to raid the plains. For a year I fought as others had fought before me. I roamed. I tracked. I acted as a guide. I brought Cyran soldiers and war machines down on those who attempted to steal our homes. But, a year after I joined our hunters in battle, something happened; the Cyran unit I was with received news of tragedy. Someone, something, had destroyed Cyre. I led them back to the boarders of Cyre, but Cyre was gone. All that remained was a wall of dead gray mist. Some of the soldiers entered into that mist. I never saw any of those who did ever again. Over the course of the next two years the Cyran unit I had been a member of dwindled, their members dying, or abandoning their post to search for friends and family rumored to be living amongst other groups of Cyran survivors; rumors said that survivors were scattered across all of the lands of the big people. I was always curious where these survivors thought they would go. Karrnath still lay to the north. Mountains still lay to the east. Valenar not only lay to the south, but it was said that they slaughtered any Cyran survivors that entered their boarders. Hopefully those that left their post found a kind Karrnathi face to the North. In all other directions, there was no hope. Two years ago, before the signing of the Treaty of Thronehold, my clawfoot caught an arrow through the eye during a hunt with Valenar raiders. The unit was already nothing but a claw of soldiers. I decided to return home. I needed a new mount, and I could no longer see any point in wasting my time with the last few Cyrans. In my eyes, they had proved that they were unable to do anything but engage in a pointless struggle to release their rage and grief on their prey. I wish I had been more understanding. I will never forget the greeting I received on my return. Women lay, with cleaved skulls, clutching the mangled corpses of children to hearts that no longer beat. The hunters that had stayed to protect the camp were impaled on spikes. My mother. My father. My baby sister. All were dead. Close to my family’s yurt, where my father raised clawfeet, I found their bodies. I cried so hard that I thought I would loose all my water and die. I did not. Instead, the only survivor of the camp tore me out of my pain. A small clawfoot, one my father must have still been raising, crept up behind me and bit my arm. I still have the scars. Stuck to one of its claws was a piece of cloth on which there was a portion of an insignia. I have no idea who the insignia belonged to. I have no idea what it means. But someone, somewhere, does. By the end of that year Lathon Halpum signed the Treaty of Thronehold. I am told that it says that we are at peace. My brothers, my sisters, of other tribes, are at peace. I hear that those of my tribe that were not in the camp that day have joined various other tribes. They too are at peace, with their new tribes. But for me there is only one piece that matters. I travel with the only survivor of the camp. I call her Dovi. Dovi was my sister’s name. I did not see what happened that day, but Dovi did. I might not know where the piece of insignia I now carry came from, but someone out there does. That piece matters, because when I find that someone, they better pray that they had nothing to do with the butchery of my family. These days, I understand the Cyrans who kept fighting a lot better. These days, I too keep fighting. Eventually, if I kill enough people, I’m bound to kill someone responsible…
#2 rekko Jul 27, 2009 14:53:13	Very Nice ! I love it. Especially the last sentence. I am a DM, so I don't have a backstory, but I used to be a player and you can read some NPCs in the Tell me about your Eberron NPCs thread. Rekko
#3 warfeind Jul 27, 2009 14:57:11	Ouch, nice backstory very grim.
#4 Cyber-Dave Jul 28, 2009 20:28:33	So... anybody else want to share a PC backstory?

Show

I was born 20 years ago to a small tribe on the plains of the Talanta. My first memories are of war. From the south Valenar raided. From the North came Karrnathi, more dead than alive. To the east the Ironroot Mountains and the Endworld Mountains locked us in the middle of a war that was not ours. The only land to move into was Cyre, to the west. Some of the tribes did. But Lath Toebo and Shaman Tabi did not.

No matter how often our tribe would move from place to place, no matter how many Karrnathi we killed, no matter how many Valenar we had to feed to herds of clawfeet and carvers, the Lath and our shaman would not allow us to “become like our enemies. To raid and murder the Cyrans on their own land was to become like the Valenar butchers.” Instead, Lath Toebo found a Cyran general and made an alliance. We would provide hunters, scouts, and he would help to defend our land.

On my 15th name day I joined our hunters in battle against those that would attempt to raid the plains. For a year I fought as others had fought before me. I roamed. I tracked. I acted as a guide. I brought Cyran soldiers and war machines down on those who attempted to steal our homes. But, a year after I joined our hunters in battle, something happened; the Cyran unit I was with received news of tragedy. Someone, something, had destroyed Cyre. I led them back to the boarders of Cyre, but Cyre was gone. All that remained was a wall of dead gray mist. Some of the soldiers entered into that mist. I never saw any of those who did ever again.

Over the course of the next two years the Cyran unit I had been a member of dwindled, their members dying, or abandoning their post to search for friends and family rumored to be living amongst other groups of Cyran survivors; rumors said that survivors were scattered across all of the lands of the big people. I was always curious where these survivors thought they would go. Karrnath still lay to the north. Mountains still lay to the east. Valenar not only lay to the south, but it was said that they slaughtered any Cyran survivors that entered their boarders. Hopefully those that left their post found a kind Karrnathi face to the North. In all other directions, there was no hope.

Two years ago, before the signing of the Treaty of Thronehold, my clawfoot caught an arrow through the eye during a hunt with Valenar raiders. The unit was already nothing but a claw of soldiers. I decided to return home. I needed a new mount, and I could no longer see any point in wasting my time with the last few Cyrans. In my eyes, they had proved that they were unable to do anything but engage in a pointless struggle to release their rage and grief on their prey. I wish I had been more understanding.

I will never forget the greeting I received on my return. Women lay, with cleaved skulls, clutching the mangled corpses of children to hearts that no longer beat. The hunters that had stayed to protect the camp were impaled on spikes. My mother. My father. My baby sister. All were dead. Close to my family’s yurt, where my father raised clawfeet, I found their bodies. I cried so hard that I thought I would loose all my water and die. I did not. Instead, the only survivor of the camp tore me out of my pain. A small clawfoot, one my father must have still been raising, crept up behind me and bit my arm. I still have the scars. Stuck to one of its claws was a piece of cloth on which there was a portion of an insignia. I have no idea who the insignia belonged to. I have no idea what it means. But someone, somewhere, does.

By the end of that year Lathon Halpum signed the Treaty of Thronehold. I am told that it says that we are at peace. My brothers, my sisters, of other tribes, are at peace. I hear that those of my tribe that were not in the camp that day have joined various other tribes. They too are at peace, with their new tribes. But for me there is only one piece that matters.

I travel with the only survivor of the camp. I call her Dovi. Dovi was my sister’s name. I did not see what happened that day, but Dovi did. I might not know where the piece of insignia I now carry came from, but someone out there does. That piece matters, because when I find that someone, they better pray that they had nothing to do with the butchery of my family. These days, I understand the Cyrans who kept fighting a lot better. These days, I too keep fighting. Eventually, if I kill enough people, I’m bound to kill someone responsible…