I'm not sure if this character qualifies as neutral or evil; it's hard to say.  He's a great guy...except that he's driven by a lust for revenge.  He'd run into a burning orphanage to save children...and pause to plant some incriminating evidence.  If he's evil, then he's certainly not the kill-random-npc kind of evil, or steal-from-the-party evil.  He's the kind of evil that knows that random acts of petty villainy only hurt the cause. 

And Armande has a cause - oh, yes.  His whole life is aimed at avenging his family.  You see, about twenty-five years ago, while Neverwinter was gripped by plague - the Wailing Death - Armande's sister - well, half-sister - led the crusade to find the cure, but ultimately was betrayed by both her city and her god.   And so Armande wishes to inflict as much harm as mortally possible on Tyr and the city of Neverwinter.

Armande hates Tyr; since Tyr is (theoretically) "good", then that might qualify Armande as evil.  He also wants to bring down a city.  But he'll help his friends however he can.  If he is, in fact, evil - well, it's likely his friends will never know.  Until someone casts detect good and evil.  Then there will be questions.

Quote from Kaemgen >>

Quote from Kaemgen>>

• Ability scores: 16 18 18 13 18 18

 

OMG....  I will NEVER roll stats like that again....  :D

Below is a bit of a more fleshed out version of her backstory... Didn't want to edit the original post and mess with the rolls.

Character sheet:  https://ddb.ac/characters/97550126/AlSFW1

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     “I want a second sword,” Gorm stated.

     “No.”

     “I have the right to choose…” Gorm started again.

     “No,” he said again, flatly, not bothering to look up from the bowl he ate from.

     “You don’t have the…”

     “No,” he repeated yet again. No emotion, no expression and no shifting of position.

     Gorm cursed and spat to her left.  This, at least, got a reaction.  Dubh looked up from his bowl and looked at the young Tiefling girl for the first time.  She had removed her aba, a light desert cloak, upon entering the tent and she did not flinch under his scrutiny.  Average height, scrawny but wiry of build, she had skin that was ivory white and short hair that was a brilliant blue.  She stood like a warrior and the scimitar on her hip was always at the ready, he knew.

     Dubh’s own blade stood within reach, of course, and he had given it a thought, for spitting within the tent of another…. But he restrained himself for he knew the tensions that were writhing within the woman before him.  “No,” he repeated yet again, setting his bowl down and leaning back into a more readied position. 

 

     They live in the shadows of The High Ice but it is the sands of Anauroch that they call home.  From Ascore to Azzrhat they roam and dwell and live their lives by their own terms.  The Diabhal are travellers, warriors, fierce and proud but generous and humble.  They claim all of the sands as their birthright and will face any the feel are invading upon their lands, but they too are quick to help and guide any they find passing through.  There are eternal clashes with the creatures and monstrosities of The High Ice and of the Bedine people of the far south sands, though when the unspoken border of the Black Road is observed these fights are minimal…. 

     The origin of the Diabhal is unclear and the subject of various contradictory stories amongst themselves, the most accepted always being the most well told and entertaining.  A general consensus seems to agree upon some kind of Tiefling origin but did they migrate from The High Ice, claw up and out of the sands of Anauroch itself or migrate here as outcasts and the banished of unwelcoming and unaccepting cities from across the realms?  It matters not, they are here and here is home and all who live as Diabhal, follow the ways of Diabhal and defend Diabhal are Diabhal be they born into it or adopted through trial.

     At the age of twelve, like all children of the tribe, Gorm had to choose between staying with the tribe and becoming a Member of the Sands or taking up the sword and becoming a Defender of the Sands.  Gorm chose the way of the sword.  At eighteen she made another choice…

 

     Gorm narrowed her eyes and looked into those of Dubh.  He had no title, he was not elected or chosen but he was the leader of this particular tribe.  Everyone just knew it.  If Gorm had any doubts they were gone now having looked so deeply into him.  Still, she had made her choice and would not be denied.  Not by him.  Not by anything.

     The tent was temporary, as all things are, but lavish.  There was a comfortable bed, several low tables with comfortable pillows around them upon which to sit and several chests and crates which held the tribes goods.  One only owns what one can carry, the rest belongs to the tribe.  Dubh did not own this tent, these luxuries or the contents of the chests, but he did guard them.

     I will be a Sword Dancer, Gorm assured herself and stepped further into the tent.  She knew which chest they were held in.  Everyone knew.  She strode to it confidently, outwardly at least.  She dropped into a squat in front of the chest and put a hand on either side of the lid.  She momentarily dropped her head in reverence and then raised the lid and revealed the scimitars within.  The whole time she expected Dubh to try to stop her, to attack her… To say something.  Nothing.

     The weapons were not magical, were not masterpieces of craftsmanship nor were they sacred or rare.  But they were the tribes weapons.  You got one when you declared your intent to be a Defender of the Sands.  You then had to prove yourself and your right to wield the tribe’s weapon.  

     Only the Sword Dancers got a second.  A handful of Sword Dancers walked the sands at any one time for joining their ranks required dedication, skill, sacrifice and a dance that none can deny makes you worthy of the title.  Any Defender can take a second sword and make the attempt, few did.  Fewer still succeeded. 

     Gorm reached into the chest and grabbed her second sword at random for it was the doing that mattered, not which was taken.  She stood and silently strapped the weapon on her free hip.  She turned, her eyes briefly falling on Dubh but she refused to let them linger lest he thought it signaled fear.  She walked to the flap of the tent, took up her aba and wrapped it about herself.  She raised her hands to pull the hood up over her head and couldn’t help but pause.

     “You aren’t trying to stop me?” Gorm asked, letting a bit of doubt seep into her for the first time.

     “No,” Dubh replied.

     “It is my right to take up the second sword.  My right to walk beyond they sands, to make my path, to weave my dance.  My right to set myself against the challenge and prove myself,” Gorm stated boldly, almost as if to convince herself.  “I shall return.  You’ll see.”

     “No,” Dubh said with a sigh.  “You died once you took up the second sword.  You are banished.  Pariah.  Cast out and outcast.  Gods willing a Sword Dancer shall return in your place… But I shall miss you, Gorm.”

     Gorm started to say… something.  But she knew not what.  It was true, no matter what happened going forward she was already different now than she was just minutes ago.  She turned her eyes to Dubh once more and she shed tears upon the floor of his tent.  Tears of sadness but also tears of joy.

     “I am sorry,” she said as she raised her hood up to hide her face until she strode out of the sands and upon her new path.  “That I spit in your tent…” and with that she walked out of the tent, out of the tribe and out of the sands…

 

 

"I don’t even recognize your species, from where are you exactly?" asks the bar tender after Blue stayed at his inn for a few days. She was waiting for someone, someone that she was guaranteed would pass this way. Someone who might actually have some answers, not like this nosy innkeeper. Well, you have to grant him that he is quite perceptive. Most people just assume she is half an elf without the signature pointy ears. It’s her lean build that’s the reason for most. More travelled folk would also point to her fair skin and sharp facial features to reinforce their classification. Few actually assert that her slight bluish taint most certainly suggests sea elven heritage. Though that would be at odds with her as she displays none of their traits. Maybe an actual sea elf would have noticed, but she never actually met one. No, the one thing that could give her away are her skin patterns, but no one outside her home has ever registered the fine lines on her skin that resemble natural grain patterns of worked wood. Mostly, because no one ever got close enough to actually investigate. So what was it that gave her away? Or was it just a stroke of luck? Well, why not indulge him? He won’t buy it, anyway, and perhaps it buys her drinks this evening. "Aye, look that’s a real' long story," she throws out her hook. "It’s not that you’ve much to do," he bites, "no offense, but judging from the last few days, you’ll be still here for a few hours and there aren’t many customers for me to take care of." Now she reels it in, "No offence taken and you’re right but I’ve been outside all day and my throat is sore from all the dust. The last thing it needs is to rattle through a long story, at least not before it got some ale for a second wind." She avoids looking into his eye, trying to converse nonchalantly. Best he thinks it was his idea. She waits some more. The innkeeper smiles, "How about the house oils your throat? That‘d help?" "That‘d be nice, indeed. Why, thank you," she says. "Just know in advance that it’s an uncommon story and that you might not get the answers that you want but I tell you what I know." "You don’t know?" he asks intrigued and hands her a full tankard. "No, I’m actually here trying to find … ahem … my parents," she hesitates. "So where did you grow up," he presses. "Ok, let’s go back to the beginning. That’s how I have been told it happened, I don’t actually have memory of it myself. Listen, after an extrasolar object impacted near one of the secluded Cobalt Soul monasteries, their scholars found a strange sphere at the impact site. That sphere was made entirely out of wood. A wood with a rare bluish color. It contained a sleeping infant of an unknown heritage," and her voice emphasised the last words. "You aren’t saying your off-world, now, are you? That’s just rich. I think we can stop here," the innkeeper shakes his head in disbelieve. "I haven’t said any such thing," she defends, "but perhaps if you’d listen to the full story..." He rolls his eyes, "Didn’t take you for a bard but, heck, might be a good ghost story is just what this night needs." She takes a breath, "Where was I? Right - Analysis of the sphere yielded little more than that it was made of a rare wood type, blue mahoe, but any magic, that it surely must have possessed to survive the impact, had vanished. Nevertheless, the scholars kept the sphere safe as it was a rare artifact. With little else for an alternative, the scholars took in the baby girl, nursed it to childhood, educated it and trained it as one of their own. For lack of inspiration they dubbed her Blue Mahoe as her skin was oddly resembling the worked surface of the sphere that once held her. Only, when she approached adulthood and entered the final tests for her ascendancy to a full member of their order, they showed her the sphere and retold how she came to be there. She listened attentively for she always felt incomplete and couldn’t have guessed for what reason. Now, in the presence of the sphere she felt oddly fulfilled, comfortably at ease. Her hand slowly stroke over the sphere’s boards, almost caressing, while the scholars finished their tale. ‚Why haven’t you told me earlier?‘ she asked but they couldn’t produce a satisfying answer and they were clearly affected. She stroke again over the perfectly smooth surface - but what was that? There was a nick, or a splinter. She approached to inspect it. A tiny splinter stuck from the otherwise perfect surface - then it twitched. She refocused her vision, calming herself, and observed carefully as she'd learnt. The splinter twitched again as if it were an insects leg. In fact, it eerily resembled a leg, a spiny wooden one. She spared a glance to her tutors who, at the distance, didn't notice anything wrong. When she turned back, more splinters had appeared. All busy moving, pedaling in the air, witlessly battling each other, or pressing against the wooden surface. From somewhere had even appeared a creatures with spiny wooden legs, actually to was all wood, the same, from what she could tell, as the sphere. It could be a miniature twig blight, but could it be and from where it came? No, not one, several creatures, busy as ants on their ancestral hill. She stepped back a pace or two and before long, the entire spherical structure collapsed into a heap of twisting and squirming miniature twig blights. She was shocked by the event unfolding in front of her eyes, but at the same time she felt a proximity to the creatures, a bond almost. A feeling that she heard others describe when referring to their siblings. Instinctively, she holds out a hand, not expecting any reaction of the apparently mindless form of writhing creatures. Yet, the busy mound begun to thin, and rise. Slowly it turned into a tall, pole-like structure of endlessly moving bits, advancing in height towards her hand. As if programmed, she reached out for it and, when she finally grasps it, it solidifies. Stunned, her tutors marvelled at the solid, bluish quarterstaff that she suddenly held in her hand." Blue sips from the tankard that the innkeeper dutifully refilled, and places a brief glance to her side, where a bluish quarterstaff leans against the bar. The innkeeper follows her glance, blinking at the sight of the weapon, but says, "So that's the proof? You can make them little buggers come out, too? - Guess not. But good story," he nods to Blue, who replies, "No, I haven't been able to lure them out since that day. But prey, if there is a way, I'll find it." "Sure, you'll do," he says and turns away. She continues to sip on her free ale while waiting for her contact to finally arrive.

Born into wealth and privilege within the walls of Neverwinter, a young Raeland wanted for naught and received everything. His tiefling father was a successful entrepreneur who had built a business from the ground up, a man of morals, with a strong work ethic who reaped the rewards of his perpetual efforts. His mother was a savvy minded she-elf who had a mind for numbers and helped her husband administrate their shipping and haulage company. The two had met young and their partnership was a perfect match on so many levels.

The boy was pampered and grew up with the trappings and luxuries of high society, amidst the ways of gentlemen and the societal elites. During his most formative years he mixed with noble families and the wealthiest of merchants, growing up with the sons and daughters of powerful and influential families. Raeland had all the foundations to be whatever he wanted, to achieve things most could only dream of. As the boy grew into a man his relations hoped to see the fine qualities of his family breed true. Raeland however, appeared to exhibit precisely none of the traits that would have made him a suitable heir to his family name or business.

His greatest talent was his silvered tongue, that he could turn a tale with equal flourish and fiction and had the wits to know when to use it, though lacking the sense to know any better. He flaunted his wealth, and squandered his parent's gifts, he would tell tales of elaborate lies, of fictions he had accomplished and feats that any young individual would be applauded for. As he grew towards manhood Raeland became something of a bounder, his quick wit often adding bite to a jest, his compliments were few unless laden with sarcasm, yet he approached every social interaction as a bit of a lark, so long as he was the one laughing. His parents' attempts to correct his behaviour were rebuffed, and his various attempts at apprenticeships in the family business were lacklustre at best. As he came of age he acted the socialite, drifting from one social event to another, a gaggle of hangers-on and witless want-to-be's soon trailing in his wake, Raeland's personality being as dominant as it was.

Raeland's downfall began when he ran into two new faces in his city, unbeknownst to him both from a family fresh into the city. In a tale that would be passed from minstrel to punter for some time after, Raeland encountered the siblings separately on several occasions. He swooned over and charmed the daughter, for she was fair and and impressionable maiden, and a new conquest in his realm. The brother a handsome and likable fellow, thus Raeland saw to belittle and ridicule him, ensuring that his place in his socialite circles, nullifying any potential danger to his accustomed order. The interactions repeated themselves, until finally at a ball hosted by the Lord of Neverwinter, the three of them all met together.

The brother, upon learning that his sister was being pursued and hounded by a condescending lout and bully, challenged Raeland to a duel - sabres at dawn. Raeland was caught up in his own pomp and importance, and accepted. Thus it was that on a misty morning, Raeland crossed blades and duelled for his honour. His performance was a match for his honour, which was to say that it was found severely lacking. Raeland's swordsmanship was no match for the brother, who toyed and teased Raeland, landing cut after cut, then with a trip and a flat of the blade to the rump, Raeland was sent tumbling into the mud. As he rose, he felt the sword-point at his neck and cried out for mercy.

His followers were fickle, his perch was precarious, and now Raeland had fallen from favour. He was scoffed at and talked about behind his back. When he was around conversations would hush as he approached and be re-kindled by titters and giggles as he departed. Pride cometh before the fall, and Raeland's fall had been mighty. Thus it was that Raeland was literally laughed out of Neverwinter's socialite elite and the circles of peers which were all he had known.

He took to working for his family, in earnest now, as he secluded himself away from his former associates, lest he now experience the derogatory words and harsh wit that he had formerly doled out. Yet in Raeland's mind he was plotting his redemption, convincing himself that he would 'show them all', one way or another. His skills favoured trade and negotiations, his quick tongue besting more than one visiting merchant. Soon he was proving an asset, so long as he was directed appropriately. Though in Neverwinter Raeland's gib was too well known, and often his words no matter how sincere fell on deaf ears. His attempts to succeed took him to shadier brokers, using pseudonyms and false identities as he worked with people who had never met him. Underhand dealings turned quick profits for dubious means and Raeland's face was starting to become known to a few dealers in the darker markets. Yet it was not long before his mother's keen eye uncovered accounting discrepancies and again Raeland's feet were pulled out from under him as he crashed downward.

His father aghast at what his son was doing in the family name and after a heated argument sent Raeland away from the city, ostensibly to work for as an agent in Daggerford far to the south. It was a scant few days on the road down to Waterdeep that the caravan - yes, a caravan, his stupid father making him travel by road rather than the short and far more comfortable ship voyage - encountered traders of the less than savoury sort, men who were known to Raeland from previous dealings. Though his father would have declined their wares, Raeland held no such moral standards. Their 'freshly acquired' relics from a forgotten ruin were of fine quality and uncommon design. Indeed, one item in particular appealed to the young man so much that he dipped into his own purse, by accident, to acquire it.

The rapier was a beautiful weapon, the basket guard inlaid with crossing runic symbols that seemed familiar to Raeland. He became besotted by the blade, quite out of character, and rarely let is leave his side. The trip was long and Raeland took efforts to stop in villages and hamlets, spinning tales of his wares - inflating their esteem and their value. He took the chance to improve his bladework on those quiet evening, remembering the duel now in a different light. When the caravan eventually arrived in Waterdeep, Raeland took straight to the University libraries, studying the runes trying to find where he had seen them before. He lingered long over the inscription, long enough that a message reached him of his father's ire for his delays and dalliances. The note informed Raeland that his lines of finance and entitlement to the family assets were severed, and that a more reliable agent would relieve Raeland of the caravan responsibilities. It mattered not to Raeland, for his research bore fruit, a name... Diancastra

Raeland now looks up at the sky, it is getting dark but he is not far from his destination. The village of Nightstone, not the high society that Raeland is used to but rumour has it that the High Steward is a respected noble, and others of noble families stop within the walls whilst hunting in the nearby forests. For a man divest of his family wealth, new faces and circles are just what he needs. He rides with a fresh confidence about him, he is no longer the boy that he had been, but a man with a purpose and a touch of something else...