Well, I guess this will be more of a eulogy for my now deceased AL character. Dragonborn vengeance paladin with the outlander background, died at the hands of Arkhan the Cruel in Avernus after the DM said the group was too large, and somebody was going to have to bow out of the game. I elected to go out in a blaze of glory.
Bharash came from a small mountain village, the type that you won't find on most maps. His parents had retired there after years of adventuring to raise a family, far away from the wars and politics that had dominated so much of their lives. He grew up knowing little of his parents history. He knew that the sword above the fireplace was his mother's, and the fire that burned within was usually conjured by his father, but they never spoke of their past. So young Bharash grew up innocent, in a rural village where trouble always seemed far away. He made his living as a fur trapper, but one fateful day, his entire world was upended.
While out checking his trap lines, he noted that one had not yielded for several weeks, so he made the decision to scout a new location, gather in his traps, and reset them. When he returned to the village 2 days later, he found it in ruins. The buildings were still smoldering, and bodies lined the streets. He searched, but there were no survivors. He gathered what he could from the rubble, and set off for the city, intent on reporting the attack to the local lord.
With that done, he spent months, travelling from town to town, city to city, taking odd jobs to get by. One day, he saw a posting requesting able bodied men to act as escort for a fugitive being returned to Elturel for trial. He was in the city when it was sucked into Avernus (how I justified my level 1 character turning up mid campaign). Before meeting with the party, his life was saved by the paladin who had led the prisoner transport. With his dying breath the paladin had gifted his holy symbol to Bharash and told him that Helm was still watching over him, and he had a role yet to play.
He joined up with a group of adventurers, escaped the city, travelled across the twisted hellscape of Avernus battling devils, werebeasts, and undead. He narrowly escaped death at the hands of a narzugon, and a white dragon. He saved several members of his party from certain death in the bone brambles, but ultimately, he fell to Arkhan's axe. Enraged by the death of his friend, he challenged Arkhan to single combat, trusting in his god to grant him an impossible victory. Alas, despite his valor, faith, and cunning, he proved no match for the champion of Tiamat.
i need help making a backstory i would really appreciate it i am a aasimar ranger variant beast master
I did a quick one for an Aasimar Ranger - not sure what conclave, but he'll do a Rogue dip for assassin at some point. He's based on the lead from the tv show Grimm that was on a few years ago. His name is Saethydd Grymm (Saethydd is basically "archer" in Welsh.) He has the Inheritor background. Go back one page, and you can see it there.
Haven't played yet. 1st characte is a half-orc barbarian trying to make a back story. Need feedback.
Grew up in a pack of half-orc. At between age 3-4 my entire clan was killed by _______. I roamed aimlessly for 4 days on the verge of death when a party of nomadic goliaths can across me. The 2nd in command insists that they put me out of my misery and keep heading to the next mountain, but the tribe mother (unable to bare kids of her own) begged for my life. The tribal chief love his wife and wanted to see her happy, so much to the clans dismay, he allowed it. On the condition I received no special treatment. leaving each goliath with the responsibility to earn a place in the tribe or die trying. They named me Maveith Paavu. I lived a sheltered life till the age of 11. The tribe was attacked by the _____. The same group that killed my clan year prior. The goliaths was fierce and fought hard. Less then half the tribe slain. Unfortunately my new mother was amongst them. I recieved the nickname twice-orphaned. With out goliath mother there life was very hard for me. I was expected to keep up as we traveled from mountain to mountain. Also the tribe started training in combat heavily at this time, vowed that they would never be attacked again. Me being much smaller and weaker then the other kids my age low life was a struggle. My 1st training sword was taller then I was. The other kids took full advantage of my size. I have to grow bigger, stronger, and tougher then all the others or be left behind. I would drag this massive sword around till one day I was able to lift it. I became stronger and stronger. Till one day at the age of 19 the tribe chief feel I'll And mysterious died in the night. The new chief would now be the strongest best fighter in the group. Which was the son of the former 2nd in command. I couple years my senior. His 1st act as leader was to abolish me from the group and set me out on my own. I vowed revenge on all that ever wronged me. That is where my adventure begins.
Heya, I have one I've had for a while for Brigette, my barbarian/fighter:
Brigette Thorfinhilde Irontrunk ------------------------------------ The old ones say the mountains shook when the wind blew and the thunders came, when the period known as the Great Storms hit the Far-Peak mountain ranges the Goliath people had called home for millennia. Hurricane-force storms battered the passes and made life generally a living hell for over thirty years, and for such time there was not a single clear day. Many a clan of Goliath had lived there, and many a clan faded into the ice and snow. The tribes who survived fought each other over dwindling resources, losing members faster than they could train new ones. After a time, one by one, the great tribes fell, until the Hammerhand tribe stood as the last group of Goliath in the mountains. By default, they became 'Lords Of The Mountains', but as what little food and supplies they had dried up the victory seemed Pyrrhic as best. It was into this violent tumult that Brigette Hammerhand was born. Brigette was born to the chief of the tribe, Orphos the Tall, and a half-goliath half-elf healer, Mykionia. Mykionia was much beloved by the tribe, having taught them basic medicine and some handy agricultural tips, and her marriage and subsequent pregnancy by Orphos was treated as a sign of great prosperity. The baby's mane of flowing red hair was also considered a sign of luck, as Goliath are typically hairless. The tribe took this as a indicator of great things to come, and for a few years Brigette's life came to symbolize hope and renewal for the ailing clan. Unfortunately, what signs were predicted and what signs came to pass were a touch different. Mykonia died not long into Brigette's childhood, along with a significant number of other Hammerhand warriors due to a mysterious plague. Naturally, Brigette had nothing to do with this (in a sad stroke of irony, it was Orphos himself who unknowingly infected his tribe with the bubonic plague), but the happiness around the young girl's life quickly turned into sadness, then anger. The tribe quietly blamed her for bringing the plague back to them, thinking she had been playing in some of the sealed off tunnel areas, and they not-so-indirectly foisted the blame for the death of their beloved healer on her daughter. This feeling would weigh on her shoulders for a very long time, along with a few other feelings of special isolation she could not yet identify. She grew up under that specter, forever trying to make up for a misfortune she had no part in. Over much time, she grew to be very hard and cold, and after years and years of having the shit kicked out of her by the other members of the clan she resolved to become tougher and more fierce then they were. Brigette spent two decades doing just that, fostering a talent for brutal brawling as well as fighting with polearms and greatswords, the signature and traditional weapons of the Hammerhand clan. For the Hammerhand were the 'great and noble warrior-folk of the mountain', and theirs was the task of 'defending the ancestral lands'. The particular Hammerhand definition of "defense" meant raiding passing settlers, camps, small villages, pillaging and stealing what wasn't tied down and edible. The Hammerhand were malicious by nature; they would either massacre everyone they found or capture a few and let them slowly freeze to death in the snows, wandering around naked and in pain as they succumbed. None were spared, the old and infirm, the young and the defenseless, all were given the sword or the cold. Every warrior had to take part in these raids, and those who dared to show restraint were either scorned, exiled or simply executed. The strong survived, and their needs had to come first. Brigette excelled at raiding, showing a natural acuity for the hit-and-run guerrilla tactics invented by her father, and like the others in her clan she showed a natural predilection for her own brand of cruelty. She liked it, too, she took a sadistic joy in the brutalities she inflicted, especially when she utilized her ability to seem kind to bait (she would use her unique hair and clearly feminine face, rare for Goliath, to draw in the children and use them as leverage against the travelers). But always, in the back of her mind, there would be this voice, this nagging feeling of.......she was never sure. The moment she would think of it, it would vanish. She was never sure what it was, and she never liked being unsure. One day, the snows stopped, and for the first time in her life and the lives of many of her kin, she saw the sun. At first, it scared her; thinking she had been set aflame she initially panicked and threw herself into the snow, but over time came to relish basking in the warmth in her spare time. She was, for a very long time, the only one courageous enough to venture outside. Having been raised as the chief's daughter and heir apparent to the leadership of the tribe, she could never turn down a challenge even from those who would never wander outside themselves. As she looked over the mountains, she gazed down into the distant canyons and valleys and spied the smallest bit of green, a color she had no familiarity with and yet found beautiful. Reporting this back to her father, the clan decided to move to the more habitable locale (at this point some of the less restrained folk had resorted to cannibalism), and this "green-place" seemed to be just so. Her father named this new place "The Great Redoubt" and hailed her a hero, affirming his confidence in her and establishing the tribe's. Brigette had finally, after so long, began to shake the blame and resentment of her 'curse'. Such an accomplishment made the young warrior brave, and solidified her fortitude for her next move. During her walks, she had begun to think and ponder, as she was alone with her thoughts for the first time in her life. For most of her life, she had felt a certain psychological remove from her people and their culture of "band together and breed". Her walks, full as they were of introspection, revealed to herself a large detail about her own predilections. Shortly before the tribe's journey to the Green Place, she approached her father and asked that, as opposed to a husband, she take a wife. Orphos did not take this well in the slightest; amid his ranting and raving about her non-commitment to her people and the sheer disgust he felt at his "aberration" of a daughter, he came very close to un-naming her as heir, which would mean immediate death. Brigette swallowed her pride and most of her dignity, stomach roiling in sheer anger and hatred, but she was smart enough to keep her tongue in check. Orphos gave her an ultimatum: secure us a new home, or die with your desires. She led the tribe, navigating through the mountains into the Green Place, her exterior composed and stately but her interior alight with doubt and anger. The villages would forever rue the day that the Hammerhand descended upon the valley, and began weeks after weeks of horrors. The Goliath roamed through the lowlands, burning and pillaging as they went, often to extreme excess. Whole towns disappeared overnight, with various warriors and even Orphos himself acting out their darkest and most cruel desires. Brigette was carried along by the tide, and did what she had to do, oftentimes bloodying her own hands in the suffering of the locals to prove herself to her father. Oftentimes, the tribe would target the children, but now would make a special point of hunting them down brutally and swiftly, as people would stop thinking about their own safety and make mistakes. Externally, this didn't seem to bother Brigette: the more they made mistakes, the more mistakes could be exploited for tactical benefit. But inside, the girl was torn; the more she hurt and killed, the more confused and angry she felt. The few times the valley-folk had reached their camp (and even once successfully defeated most of the warriors present, the raiding party having been out at the time), they left the infirm alone, and even did not take the supplies and food from the mothers with children. They didn't harm ours, why do we harm theirs? What makes them different than us? The valley-folk could get away with leeching the tactical benefit of targeting the weak folk, but they did not: they seemed to mercy and even prize the young. Internally, this question nagged on her mind, and every person she hurt or killed, every life she snuffed out, every squealing child she ripped away from their screaming mother forever, every drop of blood she spilled, the questions returned. Brigette began paying attention: noting the little things like the sheer selflessness of the defenders, the fact that some would not fight but try to negotiate. In an attempt to pacify these thoughts during a raid, she quietly let a family live, calling out an empty room to her tribemates as the family quivered in fear. This did not work, and backfired: more and more questions sprang to her mind, and only got worse as she occasionally let people run into the bush, or told people to stay down and lay still after appearing to slash them. She was confused, fundamentally so. This was how she was raised, violence is how we survive. For one to thrive, another must suffer. This simple fact is what she was taught growing up, this couldn't be wrong? Could it? Confusion gave way to sadness, sadness gave way to hatred of herself. One night she awoke in a cold sweat, the screams of those she had murdered in her ears as she clicked onto her own truth. The Hammerhand were the monsters she was always warned about as a child, and she was one of them, leering at the world from behind her mask. She spent the next night and day in her room, nigh inconsolable as she thought, harder and harder. When she emerged from her lodgings, she appeared the same to her father and tribemates: strong, poised, ready to fight. Inside her mind, however, was something she had not felt for a very long time: calm. The next night, the Hammerhand raided a small mining town. An easy target; with most of the stronger folk still deep in the mine with only a paltry force to defend the civilian populace, it was a slaughter. Brigette stayed by her father's side, impressing him with the complete authority to which she took to commanding the warriors. She led a small band of them into the town's bank, and urged the warriors to stay outside and check the perimeter for any possible escapees hiding in the bank. Once Brigette and Orphos were in the bank, searching a vault for treasures, she turned on him. With rapid precision, she ran her spear through her father's chest, snapping it off at the middle and stabbing Orphos with the broken end so hard she pinned him to the wall. She made sure he was dead, working his neck vertebrae apart as he struggled to breath. Brigette had seen enough of her people's doings, and knowing how her brethren worked, she knew killing Orphos would create a power struggle that would render the Hammerhand useless forever. She walked out, saying her father was waiting inside and would be outside in a bit. Brigette wandered off into the town, surveying the damage her kinsfolk had done. A small movement in an upstairs window caught her attention, and she decided to investigate. After commanding the other warriors to stay outside (they were barely listening at this point, as news of Orphos' death had broke and the infighting had already began, resembling a riot) she entered, finding much of the house abandoned and ransacked. She went upstairs, searching for the strange fluttering at the window before hearing a muffled cry in the roof above her. The process took her some time, but she found a hidden hatch for the attic and clambered up. There she saw an interesting sight; a raven-haired elf, terrified and attempting to defend her unborn children, brandishing a greatsword the height of her body. Brigette made a snap decision: not only did she want to end the horrors of her clan, she wanted to begin a different road. Telling the elf (Esmerelda as she later learned) to pack whatever she had left and sling it in her bag, Brigette smuggled her out the back door and into the woods. Over a month they traveled together, attempting to put as many klicks between her and the Goliath as possible, Brigette learning a rather substantial amount from the grateful elf. The pair eventually found their way downriver to a small town, an industrious place the Goliath had not found their way to quite yet. And with reason: the town was filled to the brim with King's Guard. After being promptly arrested and thrown in a holding cell, Brigette sat for a few days, waiting and thinking she deserved every bit of her inevitable execution. The Guard brought a different person, however: Esmerelda. She profusely thanked Brigette for allowing her and her unborn children to live, and told her that she had worked out a deal with the Guard. The Guard would allow Brigette to live and leave, in exchange for the location of any Goliath in the lowlands. Without so much as a second thought, Brigette turned on her former tribe, abandoning even her name, only asking that they spare and relocate the young and the innocent (few that those might have been). Esmerelda gave her three things before she left, as the Guard rode off to dole out some much needed justice. A kiss, which Brigette returned in kind. Her sword, as she felt Brigette would get more use out of it than her family ever would, as Esmerelda's family had wiped themselves out some time ago. And finally, an idea for a new name: Irontrunk, after the name of the grove she had first discovered daylight in. Brigette wandered on, her sword on her back, supplies in her bag, and a thirst for a different path instilled in her. She wandered south, crossing hill and stream, occasionally coming to trouble near towns as a single Goliath was never trusted, but she made her way along. After months of travel, to which a Guard rider found her and gave her word of her tribe's demise (slaughter to the last man, her response being simply a cold, hateful stare), she found her way to a vast expanse of water, the size of which she never dreamed possible. After bartering promises of ship-work for passage, she set off across the sea, and every morning she would stand on the deck to watch the sun rise over the waves, a soft smile astride her tattooed face. Brigette is a stoic individual who is still figuring out how to fit into a world she barely knew existed. She is kind, unless she needs to not be. She is gentle, unless she needs to not be. The big burly gal has a predilection for barbecued meats, strong mead, and a good fair fight. She also enjoys acting justified vengeance on those who would harm the weak and innocent. Brigette still thinks she's a monster, but even a monster can do something decent from time to time, as she puts it. And after a very long time, she has finally accepted herself, but refuses to forgive herself, knowing that she has a lot more work to do to make even a dent in the direction of making things right.
I created this character for a campaign that got canceled, (was and still is my very first character creation attempt)
Noximilien (with the scared eye) or Nox is a changeling assassin. In his youth, he was abandoned at an orphanage and raised by the kind old witch on the outskirts of a small town, she taught him about his kind and his gift. As soon as he was old enough, he struck out on his own doing mercenary work and acquiring “lost” item for a price. One day in his free time he went back to visit the old one, that’s when he met her, a pale nameless little girl that was recently abandoned at the orphanage. Feeling sorry for thing, he named her Luna and soon adopted her as his daughter. They lived not too far from the town, Nox doubled as an eleven hunter selling pelt to the locals. One day, on one of his trips, he was jumped and captured and dragged far from home by slavers, but he managed to escape and headed back.
In this setting changelings are very rare and feared by most, even more so in the minds of simple folks, and this small town was ruled by a cruel and ambitious lesser lord who instilled fear and superstition upon his subjects. During Nox’s absence, man broke into his house but panicked when he saw Luna and ran right back out, screaming “MONSTER!” as he fled. Word quickly spread about the “Thing” that lived in the huntsman’s house. By the time Nox got back, he found her, his “little moon”. By order of the local Duke she was flayed alive, nailed to a pole and left in the outskirts as a warning to all monsters who would prey on the citizens. In his grief he attempted to murder the intruder that had alerted the guards but was caught and imprisoned.
Days turned into months, all Nox could do was hope for death. Then one nigh he received a visitor, an odd man hidden under a cloak of displacement stood outside his cell and offered him something he could not refuse. “In my hand is a small white gem” he crocked “ have many like it but unlike this one they are far more wondrous” Nox shrouded but the man continued “it is fine if you don’t speak, you need only listen, I know what you are and seen what they did to your kin. In the depths of your heart, you seek vengeance, and this can provide it” the man explained that in order to get what he seeks, he must sign a “contract” with the gem. He will be granted strength needed if he feeds it lives taken by fury. The man claimed that he did not need an answer now, but it was his choice. He placed the gem on the floor and left.
That night, Nox took the gem accepting the pact. As soon as it touched it, his hand it burned, it sank into his skin, embedding itself in into his flesh. Being weak as he was, he passed out. Morning came, as he woke to his surprise the gem traveled from his hand and was now embedded in his forehead. While he sat there, he noticed someone in his cell. There she was, his daughter, skinless, bloody, staring at him with pained, accusing eyes. In his shock he did notice that a guard had opened the door, as he reached for him, Nox in a fit of rage to strangle him. The gem had turned from a snow white to a soft pink. Later he was transfers to another, larger city where he served the rest of his sentence and was freed.
Unknown to Nox the man in the cloak was a demon who has been using the duke’s dungeon to recruit vessels for other lesser demons. Nox’s gem housed the soul of a demon who loves fury, with every kill born of rage the demon’s power grows until it is strong enough to take control of the host body, trapping the victim’s soul in the gem. To motivate him, it causes momentary hallucinations of his dead daughter blaming him for not saving her when she needed him the most when she would never do so. Now he his alone, far from his target doing mercenary work for coin not knowing what will fail first his mind or his soul.
Here's the backstory for my Levistus Tiefling paladin, Rev! This is my first shot at an actual, in-depth character backstory so I figured I'd post it here before I send it off to my DM.
Feel free to leave your thoughts/constructive criticism! Is it too long? I'm still relatively new to the game so let me know if something doesn't add up in my lore or geography (I basically just used a lot of this site and Google searches to fill in the gaps haha)
Without further ado, I present...Rev!
I was born Kifre Greyblade, but say that name and you’re dead. You can call me Reverence. Or better yet, call me Rev.
I suppose my story begins on the unfortunate day of my birth. I was born in a normal house, in a normal town, to normal human parents with two normal human sons. Everything was blissfully mundane...until the day I popped out with two little horns and a tail.
There was no knowledge of infernal blood on either side. My father blamed my mother. My mother blamed my father. The town blamed them both.
My entrance to this world can best be likened to a blanket of misfortune laid upon my family. News of the tiefling child spread fast in our city of Darromar, and none were too happy to hear of my arrival. As I grew, our fortunes lessened. My father’s tavern began to sit empty for days. Less and less people seemed to need my mother for tailoring. My eldest brother was denied squiredom.
It wasn’t so bad, I guess, being outcasted in your own home. As time went on I grew used to the stares. It didn’t bother me as much when mothers hugged their children closer as I passed, or shopkeepers gave me distrustful looks as I entered their doors. I even learned to ignore the hint of fear in my father’s eyes each time he looked upon my little blue face. But still, no matter how old I grew, a part of me still longed for that which I had been missing my whole life. A sense of belonging. A true family.
And then I found them. The Gutter Guardians, they called themselves. When I joined their ranks, they were a small militia of about ten, operating from a headquarters beneath the Drinking Dragon. I was barely thirteen, but they took me in anyway. They fed me, trained me, educated me, accepted me. For the first time in my short life, I was judged on my character, not my heritage. It didn’t matter if I had horns as long as I could swing a sword.
The Gutter Guardians’ intentions were justifiable at first. We targeted the rich, the nobles, the corrupt salesmen. Our purpose was to redistribute the wealth of the city; to take from those who had too much and give to those with none. To level the playing field, if you will.
But soon our members began to fall into the hands of the greed in which we originally sought to destroy. I think the temptation was just too much for some.
Our numbers grew rapidly over the next five years, while our moral code diminished. We took all instead of some. We kept the wealth for ourselves. Some, I think, just liked the violence. We fought, we stole, we murdered.
We did things in retrospect that I am not proud of, but I was young and impressionable. I had grown close with my comrades. They had become my family- I would have done anything for them. I would have died for them. In fact, I did.
You see, things got out of hand. Our numbers grew so rapidly we couldn’t properly train our newcomers. They were handed a weapon and told to “get out there and take back what is ours!”. It made us reckless; messy. The city watch caught on.
They came for us in the middle of the night. We were at a disadvantage- about seven had been killed before the majority of us had even had time to rub the sleep from our eyes. I rose from my cot just as a pair of guards were closing in on two of our newer members. They couldn’t have been more than eight, maybe nine. They were kids off the street, training in exchange for wardship. They were just kids, looking for a steady meal; looking for a place to belong...like I had once been. They were not responsible for the mistakes we had made. So I stepped in front of them.
The guards threatened to cut me down with them if I didn’t move. I’m surprised they even humored me that much- I was weaponless, defenseless, and bound to fall to them or one of their own soon enough. I like to think my hellsent good looks intimidated them for a moment. But deep inside, I knew it was hopeless. My two tiny blue fists against their chainmail?
I turned to the kids and told them to run. “I’ll buy you some time!” I shouted- I can remember their faces, white as alabaster, eyes wide in fright. Those faces come to me in my dreams still. I turned from them and took my stance. It was about three seconds later I felt the slash of a greatsword along my chest.
And that was it. Blackness. The empty void.
Until it wasn’t empty anymore. There was a blinding light, and suddenly a man cast in ethereal golden light appeared before me. My first thought was of the children, but the man smiled knowingly, and replied without me ever needing to speak: “They escaped. Your sacrifice granted them safety, tiefling.”
I can’t tell you the details of what transpired in this suspension between worlds. That which occured is deeply personal to me, but I will offer you the abridged version.
The man who appeared before me revealed himself to be Torm, The True and The Loyal Fury, the God of duty, righteousness, loyalty and law. He knew of my true intentions with the militia and the desire to do right that subsisted within my heart; the same heart that pumped the blood of Levistus. He had seen my sacrifice and chosen to resurrect me so that I may uphold his justice and stand with the light against the darkness: against those plagued by rapacity, greed, selfishness and dishonor, and against all forces of evil wherever they may lurk.
I had never considered myself to be a woman of worship before this day. It seemed contradictory to me, given my bloodline; an alatreist I suppose you could have called me. But the feeling I had when I awoke...it was like I had been reborn. My head seemed clearer. The world seemed brighter. For the first time, it felt as though my eyes had opened to the possibility of true happiness. How could I deny my calling, when it had granted me this new lease on life?
And so I returned to the rubble that was once the headquarters I called my home, gathered what few belongings I could salvage, and set off on this new life. I walked a great length through the Spires of Mir, the time of which I spent with a head full of doubts and an internal diametric conundrum. Quite literally, an angel and devil on my shoulders.
“But what do you owe them? Nothing! You desire to protect the same people who mistreated you, who oppressed you, who treated you with such a disregard for basic decency?” “But you were chosen! Torm has saved you from eternal damnation for a purpose!” “And who’s this Torm guy anyway? Since when do you take orders from big glowing men in the sky?”
I wish I could say that coming upon Barakmordin and my subsequent training with the paladin sector which made base there had cleansed my head of doubts, but I still struggle with my uncertainties each and every day. Even now I cannot say that I understand why I, a tiefling girl of humble birth whose blood is tainted with that of the Rogue Archdevil Levistus, was chosen for this holy quest.
The paladins that taught me could offer me no answer that eased my troubles. They, too, had been called upon by Torm, but they had come to him in different ways. Each had their own reasoning for walking the righteous path. Though they could not answer my questions in this aspect, they did teach me all there is to know about the ways of the paladins. They trained me in battle, magic, survival- or rather, honed the skills I had already and tuned them to serve my new purpose.
It was at the end of my time with these paladins that I took the name Reverence. Reverence, a deep respect for something or someone. I found that was what I wanted most from my journey on this new path- respect. But it was also what I aspired to embody; respect for all of pure intent, and respect in return.
And so I use this new name, wear the mark of Torm adorned on my shield, and travel the lands with the knowledge that each wrong I right, the malice in my own heart dwindles more and more.
I didn’t ask for this. But I’m going to make damn sure I do well by it.
And here is what I'm basing her appearance off of, except subtract the glowy sorcerer hands and add a shield and longsword.
Looking for backstory help! I am starting a new campaign (Tomb Of Annihilation) and I thought a Firbolg Druid would be pretty cool. Background hasn't been finalized yet but i am thinking Outlander.
The campaign is starting in Baulder's Gate, I am thinking something along the lines that the Forrest his clan is living in is dying (not sure by what) and he is being sent to find a cure or a way to reverse the effect...
I am not sure how much my Druids backstory will help you form yours, but I figured I'd post it. He is a Circle of the Moon Druid with 3 levels of Totem Barbarian. I worked the Barbarian path into his backstory. It is a little long lol, most of my backstories tend to become lengthy as I get into the character.
Character: Aberyn - Circle of the Moon Druid/Path of the Totem Warrior Barbarian
Put your spoiler here.
Aberyn grew up in a small settlement just outside High Forest. His father was a hunter and his mother an herbalist. At a young age, Aberyn showed a great affinity towards nature and especially the animals in the surrounding forest. When he wasn’t picking herbs or mixing potions with his mother or learning about tracking and hunting with his father, Aberyn could be found playing with squirrels high up in the trees.
When Aberyn was about 12 his settlement was overrun with sickness. His mother worked tirelessly to aid the ill but could do little more than temper their suffering. Eventually, Aberyn’s father fell ill and passed away. Word was sent out to a local Druid Circle asking for aid. A Druid healer by the name of Morvin answered the call but by the time Morvin arrived more than half of the settlement, including Aberyn’s mother, had been taken by the sickness. The sick were quickly quarantined while the healthy set up a camp not far from their home. Morvin used his considerable skills but could not do much for the dying.
With his parents gone and feeling the need to help, Aberyn dedicated his waking hours to do all he could for the survivors. He picked herbs, mixed simple potions, hunted and gathered food and tended to minor injuries as best he could. In the end, only a handful of survivors were left. Morvin took a liking to Aberyn and could see that he had a deep connection to nature and the surrounding animals. Morvin decided to ask the boy to join him and study under him and his Circle. Having no family left and feeling excited about the possibility of becoming a Druid, Aberyn agreed to go with Morvin.
Over the years Aberyn studied to be a Druid. With a strong connection to the animals of the forest, Aberyn focused on becoming a Moon Druid. He spent countless hours wandering the forest in search of new and interesting animals to learn about. One afternoon Morvin was called away to visit a Barbarian village near the mountains to the west. Aberyn took the opportunity to travel with him in hopes that he would see more interesting creatures on his journey.
Throughout their travels, Aberyn and Morvin stopped at several towns, villages and large cities. Aberyn had grown so accustomed to living deep in the forests that he hardly remembered what it was like to be around so many people. He forgot how rude and self-absorbed city folk could be. One day, as Morvin was packing up his horse, a thin hooded man that smelled of ale and stale tobacco, bumped into him. The man mumbled as he staggered away soon breaking into a full-on run. Aberyn called after him and was quickly shushed by Morvin. “It isn’t worth it boy”. Aberyn smiled wide and said, “would it be worth it if you knew the man just stole all your money?” With a sigh, Morvin started running in the direction of the thief and told Aberyn to circle around and try to cut him off. As Aberyn turned a corner sure that he would run into the thief he was met with a small crowd of people and the sounds of yelling. Morvin was in the middle of the crowd with the thief and two other men attempting to talk his way out of a fight. Determined to protect his master, Aberyn pushed through the crowd. As he was about to break through the crowd, he felt a sharp pain in his side. Looking down he saw a hand clenching a knife covered in blood. A whisper filled his ears “Was it worth it boy?” Aberyn fell to the floor clutching his wound. As he looked in the direction of his master he saw 3 men kicking at Morvin’s prone body. Aberyn used the last of his strength to call out for help. He pleaded with the people in the crowd but his pleas fell on uncaring ears. Aberyn gazed at as many people as he could, hoping to meet the eyes of someone, anyone that would help. He met fear and shame-filled eyes mostly. Others had a horrible delight glistening in them. Aberyn couldn’t understand how these people could be enjoying the sight of a man being beaten to death and why no one was helping.
A deathly chill filled Aberyn’s body as he helplessly watched his master’s lifeless form being struck over and over. As his vision started to fade, he saw a man walk up to the 3 men beating Morvin. Words were clearly exchanged and the 3 men stepped back. Aberyn’s consciousness was slipping in and out. The man spoke to the crowd now but Aberyn only heard a jumble of words…” enough...lesson...misery”. Aberyn’s mind couldn’t fully piece together what the man had said but he figured he was helping since the thief and his two friends had stopped attacking Morvin. As Aberyn blinked heavily, his vision fading, his last sight was one of horror. The man that stopped the assailants kneeled down over Morvin’s body clutching a familiar bloodied knife in one hand. He peered around the crowd with a grin and stabbed Morvin. Aberyn’s thoughts screamed out but his body made no sounds or motions and within seconds he was unconscious.
When Aberyn woke he learned that days had gone by while healers worked tirelessly to save his life. His saviors confirmed that Morvin was dead and that no arrests were made by the guards. Apparently, no one would tell the guards who had beaten and killed Morvin. Aberyn was sickened by this city and the people in it. It wasn’t just this city either. Thinking back to all the towns and cities he had been to, he realized that most of them were rude and greedy and only looked out for themselves. Aberyn couldn’t wait to get back to the forest, to be surrounded by nature and the creatures that dwelled within it.
After several restless weeks of healing, Aberyn was finally able to leave. Setting out to find Morvin’s killers, he started asking around. As more and more people feigned ignorance, Aberyn’s rage built. One night while in a seedy back-alley tavern, Aberyn caught the scent of a man that he recognized. It was the thief! Without words, Aberyn walked up to the thief while casting Primal Savagery on himself. His fingers turned to claws, his face turned wolf-like and his teeth were razor sharp. He pounced on the man, biting down on his shoulder while raking his newly formed claws across the man’s back. As Aberyn pulled his blood filled face away from the thief he let out a visceral snarl. “Where is your master! Where is the man that killed Morvin!” Aberyn’s voice had a deep guttural edge to it. He wasn’t sure if it was from his spell or the deep rage welling up from within. Either way, the effect was such that the bleeding man before him, pissed his pants in fear while stuttering nonsense. Aberyn grabbed the man’s bleeding shoulder and squeezed hard, digging his claws into his flesh. The man cried out and Aberyn snarled at him, leaned in and with a whisper said “If you didn’t tell me who killed my master and where I can find him then I will turn in to a wolf and ******* eat you! I’ll start with your feet, then your hands. All the while working my way slowly towards the center of your body. It will be slow and extremely agonizing”. Aberyn’s eyes met the thief’s and the man knew that without a doubt Aberyn was serious. The thief began to spew information. Who killed Morvin, where he hangs out, where he lives, why the people of the city just stood there and why the guards did nothing. Aberyn didn’t care about most of it, he made note of the man's name, Rellin. As Aberyn stood, presumably to leave, the thief started thanking him for not killing him. Aberyn’s rage was still bubbling. He leaned down and said, “If it wasn’t for your thievery, my master and I would be finishing up our mission and heading back to our home right now.” As Aberyn stood up again his eyes met the thief’s and the man knew that he was about to die. The man didn’t cry out, he simply shut his eyes as Aberyn’s claws raked across his throat, tearing a bloody chunk of it away.
As Aberyn turned to leave, he released his spell, his features turning back to human. No one made any attempt to stop him, most tried to avoid even looking at him. Just before exiting, deep bellowing laughter filled the tavern. All eyes turned towards the source. A giant of a man stood in the corner, wide grin on his face and a large flagon of mead in his hand. “Ho Ho Ho, by the gods that was exciting, boy. I didn’t know Druids had a little Barbarian in them. I mean I’ve known a few Druid ladies that had a little Barbarian in them if ya know what I mean”. He winked as he bellowed once more. “HA HA HA! You’d make a fine member of my clan boy. The name is Drogen. My clan is at the base of the mountains to the west.” Aberyn’s eyes flashed with remembrance and Drogen nodded as he continued. “From the sound of it, if it wasn’t for that pant pissing **** of a thief and the Redbrands controlling this city, you and your master would have come to our aid. We lost five children to the sickness that passed through our settlement. With your master's healing, they might have survived. You did right by killing that ****. Rage can be a powerful ally or a deadly foe boy. If you find that you need someone to show you how to harness your rage, come see me, I owe you that much”. Drogen raised his flagon. “Till then boy! May your claws stay sharp and your wits even sharper” Aberyn nodded and walked out without a word.
Rellin lived at the edge of the city. His home was fairly large and adorned with expensive furnishings. Rellin sat by a large fireplace as he sipped from a bottle, not a care in the world. As he sat drinking the sound of tiny padded feet caught his attention. Looking to his right he saw a small black cat walking towards him. “Hey, puss puss, how’d you get in here?” Rellin stood and turned towards the cat his back towards the fire. He took a step forward and crouched down. “Come on you sneaky little ****, come closer so I can snap your neck and throw you in my fire,” He said in a sing-song voice you would use on a small child. “I ******* hate cats”. The black cat cocked its head to the side and started to approach Rellin. As it got closer the cat got larger and more human-like till it was a full-sized man. The man looked familiar, It was the Druid he thought. Panic set in as he stood and threw his bottle. The Druid swatted the bottle away and muttered something. His features started to turn to that of a beast’s and then his razor-sharp claws were slashing out. Rellin managed to block with his arm but now he had 4 deep cuts across his right forearm.
Aberyn growled at Rellin, “You killed my master!” Rellin replied “It was nothing personal kid, just business. Just like you, I have people I answer to, you know how it is. Being a Redbrand isn’t all fun and games but it certainly pays the bills and I have a fam ...” Aberyn snarled and lashed out raking Rellin across the arm and stomach with his razor-sharp claws. Rellin looked down towards his stomach, his blood seeping out. As he frantically tried to push his hands down on the wounds to stop the flow of blood leaving his body, he looked up just in time to see Aberyn’s wolf-like jaws biting down on his unprotected face. With a visceral grunt and the snap of his head, Aberyn tore half of Rellin ’s face off. The half of Rellin ’s jaw that was still attached started yapping up and down but no words spilled out, only blood and a sick gurgling sound. Aberyn’s rage had fully consumed his reason and when a scream sounded from behind him he turned and instinctively lashed out with his claws. The sight of a woman with three deep slashes to the neck broke him from his blind rage. Blood spurted from the wounds and from her mouth as she tried to speak. She dropped to her knees and keeled over. Aberyn watched as the bleeding woman clutched her round belly. Horror and shame set in as he realized that he had just killed Rellin ’s pregnant wife. At that moment Rellin’s body finally gave out and fell backward into the raging fireplace.
Aberyn turned into a cat again and made his way out of town. He looked back to see Rellin’s house completely engulfed in flames. He started to run as fast and as far as he could. He finally stopped in the middle of the forest to the West of the city. Aberyn curled up under a tree and wept for what seemed like hours, till he finally let exhaustion take him. Aberyn woke and immediately started making a camp. He needed shelter, food, water, and a fire. He couldn’t go back, he couldn’t be around people. Why would he want to be around them anyway? If the city folk helped Morvin none of this would have happened. If the guards did their job and arrested Rellin and these Redbrands he worked for, then none of this would have happened. He was better off just living in the forest alone, where no one could bother him, no one could let him down, where no one could leave him...again and where his rage couldn’t hurt anyone.
Aberyn spent a year in the forest alone. One day while hunting in wolf form an arrow pierced his hindquarter. Peering around he saw a man and a young boy with bows. The man was nocking a new arrow. Aberyn ran and pounced on the man biting down on his shoulder and clawing at his chest with his front paws. A wailing cry sounding from the right of him and something was hitting him in the head. Aberyn leaped off the man's now prone and unconscious body towards the young boy who had been whacking at Aberyn’s head with his bow. Just as his jaws were about to sink into the kid's flesh, Aberyn regained his senses and stopped. He looked at the boy and then the bleeding man on the ground. He realized that this was just a hunter and his boy. They thought Aberyn was a forest wolf and why wouldn’t they? This man was just teaching his boy how to hunt, just like Aberyn’s father taught him when he was young. Aberyn jumped off the boy and turned human. He started treating the boy's father as best he could. Once the man was stable he looked at the boy, fear and hatred looked back. Aberyn pulled the arrow out of the side of his upper thigh and then started building a fire. Aberyn waited by the fire till the man was conscious and explained what had happened. Aberyn didn’t wait for the man to say anything and just took off into the woods. Aberyn made his way back to his camp. “Even alone in the middle of the woods, I have to worry about hurting people,” He thought. Aberyn looked up and could see a large mountain looming above. He thought back to the Barbarian in the bar who offered to teach him to harness and control his rage. Maybe it was time to pay Drogen a visit.
Aberyn made his way to Drogen’s village. He learned that the Redbrand’s were trying to force the village into paying a tax for their “protection”. The sickness that took out 5 children and 12 adults were a result of the Barbarian village refusing to pay the tax. News of Rellin ’s death made it back to Drogen and Aberyn was hailed a hero of the village once they found out it was him that ended Rellin’s life. Aberyn told Drogen about Rellin’s wife and the hunter and his boy in the woods. He needed to control his rage. He needed Drogen’s help. Aberyn spent 3 years living just outside of the Barbarian village, training with Drogen and his people. They tried to get him to live within the village proper but Aberyn always refused. He would train and help out when needed but he never let himself become friends with any of the villagers.
Aberyn eventually made it back to his Circle and resumed his Druid training. He again chose to go deeper into the woods and live alone. He would return to train and take on jobs that his Circle assigned to him. When he was around too many people, he would think back to how no one would help him and his master. He would think about the innocent lives he took because of his anger and rage. He thought that he was better off living deep in the forest, alone. When he has to go off on missions and deal with people, he would drink to help manage his anxiety.
Aberyn has been summoned and must once again travel with others and visit crowded cities and villages. He must begrudgingly deal with the rude and selfish denizens of the land. Part of him, a very small part, wishes he could trust people, wishes he could embrace them like he used to. That part gets drowned out by the memories of his master's death and the face of the pregnant woman that died by his hand because of his rage. Maybe someday he can learn to trust again. Today is not that day.
Here we go. I have a pair of brothers. Tieflings. So I will say their backstory together. Mystik Bloodscar is the warlock and Luciferus Bloodscar is the Bloodhunter
Their village was massacred by someone they haven't discovered. He was behind a mask. They were young at the time. Mystik felt powerless, so he wished for power. A noble genie, efreeti answered his wishes. He only had to prove himself and sell his soul. To prove himself he had to use a dagger and kill a goblin helping in the massacre. He did it and pledged his soul by drawing a pentacle on his palm. The noble genie then pulled some strings and arranged the brothers to be separated. One was sent to a bloodhunter school and the other Mystik was sent to a noble family in Waterdeep. Although they had houses in every major city. He had to house his secret that he was a warlock by saying he was a wizard or sorceror. But he wished to find the killer of his village/family. He had no idea who did it. Spoiler: it was the mad mage. Luciferus however wished to live a simple life as a monster slayer of the order of the lycanthrope. But he could not fight fate. He was led to the city of waterdeep and found the dragon heist treasure. He made a group of friends and decided he wanted to continue in their adventures, monster hunting on the side. And there they were hunting down the mad mage. In the same city as Mystik yet they did not know that The Mad Mage killed their parents. Mystik wasnt in the group, he relaxed and conned people at inns, with his imp familiar. He would help when the party really needed him. Oh yes and Mystik sometimes brings treasure and special items to the noble genie.
Never really done backstories before and I'm new to D&d! Hope you like :)
Name - Gawain, Class - Fighter (Champion) Dex Background - Soldier
Gawain hails from a small village known as Redthorne, which lies on the western border of the City of Nidum. Gawain is a simple man that enjoys the simple things life women, ale and good hearty food; as well as working as part of the local militia for the village, growing up he wasn't the strongest but he was quick and nimble which became his strength.
One night..came a sound of drums and the cry of war echoed through the valley; as soon as the alarm bells could ring, an Orc raiding band were upon them, slaying the helpless children and women. Then came the clash of steel, as the militia force met the orcs...the battle for life began.
Nervously Gawain came onto the field, with his low experience of battle: he was luckily holding his own, blocking and dodging the slashing of swords and axes. In the distant the village of Redthorne could hear the elves arriving from the city and in that split second of turning off...Gawain was met with an iron fist to the face and as he fell, he drifted away like clouds in the sky.
Come morning Gawain awoke, dazed and confused; he saw the aftermath of war, ashes and smoke from the fire that burnt the village, embarrassed by what happened to him, he knew he was lucky to have survived thanks to the elves. For the next 6 years, Gawain and the village of Redthorne would be rebuilding along with the aid of the elves.
Now at the age of 26 and with Redthorne thriving once more, Gawain his setting off into the the world on a new adventure; hopefully with some of the training given by the elves, Gawain can protect himself and hopefully others along the road...
Good start for Gawain, but it might help to give him "motivation" to go on an adventure. Was a loved one slain? Was some relic taken from Redthorne? Did travelers come though town, escaping from an Orc attack on their town?
Sometimes the DM can use those little hooks to craft the gameplay later.
Thanks for the reply and input! I've tweaked my backstory where "Come morning Gawain awoke, dazed and confused; he saw the aftermath of war, ashes and smoke from the fire that burnt the village...then next to him laying peaceful was the lifeless body of his father, killed by the orc leader."
I let the dice and the PHB decide the trinket my Halfling "wrestler" (wrassler) would have. I rolled a 22.
It must be fate.
A Halfling wrestler with an action figure of himself.
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Human. Male. Possibly. Don't be a divider. My characters' backgrounds are written like instruction manuals rather than stories. My opinion and preferences don't mean you're wrong. I am 99.7603% convinced that the digital dice are messing with me. I roll high when nobody's looking and low when anyone else can see.🎲 “It's a bit early to be thinking about an epitaph. No?” will be my epitaph.
I've playing this guy since the 2017 Artificer; Alchemist and loved every minute of it.
"Dr. Hjalmar Gunderson has always been an eclectic man: whatever the norm was, he was focusing on something different. Growing up in his family’s large farming estate in Nesmyth, north of Marsember, while all his siblings and peers (not ‘friends’ as such) were doing normal kid things, Hjalmar was staring at the stars, pulling apart clocks or researching famous arcane inventions and inventors, dreaming his name would one day be on that list too.
In his late teens, Hjalmar received his calling, a scholarship to study at the University of Suzail. In true Gunderson form, he majored in engineering and minored in medicinal sciences and remained at the top of the cohort in both degrees for some time. Then the Sembian nation attacked. Being a staunch loyalist, he signed up instantly and luckily he was drafted into a special unit headed by one of his former professors, a gnome named Llewellyn D’Smond.
The unit was based outside Suzail in the fortified village of Kew. They were tasked with creating never before seen tactics and tools in warfare. Hjalmar performed strongly, and took the lead on several projects. This was much to the irritation of childhood best friend and no competitive fellow R&D member, Harro Le D’Gween, who harboured resentment and jealousy of Hjalmar’s success. Hjalmar soon began working as a field tester, getting sent into battle to test inventions and potions. He also spent a lot of time in the field as a medic, pursuing in interest in medicinal sciences. Close to the end of the war, Hjalmar was posted along the Dragonmere, when he was sent several prototypes of a new device for field testing. He recognised these as The Thundermonger, an arcane smokepowder weapon that he had helped Llewellyn develop.
After successful testing (albeit in a fairly quiet area of the war at that time), it was stamped for approval to go into wider production. One of the most climactic moments of the war saw these prototype Thundermongers used to devastating effect against a Sembian advance. A surprise push on the front where Hjalmar and his comrades were stationed was repelled, narrowly, and in many ways turned the fate of the war. All the prototypes were unfortunately lost, but the day was won. When Hjalmar returned to Kew, he found that Llewellyn had disappeared, Harro had taken over, and all the schemata and reports on the Thundermongers were gone. With the war over, Hjalmar could not stand to be in the same building as Harro. He resigned his commission and started an adventurer's guild with other veterans. He now hopes to track down wondrous items, catalogue them and hopefully learn enough to make his own name in the wondrous item creation business with grand dreams of opening up his own Wondrous Item and Potions Emporium... of course, the name needs some work, but he's a man of potions not poetry."
That was the beginning of the campaign's backstory. Harro has since gone rogue and begun selling the schemas and materials on the black market, including selling AND manufacturing Thundermongers to a Goblinoid army lead by hobgoblins who sacked the nearby city of Arabel and became one of our campaign's main BBEGs, killing me twice on separate occasions using an enchanted sniper version. While escaping from the sacking of Arabel as we were severely outnumbered and the Purple Knight/Humanoid army was falling rapidly, we accidentally found ourselves in the feywild for three weeks, when we finally arrived back it was actually three years later, Suzail had vanished leaving nothing but a crater and the Hobgoblin led army had settled Arabel and it was apparently better off than it was before. We met with their leader, who remembered us almost killing us last time and said there was no hard feelings in war, its just business, but to clear the air completely, we had to solve a problem they were having at a local mine with some fire giants. They had these new weapons which I recognised as massive gatling style ballista I designed years previous but then abandoned because our smelters, apparatus and workers weren't big, hot or strong enough to make them. The Hobgoblin general recounted the fellow who sold them their rifles was seen with them once so he assumes Harro had fitted the Fire Giants out with the artillery. We then made our way through the Against the Giants module and found him in the volcanic blacksmith of the fire giant stronghold and we finally killed him before he had a turn. I got the killing blow with a lvl3 Melf's Acid Arrow, melting his jaw and throat away so he could never sell the secrets of thundermongers again, not even under s Speak With Dead circumstance. It was exhilarating! I got his hand held shotguns and a few other trinkets but that original thundermonger that he's moded over the years is nowhere to be seen... yet. Now we go into the Underdark as all clues point to the drow stealing our home city.
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Hjalmar Gunderson, Vuman Alchemist Plague Doctor in a HB Campaign, Post Netherese Invasion Cormyr (lvl20 retired) Godfrey, Autognome Butler in Ghosts of Saltmarsh into Spelljammer Grímr Skeggisson, Goliath Rune Knight in Rime of the Frostmaiden DM of two HB campaigns set in the same world.
This is my lv 5 Duergar Death Cleric. I play him like a Darth Vader/Mike Ehermentraut kinda guy.
Hadgar Greystone followed the call of Laduguer ever since he came of age. He joined the armed forces of the Duergar where he fought with righteous zeal against his people's enemies, using his martial skill. Whoring, drinking, fighting orcs and getting into barfights was Hadgar's main occupation.
Until in one such barfight he met members of the Order of the Thuldor (Those who Endure). He was inducted on the spot. For a century Hadgar fought alongside the order in Dunspeirrin , using his death magicks next to his hammer to inflict pain and death on the enemy. One day however during a skirmish with Shield Dwarves, both groups fell into a gaping chasm after a massive earthquake. Many days later only he and a shield dwarf named Helga Battlehammer managed to escape the horrors beneath. A strong bound was created between the two during that time as both decided to leave the war.
They settled in Icewind Dale where they married whereupon he took her last name. He lived in the village of Feldûnost, a village near Easthaven in Icewind Dale populated by dwarves and humans, for many years with his wife and family. For decades he served as the town's blacksmith and militia commander. He was a good husband, father and even grandfather to his family until one day Helga died from an illness he could not cure. His youngest son, Bhurin, left shortly thereafter after a argument broke out between the two. For seven years he wallowed in pity and rage, hunting goblins to ease the pain. Were it not for his family, he would've gotten himself slain. One night years later, Hadgar had a vision that Bhurin was in trouble. He slew a nearby band of bandits and dedicated their deaths to Laduguer who whispered the name of a place to him. Moonshae. After having bid goodbye to his family he immediately he set off on one last quest...
He has a broken arrow tattooed on his forehead, a sign of his religion. He worships Laduguer, the Duergar/Dwarven god of smithing, Deep Duarra, the Duergar/dwarven goddess of conquest and Father Winter and dedicates all his kills to these three. He carries with him a Warhammer enchanted with frost magic. A soft clinging of bells is heard as the hammer is raised. Itself is a hammer with a green hilt and a red and white hammerhead enhanced with strange runes. When asked he says the hammer's name is "Yulebringer" and it belonged to a fierce warrior who gave it to him as a present for the many years of friendship. Guessing by the amount of attention and care he gives to the hammer it must've belonged to someone he cared about quite deeply...
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Hadgar Greystone, Lv 10 Duergar Death Cleric. Call of Cantraxis campaign, Moonshae.
DM: Imperia Regnum Ancient Rome Theros Homebrew.
Gri'im the Red, LV 7 Orc Druid Rime of the Frost Maiden Campaign.
I've playing this guy since the 2017 Artificer; Alchemist and loved every minute of it.
"Dr. Hjalmar Gunderson has always been an eclectic man: whatever the norm was, he was focusing on something different. Growing up in his family’s large farming estate in Nesmyth, north of Marsember, while all his siblings and peers (not ‘friends’ as such) were doing normal kid things, Hjalmar was staring at the stars, pulling apart clocks or researching famous arcane inventions and inventors, dreaming his name would one day be on that list too.
In his late teens, Hjalmar received his calling, a scholarship to study at the University of Suzail. In true Gunderson form, he majored in engineering and minored in medicinal sciences and remained at the top of the cohort in both degrees for some time. Then the Sembian nation attacked. Being a staunch loyalist, he signed up instantly and luckily he was drafted into a special unit headed by one of his former professors, a gnome named Llewellyn D’Smond.
The unit was based outside Suzail in the fortified village of Kew. They were tasked with creating never before seen tactics and tools in warfare. Hjalmar performed strongly, and took the lead on several projects. This was much to the irritation of childhood best friend and no competitive fellow R&D member, Harro Le D’Gween, who harboured resentment and jealousy of Hjalmar’s success. Hjalmar soon began working as a field tester, getting sent into battle to test inventions and potions. He also spent a lot of time in the field as a medic, pursuing in interest in medicinal sciences. Close to the end of the war, Hjalmar was posted along the Dragonmere, when he was sent several prototypes of a new device for field testing. He recognised these as The Thundermonger, an arcane smokepowder weapon that he had helped Llewellyn develop.
After successful testing (albeit in a fairly quiet area of the war at that time), it was stamped for approval to go into wider production. One of the most climactic moments of the war saw these prototype Thundermongers used to devastating effect against a Sembian advance. A surprise push on the front where Hjalmar and his comrades were stationed was repelled, narrowly, and in many ways turned the fate of the war. All the prototypes were unfortunately lost, but the day was won. When Hjalmar returned to Kew, he found that Llewellyn had disappeared, Harro had taken over, and all the schemata and reports on the Thundermongers were gone. With the war over, Hjalmar could not stand to be in the same building as Harro. He resigned his commission and started an adventurer's guild with other veterans. He now hopes to track down wondrous items, catalogue them and hopefully learn enough to make his own name in the wondrous item creation business with grand dreams of opening up his own Wondrous Item and Potions Emporium... of course, the name needs some work, but he's a man of potions not poetry."
That was the beginning of the campaign's backstory. Harro has since gone rogue and begun selling the schemas and materials on the black market, including selling AND manufacturing Thundermongers to a Goblinoid army lead by hobgoblins who sacked the nearby city of Arabel and became one of our campaign's main BBEGs, killing me twice on separate occasions using an enchanted sniper version. While escaping from the sacking of Arabel as we were severely outnumbered and the Purple Knight/Humanoid army was falling rapidly, we accidentally found ourselves in the feywild for three weeks, when we finally arrived back it was actually three years later, Suzail had vanished leaving nothing but a crater and the Hobgoblin led army had settled Arabel and it was apparently better off than it was before. We met with their leader, who remembered us almost killing us last time and said there was no hard feelings in war, its just business, but to clear the air completely, we had to solve a problem they were having at a local mine with some fire giants. They had these new weapons which I recognised as massive gatling style ballista I designed years previous but then abandoned because our smelters, apparatus and workers weren't big, hot or strong enough to make them. The Hobgoblin general recounted the fellow who sold them their rifles was seen with them once so he assumes Harro had fitted the Fire Giants out with the artillery. We then made our way through the Against the Giants module and found him in the volcanic blacksmith of the fire giant stronghold and we finally killed him before he had a turn. I got the killing blow with a lvl3 Melf's Acid Arrow, melting his jaw and throat away so he could never sell the secrets of thundermongers again, not even under s Speak With Dead circumstance. It was exhilarating! I got his hand held shotguns and a few other trinkets but that original thundermonger that he's moded over the years is nowhere to be seen... yet. Now we go into the Underdark as all clues point to the drow stealing our home city.
I got a soft spot for Plague Doctors, Hjalmar sounds awesome! I love how you got a personal nemesis, really cool for DM's to play with, and I dig how you're going to the Underdark now. Keep us up to date!
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Hadgar Greystone, Lv 10 Duergar Death Cleric. Call of Cantraxis campaign, Moonshae.
DM: Imperia Regnum Ancient Rome Theros Homebrew.
Gri'im the Red, LV 7 Orc Druid Rime of the Frost Maiden Campaign.
The Backstory of Chorusahl Rotwalker, travelling Plaguebearer!
Hidden away in the jungle-swamps of Riatti, there is a culture devoted to something the rest of the world abhors; Disease. The Temple of The Great Contagion is a group of necromancers who specialise their powers intensely - becoming focused on the unification of all races in glorious rot and decay, and Chorusahl is an exemplar of their teachings. Very wise in the fields of disease, parasites and poisons, the followers of this religion are obvious by the symptoms of their upbringing, none of them pleasant. Any other symptoms on the body of a Plaguebearer are there due to their own conscious control of their countless infections through prayer to The Contagion; a rat-borne affliction that taints bloodlines in ways only a truly stubborn sorcerer could withstand. Such a stubborn sorcerer was the abhorred necromancer Grishmau The Rotten, Chorusahl's ancestor.
Chorusahl was initiated into the Plague Priests aged 13, when his first bout of Contagion took hold. He was taught how use a Plague Censer, assigned a rat companion, and shown how to collect and prepare various ingredients for the incenses needed for it to burn. This hauntingly beautiful object - fuelled by the incenses inside its owner's reliquary - is like a library of pathogens and will start to burn with a foul green fire as soon as it is swung, billowing reeking smoke imbued with Chorusahl's own knowledge of disease, parasites and decay. The tool hangs from a long tarnished chain and is heavy enough to function as a bludgeon if its original function is inhibited. Anyone 'blessed' with the Censer will start to show signs of whatever disease Chorusahl sees fit to bestow upon them, but will feel no pain, often returning to their village to seek help (and therefore spreading the 'blessing' of the Contagion). In dire times, when its master is at his weakest or when his judgement is clouded by anger, the censer will roar with high flames and vomit black smoke so thick it seeps along the ground, almost pulsing with a life of its own as it brings forth every morsel of knowledge the Plague Priest poured into it, exhausting its incense supply to painfully warp anything that means him harm until they die or fall back.
At 18, he was allowed to leave on a 'pilgrimage' for as long as he so desired, spreading the Contagion wherever he sees fit, carrying only a satchel of various supplies and a survival kit, his censer attached to his belt and his greatrat perched atop his shoulder. Over his travels he has picked up many diseases and even more fighting skill, able to hold his own despite his lanky frame. Now aged 25, Chorushal bears all the symptoms of the Contagion: - His skin is pale and his eyes are discoloured; bloodshot with yellow irises and dark circles around them. - The sallow skin is slightly sticky to the touch and the faint, sweet smell of rot lingers in the air around him. - His black curls are thick and tangled with grease, harbouring a few lice within their depths. - With yellowed teeth and a dark tongue, his breath leaves much to be desired.
Living nomadically between towns where he could buy more supplies, the Child of The Contagion composed hymns and poems about the various diseases, parasites and vermin encountered on his travels, keeping detailed records in a stained ledger and many samples of them within his satchel to refine into incense whenever he has the time/ingredients. He rarely sings such things but will often hum them while he does menial work, such as setting up a tent. Naturally, he despises bathing and, having never willingly submerged himself, cannot swim.
Chorusahl has physical afflictions dotted around his body as well: - A rash on the right side of his face, complete with small scabs and sores down his jaw and neck. - His chin has small cuts on it that never seem to fully heal. - The torso is fairly 'clean', only showing a small series of rashes at the 'seams' of his chest and stomach. - His right forearm is wrapped in a curling rash starting from the back of his hand. A similar rash on his left arm extends from the shoulder to the crook of his elbow. - His shoulder blades are a map of welts and rings of varying severity. - His waist is banded by a large series of sores and welts, only broken by a fist-sized gap of clear skin at the front. - His legs hold boils at random intervals and a large sore on the top of his left foot completes his filthy look.
Wearing all black and grey under a tattered dark green cloak, Chorusahl exudes the sickly stench of death and rot wherever his heavy boots fall and he stands tall and proud under the burden of his sicknesses. One may think his body would be wasted, but this would be wrong. He is slim, yes, but fit and decently agile with it, sustained by his Contagion in times of hardship. His armour is minimal, with his only protection being a breastplate and chain-mail, both tarnished and spiked, bearing the arrow-like insignia of the Temple at the centre of the breastplate. The giant black rat on his shoulder, also showing signs of Contagion, doesn't exactly help his image either as it stares at all who draw near with narrow red eyes. But under the facial scars and pustules he is more tolerant than the others of his ilk, allowing his travelling partners to practice their own beliefs as long as he can practice his without persecution, and his curiosity will often lead to discussion with followers of other teachings as he learns about their own beliefs over a bottle of mead - providing they can stand to be around him, that is.
I've playing this guy since the 2017 Artificer; Alchemist and loved every minute of it.
"Dr. Hjalmar Gunderson has always been an eclectic man: whatever the norm was, he was focusing on something different. Growing up in his family’s large farming estate in Nesmyth, north of Marsember, while all his siblings and peers (not ‘friends’ as such) were doing normal kid things, Hjalmar was staring at the stars, pulling apart clocks or researching famous arcane inventions and inventors, dreaming his name would one day be on that list too.
In his late teens, Hjalmar received his calling, a scholarship to study at the University of Suzail. In true Gunderson form, he majored in engineering and minored in medicinal sciences and remained at the top of the cohort in both degrees for some time. Then the Sembian nation attacked. Being a staunch loyalist, he signed up instantly and luckily he was drafted into a special unit headed by one of his former professors, a gnome named Llewellyn D’Smond.
The unit was based outside Suzail in the fortified village of Kew. They were tasked with creating never before seen tactics and tools in warfare. Hjalmar performed strongly, and took the lead on several projects. This was much to the irritation of childhood best friend and no competitive fellow R&D member, Harro Le D’Gween, who harboured resentment and jealousy of Hjalmar’s success. Hjalmar soon began working as a field tester, getting sent into battle to test inventions and potions. He also spent a lot of time in the field as a medic, pursuing in interest in medicinal sciences. Close to the end of the war, Hjalmar was posted along the Dragonmere, when he was sent several prototypes of a new device for field testing. He recognised these as The Thundermonger, an arcane smokepowder weapon that he had helped Llewellyn develop.
After successful testing (albeit in a fairly quiet area of the war at that time), it was stamped for approval to go into wider production. One of the most climactic moments of the war saw these prototype Thundermongers used to devastating effect against a Sembian advance. A surprise push on the front where Hjalmar and his comrades were stationed was repelled, narrowly, and in many ways turned the fate of the war. All the prototypes were unfortunately lost, but the day was won. When Hjalmar returned to Kew, he found that Llewellyn had disappeared, Harro had taken over, and all the schemata and reports on the Thundermongers were gone. With the war over, Hjalmar could not stand to be in the same building as Harro. He resigned his commission and started an adventurer's guild with other veterans. He now hopes to track down wondrous items, catalogue them and hopefully learn enough to make his own name in the wondrous item creation business with grand dreams of opening up his own Wondrous Item and Potions Emporium... of course, the name needs some work, but he's a man of potions not poetry."
That was the beginning of the campaign's backstory. Harro has since gone rogue and begun selling the schemas and materials on the black market, including selling AND manufacturing Thundermongers to a Goblinoid army lead by hobgoblins who sacked the nearby city of Arabel and became one of our campaign's main BBEGs, killing me twice on separate occasions using an enchanted sniper version. While escaping from the sacking of Arabel as we were severely outnumbered and the Purple Knight/Humanoid army was falling rapidly, we accidentally found ourselves in the feywild for three weeks, when we finally arrived back it was actually three years later, Suzail had vanished leaving nothing but a crater and the Hobgoblin led army had settled Arabel and it was apparently better off than it was before. We met with their leader, who remembered us almost killing us last time and said there was no hard feelings in war, its just business, but to clear the air completely, we had to solve a problem they were having at a local mine with some fire giants. They had these new weapons which I recognised as massive gatling style ballista I designed years previous but then abandoned because our smelters, apparatus and workers weren't big, hot or strong enough to make them. The Hobgoblin general recounted the fellow who sold them their rifles was seen with them once so he assumes Harro had fitted the Fire Giants out with the artillery. We then made our way through the Against the Giants module and found him in the volcanic blacksmith of the fire giant stronghold and we finally killed him before he had a turn. I got the killing blow with a lvl3 Melf's Acid Arrow, melting his jaw and throat away so he could never sell the secrets of thundermongers again, not even under s Speak With Dead circumstance. It was exhilarating! I got his hand held shotguns and a few other trinkets but that original thundermonger that he's moded over the years is nowhere to be seen... yet. Now we go into the Underdark as all clues point to the drow stealing our home city.
I got a soft spot for Plague Doctors, Hjalmar sounds awesome! I love how you got a personal nemesis, really cool for DM's to play with, and I dig how you're going to the Underdark now. Keep us up to date!
I LOVE plague doctors too, the whole aesthetic and facade that comes with them is so atmospheric. I jumped at the chance to theme him that way when an Alchemist popped into UA, until then I was looking at a cleric and it just didnt fit right. We have our next session this weekend after another long hiatus, if anything interesting happens I'll hit back. The story thread with Harro was one of three we were tracking in the campaign, the main one involves these mummy vampire ladies called Shadar Vari in incubation coffins that seem to be hidden around the land. Naturally, we keep accidentally waking them up and unleashing them on the world. The last few we've found were of drow heritage. So who knows what we'll find down there.
Your Duregar cleric sounds fun! Interesting choice! Is he True N or on the evil scale?
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Hjalmar Gunderson, Vuman Alchemist Plague Doctor in a HB Campaign, Post Netherese Invasion Cormyr (lvl20 retired) Godfrey, Autognome Butler in Ghosts of Saltmarsh into Spelljammer Grímr Skeggisson, Goliath Rune Knight in Rime of the Frostmaiden DM of two HB campaigns set in the same world.
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@rexp2007 PM me as much detail as you can of your character and I'll see what I can cook up for you.
"You need to believe in things that aren't true. How else can they become?" -Death
Well, I guess this will be more of a eulogy for my now deceased AL character. Dragonborn vengeance paladin with the outlander background, died at the hands of Arkhan the Cruel in Avernus after the DM said the group was too large, and somebody was going to have to bow out of the game. I elected to go out in a blaze of glory.
Bharash came from a small mountain village, the type that you won't find on most maps. His parents had retired there after years of adventuring to raise a family, far away from the wars and politics that had dominated so much of their lives. He grew up knowing little of his parents history. He knew that the sword above the fireplace was his mother's, and the fire that burned within was usually conjured by his father, but they never spoke of their past. So young Bharash grew up innocent, in a rural village where trouble always seemed far away. He made his living as a fur trapper, but one fateful day, his entire world was upended.
While out checking his trap lines, he noted that one had not yielded for several weeks, so he made the decision to scout a new location, gather in his traps, and reset them. When he returned to the village 2 days later, he found it in ruins. The buildings were still smoldering, and bodies lined the streets. He searched, but there were no survivors. He gathered what he could from the rubble, and set off for the city, intent on reporting the attack to the local lord.
With that done, he spent months, travelling from town to town, city to city, taking odd jobs to get by. One day, he saw a posting requesting able bodied men to act as escort for a fugitive being returned to Elturel for trial. He was in the city when it was sucked into Avernus (how I justified my level 1 character turning up mid campaign). Before meeting with the party, his life was saved by the paladin who had led the prisoner transport. With his dying breath the paladin had gifted his holy symbol to Bharash and told him that Helm was still watching over him, and he had a role yet to play.
He joined up with a group of adventurers, escaped the city, travelled across the twisted hellscape of Avernus battling devils, werebeasts, and undead. He narrowly escaped death at the hands of a narzugon, and a white dragon. He saved several members of his party from certain death in the bone brambles, but ultimately, he fell to Arkhan's axe. Enraged by the death of his friend, he challenged Arkhan to single combat, trusting in his god to grant him an impossible victory. Alas, despite his valor, faith, and cunning, he proved no match for the champion of Tiamat.
I did a quick one for an Aasimar Ranger - not sure what conclave, but he'll do a Rogue dip for assassin at some point. He's based on the lead from the tv show Grimm that was on a few years ago. His name is Saethydd Grymm (Saethydd is basically "archer" in Welsh.) He has the Inheritor background.
Go back one page, and you can see it there.
Haven't played yet. 1st characte is a half-orc barbarian trying to make a back story. Need feedback.
Grew up in a pack of half-orc. At between age 3-4 my entire clan was killed by _______. I roamed aimlessly for 4 days on the verge of death when a party of nomadic goliaths can across me. The 2nd in command insists that they put me out of my misery and keep heading to the next mountain, but the tribe mother (unable to bare kids of her own) begged for my life. The tribal chief love his wife and wanted to see her happy, so much to the clans dismay, he allowed it. On the condition I received no special treatment. leaving each goliath with the responsibility to earn a place in the tribe or die trying. They named me Maveith Paavu. I lived a sheltered life till the age of 11. The tribe was attacked by the _____. The same group that killed my clan year prior. The goliaths was fierce and fought hard. Less then half the tribe slain. Unfortunately my new mother was amongst them. I recieved the nickname twice-orphaned. With out goliath mother there life was very hard for me. I was expected to keep up as we traveled from mountain to mountain. Also the tribe started training in combat heavily at this time, vowed that they would never be attacked again. Me being much smaller and weaker then the other kids my age low life was a struggle. My 1st training sword was taller then I was. The other kids took full advantage of my size. I have to grow bigger, stronger, and tougher then all the others or be left behind. I would drag this massive sword around till one day I was able to lift it. I became stronger and stronger. Till one day at the age of 19 the tribe chief feel I'll And mysterious died in the night. The new chief would now be the strongest best fighter in the group. Which was the son of the former 2nd in command. I couple years my senior. His 1st act as leader was to abolish me from the group and set me out on my own. I vowed revenge on all that ever wronged me. That is where my adventure begins.
Heya, I have one I've had for a while for Brigette, my barbarian/fighter:
Brigette Thorfinhilde Irontrunk
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The old ones say the mountains shook when the wind blew and the thunders came, when the period known as the Great Storms hit the Far-Peak mountain ranges the Goliath people had called home for millennia. Hurricane-force storms battered the passes and made life generally a living hell for over thirty years, and for such time there was not a single clear day. Many a clan of Goliath had lived there, and many a clan faded into the ice and snow. The tribes who survived fought each other over dwindling resources, losing members faster than they could train new ones. After a time, one by one, the great tribes fell, until the Hammerhand tribe stood as the last group of Goliath in the mountains. By default, they became 'Lords Of The Mountains', but as what little food and supplies they had dried up the victory seemed Pyrrhic as best.
It was into this violent tumult that Brigette Hammerhand was born.
Brigette was born to the chief of the tribe, Orphos the Tall, and a half-goliath half-elf healer, Mykionia. Mykionia was much beloved by the tribe, having taught them basic medicine and some handy agricultural tips, and her marriage and subsequent pregnancy by Orphos was treated as a sign of great prosperity. The baby's mane of flowing red hair was also considered a sign of luck, as Goliath are typically hairless. The tribe took this as a indicator of great things to come, and for a few years Brigette's life came to symbolize hope and renewal for the ailing clan. Unfortunately, what signs were predicted and what signs came to pass were a touch different.
Mykonia died not long into Brigette's childhood, along with a significant number of other Hammerhand warriors due to a mysterious plague. Naturally, Brigette had nothing to do with this (in a sad stroke of irony, it was Orphos himself who unknowingly infected his tribe with the bubonic plague), but the happiness around the young girl's life quickly turned into sadness, then anger. The tribe quietly blamed her for bringing the plague back to them, thinking she had been playing in some of the sealed off tunnel areas, and they not-so-indirectly foisted the blame for the death of their beloved healer on her daughter. This feeling would weigh on her shoulders for a very long time, along with a few other feelings of special isolation she could not yet identify. She grew up under that specter, forever trying to make up for a misfortune she had no part in. Over much time, she grew to be very hard and cold, and after years and years of having the shit kicked out of her by the other members of the clan she resolved to become tougher and more fierce then they were. Brigette spent two decades doing just that, fostering a talent for brutal brawling as well as fighting with polearms and greatswords, the signature and traditional weapons of the Hammerhand clan. For the Hammerhand were the 'great and noble warrior-folk of the mountain', and theirs was the task of 'defending the ancestral lands'.
The particular Hammerhand definition of "defense" meant raiding passing settlers, camps, small villages, pillaging and stealing what wasn't tied down and edible. The Hammerhand were malicious by nature; they would either massacre everyone they found or capture a few and let them slowly freeze to death in the snows, wandering around naked and in pain as they succumbed. None were spared, the old and infirm, the young and the defenseless, all were given the sword or the cold. Every warrior had to take part in these raids, and those who dared to show restraint were either scorned, exiled or simply executed. The strong survived, and their needs had to come first. Brigette excelled at raiding, showing a natural acuity for the hit-and-run guerrilla tactics invented by her father, and like the others in her clan she showed a natural predilection for her own brand of cruelty. She liked it, too, she took a sadistic joy in the brutalities she inflicted, especially when she utilized her ability to seem kind to bait (she would use her unique hair and clearly feminine face, rare for Goliath, to draw in the children and use them as leverage against the travelers). But always, in the back of her mind, there would be this voice, this nagging feeling of.......she was never sure. The moment she would think of it, it would vanish. She was never sure what it was, and she never liked being unsure.
One day, the snows stopped, and for the first time in her life and the lives of many of her kin, she saw the sun. At first, it scared her; thinking she had been set aflame she initially panicked and threw herself into the snow, but over time came to relish basking in the warmth in her spare time. She was, for a very long time, the only one courageous enough to venture outside. Having been raised as the chief's daughter and heir apparent to the leadership of the tribe, she could never turn down a challenge even from those who would never wander outside themselves. As she looked over the mountains, she gazed down into the distant canyons and valleys and spied the smallest bit of green, a color she had no familiarity with and yet found beautiful. Reporting this back to her father, the clan decided to move to the more habitable locale (at this point some of the less restrained folk had resorted to cannibalism), and this "green-place" seemed to be just so. Her father named this new place "The Great Redoubt" and hailed her a hero, affirming his confidence in her and establishing the tribe's. Brigette had finally, after so long, began to shake the blame and resentment of her 'curse'.
Such an accomplishment made the young warrior brave, and solidified her fortitude for her next move. During her walks, she had begun to think and ponder, as she was alone with her thoughts for the first time in her life. For most of her life, she had felt a certain psychological remove from her people and their culture of "band together and breed". Her walks, full as they were of introspection, revealed to herself a large detail about her own predilections. Shortly before the tribe's journey to the Green Place, she approached her father and asked that, as opposed to a husband, she take a wife. Orphos did not take this well in the slightest; amid his ranting and raving about her non-commitment to her people and the sheer disgust he felt at his "aberration" of a daughter, he came very close to un-naming her as heir, which would mean immediate death. Brigette swallowed her pride and most of her dignity, stomach roiling in sheer anger and hatred, but she was smart enough to keep her tongue in check. Orphos gave her an ultimatum: secure us a new home, or die with your desires. She led the tribe, navigating through the mountains into the Green Place, her exterior composed and stately but her interior alight with doubt and anger.
The villages would forever rue the day that the Hammerhand descended upon the valley, and began weeks after weeks of horrors. The Goliath roamed through the lowlands, burning and pillaging as they went, often to extreme excess. Whole towns disappeared overnight, with various warriors and even Orphos himself acting out their darkest and most cruel desires. Brigette was carried along by the tide, and did what she had to do, oftentimes bloodying her own hands in the suffering of the locals to prove herself to her father. Oftentimes, the tribe would target the children, but now would make a special point of hunting them down brutally and swiftly, as people would stop thinking about their own safety and make mistakes. Externally, this didn't seem to bother Brigette: the more they made mistakes, the more mistakes could be exploited for tactical benefit. But inside, the girl was torn; the more she hurt and killed, the more confused and angry she felt. The few times the valley-folk had reached their camp (and even once successfully defeated most of the warriors present, the raiding party having been out at the time), they left the infirm alone, and even did not take the supplies and food from the mothers with children. They didn't harm ours, why do we harm theirs? What makes them different than us? The valley-folk could get away with leeching the tactical benefit of targeting the weak folk, but they did not: they seemed to mercy and even prize the young.
Internally, this question nagged on her mind, and every person she hurt or killed, every life she snuffed out, every squealing child she ripped away from their screaming mother forever, every drop of blood she spilled, the questions returned. Brigette began paying attention: noting the little things like the sheer selflessness of the defenders, the fact that some would not fight but try to negotiate. In an attempt to pacify these thoughts during a raid, she quietly let a family live, calling out an empty room to her tribemates as the family quivered in fear. This did not work, and backfired: more and more questions sprang to her mind, and only got worse as she occasionally let people run into the bush, or told people to stay down and lay still after appearing to slash them. She was confused, fundamentally so. This was how she was raised, violence is how we survive. For one to thrive, another must suffer. This simple fact is what she was taught growing up, this couldn't be wrong?
Could it?
Confusion gave way to sadness, sadness gave way to hatred of herself. One night she awoke in a cold sweat, the screams of those she had murdered in her ears as she clicked onto her own truth. The Hammerhand were the monsters she was always warned about as a child, and she was one of them, leering at the world from behind her mask. She spent the next night and day in her room, nigh inconsolable as she thought, harder and harder. When she emerged from her lodgings, she appeared the same to her father and tribemates: strong, poised, ready to fight. Inside her mind, however, was something she had not felt for a very long time: calm.
The next night, the Hammerhand raided a small mining town. An easy target; with most of the stronger folk still deep in the mine with only a paltry force to defend the civilian populace, it was a slaughter. Brigette stayed by her father's side, impressing him with the complete authority to which she took to commanding the warriors. She led a small band of them into the town's bank, and urged the warriors to stay outside and check the perimeter for any possible escapees hiding in the bank. Once Brigette and Orphos were in the bank, searching a vault for treasures, she turned on him. With rapid precision, she ran her spear through her father's chest, snapping it off at the middle and stabbing Orphos with the broken end so hard she pinned him to the wall. She made sure he was dead, working his neck vertebrae apart as he struggled to breath. Brigette had seen enough of her people's doings, and knowing how her brethren worked, she knew killing Orphos would create a power struggle that would render the Hammerhand useless forever. She walked out, saying her father was waiting inside and would be outside in a bit. Brigette wandered off into the town, surveying the damage her kinsfolk had done. A small movement in an upstairs window caught her attention, and she decided to investigate.
After commanding the other warriors to stay outside (they were barely listening at this point, as news of Orphos' death had broke and the infighting had already began, resembling a riot) she entered, finding much of the house abandoned and ransacked. She went upstairs, searching for the strange fluttering at the window before hearing a muffled cry in the roof above her. The process took her some time, but she found a hidden hatch for the attic and clambered up. There she saw an interesting sight; a raven-haired elf, terrified and attempting to defend her unborn children, brandishing a greatsword the height of her body. Brigette made a snap decision: not only did she want to end the horrors of her clan, she wanted to begin a different road. Telling the elf (Esmerelda as she later learned) to pack whatever she had left and sling it in her bag, Brigette smuggled her out the back door and into the woods. Over a month they traveled together, attempting to put as many klicks between her and the Goliath as possible, Brigette learning a rather substantial amount from the grateful elf.
The pair eventually found their way downriver to a small town, an industrious place the Goliath had not found their way to quite yet. And with reason: the town was filled to the brim with King's Guard. After being promptly arrested and thrown in a holding cell, Brigette sat for a few days, waiting and thinking she deserved every bit of her inevitable execution. The Guard brought a different person, however: Esmerelda. She profusely thanked Brigette for allowing her and her unborn children to live, and told her that she had worked out a deal with the Guard. The Guard would allow Brigette to live and leave, in exchange for the location of any Goliath in the lowlands. Without so much as a second thought, Brigette turned on her former tribe, abandoning even her name, only asking that they spare and relocate the young and the innocent (few that those might have been). Esmerelda gave her three things before she left, as the Guard rode off to dole out some much needed justice. A kiss, which Brigette returned in kind. Her sword, as she felt Brigette would get more use out of it than her family ever would, as Esmerelda's family had wiped themselves out some time ago. And finally, an idea for a new name: Irontrunk, after the name of the grove she had first discovered daylight in. Brigette wandered on, her sword on her back, supplies in her bag, and a thirst for a different path instilled in her.
She wandered south, crossing hill and stream, occasionally coming to trouble near towns as a single Goliath was never trusted, but she made her way along. After months of travel, to which a Guard rider found her and gave her word of her tribe's demise (slaughter to the last man, her response being simply a cold, hateful stare), she found her way to a vast expanse of water, the size of which she never dreamed possible. After bartering promises of ship-work for passage, she set off across the sea, and every morning she would stand on the deck to watch the sun rise over the waves, a soft smile astride her tattooed face.
Brigette is a stoic individual who is still figuring out how to fit into a world she barely knew existed. She is kind, unless she needs to not be. She is gentle, unless she needs to not be. The big burly gal has a predilection for barbecued meats, strong mead, and a good fair fight. She also enjoys acting justified vengeance on those who would harm the weak and innocent. Brigette still thinks she's a monster, but even a monster can do something decent from time to time, as she puts it. And after a very long time, she has finally accepted herself, but refuses to forgive herself, knowing that she has a lot more work to do to make even a dent in the direction of making things right.
Posted under spoiler cause it's hella long.
I can help!
I created this character for a campaign that got canceled, (was and still is my very first character creation attempt)
Noximilien (with the scared eye) or Nox is a changeling assassin. In his youth, he was abandoned at an orphanage and raised by the kind old witch on the outskirts of a small town, she taught him about his kind and his gift. As soon as he was old enough, he struck out on his own doing mercenary work and acquiring “lost” item for a price. One day in his free time he went back to visit the old one, that’s when he met her, a pale nameless little girl that was recently abandoned at the orphanage. Feeling sorry for thing, he named her Luna and soon adopted her as his daughter. They lived not too far from the town, Nox doubled as an eleven hunter selling pelt to the locals. One day, on one of his trips, he was jumped and captured and dragged far from home by slavers, but he managed to escape and headed back.
In this setting changelings are very rare and feared by most, even more so in the minds of simple folks, and this small town was ruled by a cruel and ambitious lesser lord who instilled fear and superstition upon his subjects. During Nox’s absence, man broke into his house but panicked when he saw Luna and ran right back out, screaming “MONSTER!” as he fled. Word quickly spread about the “Thing” that lived in the huntsman’s house. By the time Nox got back, he found her, his “little moon”. By order of the local Duke she was flayed alive, nailed to a pole and left in the outskirts as a warning to all monsters who would prey on the citizens. In his grief he attempted to murder the intruder that had alerted the guards but was caught and imprisoned.
Days turned into months, all Nox could do was hope for death. Then one nigh he received a visitor, an odd man hidden under a cloak of displacement stood outside his cell and offered him something he could not refuse. “In my hand is a small white gem” he crocked “ have many like it but unlike this one they are far more wondrous” Nox shrouded but the man continued “it is fine if you don’t speak, you need only listen, I know what you are and seen what they did to your kin. In the depths of your heart, you seek vengeance, and this can provide it” the man explained that in order to get what he seeks, he must sign a “contract” with the gem. He will be granted strength needed if he feeds it lives taken by fury. The man claimed that he did not need an answer now, but it was his choice. He placed the gem on the floor and left.
That night, Nox took the gem accepting the pact. As soon as it touched it, his hand it burned, it sank into his skin, embedding itself in into his flesh. Being weak as he was, he passed out. Morning came, as he woke to his surprise the gem traveled from his hand and was now embedded in his forehead. While he sat there, he noticed someone in his cell. There she was, his daughter, skinless, bloody, staring at him with pained, accusing eyes. In his shock he did notice that a guard had opened the door, as he reached for him, Nox in a fit of rage to strangle him. The gem had turned from a snow white to a soft pink. Later he was transfers to another, larger city where he served the rest of his sentence and was freed.
Unknown to Nox the man in the cloak was a demon who has been using the duke’s dungeon to recruit vessels for other lesser demons. Nox’s gem housed the soul of a demon who loves fury, with every kill born of rage the demon’s power grows until it is strong enough to take control of the host body, trapping the victim’s soul in the gem. To motivate him, it causes momentary hallucinations of his dead daughter blaming him for not saving her when she needed him the most when she would never do so. Now he his alone, far from his target doing mercenary work for coin not knowing what will fail first his mind or his soul.
Here's the backstory for my Levistus Tiefling paladin, Rev! This is my first shot at an actual, in-depth character backstory so I figured I'd post it here before I send it off to my DM.
Feel free to leave your thoughts/constructive criticism! Is it too long? I'm still relatively new to the game so let me know if something doesn't add up in my lore or geography (I basically just used a lot of this site and Google searches to fill in the gaps haha)
Without further ado, I present...Rev!
I was born Kifre Greyblade, but say that name and you’re dead. You can call me Reverence. Or better yet, call me Rev.
I suppose my story begins on the unfortunate day of my birth. I was born in a normal house, in a normal town, to normal human parents with two normal human sons. Everything was blissfully mundane...until the day I popped out with two little horns and a tail.
There was no knowledge of infernal blood on either side. My father blamed my mother. My mother blamed my father. The town blamed them both.
My entrance to this world can best be likened to a blanket of misfortune laid upon my family. News of the tiefling child spread fast in our city of Darromar, and none were too happy to hear of my arrival. As I grew, our fortunes lessened. My father’s tavern began to sit empty for days. Less and less people seemed to need my mother for tailoring. My eldest brother was denied squiredom.
It wasn’t so bad, I guess, being outcasted in your own home. As time went on I grew used to the stares. It didn’t bother me as much when mothers hugged their children closer as I passed, or shopkeepers gave me distrustful looks as I entered their doors. I even learned to ignore the hint of fear in my father’s eyes each time he looked upon my little blue face. But still, no matter how old I grew, a part of me still longed for that which I had been missing my whole life. A sense of belonging. A true family.
And then I found them. The Gutter Guardians, they called themselves. When I joined their ranks, they were a small militia of about ten, operating from a headquarters beneath the Drinking Dragon. I was barely thirteen, but they took me in anyway. They fed me, trained me, educated me, accepted me. For the first time in my short life, I was judged on my character, not my heritage. It didn’t matter if I had horns as long as I could swing a sword.
The Gutter Guardians’ intentions were justifiable at first. We targeted the rich, the nobles, the corrupt salesmen. Our purpose was to redistribute the wealth of the city; to take from those who had too much and give to those with none. To level the playing field, if you will.
But soon our members began to fall into the hands of the greed in which we originally sought to destroy. I think the temptation was just too much for some.
Our numbers grew rapidly over the next five years, while our moral code diminished. We took all instead of some. We kept the wealth for ourselves. Some, I think, just liked the violence. We fought, we stole, we murdered.
We did things in retrospect that I am not proud of, but I was young and impressionable. I had grown close with my comrades. They had become my family- I would have done anything for them. I would have died for them. In fact, I did.
You see, things got out of hand. Our numbers grew so rapidly we couldn’t properly train our newcomers. They were handed a weapon and told to “get out there and take back what is ours!”. It made us reckless; messy. The city watch caught on.
They came for us in the middle of the night. We were at a disadvantage- about seven had been killed before the majority of us had even had time to rub the sleep from our eyes. I rose from my cot just as a pair of guards were closing in on two of our newer members. They couldn’t have been more than eight, maybe nine. They were kids off the street, training in exchange for wardship. They were just kids, looking for a steady meal; looking for a place to belong...like I had once been. They were not responsible for the mistakes we had made. So I stepped in front of them.
The guards threatened to cut me down with them if I didn’t move. I’m surprised they even humored me that much- I was weaponless, defenseless, and bound to fall to them or one of their own soon enough. I like to think my hellsent good looks intimidated them for a moment. But deep inside, I knew it was hopeless. My two tiny blue fists against their chainmail?
I turned to the kids and told them to run. “I’ll buy you some time!” I shouted- I can remember their faces, white as alabaster, eyes wide in fright. Those faces come to me in my dreams still. I turned from them and took my stance. It was about three seconds later I felt the slash of a greatsword along my chest.
And that was it. Blackness. The empty void.
Until it wasn’t empty anymore. There was a blinding light, and suddenly a man cast in ethereal golden light appeared before me. My first thought was of the children, but the man smiled knowingly, and replied without me ever needing to speak: “They escaped. Your sacrifice granted them safety, tiefling.”
I can’t tell you the details of what transpired in this suspension between worlds. That which occured is deeply personal to me, but I will offer you the abridged version.
The man who appeared before me revealed himself to be Torm, The True and The Loyal Fury, the God of duty, righteousness, loyalty and law. He knew of my true intentions with the militia and the desire to do right that subsisted within my heart; the same heart that pumped the blood of Levistus. He had seen my sacrifice and chosen to resurrect me so that I may uphold his justice and stand with the light against the darkness: against those plagued by rapacity, greed, selfishness and dishonor, and against all forces of evil wherever they may lurk.
I had never considered myself to be a woman of worship before this day. It seemed contradictory to me, given my bloodline; an alatreist I suppose you could have called me. But the feeling I had when I awoke...it was like I had been reborn. My head seemed clearer. The world seemed brighter. For the first time, it felt as though my eyes had opened to the possibility of true happiness. How could I deny my calling, when it had granted me this new lease on life?
And so I returned to the rubble that was once the headquarters I called my home, gathered what few belongings I could salvage, and set off on this new life. I walked a great length through the Spires of Mir, the time of which I spent with a head full of doubts and an internal diametric conundrum. Quite literally, an angel and devil on my shoulders.
“But what do you owe them? Nothing! You desire to protect the same people who mistreated you, who oppressed you, who treated you with such a disregard for basic decency?”
“But you were chosen! Torm has saved you from eternal damnation for a purpose!”
“And who’s this Torm guy anyway? Since when do you take orders from big glowing men in the sky?”
I wish I could say that coming upon Barakmordin and my subsequent training with the paladin sector which made base there had cleansed my head of doubts, but I still struggle with my uncertainties each and every day. Even now I cannot say that I understand why I, a tiefling girl of humble birth whose blood is tainted with that of the Rogue Archdevil Levistus, was chosen for this holy quest.
The paladins that taught me could offer me no answer that eased my troubles. They, too, had been called upon by Torm, but they had come to him in different ways. Each had their own reasoning for walking the righteous path. Though they could not answer my questions in this aspect, they did teach me all there is to know about the ways of the paladins. They trained me in battle, magic, survival- or rather, honed the skills I had already and tuned them to serve my new purpose.
It was at the end of my time with these paladins that I took the name Reverence. Reverence, a deep respect for something or someone. I found that was what I wanted most from my journey on this new path- respect. But it was also what I aspired to embody; respect for all of pure intent, and respect in return.
And so I use this new name, wear the mark of Torm adorned on my shield, and travel the lands with the knowledge that each wrong I right, the malice in my own heart dwindles more and more.
I didn’t ask for this. But I’m going to make damn sure I do well by it.
And here is what I'm basing her appearance off of, except subtract the glowy sorcerer hands and add a shield and longsword.
Looking for backstory help! I am starting a new campaign (Tomb Of Annihilation) and I thought a Firbolg Druid would be pretty cool. Background hasn't been finalized yet but i am thinking Outlander.
The campaign is starting in Baulder's Gate, I am thinking something along the lines that the Forrest his clan is living in is dying (not sure by what) and he is being sent to find a cure or a way to reverse the effect...
Any help would be AWESOME THANKS!
Hey iamchris027,
I am not sure how much my Druids backstory will help you form yours, but I figured I'd post it. He is a Circle of the Moon Druid with 3 levels of Totem Barbarian. I worked the Barbarian path into his backstory. It is a little long lol, most of my backstories tend to become lengthy as I get into the character.
Character: Aberyn - Circle of the Moon Druid/Path of the Totem Warrior Barbarian
Put your spoiler here.
Aberyn grew up in a small settlement just outside High Forest. His father was a hunter and his mother an herbalist. At a young age, Aberyn showed a great affinity towards nature and especially the animals in the surrounding forest. When he wasn’t picking herbs or mixing potions with his mother or learning about tracking and hunting with his father, Aberyn could be found playing with squirrels high up in the trees.
When Aberyn was about 12 his settlement was overrun with sickness. His mother worked tirelessly to aid the ill but could do little more than temper their suffering. Eventually, Aberyn’s father fell ill and passed away. Word was sent out to a local Druid Circle asking for aid. A Druid healer by the name of Morvin answered the call but by the time Morvin arrived more than half of the settlement, including Aberyn’s mother, had been taken by the sickness. The sick were quickly quarantined while the healthy set up a camp not far from their home. Morvin used his considerable skills but could not do much for the dying.
With his parents gone and feeling the need to help, Aberyn dedicated his waking hours to do all he could for the survivors. He picked herbs, mixed simple potions, hunted and gathered food and tended to minor injuries as best he could. In the end, only a handful of survivors were left. Morvin took a liking to Aberyn and could see that he had a deep connection to nature and the surrounding animals. Morvin decided to ask the boy to join him and study under him and his Circle. Having no family left and feeling excited about the possibility of becoming a Druid, Aberyn agreed to go with Morvin.
Over the years Aberyn studied to be a Druid. With a strong connection to the animals of the forest, Aberyn focused on becoming a Moon Druid. He spent countless hours wandering the forest in search of new and interesting animals to learn about. One afternoon Morvin was called away to visit a Barbarian village near the mountains to the west. Aberyn took the opportunity to travel with him in hopes that he would see more interesting creatures on his journey.
Throughout their travels, Aberyn and Morvin stopped at several towns, villages and large cities. Aberyn had grown so accustomed to living deep in the forests that he hardly remembered what it was like to be around so many people. He forgot how rude and self-absorbed city folk could be. One day, as Morvin was packing up his horse, a thin hooded man that smelled of ale and stale tobacco, bumped into him. The man mumbled as he staggered away soon breaking into a full-on run. Aberyn called after him and was quickly shushed by Morvin. “It isn’t worth it boy”. Aberyn smiled wide and said, “would it be worth it if you knew the man just stole all your money?” With a sigh, Morvin started running in the direction of the thief and told Aberyn to circle around and try to cut him off. As Aberyn turned a corner sure that he would run into the thief he was met with a small crowd of people and the sounds of yelling. Morvin was in the middle of the crowd with the thief and two other men attempting to talk his way out of a fight. Determined to protect his master, Aberyn pushed through the crowd. As he was about to break through the crowd, he felt a sharp pain in his side. Looking down he saw a hand clenching a knife covered in blood. A whisper filled his ears “Was it worth it boy?” Aberyn fell to the floor clutching his wound. As he looked in the direction of his master he saw 3 men kicking at Morvin’s prone body. Aberyn used the last of his strength to call out for help. He pleaded with the people in the crowd but his pleas fell on uncaring ears. Aberyn gazed at as many people as he could, hoping to meet the eyes of someone, anyone that would help. He met fear and shame-filled eyes mostly. Others had a horrible delight glistening in them. Aberyn couldn’t understand how these people could be enjoying the sight of a man being beaten to death and why no one was helping.
A deathly chill filled Aberyn’s body as he helplessly watched his master’s lifeless form being struck over and over. As his vision started to fade, he saw a man walk up to the 3 men beating Morvin. Words were clearly exchanged and the 3 men stepped back. Aberyn’s consciousness was slipping in and out. The man spoke to the crowd now but Aberyn only heard a jumble of words…” enough...lesson...misery”. Aberyn’s mind couldn’t fully piece together what the man had said but he figured he was helping since the thief and his two friends had stopped attacking Morvin. As Aberyn blinked heavily, his vision fading, his last sight was one of horror. The man that stopped the assailants kneeled down over Morvin’s body clutching a familiar bloodied knife in one hand. He peered around the crowd with a grin and stabbed Morvin. Aberyn’s thoughts screamed out but his body made no sounds or motions and within seconds he was unconscious.
When Aberyn woke he learned that days had gone by while healers worked tirelessly to save his life. His saviors confirmed that Morvin was dead and that no arrests were made by the guards. Apparently, no one would tell the guards who had beaten and killed Morvin. Aberyn was sickened by this city and the people in it. It wasn’t just this city either. Thinking back to all the towns and cities he had been to, he realized that most of them were rude and greedy and only looked out for themselves. Aberyn couldn’t wait to get back to the forest, to be surrounded by nature and the creatures that dwelled within it.
After several restless weeks of healing, Aberyn was finally able to leave. Setting out to find Morvin’s killers, he started asking around. As more and more people feigned ignorance, Aberyn’s rage built. One night while in a seedy back-alley tavern, Aberyn caught the scent of a man that he recognized. It was the thief! Without words, Aberyn walked up to the thief while casting Primal Savagery on himself. His fingers turned to claws, his face turned wolf-like and his teeth were razor sharp. He pounced on the man, biting down on his shoulder while raking his newly formed claws across the man’s back. As Aberyn pulled his blood filled face away from the thief he let out a visceral snarl. “Where is your master! Where is the man that killed Morvin!” Aberyn’s voice had a deep guttural edge to it. He wasn’t sure if it was from his spell or the deep rage welling up from within. Either way, the effect was such that the bleeding man before him, pissed his pants in fear while stuttering nonsense. Aberyn grabbed the man’s bleeding shoulder and squeezed hard, digging his claws into his flesh. The man cried out and Aberyn snarled at him, leaned in and with a whisper said “If you didn’t tell me who killed my master and where I can find him then I will turn in to a wolf and ******* eat you! I’ll start with your feet, then your hands. All the while working my way slowly towards the center of your body. It will be slow and extremely agonizing”. Aberyn’s eyes met the thief’s and the man knew that without a doubt Aberyn was serious. The thief began to spew information. Who killed Morvin, where he hangs out, where he lives, why the people of the city just stood there and why the guards did nothing. Aberyn didn’t care about most of it, he made note of the man's name, Rellin. As Aberyn stood, presumably to leave, the thief started thanking him for not killing him. Aberyn’s rage was still bubbling. He leaned down and said, “If it wasn’t for your thievery, my master and I would be finishing up our mission and heading back to our home right now.” As Aberyn stood up again his eyes met the thief’s and the man knew that he was about to die. The man didn’t cry out, he simply shut his eyes as Aberyn’s claws raked across his throat, tearing a bloody chunk of it away.
As Aberyn turned to leave, he released his spell, his features turning back to human. No one made any attempt to stop him, most tried to avoid even looking at him. Just before exiting, deep bellowing laughter filled the tavern. All eyes turned towards the source. A giant of a man stood in the corner, wide grin on his face and a large flagon of mead in his hand. “Ho Ho Ho, by the gods that was exciting, boy. I didn’t know Druids had a little Barbarian in them. I mean I’ve known a few Druid ladies that had a little Barbarian in them if ya know what I mean”. He winked as he bellowed once more. “HA HA HA! You’d make a fine member of my clan boy. The name is Drogen. My clan is at the base of the mountains to the west.” Aberyn’s eyes flashed with remembrance and Drogen nodded as he continued. “From the sound of it, if it wasn’t for that pant pissing **** of a thief and the Redbrands controlling this city, you and your master would have come to our aid. We lost five children to the sickness that passed through our settlement. With your master's healing, they might have survived. You did right by killing that ****. Rage can be a powerful ally or a deadly foe boy. If you find that you need someone to show you how to harness your rage, come see me, I owe you that much”. Drogen raised his flagon. “Till then boy! May your claws stay sharp and your wits even sharper” Aberyn nodded and walked out without a word.
Rellin lived at the edge of the city. His home was fairly large and adorned with expensive furnishings. Rellin sat by a large fireplace as he sipped from a bottle, not a care in the world. As he sat drinking the sound of tiny padded feet caught his attention. Looking to his right he saw a small black cat walking towards him. “Hey, puss puss, how’d you get in here?” Rellin stood and turned towards the cat his back towards the fire. He took a step forward and crouched down. “Come on you sneaky little ****, come closer so I can snap your neck and throw you in my fire,” He said in a sing-song voice you would use on a small child. “I ******* hate cats”. The black cat cocked its head to the side and started to approach Rellin. As it got closer the cat got larger and more human-like till it was a full-sized man. The man looked familiar, It was the Druid he thought. Panic set in as he stood and threw his bottle. The Druid swatted the bottle away and muttered something. His features started to turn to that of a beast’s and then his razor-sharp claws were slashing out. Rellin managed to block with his arm but now he had 4 deep cuts across his right forearm.
Aberyn growled at Rellin, “You killed my master!” Rellin replied “It was nothing personal kid, just business. Just like you, I have people I answer to, you know how it is. Being a Redbrand isn’t all fun and games but it certainly pays the bills and I have a fam ...” Aberyn snarled and lashed out raking Rellin across the arm and stomach with his razor-sharp claws. Rellin looked down towards his stomach, his blood seeping out. As he frantically tried to push his hands down on the wounds to stop the flow of blood leaving his body, he looked up just in time to see Aberyn’s wolf-like jaws biting down on his unprotected face. With a visceral grunt and the snap of his head, Aberyn tore half of Rellin ’s face off. The half of Rellin ’s jaw that was still attached started yapping up and down but no words spilled out, only blood and a sick gurgling sound. Aberyn’s rage had fully consumed his reason and when a scream sounded from behind him he turned and instinctively lashed out with his claws. The sight of a woman with three deep slashes to the neck broke him from his blind rage. Blood spurted from the wounds and from her mouth as she tried to speak. She dropped to her knees and keeled over. Aberyn watched as the bleeding woman clutched her round belly. Horror and shame set in as he realized that he had just killed Rellin ’s pregnant wife. At that moment Rellin’s body finally gave out and fell backward into the raging fireplace.
Aberyn turned into a cat again and made his way out of town. He looked back to see Rellin’s house completely engulfed in flames. He started to run as fast and as far as he could. He finally stopped in the middle of the forest to the West of the city. Aberyn curled up under a tree and wept for what seemed like hours, till he finally let exhaustion take him. Aberyn woke and immediately started making a camp. He needed shelter, food, water, and a fire. He couldn’t go back, he couldn’t be around people. Why would he want to be around them anyway? If the city folk helped Morvin none of this would have happened. If the guards did their job and arrested Rellin and these Redbrands he worked for, then none of this would have happened. He was better off just living in the forest alone, where no one could bother him, no one could let him down, where no one could leave him...again and where his rage couldn’t hurt anyone.
Aberyn spent a year in the forest alone. One day while hunting in wolf form an arrow pierced his hindquarter. Peering around he saw a man and a young boy with bows. The man was nocking a new arrow. Aberyn ran and pounced on the man biting down on his shoulder and clawing at his chest with his front paws. A wailing cry sounding from the right of him and something was hitting him in the head. Aberyn leaped off the man's now prone and unconscious body towards the young boy who had been whacking at Aberyn’s head with his bow. Just as his jaws were about to sink into the kid's flesh, Aberyn regained his senses and stopped. He looked at the boy and then the bleeding man on the ground. He realized that this was just a hunter and his boy. They thought Aberyn was a forest wolf and why wouldn’t they? This man was just teaching his boy how to hunt, just like Aberyn’s father taught him when he was young. Aberyn jumped off the boy and turned human. He started treating the boy's father as best he could. Once the man was stable he looked at the boy, fear and hatred looked back. Aberyn pulled the arrow out of the side of his upper thigh and then started building a fire. Aberyn waited by the fire till the man was conscious and explained what had happened. Aberyn didn’t wait for the man to say anything and just took off into the woods. Aberyn made his way back to his camp. “Even alone in the middle of the woods, I have to worry about hurting people,” He thought. Aberyn looked up and could see a large mountain looming above. He thought back to the Barbarian in the bar who offered to teach him to harness and control his rage. Maybe it was time to pay Drogen a visit.
Aberyn made his way to Drogen’s village. He learned that the Redbrand’s were trying to force the village into paying a tax for their “protection”. The sickness that took out 5 children and 12 adults were a result of the Barbarian village refusing to pay the tax. News of Rellin ’s death made it back to Drogen and Aberyn was hailed a hero of the village once they found out it was him that ended Rellin’s life. Aberyn told Drogen about Rellin’s wife and the hunter and his boy in the woods. He needed to control his rage. He needed Drogen’s help. Aberyn spent 3 years living just outside of the Barbarian village, training with Drogen and his people. They tried to get him to live within the village proper but Aberyn always refused. He would train and help out when needed but he never let himself become friends with any of the villagers.
Aberyn eventually made it back to his Circle and resumed his Druid training. He again chose to go deeper into the woods and live alone. He would return to train and take on jobs that his Circle assigned to him. When he was around too many people, he would think back to how no one would help him and his master. He would think about the innocent lives he took because of his anger and rage. He thought that he was better off living deep in the forest, alone. When he has to go off on missions and deal with people, he would drink to help manage his anxiety.
Aberyn has been summoned and must once again travel with others and visit crowded cities and villages. He must begrudgingly deal with the rude and selfish denizens of the land. Part of him, a very small part, wishes he could trust people, wishes he could embrace them like he used to. That part gets drowned out by the memories of his master's death and the face of the pregnant woman that died by his hand because of his rage. Maybe someday he can learn to trust again. Today is not that day.
Here we go. I have a pair of brothers. Tieflings. So I will say their backstory together. Mystik Bloodscar is the warlock and Luciferus Bloodscar is the Bloodhunter
Their village was massacred by someone they haven't discovered. He was behind a mask. They were young at the time. Mystik felt powerless, so he wished for power. A noble genie, efreeti answered his wishes. He only had to prove himself and sell his soul. To prove himself he had to use a dagger and kill a goblin helping in the massacre. He did it and pledged his soul by drawing a pentacle on his palm. The noble genie then pulled some strings and arranged the brothers to be separated. One was sent to a bloodhunter school and the other Mystik was sent to a noble family in Waterdeep. Although they had houses in every major city. He had to house his secret that he was a warlock by saying he was a wizard or sorceror. But he wished to find the killer of his village/family. He had no idea who did it. Spoiler: it was the mad mage. Luciferus however wished to live a simple life as a monster slayer of the order of the lycanthrope. But he could not fight fate. He was led to the city of waterdeep and found the dragon heist treasure. He made a group of friends and decided he wanted to continue in their adventures, monster hunting on the side. And there they were hunting down the mad mage. In the same city as Mystik yet they did not know that The Mad Mage killed their parents. Mystik wasnt in the group, he relaxed and conned people at inns, with his imp familiar. He would help when the party really needed him. Oh yes and Mystik sometimes brings treasure and special items to the noble genie.
Never really done backstories before and I'm new to D&d! Hope you like :)
Name - Gawain, Class - Fighter (Champion) Dex Background - Soldier
Gawain hails from a small village known as Redthorne, which lies on the western border of the City of Nidum. Gawain is a simple man that enjoys the simple things life women, ale and good hearty food; as well as working as part of the local militia for the village, growing up he wasn't the strongest but he was quick and nimble which became his strength.
One night..came a sound of drums and the cry of war echoed through the valley; as soon as the alarm bells could ring, an Orc raiding band were upon them, slaying the helpless children and women. Then came the clash of steel, as the militia force met the orcs...the battle for life began.
Good start for Gawain, but it might help to give him "motivation" to go on an adventure. Was a loved one slain? Was some relic taken from Redthorne? Did travelers come though town, escaping from an Orc attack on their town?
Sometimes the DM can use those little hooks to craft the gameplay later.
@DnD_Berzerker
Thanks for the reply and input! I've tweaked my backstory where "Come morning Gawain awoke, dazed and confused; he saw the aftermath of war, ashes and smoke from the fire that burnt the village...then next to him laying peaceful was the lifeless body of his father, killed by the orc leader."
Something like that haha Will think of it better.
I let the dice and the PHB decide the trinket my Halfling "wrestler" (wrassler) would have. I rolled a 22.
It must be fate.
A Halfling wrestler with an action figure of himself.
Human. Male. Possibly. Don't be a divider.
My characters' backgrounds are written like instruction manuals rather than stories. My opinion and preferences don't mean you're wrong.
I am 99.7603% convinced that the digital dice are messing with me. I roll high when nobody's looking and low when anyone else can see.🎲
“It's a bit early to be thinking about an epitaph. No?” will be my epitaph.
I've playing this guy since the 2017 Artificer; Alchemist and loved every minute of it.
"Dr. Hjalmar Gunderson has always been an eclectic man: whatever the norm was, he was focusing on something different. Growing up in his family’s large farming estate in Nesmyth, north of Marsember, while all his siblings and peers (not ‘friends’ as such) were doing normal kid things, Hjalmar was staring at the stars, pulling apart clocks or researching famous arcane inventions and inventors, dreaming his name would one day be on that list too.
In his late teens, Hjalmar received his calling, a scholarship to study at the University of Suzail. In true Gunderson form, he majored in engineering and minored in medicinal sciences and remained at the top of the cohort in both degrees for some time. Then the Sembian nation attacked. Being a staunch loyalist, he signed up instantly and luckily he was drafted into a special unit headed by one of his former professors, a gnome named Llewellyn D’Smond.
The unit was based outside Suzail in the fortified village of Kew. They were tasked with creating never before seen tactics and tools in warfare. Hjalmar performed strongly, and took the lead on several projects. This was much to the irritation of childhood best friend and no competitive fellow R&D member, Harro Le D’Gween, who harboured resentment and jealousy of Hjalmar’s success. Hjalmar soon began working as a field tester, getting sent into battle to test inventions and potions. He also spent a lot of time in the field as a medic, pursuing in interest in medicinal sciences. Close to the end of the war, Hjalmar was posted along the Dragonmere, when he was sent several prototypes of a new device for field testing. He recognised these as The Thundermonger, an arcane smokepowder weapon that he had helped Llewellyn develop.
After successful testing (albeit in a fairly quiet area of the war at that time), it was stamped for approval to go into wider production. One of the most climactic moments of the war saw these prototype Thundermongers used to devastating effect against a Sembian advance. A surprise push on the front where Hjalmar and his comrades were stationed was repelled, narrowly, and in many ways turned the fate of the war. All the prototypes were unfortunately lost, but the day was won. When Hjalmar returned to Kew, he found that Llewellyn had disappeared, Harro had taken over, and all the schemata and reports on the Thundermongers were gone. With the war over, Hjalmar could not stand to be in the same building as Harro. He resigned his commission and started an adventurer's guild with other veterans. He now hopes to track down wondrous items, catalogue them and hopefully learn enough to make his own name in the wondrous item creation business with grand dreams of opening up his own Wondrous Item and Potions Emporium... of course, the name needs some work, but he's a man of potions not poetry."
That was the beginning of the campaign's backstory. Harro has since gone rogue and begun selling the schemas and materials on the black market, including selling AND manufacturing Thundermongers to a Goblinoid army lead by hobgoblins who sacked the nearby city of Arabel and became one of our campaign's main BBEGs, killing me twice on separate occasions using an enchanted sniper version. While escaping from the sacking of Arabel as we were severely outnumbered and the Purple Knight/Humanoid army was falling rapidly, we accidentally found ourselves in the feywild for three weeks, when we finally arrived back it was actually three years later, Suzail had vanished leaving nothing but a crater and the Hobgoblin led army had settled Arabel and it was apparently better off than it was before. We met with their leader, who remembered us almost killing us last time and said there was no hard feelings in war, its just business, but to clear the air completely, we had to solve a problem they were having at a local mine with some fire giants. They had these new weapons which I recognised as massive gatling style ballista I designed years previous but then abandoned because our smelters, apparatus and workers weren't big, hot or strong enough to make them. The Hobgoblin general recounted the fellow who sold them their rifles was seen with them once so he assumes Harro had fitted the Fire Giants out with the artillery. We then made our way through the Against the Giants module and found him in the volcanic blacksmith of the fire giant stronghold and we finally killed him before he had a turn. I got the killing blow with a lvl3 Melf's Acid Arrow, melting his jaw and throat away so he could never sell the secrets of thundermongers again, not even under s Speak With Dead circumstance. It was exhilarating! I got his hand held shotguns and a few other trinkets but that original thundermonger that he's moded over the years is nowhere to be seen... yet. Now we go into the Underdark as all clues point to the drow stealing our home city.
Hjalmar Gunderson, Vuman Alchemist Plague Doctor in a HB Campaign, Post Netherese Invasion Cormyr (lvl20 retired)
Godfrey, Autognome Butler in Ghosts of Saltmarsh into Spelljammer
Grímr Skeggisson, Goliath Rune Knight in Rime of the Frostmaiden
DM of two HB campaigns set in the same world.
This is my lv 5 Duergar Death Cleric. I play him like a Darth Vader/Mike Ehermentraut kinda guy.
Hadgar Greystone followed the call of Laduguer ever since he came of age. He joined the armed forces of the Duergar where he fought with righteous zeal against his people's enemies, using his martial skill. Whoring, drinking, fighting orcs and getting into barfights was Hadgar's main occupation.
Until in one such barfight he met members of the Order of the Thuldor (Those who Endure). He was inducted on the spot.
For a century Hadgar fought alongside the order in Dunspeirrin , using his death magicks next to his hammer to inflict pain and death on the enemy.
One day however during a skirmish with Shield Dwarves, both groups fell into a gaping chasm after a massive earthquake. Many days later only he and a shield dwarf named Helga Battlehammer managed to escape the horrors beneath. A strong bound was created between the two during that time as both decided to leave the war.
They settled in Icewind Dale where they married whereupon he took her last name. He lived in the village of Feldûnost, a village near Easthaven in Icewind Dale populated by dwarves and humans, for many years with his wife and family. For decades he served as the town's blacksmith and militia commander.
He was a good husband, father and even grandfather to his family until one day Helga died from an illness he could not cure. His youngest son, Bhurin, left shortly thereafter after a argument broke out between the two. For seven years he wallowed in pity and rage, hunting goblins to ease the pain. Were it not for his family, he would've gotten himself slain.
One night years later, Hadgar had a vision that Bhurin was in trouble. He slew a nearby band of bandits and dedicated their deaths to Laduguer who whispered the name of a place to him. Moonshae. After having bid goodbye to his family he immediately he set off on one last quest...
He worships Laduguer, the Duergar/Dwarven god of smithing, Deep Duarra, the Duergar/dwarven goddess of conquest and Father Winter and dedicates all his kills to these three. He carries with him a Warhammer enchanted with frost magic. A soft clinging of bells is heard as the hammer is raised. Itself is a hammer with a green hilt and a red and white hammerhead enhanced with strange runes. When asked he says the hammer's name is "Yulebringer" and it belonged to a fierce warrior who gave it to him as a present for the many years of friendship. Guessing by the amount of attention and care he gives to the hammer it must've belonged to someone he cared about quite deeply...
Hadgar Greystone, Lv 10 Duergar Death Cleric.
Call of Cantraxis campaign, Moonshae.
DM: Imperia Regnum
Ancient Rome Theros Homebrew.
Gri'im the Red, LV 7 Orc Druid
Rime of the Frost Maiden Campaign.
I got a soft spot for Plague Doctors, Hjalmar sounds awesome!
I love how you got a personal nemesis, really cool for DM's to play with, and I dig how you're going to the Underdark now.
Keep us up to date!
Hadgar Greystone, Lv 10 Duergar Death Cleric.
Call of Cantraxis campaign, Moonshae.
DM: Imperia Regnum
Ancient Rome Theros Homebrew.
Gri'im the Red, LV 7 Orc Druid
Rime of the Frost Maiden Campaign.
The Backstory of Chorusahl Rotwalker, travelling Plaguebearer!
Hidden away in the jungle-swamps of Riatti, there is a culture devoted to something the rest of the world abhors; Disease. The Temple of The Great Contagion is a group of necromancers who specialise their powers intensely - becoming focused on the unification of all races in glorious rot and decay, and Chorusahl is an exemplar of their teachings.
Very wise in the fields of disease, parasites and poisons, the followers of this religion are obvious by the symptoms of their upbringing, none of them pleasant. Any other symptoms on the body of a Plaguebearer are there due to their own conscious control of their countless infections through prayer to The Contagion; a rat-borne affliction that taints bloodlines in ways only a truly stubborn sorcerer could withstand. Such a stubborn sorcerer was the abhorred necromancer Grishmau The Rotten, Chorusahl's ancestor.
Chorusahl was initiated into the Plague Priests aged 13, when his first bout of Contagion took hold. He was taught how use a Plague Censer, assigned a rat companion, and shown how to collect and prepare various ingredients for the incenses needed for it to burn. This hauntingly beautiful object - fuelled by the incenses inside its owner's reliquary - is like a library of pathogens and will start to burn with a foul green fire as soon as it is swung, billowing reeking smoke imbued with Chorusahl's own knowledge of disease, parasites and decay. The tool hangs from a long tarnished chain and is heavy enough to function as a bludgeon if its original function is inhibited. Anyone 'blessed' with the Censer will start to show signs of whatever disease Chorusahl sees fit to bestow upon them, but will feel no pain, often returning to their village to seek help (and therefore spreading the 'blessing' of the Contagion). In dire times, when its master is at his weakest or when his judgement is clouded by anger, the censer will roar with high flames and vomit black smoke so thick it seeps along the ground, almost pulsing with a life of its own as it brings forth every morsel of knowledge the Plague Priest poured into it, exhausting its incense supply to painfully warp anything that means him harm until they die or fall back.
At 18, he was allowed to leave on a 'pilgrimage' for as long as he so desired, spreading the Contagion wherever he sees fit, carrying only a satchel of various supplies and a survival kit, his censer attached to his belt and his greatrat perched atop his shoulder. Over his travels he has picked up many diseases and even more fighting skill, able to hold his own despite his lanky frame. Now aged 25, Chorushal bears all the symptoms of the Contagion:
- His skin is pale and his eyes are discoloured; bloodshot with yellow irises and dark circles around them.
- The sallow skin is slightly sticky to the touch and the faint, sweet smell of rot lingers in the air around him.
- His black curls are thick and tangled with grease, harbouring a few lice within their depths.
- With yellowed teeth and a dark tongue, his breath leaves much to be desired.
Living nomadically between towns where he could buy more supplies, the Child of The Contagion composed hymns and poems about the various diseases, parasites and vermin encountered on his travels, keeping detailed records in a stained ledger and many samples of them within his satchel to refine into incense whenever he has the time/ingredients. He rarely sings such things but will often hum them while he does menial work, such as setting up a tent. Naturally, he despises bathing and, having never willingly submerged himself, cannot swim.
Chorusahl has physical afflictions dotted around his body as well:
- A rash on the right side of his face, complete with small scabs and sores down his jaw and neck.
- His chin has small cuts on it that never seem to fully heal.
- The torso is fairly 'clean', only showing a small series of rashes at the 'seams' of his chest and stomach.
- His right forearm is wrapped in a curling rash starting from the back of his hand. A similar rash on his left arm extends from the shoulder to the crook of his elbow.
- His shoulder blades are a map of welts and rings of varying severity.
- His waist is banded by a large series of sores and welts, only broken by a fist-sized gap of clear skin at the front.
- His legs hold boils at random intervals and a large sore on the top of his left foot completes his filthy look.
Wearing all black and grey under a tattered dark green cloak, Chorusahl exudes the sickly stench of death and rot wherever his heavy boots fall and he stands tall and proud under the burden of his sicknesses. One may think his body would be wasted, but this would be wrong. He is slim, yes, but fit and decently agile with it, sustained by his Contagion in times of hardship. His armour is minimal, with his only protection being a breastplate and chain-mail, both tarnished and spiked, bearing the arrow-like insignia of the Temple at the centre of the breastplate. The giant black rat on his shoulder, also showing signs of Contagion, doesn't exactly help his image either as it stares at all who draw near with narrow red eyes. But under the facial scars and pustules he is more tolerant than the others of his ilk, allowing his travelling partners to practice their own beliefs as long as he can practice his without persecution, and his curiosity will often lead to discussion with followers of other teachings as he learns about their own beliefs over a bottle of mead - providing they can stand to be around him, that is.
I LOVE plague doctors too, the whole aesthetic and facade that comes with them is so atmospheric. I jumped at the chance to theme him that way when an Alchemist popped into UA, until then I was looking at a cleric and it just didnt fit right. We have our next session this weekend after another long hiatus, if anything interesting happens I'll hit back. The story thread with Harro was one of three we were tracking in the campaign, the main one involves these mummy vampire ladies called Shadar Vari in incubation coffins that seem to be hidden around the land. Naturally, we keep accidentally waking them up and unleashing them on the world. The last few we've found were of drow heritage. So who knows what we'll find down there.
Your Duregar cleric sounds fun! Interesting choice! Is he True N or on the evil scale?
Hjalmar Gunderson, Vuman Alchemist Plague Doctor in a HB Campaign, Post Netherese Invasion Cormyr (lvl20 retired)
Godfrey, Autognome Butler in Ghosts of Saltmarsh into Spelljammer
Grímr Skeggisson, Goliath Rune Knight in Rime of the Frostmaiden
DM of two HB campaigns set in the same world.