The last living thought you recall is the painful digging of the hempen rope into your neck, the blood pumping dully in your ears as you thrashed, until you slowly, agonizingly slipped into unconsciousness, the adrenaline pumping through your body unable to keep you awake any longer. And then, emptiness. And then, a light, shining in the darkness. You moved toward it, though you cannot recall if it was by your own will, or if you were forced along. In that moment, you were beyond such concepts as choice, as thought, because you were beyond all concepts, all things.
But then, as the light grew brighter, there was a shape, a point of vague dimness among the brilliance. And then, another shape. And then another, and another, and then uncountable ones, all coming at you, and then rushing by you, behind you. Your movement toward the light slowed, then halted, as you were buffeted by the shapes, pushed back. Though you could not really see in that state, for you had no eyes, you still understood that this close, the shapes vaguely resembled people. Only vaguely, of course. You yourself only vaguely resembled people in that state as well.
As the great tide of human-like things pushed you back, and you joined their ranks, you saw—no, understood where they were going. Behind you (it wasn't really behind, because there was no anywhere wherever (wherenever?) you were, but your mind is no longer capable of understanding the state you found yourself in at that time, and so to you, it was behind) there was a dark spot. Not emptiness, darkness. It was earthy, and gritty, and very, very real, unlike the blessed light before you. It was from that hungry, muddy darkness that you rose from, and it was toward it you now hurtled.
When you hit the darkness, were enveloped by its grossly tangible mass, you thought for a second that you were dead. But of course you couldn't have been, because you had already died. No, you were something so much worse. You were alive. As you opened your eyes, you were still suspended by the noose, but were no longer asphyxiating, largely because your heart was no longer pumping, your lungs no longer taking in air. You were back, but not all the way. As your fellow executees begin to stir, you understand that it's not just you. It's all of you. For some inexplicable reason, you've all come back. And if all those shapes were something to go by, it's not just you lot.
Greetings and salutations, ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, neithers, boths, and in-betweens! So, as you may have gleaned from the big "recruiting" tag on this thread, I'm recruiting for a new campaign! You'll all the taking on the roles of prisoners condemned to execution for assorted capital crimes, though whether you were actually guilty or not is ultimately up to you. Rather than is typical for such stories, however, you were all summarily strung up and compelled to dance the hangman's jig. But when your kicking and thrashing was all said and done, you weren't. For whatever reasons, you have all now come back to life, your minds hazy from your... not quite near death experience, since you actually did die. And you're not alone, as the dead begin to rise all over.
'Well, that's great,' you say, 'but what about the setting?' Well, I'm glad you asked! Your characters are... very hazy about everything, and don't entirely remember a lot of things, (I'm not covering for barebones worldbuilding, you're covering for barebones worldbuilding) but there are still a few things that I'll say that might help with building out a character. The setting somewhat resembles Georgian Era England, though with many draws from other time periods. The Georgian Era is pretty big, though, so I'll say somewhere around mid to late 18th century.
It's a gloomy place, and you can be assured that it rains just often enough to cause the maximum amount of misery, without causing you to just get used to it. Poverty and crime are skyrocketing, and so are the waistlines of the rich. The constables are cruel, miserable creatures, eager to inflict cruelty on whomever they please. Witchcraft is a hanging offence, regardless of whether it stems from a dark pact, diligent study, an innate ability, the power of nature, or even a deity whose way of going about things doesn't quite line up with the government's views. Of course, most of the gods are as dour and miserable as the land they preside over, so such cases are rare. That's the bare bones of it all, hopefully that gives you enough of an idea. I'm not providing any specific names because... well, your characters don't really remember fiddly bits like that. They know their own names... sometimes, but past that they don't really know many specific things. Knowledge may return over the course of the game, or it may remain hidden away, only time will tell...
If you're still interested after all that, then I'm glad to hear! Here's a wacky little character application form for you all.
Name: You might not remember it, and that's okay! You might also only remember a bit of it. Hells, there's every possibility you've misremembered it! Race: Reborn human, probably. Your mechanical race will be reborn because... well, I do hope it's obvious. As for your race in life, you'll really only find humans in these lands, so it's highly unlikely that you'll have originally been something else. However, that doesn't mean it's impossible. For example, consorting with devils might have resorted in your character growing a luscious head of horns, which would most definitely be a good reason, at least in the government's eyes, for stringing you up. If you want to be something other than originally human, talk to me. Class/Subclass: Starting level 5. Anything official is allowed, homebrew is permitted on a case-by-case basis, though I will almost always approve things by Mage Hand Press and Kobold Press, since I've rarely had instances of their stuff being incredibly imbalanced, and I don't super care about balance in my games, as long as everyone's having fun. Ability Scores: Typical roll 4d6 drop lowest. If you don't like what you've rolled, you can take standard array, but I encourage you to take low scores, as long as it's not all garbage, since I think weak points can be very fun. Background: Both your mechanical background, and a little bit about what your character did before they ended up on the scaffold. Your memory is very fuzzy, so you don't really need to include much beyond some vague stuff, but you should at least include the reason why you were convicted of a capital offence. Of course, it's rather easy to commit a capital crime in these parts, and such crimes as failing to properly grovel before a government official, wielding a shovel in a malevolent sort of way, 'looking at me funny', and the ever-ambiguous sin of loitering can all be capital offences, if you end up with the wrong judge. Physical Description: Everyone's looking a lot paler than they used to, but you all still look vaguely human. A quick description of what your character looks like, what they wear, how they walk, how they talk, that particularly cruel way they sneer and say 'bugger off.' You know, all the bases. Roleplay Sample: Either taken from another game, or just typed up right here. Just a little taste of your writing style here on these forums.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Name: Rhiv...something Race: Reborn human Class/Subclass: Barbarian / Ancestral Guardian Ability Scores: roll]4d6dl1[/roll] 101113515 Background: Folk Hero. Part of a clan that would raid far off villages and towns of our enemies bringing back spoils (vikings etc.) Got injured in a raid and left for dead before being captured and hung. Physical Description: Used to have dark brown skin with eyes that have two colors. A green left eye and a violet right eye. Stands 6' 2" towering over most men. He has a shock of auburn red hair the is long and braided along with his beard. Usually dressed in little but furs and leathers, and his chest is usually bared, even in the coldest weather. A skinned wolf sits upon his head and its skin forms a small cloak around his head. He speaks in what would in our world be called a Scottish accent. He has little remorse for those that do not fight for themselves. Roleplay Sample: As you crest a hill just past the parting trees, the halfling driver turns to you with a smile, nodding his head to Jet, Calisstra, and Ronnan, familiar faces from just days ago. Jet returns the nod and smile, and then turns to their travel companions, grinning at Ronnan and Calisstra, glad to see familiar faces. "Good to see that I recognize at least a couple of us, good to see you again Ronnan, Calisstra," they dip their head to both. Mounted on a partially armored black mare, Cynder, after responding to a seemingly simple and easy job request, makes her way to the estate of her soon to be known patron and sees a carriage park beside it. Cynder trots up to the cart and waves. "Greetings Travelers, I assumed we are to be hired to complete a mission soon?" She dismounts, holding the reigns of her horse. During the 2 day journey Ronnan sat quietly taking in the beautiful spring weather, the cool breeze, and the lush green rolling hills of Erilea and listening to the bard compose and practice his art. He is happy to work with his previous crew but is interested in learning more about his new companions. After seeing the new beautiful horse and its owner he turns to Cynder and replies, "We are indeed, and as for who we are, I'm Ronnan Tarkelby, a bit of a runt, but I like to think my height compensates for it" he continues smiling at his own joke. "And these are two of my friends: Calisstra, and Jet" he points to each, grinning at each in turn. Cynder nods and holds a hand out, "My name is Lady Cynder Bisquette of House Bisquette. It is a pleasure to meet you and yours." Ronnan gives Cynder a slight bow before shaking her proffered hand then leans back and takes on a thoughtful look. "Lady Cynder, May I ask a question?" Hearing the introduction, Calisstra casts a subtly knowing side-eyed glance to Ronnan while crossing her hands on top of each other on her lap. "Why not? It is your right to know." Ronnan glances between them, a light grin upon his face. "Lady Cynder, may I ask what House you represent and why you would be working for Lord Pajul?"
Name: Alcazar. Alcazar Tr.... Just Alcazar (he has a locket that says "To Alcazar for All Eternity, Lizbeth" Race: Reborn human Class/Subclass: Shadow Sorceror Ability Scores: As above: 10 13 7 13 16 16
Name: James Race: Reborn human Class/Subclass: Paladin/Oath of Conquest Background: I was....a soldier, I think. I remember war....endless war. Battle after battle, after battle. I lived, I killed, I lived, and move on. I remember rage, and clarity. Blood on my hands, and another man, their body decorated like the night sky with jewels...his head was in my hand. I was beaten, drowned...and in that drowning, in those seconds before they brought me out, only to break my neck on that rope...I found my friend. Physical Description: James was a redhead before his death, and now, along with his paler skin, his hair seems to have gained a deeper, redder hue. His teeth seem sharper, more pointed, and he moves with strange motions, limping forward like a wounded beast that has yet to give up on it's hunt. He speaks with a subtle growl, but laughs easily and makes open movements to motion around him, as if claiming the very air he moves through as his own. Roleplay Sample: A SW5e game in which I had recently acquired some new gear, and flavored it as building it myself.
Kaisaras returned to the Hummingbird after a day at the market. He had to strong arm his way into a sale that everyone had seemed to been jumping at, and even he was drawn to. Clicking his tongue at the power money seemed to have over everyone, he berated himself for letting such a concept hold sway over him as he moved aboard the ship. Kaisaras didn't bother seeing if anyone else was aboard as he made his way to the workshop with his new parts and gear. Seeing that the space was free, he strode over to the table and spread out his materials, and his lightsaber.
"I hear you, now shut up." As he removed the crystal from his saber, he murmured a few annoyed words to the damned thing as he felt it's own annoyance lash out at him. Growling, he forced the bratty little thing to submit once more before setting it down and getting to work.
First was his blade. Simply put because it was what he preferred to have on hand earliest. The fangs he had grown, as well as the Force, were good weapons, but there was a comfort he felt in having a weapon in his palm with a good heft. It might have seemed brutish to many, but that's what he was. A brute. And he relished in that fact.
A few hours went buy as he disassembled his dual-phase saber and installed the new pieces. The hilt was extended and reinforced with a counter balance, before he finally added the power distributer and transmitter. The mouth of the saber from where the blade would bleed out from was made wider, but beyond that the style of the blade remained much the same. Standing up and gripping the saber with both hands after he reinstalled the now quiet crystal, Kaisaras ignited he refashioned blade. Almost immediately, the heft he had been missing from before he lost his arm was back. A twisted, but happy, toothy smile grew upon his face as he slowly moved the weapon about. He was eager to test it in battle...but for now, he got back to work, turning the weapon off and fastening it to his hilt.
The Pauldron of Retribution...a symbolic fusion of both his martial prowess and the Force. It was a strange thing for Kaisaras, building armor, even if this wasn't truly that. Unlike his mask, it was not something that served a technical purpose, but a spiritual one. However, like his helmet, the pauldron was more than it's purpose. It was his wrath. A desire he wished to invoke upon the galaxy. Whilst the helmet was a tool to help battle and instill fear, this...this would share in his rage.
Each hammer strike, every spark of flame against the steel and blood as alchemy met smithing, forging each other into something more. The ritual was a toiling one, the beast within him having to be let loose ever just enough to pour into the creation, but not enough where it would take hold of his limbs. His newfound bloodlust, his wrath, his howling passions, all was poured into this work of fire, blood, and steel. The newly refashioned blade at his side shivered, it could sense it as well. The binding acts of this new creation and Kaisaras himself. The Force was here, as it always was, but the dark passions within Kaisaras willed that they enter his every strike, infusing his will until the pauldron resonated with him.
What felt like eternity, having drained Kaisaras of will, Force, and strength, was merely a few hours. As once the work was done, a hollow echo of the Dark side was all that was left as note for his creation. The howling, bestial face of the metal plates, was the only greeting of the sigil that Kaisaras had forged for himself. Heavy breathes and heartbeats drumming in his ear, Kaisaras simply soaked in the after wash of his hard work, left alone in a rare moment, of true peace...but such a moment would not be allowed to last long. As the emptiness of rage, was quickly filled, and Kaisaras once more stood to don his new sigil and mask. "...soon...soon I will find you." The berserker left the workshop, content with his work, for now.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Name: Daugherty Race: Reborn human - works for me :) Class/Subclass: Bard / College of Swords (so far, may see what else is out there from the sources you like…) Ability Scores: Ability scores: 151613121313 Background: Charlatan
Daugherty is a fast talking hustler who is always skirting the line of disaster. How embarrassing that he finally got caught! Truthfully though, it wasn’t any of his scams, schemes or shenanigans that got him caught. No, no, he’s too good for that. It was his sins that did him in. Specifically, Captain Farrell’s daughter… Though what they did was not precisely a crime, mind you. She was willing enough and very satisfied when all was said and done. It was just bad luck that she started showing before Daugherty skipped on to the next city. Worse luck that Captain Farrell had the power and the pull to see him accused, convicted and hung for trumped up charges. He had it done quick, too. Afraid Daugherty would speak the truth of what happened and why he was to be hung. He needn’t had worried, Daugherty may be a scoundrel but he’d never speak ill of one such as she… Physical Description: Daugherty is a handsome young man with a charming smile and a glint in his eye. He dresses fancier than he can afford and if one gets past his charm and looks close they will see the frayed edges, patched holes and re-sewn buttons. Still and all, he’s everyone’s best friend and has a kind word for all… at least to their face. He easily adopts whatever role he’s using to gain money, meals or free drinks - Snake Oil salesman, Three Card Monty dealer, card hustler or dashing stranger. Roleplay Sample: Honestly, I tend to RP up or down to the others in the game… Hopefully this would be an up to… Anyway, on my mobile so lemme see is I can get this to work…
"Yes! Huh? What? No, sorry... What was that?" Finn Of'Gren said, turning back to the others at her table. She had been turned around and leaning over to the table next to theirs, sharing a few jokes and insults with several drunken soldiers who, quite frankly, were a lot more laughs than this lot she had fallen in with. Further, she had just gotten the one called Lau'Dec to start telling a rather raunchy limerick that she expected to have the soldiers at that table in tears in a moment, and she had a coin purse in sight she just knew she'd be able to cut free while it's owner was in the throes of such laughter... But alas, the timing has now been thrown off and her attention back at her own table.
"Oh, strangeness? To the south?" Finn summed up, trying to hide her prior distraction. "Well sure, Vhalens, there's also tales and talk of strangeness, isn't there?"
Finn grabbed her mug and frowned to find it empty. She stood and leaned across the table to grab the pitcher, stretching just so to allow her figure to be shown in it's best light. She was by no means as curvy or endowed as other women but she of course knew how to show off what she did have and distracted men were easily manipulated and taken advantage of. "Awwww, we're empty!" Finn cried out in feigned disgust, holding the pitcher on high and turning it upside down to illustrate the truth of her situation. "Waiter?!? MORE!" The call brought cheers and laughter from many of those who had been heavily imbibing at tables nearby.
Once Finn got a nod of recognition from one of the employees, she sat back down in a huff, grabbed her mug and leaned back to the table she had been talking to moments ago. With a quick elbow into the side of one of the soldiers she drew a laugh and a kindly refill from their pitcher. "Thank you, boys..." Finn said with a flirtatious smile and then turned back to Vhalens, Argentus and... Oh, what was their name again? Oh, yes. Frenevir!
"You have to understand," She continued as if there had not been a rather significant interruption in what she was saying. "I spend seventy percent of my time in taverns like this. I spend the other eighty in drink halls, bars, inns and so on. The last thirty-three percent of the time I try to get some sleep, you know? Nature is getting strange, is it? Fellas, nature has always been strange. You don't know the half of it. And that is why I try to avoid it!"
"Take milk... Someone, at some point, saw a goat or a cow or something and thought 'I could go for a drink right about now' and then went and got themselves a drink from that animal! And you are talking about strange?? That guy... That goat drinking guy.... And I promise you, it was a guy... That guy was strange."
"Oh, thanks!" Finn says with a smile as the waiter brings the new pitcher of drink. "This didn't come from a goat did it? No... no, never mind. Ignore me. Here, this is for you..." With a coin slipped to the waiter and her glass refilled once more, Finn looks back at the others with a blank expression on her face....
And waits... And waits... And "Oh! I was talking!" she realizes and bursts into laughter. "Goats and milk and strange... Sorry, sorry. Went mental there a moment..."
"But yeah, ok... So I have heard things. Stories. Strange creatures. Ominous omens. The usual. They're more common these days, I will give you that. And more focused... As you say, they seem to be more watery-ish themed and the stories aren't as remote as they were. Like it used to be 'This happened to a friend's cousin's third uncle' type crap but nowadays it seems like you hear more and more stories that happened to actual people... And who you get the feeling are telling the truth. I don't like it. Nope, I do not..." Melancholy almost seems like it may be about to grip young Finn Of'Gren but then suddenly she is on her feet and raising her mug.
"But we're here now! Vhalens and Frenevir and Argentus and Finn!" she shouts out, much more loudly than the others at the table are likely comfortable with.
"To US!" she screams out again, thrusting her mug as high as possible and yet, amazingly, not spilling a drop....
Thinking Hexblade 1, Swords Bard rest of way if no objection….
Name: Artimus Snickle Race: Reborn human Class/Subclass: Artificer/Armorer Ability Scores: See above Background: Mostly fuzzy but he can remember being contracted to make a piece of fantastical jewelry for a nobleman’s wife which had disastrous results after being placed around her neck. A frantic search for her head is where that piece of fleeting memory ends. Physical Description: Artimus was never comely, even in his best days. Now he is downright detestable. He was born with withered legs and a foul attitude. But he was also born with a quick mind and an aptitude for learning. Without the bowels of academia, he surely would have died in the streets due to exposure. Stopping to drop a mitre in a tin cup in front of this beggar surely would taint the giver with a lifetime of misfortune. He stands and walks awkwardly with visible braces and a fashioned cane for support. His clothes were obviously fine, at one time. Now they are wrinkled, matted and soiled from days or weeks of wearing in all kinds of weather. He would stand at 5’ 3”, if he could stand straight. He looks like he would weigh 120 pounds soaking wet. His thinning, receding and prematurely whitening hair is unkempt and wind blown away from a ruddy and gnarled face that always appears pained. His voice is gravely and higher in pitch than might be expected and he has a proclivity for drooling, as can be seen by smears of mucus running the length of his sleeves. Roleplay Sample:
Something shifted inside Grzak when the bugbear willingly impaled itself on his sword just to strike its own comrade. Madness, vicious, Glorious! Surely this creature deserves a death worthy of securing its place in eternal battle alongside Hruggek or whichever god this magnificent creature worshipped.
A madness instantly welled up inside of Grzak. A madness driven by Gruumsh, the orc god of his father. The god he denies, the god he represses.
In a reckless fury, Grzak bellows a deafening roar of bloodlust and draws the sword out of the bugbear’s wound and traces a large semi-circle through the air as blood flies in spittles. With both hands on the sword, he redirects the blade for a brutal horizontal slash mid torso. Let Hruggek accept his warrior in two pieces! Grzak muses.
Reckless attack.
Bonus action RAGE!
Attack: 24 Damage: 6 +2 damage due to rage.
All attacks this round against Grzak are with advantage as Gruumsh extracts a price for such savagery.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Name: Ninety Two Race: Warfoged Reborn Class/Subclass: Druid (Spore) Ability Scores: (See Below) Background: 92 was a war machine with minimal consensus. Towards the end of the war his body broken, he fell and stopped working from all the damage taken and was left and was forget by his creators. Over the years, moss, vegetation and fungus sprung up and intermixed with his life giving energy and spark of life. His crude mind mixed with the vegitation and together formed a new life. They were not Warforged but reborn as more. Physical Description: They have a rusty shell of a body with moss, grass, flowers, dirt and branches for a body. His head is a carved wooden mask which has minimal articulation for facial features. He is about 7' tall. Roleplay Sample: 92 walks into town and up to a breakfast food stand. The young girl at the food stand says to the new customer "um. Hello. um, can I get you something to eat? Wait, do you eat? You don't eat people like me do you?" She says as thoughts go through her mind at this oddity in front of her. 92 says "Hello... (pause) Eat. (the girls eyes grow to saucer size) No, I am good. I do not need to eat you. Clarity... people... or food. But, can I have some water for my body?" The girl, feeling brave, takes a cup of water and gives it to 92. He says "Thank you" and pours if on self. "Thank you" and continues into town.
Name: Ninety Two Race: Warfoged Reborn Class/Subclass: Druid (Spore) Ability Scores: (See Below) Background: 92 was a war machine with minimal consensus. Towards the end of the war his body broken, he fell and stopped working from all the damage taken and was left and was forget by his creators. Over the years, moss, vegetation and fungus sprung up and intermixed with his life giving energy and spark of life. His crude mind mixed with the vegitation and together formed a new life. They were not Warforged but reborn as more. Physical Description: They have a rusty shell of a body with moss, grass, flowers, dirt and branches for a body. His head is a carved wooden mask which has minimal articulation for facial features. He is about 7' tall. Roleplay Sample: 92 walks into town and up to a breakfast food stand. The young girl at the food stand says to the new customer "um. Hello. um, can I get you something to eat? Wait, do you eat? You don't eat people like me do you?" She says as thoughts go through her mind at this oddity in front of her. 92 says "Hello... (pause) Eat. (the girls eyes grow to saucer size) No, I am good. I do not need to eat you. Clarity... people... or food. But, can I have some water for my body?" The girl, feeling brave, takes a cup of water and gives it to 92. He says "Thank you" and pours if on self. "Thank you" and continues into town.
Ability scores: 10111391510
I'm afraid that this character doesn't really work with the game's premise. A warforged would, by definition, be unable to be hung, and looking at your character backstory, it seems you went a completely different way with the character, which doesn't work with the way I was planning to have this campaign run. Additionally, warforged are far too advanced for the age the world is set in. As I mentioned in the first post, please ask me if you want to be something other than a human reborn.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Oh this sounds fun!! How unique and I can't wait to see what you do with it!
Ability scores: 1115991116
Name: Haleigh
Race: Reborn Human
Class: Wizard (school of evocation)
Background: (Inheritor) As she tries to remember who she is, she is happy she remembers her name, but after that is a bit foggy. She looks down her possessions and sees her spellbook. Instantly the history of this book comes back to her. She inherited it from her grandma, who was a great wizard and when she received it as she turned of age, all she did was study this book. This book defines her with all it's worn pages and notes, she would not know what to do if she lost it. As she takes in all her surroundings, she recalls why she is in this predicament..as she was practicing some of the spells in this book, well, she was labeled a witch and things went downhill from there. She doesn't quite remember who the people were that brought her here or that labeled her a witch, she can just hear them chanting in her mind.
Physical Des: Haleigh is a young woman, though quite a bit homely. She has a lazy eye and does her best to try and hide it. She has straight, jet black hair that reaches the middle of her back, and now with her extremely pale complexion, the contrast is even more striking. She wears basic traveling clothes, worn, dusty and muted colors, nothing that really stands out. She's about average height for a human woman, though rail thin.
Name : Sep (he's not sure, but thinks this is correct)
Race : Reborn Human
Class : Monk, Way of the Ascendant Dragon
Background : (Urchin, before he is reborn)
Sep remembers bits and pieces of his past. As the child who grew up with nothing, he learned how to defend himself and fight at an early age. He became part of a school for wayward youths that taught physical discipline in addition to lessons that attempted to bring the students to spiritual enlightenment. He tried to follow their rules and he grew in strength and his ability to perform maneuvers, the martial arts that he practiced with the masters in the academy. One night he had a dream of a dragonborn glowing in gold who had five hands moving together in synchrony, a flurry of blocks and attacks, a master of form that he had never witnessed. The dream consumed his thoughts, it was so vivid that he woke up twisted and contorted on his pallet, obviously a very active dream. The next day when practicing alone he began to move his hands in the manner that he recalled in the dream, and when he did so gouts of flame burst forth from his hands, burning the air in front of him. He turned and moved his hands in a different way that his hands seemed to know and bursts of electricity arced between his hands. A fellow student walked by and noted this, ran and told the masters. Sep kept working on his techniques when alone, and hoped to dream of the dragonborn warrior again. A week later he was confronted by his masters who demanded to see a demonstration of his power. He happily showed them his new feats hoping to impress them, but instead he was labelled a freak and a heretic, his hands were bound and he was taken to be tried and hung for witchcraft, which this obviously seemed to be.
Physical description : As he's hanging on the rope he appears dressed simply in a blue robe, brown hair shaved close to his head, a number of scars. He normally is seen walking with a spear and nothing else but a back pack.
Name: He....doesn't remember his name, but remembers sowing and reaping crops so he goes by Reap. Race: Reborn Human Class/Subclass: Wizard (Necromancy) Ability Scores: Ability scores: 141412141313 Background: Field was a farmer, just a normal everyday farmer. It was a lot of hard work, in fact, a bit too hard of work for his body to handle. The toil, the sowing, the plowing the fields, weeding the garden...everything was too much for a widower with three children. So in his spare time he studied and studied. He was going to work smarter, not harder. He doesn't remember how he got the book, maybe it was from that crazy person in town every one avoided, or perhaps it was from an odd shop, either way he was able to obtain the book in a nefarious way. Eventually, he found out how to craft some spells, when he first created an unseen servant he knew he had it made. But the unseen servant was only one 'person' he can do with more hands, so he studied more and more until he was able to create undead. In the dead of night, he dug a grave and made it his servant. In only a few days he was found out by a passerby and seeing thier dead grandpaw plowing the fields and hanged for his crimes. Physical Description: Unkempt black hair, a work shirt and jeans. Eventually without keeping up appearances he will decay enough to have no more eyes, some of his teeth exposed and worms wiggling inside. Roleplay Sample: There he was, tied by the neck and no way out of this mess. Who will take care of his children? That thought crossed his mind when the rope was tightened, leaving him to struggle and strangle while passerbies just watched, just his luck. Everything faded to black, he doesn't know how long he was out for. He started to stir in the soil, those idiots buried him alive! He didn't notice that he didn't feel pain anywhere anymore, nor the fact that he doesn't breathe. He started to claw his way out of the dirt, glad that he was not buried in a coffin. Once out of the ground he finally noticed other folks digging out of their graves, decrypted bodies roaming around, with curiosity he looks at his own decaying hands, with worms wiggling underneath his skin, not feeling any of them. But suddenly a bright light showed itself to him and showed him where to go. He knows he's forgetting something ...important to him but it doesn't matter. He opens his eyes to see that he's still hung by the very darned rope they swung him by. He'd much had rather been been out of the grave than back here. He doesn't know much...he doesn't even know his own name, but he will get his revenge on those that killed him.
(woo! I'd like to play an undead! Where can we get the reborn race?)
Name: Alarith... something. He's not quite sure. Race: Reborn Human Class/Subclass: Wizard/Bladesinger Ability Scores: Point Buy Background: His final moments only came in flashes, but it was enough to tell him the essentials of what happened, or so he thought. He had been someone of importance, with hands more suited to signing papers than fieldwork, wearing a tattered coat with embroideries that might once have looked sharp and clean. He remembered the repetitive motion of stamping, signing, and stacking a pile of paper as tall as him, and the instinctive somatic signs he finds his left hand sometimes performing on its own, hinting at some knowledge of the magical arts. His days were like that, with moments filled with bureaucracy and magical learning, before the Cataclysm happened. It was at that chronological point within his memory that was most hazy and unclear. He remembered the tense atmosphere, the rapid beating of a heart no longer there. He remembered making speeches to a desperate crowd, the lying and the false reassurance. He remembered signing off a paper that would allow him total control over all the resources of the town, prompting unknown faces wearing fancy clothes to yell and threaten him. He remembered the hopeful faces of the farmers, the smiths, the factory workers, and the laborers, as he made his latest speech. He remembered the red-skinned creatures clawing at the town's gate, begging to be let in, while tempting the townspeople to come out at the same time. He remembered an extra-planar rift in the sky, with small red dots coming in and out occasionally from it.
He remembered a hug, and a soft, smiling red face with red pupils staring at him as he leaned back.
Then, it stopped. The scene suddenly changes, and he sees a man in officer uniform pointing at him, the soldiers beside him holding out a metallic band, cuffing him as the officer droned on about a crime being made. Suddenly, he was in front of a stair leading up to a rope, a strange feeling of grim acceptance fills him as he walked up the platform. He remembered the feeling of the noose, angling his head in such a way that would guarantee a quick death after jumping. He remembered it failing, as he asphyxiated and felt his body slump after a loud crack.
Then he remembered nothing at all.
That's a hell of a flashback, gods be damned.He thought, slowly rising up from the ground, groaning all the while.
[I definitely got a bit carried away writing, that's for sure.] Physical Description: Wears fancy clothes, with a perpetually tired expression on him. He's tall and a bit broad-shouldered for a bureaucrat, and walks around with a slight forward hunch. He is blunt with his speech, and is rather direct. Brown hair with sickly white skin and brown eyes. Wears a tattered and rugged travel coat, but with some hints of embroideries that implies a certain social status.
Roleplay Sample: His hand suddenly felt cold and clammy as the guards arrayed themselves before the gate, startled as he was at the sudden prospect of violence. "Let's not get too hasty now, your lord wouldn't be so happy about his men attacking guests in front of his gate, now would he?" He said in a steady tone, while his right hand came down the handle of an unsheathed sword, and his left slowly fumbled through the half-remembered somatic motion of a burgeoning Ray of Frost, ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice. His eyes quickly darted around and took in the positions of the possible enemies, before whispering to the Water Genasi beside him. "Sorcerer, stay behind the Paladin and I, and keep the archers off our back if it comes to it. I'll try to occupy the enemy casters." He then shifted his stance, lowering himself slightly, leaning to his right leg, ready to run if the situation demands it.
Background: Investigator. I was a sheriff of a town, I think. A friend person asked me to help stop a corrupt government. They got the drop on us and through us in jail on trumped up charges. They beat us, not sure why or for what reason other than the fun of it. Some fun. as they lead me to the gallows I spat in their face as one last act of defiance. As the slipped the rope around my neck I looked to the heavens and asked for forgiveness and for one more chance to do things right.
Physical Description: Tall thin man with a long leather duster coat and a wide brimmed hat.
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D&D since 1984
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Greetings and salutations, ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, neithers, boths, and in-betweens! So, as you may have gleaned from the big "recruiting" tag on this thread, I'm recruiting for a new campaign! You'll all the taking on the roles of prisoners condemned to execution for assorted capital crimes, though whether you were actually guilty or not is ultimately up to you. Rather than is typical for such stories, however, you were all summarily strung up and compelled to dance the hangman's jig. But when your kicking and thrashing was all said and done, you weren't. For whatever reasons, you have all now come back to life, your minds hazy from your... not quite near death experience, since you actually did die. And you're not alone, as the dead begin to rise all over.
'Well, that's great,' you say, 'but what about the setting?' Well, I'm glad you asked! Your characters are... very hazy about everything, and don't entirely remember a lot of things, (I'm not covering for barebones worldbuilding, you're covering for barebones worldbuilding) but there are still a few things that I'll say that might help with building out a character. The setting somewhat resembles Georgian Era England, though with many draws from other time periods. The Georgian Era is pretty big, though, so I'll say somewhere around mid to late 18th century.
It's a gloomy place, and you can be assured that it rains just often enough to cause the maximum amount of misery, without causing you to just get used to it. Poverty and crime are skyrocketing, and so are the waistlines of the rich. The constables are cruel, miserable creatures, eager to inflict cruelty on whomever they please. Witchcraft is a hanging offence, regardless of whether it stems from a dark pact, diligent study, an innate ability, the power of nature, or even a deity whose way of going about things doesn't quite line up with the government's views. Of course, most of the gods are as dour and miserable as the land they preside over, so such cases are rare. That's the bare bones of it all, hopefully that gives you enough of an idea. I'm not providing any specific names because... well, your characters don't really remember fiddly bits like that. They know their own names... sometimes, but past that they don't really know many specific things. Knowledge may return over the course of the game, or it may remain hidden away, only time will tell...
If you're still interested after all that, then I'm glad to hear! Here's a wacky little character application form for you all.
Name: You might not remember it, and that's okay! You might also only remember a bit of it. Hells, there's every possibility you've misremembered it!
Race: Reborn human, probably. Your mechanical race will be reborn because... well, I do hope it's obvious. As for your race in life, you'll really only find humans in these lands, so it's highly unlikely that you'll have originally been something else. However, that doesn't mean it's impossible. For example, consorting with devils might have resorted in your character growing a luscious head of horns, which would most definitely be a good reason, at least in the government's eyes, for stringing you up. If you want to be something other than originally human, talk to me.
Class/Subclass: Starting level 5. Anything official is allowed, homebrew is permitted on a case-by-case basis, though I will almost always approve things by Mage Hand Press and Kobold Press, since I've rarely had instances of their stuff being incredibly imbalanced, and I don't super care about balance in my games, as long as everyone's having fun.
Ability Scores: Typical roll 4d6 drop lowest. If you don't like what you've rolled, you can take standard array, but I encourage you to take low scores, as long as it's not all garbage, since I think weak points can be very fun.
Background: Both your mechanical background, and a little bit about what your character did before they ended up on the scaffold. Your memory is very fuzzy, so you don't really need to include much beyond some vague stuff, but you should at least include the reason why you were convicted of a capital offence. Of course, it's rather easy to commit a capital crime in these parts, and such crimes as failing to properly grovel before a government official, wielding a shovel in a malevolent sort of way, 'looking at me funny', and the ever-ambiguous sin of loitering can all be capital offences, if you end up with the wrong judge.
Physical Description: Everyone's looking a lot paler than they used to, but you all still look vaguely human. A quick description of what your character looks like, what they wear, how they walk, how they talk, that particularly cruel way they sneer and say 'bugger off.' You know, all the bases.
Roleplay Sample: Either taken from another game, or just typed up right here. Just a little taste of your writing style here on these forums.
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Name: Rhiv...something
Race: Reborn human
Class/Subclass: Barbarian / Ancestral Guardian
Ability Scores: roll]4d6dl1[/roll] 10 11 13 5 15
Background: Folk Hero. Part of a clan that would raid far off villages and towns of our enemies bringing back spoils (vikings etc.) Got injured in a raid and left for dead before being captured and hung.
Physical Description: Used to have dark brown skin with eyes that have two colors. A green left eye and a violet right eye. Stands 6' 2" towering over most men. He has a shock of auburn red hair the is long and braided along with his beard. Usually dressed in little but furs and leathers, and his chest is usually bared, even in the coldest weather. A skinned wolf sits upon his head and its skin forms a small cloak around his head. He speaks in what would in our world be called a Scottish accent. He has little remorse for those that do not fight for themselves.
Roleplay Sample:
As you crest a hill just past the parting trees, the halfling driver turns to you with a smile, nodding his head to Jet, Calisstra, and Ronnan, familiar faces from just days ago.
Jet returns the nod and smile, and then turns to their travel companions, grinning at Ronnan and Calisstra, glad to see familiar faces. "Good to see that I recognize at least a couple of us, good to see you again Ronnan, Calisstra," they dip their head to both.
Mounted on a partially armored black mare, Cynder, after responding to a seemingly simple and easy job request, makes her way to the estate of her soon to be known patron and sees a carriage park beside it. Cynder trots up to the cart and waves. "Greetings Travelers, I assumed we are to be hired to complete a mission soon?" She dismounts, holding the reigns of her horse.
During the 2 day journey Ronnan sat quietly taking in the beautiful spring weather, the cool breeze, and the lush green rolling hills of Erilea and listening to the bard compose and practice his art. He is happy to work with his previous crew but is interested in learning more about his new companions. After seeing the new beautiful horse and its owner he turns to Cynder and replies, "We are indeed, and as for who we are, I'm Ronnan Tarkelby, a bit of a runt, but I like to think my height compensates for it" he continues smiling at his own joke. "And these are two of my friends: Calisstra, and Jet" he points to each, grinning at each in turn.
Cynder nods and holds a hand out, "My name is Lady Cynder Bisquette of House Bisquette. It is a pleasure to meet you and yours."
Ronnan gives Cynder a slight bow before shaking her proffered hand then leans back and takes on a thoughtful look. "Lady Cynder, May I ask a question?"
Hearing the introduction, Calisstra casts a subtly knowing side-eyed glance to Ronnan while crossing her hands on top of each other on her lap. "Why not? It is your right to know."
Ronnan glances between them, a light grin upon his face. "Lady Cynder, may I ask what House you represent and why you would be working for Lord Pajul?"
Ability scores: 10 13 7 13 16 16
Name: Alcazar. Alcazar Tr.... Just Alcazar (he has a locket that says "To Alcazar for All Eternity, Lizbeth"
Race: Reborn human
Class/Subclass: Shadow Sorceror
Ability Scores: As above: 10 13 7 13 16 16
Background etc via PM!
the setting sounds really interesting! may I ask when you plan to close applications?
Ability scores: 12 16 12 17 14 11
Name: James
Race: Reborn human
Class/Subclass: Paladin/Oath of Conquest
Background: I was....a soldier, I think. I remember war....endless war. Battle after battle, after battle. I lived, I killed, I lived, and move on. I remember rage, and clarity. Blood on my hands, and another man, their body decorated like the night sky with jewels...his head was in my hand. I was beaten, drowned...and in that drowning, in those seconds before they brought me out, only to break my neck on that rope...I found my friend.
Physical Description: James was a redhead before his death, and now, along with his paler skin, his hair seems to have gained a deeper, redder hue. His teeth seem sharper, more pointed, and he moves with strange motions, limping forward like a wounded beast that has yet to give up on it's hunt. He speaks with a subtle growl, but laughs easily and makes open movements to motion around him, as if claiming the very air he moves through as his own.
Roleplay Sample: A SW5e game in which I had recently acquired some new gear, and flavored it as building it myself.
Kaisaras returned to the Hummingbird after a day at the market. He had to strong arm his way into a sale that everyone had seemed to been jumping at, and even he was drawn to. Clicking his tongue at the power money seemed to have over everyone, he berated himself for letting such a concept hold sway over him as he moved aboard the ship. Kaisaras didn't bother seeing if anyone else was aboard as he made his way to the workshop with his new parts and gear. Seeing that the space was free, he strode over to the table and spread out his materials, and his lightsaber.
"I hear you, now shut up."
As he removed the crystal from his saber, he murmured a few annoyed words to the damned thing as he felt it's own annoyance lash out at him. Growling, he forced the bratty little thing to submit once more before setting it down and getting to work.
First was his blade. Simply put because it was what he preferred to have on hand earliest. The fangs he had grown, as well as the Force, were good weapons, but there was a comfort he felt in having a weapon in his palm with a good heft. It might have seemed brutish to many, but that's what he was. A brute. And he relished in that fact.
A few hours went buy as he disassembled his dual-phase saber and installed the new pieces. The hilt was extended and reinforced with a counter balance, before he finally added the power distributer and transmitter. The mouth of the saber from where the blade would bleed out from was made wider, but beyond that the style of the blade remained much the same. Standing up and gripping the saber with both hands after he reinstalled the now quiet crystal, Kaisaras ignited he refashioned blade. Almost immediately, the heft he had been missing from before he lost his arm was back. A twisted, but happy, toothy smile grew upon his face as he slowly moved the weapon about. He was eager to test it in battle...but for now, he got back to work, turning the weapon off and fastening it to his hilt.
The Pauldron of Retribution...a symbolic fusion of both his martial prowess and the Force. It was a strange thing for Kaisaras, building armor, even if this wasn't truly that. Unlike his mask, it was not something that served a technical purpose, but a spiritual one. However, like his helmet, the pauldron was more than it's purpose. It was his wrath. A desire he wished to invoke upon the galaxy. Whilst the helmet was a tool to help battle and instill fear, this...this would share in his rage.
Each hammer strike, every spark of flame against the steel and blood as alchemy met smithing, forging each other into something more. The ritual was a toiling one, the beast within him having to be let loose ever just enough to pour into the creation, but not enough where it would take hold of his limbs. His newfound bloodlust, his wrath, his howling passions, all was poured into this work of fire, blood, and steel. The newly refashioned blade at his side shivered, it could sense it as well. The binding acts of this new creation and Kaisaras himself. The Force was here, as it always was, but the dark passions within Kaisaras willed that they enter his every strike, infusing his will until the pauldron resonated with him.
What felt like eternity, having drained Kaisaras of will, Force, and strength, was merely a few hours. As once the work was done, a hollow echo of the Dark side was all that was left as note for his creation. The howling, bestial face of the metal plates, was the only greeting of the sigil that Kaisaras had forged for himself. Heavy breathes and heartbeats drumming in his ear, Kaisaras simply soaked in the after wash of his hard work, left alone in a rare moment, of true peace...but such a moment would not be allowed to last long. As the emptiness of rage, was quickly filled, and Kaisaras once more stood to don his new sigil and mask. "...soon...soon I will find you." The berserker left the workshop, content with his work, for now.
Ability scores: 15 14 7 11 12 6
Wilhorn Dustwater | Halfling, Lightfoot | Sorcerer, Divine Soul 2 / Warlock, Celestial 2 | Warriors, LMoP (NathanAscher -DM)
”I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” - Douglas Adams
Name: Daugherty
Race: Reborn human - works for me :)
Class/Subclass: Bard / College of Swords (so far, may see what else is out there from the sources you like…)
Ability Scores: Ability scores: 15 16 13 12 13 13
Background: Charlatan
Daugherty is a fast talking hustler who is always skirting the line of disaster. How embarrassing that he finally got caught! Truthfully though, it wasn’t any of his scams, schemes or shenanigans that got him caught. No, no, he’s too good for that. It was his sins that did him in. Specifically, Captain Farrell’s daughter… Though what they did was not precisely a crime, mind you. She was willing enough and very satisfied when all was said and done. It was just bad luck that she started showing before Daugherty skipped on to the next city. Worse luck that Captain Farrell had the power and the pull to see him accused, convicted and hung for trumped up charges. He had it done quick, too. Afraid Daugherty would speak the truth of what happened and why he was to be hung. He needn’t had worried, Daugherty may be a scoundrel but he’d never speak ill of one such as she…
Physical Description: Daugherty is a handsome young man with a charming smile and a glint in his eye. He dresses fancier than he can afford and if one gets past his charm and looks close they will see the frayed edges, patched holes and re-sewn buttons. Still and all, he’s everyone’s best friend and has a kind word for all… at least to their face. He easily adopts whatever role he’s using to gain money, meals or free drinks - Snake Oil salesman, Three Card Monty dealer, card hustler or dashing stranger.
Roleplay Sample: Honestly, I tend to RP up or down to the others in the game… Hopefully this would be an up to… Anyway, on my mobile so lemme see is I can get this to work…
Thinking Hexblade 1, Swords Bard rest of way if no objection….
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
-- Eleanor Shellstrop
Name: Artimus Snickle
Race: Reborn human
Class/Subclass: Artificer/Armorer
Ability Scores: See above
Background: Mostly fuzzy but he can remember being contracted to make a piece of fantastical jewelry for a nobleman’s wife which had disastrous results after being placed around her neck. A frantic search for her head is where that piece of fleeting memory ends.
Physical Description: Artimus was never comely, even in his best days. Now he is downright detestable. He was born with withered legs and a foul attitude. But he was also born with a quick mind and an aptitude for learning. Without the bowels of academia, he surely would have died in the streets due to exposure. Stopping to drop a mitre in a tin cup in front of this beggar surely would taint the giver with a lifetime of misfortune. He stands and walks awkwardly with visible braces and a fashioned cane for support. His clothes were obviously fine, at one time. Now they are wrinkled, matted and soiled from days or weeks of wearing in all kinds of weather. He would stand at 5’ 3”, if he could stand straight. He looks like he would weigh 120 pounds soaking wet. His thinning, receding and prematurely whitening hair is unkempt and wind blown away from a ruddy and gnarled face that always appears pained. His voice is gravely and higher in pitch than might be expected and he has a proclivity for drooling, as can be seen by smears of mucus running the length of his sleeves.
Roleplay Sample:
Something shifted inside Grzak when the bugbear willingly impaled itself on his sword just to strike its own comrade. Madness, vicious, Glorious! Surely this creature deserves a death worthy of securing its place in eternal battle alongside Hruggek or whichever god this magnificent creature worshipped.
A madness instantly welled up inside of Grzak. A madness driven by Gruumsh, the orc god of his father. The god he denies, the god he represses.
In a reckless fury, Grzak bellows a deafening roar of bloodlust and draws the sword out of the bugbear’s wound and traces a large semi-circle through the air as blood flies in spittles. With both hands on the sword, he redirects the blade for a brutal horizontal slash mid torso. Let Hruggek accept his warrior in two pieces! Grzak muses.
Reckless attack.
Bonus action RAGE!
Attack: 24 Damage: 6 +2 damage due to rage.
All attacks this round against Grzak are with advantage as Gruumsh extracts a price for such savagery.
Wilhorn Dustwater | Halfling, Lightfoot | Sorcerer, Divine Soul 2 / Warlock, Celestial 2 | Warriors, LMoP (NathanAscher -DM)
”I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” - Douglas Adams
Name: Ninety Two
Race: Warfoged Reborn
Class/Subclass: Druid (Spore)
Ability Scores: (See Below)
Background: 92 was a war machine with minimal consensus. Towards the end of the war his body broken, he fell and stopped working from all the damage taken and was left and was forget by his creators. Over the years, moss, vegetation and fungus sprung up and intermixed with his life giving energy and spark of life. His crude mind mixed with the vegitation and together formed a new life. They were not Warforged but reborn as more.
Physical Description: They have a rusty shell of a body with moss, grass, flowers, dirt and branches for a body. His head is a carved wooden mask which has minimal articulation for facial features. He is about 7' tall.
Roleplay Sample: 92 walks into town and up to a breakfast food stand. The young girl at the food stand says to the new customer "um. Hello. um, can I get you something to eat? Wait, do you eat? You don't eat people like me do you?" She says as thoughts go through her mind at this oddity in front of her. 92 says "Hello... (pause) Eat. (the girls eyes grow to saucer size) No, I am good. I do not need to eat you. Clarity... people... or food. But, can I have some water for my body?" The girl, feeling brave, takes a cup of water and gives it to 92. He says "Thank you" and pours if on self. "Thank you" and continues into town.
Ability scores: 13 4 13 14 13 15
D&D since 1984
A few days from now, after I return from a short trip. Around wednesday, thursday, probably.
I'm afraid that this character doesn't really work with the game's premise. A warforged would, by definition, be unable to be hung, and looking at your character backstory, it seems you went a completely different way with the character, which doesn't work with the way I was planning to have this campaign run. Additionally, warforged are far too advanced for the age the world is set in. As I mentioned in the first post, please ask me if you want to be something other than a human reborn.
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Rolling for ability scores, will update later tonight with a character.
Ability scores: 15 9 16 10 18 11
I will protect those I hate. Even ... even if the one I hate most ... is ... myself.
Oh this sounds fun!! How unique and I can't wait to see what you do with it!
Ability scores: 10 9 7 15 13 16
Name: Haleigh
Race: Reborn Human
Class: Wizard (school of evocation)
Background: (Inheritor) As she tries to remember who she is, she is happy she remembers her name, but after that is a bit foggy. She looks down her possessions and sees her spellbook. Instantly the history of this book comes back to her. She inherited it from her grandma, who was a great wizard and when she received it as she turned of age, all she did was study this book. This book defines her with all it's worn pages and notes, she would not know what to do if she lost it. As she takes in all her surroundings, she recalls why she is in this predicament..as she was practicing some of the spells in this book, well, she was labeled a witch and things went downhill from there. She doesn't quite remember who the people were that brought her here or that labeled her a witch, she can just hear them chanting in her mind.
Physical Des: Haleigh is a young woman, though quite a bit homely. She has a lazy eye and does her best to try and hide it. She has straight, jet black hair that reaches the middle of her back, and now with her extremely pale complexion, the contrast is even more striking. She wears basic traveling clothes, worn, dusty and muted colors, nothing that really stands out. She's about average height for a human woman, though rail thin.
Roleplay Samples:
Shavaris (Rogue)
Ashley (Sorcerer)
Character Link: https://www.dndbeyond.com/characters/71347192
Ability scores : 14 13 18 13 10 15
Name : Sep (he's not sure, but thinks this is correct)
Race : Reborn Human
Class : Monk, Way of the Ascendant Dragon
Background : (Urchin, before he is reborn)
Sep remembers bits and pieces of his past. As the child who grew up with nothing, he learned how to defend himself and fight at an early age. He became part of a school for wayward youths that taught physical discipline in addition to lessons that attempted to bring the students to spiritual enlightenment. He tried to follow their rules and he grew in strength and his ability to perform maneuvers, the martial arts that he practiced with the masters in the academy. One night he had a dream of a dragonborn glowing in gold who had five hands moving together in synchrony, a flurry of blocks and attacks, a master of form that he had never witnessed. The dream consumed his thoughts, it was so vivid that he woke up twisted and contorted on his pallet, obviously a very active dream. The next day when practicing alone he began to move his hands in the manner that he recalled in the dream, and when he did so gouts of flame burst forth from his hands, burning the air in front of him. He turned and moved his hands in a different way that his hands seemed to know and bursts of electricity arced between his hands. A fellow student walked by and noted this, ran and told the masters. Sep kept working on his techniques when alone, and hoped to dream of the dragonborn warrior again. A week later he was confronted by his masters who demanded to see a demonstration of his power. He happily showed them his new feats hoping to impress them, but instead he was labelled a freak and a heretic, his hands were bound and he was taken to be tried and hung for witchcraft, which this obviously seemed to be.
Character link : https://ddb.ac/characters/71361937/sqgnu2
Physical description : As he's hanging on the rope he appears dressed simply in a blue robe, brown hair shaved close to his head, a number of scars. He normally is seen walking with a spear and nothing else but a back pack.
Roleplay sample :
Erven Aloro
Erbert Jenkins
Name: He....doesn't remember his name, but remembers sowing and reaping crops so he goes by Reap.
Race: Reborn Human
Class/Subclass: Wizard (Necromancy)
Ability Scores: Ability scores: 14 14 12 14 13 13
Background: Field was a farmer, just a normal everyday farmer. It was a lot of hard work, in fact, a bit too hard of work for his body to handle. The toil, the sowing, the plowing the fields, weeding the garden...everything was too much for a widower with three children. So in his spare time he studied and studied. He was going to work smarter, not harder. He doesn't remember how he got the book, maybe it was from that crazy person in town every one avoided, or perhaps it was from an odd shop, either way he was able to obtain the book in a nefarious way. Eventually, he found out how to craft some spells, when he first created an unseen servant he knew he had it made. But the unseen servant was only one 'person' he can do with more hands, so he studied more and more until he was able to create undead. In the dead of night, he dug a grave and made it his servant. In only a few days he was found out by a passerby and seeing thier dead grandpaw plowing the fields and hanged for his crimes.
Physical Description: Unkempt black hair, a work shirt and jeans. Eventually without keeping up appearances he will decay enough to have no more eyes, some of his teeth exposed and worms wiggling inside.
Roleplay Sample: There he was, tied by the neck and no way out of this mess. Who will take care of his children? That thought crossed his mind when the rope was tightened, leaving him to struggle and strangle while passerbies just watched, just his luck. Everything faded to black, he doesn't know how long he was out for. He started to stir in the soil, those idiots buried him alive! He didn't notice that he didn't feel pain anywhere anymore, nor the fact that he doesn't breathe. He started to claw his way out of the dirt, glad that he was not buried in a coffin. Once out of the ground he finally noticed other folks digging out of their graves, decrypted bodies roaming around, with curiosity he looks at his own decaying hands, with worms wiggling underneath his skin, not feeling any of them. But suddenly a bright light showed itself to him and showed him where to go. He knows he's forgetting something ...important to him but it doesn't matter. He opens his eyes to see that he's still hung by the very darned rope they swung him by. He'd much had rather been been out of the grave than back here. He doesn't know much...he doesn't even know his own name, but he will get his revenge on those that killed him.
(woo! I'd like to play an undead! Where can we get the reborn race?)
Name: Alarith... something. He's not quite sure.
Race: Reborn Human
Class/Subclass: Wizard/Bladesinger
Ability Scores: Point Buy
Background: His final moments only came in flashes, but it was enough to tell him the essentials of what happened, or so he thought. He had been someone of importance, with hands more suited to signing papers than fieldwork, wearing a tattered coat with embroideries that might once have looked sharp and clean. He remembered the repetitive motion of stamping, signing, and stacking a pile of paper as tall as him, and the instinctive somatic signs he finds his left hand sometimes performing on its own, hinting at some knowledge of the magical arts. His days were like that, with moments filled with bureaucracy and magical learning, before the Cataclysm happened. It was at that chronological point within his memory that was most hazy and unclear. He remembered the tense atmosphere, the rapid beating of a heart no longer there. He remembered making speeches to a desperate crowd, the lying and the false reassurance. He remembered signing off a paper that would allow him total control over all the resources of the town, prompting unknown faces wearing fancy clothes to yell and threaten him. He remembered the hopeful faces of the farmers, the smiths, the factory workers, and the laborers, as he made his latest speech. He remembered the red-skinned creatures clawing at the town's gate, begging to be let in, while tempting the townspeople to come out at the same time. He remembered an extra-planar rift in the sky, with small red dots coming in and out occasionally from it.
He remembered a hug, and a soft, smiling red face with red pupils staring at him as he leaned back.
Then, it stopped. The scene suddenly changes, and he sees a man in officer uniform pointing at him, the soldiers beside him holding out a metallic band, cuffing him as the officer droned on about a crime being made. Suddenly, he was in front of a stair leading up to a rope, a strange feeling of grim acceptance fills him as he walked up the platform. He remembered the feeling of the noose, angling his head in such a way that would guarantee a quick death after jumping. He remembered it failing, as he asphyxiated and felt his body slump after a loud crack.
Then he remembered nothing at all.
That's a hell of a flashback, gods be damned. He thought, slowly rising up from the ground, groaning all the while.
[I definitely got a bit carried away writing, that's for sure.]
Physical Description: Wears fancy clothes, with a perpetually tired expression on him. He's tall and a bit broad-shouldered for a bureaucrat, and walks around with a slight forward hunch. He is blunt with his speech, and is rather direct. Brown hair with sickly white skin and brown eyes. Wears a tattered and rugged travel coat, but with some hints of embroideries that implies a certain social status.
Roleplay Sample: His hand suddenly felt cold and clammy as the guards arrayed themselves before the gate, startled as he was at the sudden prospect of violence. "Let's not get too hasty now, your lord wouldn't be so happy about his men attacking guests in front of his gate, now would he?" He said in a steady tone, while his right hand came down the handle of an unsheathed sword, and his left slowly fumbled through the half-remembered somatic motion of a burgeoning Ray of Frost, ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice. His eyes quickly darted around and took in the positions of the possible enemies, before whispering to the Water Genasi beside him. "Sorcerer, stay behind the Paladin and I, and keep the archers off our back if it comes to it. I'll try to occupy the enemy casters." He then shifted his stance, lowering himself slightly, leaning to his right leg, ready to run if the situation demands it.
Looks like I missed a roll here it is --> 12
Name: Corvis
Race: Human Reborn
Class: tbd (fighterish)
Ability scores: 13 9 9 10 14 12
Background: Investigator. I was a sheriff of a town, I think. A
friendperson asked me to help stop a corrupt government. They got the drop on us and through us in jail on trumped up charges. They beat us, not sure why or for what reason other than the fun of it. Some fun. as they lead me to the gallows I spat in their face as one last act of defiance. As the slipped the rope around my neck I looked to the heavens and asked for forgiveness and for one more chance to do things right.Physical Description: Tall thin man with a long leather duster coat and a wide brimmed hat.
D&D since 1984