I'm brand new to this, so here's my first character, a Dragonborn Sorcerer named Kriv Windson. What do you think?
Found as a newborn near the foot of the nearby mountains by the human inhabitants of Hawk's Reach village (named for the red-wing hawks found in abundance in the surrounding area), Kriv grew up not knowing his family or his people. Due to the secluded locale of Hawk's Reach, Kriv is the lone Dragonborn anyone had seen in the area for decades. Nevertheless, the villagers decided to help him, and he was adopted and raised by the kindly schoolmaster Tav Windson and his wife Kera, even taking Tav's family name.
Owing his life to those who saved him, Kriv did everything he could to help out the village. From doing simple repairs to using his size and strength to protect against bandit raids, he became something of a jack-of-all-trades, and was well-liked in the community. Due to his upbringing with the schoolmaster, Kriv became well-educated, with an insatiable curiosity for the world around him and a love of exploration. Being so different from the other inhabitants, he also developed deep empathy for the outcast and downtrodden. Generally good-natured, with an endearing affability, he sometimes felt an overpowering loneliness, often roaming the countryside surrounding the village for hours, pondering his solitude among humans.
Kriv's innate magical abilities developed at an early age, and Tav encouraged their growth, as a way for Kriv to feel connected to his heritage. Aware how dangerous untrained magic can be, when Kriv was 5, Tav took him to meet the wizard Cailan Frostraven, who lives alone in a tower in the nearby mountains. Cailan, an eccentric hermit who cares more for his tomes than people, was nevertheless intrigued by the young Dragonborn, and agreed to mentor him, teaching him a handful of useful spells. Cailan believes that Kriv's abilities are tied to a medallion found with him as a baby, a crystal star embedded in a silver disc, with strange runes around the edge. In addition to helping hone his magical abilities, Cailan helped Kriv learn more about the Dragonborn race, though he doesn't have the foggiest notion how Kriv came to Hawk's Reach.
As he grew older, Kriv's desire to see the world and seek out his people became overwhelming. When he turned 16, he decided once and for all to leave Hawk's Reach and strike out on his own. The villagers were sad to see him leave, but understood his need to find his family.
Now 28, Kriv has spent the last ten years traveling the world. He tries to help those in need, and deals sternly (but fairly) with those who would harm others. He is not overly fond of physical combat, being more scrappy than skilled, and instead relies on his intelligence and magical abilities. He often prefers his solitude, especially during those bouts of loneliness that have followed him since he was a child, and he has never really felt at home anywhere. Preferring the open country to crowded cities, he is nevertheless adaptable to what is required in a given situation.
Kriv has encountered other Dragonborn, who pityingly call him "Clanless Kriv" due to his upbringing among humans. He has inquired about his past every chance he gets, but none of the Dragonborn he has met have recognized the medallion he carries. Still, he doesn't obsess over the mystery, believing fate will unfold as it will, and he never loses hope that he will one day find the answers he seeks. Instead, a curiosity of the world and a desire to learn drives him forward.
Tragedy has followed Lesstara Vayya around like a stray dog. The burning of her birth home in Nesme, including her parents, sent her to an orphanage as a baby. The subsequent burning of the orphanage when she turned 9 sent her to an asylum, and the asylum burning at age 18 sent her wandering the Sword Coast. In each instance, she was the only survivor. Lesstara is left wondering if she is responsible, merely unlucky, or if something darker is at play. Lesstara has displayed magical abilities seemingly from birth with her changing, metallic-tipped ears. While no wand or staff was given to her, she would unconsciously channel magic with (at times) chaotic effects. The orphanage fire was blamed on Lesstara's un-tamable abilities. The asylum she was sent to was located in Thay, and was used to house beings deemed magically hazardous. Though on her arrival she received some level of training, the stewards seemed disappointed in her lack of gall. Long periods of isolation and neglect to a toll on her. Sometimes for weeks the only voices she would hear would be spirits that no one else ever heard. Some were kind, others were not. The stewards wrote this off as madness. Despite years of freedom she still hears them, just as she always had. In the years since her escape, Lesstara has not spent much time anywhere in particular. She has spent most of her days following caravans and doing odd jobs (such as collecting plants, or assisting merchants with magical item identification) to make enough coin to survive. She has also taken to referring to herself as "Less". The shorting of her name was a cruel joke by the Thayan stewards, but it is now something she embraces. The less trouble she causes for people, the better.
So I just copy/pasted this from inside my character's sheet. Sorry that it looks off and for any spelling errors. By the way, the artwork in here is awesome. I just use one of the pictures on the sight her (there is an elven mage from the Elemental Evil campaign book that is similar enough).
I've not had a chance to flush my Paladin out yet; Need to get some world and place names first before I can determine where she comes from, but I know that she has a human father, and an elf mother, hence the ears. Armina is lawful good, and she is just as proficient with her maylay attacks as she is with the magic that her faith gives her. Her father a soldier, her mother a cleric.
This is the story of my wizard's current adventure and his mentor.
Sorry ahead of time I dont know how to make a spoiler button.
CR 98
“I am tired Grandfather, why have I been summoned,” the old man whined. “I have served the family for over three hundred years, but the life extending magics are exhausted, and I’m ready to die.”
The cold voice drifted across the ancient tower, “Three hundred years? Empires are laid low for the secrets that gave you those three hundred years, and yet you protest. Your family requires your services, and yet you protest. You disappoint me Archmage Terem yn Ujemi.” The creature, with a gesture, waved away the further titles.
The old man bowed his head in rebuke. “I am sorry for my insolence Grandfather, but my divinitions have revealed this to be the day of my death. I do not understand what I can do for you with so little time left.”
“Less than an hour to be precise.” If the mercurial creatures face held pity or compassion it did not show, though its gesture was one of paternal familiarity.
“I require one last obedience of you grandson of my grandson,” the lich said. “Candlekeep has turned away my agents. Olmur, the new Keeper of Tomes has decreed that seekers can stay no more than a ten day, and only the avowed now have direct access to the library. To fully preserve the revelations of Alaundo, he claims. I cannot abide being denied access. I need an agent in the library to conduct my research”.
“What of Candlekeep? Myth Drannor rises to greater heights everyday. Its libraries have long past eclipsed that of those odd monks and their chanting circles. I do not understand! I am to die today, how can I be of any further help to the family in this matter?” Terem asked.
"Mulhorand slain, Mystryl sacrificed, when even Gods fall what are the works of mortals. Narfell and Rauathar are ghostly echoes of the past. Calamities will come again and those that are high will be felled, those that are low will become ascendant. Cities that do not yet exist will have high kings not yet born. It is not the past you work toward, or even the present."
For a man at the end of his life, the past was all his mind could think of. His eyes followed the form of the creature his mother had brought him to almost two hundred ninety years ago, she had called him Grandfather also. He remembered the tears in her eyes, now long gone to the house of the dead. “For the family,” she had said leaving the crying youth behind.
Terem saw the lich pause on front of a table, on it was a book. The title read, “First Expedition to the Shadow Plane. Journal of Killium the Arcanist of Xinlenal”. Other objects the Archmage could easily identify as common in the enchantment of an item, other things, though his knowledge of magic was vast, were unfamiliar to him.
"Karsus's Folly cost me much," the once human creature said, his hollow voice ringing through the hall. "So much of my power was lost, it has taken years to recover. In truth, I have not and cannot ever return to the heights I once held. I have learned patience though, through my long years. It is a virtue you shall now have to learn as well."
"I am confused Grandfather. I do not," Terem started. As the lich turned he saw in its hand a ornate pendant, princely in its worth. Then he saw the Athame. "No Grandfather".
Archmage Terem felt his muscles seize, despite his considerable will and defences. The chants of the lich echoing in the workroom. He tried to focus on his years of arcane training and research, lost and forbidden knowledge he had gleaned from dusty and forgotten towers. All came to the same conclusion, there was nothing that could be done. The divinitions were correct, he would die this day.
"Less than a few moments left grandson".
It seemed to Terem that he almost heard regret in the empty voice. If it existed it did not stop the inexorable arc of the ceremonial blade or the brief pain that followed.
"I shall keep your phylactery with me, protected from all harm," the creature stated in between chants. He lifted the book and placed it on the corpse of the old mage. Skeletal fingers clutched the cover and opened it, holding it deathly still as it brought an ivory pen inscribed with runes, it nib filled with a golden ink gleaming with its own inner light.
With death, the cold fingers of fear had released Terem. It surprised him to find oblivion did not follow. He was still aware. Although blinded, knowledge of his surroundings still filled his senses. Throwing out this awareness he watched the creature he called Grandfather work with calm precision, tirelessly anointing the edges of each page with tiny runes.
"No Terem, there is no peace in death for either of us, we shall continue to protect our family. For you, Candlekeep will be your home, protect it well. In the years to come when your shade rises in its defence you will be looked upon as a guardian of the walled library. They will think nothing of your ghostly form roaming its halls. They will tell themselves you were once of the avowed. All while you obtain for me the knowledge that I need. The tomes that others bring will enhance my knowledge. If Candlekeep falls, mayhap you will end up in another useful library."
The spirit once known as the Archmage Terem continued to watch dispassionately as the lich he once called Grandfather patiently waited for the golden ink to dry and start again. It was over a hundred pages before the spirit realized the creature would press unduly hard on the nib pressing the ink deeply through the page. It took almost a thousand before the shade understood.
The inhuman thing that worked ever so patiently felt the spirits understanding, and was pleased. "Your phylactery holds your soul, while the book holds your spirit. As long as your soul is protected the book cannot be truly destroyed. It will always reform and call your spirit back. It is the only one of its kind, and Candlekeep will always desire you returned."
It continued to speak, uncharacteristically verbose, pleased with its own guile. "As long as you are in the library, I shall enter at my leisure. The monks will look at each page with care, the magics obvious even to a dullard. They will check each page carefully, first one side then the other, their study will be most thorough. The Avowed lack the wit to discern what I have hidden, for the magic circle I have created does not run along its pages, but through them. In as long as this hidden gate exists, with your awareness to draw me in, no ward now or in the future shall prevent my entry."
As the echo of his voice faded from the chamber the lich drew the final rune on the final page. The chant of many magics filled the air, some of the spells Terem recognised, non-detection, protection, and some he did not. As if to mark the end of his labors, the lich pressed his left skeletal hand onto the inside of the front cover, leaving a black claw print in the tome.
Finally, the lich called for his servants.
If the awareness that had been Syl-Vizer Terem yn Ujemi yn Sardikar el makhlab-dabab yi Memnon could be startled the sight of his former apprentice, a nephew, entering would have done so. There had been no sense of time, but the boy he had left was now aged and bent.
"Grandfather," He said, his eyes wide with fear as he received his instructions and scurried out of the room.
House Talonmist traces their lineage back to the great diviner Sardikar Makhlb-dabab, descended from the Djinn, Imperial Dreamer of Calimshan and called the talon in the mist by his enemies now long dead. After being granted a vision foretelling of the Red Plague of -990 DR he fled north from Calimport with his family. Despite his attempt to save them, all except his youngest child perished in the plague. He railed against the arbitrary nature of the plague and his impotence in aiding his family. Sardikar became obsessed with the study of disease and death. He travelled the world with a singular purpose, he would defeat death and protect his lineage.
His obsession led him to seek a greater understanding of the dark arts and necromancy. Seeking to tease out the secrets of lichdom, as a means of forestalling his death; and by extension guiding and securing the legacy of his family.
Since then the he has shepherded the various branches around Faerûn, and watched from afar. For generations they bred and scattered across the Sword Coast and Western Heartlands. Acting as an unassuming family of merchants while slowly gathering magical lore and secrets. Tahlaunmiiz was the name his descendants bore in Westgate, Talonmist in Waterdeep. Though throughout the centuries, those descendants of both houses who showed an aptitude for the arcane mysteries would be sent off the family seat of "Kingsgrave Manor". Where they were to apprentice under the immutable patriarch, the lich Sardikar Makhlb-dabab, the talon in the mist. In recent years the Talonmist family has been embroiled in a simmering feud with the Harpells, an upstart family of wizards from Longsaddle. Whom have disrupted Talonmist activities and acquisitions in the past. Members of the opposing families have even been known to engage in duels to the death when tensions boil over. The Talonmists also harbor a cold relationship with the Red Wizards, seeing the new expansion of the merchant-mages into the Sword Coast as a threat to the family business. It is in this time, some 2,500 years after the exodus from Calimshan, that Modoc was born. The second of Jaheira and Ajantis Talonmist's three children, his early childhood was free of any significant turmoil or crisis. Modoc's parents made their living as spice merchants in the bustling port city of Waterdeep; and while they were not wealthy, they lived a comfortable lifestyle. This afforded their children the opportunity to receive an education. It was in this environment of learning and study that Modoc began to thrive. He read voraciously, sometimes late into the night and would often be gently scolded by his mother, for using to many candles when caught. However, it would not be long before Modoc's education became a source of umbrage. The normally peaceful home would erupt with cantankerous argument. As the young savant challenged the teachings of his tutors, in subjects that encompassed everything from theological matters, to natual theories, and even the wonders of the higher mysteries. The study was often a room in the throws of raucous debate, in which Modoc's energy was spent disputing, correcting, and badgering his tutors. All the while demanding evidence of their teachings. Invariably these educators would resign amid a string of curses as they stormed from the family home. These resignations began to become a burden on the family finances, we well as a disruption to the education of their other children. Finding no other recourse for the dangerous intellect of their son the parents decided it was time. They sent a message, and received a response. Modoc was to be delivered to Kingsgrave Manor, where he would examined and tested; and if he was deemed worthy he would be formally apprenticed to the venerable "Grandfather Sar". The precocious youth was sent east by carriage and arrived at an ancient fortified manor house set atop one of the rolling hills north of the town of Triel. The manor itself seemed to be built over many centuries. With evidence of several different construction phases and techniques, giving the structure an overall disjointed and bizarre appearance. Once admitted into the enigmatic building Modoc was questioned at length. Scrutinized by robed men and women of unclear relation to the boy though they bore a distinct resemblance to his father. Eventually he was taken to an antechamber deep in the vaults under the manor, the door to the room beyond was covered in luminous blue runes. At this point his robed guides instructed Modoc to "Wait here" before the pair turned and hurried from the crypt-like atmosphere of the vaults. Several hours passed before the door swung open as if by some invisible force. It took Modoc a moment to summon to courage to enter. When he did the scene the greeted the boy nearly overwhelmed his senses. Smoke from burning incense hung in several gilded brazzers perfuming the air. A small library's worth of the tomes and scrolls sat in a massive, overstuffed, bookshelf and many more lay stacked on the floor and tables throughout the room. A number of crystals arcing electricity, hovered in place, occasionally shifted from one side of the room to the other. In a corner sat a wooden table of polished ebony holding carefully arranged and straightened lengths of hair. Each set is tied together with bright blue string. The sigil of house Talonmist covered much of the floor. The design is cut into the floor and its tiny channels are full of glistening mercury. In the center of the room stood the desiccated and mummified figure of Grandfather Sar. He was clothed in ivory colored robes trimmed with gold, his fingers and throat heavy with jewellery. Small crystalline stones floated above his head, atop which sat a circlet made of opalescent stone. The only thing that kept the boy from fleeing the chamber was sheer awe. As Grandfather Sar reached out a skeletal hand to gesture the youth forward he said "You need not fear me my child. But know this, your existence shall be that, which I weave for you out of sorrow and woe." Initially Modoc split the majority of his days either assisting his master with alchemical experiments, deep in study, or carefully aiding with embalming rituals to fortify the liches deteriorating form. Though as the years progressed Modoc's apprenticeship became an affair of extremes. In one moment Grandfather Sar would patently guide the young mage through the intricacies of The Weave and spellcraft. The next the old lich would set impossible goals for any budding wizard to attain. And when Modoc would inevitably fail, his master was harsh and unforgiving. Evidence of the lich's cruelty was most evident at the end of his time at Kingsgrave Manor. He was told by Grandfather Sar to prepared to a journey to the Shadowfell, no doubt so the lich could achieve some secret end. The process seemed simple; an aperture opened like a jaw, and swallowed them and they passed into another space. But something happened when the pair attempted to plane shift. And an error left Modoc separated from his master and alone in the Feywild. At first he could only stare, open-mouthed, stunned at the resplendent natural beauty before him. But he was soon shocked out of this trance. The sound of his master's voice boomed inside of his head. "Return triumphant or die forgotten" the old lich said, and then it was silent. By happenstance or destiny, Modoc had entered the Feywild in the territory of a Brass dragon named Parthanax. The dragon kept a keen eye on its domain and quickly "collected" the spellcaster as a sort of curio. Parthanax brought Modoc back to its lair, "The Grand Hall of Conversation" where it spent the majority of its time entertaining friends and visitors. The lair also contained an elegant foyer, a gallery for the artwork the dragon collected, sleeping chambers, of course a treasure vault that housed the dragon's horde. Pathanax loved to engage his guest in hours of long winded debate, and Modoc was no exception. This environment suited the young mage and he spent countless hours in deep conversation with the dragon and it's visitors. During his time in the Feywild, Modoc learned answers to questions his had not know to ask. After several months with the dragon he was able to convince Pathanax to send him back to the Material Plane. He entered near Luskan and was quickly able to make his way to the city. Penniless and far from home, he initially tried to acquire the coin for the journey by taking the moniker Modoc the Magnificent and plying his trade as a street magician. Though it didn't take long to realize that more direct action was necessary. He hired on with a group of adventurers, the party consisted of Gorignak a goliath berserker, James the Younger a sly priest of Tymora, and Kamali a half-elf troubadour. They had been tasked with escorting an elderly priest South to Neverwinter, a city still recovering from the ravages of the Spellplague. The companions made good time on the road to Neverwinter, and delivered the abbot safe and sound to his temple in the city. The group spent little time in Neverwinter before heading South toward Waterdeep, where Modoc planed to part ways with his acquaintances and continue on to Kingsgrave Manor alone. When the adventurers arrived in the village of Oakhurst, on the road south of Neverwinter, the villagers beseeched the party for their help. Kobolds had taken up residence in a nearby ravine, and had been stealing livestock from local farmers. With the promise of reward the party set out the clear the kobold lair. But in a strange turn of events, the minstrel Kamali, was able to negotiate a treaty with the villagers and the kobold matriarch Yidrasil. From there the group traveled on toward Waterdeep, but the adventurers would never make it. In a roadside inn they heard a rumor, a young dragon had ousted a group of dwarves from their mine near Mirabar. Anyone who could clear the mine stood to profit greatly. All Modoc had to hear was "dragon" to start making excuses to postpone his trip home and urge the group back north. After a few weeks of travel the explorers had reached the mine of Khundakar and began preparations to plumb it's depths. The place was cavernous and seemed to descend for miles. When the group had finally reached the bottom, they found their quarry. A black dragon the size of an ettin. The beast fought ferociously but in the end, the creature fell to spellfire and force of arms. After gathering samples from the dragon, while the others gathered treasure. Modoc and the party set out for the mine's exit. Upon reaching the surface, the group encountered a single human male dressed in dark leather. The man introduced himself as Antony and stated he belonged to a group that specializes in the finding and acquisition of magic items known as the Black Hand. Impressed that the party had beaten him to the punch. He offered them a job on the spot, and with it an opportunity to join this network of shadowy archaeologists and tomb raiders. Caught up in the excitement and promise of the whole affair, within days the friends and new employer were on a ship bound for Chult. Modoc was sure his master would overlook the delay when he returned with the arcane secrets gathered from such a mysterious land. They sailed into Refuge Bay, the coastal settlement of Ishau sank into sea during Spellplague and the city’s stone buildings lay submerged a few hundred yards off shore. The party disembarked on to the beach at the southeastern edge of the bay. On the shore sat a small fishing village constructed out of driftwood, palm fronds, and materials scavenged from the ruined city. Modoc and his companions entered the village and after offering gifts to the locals they were able to secure a guide. They stayed the night in a small driftwood hut offered by the chieftain. All except Modoc who was forced to sleep in the small rowboat they had brought ashore due to the villagers mistrust of magic. In the morning the party, except Modoc, received some parting gifts and blessings from the tribe before heading into the sweltering jungle.
By this time Antony had become the tacit leader of the group. He spent most of his time conferring with the guide, checking his map, and reassuring the adventurers they were on the right track. In contrast, Gorignak told tall tales of his many feats of strength and taphouse exploits to anyone who would listen. The minstrel Kamali was constantly plucking at his mandolin and tuning its strings while complaining about the humidity warping his instrument. All the while James whispered silent prayers to Tymora as his eyes darted about searching the foliage and undergrowth for any sign of danger. In total the journey took four day before the party finally caught sight of the temple of Tamoachan. This ancient shrine had lay forgotten for centuries and had only recently been located by the Black Hand. The massive limestone step pyramid that greeted them was engulfed by the vines and moss, looking like a fang pushing up through the jungle floor.
It was decided that Antony and the local guide would maintain a camp while the rest of the group entered and cleared the temple. They entered through a sinkhole that had opened up next to the structure and caused part of its foundation to collapse. Pushing through the lower levels they encountered a poisonous haze that hung in the air and sapped at their strength. They were further impeded hazardous traps and the denizens of the temple. Eventually the party reached the upper levels of the pyramid and the miasma faded. After entering the throne room of the temple they were faced with a long forgotten undead chieftain that had ruled over Tamoachan in years past. After defeating this threat the group was faced with one last obstacle.
An Oni occupied the highest level of the structure and stood between the party and the exit. The friends steeled themselves for battle against the demon. Gorignak charged forward striking at the Oni wildy with his massive gleaming axe. James moved to flank the creature where he could attack from the demon’s blind spot. Kamali and Modoc stood further away slinging spells at the beast. With a simple gesture from the Oni the entire chamber became freezing winds and driving snow, obscuring the party's vision. Before they could react the demon teleported between the two spell casters. Bringing down it's massive clawed hand down upon Modoc and with a single mighty blow sent the wizard flying across the room. Modoc's broken body slammed into the wall and fell to the floor. When the mage gathered enough strength to stand up and the stars cleared from his eyes he saw the Oni's claw clutching tightly Kamali’s lifeless body by the throat. Gorignak rushed frantically to cut down the fiend that had slain their friend. The barbarian’s progress was slowed by the freezing gales, but upon reaching the beast he landed many savage blows, splattering it's black blood throughout the room. A few meters away to Modoc’s right, James kneeled to steady himself as he fired arrow after arrow into the fray. Then, to the wizard's horror, he witnessed to fell creature’s clawed hand reach into Gorignak’s chest. And then retract with the barbarian’s in its grasp. The goliath managed to shrug off the wound just long enough to land one final blow before falling, almost cleaving the Oni’s head form it's body. With it's black blood spewing from many savage wounds the demon summoned it's dying strength. It raised a bloody hand and sent forth a deadly cone of freezing energy in a last attempt to kill the remaining intruders.
Only Modoc emerged from the temple. The mage struggled as he drug Kamali’s body into the green light of the Chultan jungle. The forms of his two other fallen friends floated upon a floating disk that followed a few meters behind the wizard.
It also doesn't help that I'm new to the worlds of the Forgotten Realms as well; need to find a nice resource that discusses all the places. Not to mention, read all the corresponding books. too bad I can't do all of that before the ninth of February. LOL
Where are you looking to play in the realms? maybe I could help find some quick resources for you
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A player since the great Dawn War, I've seen every edition flash before my eyes. I've wandered the plateau of Mystara (before it was Mystara), had spiced elven tea with Dalamar, composed spells with Mordenkeinan, and walked the ruins of Myth Drannor with the great Elminster himself — though I believe he was a cat at the time —. The scrolls and books that I have read have filled me with intrigue and seeing all of the imaginative constructs that other people come up with give me great joy
I haven't actually played him, but Arron, a human battle master.
At an early age, Arron's father was murdered by a local noble. Arron then devoted himself to getting revenge for his father's death. He spent is life trying to become the best sword-fighter in the world, and when he finally though himself good enough, went to find the local lord. He found the lord's castle but arrived on the very day of his funeral. The lord had died the day prior. Arron fell into extreme grief that he could not get revenge himself. Finally, he resolved to continue his training as a swordsman and to wander around in search of a necromancer who could ressurect the noble so that Arron could duel him and kill him again. He also tries to find a ton of diamonds so that the necromancer can actually carry out the spell.
He remembers the warm drink his father gave him, and the tender touch he placed on his cheek. At the time it struck him as strange, maybe his Father was smoking the mushrooms again, but the look in his eye and the heat coming from his body told him it was something else... That was the last he remembers of his sick ruthlessness family. His new life started in the dark, the Underdark. He woke only in bed clothes somewhere deep in the caverns. He wondered in a state of shock, with no sense of time or direction, until he could walk no more. He was woken by a soft deep voice speaking in a strangely accented Elvish. This was how he met "Aver" his mentor his guide and new father. Aver was a Druid Wood Elf sent from the surface to care and watch the Underdark. From 11 until 107 years, Feybrandai lived and learnt with Aver. Under his tutelage, he learnt the ways of the Druids, but also the ways and customs of the surface Elves. He became an Elf in a Drow's skin. At 107 Aver said it was time. Time for Feybrandai to start his "Walk About". To move out into the world and find his place. His land, his heart and calling. So he walked and walked for days until he reached the tunnel to the surface. As the blinding sun reached his eyes his thoughts swept back to that touch by his father. Why Dad? Why be so tender and then cast me out in my sleep? With the smoke of memory in his mind, he walked slowly into the burning sun-drenched land toward his land his calling and his third chapter in his life.
Sannie, 50 yr old Human Sorcerer
Physical description:
Tall thin 50-year-old man. Wild black hair matted and dirty, suntanned skin and intense black eyes. Long gnarly grey-white beard Old worn torn Grey robes and sandals. Walks with a slight limp, and seems to be constantly counting with his fingers. Long Necklace of what looks to be large white pearls. Another smaller one wrapped around his right wrist. Old leather satchel over his shoulder. and pouch at his hip
Sannie is a 50-year-old, Wild Magic sorcerer, who gained his gift late in life. At the age of 20, he retreated from society and lived a solitary life in a cave not far from a small village. Here he contemplated the mysteries of life. More specifically, "why is life so full of suffering?". The nearby villages would come from time to time, to seek answers for the mundane problems they faced in daily life. In trade for his babbling (sometimes tinged with insight) they would give food and other small items. After decades of meditation and solitude, Sannie had come no closer to answering this question. In his practice, he had experimented with many mind-altering herbs, fungi, plants and animal parts gathered from the surrounding land and waterways. He had not been completely fruitless and had garnered great insight into the working of the mind.and body. Then one of the local villages came for a reading and in return gifted Sannie 3 loaves of mouldy bread, which Sannie consumed. From this Sannie had his vision, which snapped his already wrapped mind. It was in this state that he came in contact with a wild magic surge, It is yet to be determined if the voices are real entities or not. Sannie's mental state is clearly not right, and constantly refers to his voices, for both guidance and his sorcerer's power.
I based him loosely on the wandering holy men of India, tinged with the European hermit tradition of 1200's He is a serious man, but his oddness does and will bring about some great humour.
The Vision
Darkness and Cold were the first sensations I remember. A darkness that I could touch and feel. So complete, so comforting. I was breathing it, bring it into my lungs and it was sustaining me. Cold, not of the body but of mind. There was a cold point deep in my mind. A spot of absolute zero buried within my consciousness. As I contemplated these strange and wonderful perceptions I became aware of a pinprick of light far off in the distance, slightly swaying two and fro. I watched, mesmerised by this point within the consuming black. How long I watched, Ha what was time, worlds could have formed and been destroyed by there dying suns or a butterfly emerged from a cocoon, lived, loved and died. In the aeons I studied, the light it grew, imperceptibly at first, but accelerated and with it came sound. The soft gentle whisper of a breeze, just at the edge of my hearing, at first. I realized that the light was not closing in the distance as it was expanding, and now expanding rapidly. It filled my entire frontal vision and with it the sound. That sound, Oh it was the sound that brought the fear. So intense it became feeling, it was touching me affecting my mind. I can only describe it as if my body was being squeezed through the cogs of a massive machine, as I was crushed through one set of cogs I was passed on to another slightly small set. And this went on and on and on, the light brighter and now all-encompassing. The machine smaller and smaller until my very atoms where being mashed by these infinitesimally small immensely strong cogs. My mind, my self gone, squeezed out of existence. Mashed and crushed, Snapped. All that was left of me was the spot of absolute zero that had been deep in my psyche. POP. That was it. This violent crescendo of light, sound and pain. The complete dissolving of me finished with a POP like a child's toy. Ahhh the pleasure, not of something given, but the absence of shattering light and crushing sound. The bliss of void... I....hmmm no there was no I know, no self that I can express, just the frozen singularity of animus. Bell chimes, "It is mostly complete, I think we lost fragments", a child's voice touched with mild concern. A note from a flute, a deep resonant voice, "No matter, it will still be a vessel" Bell chimes, "let the old one make it whole before it is lost", the child's voice speaks with urgency and worry The purr of a cat, the cracked voice of a crone, "Animal, animal, mind, mind. Touch you feel you, make you whole...Asmodeus, Asmodeus, mend the vessel, bend the vessel. Crush the pearl, tear the void, ASMODEUS The singularity explodes. It rapidly expands, and then contracts. Pressure, diamond crushing pressure...and pain. I feel, the return of sense makes me wail with laughter, I feel, I am...I scream, the pain, burning, flaying, screeching, blinding. I am. I wretch and vomit, it splashes across my face and runs down my neck. it leaves a metallic taste. shaking and sick, I weakly roll onto my side. Bell chimes, the child, "Slowly, take it slowly all will be well." Flute sounds, the giant, "Oh get up YOU have work to do. Raise, go south." The purr of a cat, the crone, "You are the vessel, the broken vessel. By worm in mind and Spittal of snake, purpose you are, broken and whole." I stand, on watery legs. The moon beams down on a flower-filled clearing, surrounded by forest. I walk south.
Purpose, my purpose. The world is flawed, reality cracked. There is no distinction between reality, dreams and spiritual. And they are all flawed. There is a worm in the minds of the living and dead, and it needs to be exposed, purged and scorched. Eyes wired shut must be pried open. Bell Chimes, the child. "But it knows, the worm knows. It knows you are coming," Purpose. I am Sannie, power gifted from the three, three gifted by the void, hunter of the worm, saviour of the fabric. I will bring the sentient kicking and screaming to the one truth. Nothing exists.
Sarmenti Scurrae, High Elf Rogue Jester
The chiming of a great bell could be heard far off in the distance, but Sarmenti paid no heed to its intrusion. He continued to look longingly into the beautiful Elven maids eyes. She was a goddess, laying on the silken pillow hair cascading around her delicate face. Lowering his head slowly, she slightly parted her lips. Sarmenti saw a small flicker of her tongue, he lowered further lips preparing, nerves tingling in expectation. He woul.....................A calamitous chiming of a great bell crashed him out of his sleep, he jumped from his bed and stumbled, instinctively wiping his mouth as the dream faded. Half asleep, annoyed and wanting he stood dazed. Then reality crashed into him like an ice burg. Oh, ****.
Late, late, by Asmodeus's whiskers, he was late again. Scampering around his room grabbing any clothes he could lay his hands on, bundled in his arms, bursting out of his door pausing only to reach back and pull a hat off the hat rack. Running down the long stone hallway, dressing as he went, performing a strange hopping dance like a drunken lima crossing a road. By the time he reached the end of the hallway he was, for a better word dressed. Careening off the wall he sprang up the steps two or three at a time, sometimes using the balustrade to swing him rapidly to the next level. At the 4th floor, he shot out of a doorway into another long hall. Running now like he was chased by hellhounds, flying passed other elves, dodging left and right, not touching a soul he held his momentum. Now, he could see his destination. A bright yellow door at the very end of the hallway, Tharivol the Opalescent, Archmage of The Court of Proper and Powerful Elven Wizards of the High Sun, read the blue glowing letters on it, underneath was a large piece of parchment, DO NOT ENTER SUMMONING IN PROGRESS. This was what he was late for. He slammed on the brakes sliding along the polished floor, in one smooth motion he turned the handle and whispered "Toronium". The door clicked and silently opened, still at speed and sliding he reached for his hat, which felt abnormally large, swung it to his side and bowed. Master Tharivol, I am here. A meticulously groomed High Elf of senior years, adorned in a brilliant robe of oscillating colours and an enormous hat with a sun at its point, turned to face him. Just as this was transpiring, a large figure was starting to emerge from a shimmering portal in front of the Mage.
Sarmenti's hat flourish and travelling speed was a little more then he expected, he also had not considered flourishing a jesters cap. The cap clipped a set of scales on a nearby table knocking it on to a candle, the candle falling setting sheets of parchment with strange flowing script alight.
The figure now fully formed stepped out of the portal. It was a misshapen black skin demon, with glowing red eyes and gleaming talons, drool dripping from its mouth and splashing to the floor. Around the Demon and portal was an intricate white circle filled with arcane symbols and small red candles. The Demon reached for the beautifully dressed High Elf Mage, only to be met with a flash of blue light. It recoiled in pain. The elderly Elf now looking menacingly at Sarmenti, caught the flash in the corner of his eye. He spun back to the portal, and as he did his preposterously large sun tipped hat fell from his head. Toppling to the floor it bounced once flipped over and landed at the edge of the circle. The weight of the sun at its tip slowly pulling it down on its side. The demon watched, a wicked grin forming on its face, as the sun adorned hat flopped on to the outer line of the circle.
The parchments with weird writing were well alight now, and the words on them briefly flashed with light and exploded. The fireball engulfed the room shattering glass and setting fire to the numerous bookshelves. Sarmenti instinctively lifted his legs and still at speed slid forward on his back, under at table through the legs of a large chair heading straight toward the mage and the demon. The blast wave from the fireball picked up the mage in his now burning robes and threw him across a table and against the far wall. The demon stood still seemingly unaffected by the fire or blast and watched the mage and the careening Sarmenti with amusement.
Sarmenti finally stopped, staring straight at the swaying hairy stinking black balls of the demon inches from his face. The demon raised his foot, clearly wishing to squash the bug beneath him, he paused. A large glowing ball with a dishevelled singed half naked Elven mage inside rose to the ceiling from the far side of the room. Sarmenti, could make out the screamed words from the mage..."SARMENTI, I WILL PEEL OFF YOUR SKIN FOR MY NEW SPELL BOOK". He panicked, jutted his head forward and bit down as hard as he could on the demons family jewels, he felt the spiky hair on his face and in his mouth, a putrid stench filled his nose, he ground his jaw and felt the rotten testicle in his mouth give way. Ichor flowed out of his mouth and down his chin.....and the Demon let out a very high pitched squeal. An arc of lightning lanced from the mage racing across the room. Sarmenti sprung to his heels and propelled himself through the portal, that was now rapidly changing colours.
After a brief moment, he was falling, hitting the ground hard. Raising his head he could see an old wood door. The door burst open and a halfing male wearing a dress looked down at him. "Oh, thanks to the one, you're here, quickly get on stage the other jester is hopeless". Bewildered Sarmenti stood dusted himself off, and only now realised he was wearing half a jesters costume, that he had worn at the masquerade ball last night. He touched his head, yep jesters cap. Ran his finger across his forehead and looked at it, yep still had the makeup on. he turned his head to look for the portal, just in time to see it wink out of existence.
He thought for a moment about his town, They had kicked him out, his family, House of Riardon, sent him away to the Wizard college and told him to never come back. Finally the Wizards college, Apprentice to Tharivol the Opulesant, Archmage of The Court of Proper and Powerful Elven Wizards of the High Sun. Hmm, didn't think it would be a good idea to go back there. So he shrugged his shoulders and walked up the steps to the door. A Jester huh, well I could do worse.
i have a character backstory that i turned into a prologue for a story i'm writing, and i do believe that it is an epic one. It's based in the forgotten realms, in the year 1491 DR, but the Plane of Ysgard is governed by the Norse Gods, and the plane of ARborea is ruled by the Greek Gods, while the other planes have the usual rulers. The two pantheons listed mainly stay concealed from most mortals, except for when they need to travel to the Material Plane, in which case they mainly stay incognito. In this backstory, the first part takes place in the Dalelands of the sword coast, in the cold hard North.
In the wild tundra of the north, the wood-walled village of Casera stood. It was a simple place, where a mixture of hunters, gatherers, and farmers lived in peace, along with the craftsmen that most villages possessed.
It was a cold morning, with snow just starting to mist, and the villagers were just about to awake to start their day. But no one knew what danger was headed their way.
It happened fast. A roving band of 10 frost giants rushed out of the growing snowstorm, easily charging their way through the wooden wall that surrounded the village, and swung their giant battle axes through the air, rending all foes in two as they moved towards the village square.
Upon reaching the square, they laughed upon seeing almost every male villager there, all armed with some form of weapon and most with a scared, but determined, look on their faces. Beyond them, the sound of children crying and women trying to calm them down could be heard.
As nine of the giants eagerly gripped their axes, the tenth one, which was also the largest, grunted from behind them. “We need to leave soon, so hurry it up.” All nine grunted in response, before stepping forth and swinging their axes, sending a good chunk of the male villagers flying. Another step and swing, and there was less than a quarter left. One final step, and the last of them were sent flying.
The frost giants grinned as the women started crying, except for one human woman with a light shade of brown hair and steel blue eyes, who was standing in the front of the women and children, and dressed in an outfit reminiscent of the valkyries of Ysgard, as she was holding a spear and shield, with a great sword strapped across her back.
She took a step forward, a frown on her face and tears in her eyes as she looked at the carnage. “Leave this place, foul giants, before I force you to.” Her bravado was betrayed by the slight shaking in her limbs, but she just gripped the haft of her spear tighter, ready for battle.
One hour later, silence echoed across the ruined village, as carrion birds of all kinds flew lazily over the destroyed village while waiting for everything to finish dying. As the birds kept watch overhead, slight movement could be seen down below on the field of battle, as the warrior woman crawled through the carnage of dead bodies and puddles of blood, tears streaming down her face while she kept going.
Finally making it out of the field of death, the woman trudged on, finally reaching a storage shed, which was the only building still standing. When she got there, she reached up and unlatched the door, then pushed it in slowly…..
-Half an hour later- A man walked through the snowstorm, walking over the remnants of the massacre, sadly looking upon the remains of the villagers. The man was wearing a set of leather armor, with a quiver of arrows on one hip, a longsword on the other, and a wolfskin cloak covering his back, while in his hands was an exquisite longbow. He had slightly greying brown hair, and grey eyes the color of the clouds roiling in the sky above.
This man's name was Uller, the Norse god of hunting and winter, and he had come here after tracking down a band of frost giants that had stolen an artifact from his residence in the realm of Ysgard, and had used a planar gate to come to the Material Plane to escape the gods wrath, before they came across this village.
Wandering through the wreckage, the god frown, lamenting the fact that the planar gate had to recharge, and that he needed such methods to traverse the realms. Looking around, Uller could barely make out a small building through the snow, so he headed in that direction, figuring that any survivors would be holed up there to wait out the storm.
As he reached the small building, which turned out to be a storage shed. The god could hear the sound of faint crying coming from inside, so he pushed it open slowly before peaking in around the door.
Inside, Uller saw a trail of blood leading further in, then curving behind a pile of sacks, chests, and barrels. He could barely see a set of feet poking out from behind all of it. He carefully stepped all the way inside and shut the door behind him, before setting an arrow on his string and walking forwards.
Glancing around the corner of gear and storage items, Uller found what he saw sickening, even for a god. Laying down and propped against the wall, was a youngish woman that still wore the tattered remnants of scale mail, and was missing her left arm from the elbow down, while her right leg has gouges and was obviously broken in 5 spots. Her chestplate had a dent that obviously made breathing difficult, if not impossible. Her face was covered in blood, except for streaks that were obviously gouged through the blood by tears.
Kneeling by her side was a 4 year old boy with slightly pointed ears, obviously a half-elf, and he was on the edge of hysterics as he kept nudging her. “Come on, mom, get up. You gotta get up. I've heard those stories you used to tell, about being a shield-maiden and fighting in lots of battles! Come on mom, please wake up….” As he finished pleading, he leaned down against his mother's chest, and Uller was amazed as he realized that she was still alive, barely.
She lifted her arm up weakly and wrapped it around her son, hugging him gently. “Marrok, I don't have much time left… You need to be strong *cough* Strong enough that no one will ever do this again… please*cough*, promise me this ok?” With every cough, she became paler and more blood dripped down her mouth. Her son was nodding rapidly as she smiled, then looked up and over at the god, and silently mouthed the words, ‘please help him’, right before the life left her eyes and her body fell limp.
As he realized what happened, the boy started sobbing, and Uller stepped forward, setting his hand on the boys shoulder, which resulted in the child jumping in fright, but still being wary, with a large dagger in his hands. Uller smiled sadly as he inspected the boy. He had brownish hair and steel blue eyes, just like the now-dead woman behind him.
The hunting god knelt down and set his bow down slowly, before raising his hands in a calming manner, like he was approaching a wild animal. Which was how he was treating the current situation, actually.
The god moved forward slowly, and stretched his hands out to the boy, gently grabbing the dagger and setting it to the side. “Boy, I know you must have been through a hard time. But you need to make a choice now.” The god gently smiled as the boy looked up at him with a burning question in his eyes. “You must choose- will you be held back by this tragedy, forever afraid of and angry at the world? Or will you overcome that fear, and direct that anger towards righting this wrong, and bringing justice to this village?”
The boy sniffed for a few seconds, before looking back at his mother then back at Uller. He then stood up with a determined look on his face. “That's what I thought you'd choose. Now, tell me boy, would you like to travel with me and learn of ways to fight the evil that started this tragedy in the first place?” The young lad nodded resolutely, and Uller smiled again, still sad that his blunder with the giants had resulted in this little boy losing his whole world, then he stood up and swung his cloak off of his back and around the boy. “Then, the first thing to do is get some warm food in you to fight back the cold, and then to bury the dead.”
The god sighed as he set about opening the various containers stored in the building. He set aside enough food that he found to last for a week, and set the containers that were empty or full of burnables to the right of the door. He then covered the mother with a sheet that he had found, and proceeded to cover all the blood, before finally starting a fire right by the now-open door, and making soup, which they ate and went to sleep, the boy huddled under the cloak while Uller kept watch.
The next morning, the boy woke up to find the storage shed empty of everything. Walking outside, he found Uller setting the final box onto a pyre of similar items. The sky above was still dark and cloudy, but had stopped snowing, if only after leaving enough to cover the carnage left from the giants.
Looking back at the god, the boy saw his mother, freshly washed and her armor polished, laying on the pyre, with her broken spear and rended shield by her side, along with a nice amount of food, gold, and other things. As the boy watched on, the god turned, holding a lit torch in one hand. “it is time for you to set your mother to rest, boy. Come over here.”
The lad walked over slowly, unable to take his eyes off of his mother in her final rest. Stopping next to the god, the boy finally looked up at him, only to have the torch handed over. “The right goes to you, lad. It is time for her send off.” Unknown to the young boy, Uller had left early and inspected the village while burying the dead as best he could, before finding that the warrior woman had been the last person left alive besides her son. The god also found evidence that she had taken at least 2 of the frost giants down with her, until the rest ran, leaving her mortally wounded, before she made her way back to her son for her final words and time with her son.
The boy sniffed back more tears and crying, then grabbed the torch and stepped forward, and spoke in a soft, quiet voice. “Mom, I'll right the wrongs done today to everybody. And I'll make you proud of me” As he set the torch to the flame, Uller pulled out an gold bound Horn of Valhalla, which he blew into, and in shimmering portals of swirling snow, 40 einherjar appeared around the burial pyre. They all looked towards the god, who raised the horn high. “We all honor the fallen warriors of Casera, the most honorable of which is Sarana Hemming, who slew 2 members of a band of ten frost giants!”
At the mention of frost giants, each of the spectral warriors murmured in shock and awe, as they all knew the might of giant-kin. “She shall be honored in the halls of Ysgard as a great warrior, and loving mother, from now till the end of days!” Uller faced towards the raging pyre and saluted, right arm held down to his side and his left across his chest in a soldier's salute, and each of the spirit warriors saluted with him. The boy kept staring at the fire, staying there till it had died down, leaving not a single trace of the woman he once knew as mother.
Over the next 6 years, Marrok traveled with the god of hunting, being trained in ways of hunting and tracking, until Uller felt he was ready for his first hunt. For the occasion, they traveled to the Beastlands, where the young teen had his first solo hunt, and brought down a dire wolf after a long hunt.
After that, they traveled to the plane of Ysgard, where the Nordic Pantheon held sway, and was tutored in more elaborate studies- animal handling, martial fighting, , the languages of Nordic tribes, and the production and usage of maps. After another 8 years, Uller traveled with him back to the Material Plane, where they split, one to train himself further in whatever he wished, and one to find any traces available of the band of frost giants that had destroyed a village 13 years before…
And now, 2 years have past since that day, and a new dawn is rising. As our young hero has just ridden into the town of Neverwinter, in the Sword Coast, and has just been approached by a guard with what appears to be a bounty notice...
Hmmm although im know sure what i should share.......how about one of the shorter ones.
Gralg the half orc was a master chef for a noble. But he alwayse loved music and magic. Feeling a strong connection to all three. Not wanting to leave his kitchen, but longing to prusu music.
The noble he worked for found gralg practicing the lyre, impressd by gralg, imediantly fired him anf told him to go after his musical dream.
My hero is a half-elf Bard and this is his story. He is a little underdeveloped but I usually DM so it makes sense.
He was raised by the human side of his family with his father in a small town near a stream. He heard of a large spider who terrorized his town in the night and went to investigate one night. He approached the spider while it was asleep and swiftly cut its legs off. The next morning he showed the towns people and they treated him as a town hero and told him to go out and find adventure. He moved from tavern to tavern playing songs looking for gold. One day he met another hero whos soul had been taken by a trickster god and had to get another gods blessing to get it back. They adventured together for a little while and eventually found a god. He granted the other adventuer his soul. He told me I could have anything I want so I chose the ability to switch between Half-Elf and Githyanki.
He has since met a goblin king and worked with him to grow a new empire.
I can definitely see you taking that one a bit further, but what you have so far is awesome. I should also tell you guys, with your help and all the resources I've gained from you both on here and in the Twitterverse, I've been able to develop mine a bit more as well. I'll give you what I've got so far:
The Rahl family's line extends so far into the past, that no one knows where it actually starts; some say that Armina's ancestors go back to the fabled ruler Richard Rahl I, whom some believe is simply a legend. She was born in the town of Hills Edge, in farun, to the human warrior Melark Rahl and the elf cleric Andraste Liadon. From the age of fifteen, Armina chose to take up learning with her mother, seeing that an earlier incident proved to the elf that her daughter would be a wonderful candidate for the healing trade. When she was seven, she miraculously, though accidentally, channeled some sort of divine power, though not even Andraste could figure from which god or goddess it was from, for the family members each chose their own religious path, no one deity was worshipped among them.
During training, Armina proved to be decent, though her ability to channel divine energy never seemed to stay with her; Andraste believed that it had nothing to do with her will or lack thereof, but something to do with the human in her heritage, though she never came to the perfect conclusion; another theory being that the girl simply was destined for another path entirely.
a few years later, while her father was out on patrol, (he took up a position with the town guard), Armina walked out of the market with an armload of fruits and vegetables for that evenings dinner. Without understanding why, her pointed elf ears were pricked, and nearly all of her senses were on high alert. She thought she could hear a scuffle somewhere in the distance, but couldn't figure out where. Then, the barbaric growl of someone cloaked in what could only be called the battle rage of a barbarian overtook her hearing. She ran toward the sound of roaring and the clashing of steel on steel, and noticed that six barbarians were trying to overrun the two patrolmen who were guarding the gates. One of them being her father. One of the burley adversaries cloaked only in furs, raised his mace to strike him down, but Armina was quicker; she drew her sword, only to discover that it was glowing with a radiance that could only be considered of the divine. Truthsayer, the sword was called, for legend had it that it was held by her ancestor of old, and that it was magically incapable of taking an innocent life. No one knows how that spell was woven, but the relic is a prize among her family, and only those worthy enough can wield it. Anyhow, the raging creature backed away from the brightness of the sword, and ran. The other five weren't so lucky, for the half-elf took down each with a single stroke of steel and heavenly fire. When the silver flames died, nothing remained but black piles of ash. "She's a Paladin! Melark, your daughter's destined to be a Paladin!", her father's partner shouted for joy. Then the guardsman took his daughter into a long hug, and then they arived back at their home. From that point onward, armina decided to use her family's sword to fight for justice for the innocent. She knew that she was destined for adventuring, to save the little towns and big cities alike from the members of society who would seek to hurt them. everyone thought her a gift from the gods, but she always modestly explained that her desire arose from nearly seeing a small town overrun, and wouldn't allow it to happen again sif she could be there to stop it.
Nicholas Claus was a rock gnome toy maker in the Northern Kingdom of Noltria. While his wife Elsa, a wood elf paladin, fought for their country, Nicholas made toys for the kids in their city. One little boy whom Nicholas saw in his shop regular got sick one day, Nicholas visited him and brought him a toy, but the boy died of his disease. That night, Nicholas cried himself to sleep, but heard the goddess Dal'Dorea in his dream. He set forth to join the clerics of life, so that he could save lives.
Long ago Brek was cassed out from his tribe for treason, he left into the woods. While wandering the woods he stumbled upon a beautiful human woman who was conversating with the animals around her. She had already noticed Brek the moment he had appeared, she told him to step out from his hiding spot, so he did. She walked towards him and asked his name, which he gave. After talking for awhile she told him her name, Ima. He eventually explained why he was wandering in the forest, she pittied the goliath and decided to take care of him for now. While with Ima, Brek learned many things like how to change his form into a animal, and a few spells and languages. Sadly nothing lasts forever, one day after hunting for food, Brek came Back to see Ima lying dead on the ground of her shack. Brek picked up her corpse and let out a fountain of tears, all that she had left was an amulet, Brek knew it did nothing but took it to remember her. He barried her corpse in the place that they met, and he swore to get vengeance on whoever did this, he already had a good idea of who did it.... his ex tribe.
I'm brand new to this, so here's my first character, a Dragonborn Sorcerer named Kriv Windson. What do you think?
Found as a newborn near the foot of the nearby mountains by the human inhabitants of Hawk's Reach village (named for the red-wing hawks found in abundance in the surrounding area), Kriv grew up not knowing his family or his people. Due to the secluded locale of Hawk's Reach, Kriv is the lone Dragonborn anyone had seen in the area for decades. Nevertheless, the villagers decided to help him, and he was adopted and raised by the kindly schoolmaster Tav Windson and his wife Kera, even taking Tav's family name.
Owing his life to those who saved him, Kriv did everything he could to help out the village. From doing simple repairs to using his size and strength to protect against bandit raids, he became something of a jack-of-all-trades, and was well-liked in the community. Due to his upbringing with the schoolmaster, Kriv became well-educated, with an insatiable curiosity for the world around him and a love of exploration. Being so different from the other inhabitants, he also developed deep empathy for the outcast and downtrodden. Generally good-natured, with an endearing affability, he sometimes felt an overpowering loneliness, often roaming the countryside surrounding the village for hours, pondering his solitude among humans.
Kriv's innate magical abilities developed at an early age, and Tav encouraged their growth, as a way for Kriv to feel connected to his heritage. Aware how dangerous untrained magic can be, when Kriv was 5, Tav took him to meet the wizard Cailan Frostraven, who lives alone in a tower in the nearby mountains. Cailan, an eccentric hermit who cares more for his tomes than people, was nevertheless intrigued by the young Dragonborn, and agreed to mentor him, teaching him a handful of useful spells. Cailan believes that Kriv's abilities are tied to a medallion found with him as a baby, a crystal star embedded in a silver disc, with strange runes around the edge. In addition to helping hone his magical abilities, Cailan helped Kriv learn more about the Dragonborn race, though he doesn't have the foggiest notion how Kriv came to Hawk's Reach.
As he grew older, Kriv's desire to see the world and seek out his people became overwhelming. When he turned 16, he decided once and for all to leave Hawk's Reach and strike out on his own. The villagers were sad to see him leave, but understood his need to find his family.
Now 28, Kriv has spent the last ten years traveling the world. He tries to help those in need, and deals sternly (but fairly) with those who would harm others. He is not overly fond of physical combat, being more scrappy than skilled, and instead relies on his intelligence and magical abilities. He often prefers his solitude, especially during those bouts of loneliness that have followed him since he was a child, and he has never really felt at home anywhere. Preferring the open country to crowded cities, he is nevertheless adaptable to what is required in a given situation.
Kriv has encountered other Dragonborn, who pityingly call him "Clanless Kriv" due to his upbringing among humans. He has inquired about his past every chance he gets, but none of the Dragonborn he has met have recognized the medallion he carries. Still, he doesn't obsess over the mystery, believing fate will unfold as it will, and he never loses hope that he will one day find the answers he seeks. Instead, a curiosity of the world and a desire to learn drives him forward.
You have to love messing with the Drizzt cannon. I do it too. It keeps players who know the game lore on their toes.
I've not had a chance to flush my Paladin out yet; Need to get some world and place names first before I can determine where she comes from, but I know that she has a human father, and an elf mother, hence the ears. Armina is lawful good, and she is just as proficient with her maylay attacks as she is with the magic that her faith gives her. Her father a soldier, her mother a cleric.
This is the story of my wizard's current adventure and his mentor.
Sorry ahead of time I dont know how to make a spoiler button.
CR 98
“I am tired Grandfather, why have I been summoned,” the old man whined. “I have served the family for over three hundred years, but the life extending magics are exhausted, and I’m ready to die.”
The cold voice drifted across the ancient tower, “Three hundred years? Empires are laid low for the secrets that gave you those three hundred years, and yet you protest. Your family requires your services, and yet you protest. You disappoint me Archmage Terem yn Ujemi.” The creature, with a gesture, waved away the further titles.
The old man bowed his head in rebuke. “I am sorry for my insolence Grandfather, but my divinitions have revealed this to be the day of my death. I do not understand what I can do for you with so little time left.”
“Less than an hour to be precise.” If the mercurial creatures face held pity or compassion it did not show, though its gesture was one of paternal familiarity.
“I require one last obedience of you grandson of my grandson,” the lich said. “Candlekeep has turned away my agents. Olmur, the new Keeper of Tomes has decreed that seekers can stay no more than a ten day, and only the avowed now have direct access to the library. To fully preserve the revelations of Alaundo, he claims. I cannot abide being denied access. I need an agent in the library to conduct my research”.
“What of Candlekeep? Myth Drannor rises to greater heights everyday. Its libraries have long past eclipsed that of those odd monks and their chanting circles. I do not understand! I am to die today, how can I be of any further help to the family in this matter?” Terem asked.
"Mulhorand slain, Mystryl sacrificed, when even Gods fall what are the works of mortals. Narfell and Rauathar are ghostly echoes of the past. Calamities will come again and those that are high will be felled, those that are low will become ascendant. Cities that do not yet exist will have high kings not yet born. It is not the past you work toward, or even the present."
For a man at the end of his life, the past was all his mind could think of. His eyes followed the form of the creature his mother had brought him to almost two hundred ninety years ago, she had called him Grandfather also. He remembered the tears in her eyes, now long gone to the house of the dead. “For the family,” she had said leaving the crying youth behind.
Terem saw the lich pause on front of a table, on it was a book. The title read, “First Expedition to the Shadow Plane. Journal of Killium the Arcanist of Xinlenal”. Other objects the Archmage could easily identify as common in the enchantment of an item, other things, though his knowledge of magic was vast, were unfamiliar to him.
"Karsus's Folly cost me much," the once human creature said, his hollow voice ringing through the hall. "So much of my power was lost, it has taken years to recover. In truth, I have not and cannot ever return to the heights I once held. I have learned patience though, through my long years. It is a virtue you shall now have to learn as well."
"I am confused Grandfather. I do not," Terem started. As the lich turned he saw in its hand a ornate pendant, princely in its worth. Then he saw the Athame. "No Grandfather".
Archmage Terem felt his muscles seize, despite his considerable will and defences. The chants of the lich echoing in the workroom. He tried to focus on his years of arcane training and research, lost and forbidden knowledge he had gleaned from dusty and forgotten towers. All came to the same conclusion, there was nothing that could be done. The divinitions were correct, he would die this day.
"Less than a few moments left grandson".
It seemed to Terem that he almost heard regret in the empty voice. If it existed it did not stop the inexorable arc of the ceremonial blade or the brief pain that followed.
"I shall keep your phylactery with me, protected from all harm," the creature stated in between chants. He lifted the book and placed it on the corpse of the old mage. Skeletal fingers clutched the cover and opened it, holding it deathly still as it brought an ivory pen inscribed with runes, it nib filled with a golden ink gleaming with its own inner light.
With death, the cold fingers of fear had released Terem. It surprised him to find oblivion did not follow. He was still aware. Although blinded, knowledge of his surroundings still filled his senses. Throwing out this awareness he watched the creature he called Grandfather work with calm precision, tirelessly anointing the edges of each page with tiny runes.
"No Terem, there is no peace in death for either of us, we shall continue to protect our family. For you, Candlekeep will be your home, protect it well. In the years to come when your shade rises in its defence you will be looked upon as a guardian of the walled library. They will think nothing of your ghostly form roaming its halls. They will tell themselves you were once of the avowed. All while you obtain for me the knowledge that I need. The tomes that others bring will enhance my knowledge. If Candlekeep falls, mayhap you will end up in another useful library."
The spirit once known as the Archmage Terem continued to watch dispassionately as the lich he once called Grandfather patiently waited for the golden ink to dry and start again. It was over a hundred pages before the spirit realized the creature would press unduly hard on the nib pressing the ink deeply through the page. It took almost a thousand before the shade understood.
The inhuman thing that worked ever so patiently felt the spirits understanding, and was pleased. "Your phylactery holds your soul, while the book holds your spirit. As long as your soul is protected the book cannot be truly destroyed. It will always reform and call your spirit back. It is the only one of its kind, and Candlekeep will always desire you returned."
It continued to speak, uncharacteristically verbose, pleased with its own guile. "As long as you are in the library, I shall enter at my leisure. The monks will look at each page with care, the magics obvious even to a dullard. They will check each page carefully, first one side then the other, their study will be most thorough. The Avowed lack the wit to discern what I have hidden, for the magic circle I have created does not run along its pages, but through them. In as long as this hidden gate exists, with your awareness to draw me in, no ward now or in the future shall prevent my entry."
As the echo of his voice faded from the chamber the lich drew the final rune on the final page. The chant of many magics filled the air, some of the spells Terem recognised, non-detection, protection, and some he did not. As if to mark the end of his labors, the lich pressed his left skeletal hand onto the inside of the front cover, leaving a black claw print in the tome.
Finally, the lich called for his servants.
If the awareness that had been Syl-Vizer Terem yn Ujemi yn Sardikar el makhlab-dabab yi Memnon could be startled the sight of his former apprentice, a nephew, entering would have done so. There had been no sense of time, but the boy he had left was now aged and bent.
"Grandfather," He said, his eyes wide with fear as he received his instructions and scurried out of the room.
House Talonmist traces their lineage back to the great diviner Sardikar Makhlb-dabab, descended from the Djinn, Imperial Dreamer of Calimshan and called the talon in the mist by his enemies now long dead. After being granted a vision foretelling of the Red Plague of -990 DR he fled north from Calimport with his family. Despite his attempt to save them, all except his youngest child perished in the plague. He railed against the arbitrary nature of the plague and his impotence in aiding his family. Sardikar became obsessed with the study of disease and death. He travelled the world with a singular purpose, he would defeat death and protect his lineage.
His obsession led him to seek a greater understanding of the dark arts and necromancy. Seeking to tease out the secrets of lichdom, as a means of forestalling his death; and by extension guiding and securing the legacy of his family.
Since then the he has shepherded the various branches around Faerûn, and watched from afar. For generations they bred and scattered across the Sword Coast and Western Heartlands. Acting as an unassuming family of merchants while slowly gathering magical lore and secrets. Tahlaunmiiz was the name his descendants bore in Westgate, Talonmist in Waterdeep. Though throughout the centuries, those descendants of both houses who showed an aptitude for the arcane mysteries would be sent off the family seat of "Kingsgrave Manor". Where they were to apprentice under the immutable patriarch, the lich Sardikar Makhlb-dabab, the talon in the mist.
In recent years the Talonmist family has been embroiled in a simmering feud with the Harpells, an upstart family of wizards from Longsaddle. Whom have disrupted Talonmist activities and acquisitions in the past. Members of the opposing families have even been known to engage in duels to the death when tensions boil over. The Talonmists also harbor a cold relationship with the Red Wizards, seeing the new expansion of the merchant-mages into the Sword Coast as a threat to the family business.
It is in this time, some 2,500 years after the exodus from Calimshan, that Modoc was born. The second of Jaheira and Ajantis Talonmist's three children, his early childhood was free of any significant turmoil or crisis. Modoc's parents made their living as spice merchants in the bustling port city of Waterdeep; and while they were not wealthy, they lived a comfortable lifestyle. This afforded their children the opportunity to receive an education. It was in this environment of learning and study that Modoc began to thrive. He read voraciously, sometimes late into the night and would often be gently scolded by his mother, for using to many candles when caught.
However, it would not be long before Modoc's education became a source of umbrage. The normally peaceful home would erupt with cantankerous argument. As the young savant challenged the teachings of his tutors, in subjects that encompassed everything from theological matters, to natual theories, and even the wonders of the higher mysteries. The study was often a room in the throws of raucous debate, in which Modoc's energy was spent disputing, correcting, and badgering his tutors. All the while demanding evidence of their teachings. Invariably these educators would resign amid a string of curses as they stormed from the family home. These resignations began to become a burden on the family finances, we well as a disruption to the education of their other children. Finding no other recourse for the dangerous intellect of their son the parents decided it was time. They sent a message, and received a response. Modoc was to be delivered to Kingsgrave Manor, where he would examined and tested; and if he was deemed worthy he would be formally apprenticed to the venerable "Grandfather Sar".
The precocious youth was sent east by carriage and arrived at an ancient fortified manor house set atop one of the rolling hills north of the town of Triel. The manor itself seemed to be built over many centuries. With evidence of several different construction phases and techniques, giving the structure an overall disjointed and bizarre appearance. Once admitted into the enigmatic building Modoc was questioned at length. Scrutinized by robed men and women of unclear relation to the boy though they bore a distinct resemblance to his father. Eventually he was taken to an antechamber deep in the vaults under the manor, the door to the room beyond was covered in luminous blue runes. At this point his robed guides instructed Modoc to "Wait here" before the pair turned and hurried from the crypt-like atmosphere of the vaults.
Several hours passed before the door swung open as if by some invisible force. It took Modoc a moment to summon to courage to enter. When he did the scene the greeted the boy nearly overwhelmed his senses. Smoke from burning incense hung in several gilded brazzers perfuming the air. A small library's worth of the tomes and scrolls sat in a massive, overstuffed, bookshelf and many more lay stacked on the floor and tables throughout the room. A number of crystals arcing electricity, hovered in place, occasionally shifted from one side of the room to the other. In a corner sat a wooden table of polished ebony holding carefully arranged and straightened lengths of hair. Each set is tied together with bright blue string. The sigil of house Talonmist covered much of the floor. The design is cut into the floor and its tiny channels are full of glistening mercury. In the center of the room stood the desiccated and mummified figure of Grandfather Sar. He was clothed in ivory colored robes trimmed with gold, his fingers and throat heavy with jewellery. Small crystalline stones floated above his head, atop which sat a circlet made of opalescent stone. The only thing that kept the boy from fleeing the chamber was sheer awe. As Grandfather Sar reached out a skeletal hand to gesture the youth forward he said "You need not fear me my child. But know this, your existence shall be that, which I weave for you out of sorrow and woe."
Initially Modoc split the majority of his days either assisting his master with alchemical experiments, deep in study, or carefully aiding with embalming rituals to fortify the liches deteriorating form. Though as the years progressed Modoc's apprenticeship became an affair of extremes. In one moment Grandfather Sar would patently guide the young mage through the intricacies of The Weave and spellcraft. The next the old lich would set impossible goals for any budding wizard to attain. And when Modoc would inevitably fail, his master was harsh and unforgiving. Evidence of the lich's cruelty was most evident at the end of his time at Kingsgrave Manor.
He was told by Grandfather Sar to prepared to a journey to the Shadowfell, no doubt so the lich could achieve some secret end. The process seemed simple; an aperture opened like a jaw, and swallowed them and they passed into another space. But something happened when the pair attempted to plane shift. And an error left Modoc separated from his master and alone in the Feywild.
At first he could only stare, open-mouthed, stunned at the resplendent natural beauty before him. But he was soon shocked out of this trance. The sound of his master's voice boomed inside of his head. "Return triumphant or die forgotten" the old lich said, and then it was silent. By happenstance or destiny, Modoc had entered the Feywild in the territory of a Brass dragon named Parthanax. The dragon kept a keen eye on its domain and quickly "collected" the spellcaster as a sort of curio. Parthanax brought Modoc back to its lair, "The Grand Hall of Conversation" where it spent the majority of its time entertaining friends and visitors. The lair also contained an elegant foyer, a gallery for the artwork the dragon collected, sleeping chambers, of course a treasure vault that housed the dragon's horde. Pathanax loved to engage his guest in hours of long winded debate, and Modoc was no exception. This environment suited the young mage and he spent countless hours in deep conversation with the dragon and it's visitors. During his time in the Feywild, Modoc learned answers to questions his had not know to ask. After several months with the dragon he was able to convince Pathanax to send him back to the Material Plane.
He entered near Luskan and was quickly able to make his way to the city. Penniless and far from home, he initially tried to acquire the coin for the journey by taking the moniker Modoc the Magnificent and plying his trade as a street magician. Though it didn't take long to realize that more direct action was necessary. He hired on with a group of adventurers, the party consisted of Gorignak a goliath berserker, James the Younger a sly priest of Tymora, and Kamali a half-elf troubadour. They had been tasked with escorting an elderly priest South to Neverwinter, a city still recovering from the ravages of the Spellplague. The companions made good time on the road to Neverwinter, and delivered the abbot safe and sound to his temple in the city. The group spent little time in Neverwinter before heading South toward Waterdeep, where Modoc planed to part ways with his acquaintances and continue on to Kingsgrave Manor alone.
When the adventurers arrived in the village of Oakhurst, on the road south of Neverwinter, the villagers beseeched the party for their help. Kobolds had taken up residence in a nearby ravine, and had been stealing livestock from local farmers. With the promise of reward the party set out the clear the kobold lair. But in a strange turn of events, the minstrel Kamali, was able to negotiate a treaty with the villagers and the kobold matriarch Yidrasil. From there the group traveled on toward Waterdeep, but the adventurers would never make it. In a roadside inn they heard a rumor, a young dragon had ousted a group of dwarves from their mine near Mirabar. Anyone who could clear the mine stood to profit greatly. All Modoc had to hear was "dragon" to start making excuses to postpone his trip home and urge the group back north.
After a few weeks of travel the explorers had reached the mine of Khundakar and began preparations to plumb it's depths. The place was cavernous and seemed to descend for miles. When the group had finally reached the bottom, they found their quarry. A black dragon the size of an ettin. The beast fought ferociously but in the end, the creature fell to spellfire and force of arms. After gathering samples from the dragon, while the others gathered treasure. Modoc and the party set out for the mine's exit. Upon reaching the surface, the group encountered a single human male dressed in dark leather. The man introduced himself as Antony and stated he belonged to a group that specializes in the finding and acquisition of magic items known as the Black Hand. Impressed that the party had beaten him to the punch. He offered them a job on the spot, and with it an opportunity to join this network of shadowy archaeologists and tomb raiders.
Caught up in the excitement and promise of the whole affair, within days the friends and new employer were on a ship bound for Chult. Modoc was sure his master would overlook the delay when he returned with the arcane secrets gathered from such a mysterious land. They sailed into Refuge Bay, the coastal settlement of Ishau sank into sea during Spellplague and the city’s stone buildings lay submerged a few hundred yards off shore. The party disembarked on to the beach at the southeastern edge of the bay. On the shore sat a small fishing village constructed out of driftwood, palm fronds, and materials scavenged from the ruined city. Modoc and his companions entered the village and after offering gifts to the locals they were able to secure a guide. They stayed the night in a small driftwood hut offered by the chieftain. All except Modoc who was forced to sleep in the small rowboat they had brought ashore due to the villagers mistrust of magic. In the morning the party, except Modoc, received some parting gifts and blessings from the tribe before heading into the sweltering jungle.
By this time Antony had become the tacit leader of the group. He spent most of his time conferring with the guide, checking his map, and reassuring the adventurers they were on the right track. In contrast, Gorignak told tall tales of his many feats of strength and taphouse exploits to anyone who would listen. The minstrel Kamali was constantly plucking at his mandolin and tuning its strings while complaining about the humidity warping his instrument. All the while James whispered silent prayers to Tymora as his eyes darted about searching the foliage and undergrowth for any sign of danger. In total the journey took four day before the party finally caught sight of the temple of Tamoachan. This ancient shrine had lay forgotten for centuries and had only recently been located by the Black Hand. The massive limestone step pyramid that greeted them was engulfed by the vines and moss, looking like a fang pushing up through the jungle floor.
It was decided that Antony and the local guide would maintain a camp while the rest of the group entered and cleared the temple. They entered through a sinkhole that had opened up next to the structure and caused part of its foundation to collapse. Pushing through the lower levels they encountered a poisonous haze that hung in the air and sapped at their strength. They were further impeded hazardous traps and the denizens of the temple. Eventually the party reached the upper levels of the pyramid and the miasma faded. After entering the throne room of the temple they were faced with a long forgotten undead chieftain that had ruled over Tamoachan in years past. After defeating this threat the group was faced with one last obstacle.
An Oni occupied the highest level of the structure and stood between the party and the exit. The friends steeled themselves for battle against the demon. Gorignak charged forward striking at the Oni wildy with his massive gleaming axe. James moved to flank the creature where he could attack from the demon’s blind spot. Kamali and Modoc stood further away slinging spells at the beast. With a simple gesture from the Oni the entire chamber became freezing winds and driving snow, obscuring the party's vision. Before they could react the demon teleported between the two spell casters. Bringing down it's massive clawed hand down upon Modoc and with a single mighty blow sent the wizard flying across the room. Modoc's broken body slammed into the wall and fell to the floor. When the mage gathered enough strength to stand up and the stars cleared from his eyes he saw the Oni's claw clutching tightly Kamali’s lifeless body by the throat. Gorignak rushed frantically to cut down the fiend that had slain their friend. The barbarian’s progress was slowed by the freezing gales, but upon reaching the beast he landed many savage blows, splattering it's black blood throughout the room. A few meters away to Modoc’s right, James kneeled to steady himself as he fired arrow after arrow into the fray. Then, to the wizard's horror, he witnessed to fell creature’s clawed hand reach into Gorignak’s chest. And then retract with the barbarian’s in its grasp. The goliath managed to shrug off the wound just long enough to land one final blow before falling, almost cleaving the Oni’s head form it's body. With it's black blood spewing from many savage wounds the demon summoned it's dying strength. It raised a bloody hand and sent forth a deadly cone of freezing energy in a last attempt to kill the remaining intruders.
Only Modoc emerged from the temple. The mage struggled as he drug Kamali’s body into the green light of the Chultan jungle. The forms of his two other fallen friends floated upon a floating disk that followed a few meters behind the wizard.
That's really good. Definitely lots of thought put in to that one. Better than i could do.
It also doesn't help that I'm new to the worlds of the Forgotten Realms as well; need to find a nice resource that discusses all the places. Not to mention, read all the corresponding books. too bad I can't do all of that before the ninth of February. LOL
Loving these stories so far everyone! Great to see others putting time and creativity in to writing their characters in to their worlds.
3D Artist - www.charliepharis.com
Where are you looking to play in the realms? maybe I could help find some quick resources for you
A player since the great Dawn War, I've seen every edition flash before my eyes. I've wandered the plateau of Mystara (before it was Mystara), had spiced elven tea with Dalamar, composed spells with Mordenkeinan, and walked the ruins of Myth Drannor with the great Elminster himself — though I believe he was a cat at the time —. The scrolls and books that I have read have filled me with intrigue and seeing all of the imaginative constructs that other people come up with give me great joy
I haven't actually played him, but Arron, a human battle master.
At an early age, Arron's father was murdered by a local noble. Arron then devoted himself to getting revenge for his father's death. He spent is life trying to become the best sword-fighter in the world, and when he finally though himself good enough, went to find the local lord. He found the lord's castle but arrived on the very day of his funeral. The lord had died the day prior. Arron fell into extreme grief that he could not get revenge himself. Finally, he resolved to continue his training as a swordsman and to wander around in search of a necromancer who could ressurect the noble so that Arron could duel him and kill him again. He also tries to find a ton of diamonds so that the necromancer can actually carry out the spell.
Basically, he is Inigo Montoyo with a twist.
So this is a part of DnD that I love.
Here are three of my backstory creations:
Feybrandai DeTain, Drow Druid.
He remembers the warm drink his father gave him, and the tender touch he placed on his cheek. At the time it struck him as strange, maybe his Father was smoking the mushrooms again, but the look in his eye and the heat coming from his body told him it was something else...
That was the last he remembers of his sick ruthlessness family.
His new life started in the dark, the Underdark. He woke only in bed clothes somewhere deep in the caverns. He wondered in a state of shock, with no sense of time or direction, until he could walk no more.
He was woken by a soft deep voice speaking in a strangely accented Elvish.
This was how he met "Aver" his mentor his guide and new father.
Aver was a Druid Wood Elf sent from the surface to care and watch the Underdark.
From 11 until 107 years, Feybrandai lived and learnt with Aver. Under his tutelage, he learnt the ways of the Druids, but also the ways and customs of the surface Elves. He became an Elf in a Drow's skin.
At 107 Aver said it was time. Time for Feybrandai to start his "Walk About". To move out into the world and find his place. His land, his heart and calling.
So he walked and walked for days until he reached the tunnel to the surface. As the blinding sun reached his eyes his thoughts swept back to that touch by his father. Why Dad? Why be so tender and then cast me out in my sleep?
With the smoke of memory in his mind, he walked slowly into the burning sun-drenched land toward his land his calling and his third chapter in his life.
Sannie, 50 yr old Human Sorcerer
Physical description:
Tall thin 50-year-old man. Wild black hair matted and dirty, suntanned skin and intense black eyes. Long gnarly grey-white beard
Old worn torn Grey robes and sandals.
Walks with a slight limp, and seems to be constantly counting with his fingers.
Long Necklace of what looks to be large white pearls.
Another smaller one wrapped around his right wrist.
Old leather satchel over his shoulder.
and pouch at his hip
Sannie is a 50-year-old, Wild Magic sorcerer, who gained his gift late in life. At the age of 20, he retreated from society and lived a solitary life in a cave not far from a small village. Here he contemplated the mysteries of life. More specifically, "why is life so full of suffering?".
The nearby villages would come from time to time, to seek answers for the mundane problems they faced in daily life. In trade for his babbling (sometimes tinged with insight) they would give food and other small items.
After decades of meditation and solitude, Sannie had come no closer to answering this question. In his practice, he had experimented with many mind-altering herbs, fungi, plants and animal parts gathered from the surrounding land and waterways.
He had not been completely fruitless and had garnered great insight into the working of the mind.and body.
Then one of the local villages came for a reading and in return gifted Sannie 3 loaves of mouldy bread, which Sannie consumed.
From this Sannie had his vision, which snapped his already wrapped mind. It was in this state that he came in contact with a wild magic surge,
It is yet to be determined if the voices are real entities or not. Sannie's mental state is clearly not right, and constantly refers to his voices, for both guidance and his sorcerer's power.
I based him loosely on the wandering holy men of India, tinged with the European hermit tradition of 1200's
He is a serious man, but his oddness does and will bring about some great humour.
The Vision
Darkness and Cold were the first sensations I remember. A darkness that I could touch and feel. So complete, so comforting. I was breathing it, bring it into my lungs and it was sustaining me.
Cold, not of the body but of mind. There was a cold point deep in my mind. A spot of absolute zero buried within my consciousness.
As I contemplated these strange and wonderful perceptions I became aware of a pinprick of light far off in the distance, slightly swaying two and fro. I watched, mesmerised by this point within the consuming black. How long I watched, Ha what was time, worlds could have formed and been destroyed by there dying suns or a butterfly emerged from a cocoon, lived, loved and died.
In the aeons I studied, the light it grew, imperceptibly at first, but accelerated and with it came sound. The soft gentle whisper of a breeze, just at the edge of my hearing, at first.
I realized that the light was not closing in the distance as it was expanding, and now expanding rapidly. It filled my entire frontal vision and with it the sound. That sound, Oh it was the sound that brought the fear. So intense it became feeling, it was touching me affecting my mind. I can only describe it as if my body was being squeezed through the cogs of a massive machine, as I was crushed through one set of cogs I was passed on to another slightly small set. And this went on and on and on, the light brighter and now all-encompassing. The machine smaller and smaller until my very atoms where being mashed by these infinitesimally small immensely strong cogs. My mind, my self gone, squeezed out of existence. Mashed and crushed, Snapped. All that was left of me was the spot of absolute zero that had been deep in my psyche. POP. That was it. This violent crescendo of light, sound and pain. The complete dissolving of me finished with a POP like a child's toy.
Ahhh the pleasure, not of something given, but the absence of shattering light and crushing sound. The bliss of void... I....hmmm no there was no I know, no self that I can express, just the frozen singularity of animus.
Bell chimes, "It is mostly complete, I think we lost fragments", a child's voice touched with mild concern.
A note from a flute, a deep resonant voice, "No matter, it will still be a vessel"
Bell chimes, "let the old one make it whole before it is lost", the child's voice speaks with urgency and worry
The purr of a cat, the cracked voice of a crone, "Animal, animal, mind, mind. Touch you feel you, make you whole...Asmodeus, Asmodeus, mend the vessel, bend the vessel. Crush the pearl, tear the void, ASMODEUS
The singularity explodes. It rapidly expands, and then contracts. Pressure, diamond crushing pressure...and pain. I feel, the return of sense makes me wail with laughter, I feel, I am...I scream, the pain, burning, flaying, screeching, blinding. I am.
I wretch and vomit, it splashes across my face and runs down my neck. it leaves a metallic taste. shaking and sick, I weakly roll onto my side.
Bell chimes, the child, "Slowly, take it slowly all will be well."
Flute sounds, the giant, "Oh get up YOU have work to do. Raise, go south."
The purr of a cat, the crone, "You are the vessel, the broken vessel. By worm in mind and Spittal of snake, purpose you are, broken and whole."
I stand, on watery legs. The moon beams down on a flower-filled clearing, surrounded by forest. I walk south.
Purpose, my purpose. The world is flawed, reality cracked. There is no distinction between reality, dreams and spiritual. And they are all flawed. There is a worm in the minds of the living and dead, and it needs to be exposed, purged and scorched. Eyes wired shut must be pried open.
Bell Chimes, the child. "But it knows, the worm knows. It knows you are coming,"
Purpose. I am Sannie, power gifted from the three, three gifted by the void, hunter of the worm, saviour of the fabric. I will bring the sentient kicking and screaming to the one truth. Nothing exists.
Sarmenti Scurrae, High Elf Rogue Jester
The chiming of a great bell could be heard far off in the distance, but Sarmenti paid no heed to its intrusion. He continued to look longingly into the beautiful Elven maids eyes. She was a goddess, laying on the silken pillow hair cascading around her delicate face. Lowering his head slowly, she slightly parted her lips. Sarmenti saw a small flicker of her tongue, he lowered further lips preparing, nerves tingling in expectation. He woul.....................A calamitous chiming of a great bell crashed him out of his sleep, he jumped from his bed and stumbled, instinctively wiping his mouth as the dream faded. Half asleep, annoyed and wanting he stood dazed. Then reality crashed into him like an ice burg. Oh, ****.
Late, late, by Asmodeus's whiskers, he was late again. Scampering around his room grabbing any clothes he could lay his hands on, bundled in his arms, bursting out of his door pausing only to reach back and pull a hat off the hat rack. Running down the long stone hallway, dressing as he went, performing a strange hopping dance like a drunken lima crossing a road. By the time he reached the end of the hallway he was, for a better word dressed. Careening off the wall he sprang up the steps two or three at a time, sometimes using the balustrade to swing him rapidly to the next level. At the 4th floor, he shot out of a doorway into another long hall. Running now like he was chased by hellhounds, flying passed other elves, dodging left and right, not touching a soul he held his momentum. Now, he could see his destination. A bright yellow door at the very end of the hallway, Tharivol the Opalescent, Archmage of The Court of Proper and Powerful Elven Wizards of the High Sun, read the blue glowing letters on it, underneath was a large piece of parchment, DO NOT ENTER SUMMONING IN PROGRESS. This was what he was late for.
He slammed on the brakes sliding along the polished floor, in one smooth motion he turned the handle and whispered "Toronium". The door clicked and silently opened, still at speed and sliding he reached for his hat, which felt abnormally large, swung it to his side and bowed. Master Tharivol, I am here. A meticulously groomed High Elf of senior years, adorned in a brilliant robe of oscillating colours and an enormous hat with a sun at its point, turned to face him. Just as this was transpiring, a large figure was starting to emerge from a shimmering portal in front of the Mage.
Sarmenti's hat flourish and travelling speed was a little more then he expected, he also had not considered flourishing a jesters cap. The cap clipped a set of scales on a nearby table knocking it on to a candle, the candle falling setting sheets of parchment with strange flowing script alight.
The figure now fully formed stepped out of the portal. It was a misshapen black skin demon, with glowing red eyes and gleaming talons, drool dripping from its mouth and splashing to the floor. Around the Demon and portal was an intricate white circle filled with arcane symbols and small red candles. The Demon reached for the beautifully dressed High Elf Mage, only to be met with a flash of blue light. It recoiled in pain. The elderly Elf now looking menacingly at Sarmenti, caught the flash in the corner of his eye. He spun back to the portal, and as he did his preposterously large sun tipped hat fell from his head. Toppling to the floor it bounced once flipped over and landed at the edge of the circle. The weight of the sun at its tip slowly pulling it down on its side. The demon watched, a wicked grin forming on its face, as the sun adorned hat flopped on to the outer line of the circle.
The parchments with weird writing were well alight now, and the words on them briefly flashed with light and exploded. The fireball engulfed the room shattering glass and setting fire to the numerous bookshelves. Sarmenti instinctively lifted his legs and still at speed slid forward on his back, under at table through the legs of a large chair heading straight toward the mage and the demon. The blast wave from the fireball picked up the mage in his now burning robes and threw him across a table and against the far wall. The demon stood still seemingly unaffected by the fire or blast and watched the mage and the careening Sarmenti with amusement.
Sarmenti finally stopped, staring straight at the swaying hairy stinking black balls of the demon inches from his face. The demon raised his foot, clearly wishing to squash the bug beneath him, he paused. A large glowing ball with a dishevelled singed half naked Elven mage inside rose to the ceiling from the far side of the room. Sarmenti, could make out the screamed words from the mage..."SARMENTI, I WILL PEEL OFF YOUR SKIN FOR MY NEW SPELL BOOK". He panicked, jutted his head forward and bit down as hard as he could on the demons family jewels, he felt the spiky hair on his face and in his mouth, a putrid stench filled his nose, he ground his jaw and felt the rotten testicle in his mouth give way. Ichor flowed out of his mouth and down his chin.....and the Demon let out a very high pitched squeal. An arc of lightning lanced from the mage racing across the room. Sarmenti sprung to his heels and propelled himself through the portal, that was now rapidly changing colours.
After a brief moment, he was falling, hitting the ground hard. Raising his head he could see an old wood door. The door burst open and a halfing male wearing a dress looked down at him. "Oh, thanks to the one, you're here, quickly get on stage the other jester is hopeless". Bewildered Sarmenti stood dusted himself off, and only now realised he was wearing half a jesters costume, that he had worn at the masquerade ball last night. He touched his head, yep jesters cap. Ran his finger across his forehead and looked at it, yep still had the makeup on. he turned his head to look for the portal, just in time to see it wink out of existence.
He thought for a moment about his town, They had kicked him out, his family, House of Riardon, sent him away to the Wizard college and told him to never come back. Finally the Wizards college, Apprentice to Tharivol the Opulesant, Archmage of The Court of Proper and Powerful Elven Wizards of the High Sun. Hmm, didn't think it would be a good idea to go back there. So he shrugged his shoulders and walked up the steps to the door. A Jester huh, well I could do worse.
i have a character backstory that i turned into a prologue for a story i'm writing, and i do believe that it is an epic one. It's based in the forgotten realms, in the year 1491 DR, but the Plane of Ysgard is governed by the Norse Gods, and the plane of ARborea is ruled by the Greek Gods, while the other planes have the usual rulers. The two pantheons listed mainly stay concealed from most mortals, except for when they need to travel to the Material Plane, in which case they mainly stay incognito. In this backstory, the first part takes place in the Dalelands of the sword coast, in the cold hard North.
In the wild tundra of the north, the wood-walled village of Casera stood. It was a simple place, where a mixture of hunters, gatherers, and farmers lived in peace, along with the craftsmen that most villages possessed.
It was a cold morning, with snow just starting to mist, and the villagers were just about to awake to start their day. But no one knew what danger was headed their way.
It happened fast. A roving band of 10 frost giants rushed out of the growing snowstorm, easily charging their way through the wooden wall that surrounded the village, and swung their giant battle axes through the air, rending all foes in two as they moved towards the village square.
Upon reaching the square, they laughed upon seeing almost every male villager there, all armed with some form of weapon and most with a scared, but determined, look on their faces. Beyond them, the sound of children crying and women trying to calm them down could be heard.
As nine of the giants eagerly gripped their axes, the tenth one, which was also the largest, grunted from behind them. “We need to leave soon, so hurry it up.” All nine grunted in response, before stepping forth and swinging their axes, sending a good chunk of the male villagers flying. Another step and swing, and there was less than a quarter left. One final step, and the last of them were sent flying.
The frost giants grinned as the women started crying, except for one human woman with a light shade of brown hair and steel blue eyes, who was standing in the front of the women and children, and dressed in an outfit reminiscent of the valkyries of Ysgard, as she was holding a spear and shield, with a great sword strapped across her back.
She took a step forward, a frown on her face and tears in her eyes as she looked at the carnage. “Leave this place, foul giants, before I force you to.” Her bravado was betrayed by the slight shaking in her limbs, but she just gripped the haft of her spear tighter, ready for battle.
One hour later, silence echoed across the ruined village, as carrion birds of all kinds flew lazily over the destroyed village while waiting for everything to finish dying. As the birds kept watch overhead, slight movement could be seen down below on the field of battle, as the warrior woman crawled through the carnage of dead bodies and puddles of blood, tears streaming down her face while she kept going.
Finally making it out of the field of death, the woman trudged on, finally reaching a storage shed, which was the only building still standing. When she got there, she reached up and unlatched the door, then pushed it in slowly…..
-Half an hour later-
A man walked through the snowstorm, walking over the remnants of the massacre, sadly looking upon the remains of the villagers. The man was wearing a set of leather armor, with a quiver of arrows on one hip, a longsword on the other, and a wolfskin cloak covering his back, while in his hands was an exquisite longbow. He had slightly greying brown hair, and grey eyes the color of the clouds roiling in the sky above.
This man's name was Uller, the Norse god of hunting and winter, and he had come here after tracking down a band of frost giants that had stolen an artifact from his residence in the realm of Ysgard, and had used a planar gate to come to the Material Plane to escape the gods wrath, before they came across this village.
Wandering through the wreckage, the god frown, lamenting the fact that the planar gate had to recharge, and that he needed such methods to traverse the realms. Looking around, Uller could barely make out a small building through the snow, so he headed in that direction, figuring that any survivors would be holed up there to wait out the storm.
As he reached the small building, which turned out to be a storage shed. The god could hear the sound of faint crying coming from inside, so he pushed it open slowly before peaking in around the door.
Inside, Uller saw a trail of blood leading further in, then curving behind a pile of sacks, chests, and barrels. He could barely see a set of feet poking out from behind all of it. He carefully stepped all the way inside and shut the door behind him, before setting an arrow on his string and walking forwards.
Glancing around the corner of gear and storage items, Uller found what he saw sickening, even for a god. Laying down and propped against the wall, was a youngish woman that still wore the tattered remnants of scale mail, and was missing her left arm from the elbow down, while her right leg has gouges and was obviously broken in 5 spots. Her chestplate had a dent that obviously made breathing difficult, if not impossible. Her face was covered in blood, except for streaks that were obviously gouged through the blood by tears.
Kneeling by her side was a 4 year old boy with slightly pointed ears, obviously a half-elf, and he was on the edge of hysterics as he kept nudging her. “Come on, mom, get up. You gotta get up. I've heard those stories you used to tell, about being a shield-maiden and fighting in lots of battles! Come on mom, please wake up….” As he finished pleading, he leaned down against his mother's chest, and Uller was amazed as he realized that she was still alive, barely.
She lifted her arm up weakly and wrapped it around her son, hugging him gently. “Marrok, I don't have much time left… You need to be strong *cough* Strong enough that no one will ever do this again… please*cough*, promise me this ok?” With every cough, she became paler and more blood dripped down her mouth. Her son was nodding rapidly as she smiled, then looked up and over at the god, and silently mouthed the words, ‘please help him’, right before the life left her eyes and her body fell limp.
As he realized what happened, the boy started sobbing, and Uller stepped forward, setting his hand on the boys shoulder, which resulted in the child jumping in fright, but still being wary, with a large dagger in his hands. Uller smiled sadly as he inspected the boy. He had brownish hair and steel blue eyes, just like the now-dead woman behind him.
The hunting god knelt down and set his bow down slowly, before raising his hands in a calming manner, like he was approaching a wild animal. Which was how he was treating the current situation, actually.
The god moved forward slowly, and stretched his hands out to the boy, gently grabbing the dagger and setting it to the side. “Boy, I know you must have been through a hard time. But you need to make a choice now.” The god gently smiled as the boy looked up at him with a burning question in his eyes. “You must choose- will you be held back by this tragedy, forever afraid of and angry at the world? Or will you overcome that fear, and direct that anger towards righting this wrong, and bringing justice to this village?”
The boy sniffed for a few seconds, before looking back at his mother then back at Uller. He then stood up with a determined look on his face. “That's what I thought you'd choose. Now, tell me boy, would you like to travel with me and learn of ways to fight the evil that started this tragedy in the first place?” The young lad nodded resolutely, and Uller smiled again, still sad that his blunder with the giants had resulted in this little boy losing his whole world, then he stood up and swung his cloak off of his back and around the boy. “Then, the first thing to do is get some warm food in you to fight back the cold, and then to bury the dead.”
The god sighed as he set about opening the various containers stored in the building. He set aside enough food that he found to last for a week, and set the containers that were empty or full of burnables to the right of the door. He then covered the mother with a sheet that he had found, and proceeded to cover all the blood, before finally starting a fire right by the now-open door, and making soup, which they ate and went to sleep, the boy huddled under the cloak while Uller kept watch.
The next morning, the boy woke up to find the storage shed empty of everything. Walking outside, he found Uller setting the final box onto a pyre of similar items. The sky above was still dark and cloudy, but had stopped snowing, if only after leaving enough to cover the carnage left from the giants.
Looking back at the god, the boy saw his mother, freshly washed and her armor polished, laying on the pyre, with her broken spear and rended shield by her side, along with a nice amount of food, gold, and other things. As the boy watched on, the god turned, holding a lit torch in one hand. “it is time for you to set your mother to rest, boy. Come over here.”
The lad walked over slowly, unable to take his eyes off of his mother in her final rest. Stopping next to the god, the boy finally looked up at him, only to have the torch handed over. “The right goes to you, lad. It is time for her send off.” Unknown to the young boy, Uller had left early and inspected the village while burying the dead as best he could, before finding that the warrior woman had been the last person left alive besides her son. The god also found evidence that she had taken at least 2 of the frost giants down with her, until the rest ran, leaving her mortally wounded, before she made her way back to her son for her final words and time with her son.
The boy sniffed back more tears and crying, then grabbed the torch and stepped forward, and spoke in a soft, quiet voice. “Mom, I'll right the wrongs done today to everybody. And I'll make you proud of me” As he set the torch to the flame, Uller pulled out an gold bound Horn of Valhalla, which he blew into, and in shimmering portals of swirling snow, 40 einherjar appeared around the burial pyre. They all looked towards the god, who raised the horn high. “We all honor the fallen warriors of Casera, the most honorable of which is Sarana Hemming, who slew 2 members of a band of ten frost giants!”
At the mention of frost giants, each of the spectral warriors murmured in shock and awe, as they all knew the might of giant-kin. “She shall be honored in the halls of Ysgard as a great warrior, and loving mother, from now till the end of days!” Uller faced towards the raging pyre and saluted, right arm held down to his side and his left across his chest in a soldier's salute, and each of the spirit warriors saluted with him. The boy kept staring at the fire, staying there till it had died down, leaving not a single trace of the woman he once knew as mother.
Over the next 6 years, Marrok traveled with the god of hunting, being trained in ways of hunting and tracking, until Uller felt he was ready for his first hunt. For the occasion, they traveled to the Beastlands, where the young teen had his first solo hunt, and brought down a dire wolf after a long hunt.
After that, they traveled to the plane of Ysgard, where the Nordic Pantheon held sway, and was tutored in more elaborate studies- animal handling, martial fighting, , the languages of Nordic tribes, and the production and usage of maps. After another 8 years, Uller traveled with him back to the Material Plane, where they split, one to train himself further in whatever he wished, and one to find any traces available of the band of frost giants that had destroyed a village 13 years before…
And now, 2 years have past since that day, and a new dawn is rising. As our young hero has just ridden into the town of Neverwinter, in the Sword Coast, and has just been approached by a guard with what appears to be a bounty notice...
Oooooo i think theis storys are great.
Hmmm although im know sure what i should share.......how about one of the shorter ones.
Gralg the half orc was a master chef for a noble. But he alwayse loved music and magic. Feeling a strong connection to all three. Not wanting to leave his kitchen, but longing to prusu music.
The noble he worked for found gralg practicing the lyre, impressd by gralg, imediantly fired him anf told him to go after his musical dream.
Gralg the half orc bard.
Current game- Pelegos: Coastal Chaos
Game world- Pelegos, homebrew
Role- Player
Players- (Me) Druid/bard : Flower, Dancer of Curses ------- Fighter/rouge : Blackshanks, ruffian --------Sorcereress - Melenie, prodigy
My hero is a half-elf Bard and this is his story. He is a little underdeveloped but I usually DM so it makes sense.
He was raised by the human side of his family with his father in a small town near a stream. He heard of a large spider who terrorized his town in the night and went to investigate one night. He approached the spider while it was asleep and swiftly cut its legs off. The next morning he showed the towns people and they treated him as a town hero and told him to go out and find adventure. He moved from tavern to tavern playing songs looking for gold. One day he met another hero whos soul had been taken by a trickster god and had to get another gods blessing to get it back. They adventured together for a little while and eventually found a god. He granted the other adventuer his soul. He told me I could have anything I want so I chose the ability to switch between Half-Elf and Githyanki.
He has since met a goblin king and worked with him to grow a new empire.
I can definitely see you taking that one a bit further, but what you have so far is awesome. I should also tell you guys, with your help and all the resources I've gained from you both on here and in the Twitterverse, I've been able to develop mine a bit more as well. I'll give you what I've got so far:
The Rahl family's line extends so far into the past, that no one knows where it actually starts; some say that Armina's ancestors go back to the fabled ruler Richard Rahl I, whom some believe is simply a legend. She was born in the town of Hills Edge, in farun, to the human warrior Melark Rahl and the elf cleric Andraste Liadon. From the age of fifteen, Armina chose to take up learning with her mother, seeing that an earlier incident proved to the elf that her daughter would be a wonderful candidate for the healing trade. When she was seven, she miraculously, though accidentally, channeled some sort of divine power, though not even Andraste could figure from which god or goddess it was from, for the family members each chose their own religious path, no one deity was worshipped among them.
During training, Armina proved to be decent, though her ability to channel divine energy never seemed to stay with her; Andraste believed that it had nothing to do with her will or lack thereof, but something to do with the human in her heritage, though she never came to the perfect conclusion; another theory being that the girl simply was destined for another path entirely.
a few years later, while her father was out on patrol, (he took up a position with the town guard), Armina walked out of the market with an armload of fruits and vegetables for that evenings dinner. Without understanding why, her pointed elf ears were pricked, and nearly all of her senses were on high alert. She thought she could hear a scuffle somewhere in the distance, but couldn't figure out where. Then, the barbaric growl of someone cloaked in what could only be called the battle rage of a barbarian overtook her hearing. She ran toward the sound of roaring and the clashing of steel on steel, and noticed that six barbarians were trying to overrun the two patrolmen who were guarding the gates. One of them being her father. One of the burley adversaries cloaked only in furs, raised his mace to strike him down, but Armina was quicker; she drew her sword, only to discover that it was glowing with a radiance that could only be considered of the divine. Truthsayer, the sword was called, for legend had it that it was held by her ancestor of old, and that it was magically incapable of taking an innocent life. No one knows how that spell was woven, but the relic is a prize among her family, and only those worthy enough can wield it. Anyhow, the raging creature backed away from the brightness of the sword, and ran. The other five weren't so lucky, for the half-elf took down each with a single stroke of steel and heavenly fire. When the silver flames died, nothing remained but black piles of ash. "She's a Paladin! Melark, your daughter's destined to be a Paladin!", her father's partner shouted for joy. Then the guardsman took his daughter into a long hug, and then they arived back at their home. From that point onward, armina decided to use her family's sword to fight for justice for the innocent. She knew that she was destined for adventuring, to save the little towns and big cities alike from the members of society who would seek to hurt them. everyone thought her a gift from the gods, but she always modestly explained that her desire arose from nearly seeing a small town overrun, and wouldn't allow it to happen again sif she could be there to stop it.
Nicholas Claus was a rock gnome toy maker in the Northern Kingdom of Noltria. While his wife Elsa, a wood elf paladin, fought for their country, Nicholas made toys for the kids in their city. One little boy whom Nicholas saw in his shop regular got sick one day, Nicholas visited him and brought him a toy, but the boy died of his disease. That night, Nicholas cried himself to sleep, but heard the goddess Dal'Dorea in his dream. He set forth to join the clerics of life, so that he could save lives.
Long ago Brek was cassed out from his tribe for treason, he left into the woods. While wandering the woods he stumbled upon a beautiful human woman who was conversating with the animals around her. She had already noticed Brek the moment he had appeared, she told him to step out from his hiding spot, so he did. She walked towards him and asked his name, which he gave. After talking for awhile she told him her name, Ima. He eventually explained why he was wandering in the forest, she pittied the goliath and decided to take care of him for now. While with Ima, Brek learned many things like how to change his form into a animal, and a few spells and languages. Sadly nothing lasts forever, one day after hunting for food, Brek came Back to see Ima lying dead on the ground of her shack. Brek picked up her corpse and let out a fountain of tears, all that she had left was an amulet, Brek knew it did nothing but took it to remember her. He barried her corpse in the place that they met, and he swore to get vengeance on whoever did this, he already had a good idea of who did it.... his ex tribe.
So Brek is a Paladin, then? That's what it sounds like you're going for.
nope. the animal shifting gave it away. Brek the Goliath is a druid.