SYNOPSIS Atlas is a land consumed in war. The fell hordes of the Fallen Thirteen have overrun the continent, and many nations have fallen before their savage onslaught. The Age of Mortals comes to a close.
It is a dark chapter in the book of Atlas. Perhaps you can turn the page...
HISTORY In the First Age of Mortals, Atlas was a land of peace and prosperity. Scholars, philosophers, artists, priests, mages, and adventurers gathered at The Thirteen Cities of Gold and Glass to discuss news, share knowledge, and trade tales. The farming communities scattered across the continent provided the Thirteen Cities with meat, vegetables, and fish in exchange for manufactured goods which were almost impossible to obtain in the rural areas of the continent. Under the rule of the Thirteen Lords of Gold and Glass the economy prospered and the arts thrived.
The Fall of Atlas came in the Second Age of Mortals. The delicate balance between the gods of evil and the gods of good was shattered when the dark pantheon temporarily supplanted the light pantheon in the War of Divine Right. The dark gods whispered in the ears of the Thirteen Lords, and they were consumed in greed and hate. The light gods eventually reclaimed their thrones, but the damage was done. The Thirteen Lords, each desiring total dominion over the continent, declared war. The land ran red with the blood of the fallen, and the Thirteen Lords, blinded by greed, watched impassively as Atlas burned. Death stalked the stained land.
Horrified by the ruin which the Thirteen Lords had unleashed upon Atlas, the gods of good passed judgement on the corrupted Cities of Gold and Glass and commanded the earth to swallow it's diseased burden. Thus the glory of civilization was buried in stone. But the tale of the Thirteen was not yet told. The dark gods intervened as the Thirteen Lords fell into the maw of the earth, and stayed the hand of Death as it reached to claim the condemned mortals. 'Blessed' by the gods of evil with the gift of undeath, the Thirteen Lords crawled in the lightless grave which was to confine them for the next thousand years.
But the gods of good were to have the last word. They cursed the Thirteen Lords, transforming them into deformed mockeries of their former selves as punishment for their sins. This story, known as The Fall, stands grim testament to the price of greed.
For centuries the Thirteen dwelt in the ruined world of Tartarus as the world above them struggled to recover from the bloody conflict. Atlas underwent a series of political reforms, and civil war and disease swept across the continent. When the dust finally settled, and peace restored, the Thirteen Lords and their fell hordes broke free of the grave of Tartarus and laid waste to the unsuspecting continent. For the second time, Atlas was consumed in war and red ruin. The southern lands of Atlas have fallen to the savage onslaught, and in desperation the northern nations have forged a last alliance. With the fall of this alliance would come the fall of all Atlas.
THE THIRTEEN FALLEN LORDS The cursed beings known as the Thirteen Fallen Lords reside in Tartarus, their grave and prison which is located in the bowels of Atlas, a grim mockery of the world above. From the ruins of their former empires they curse the names of the gods of light and plot revenge as their minions wage war on the free races of Atlas, consuming the world in death and fire.
Ughrun and his savage orc hordes cleave their way through their foes, taking no prisoners as they wage their brutal campaign.
Grishnak and his ravening gnoll packs feast on the fallen, denying their foes even the right to bury their dead.
Quetzalcoatl and the slithering yuan-ti serve as assassins and scouts, employing stealth and various poisons to assassinate their targets.
Bokrug and the primal lizardfolk bludgeon and devour their enemies, rending their warm-blooded opponents limb from limb.
Koboldius and his kobold minions ensnare their foes with cunning traps and provide the hordes with siege machines and constructs of war.
Tamakukk and his sahuagin hordes drag their screaming foes into the red deep, where the sharks feast.
Craven’s kenku scavengers prowl the skies in makeshift balloons, causing mass destruction with their black powder bombs.
Luna’s lycanthropic hordes afflict all who suffer their bite with the dread curse of lycanthropy, swelling the ranks of the damned.
Gormagmoros and his goblin army overwhelm their opponents through cunning and sheer numbers.
Arachnilith and her merciless drow army are a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, and their prowess with the blade is unmatched.
Ghengis and his duergar legions employ strategy and effective military tactics to defeat forces twice the size of their own.
Mahu, the Thrall of the Pit, summons demons and devils from the Abyss and The Nine Hells to consume his enemies in fire.
Perhaps most feared of all is the lich Thagnaez and his gibbering undead hordes which shamble across the battlefield, striking horror into the heart of even the most hardened veteran.
Alongside these terrifying hordes lumber fell things which slumbered in Tartarus before the time of The Fall, and have risen to destroy and devour.
THE LAST ALLIANCE The Last Alliance was forged between the northern kingdoms after the fall of the southern nations as a final act of opposition to the hordes of the Thirteen Fallen Lords.
Avalon, the great kingdom of men, was the first to sign the pact. It was followed by the dwarven stronghold of Stoengrim, the untamed forests of the Sylvan Dominion, the scattered halfling villages of Buttershire, the dragonborn domain of the Jade Empire, the gnome's walking city of Clockwork, the disreputable underworld city of Ratshamble, the barbarian tribes of tue Savage Tundra, the frozen lands of Hamarrheim, the pirate-dominated Lawless Isles, the ancient desert kingdom of Khamut, the oriental kingdom of Al-Jafari, the sunken city of Atlantis, the mist-veiled jungle city of Tenochtitlan, and hundreds of other scattered cities, towns, villages, and settlements.
Night falls over the Screaming Mountains, accompanied by a light rain. The wind whistles through the irregular rock formations, rising to an ear-splitting crescendo from which the mountains derive their name. In a narrow crevasse in the mountains rises a titanic structure of stone, weathered by countless rains. This is Garumn's Keep, and it has yet to be breached by mortal foe.
Two-score and three-hundred soldiers stand in the drenching rain, warriors to the last. The gathered warriors are mostly humans and dwarves, but a contingent of elven archers hold the battlements, their bows and hearts unwavering. In addition, a hundred mercenaries and adventurers are scattered throughout the keep, their skills as varied as their weapons and garments. The Last Alliance will have need of every one ere the night is through.
An oppressive silence hangs over Garumn's Keep this night. Word has been received that a horde marches on the pass this night. Garumn's Pass, the crevasse in which Garumn's Keep is located, is the only way through the impassable Screaming Mountains. If this pass were to be breached, countless lives of villagers in the settlements north of the Screaming Mountains would be lost. The weight of a thousand prayers rests on your shoulders.
Such are the conditions in which you find yourselves this cold October night. Within the hour the stone you now stand on will be coated with blood, and the warrior standing beside you will likely be dead. Keep a stiff upper lip, and you might yet live to see the dawn.
Kelric calms his breathing looking around him "Never thought I'd be in this situation" Checking over his gear one last time he nods looking forward waiting.
Jill Moon is sitting in a corner, sharpening her sword. She is a beautiful young woman with light blue eyes, pale skin, and circles under her eyes that betray the fact that she rarely gets as much sleep as she should. Her lips are painted a deep shade of violet and her black hair is tied into a bun. Her paleness is especially striking when contrasted with the darkness of her garments. She's wearing a black hooded jacket with a high collar that covers her neck. Her trousers are a dark shade of green and her boots are the same shade as the jacket she's wearing. On her hip is a longsword in a scabbard with 'Old Reliable' engraved in copper letters on it and on her back is a shield. She runs her pale fingers back and forth over her right shoulder, as if they're following some sort of invisible path. Jill looks at the other soldiers and mercenaries in the keep trying to memorize their faces. She tries to guess which ones are going to live and which ones are going to die, as if it's a little game she's playing with herself.
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Xenophon: Topaz Dragonborn Fighter (ixi's Dragon of Icespire Peak)
Grum scans the battlements, looking for his ideal position. The most advantageous spots are taken by the elven archers, and he has no great desire to huddle in amongst them. Not one to seek out the company of others, mostly because in his experience the company of a half-orc has often proved unwanted, Grum finds a spot where he can wield his longbow effectively, but where he is also able to go mostly unnoticed by even his allies. He mutters into the night, "If there's one thing I hate more than a crowd, it's waiting. Let's get this over with."
He tensely fiddles with his bowstring, checking and double-checking its tautness. It's one of the only things the young half-orc truly trusts. "Shoot true this night, my friend."
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Oni is trying to find cover, the rain seems like too much for him. He is constantly adjusting himself trying to remain put together. He is a dark skinned human with white hair down to his shoulders. His eyes are a dark blue that look almost black. If you look closely you can see where the rain has hit his face, there is a golden red hue to his skin. His face is tense and looks annoyed at this situation. “Thisisn’t what I had in mind when I signed up. I just wanted simple guard duty.”
Disguise Kit 16
I added +2 to the Disguise Kit roll for INT+PROF but if you want it to be CHA+PROF or Deception, it would be +5
By the will of Bane, The Iron General, God of War.
When I, Misha Praskovia, was created on the Plane of Acheron, it was probably no different than the birth of any other screaming human newborn on Toril. Wet, weak, covered in blood, and angry.
Yet, when I was 6 years old, I was none of those things at all. That is when I began my training. Bane had plans for me, and I began my physical and mental training to become a soldier serving His Command. His Will. His Intention.
Tautanicus, The Commander of the 116th Legion, was responsible for my training at that young age, and by the time I turned 18 I became a woman with much strength and power, filled with honor and duty to Him. I was told a great spititual prophecy:
I was created to be another faceless pawn to be played in war against Asmodeus that would never end.
But, this was not my fate. The Lord of War had other plans for me. I kneeled and accepted my first mission and journey to another time and place.
She felt it upon her red hair, and looked up in the sky and with her piercing green eyes saw the clouds and smiled.
Bane, my Lord. I will do your bidding.
She stood with a mighty shield on her back and an enormous warhammer at her side and inhaled deeply, enjoying the weather. Where she came from, there was no rain, only constant battle and enemies to conquer. Just the way she liked it.
Her armor was golden with red highlights, and her hair came to about the bottom of her neck, held back by a small headband. While physically not the size of a hulking barbarian, her skin was tan, she was imposing and strong. What flesh was showing, her muscles appeared chiseled out of stone, lean, and powerful. She was amazingly curvy and still very feminine, but not overly large.
She knew none of the companions she was supposed to meet up with, and now that she was here on this world, said little and observed.
She had a job to do, and by the Will of Bane, she would conquer in his name.
Natasha had been observing her shaking hands when the rain started to drizzle, busy wondering why she was so anxious, why her stomach wouldn't stop churning, or why her mind was yelling at her to turn around and go back home. She joined The Last Alliance for a reason and it was too late to turn around now. The elf shook her head and began to repress those thoughts that told her to flee, distracting herself by redoing her braid for what felt like the fifth time. Her hair was a mess of lush blonde curls and it was a sight to see how easily she managed to keep it tame. Despite the rain, her hands worked skillfully on making the braid tight enough so it wouldn't loosen during the fight.
Just do what you do best, if you die... You die, she told herself as she finished fiddling with her hair. With a deep breath, she draws her bow and counts her arrows, then looks up towards the dreary sky and waits.
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Aeydof the Dragons || Wood Elf / Way of the Ascendant Dragon Monk Demetrios Zalaoras || Protector Aasimar / Paladin of Torm Hawke || Kalashtar / Circle of the Moon Druid Morticia || Half-Aasimar Rogue Yvan || Goliath / Path of the Wild Soul Barbarian | Paladin of Helm /ᐠ。ꞈ。ᐟ\
A voice from the battlement breaks the silence as your superior officer, Commander Vladimir Konstantine, a veteran dwarf with as many notches on his blade as hairs in his braided black beard, tries to lift the spirits of the warriors whose lives depend on his decisions.
"It's a tough lot we ended up with, now doubt about it. But that's how the dice fall sometimes. If you got blood to spill, spill it. If you got tears to cry, cry em. And if you got breathe to breathe, fight till your lungs give out!" A cheer rings out from the gathered warriors as Konstantine continues. "Any of you play an instrument?" A quarter of the assembled soldiers yell out an affirmative. "Well then play! Play so they can hear us doqn in Tartarus! Play for your wives and your husbands and your guys and your gals! Play for your children! " He stops for breath. "PLAY YOUR BLOODY HEARTS OUT!" He bellows. He turns away and then yells over his shoulder, as if as an afterthought, "And I better hear those who don't play an instrument bloody singing, or I'll toss you over the battlement myself." For several long seconds no one dares speak. Then a man who looks like he should be playing at home with grandchildren rather than fighting a war begins to sing in a wavering voice. In a minute everyone to the last man is singing along, making up in volume what they lack in tune. Four-score instruments, from flutes to drums, accompany the cacophony.
The old battle tune, "Bury Me With my Axe," resounds off the stone walls of Garumn's Keep as over three-hundred hardened warriors sing their last song.
After the speech Oni stops fixing his outfit. Listening to the soldiers sing and play, he walks out into the rain. A feeling of acceptance overcomes him, hoping whoever is watching over him has more plans than letting him die in the mud. He pulls out his longsword and stabs it into the ground. Keeping a hand on the pommel, Oni looks up to the sky, letting the rain wash over him. He feels warmth emanate from his pocket and his doubts are cleared from his mind. Oni looks back down towards his fellow soldiers and starts to sing.
Misha turns her head towards Natasha. She smirked. Something about THIS one.
"Look at your hands, little one." She said to her with a thick accent not common in these lands. She shifted her position a bit, her heavy armor joints clanking and reshifting. "Shaking like leaf. Back where I come from..no rain. Always sky on fire, and clouds red, and brown. Always war. You have look on face with doubt. Fight for a cause, with passion, and you never lose. Bane will watch over us."
Commander Vladimir spoke, and she shifted again to listen to him now. Then everyone started singing.
"Ah, the sound of song. Little man like to yell, inspire." Misha said, turning to Natasha again. "I do not sing. I have jar. For any tears cried will be from enemy we conquer. I collect." She laughs a loud hardy laugh and swings her massive warhammer on her shoulder.
Jill is grateful that the company is putting emphasis on sound over skill, because she hardly knew the words to the song and felt like a fool. She suspected that she wasn't the only one. As the rain poured down, she pulled up her hood and continued to memorize her comrades' faces as she thought about which ones would live and which would die.
Grandfather over there is going to die. Rest well old man, going out defending your home is as good an end as any.
That half-orc should survive, he has the good sense to not be clustered up with anyone else.
That one who keeps worrying about his appearances is going to die. I guarantee it.
The loudmouthed muscle-woman in heavy armor should live, which is unfortunate, because she looks like the kind of person who'll be a massive pain in my ass.
That pretty little elvish girl is also going to die. How sad, she kind of reminds me of myself when I was younger with how she's so anxious. I hope it's quick when she goes.
The Commander is going to die. He seems like a fellow who cares about his soldiers, but I think that this battle is it for him.
Seeing everyone start singing Kelric will mumble along quietly trying to keep hidden among the taller people around him wearing a Shemagh covering his head and shoulders
Natasha looked over to the red headed woman, a confused look coming across her features as she spoke, taking definite note of her foreign accent. Fire skies, red clouds... huh? Why was she looking at me—
Before she could respond, her attention was drawn to the commander now, his voice booming into her mind following along with Misha’s. Fight with a cause.
She furrowed her brows as her nervousness subsides, only gripping tighter on her bow as she thinks about the kids she’s fought for before. Yeah. I’ll fight for a cause alright—
Then Misha said something about a jar. “Wait, what?” Why do I always attract the weirdos?
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Aeydof the Dragons || Wood Elf / Way of the Ascendant Dragon Monk Demetrios Zalaoras || Protector Aasimar / Paladin of Torm Hawke || Kalashtar / Circle of the Moon Druid Morticia || Half-Aasimar Rogue Yvan || Goliath / Path of the Wild Soul Barbarian | Paladin of Helm /ᐠ。ꞈ。ᐟ\
" Hey muscle-woman." Jill says to Misha in an accent that sounded exotic and musical. "How do you plan on filling that jar with tears? It's been raining out here like the gods themselves are weeping on us. Makes it hard to fill a jar with anything except water, no? Ah, where are my manners? I am called Jill Moon. Et toi?" She says as she extends a hand towards the woman who looks like her diet solely consists of creatine shakes and HGH.
"Just kidding, little one!" Misha laughs, bumping Natasha's shoulder, playfully. "Joke before battle. To help your nerves!"
Misha turned to Jill, putting her warhammer to the side for the moment, and smiled at her warmly. "Ah! woman with lots of questions about jar that no exist! Excellent! Where I come from, no rain! Such a beautiful thing, it is, to see something new." She gestures towards the sky. "My home is much fire, and mountains. Hot. Constant war. Like this place! I can see sun avoid you, your colors are different - tell perhaps an interesting story?"
She extends her hand, and standing next to her, you can see her features better - she is a little bit taller than you, and while still very feminine and curvy, her grip is strong.
"I am called Misha!" She says proudly. "I look forward to battle with you..and your..toothpick?" she jokes, casually glancing at your sword.
"I guess the rain feels good to someone who has never felt it before. As for myself, I have felt the rain many times in my life and it always makes me feel like I'm some rat in an alleyway. I hate it." As Jill shakes hand with Misha, she notes the strength of her grip and how it would take little effort for this woman to break her fingers if she wasn't on the same side as Jill. "The sun does not avoid me as much as it seems to favor you. We both seem to have interesting tales to tell, perhaps after this battle, we may get better acquainted, no? Toothpick? While my sword might not be as large as your hammer, it has never failed me once. Would you like to make a wager? More monsters will fall to my blade tonight than your hammer. Loser shines the boots of the victor. Ca va? Does that sound like a contest you're interested in?"
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Xenophon: Topaz Dragonborn Fighter (ixi's Dragon of Icespire Peak)
Misha looked at Jill and her eyes got wide, and smiled. "Ah, pale woman who makes bets because of..insecurity, perhaps?" she playfully pats you on the shoulder, you can tell she is joking, enjoying your confidence. "I like you, toothpick!" She laughs. "I shine your boots, regardless of who wins! To fight alongside one another will be honor - to conquer with you in the name of The Iron General."
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SYNOPSIS
Atlas is a land consumed in war. The fell hordes of the Fallen Thirteen have overrun the continent, and many nations have fallen before their savage onslaught. The Age of Mortals comes to a close.
It is a dark chapter in the book of Atlas. Perhaps you can turn the page...
HISTORY
In the First Age of Mortals, Atlas was a land of peace and prosperity. Scholars, philosophers, artists, priests, mages, and adventurers gathered at The Thirteen Cities of Gold and Glass to discuss news, share knowledge, and trade tales. The farming communities scattered across the continent provided the Thirteen Cities with meat, vegetables, and fish in exchange for manufactured goods which were almost impossible to obtain in the rural areas of the continent. Under the rule of the Thirteen Lords of Gold and Glass the economy prospered and the arts thrived.
The Fall of Atlas came in the Second Age of Mortals. The delicate balance between the gods of evil and the gods of good was shattered when the dark pantheon temporarily supplanted the light pantheon in the War of Divine Right. The dark gods whispered in the ears of the Thirteen Lords, and they were consumed in greed and hate. The light gods eventually reclaimed their thrones, but the damage was done. The Thirteen Lords, each desiring total dominion over the continent, declared war. The land ran red with the blood of the fallen, and the Thirteen Lords, blinded by greed, watched impassively as Atlas burned. Death stalked the stained land.
Horrified by the ruin which the Thirteen Lords had unleashed upon Atlas, the gods of good passed judgement on the corrupted Cities of Gold and Glass and commanded the earth to swallow it's diseased burden. Thus the glory of civilization was buried in stone. But the tale of the Thirteen was not yet told. The dark gods intervened as the Thirteen Lords fell into the maw of the earth, and stayed the hand of Death as it reached to claim the condemned mortals. 'Blessed' by the gods of evil with the gift of undeath, the Thirteen Lords crawled in the lightless grave which was to confine them for the next thousand years.
But the gods of good were to have the last word. They cursed the Thirteen Lords, transforming them into deformed mockeries of their former selves as punishment for their sins. This story, known as The Fall, stands grim testament to the price of greed.
For centuries the Thirteen dwelt in the ruined world of Tartarus as the world above them struggled to recover from the bloody conflict. Atlas underwent a series of political reforms, and civil war and disease swept across the continent. When the dust finally settled, and peace restored, the Thirteen Lords and their fell hordes broke free of the grave of Tartarus and laid waste to the unsuspecting continent. For the second time, Atlas was consumed in war and red ruin. The southern lands of Atlas have fallen to the savage onslaught, and in desperation the northern nations have forged a last alliance. With the fall of this alliance would come the fall of all Atlas.
THE THIRTEEN FALLEN LORDS
The cursed beings known as the Thirteen Fallen Lords reside in Tartarus, their grave and prison which is located in the bowels of Atlas, a grim mockery of the world above. From the ruins of their former empires they curse the names of the gods of light and plot revenge as their minions wage war on the free races of Atlas, consuming the world in death and fire.
Ughrun and his savage orc hordes cleave their way through their foes, taking no prisoners as they wage their brutal campaign.
Grishnak and his ravening gnoll packs feast on the fallen, denying their foes even the right to bury their dead.
Quetzalcoatl and the slithering yuan-ti serve as assassins and scouts, employing stealth and various poisons to assassinate their targets.
Bokrug and the primal lizardfolk bludgeon and devour their enemies, rending their warm-blooded opponents limb from limb.
Koboldius and his kobold minions ensnare their foes with cunning traps and provide the hordes with siege machines and constructs of war.
Tamakukk and his sahuagin hordes drag their screaming foes into the red deep, where the sharks feast.
Craven’s kenku scavengers prowl the skies in makeshift balloons, causing mass destruction with their black powder bombs.
Luna’s lycanthropic hordes afflict all who suffer their bite with the dread curse of lycanthropy, swelling the ranks of the damned.
Gormagmoros and his goblin army overwhelm their opponents through cunning and sheer numbers.
Arachnilith and her merciless drow army are a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, and their prowess with the blade is unmatched.
Ghengis and his duergar legions employ strategy and effective military tactics to defeat forces twice the size of their own.
Mahu, the Thrall of the Pit, summons demons and devils from the Abyss and The Nine Hells to consume his enemies in fire.
Perhaps most feared of all is the lich Thagnaez and his gibbering undead hordes which shamble across the battlefield, striking horror into the heart of even the most hardened veteran.
Alongside these terrifying hordes lumber fell things which slumbered in Tartarus before the time of The Fall, and have risen to destroy and devour.
THE LAST ALLIANCE
The Last Alliance was forged between the northern kingdoms after the fall of the southern nations as a final act of opposition to the hordes of the Thirteen Fallen Lords.
Avalon, the great kingdom of men, was the first to sign the pact. It was followed by the dwarven stronghold of Stoengrim, the untamed forests of the Sylvan Dominion, the scattered halfling villages of Buttershire, the dragonborn domain of the Jade Empire, the gnome's walking city of Clockwork, the disreputable underworld city of Ratshamble, the barbarian tribes of tue Savage Tundra, the frozen lands of Hamarrheim, the pirate-dominated Lawless Isles, the ancient desert kingdom of Khamut, the oriental kingdom of Al-Jafari, the sunken city of Atlantis, the mist-veiled jungle city of Tenochtitlan, and hundreds of other scattered cities, towns, villages, and settlements.
Flayr Flameseeker | Genasi/Fire | Wizard/School of Evocation | Level 2 | Custom Campaign: Cold Cash
Is Blood Hunter permitted for your campaign?
Xenophon: Topaz Dragonborn Fighter (ixi's Dragon of Icespire Peak)
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Night falls over the Screaming Mountains, accompanied by a light rain. The wind whistles through the irregular rock formations, rising to an ear-splitting crescendo from which the mountains derive their name. In a narrow crevasse in the mountains rises a titanic structure of stone, weathered by countless rains. This is Garumn's Keep, and it has yet to be breached by mortal foe.
Two-score and three-hundred soldiers stand in the drenching rain, warriors to the last. The gathered warriors are mostly humans and dwarves, but a contingent of elven archers hold the battlements, their bows and hearts unwavering. In addition, a hundred mercenaries and adventurers are scattered throughout the keep, their skills as varied as their weapons and garments. The Last Alliance will have need of every one ere the night is through.
An oppressive silence hangs over Garumn's Keep this night. Word has been received that a horde marches on the pass this night. Garumn's Pass, the crevasse in which Garumn's Keep is located, is the only way through the impassable Screaming Mountains. If this pass were to be breached, countless lives of villagers in the settlements north of the Screaming Mountains would be lost. The weight of a thousand prayers rests on your shoulders.
Such are the conditions in which you find yourselves this cold October night. Within the hour the stone you now stand on will be coated with blood, and the warrior standing beside you will likely be dead. Keep a stiff upper lip, and you might yet live to see the dawn.
Flayr Flameseeker | Genasi/Fire | Wizard/School of Evocation | Level 2 | Custom Campaign: Cold Cash
Kelric calms his breathing looking around him "Never thought I'd be in this situation" Checking over his gear one last time he nods looking forward waiting.
Jill Moon is sitting in a corner, sharpening her sword. She is a beautiful young woman with light blue eyes, pale skin, and circles under her eyes that betray the fact that she rarely gets as much sleep as she should. Her lips are painted a deep shade of violet and her black hair is tied into a bun. Her paleness is especially striking when contrasted with the darkness of her garments. She's wearing a black hooded jacket with a high collar that covers her neck. Her trousers are a dark shade of green and her boots are the same shade as the jacket she's wearing. On her hip is a longsword in a scabbard with 'Old Reliable' engraved in copper letters on it and on her back is a shield. She runs her pale fingers back and forth over her right shoulder, as if they're following some sort of invisible path. Jill looks at the other soldiers and mercenaries in the keep trying to memorize their faces. She tries to guess which ones are going to live and which ones are going to die, as if it's a little game she's playing with herself.
Xenophon: Topaz Dragonborn Fighter (ixi's Dragon of Icespire Peak)
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Grum scans the battlements, looking for his ideal position. The most advantageous spots are taken by the elven archers, and he has no great desire to huddle in amongst them. Not one to seek out the company of others, mostly because in his experience the company of a half-orc has often proved unwanted, Grum finds a spot where he can wield his longbow effectively, but where he is also able to go mostly unnoticed by even his allies. He mutters into the night, "If there's one thing I hate more than a crowd, it's waiting. Let's get this over with."
He tensely fiddles with his bowstring, checking and double-checking its tautness. It's one of the only things the young half-orc truly trusts. "Shoot true this night, my friend."
Mordekai | Tiefling Warlock/Bard (Lv.12) | Pizazz's Beyond
RavenloftAnnihilationOni is trying to find cover, the rain seems like too much for him. He is constantly adjusting himself trying to remain put together. He is a dark skinned human with white hair down to his shoulders. His eyes are a dark blue that look almost black. If you look closely you can see where the rain has hit his face, there is a golden red hue to his skin. His face is tense and looks annoyed at this situation. “This isn’t what I had in mind when I signed up. I just wanted simple guard duty.”
Disguise Kit 16
I added +2 to the Disguise Kit roll for INT+PROF but if you want it to be CHA+PROF or Deception, it would be +5
By the will of Bane, The Iron General, God of War.
When I, Misha Praskovia, was created on the Plane of Acheron, it was probably no different than the birth of any other screaming human newborn on Toril. Wet, weak, covered in blood, and angry.
Yet, when I was 6 years old, I was none of those things at all. That is when I began my training. Bane had plans for me, and I began my physical and mental training to become a soldier serving His Command. His Will. His Intention.
Tautanicus, The Commander of the 116th Legion, was responsible for my training at that young age, and by the time I turned 18 I became a woman with much strength and power, filled with honor and duty to Him. I was told a great spititual prophecy:
I was created to be another faceless pawn to be played in war against Asmodeus that would never end.
But, this was not my fate. The Lord of War had other plans for me. I kneeled and accepted my first mission and journey to another time and place.
This is my story.
Misha enjoyed the rain.
She felt it upon her red hair, and looked up in the sky and with her piercing green eyes saw the clouds and smiled.
Bane, my Lord. I will do your bidding.
She stood with a mighty shield on her back and an enormous warhammer at her side and inhaled deeply, enjoying the weather. Where she came from, there was no rain, only constant battle and enemies to conquer. Just the way she liked it.
Her armor was golden with red highlights, and her hair came to about the bottom of her neck, held back by a small headband. While physically not the size of a hulking barbarian, her skin was tan, she was imposing and strong. What flesh was showing, her muscles appeared chiseled out of stone, lean, and powerful. She was amazingly curvy and still very feminine, but not overly large.
She knew none of the companions she was supposed to meet up with, and now that she was here on this world, said little and observed.
She had a job to do, and by the Will of Bane, she would conquer in his name.
Natasha had been observing her shaking hands when the rain started to drizzle, busy wondering why she was so anxious, why her stomach wouldn't stop churning, or why her mind was yelling at her to turn around and go back home. She joined The Last Alliance for a reason and it was too late to turn around now. The elf shook her head and began to repress those thoughts that told her to flee, distracting herself by redoing her braid for what felt like the fifth time. Her hair was a mess of lush blonde curls and it was a sight to see how easily she managed to keep it tame. Despite the rain, her hands worked skillfully on making the braid tight enough so it wouldn't loosen during the fight.
Just do what you do best, if you die... You die, she told herself as she finished fiddling with her hair. With a deep breath, she draws her bow and counts her arrows, then looks up towards the dreary sky and waits.
Aeyd of the Dragons || Wood Elf / Way of the Ascendant Dragon Monk
Demetrios Zalaoras || Protector Aasimar / Paladin of Torm
Hawke || Kalashtar / Circle of the Moon Druid
Morticia || Half-Aasimar Rogue
Yvan || Goliath / Path of the Wild Soul Barbarian | Paladin of Helm
/ᐠ。ꞈ。ᐟ\
A voice from the battlement breaks the silence as your superior officer, Commander Vladimir Konstantine, a veteran dwarf with as many notches on his blade as hairs in his braided black beard, tries to lift the spirits of the warriors whose lives depend on his decisions.
"It's a tough lot we ended up with, now doubt about it. But that's how the dice fall sometimes. If you got blood to spill, spill it. If you got tears to cry, cry em. And if you got breathe to breathe, fight till your lungs give out!" A cheer rings out from the gathered warriors as Konstantine continues. "Any of you play an instrument?" A quarter of the assembled soldiers yell out an affirmative. "Well then play! Play so they can hear us doqn in Tartarus! Play for your wives and your husbands and your guys and your gals! Play for your children! " He stops for breath. "PLAY YOUR BLOODY HEARTS OUT!" He bellows. He turns away and then yells over his shoulder, as if as an afterthought, "And I better hear those who don't play an instrument bloody singing, or I'll toss you over the battlement myself." For several long seconds no one dares speak. Then a man who looks like he should be playing at home with grandchildren rather than fighting a war begins to sing in a wavering voice. In a minute everyone to the last man is singing along, making up in volume what they lack in tune. Four-score instruments, from flutes to drums, accompany the cacophony.
The old battle tune, "Bury Me With my Axe," resounds off the stone walls of Garumn's Keep as over three-hundred hardened warriors sing their last song.
Flayr Flameseeker | Genasi/Fire | Wizard/School of Evocation | Level 2 | Custom Campaign: Cold Cash
After the speech Oni stops fixing his outfit. Listening to the soldiers sing and play, he walks out into the rain. A feeling of acceptance overcomes him, hoping whoever is watching over him has more plans than letting him die in the mud. He pulls out his longsword and stabs it into the ground. Keeping a hand on the pommel, Oni looks up to the sky, letting the rain wash over him. He feels warmth emanate from his pocket and his doubts are cleared from his mind. Oni looks back down towards his fellow soldiers and starts to sing.
Misha turns her head towards Natasha. She smirked. Something about THIS one.
"Look at your hands, little one." She said to her with a thick accent not common in these lands. She shifted her position a bit, her heavy armor joints clanking and reshifting. "Shaking like leaf. Back where I come from..no rain. Always sky on fire, and clouds red, and brown. Always war. You have look on face with doubt. Fight for a cause, with passion, and you never lose. Bane will watch over us."
Commander Vladimir spoke, and she shifted again to listen to him now. Then everyone started singing.
"Ah, the sound of song. Little man like to yell, inspire." Misha said, turning to Natasha again. "I do not sing. I have jar. For any tears cried will be from enemy we conquer. I collect." She laughs a loud hardy laugh and swings her massive warhammer on her shoulder.
Jill is grateful that the company is putting emphasis on sound over skill, because she hardly knew the words to the song and felt like a fool. She suspected that she wasn't the only one. As the rain poured down, she pulled up her hood and continued to memorize her comrades' faces as she thought about which ones would live and which would die.
Grandfather over there is going to die. Rest well old man, going out defending your home is as good an end as any.
That half-orc should survive, he has the good sense to not be clustered up with anyone else.
That one who keeps worrying about his appearances is going to die. I guarantee it.
The loudmouthed muscle-woman in heavy armor should live, which is unfortunate, because she looks like the kind of person who'll be a massive pain in my ass.
That pretty little elvish girl is also going to die. How sad, she kind of reminds me of myself when I was younger with how she's so anxious. I hope it's quick when she goes.
The Commander is going to die. He seems like a fellow who cares about his soldiers, but I think that this battle is it for him.
Xenophon: Topaz Dragonborn Fighter (ixi's Dragon of Icespire Peak)
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Seeing everyone start singing Kelric will mumble along quietly trying to keep hidden among the taller people around him wearing a Shemagh covering his head and shoulders
Natasha looked over to the red headed woman, a confused look coming across her features as she spoke, taking definite note of her foreign accent. Fire skies, red clouds... huh? Why was she looking at me—
Before she could respond, her attention was drawn to the commander now, his voice booming into her mind following along with Misha’s. Fight with a cause.
She furrowed her brows as her nervousness subsides, only gripping tighter on her bow as she thinks about the kids she’s fought for before. Yeah. I’ll fight for a cause alright—
Then Misha said something about a jar. “Wait, what?” Why do I always attract the weirdos?
Aeyd of the Dragons || Wood Elf / Way of the Ascendant Dragon Monk
Demetrios Zalaoras || Protector Aasimar / Paladin of Torm
Hawke || Kalashtar / Circle of the Moon Druid
Morticia || Half-Aasimar Rogue
Yvan || Goliath / Path of the Wild Soul Barbarian | Paladin of Helm
/ᐠ。ꞈ。ᐟ\
" Hey muscle-woman." Jill says to Misha in an accent that sounded exotic and musical. "How do you plan on filling that jar with tears? It's been raining out here like the gods themselves are weeping on us. Makes it hard to fill a jar with anything except water, no? Ah, where are my manners? I am called Jill Moon. Et toi?" She says as she extends a hand towards the woman who looks like her diet solely consists of creatine shakes and HGH.
Xenophon: Topaz Dragonborn Fighter (ixi's Dragon of Icespire Peak)
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"Just kidding, little one!" Misha laughs, bumping Natasha's shoulder, playfully. "Joke before battle. To help your nerves!"
Misha turned to Jill, putting her warhammer to the side for the moment, and smiled at her warmly. "Ah! woman with lots of questions about jar that no exist! Excellent! Where I come from, no rain! Such a beautiful thing, it is, to see something new." She gestures towards the sky. "My home is much fire, and mountains. Hot. Constant war. Like this place! I can see sun avoid you, your colors are different - tell perhaps an interesting story?"
She extends her hand, and standing next to her, you can see her features better - she is a little bit taller than you, and while still very feminine and curvy, her grip is strong.
"I am called Misha!" She says proudly. "I look forward to battle with you..and your..toothpick?" she jokes, casually glancing at your sword.
"I guess the rain feels good to someone who has never felt it before. As for myself, I have felt the rain many times in my life and it always makes me feel like I'm some rat in an alleyway. I hate it." As Jill shakes hand with Misha, she notes the strength of her grip and how it would take little effort for this woman to break her fingers if she wasn't on the same side as Jill. "The sun does not avoid me as much as it seems to favor you. We both seem to have interesting tales to tell, perhaps after this battle, we may get better acquainted, no? Toothpick? While my sword might not be as large as your hammer, it has never failed me once. Would you like to make a wager? More monsters will fall to my blade tonight than your hammer. Loser shines the boots of the victor. Ca va? Does that sound like a contest you're interested in?"
Xenophon: Topaz Dragonborn Fighter (ixi's Dragon of Icespire Peak)
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Misha looked at Jill and her eyes got wide, and smiled. "Ah, pale woman who makes bets because of..insecurity, perhaps?" she playfully pats you on the shoulder, you can tell she is joking, enjoying your confidence. "I like you, toothpick!" She laughs. "I shine your boots, regardless of who wins! To fight alongside one another will be honor - to conquer with you in the name of The Iron General."