Abiershire (Abba-sheer) is a small fortified town on the North side of the river Neverwinter. The warmth of the waters throughout the year allow for fertile fields, flooded every spring by the winter runoff. It sits on a rise overlooking a small river harbor and the only bridge across (Outside of the city) for miles beyond.
The ever presence of the Wintershields keeps order, but cares less for law, unless it suits them to do so. With less than 500 permanent residents the numbers can swell to 3 or 4 times that in the warmer months. Most of the population makes their living supplying, fixing, or otherwise enabling the trade in the summer. Inns, taverns, even brothels are found in abundance. A large warehouse district dominates the western bank and crafters such as carpenters and blacksmiths have set up shop around the town. The center of town is a bustling market with specialty shops to be found tucked into the streets around it.
Three buildings dominate the roof line, an administrative building resembling a small tower with bailey where the town council meet and the garrison of the Wintershields reside. The other two are churches that appear to be in competition for the grandest structures in town, The House of Coin dedicated to Waukeen and the Seat of the Triad.
Tarsakh 21, 1492
The last week has brought the spring rains, constant cold drizzle with a few thunderstorms to wake the world from its wintery slumber. It hasn't stopped the early caravans and merchants converging from the Silver marches, or from Southern Amn. The town has quickly filled with the buzz of early season trade. Swelling well past the number of folk than it should this early in the season. A plague called 'The Wastes' has been ripping through the City, spreading to the towns and fields surrounding. The Lord's office has closed the gates preventing the proper flow of traffic, leaving angry traders locked out.
Finding an Inn with rooms was difficult, the taverns bursting with the throng of sweaty bodies. Carts jostle amongst the crowds, as anger simmers beneath the surface. The Flowing flagon is a small tavern, just off the main throughfare, a street over. The rooms are tiny, less than a closet each, yet the owner is charging a 'Noble' (gp) every night, few options remain in town.
Notes
Please introduce yourself, Include Name, Race, Class, and a Backstory. As you introduce your characters, please also describe their defining physical traits, general demeanor and what brought them here for the benefit of the others.
Once all players have posted Backstories, please make a connection between your character and another players character. Keep it small and simple.
There is no Plot. Rather everybody and everything will continue to pursue their agendaâs and goals. Most are simple or common like the daily struggles of the everyman, others may be more nefarious with impacts on the lives of others.
Look around and see what interests you. Pursue what grabs your attention.
Character Name: Lilita Lilitu Race: Dhampir Class: Druid
**Defining Physical Traits:** Lilita Lilitu's appearance, marked by her shadow-kissed burnt umber skin and a wild mane of deep chestnut brown hair mirrors the duality of her heritageâa blend of Netherese Shadar-kai and Dark Ones. Her bone black eyes, seemingly abyssal and soulless, reflect past trauma and an ancient curse. Her peasant's attire is a serviceable and functional patchwork of scavenged rags, cloth, leather, and fur stitched together as a makeshift garment of protective armor and clothing that adds to her somewhat unkept raggedy, and disheveled exterior and bearing.
**General Demeanor:** Amidst the whispers of her dark past, Lilita carries herself with a quiet resilience and an air of solemnity. Her presence is often shrouded in a feral, untamed, unpredictable sometimes savage demeanor, as she navigates the realms of the living and the spectral echoes of the dead and deathless that haunt her.
**Motivations:** Lilita's motivation to return to civilization is driven by a deep-seated desire to reconnect with the living world from which she has long been estranged. This quest for connection is not just about mending her own fractured spirit, but also about understanding the human condition she's been removed from. She seeks to find harmony between her haunting past and the potential for a renewed future among those who walk in the light.
**Backstory:** In the realm of Neverwinter, within the bustling streets of Abiershire, Lilita Lilitu seeks solace from her tormented past. Born of a lineage cursed by vampiric shadows and ancient bloodlines, her life has been anything but ordinary. Lilita and her twin sister, Lyandra, once students at the arcane university of Strixhaven, found their fates irrevocably altered one fateful night. Their encounter with a grotesque figure, a man only in guise, marked the beginning of their end. Clad in tattered remnants of finery, his malevolent smile and deathly pale eyes heralded doom. A chase led them to an open sewer, where in a terrifying instant, Lyandra sacrificed herself to save Lilita, thrusting her into the murky depths below to escape the flames that sought to consume them. Lyandra's last cries, a haunting melody of desperation and doom, echoed as Lilita was dragged from the mire by the creature. The savage assault that followed left her for dead, her body scarred and her soul seared by the ordeal. Miraculously, Lilita survived, her body now harboring the dark gift of vampirism, a reminder of the night's horrors. Years of solitude in the wilderness followed as Lilita grappled with her new reality. The woods became both her sanctuary and her prison, as she learned to harness the druidic energies that whispered through the ancient trees. Her heart, burdened by loss and a thirst she dared not sate, found fleeting peace in the embrace of nature. Driven by a yearning for closure and a whisper of destinu Lilita has returned to civilization in the hope of reconnecting to those of the living world. Abiershire, with its shadowed corners and transient crowds, offered a chance to blend in, to find answers, or perhaps redemption. Here, she dwells in an ancient, decrepit vardo wagon, a stark abode that mirrors her own fractured existence. Surrounded by relics of her druidic rites and the echoes of her past, Lilita stands at the threshold of a new chapter, her path haunted by shadows yet guided by a faint glimmer of hope.
**Connection Hook:** Lilita's arrival in Abiershire has not gone unnoticed. Her initial dwelling within an ancient burial mound stirred local superstitions, prompting an uneasy alliance with a mysterious benefactor intrigued by her unique nature persuaded her to relocate to an old broken-down vardo and assist in fixing it up.
**Prologue:** In the dusky gloom of twilight, the dense forest near Abiershire throbbed with the ancient pulse of the earth. Lilita Lilitu, cloaked in shadows as deep as her own tormented past, stood within the secluded embrace of an old burial mound. This place, a forgotten relic wrapped in the tendrils of creeping moss and the whispers of departed souls, served as her sanctuary and her altar.
The air was thick, laden with the earthy scent of decay that rose from the damp soil underfoot. Each breath Lilita drew was a communion with the spirits that lingered in this sacred grove, their voices faint but insistent in the rustling leaves and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures. As night's veil deepened, Lilita began her ritual, her movements deliberate and reverent.
Around her, the ground was scattered with symbols traced in the dirt and small piles of herbs and bones, each carefully arranged to form a circle of power. At the center of this arcane configuration, Lilita placed a small cauldron, its contents a mixture of spring water and the petals of midnight blooms, plucked under a waning moon. Her fingers, slender and pale against the dark earth, moved with precision as she added each component, murmuring incantations passed down through generations of druids who had once revered these woods.
With a small flint, she struck a spark, and a flame leapt up, casting a flickering light that danced across her features. Her face, usually so impassive and inscrutable, was alive with the energy of the ritual. The flames reflected in her deep, dark eyes, which seemed to absorb the light and hold it within their depths.
Lilita's voice, when she chanted the ancient verses, was both melodic and haunting. The words were of a language forgotten by the world, known only to those who walked the shadowed path of druidic mysteries. The air around her hummed with the power of her voice, the trees themselves seeming to lean closer, as if drawn by the force of her will.
As the ritual reached its crescendo, Lilita took a dagger forged from meteoric iron and cut across her palm. Her blood, dark as the night itself, dripped into the cauldron, sending ripples through the surface of the liquid. The forest held its breath, the wind stilled, and even the distant howls of wolves fell silent. As her blood mingled with the water and petals, a ghostly light emanated from the cauldron, casting an eerie glow that illuminated the grove.
"This offering,"Lilita intoned, "for those who tread the twilight path before me, for those who will follow after. By blood and bone, by leaf and stone, let the veil be thinned, let the spirits awaken."
Character Name: Dav'eed Race: Half-wood elf Class: Rogue
Defining Physical Traits: Perhaps the best way to define Dav'eed is that he looks like everyone else. In a crowd most people barely even know that he's there, much less recognize him. He is of average height and girth, with the pleasing figure of a half-elf that can pass for either side of his lineage. But if you look closely, and really study his face, you'll see green eyes, pale freckled skin, a lithe frame, and the grace of a large hunting cat. General Demeanor: Dav'eed is inquisitive, gentle and flexible like a willow, yet with a strong core. Someone who cares for those around him and will work to right wrongs. He listens first, reasons second, and strikes only when necessary. The willow's branches are light and move with the wind, but can cut you when whipped with them... Backstory: His half-elf father was killed in an orc raid when he was 11. His wood elf mother and older sister live in the High Forest with the elves. He never felt like he truly belonged with the wood elves, so he struck out on his own at 14, finding an older human who had successfully retired from being a soldier (the man was still alive after many years and battles, so obviously a good soldier!) who took him under his wing and trained the hot-headed youth in the Way of the Willow. This martial training involves the core elements of his life now...He recently lost his master - for even in this world old age (or disease...) usually wins in the end! After burying his teacher and securing the cabin in Neverwinter Wood, he struck out to see some of the world and expand his lessons. And his fortune, of course!
Connection Hook: Perhaps Dav'eed chanced upon Lilita and her 'unique' dwelling in the burial mound? Or she had visited the young man and his master previously in the Woods?
Sandy brown fur with Tufts of dark brown on his forearms.
Tufts's past: The Flowing Flagon where Tufts is employed is owned by a retired adventuer, though truth be told, scoundrel was a better descriptor. This old scoundrel was rumored to have participated in more than one nefarious deed or another. His name was Potuss but Tufts called him "Da". Obviously they weren't related but Potuss had raised Tufts from a kit (or pup, hatchling, whatever baby bugbears are called). Young enough that Tufts didn't remember his real name, only that Potuss pretty much only referred to him as Tufts. Tufts or worthless cur depending on Potuss' level of inabriation. Potuss never revealed how Tufts came into his care but the bugbear showed up at the same time Potuss came up with means to start the pub. The coincidence was not lost on some. Though he treated Tufts mostly with outward disdain, often beating the poor bugbear when he failed at some task or was lax in his training, Truth revealed, Potuss had a bit of a soft spot under all his bluster and rough edges. In the beginning he had planned to raise Tufts to fight in the pits but over the years the old warrior grew fond of the companionship the young bugbear provided. So instead of letting that fight training go to waste he gave Tufts a job as tavern chiller. Any time a patron would get heated or to deep in their cups it was Tufts job to cool them down and remove them.
Tufts would spend his days watching the patrons come and go. Witness to their drunken confessions and laments he grew wise in reading people and their intentions. He learned from the many mistakes commiserated by travelers over a pint. At night he would meditate on all he had observed.
Lately his meditations had taken an inward focus. As many philosiphers will attest everyone questions their place in the universe at some point. Tufts was bo exception. All the violence started to weigh on his conscience. He told his Da but the idea was not well recieved. Refusing to fight for the entertainment of others Tufts now only uses his prowess as a means of preventing harm to others.
Current mood
Philosophical. He continues to train but inly fights if provoked. Bit of a gambler.
Hooks
These are pretty easy. With his position at the Flowing Flagon, Tufts will be privy to information. That in and if itself lends him to pretty much a vast array of encounters. Everything from "hey where's the shitter?" to who might have robbed the store next door. I'll riff on what ever you lead with.
But I have an idea that I'll float in the occ that could intertwine most of our backstories.
Dav'eed would at least recognize Tufts. Although his trips to Abiershire were rarely more than a couple of times a year, a bugbear in a tavern tends to stick in one's memory...
Defining Physical Traits: Gonye is a slender human of medium height, dark skin, eyes and hair. His speech is slightly accented, carrying notes of far away lands you can't quite place.
Demeanor: Gonye is friendly to those he meets, although he is rather awkward in conversation, slow to make the first move and prone to talking in detail of things after another has lost interest.
Backstory: Gonye was a philosophy student in a far off land, specializing in ethical systems. He lost his position after a rancorous debate with the head of his order over the nature of the outer planes and their connection to philosophy and its very existence on the material planes. He set himself to traveling after that, making his way doing odd jobs and mending broken objects to earn coin. He has come to Abiershire to raise coin and prominence before immersing himself in the academic circles in Neverwinter itself.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Liarin: Against the Cult of the Reptile God Adewild: Shadows and Light 2 Brother Thaddeus: Rime of the Frostmaiden.
The Backstory is fine, I wouldn't rely on A.I. for your posts. If I wanted to read a story written by A.I. I wouldn't need to play D&D, I could plug in my own prompts. Or go to a library and get a novel. Create the personality of your own character, don't leave it for a computer to do.
The Post between you and tufts steals the agency of another player. Never put words or actions on to another character, they are not yours to write about. Always post what you do, what you say, how you react, not them.
There is an open thread for OOC discussion, which is where this belongs. I believe you were invited, if not you can ask to be. You have already posted your backstory, please be patient until the others have done as well and I get a chance to present the Opening post. This thread should be for in game content (with minor rules or ruling discussion/ clarification).
Rothgar heads towards town, ready to look for work as his last contract has ended. A human barbarian, with those typical features from those who would roam those northern mountains. A good six-foot tall, wiry build of muscle and sinew that has seen a harsh life. Fair-haired and blue eyes, he wears the scars of his chosen profession proudly. A veteran mercenary. Born near Xantharl's Keep, Rothgar's tribe of the Northern Wolf Clan, pledged service to the keep, as not only was the tribe skilled fighters, but they specialized in fighting trolls and giants. When Rothgar was old enough, he joined the Troll Hunters of the keep. Growing board of the typical garrison life, Rothgar joined the mercenary company of Gallad's Giant Killers. The band traveled to Mintarn, and sold their sword arms.
Following that campaign, Rothgar moved about, serving in one conflict after another. He has served as caravan guard, bodyguard, and garrison company. His last contract was that of a caravan guard, bringing a caravan to the city of Neverwinter. With some coin in his pocket, he has the desire to go find something more interesting to do then guard caravans. His chainmail armor is covered by his traditional wolf clan cloak of wolf skins, his Great Axe carried across his back with his backpack, along with a longbow, a quiver on his left hip, and a hand axe on his right.
Arriving in the town, as much as he would desire to seek out a tavern, the admin building that looks like a bailey has caught his attention, and he heads towards it. "Perhaps they have a job or two that I can grab while I am here," he thinks as he walks towards the building.
@Rhanloi Perhaps Gonye got lost in the Neverwinter Wood ion his way to Abiershire and Dav'eed shared a pleasant conversation and lunch and steered the clearly out of his element wizard back to the main road?
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Liarin: Against the Cult of the Reptile God Adewild: Shadows and Light 2 Brother Thaddeus: Rime of the Frostmaiden.
Always put your name in your posts, try to start with it or place it within the first sentence somehow.
Always try to move the story forward. a post about your inner thoughts with no follow up action or forward desire should be avoided.
If unsure of an actions outcome, use...If this then that, or, If that than this type posts. You will see this in combat...IF it hits then... If it doesn't then...
I will post everyday, I will wait as long as possible if waiting for others to post, but, If you have not posted I will still move the story forward. If in combat you will take the dodge action (but may still be attacked/effected). If out of combat it will be assumed you follow with nothing specific to add.
The Flowing Flagon is as good a tavern as any other in this town, well, actually there are many that are better and few that are worse. The drinks are cheap, the rooms expensive, the chairs uncomfortable and the decor, well there isn't any. Even so, just like the town, it is packed with merchants and caravans, travelers, swindlers and thieves and of course the regulars, always the regulars.
Your group has gathered at a communal table; long and low with hard benches; as much from the faint connections, as simple necessity. There isn't anywhere else to sit. Tufts stands nearby in the doorway keeping an eye on the room as much as the street. The windows are all thrown open, letting the sun and air inside. The air however is of truly lesser quality this day. The smell of excrement has begun to build, without the rains to wash it down the hill, and an occasional stench washes across the road.
The room today has a strange energy, snippets of conversation can be overheard. â...Dagult has the wastes, no seriously, it was in the nightsâŠâ at another table, â...If it happens, will they open the gates? I need to get in already.â Ever since the Broadsheet hit the streets two days ago everybody has been talking about the possible death of Lord Dagult Neverember, Ruler of the city. Some with fear, others trepidation and more than a few with anticipation. Dagult has been a strong, but sometimes cruel lord, even so he brought peace and prosperity to this Northern city.
The road winds past the Flagon, a constant bustle of carts, wagons and a crush of passerby. From dawn up to sun down the street is a press of bodies, the smell of dung and excrement rising from the churned mud.
Blocking the stairs down to the road before you, an old grizzled man, salt and pepper hair showing his age along with the sun wrinkled face, struggles to move his cart. He curses, yelling at his horse, his wife and child and any others close enough to hear. The trio heave and push, a heavily laden cart full of crates and boxes refusing to move. The wheels buried deep in the slop and mud.
Across the road a small crowd has gathered behind a pair of Wintershield guards and an arguing man, His forehead climbing towards the back of his skull glistening in the sunlight. You can't hear what they are saying above the noise of the street and tavern, but the occasional wind change brings a stench wafting your way. You are pretty sure it is the subject of their argument. You notice a thin man, more a boy really cutting the purses of the crowd, unaware.
Lillita
The vardo is a decrepit sight, leaning heavily against the curtain wall. The wheels have long given up hope, with stones and timber truly doing all the work. The Vardo has been here for generations, unchanged, long enough to fade into the background, unnoticed. Efforts of course were made to remove it. Dragged away, burnt, smashed it always returns the next witching hour. The wagon must hold some magic, much like the rest of this district. The Everbloom as it is called was an original town, settled long before by a Halfing enclave. Before even the original Neverwinter, founded by the Fairfolk was established. Now the enclave is all that remains of that lost time. The buildings are squat, even those two, three, even four stories tall, leaning precariously against their neighbors; desperate for the support. The doors are too short, the windows low, few Halflings remain, the district taken over by others. Flowers grow and bloom everywhere a bare patch of ground, a windowsill, or a planter box can be found, even in the winter. Chop them down, rip them out, salt the ground they grow in, the sprouts return, leading to a bustling trade in blooms and herbs.
The forgotten Vardo and the district it sits in is a benefit to Lillita. The town and City, as cosmopolitan as they are, remain intolerant of a 4â dead girl. So far she has managed to come and go unnoticed, but has heard rumors Captain Jaanath and his Wintershield guards are actively looking for her. To question, apprehend, or destroy she does not know.
Recent activity at the herbalist Mother Ismel, across the street from the Vardo has made coming and going difficult. A lineup for a new cure to âThe Wastesâ has people gathering out front all day.
Tufts
Tufts has lived here his entire life, mostly sheltered and contained at the tavern, more out of jealousy from his Da as anything else. Tufts was a possession after all, just like the pots, or chairs or bar for that matter. It is said that if you stand at a corner long enough, the whole world will go by and perhaps it has. Tufts is not uninformed about the world around him, listening to the conversation and watching the scene both in and out of the tavern.
Just over four weeks ago, (A week is a ten day, 3 weeks in a month), the first case of âThe Wastesâ was reported. Probably because it was a noble and not a commoner. It began to spread within the surrounding towns and fields. In an attempt to keep it from the City the magistrate closed the gates to all traffic except essentials. That was nearly three weeks ago. The population has begun to anger, resentment simmering. The wastes show no outward sign of sickness, no cure or cause is known. How to contract it has yet to be understood. Those afflicted slowly lose health and vitality, simply wasting away over days or weeks.
Several months ago a man named Barnabas arrived in the city with a crew of thugs. They managed to take over âThe Ratsâ , previously a small gang of cut purses and pickpockets. The gang has grown, engaging in racketeering, robbery, intimidation and even murder. Two of its members, Kurd and Hammon arrived in Abiershire a tenday or so ago. They have caused chaos in their wake. The bar next door, âThe Purple Ponyâ was attacked by Hammon and a crew two days ago, Hammon was driven off, killing a child in the streets as he fled.
Neverwinter Nights a monthly broadsheet has hit the streets. The main caption declaring Dagult Neverember has contracted the wastes. This is the current topic of discussion in town.
Rothgar
The Keep is made of fitted and chiseled stone, standing stolid and imposing, the stone wall separating it from the rest of the city, forcing all to enter through a sturdy barbican. Rothgar notes the stationed guards at the main entrance, a portcullis ready to drop. The outer walls all have catwalks but no windows, slits or otherwise, break its surface. A tower with a trebuchet stands above it all.
Getting too close, the Wintershields tighten ranks, their Halberds held up against their shoulders. âWithout an invite sir, there is no entry to âThe Keepâ at this time. Please move along.â At least a pair, if not more, Archers are visible, their line of sight directly at the gate and courtyard.
Just off to the side of the gate is a community board. A simple wooden structure with a small overhanging roof. A number of letters, wantedâs and other messages are tacked to its surface. The newest ones plastered over a solid sheet of torn, faded and just plain old notices beneath.
The Top corner of the board is reserved for âOfficialâ notices from the Wintersheilds, two are wanted; Dead or alive. Each depicting a seperate man, one named Kurd, another Hammon. The third post is asking for HireSwords to descend into the central well and clear a blockage.
A young woman tacks a notice to the board, 'Halp neded, ofer nit gurd dudy', the poorly scrawled notice directs seekers to the Red Herring warehouse, one of many in the town. She turns and smiles at you, âMy pappyâs warehouse is getting robbed but he cant find the culprits entrance, he pays wellâ she finishes and wanders off.
Getting late you search the town for a place to stay, ending at The Flowing Flagon.
Davâeed
You removed the post, If you care to share the Backstory and the dagger of shadows, i was going to incorporate it. Put it in a spoiler in your next post.
Gonye
He didn't expect to move straight into Neverwinter, yet being barred from entry still rankles. He tried, speaking with the guards and was told âOnly essentials at this time, if you need an exemptions writ can be purchased for 75 Nobles (gp).
{Dav'eed} A young half-elf in leather armor and wearing a rapier sits awkwardly on the bench, the long metal shaft not quite resting well on the hard wood. He looks plain enough - in fact most folks barely even notice him in the press of bodies. The only things that might make him stand out in your memory are his green eyes - a vibrant forest green full of awe and wonder - and the elaborately embossed leather dagger scabbard - devoid of the actual weapon it was clearly designed to hold.
He elbows the man next to him, a slender human of medium height, dark skin, eyes and hair. "Gonye, see that? No, not the family stuck in the mud - that young lad filching purses out there."Dav'eed points the skinny boy out, following him with his eyes and silently evaluating his technique. "Oooh, he almost botched that one! Come on - let's go help the cart get unstuck and maybe catch up to the kid before he lands in the town jail..."
He stands, trying his best not to accidentally poke anyone as he disentangles the rapier from the crowded bench, and waits for Gonye. Once the other is up, he moves towards the stuck cart (while keeping an eye out for the cutpurse) and offers to help get the wheel out of the rut.
Updated backstory:
Backstory: His half-elf father was killed in an orc raid when he was 11. His wood elf mother and older sister live in the High Forest with the elves. He never felt like he truly belonged with the wood elves, so he struck out on his own at 14, finding Eldric, an older human who had successfully retired from being a soldier (the man was still alive after many years and battles, so obviously a good soldier!) who took him under his wing and trained the hot-headed youth in the Way of the Willow â a harmonious blend of strength, flexibility, and precision. This approach to life embodies the ability to cut through challenges while remaining adaptable and graceful. It allows practitioners to move efficiently, execute techniques with precision, and adapt to various situations. This martial training involves the core elements of his life now... He recently lost his master - for even in this world old age (or disease...) usually wins in the end!
The once-vibrant man wasted away over several months, his life force fading like the dying leaves of autumn. On his deathbed, he whispered to Davâeed, âRetrieve the Dagger of Shadows and seek your destiny..." After burying his teacher and securing the cabin in Neverwinter Wood, Davâeed kept only Eldric's most prized possession - a hard leather scabbard with embossed arcane runes that was supposedly made to hold the Dagger of Shadows. Eldric had described the blade as being able to slice through enchantments and cut the threads of fate, while its obsidian edge whispered promises of hidden treasures and forbidden knowledge. With his masterâs words echoing in his mind, Davâeed left Neverwinter Wood behind and struck out to see some of the world and expand his fame and fortune!
Eldricâs Lost Legacy: The Tale of the Vanishing Dagger In the days of yore, when the moon hung low and the stars whispered secrets, Eldric the rogue was a legend. His nimble fingers danced across locks and traps, and his eyes saw through illusions like crystal-clear water. But it was the Dagger of Shadows that set him apartâa blade forged in the heart of darkness, its edge sharper than a serpentâs fang.
Eldric acquired the dagger during a daring heist in the Forbidden Catacombs. The catacombs were said to house relics of immense powerâartifacts that could reshape kingdoms or unravel reality itself. Eldricâs crewâfellow rogues and misfitsâdescended into the depths, torches flickering as they navigated crumbling tunnels and cursed chambers. The Dagger of Shadows lay at the heart of the catacombs, guarded by spectral sentinels and traps that defied mortal understanding. Eldricâs heart raced as he approached the pedestalâthe dagger, its hilt adorned with obsidian runes, seemed to pulse with malevolence. But he was a rogue of unparalleled skill, and he disarmed the traps with ease.
As he grasped the dagger, its blade whispered secrets into his mind. Eldric learned of hidden doorways, forgotten spells, and the true names of ancient beings. The dagger became an extension of his willâa tool to cut through illusions and reveal the worldâs hidden truths. From that point on, the Dagger of Shadows always rested against his hip, its blade humming with ancient magic.
But power comes with a price. Eldricâs crew grew wary of him. They whispered that the dagger had changed himâthat shadows clung to his skin, and his laughter echoed like distant thunder. Eldric dismissed their concerns, obsessed with unlocking the daggerâs full potential.
One fateful night, during a thunderstorm that shook the very earth, Eldric faced a rival rogueâa cunning sorceress named Morgana. She coveted the Dagger of Shadows, believing it held the key to immortality. Their duel raged atop a crumbling tower, rain lashing their faces, lightning illuminating their desperate dance. Morganaâs spells were formidable, but Eldricâs dagger cut through them like silk. He pressed his advantage, driving her toward the towerâs edge. But then, in a moment of hubris, he lunged too far. Morganaâs final incantation struck trueâthe tower crumbled, and Eldric plummeted into the abyss.
The Dagger of Shadows slipped from his grasp, vanishing into the stormy night. Eldric survived the fall, but his memory fractured. He wandered the world, haunted by half-remembered dreams and glimpses of the daggerâs secrets. Morgana, too, disappeared, her fate unknown.
And so, the legend of Eldric faded. Some said he became a beggar, muttering cryptic prophecies in forgotten alleys. Others claimed he sailed to distant lands, seeking the daggerâs return. But the truth remainedâthe Dagger of Shadows was lost. So was Eldricâs grip on his sanity â and his life in this world. Now, as Davâeed seeks the same blade, he follows the echoes of his masterâs legacy. Perhaps heâll uncover the truthâthe reason Eldric risked everything for a blade that cut deeper than flesh. And maybe, just maybe, heâll find the dagger itself, hidden in the shadows of forgotten tombs or atop storm-wracked towers.
A golden haired bugbear with tufts of dark brown fur on his forarms and cheecks stands post at the door to the Flowing Flagon. He peruses the room and the street with a calm pensive demeanor.
Tufts watches the exchange going on across the way between glances at the patrons inside the tavern. The flagon was busy today.
"Good business today." He mused. Mixed emotions flowed through him however. Parts of him was glad to see the crush of patrons. Lots of customers meant lots of stories and Tufts loved to listen to traveler tales. But the pleasant thought of tales told faded towards a bit of gloom. With the restrictions in place no newcomers were coming through and all those who were around only seemed to be talking about Lord Neverember and the wastes. Then there was the break in next door. Things were getting tense in his little part of the world and he wasn't sure he liked it.
Tufts reflections are suddenly interrupted when the man across the way let's out a loud exclamation, "BAH, horse apples!!" He cries and throws up his arms in frustration. The man begins pointing and gesturing frantically while getting redder in the face. Tufts had seen this scenario playout many times and he expected that it wouldn't be long and the situation would come to culmination. Most likely an unfavorable one for the man given the Wintershields reputations. He felt bad for the man But what had really piqued his interest was the cutpurse relieving the crowd of people of their coin.
He straightened up a bit and his brow furrowed in concentration as he focused on the waif. This was just the thing he had been waiting for. Having heard that a new rogue element in town was taking over the local cutpurses and pickpocket trade he had hoped he would catch sight of one.
Tufts quickly looks about the common room trying to find Dav'eed. Spotting him at a table Tufts tries to get his attention. Unable to leave his post under penalty of severe punishment Tufts gives a whistle and calls out in a curt voice, while beckoning towards himself.
In the shadowy enclave of Everbloom, where history whispered through the sprouting flowers and the gnarled buildings of a forgotten Halfling town, Lilita Lilitu found a semblance of sanctuary in a decrepit vardo that she now called home.
The day had begun with Lilita stepping out from the shadows of her vardo, a small bundle of carefully gathered herbs in her hands. These were not just any herbs; they were culled from the deepest woods, where the soil was rich with the essence of life and death intermingled. With a touch as gentle as the fall of dusk, she had collected yarrow for wounds, belladonna for the heart, and nightshade, whose powers were best left unspoken yet deeply understood by those who delved into the darker arts of herbalism.
Her target was the humble establishment of Mother Ismel, a herbalist of no small repute whose recent endeavors to combat 'The Wastes' had the town's folk swarming her doorstep. The lines of the desperate and diseased twisted around the corner, a vivid tableau of the plagueâs ruthless grip on Neverwinter. Lilita's approach was cautious, her dark cloak billowing slightly with the autumn breeze, the hood drawn low over her brow to shadow her dusky features.
Mother Ismel's shop was a haven of green amidst the drab, its windows overflowing with pots of lush herbs and vibrant blooms that defied the urban decay. As Lilita crossed the threshold, the rich aroma of earth and essence washed over her as she moved with the silence of the grave, her presence barely stirring the air.
Placing the bundle of herbs on the counter, Lilitaâs voice, when she spoke, was a soft murmur, barely audible over the clamor of the crowded shop. "Mother Ismel,"she began, her tone respectful yet tinged with an undeniable earnestness, "I am Lilita Lilitu, a dweller of shadows and a former student of Witherbloom who has been instructed in the natural world's forgotten tongues. As a gift to you, I offer these herbs collected by my hand from the deep woods as I seek to lend my hands to your cause, to help prepare and distribute the cure to The Wastes."
Her deep, dark eyes lifted to meet those of the herbalist, holding a depth of sincerity and a flicker of hope. The gesture was simple, yet it carried the weight of her entire being, her desire to connect, to aid, and perhaps to find a new path in the light of day, away from the twilight of her existence.
As Lilita stood there, her heartâa heart that beat not with the rhythm of life but with the perseverance of existenceâwhispered a silent plea. The streets of Neverwinter might yet hold a place for her, a place not marked by fear or destruction, but by healing and acceptance. How Mother Ismel would respond, Lilita could not predict, but in her offering was laid bare her willingness to bridge the world of the living and the lore of the old, to mend not just bodies, but perhaps, in time, the very fabric of her shattered soul.
As Tufts waits for For Dav'eed to notice him a large human passes past him on his way to the bar. Tha man's passing distracts Tufts for a moment as he pauses to do a cursory assesment. He can tell by the man's dress and appearance that he most likely comes from one of the northern barbarian tribes.
"Wolf clan most likely" He thinks to himself. Tufts makes a mental note to keep an eye on him. These types can get a bit rowdy if not checked. By this time he sees Dav'eed making his way in Tufts direction.
As Dav'eed is getting up, he hears Tuft's call and decides to go see what his friend wanted. The two had known each other for a little while, each helping the other during the few times the half-elf was in Abiersire. He glanced back at Gonye to see if he was coming, then stood next to the bugbear and looked back out at the street.
"Quite a mess out there, yeah? I was gonna help the poor fellow get his cart unstuck, and then follow a certain lad out there who seems to be helping himself to other peoples' coin purses...what did you see? Something different?"
Gonye gets up and follows Dav'eed as he moves over to a bugbear who is calling him. "It's a fairly standard quandary. When is breaking the law justifiable? It really depends on the circumstances of that young man..." Seeing Dav'eeds hairy acquaintance, Gonye introduces himself, "Gonye Adachi, at your service. May I inquire as to your name, good sir?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Liarin: Against the Cult of the Reptile God Adewild: Shadows and Light 2 Brother Thaddeus: Rime of the Frostmaiden.
"Oy, I'm Tufts." The bugbears tone a bit of graveled by the large teeth protruding from his lower jaw. "Nar, I saw same. I hear things too. His eyes I see not so will not judge but littles often lead to Bigs. Need to follow that one and see where it lead. Explain more when you come back."
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Always attentive to threats, Tufts scans the room while he waits for their answe. He checks on the barbarian at the bar and for any other suspicious behavior, but mostly he looks for Lilita. He hadn't seen her yet today and he was almost positive her shift started soon. He knew first hand how hard Potuss could be of you got on his cross side.
With the extra help from Davâeed, the cart lurches forward, the man going with it as he cartwheels off balance, landing face first in the muck. Rising in a rage he turns yelling âI bloody well didn't say push now did Iâ he raises his fist then stutters, noticing the Half-elf at the rear of the cart. âUh, right, a thanks I guess, but i didn't need a helphand, run along I have no coins to spareâ He yells again to get his cart and family moving.
The Wintershields stop arguing, forcing past the man, they post a notice upon the door to the building. The bald sweating man rips it off in disgust, his chest heaving for a few moments he storms across the way. âBeshabaâs luck Potuss, what have I done to deserve this. Give your strongest, no, make that two. They're going to tear it down, say it's condemned.â Potus grunts, not even feigning interest, too busy swatting at the bar hands and hollering at the cook. âFirst the basement collapses, then that stench, by the gods, I can't even enter. It's so bad. Now this " Potuss" however has already walked away.
The young cut purse ducks into the shadowed alley, a barely seen man, a few years older takes the pouches and items pilfered with a stoic smile, the two quickly disappear into the back ways.
Lillita
Dawn has not yet cracked the horizon, that gentle and quiet time before the world awakens. The rooster has not taken his perch yet and still the door to Mother Ismel's is unlocked. The interior is small, not in size but in space. Every surface, and rafter is hung with herbs in many states of dry. Shelves are stacked one upon the other, bound tombs, rolled parchments. The smell is overwhelming with the perfume of a hundred blooms.
A young woman, not many summers more than you if any. She has an old smile as her head slowly, ever so slowly swivels in your direction. You have heard rumors that Mother Ismel has been here for generations, but even the elves age. Not that you heard she was an Elf, perhaps you simply assumed.
This young woman, how could it possibly be her, and still the serenity of centuries past clings to her young frame. She looks through you as if reading your soul, her eyes deep and wise. Placing several vials upon the table, their faint pinkish color seeming to glow in the single light burning in the corner. Plucking a pendant from her neck she takes your hand and places it in your palm, closing yours and her fingers around it.
You don't remember her ever speaking, yet you know, the vials are for the people, who suffer so dearly. The Pendant is for you my child. Somehow you end up back at the Flowing Flagon, despite not remembering your travel. Your new friends (Could, did you call them that?) had found the Vardo, and employment. Potus had recognized your skills, and perhaps your being, banishing you to the dark of the basement. The first batch of your work would soon be ready, although your first attempt at brewing, anything should be better than the swill Potuss was making.
As you prepare the next batch, the well comes up empty. The bucket clanging against hard rocks below. You will need water to make ale, so you head up to inform Potuss of the situation.
Lillita slinks through the shadows behind the bar, speaks quickly with Potuss then takes a moment to inspect the pendant she received from Mother Ismel, only looking up briefly when he begins to yell at Tufts.
Receive: 4 vials Mother Ismels cure, 1 Mother Ismels pendant
I would suspect you have run out of herbs from the deep woods
Potuss stomps over to Tufts, the look on his face is all steam and anger, âWe're out of water, so stop standing there like a dumb cur, either fix the damn well, or get to haulinâ he gestures to a pair of 15 gallon buckets, attached by a yoke. Tufts remembers the last time the well went dry, the closest well is only a half mile, but it's a half mile climb back up.
Davâeed
Davâeed had wandered to towns and settlements of the Neverwinter region for several months, settling last winter in Lielon just to the south. He resisted the Allure of the big city, Neverwinter, Luskan and Waterdeep to the south, not ready to face the temptress. As the snows began to melt he had a thought, the libraries of the realms held many stories, tombs and learning, If the story of Eldric had been recorded where could that lead. The thought stuck with him for months.
Unsure of which city to head to, until he overheard a conversation, a man had come to Neverwinter, a man of shadow. No one knew quite what he looked like, shadows coiling like liquid tar about his form. Davâeed packed his belongings and left the small hovel in Lielon for Neverwinter as soon as he could. He had a library to check and a man to hunt down, a man named Barnabas.
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NeverWinter Nights
Abiershire (Abba-sheer) is a small fortified town on the North side of the river Neverwinter. The warmth of the waters throughout the year allow for fertile fields, flooded every spring by the winter runoff. It sits on a rise overlooking a small river harbor and the only bridge across (Outside of the city) for miles beyond.
The ever presence of the Wintershields keeps order, but cares less for law, unless it suits them to do so. With less than 500 permanent residents the numbers can swell to 3 or 4 times that in the warmer months. Most of the population makes their living supplying, fixing, or otherwise enabling the trade in the summer. Inns, taverns, even brothels are found in abundance. A large warehouse district dominates the western bank and crafters such as carpenters and blacksmiths have set up shop around the town. The center of town is a bustling market with specialty shops to be found tucked into the streets around it.
Three buildings dominate the roof line, an administrative building resembling a small tower with bailey where the town council meet and the garrison of the Wintershields reside. The other two are churches that appear to be in competition for the grandest structures in town, The House of Coin dedicated to Waukeen and the Seat of the Triad.
Tarsakh 21, 1492
The last week has brought the spring rains, constant cold drizzle with a few thunderstorms to wake the world from its wintery slumber. It hasn't stopped the early caravans and merchants converging from the Silver marches, or from Southern Amn. The town has quickly filled with the buzz of early season trade. Swelling well past the number of folk than it should this early in the season. A plague called 'The Wastes' has been ripping through the City, spreading to the towns and fields surrounding. The Lord's office has closed the gates preventing the proper flow of traffic, leaving angry traders locked out.
Finding an Inn with rooms was difficult, the taverns bursting with the throng of sweaty bodies. Carts jostle amongst the crowds, as anger simmers beneath the surface. The Flowing flagon is a small tavern, just off the main throughfare, a street over. The rooms are tiny, less than a closet each, yet the owner is charging a 'Noble' (gp) every night, few options remain in town.
Notes
Character Name: Lilita Lilitu
Race: Dhampir
Class: Druid
**Defining Physical Traits:**
Lilita Lilitu's appearance, marked by her shadow-kissed burnt umber skin and a wild mane of deep chestnut brown hair mirrors the duality of her heritageâa blend of Netherese Shadar-kai and Dark Ones. Her bone black eyes, seemingly abyssal and soulless, reflect past trauma and an ancient curse. Her peasant's attire is a serviceable and functional patchwork of scavenged rags, cloth, leather, and fur stitched together as a makeshift garment of protective armor and clothing that adds to her somewhat unkept raggedy, and disheveled exterior and bearing.
**General Demeanor:**
Amidst the whispers of her dark past, Lilita carries herself with a quiet resilience and an air of solemnity. Her presence is often shrouded in a feral, untamed, unpredictable sometimes savage demeanor, as she navigates the realms of the living and the spectral echoes of the dead and deathless that haunt her.
**Motivations:**
Lilita's motivation to return to civilization is driven by a deep-seated desire to reconnect with the living world from which she has long been estranged. This quest for connection is not just about mending her own fractured spirit, but also about understanding the human condition she's been removed from. She seeks to find harmony between her haunting past and the potential for a renewed future among those who walk in the light.
**Backstory:**
In the realm of Neverwinter, within the bustling streets of Abiershire, Lilita Lilitu seeks solace from her tormented past. Born of a lineage cursed by vampiric shadows and ancient bloodlines, her life has been anything but ordinary. Lilita and her twin sister, Lyandra, once students at the arcane university of Strixhaven, found their fates irrevocably altered one fateful night. Their encounter with a grotesque figure, a man only in guise, marked the beginning of their end. Clad in tattered remnants of finery, his malevolent smile and deathly pale eyes heralded doom. A chase led them to an open sewer, where in a terrifying instant, Lyandra sacrificed herself to save Lilita, thrusting her into the murky depths below to escape the flames that sought to consume them. Lyandra's last cries, a haunting melody of desperation and doom, echoed as Lilita was dragged from the mire by the creature. The savage assault that followed left her for dead, her body scarred and her soul seared by the ordeal. Miraculously, Lilita survived, her body now harboring the dark gift of vampirism, a reminder of the night's horrors. Years of solitude in the wilderness followed as Lilita grappled with her new reality. The woods became both her sanctuary and her prison, as she learned to harness the druidic energies that whispered through the ancient trees. Her heart, burdened by loss and a thirst she dared not sate, found fleeting peace in the embrace of nature. Driven by a yearning for closure and a whisper of destinu Lilita has returned to civilization in the hope of reconnecting to those of the living world. Abiershire, with its shadowed corners and transient crowds, offered a chance to blend in, to find answers, or perhaps redemption. Here, she dwells in an ancient, decrepit vardo wagon, a stark abode that mirrors her own fractured existence. Surrounded by relics of her druidic rites and the echoes of her past, Lilita stands at the threshold of a new chapter, her path haunted by shadows yet guided by a faint glimmer of hope.
**Connection Hook:**
Lilita's arrival in Abiershire has not gone unnoticed. Her initial dwelling within an ancient burial mound stirred local superstitions, prompting an uneasy alliance with a mysterious benefactor intrigued by her unique nature persuaded her to relocate to an old broken-down vardo and assist in fixing it up.
**Prologue:**
In the dusky gloom of twilight, the dense forest near Abiershire throbbed with the ancient pulse of the earth. Lilita Lilitu, cloaked in shadows as deep as her own tormented past, stood within the secluded embrace of an old burial mound. This place, a forgotten relic wrapped in the tendrils of creeping moss and the whispers of departed souls, served as her sanctuary and her altar.
The air was thick, laden with the earthy scent of decay that rose from the damp soil underfoot. Each breath Lilita drew was a communion with the spirits that lingered in this sacred grove, their voices faint but insistent in the rustling leaves and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures. As night's veil deepened, Lilita began her ritual, her movements deliberate and reverent.
Around her, the ground was scattered with symbols traced in the dirt and small piles of herbs and bones, each carefully arranged to form a circle of power. At the center of this arcane configuration, Lilita placed a small cauldron, its contents a mixture of spring water and the petals of midnight blooms, plucked under a waning moon. Her fingers, slender and pale against the dark earth, moved with precision as she added each component, murmuring incantations passed down through generations of druids who had once revered these woods.
With a small flint, she struck a spark, and a flame leapt up, casting a flickering light that danced across her features. Her face, usually so impassive and inscrutable, was alive with the energy of the ritual. The flames reflected in her deep, dark eyes, which seemed to absorb the light and hold it within their depths.
Lilita's voice, when she chanted the ancient verses, was both melodic and haunting. The words were of a language forgotten by the world, known only to those who walked the shadowed path of druidic mysteries. The air around her hummed with the power of her voice, the trees themselves seeming to lean closer, as if drawn by the force of her will.
As the ritual reached its crescendo, Lilita took a dagger forged from meteoric iron and cut across her palm. Her blood, dark as the night itself, dripped into the cauldron, sending ripples through the surface of the liquid. The forest held its breath, the wind stilled, and even the distant howls of wolves fell silent. As her blood mingled with the water and petals, a ghostly light emanated from the cauldron, casting an eerie glow that illuminated the grove.
"This offering," Lilita intoned, "for those who tread the twilight path before me, for those who will follow after. By blood and bone, by leaf and stone, let the veil be thinned, let the spirits awaken."
Character Name: Dav'eed
Race: Half-wood elf
Class: Rogue
Defining Physical Traits: Perhaps the best way to define Dav'eed is that he looks like everyone else. In a crowd most people barely even know that he's there, much less recognize him. He is of average height and girth, with the pleasing figure of a half-elf that can pass for either side of his lineage. But if you look closely, and really study his face, you'll see green eyes, pale freckled skin, a lithe frame, and the grace of a large hunting cat.
General Demeanor: Dav'eed is inquisitive, gentle and flexible like a willow, yet with a strong core. Someone who cares for those around him and will work to right wrongs. He listens first, reasons second, and strikes only when necessary. The willow's branches are light and move with the wind, but can cut you when whipped with them...
Backstory: His half-elf father was killed in an orc raid when he was 11. His wood elf mother and older sister live in the High Forest with the elves. He never felt like he truly belonged with the wood elves, so he struck out on his own at 14, finding an older human who had successfully retired from being a soldier (the man was still alive after many years and battles, so obviously a good soldier!) who took him under his wing and trained the hot-headed youth in the Way of the Willow. This martial training involves the core elements of his life now...He recently lost his master - for even in this world old age (or disease...) usually wins in the end! After burying his teacher and securing the cabin in Neverwinter Wood, he struck out to see some of the world and expand his lessons. And his fortune, of course!
Connection Hook: Perhaps Dav'eed chanced upon Lilita and her 'unique' dwelling in the burial mound? Or she had visited the young man and his master previously in the Woods?
Love God. Love Others. Any Questions?
Character Name: Tufts
Race: Bugbear
Class: Monk
**Defining Physical Traits:**
6'2 /198
Lanky in frame but muscular in form.
Sandy brown fur with Tufts of dark brown on his forearms.
Tufts's past:
The Flowing Flagon where Tufts is employed is owned by a retired adventuer, though truth be told, scoundrel was a better descriptor. This old scoundrel was rumored to have participated in more than one nefarious deed or another. His name was Potuss but Tufts called him "Da". Obviously they weren't related but Potuss had raised Tufts from a kit (or pup, hatchling, whatever baby bugbears are called). Young enough that Tufts didn't remember his real name, only that Potuss pretty much only referred to him as Tufts. Tufts or worthless cur depending on Potuss' level of inabriation. Potuss never revealed how Tufts came into his care but the bugbear showed up at the same time Potuss came up with means to start the pub. The coincidence was not lost on some. Though he treated Tufts mostly with outward disdain, often beating the poor bugbear when he failed at some task or was lax in his training, Truth revealed, Potuss had a bit of a soft spot under all his bluster and rough edges. In the beginning he had planned to raise Tufts to fight in the pits but over the years the old warrior grew fond of the companionship the young bugbear provided.
So instead of letting that fight training go to waste he gave Tufts a job as tavern chiller. Any time a patron would get heated or to deep in their cups it was Tufts job to cool them down and remove them.
Tufts would spend his days watching the patrons come and go. Witness to their drunken confessions and laments he grew wise in reading people and their intentions. He learned from the many mistakes commiserated by travelers over a pint. At night he would meditate on all he had observed.
Lately his meditations had taken an inward focus. As many philosiphers will attest everyone questions their place in the universe at some point. Tufts was bo exception.
All the violence started to weigh on his conscience. He told his Da but the idea was not well recieved. Refusing to fight for the entertainment of others Tufts now only uses his prowess as a means of preventing harm to others.
Current mood
Philosophical. He continues to train but inly fights if provoked. Bit of a gambler.
Hooks
These are pretty easy. With his position at the Flowing Flagon, Tufts will be privy to information. That in and if itself lends him to pretty much a vast array of encounters. Everything from "hey where's the shitter?" to who might have robbed the store next door. I'll riff on what ever you lead with.
But I have an idea that I'll float in the occ that could intertwine most of our backstories.
Rogue Quin Oberon /Mercer's Tavern
Ranger Rigel Foresyth /LMOP
Fighter Barnabus Ironheel /North lands campaign
Fighter Flynt McGraw /Stormraider
Dav'eed would at least recognize Tufts. Although his trips to Abiershire were rarely more than a couple of times a year, a bugbear in a tavern tends to stick in one's memory...
Love God. Love Others. Any Questions?
Name: Gonye Adachi
Race: Human
Class: Wizard
Defining Physical Traits:
Gonye is a slender human of medium height, dark skin, eyes and hair. His speech is slightly accented, carrying notes of far away lands you can't quite place.
Demeanor: Gonye is friendly to those he meets, although he is rather awkward in conversation, slow to make the first move and prone to talking in detail of things after another has lost interest.
Backstory: Gonye was a philosophy student in a far off land, specializing in ethical systems. He lost his position after a rancorous debate with the head of his order over the nature of the outer planes and their connection to philosophy and its very existence on the material planes. He set himself to traveling after that, making his way doing odd jobs and mending broken objects to earn coin. He has come to Abiershire to raise coin and prominence before immersing himself in the academic circles in Neverwinter itself.
Liarin: Against the Cult of the Reptile God
Adewild: Shadows and Light 2
Brother Thaddeus: Rime of the Frostmaiden.
The Backstory is fine, I wouldn't rely on A.I. for your posts. If I wanted to read a story written by A.I. I wouldn't need to play D&D, I could plug in my own prompts. Or go to a library and get a novel. Create the personality of your own character, don't leave it for a computer to do.
The Post between you and tufts steals the agency of another player. Never put words or actions on to another character, they are not yours to write about. Always post what you do, what you say, how you react, not them.
There is an open thread for OOC discussion, which is where this belongs. I believe you were invited, if not you can ask to be. You have already posted your backstory, please be patient until the others have done as well and I get a chance to present the Opening post. This thread should be for in game content (with minor rules or ruling discussion/ clarification).
Rothgar heads towards town, ready to look for work as his last contract has ended. A human barbarian, with those typical features from those who would roam those northern mountains. A good six-foot tall, wiry build of muscle and sinew that has seen a harsh life. Fair-haired and blue eyes, he wears the scars of his chosen profession proudly. A veteran mercenary. Born near Xantharl's Keep, Rothgar's tribe of the Northern Wolf Clan, pledged service to the keep, as not only was the tribe skilled fighters, but they specialized in fighting trolls and giants. When Rothgar was old enough, he joined the Troll Hunters of the keep. Growing board of the typical garrison life, Rothgar joined the mercenary company of Gallad's Giant Killers. The band traveled to Mintarn, and sold their sword arms.
Following that campaign, Rothgar moved about, serving in one conflict after another. He has served as caravan guard, bodyguard, and garrison company. His last contract was that of a caravan guard, bringing a caravan to the city of Neverwinter. With some coin in his pocket, he has the desire to go find something more interesting to do then guard caravans. His chainmail armor is covered by his traditional wolf clan cloak of wolf skins, his Great Axe carried across his back with his backpack, along with a longbow, a quiver on his left hip, and a hand axe on his right.
Arriving in the town, as much as he would desire to seek out a tavern, the admin building that looks like a bailey has caught his attention, and he heads towards it. "Perhaps they have a job or two that I can grab while I am here," he thinks as he walks towards the building.
@Rhanloi Perhaps Gonye got lost in the Neverwinter Wood ion his way to Abiershire and Dav'eed shared a pleasant conversation and lunch and steered the clearly out of his element wizard back to the main road?
Liarin: Against the Cult of the Reptile God
Adewild: Shadows and Light 2
Brother Thaddeus: Rime of the Frostmaiden.
DM Notes
The Flowing Flagon is as good a tavern as any other in this town, well, actually there are many that are better and few that are worse. The drinks are cheap, the rooms expensive, the chairs uncomfortable and the decor, well there isn't any. Even so, just like the town, it is packed with merchants and caravans, travelers, swindlers and thieves and of course the regulars, always the regulars.
Your group has gathered at a communal table; long and low with hard benches; as much from the faint connections, as simple necessity. There isn't anywhere else to sit. Tufts stands nearby in the doorway keeping an eye on the room as much as the street. The windows are all thrown open, letting the sun and air inside. The air however is of truly lesser quality this day. The smell of excrement has begun to build, without the rains to wash it down the hill, and an occasional stench washes across the road.
The room today has a strange energy, snippets of conversation can be overheard. â...Dagult has the wastes, no seriously, it was in the nightsâŠâ at another table, â...If it happens, will they open the gates? I need to get in already.â Ever since the Broadsheet hit the streets two days ago everybody has been talking about the possible death of Lord Dagult Neverember, Ruler of the city. Some with fear, others trepidation and more than a few with anticipation. Dagult has been a strong, but sometimes cruel lord, even so he brought peace and prosperity to this Northern city.
The road winds past the Flagon, a constant bustle of carts, wagons and a crush of passerby. From dawn up to sun down the street is a press of bodies, the smell of dung and excrement rising from the churned mud.
Blocking the stairs down to the road before you, an old grizzled man, salt and pepper hair showing his age along with the sun wrinkled face, struggles to move his cart. He curses, yelling at his horse, his wife and child and any others close enough to hear. The trio heave and push, a heavily laden cart full of crates and boxes refusing to move. The wheels buried deep in the slop and mud.
Across the road a small crowd has gathered behind a pair of Wintershield guards and an arguing man, His forehead climbing towards the back of his skull glistening in the sunlight. You can't hear what they are saying above the noise of the street and tavern, but the occasional wind change brings a stench wafting your way. You are pretty sure it is the subject of their argument. You notice a thin man, more a boy really cutting the purses of the crowd, unaware.
Lillita
The vardo is a decrepit sight, leaning heavily against the curtain wall. The wheels have long given up hope, with stones and timber truly doing all the work. The Vardo has been here for generations, unchanged, long enough to fade into the background, unnoticed. Efforts of course were made to remove it. Dragged away, burnt, smashed it always returns the next witching hour. The wagon must hold some magic, much like the rest of this district. The Everbloom as it is called was an original town, settled long before by a Halfing enclave. Before even the original Neverwinter, founded by the Fairfolk was established. Now the enclave is all that remains of that lost time. The buildings are squat, even those two, three, even four stories tall, leaning precariously against their neighbors; desperate for the support. The doors are too short, the windows low, few Halflings remain, the district taken over by others. Flowers grow and bloom everywhere a bare patch of ground, a windowsill, or a planter box can be found, even in the winter. Chop them down, rip them out, salt the ground they grow in, the sprouts return, leading to a bustling trade in blooms and herbs.
The forgotten Vardo and the district it sits in is a benefit to Lillita. The town and City, as cosmopolitan as they are, remain intolerant of a 4â dead girl. So far she has managed to come and go unnoticed, but has heard rumors Captain Jaanath and his Wintershield guards are actively looking for her. To question, apprehend, or destroy she does not know.
Recent activity at the herbalist Mother Ismel, across the street from the Vardo has made coming and going difficult. A lineup for a new cure to âThe Wastesâ has people gathering out front all day.
Tufts
Tufts has lived here his entire life, mostly sheltered and contained at the tavern, more out of jealousy from his Da as anything else. Tufts was a possession after all, just like the pots, or chairs or bar for that matter. It is said that if you stand at a corner long enough, the whole world will go by and perhaps it has. Tufts is not uninformed about the world around him, listening to the conversation and watching the scene both in and out of the tavern.
Just over four weeks ago, (A week is a ten day, 3 weeks in a month), the first case of âThe Wastesâ was reported. Probably because it was a noble and not a commoner. It began to spread within the surrounding towns and fields. In an attempt to keep it from the City the magistrate closed the gates to all traffic except essentials. That was nearly three weeks ago. The population has begun to anger, resentment simmering. The wastes show no outward sign of sickness, no cure or cause is known. How to contract it has yet to be understood. Those afflicted slowly lose health and vitality, simply wasting away over days or weeks.
Several months ago a man named Barnabas arrived in the city with a crew of thugs. They managed to take over âThe Ratsâ , previously a small gang of cut purses and pickpockets. The gang has grown, engaging in racketeering, robbery, intimidation and even murder. Two of its members, Kurd and Hammon arrived in Abiershire a tenday or so ago. They have caused chaos in their wake. The bar next door, âThe Purple Ponyâ was attacked by Hammon and a crew two days ago, Hammon was driven off, killing a child in the streets as he fled.
Neverwinter Nights a monthly broadsheet has hit the streets. The main caption declaring Dagult Neverember has contracted the wastes. This is the current topic of discussion in town.
Rothgar
The Keep is made of fitted and chiseled stone, standing stolid and imposing, the stone wall separating it from the rest of the city, forcing all to enter through a sturdy barbican. Rothgar notes the stationed guards at the main entrance, a portcullis ready to drop. The outer walls all have catwalks but no windows, slits or otherwise, break its surface. A tower with a trebuchet stands above it all.
Getting too close, the Wintershields tighten ranks, their Halberds held up against their shoulders. âWithout an invite sir, there is no entry to âThe Keepâ at this time. Please move along.â At least a pair, if not more, Archers are visible, their line of sight directly at the gate and courtyard.
Just off to the side of the gate is a community board. A simple wooden structure with a small overhanging roof. A number of letters, wantedâs and other messages are tacked to its surface. The newest ones plastered over a solid sheet of torn, faded and just plain old notices beneath.
The Top corner of the board is reserved for âOfficialâ notices from the Wintersheilds, two are wanted; Dead or alive. Each depicting a seperate man, one named Kurd, another Hammon. The third post is asking for HireSwords to descend into the central well and clear a blockage.
A young woman tacks a notice to the board, 'Halp neded, ofer nit gurd dudy', the poorly scrawled notice directs seekers to the Red Herring warehouse, one of many in the town. She turns and smiles at you, âMy pappyâs warehouse is getting robbed but he cant find the culprits entrance, he pays wellâ she finishes and wanders off.
Getting late you search the town for a place to stay, ending at The Flowing Flagon.
Davâeed
You removed the post, If you care to share the Backstory and the dagger of shadows, i was going to incorporate it. Put it in a spoiler in your next post.
Gonye
He didn't expect to move straight into Neverwinter, yet being barred from entry still rankles. He tried, speaking with the guards and was told âOnly essentials at this time, if you need an exemptions writ can be purchased for 75 Nobles (gp).
{Dav'eed} A young half-elf in leather armor and wearing a rapier sits awkwardly on the bench, the long metal shaft not quite resting well on the hard wood. He looks plain enough - in fact most folks barely even notice him in the press of bodies. The only things that might make him stand out in your memory are his green eyes - a vibrant forest green full of awe and wonder - and the elaborately embossed leather dagger scabbard - devoid of the actual weapon it was clearly designed to hold.
He elbows the man next to him, a slender human of medium height, dark skin, eyes and hair. "Gonye, see that? No, not the family stuck in the mud - that young lad filching purses out there." Dav'eed points the skinny boy out, following him with his eyes and silently evaluating his technique. "Oooh, he almost botched that one! Come on - let's go help the cart get unstuck and maybe catch up to the kid before he lands in the town jail..."
He stands, trying his best not to accidentally poke anyone as he disentangles the rapier from the crowded bench, and waits for Gonye. Once the other is up, he moves towards the stuck cart (while keeping an eye out for the cutpurse) and offers to help get the wheel out of the rut.
Updated backstory:
Backstory: His half-elf father was killed in an orc raid when he was 11. His wood elf mother and older sister live in the High Forest with the elves. He never felt like he truly belonged with the wood elves, so he struck out on his own at 14, finding Eldric, an older human who had successfully retired from being a soldier (the man was still alive after many years and battles, so obviously a good soldier!) who took him under his wing and trained the hot-headed youth in the Way of the Willow â a harmonious blend of strength, flexibility, and precision. This approach to life embodies the ability to cut through challenges while remaining adaptable and graceful. It allows practitioners to move efficiently, execute techniques with precision, and adapt to various situations. This martial training involves the core elements of his life now... He recently lost his master - for even in this world old age (or disease...) usually wins in the end!
The once-vibrant man wasted away over several months, his life force fading like the dying leaves of autumn. On his deathbed, he whispered to Davâeed, âRetrieve the Dagger of Shadows and seek your destiny..." After burying his teacher and securing the cabin in Neverwinter Wood, Davâeed kept only Eldric's most prized possession - a hard leather scabbard with embossed arcane runes that was supposedly made to hold the Dagger of Shadows. Eldric had described the blade as being able to slice through enchantments and cut the threads of fate, while its obsidian edge whispered promises of hidden treasures and forbidden knowledge. With his masterâs words echoing in his mind, Davâeed left Neverwinter Wood behind and struck out to see some of the world and expand his fame and fortune!
Eldricâs Lost Legacy: The Tale of the Vanishing Dagger In the days of yore, when the moon hung low and the stars whispered secrets, Eldric the rogue was a legend. His nimble fingers danced across locks and traps, and his eyes saw through illusions like crystal-clear water. But it was the Dagger of Shadows that set him apartâa blade forged in the heart of darkness, its edge sharper than a serpentâs fang.
Eldric acquired the dagger during a daring heist in the Forbidden Catacombs. The catacombs were said to house relics of immense powerâartifacts that could reshape kingdoms or unravel reality itself. Eldricâs crewâfellow rogues and misfitsâdescended into the depths, torches flickering as they navigated crumbling tunnels and cursed chambers. The Dagger of Shadows lay at the heart of the catacombs, guarded by spectral sentinels and traps that defied mortal understanding. Eldricâs heart raced as he approached the pedestalâthe dagger, its hilt adorned with obsidian runes, seemed to pulse with malevolence. But he was a rogue of unparalleled skill, and he disarmed the traps with ease.
As he grasped the dagger, its blade whispered secrets into his mind. Eldric learned of hidden doorways, forgotten spells, and the true names of ancient beings. The dagger became an extension of his willâa tool to cut through illusions and reveal the worldâs hidden truths. From that point on, the Dagger of Shadows always rested against his hip, its blade humming with ancient magic.
But power comes with a price. Eldricâs crew grew wary of him. They whispered that the dagger had changed himâthat shadows clung to his skin, and his laughter echoed like distant thunder. Eldric dismissed their concerns, obsessed with unlocking the daggerâs full potential.
One fateful night, during a thunderstorm that shook the very earth, Eldric faced a rival rogueâa cunning sorceress named Morgana. She coveted the Dagger of Shadows, believing it held the key to immortality. Their duel raged atop a crumbling tower, rain lashing their faces, lightning illuminating their desperate dance. Morganaâs spells were formidable, but Eldricâs dagger cut through them like silk. He pressed his advantage, driving her toward the towerâs edge. But then, in a moment of hubris, he lunged too far. Morganaâs final incantation struck trueâthe tower crumbled, and Eldric plummeted into the abyss.
The Dagger of Shadows slipped from his grasp, vanishing into the stormy night. Eldric survived the fall, but his memory fractured. He wandered the world, haunted by half-remembered dreams and glimpses of the daggerâs secrets. Morgana, too, disappeared, her fate unknown.
And so, the legend of Eldric faded. Some said he became a beggar, muttering cryptic prophecies in forgotten alleys. Others claimed he sailed to distant lands, seeking the daggerâs return. But the truth remainedâthe Dagger of Shadows was lost. So was Eldricâs grip on his sanity â and his life in this world. Now, as Davâeed seeks the same blade, he follows the echoes of his masterâs legacy. Perhaps heâll uncover the truthâthe reason Eldric risked everything for a blade that cut deeper than flesh. And maybe, just maybe, heâll find the dagger itself, hidden in the shadows of forgotten tombs or atop storm-wracked towers.
Love God. Love Others. Any Questions?
A golden haired bugbear with tufts of dark brown fur on his forarms and cheecks stands post at the door to the Flowing Flagon. He peruses the room and the street with a calm pensive demeanor.
Tufts watches the exchange going on across the way between glances at the patrons inside the tavern. The flagon was busy today.
"Good business today." He mused. Mixed emotions flowed through him however. Parts of him was glad to see the crush of patrons. Lots of customers meant lots of stories and Tufts loved to listen to traveler tales. But the pleasant thought of tales told faded towards a bit of gloom. With the restrictions in place no newcomers were coming through and all those who were around only seemed to be talking about Lord Neverember and the wastes. Then there was the break in next door. Things were getting tense in his little part of the world and he wasn't sure he liked it.
Tufts reflections are suddenly interrupted when the man across the way let's out a loud exclamation, "BAH, horse apples!!" He cries and throws up his arms in frustration. The man begins pointing and gesturing frantically while getting redder in the face. Tufts had seen this scenario playout many times and he expected that it wouldn't be long and the situation would come to culmination. Most likely an unfavorable one for the man given the Wintershields reputations. He felt bad for the man But what had really piqued his interest was the cutpurse relieving the crowd of people of their coin.
He straightened up a bit and his brow furrowed in concentration as he focused on the waif. This was just the thing he had been waiting for. Having heard that a new rogue element in town was taking over the local cutpurses and pickpocket trade he had hoped he would catch sight of one.
Tufts quickly looks about the common room trying to find Dav'eed. Spotting him at a table Tufts tries to get his attention. Unable to leave his post under penalty of severe punishment Tufts gives a whistle and calls out in a curt voice, while beckoning towards himself.
"Dav'eed! Tsss..DAV'EED! Come here."
Rogue Quin Oberon /Mercer's Tavern
Ranger Rigel Foresyth /LMOP
Fighter Barnabus Ironheel /North lands campaign
Fighter Flynt McGraw /Stormraider
đđLilita Lilituđđ
In the shadowy enclave of Everbloom, where history whispered through the sprouting flowers and the gnarled buildings of a forgotten Halfling town, Lilita Lilitu found a semblance of sanctuary in a decrepit vardo that she now called home.
The day had begun with Lilita stepping out from the shadows of her vardo, a small bundle of carefully gathered herbs in her hands. These were not just any herbs; they were culled from the deepest woods, where the soil was rich with the essence of life and death intermingled. With a touch as gentle as the fall of dusk, she had collected yarrow for wounds, belladonna for the heart, and nightshade, whose powers were best left unspoken yet deeply understood by those who delved into the darker arts of herbalism.
Her target was the humble establishment of Mother Ismel, a herbalist of no small repute whose recent endeavors to combat 'The Wastes' had the town's folk swarming her doorstep. The lines of the desperate and diseased twisted around the corner, a vivid tableau of the plagueâs ruthless grip on Neverwinter. Lilita's approach was cautious, her dark cloak billowing slightly with the autumn breeze, the hood drawn low over her brow to shadow her dusky features.
Mother Ismel's shop was a haven of green amidst the drab, its windows overflowing with pots of lush herbs and vibrant blooms that defied the urban decay. As Lilita crossed the threshold, the rich aroma of earth and essence washed over her as she moved with the silence of the grave, her presence barely stirring the air.
Placing the bundle of herbs on the counter, Lilitaâs voice, when she spoke, was a soft murmur, barely audible over the clamor of the crowded shop. "Mother Ismel," she began, her tone respectful yet tinged with an undeniable earnestness, "I am Lilita Lilitu, a dweller of shadows and a former student of Witherbloom who has been instructed in the natural world's forgotten tongues. As a gift to you, I offer these herbs collected by my hand from the deep woods as I seek to lend my hands to your cause, to help prepare and distribute the cure to The Wastes."
Her deep, dark eyes lifted to meet those of the herbalist, holding a depth of sincerity and a flicker of hope. The gesture was simple, yet it carried the weight of her entire being, her desire to connect, to aid, and perhaps to find a new path in the light of day, away from the twilight of her existence.
As Lilita stood there, her heartâa heart that beat not with the rhythm of life but with the perseverance of existenceâwhispered a silent plea. The streets of Neverwinter might yet hold a place for her, a place not marked by fear or destruction, but by healing and acceptance. How Mother Ismel would respond, Lilita could not predict, but in her offering was laid bare her willingness to bridge the world of the living and the lore of the old, to mend not just bodies, but perhaps, in time, the very fabric of her shattered soul.
Grunting to himself, Rothgar heads into the Flowing Flagon and approaches the bar keep. Nodding in greeting, he asks for a flagon of ale.
As Tufts waits for For Dav'eed to notice him a large human passes past him on his way to the bar. Tha man's passing distracts Tufts for a moment as he pauses to do a cursory assesment. He can tell by the man's dress and appearance that he most likely comes from one of the northern barbarian tribes.
"Wolf clan most likely" He thinks to himself. Tufts makes a mental note to keep an eye on him. These types can get a bit rowdy if not checked. By this time he sees Dav'eed making his way in Tufts direction.
Rogue Quin Oberon /Mercer's Tavern
Ranger Rigel Foresyth /LMOP
Fighter Barnabus Ironheel /North lands campaign
Fighter Flynt McGraw /Stormraider
As Dav'eed is getting up, he hears Tuft's call and decides to go see what his friend wanted. The two had known each other for a little while, each helping the other during the few times the half-elf was in Abiersire. He glanced back at Gonye to see if he was coming, then stood next to the bugbear and looked back out at the street.
"Quite a mess out there, yeah? I was gonna help the poor fellow get his cart unstuck, and then follow a certain lad out there who seems to be helping himself to other peoples' coin purses...what did you see? Something different?"
Love God. Love Others. Any Questions?
Gonye gets up and follows Dav'eed as he moves over to a bugbear who is calling him. "It's a fairly standard quandary. When is breaking the law justifiable? It really depends on the circumstances of that young man..." Seeing Dav'eeds hairy acquaintance, Gonye introduces himself, "Gonye Adachi, at your service. May I inquire as to your name, good sir?"
Liarin: Against the Cult of the Reptile God
Adewild: Shadows and Light 2
Brother Thaddeus: Rime of the Frostmaiden.
"Oy, I'm Tufts." The bugbears tone a bit of graveled by the large teeth protruding from his lower jaw. "Nar, I saw same. I hear things too. His eyes I see not so will not judge but littles often lead to Bigs. Need to follow that one and see where it lead. Explain more when you come back."
Rogue Quin Oberon /Mercer's Tavern
Ranger Rigel Foresyth /LMOP
Fighter Barnabus Ironheel /North lands campaign
Fighter Flynt McGraw /Stormraider
Always attentive to threats, Tufts scans the room while he waits for their answe. He checks on the barbarian at the bar and for any other suspicious behavior, but mostly he looks for Lilita. He hadn't seen her yet today and he was almost positive her shift started soon. He knew first hand how hard Potuss could be of you got on his cross side.
Perception DC on troubles in the room: 18
Rogue Quin Oberon /Mercer's Tavern
Ranger Rigel Foresyth /LMOP
Fighter Barnabus Ironheel /North lands campaign
Fighter Flynt McGraw /Stormraider
Ale costs 2 Nibs (cp)
With the extra help from Davâeed, the cart lurches forward, the man going with it as he cartwheels off balance, landing face first in the muck. Rising in a rage he turns yelling âI bloody well didn't say push now did Iâ he raises his fist then stutters, noticing the Half-elf at the rear of the cart. âUh, right, a thanks I guess, but i didn't need a helphand, run along I have no coins to spareâ He yells again to get his cart and family moving.
The Wintershields stop arguing, forcing past the man, they post a notice upon the door to the building. The bald sweating man rips it off in disgust, his chest heaving for a few moments he storms across the way. âBeshabaâs luck Potuss, what have I done to deserve this. Give your strongest, no, make that two. They're going to tear it down, say it's condemned.â Potus grunts, not even feigning interest, too busy swatting at the bar hands and hollering at the cook. âFirst the basement collapses, then that stench, by the gods, I can't even enter. It's so bad. Now this " Potuss" however has already walked away.
The young cut purse ducks into the shadowed alley, a barely seen man, a few years older takes the pouches and items pilfered with a stoic smile, the two quickly disappear into the back ways.
Lillita
Dawn has not yet cracked the horizon, that gentle and quiet time before the world awakens. The rooster has not taken his perch yet and still the door to Mother Ismel's is unlocked. The interior is small, not in size but in space. Every surface, and rafter is hung with herbs in many states of dry. Shelves are stacked one upon the other, bound tombs, rolled parchments. The smell is overwhelming with the perfume of a hundred blooms.
A young woman, not many summers more than you if any. She has an old smile as her head slowly, ever so slowly swivels in your direction. You have heard rumors that Mother Ismel has been here for generations, but even the elves age. Not that you heard she was an Elf, perhaps you simply assumed.
This young woman, how could it possibly be her, and still the serenity of centuries past clings to her young frame. She looks through you as if reading your soul, her eyes deep and wise. Placing several vials upon the table, their faint pinkish color seeming to glow in the single light burning in the corner. Plucking a pendant from her neck she takes your hand and places it in your palm, closing yours and her fingers around it.
You don't remember her ever speaking, yet you know, the vials are for the people, who suffer so dearly. The Pendant is for you my child. Somehow you end up back at the Flowing Flagon, despite not remembering your travel. Your new friends (Could, did you call them that?) had found the Vardo, and employment. Potus had recognized your skills, and perhaps your being, banishing you to the dark of the basement. The first batch of your work would soon be ready, although your first attempt at brewing, anything should be better than the swill Potuss was making.
As you prepare the next batch, the well comes up empty. The bucket clanging against hard rocks below. You will need water to make ale, so you head up to inform Potuss of the situation.
Lillita slinks through the shadows behind the bar, speaks quickly with Potuss then takes a moment to inspect the pendant she received from Mother Ismel, only looking up briefly when he begins to yell at Tufts.
Receive: 4 vials Mother Ismels cure, 1 Mother Ismels pendant
I would suspect you have run out of herbs from the deep woods
Potuss stomps over to Tufts, the look on his face is all steam and anger, âWe're out of water, so stop standing there like a dumb cur, either fix the damn well, or get to haulinâ he gestures to a pair of 15 gallon buckets, attached by a yoke. Tufts remembers the last time the well went dry, the closest well is only a half mile, but it's a half mile climb back up.
Davâeed
Davâeed had wandered to towns and settlements of the Neverwinter region for several months, settling last winter in Lielon just to the south. He resisted the Allure of the big city, Neverwinter, Luskan and Waterdeep to the south, not ready to face the temptress. As the snows began to melt he had a thought, the libraries of the realms held many stories, tombs and learning, If the story of Eldric had been recorded where could that lead. The thought stuck with him for months.
Unsure of which city to head to, until he overheard a conversation, a man had come to Neverwinter, a man of shadow. No one knew quite what he looked like, shadows coiling like liquid tar about his form. Davâeed packed his belongings and left the small hovel in Lielon for Neverwinter as soon as he could. He had a library to check and a man to hunt down, a man named Barnabas.