I have had this character for a long time. Never really played D&D before aside from a few one shots as a kid, but it would be cool to use her someday. i'm not a huge d&d lore nerd so various things would have to be tweaked depending on what kind of world she was in, but here are the basics.
Name: Sylvara Hollow
Race: Half elf (drow)
Alignment: Lawful(?) Evil
Class: Shadow Sorcerer
origins (ancient past)
Sylvara is an ancient being that was cursed with immortality when a king's wish went awry, causing a group of everyday sell swords to receive his wish instead of him. These sell swords, who eventually founded a secret order known as the Unblinking Eye, do not age and if they die there is no heaven for them, just a painful limbo where they are held until being reincarnated.(though reincarnation takes long enough that it still functions like normal death in a campaign setting.) No gods seem able or willing to save them.
Sylvara started out normal enough. She had joined the mercenary group on their fated adventure as a young woman whose only motivation was seeing more of the world and earning enough coin to buy a home back in Kell. But after being cursed, her humanity slowly began to fade away as the years went by; the passage of time rendering most things once sacred, now insignificant. She has been a queen and a beggar, a pacifist and a warlord. She has gained, lost and then gained again untold wealth and power over the centuries but it means little to her now. For at night she is haunted not by the atrocities she has committed, but by the emptiness of outliving everything. She is incredibly bored and desperate to find new experiences and stories to entertain her. A difficult task when you have lived as long as her.
Hometown: Kell of the Darkwood. (optional depending on world lore)
Sylvara had a good childhood. Hell, she had a good life. Several, in fact. Her father, a drow, was a blacksmith and her best friend. Her human mother was a stern but fair woman who trained horses for a living. Shes thankful that old age took them before they could see what she became.
They lived in a small town hidden in an ancient forest simply called the Darkwood. A place where the trees were so vast an ancient that they blocked out much of the sun.
The inhabitants of the Darkwood villages had a unique religion, believing that a rare type of tree that only grew in their woods was sacred. When a child was born, a seed from one of these trees would be chosen and planted in the child's chest and as they grew up they would develop a symbiotic relationship with that seed. If they took care of their seed, it would grant them minor protections from things such as sunlight, sickness or poison. As a seeded individual grew older and observed the teachings of the Darkwood, their symbiotic relationship often visually manifested with individuals growing wooden horns or bark skin, while others might have flowers bloom in their hair or develop a green thumb.
When these individuals eventually passed away, their bodies would be planted and the seed would grow into a tree. It was their belief that the departed lived on as this tree and that eventually they would return either as a dryad, or through reincarnation when a seed from their tree was chosen for a newborn.
Sylvara tended diligently to the trees of her parents and other family members, patiently waiting for them to come back to her. But they never did and eventually, their trees died.
It was the common belief of the Darkwood that any tree struck down had been black of heart in life and nature had judged them unworthy of reincarnation. The loss of Sylvara's trees was a sad one but the people of Kell, now several generations removed from that of her parents, did not question natures judgment of these long dead strangers.
But Sylvara did. It was then that her faith was finally shattered and she knew her religion to be a lie, for her parents had been good people and the judgment of nature had been unjust. So she left Kell and never looked back. She dose not know what became of the forest or her people's sacred trees after that. As for her own seed, it has withered and died, her wooden horns having long since petrified.
Eromon, (The city that is no more)
Perhaps the most impactful and horrific aspect of Sylvara's “recent” history is the city that is now only known as Eromon. Some might say that its real name has been lost to time or that the city never existed at all, but the truth is its name was intentionally erased as a punishment. For you see, Eromon killed its king, a black dragon made cunning by his half lung heritage.
Never mind that the townsfolk had had no love for their old king. Never mind that the kingdom had prospered under the cunning work and toil of him and Sylvara, his queen. No, when the clergy learned their true king had been replaced by a chromatic, they only wanted blood. And despite all their dragon king had given them, their fear and hatred drove them to murder.
Sylvara tried to save him. Her failure to do so haunts her to this day. She barely escaped the encounter herself and when next she returned to the city to resurrect him, she found that her husband's scales had been dolled out as gifts among the usurpers. Once a king- now a pair of gloves.
Whatever they had done to him, her magic failed to bring him back. The loss left her heartbroken, all the while her citizens cheered in the streets around her, celebrating his demise.
It was in a state of cold, collected rage that she then went and collected the most powerful artifacts from her hoard and sacrificed them to erase the city. She called down magic and hellfire and raging storms upon those who had stolen her love from her and did not stop until all that was left was dust in a pit. She struck the city's name from every map, every book and every story she could find until all that was left of those that betrayed her was a legend and a blank spot on a map. She continues to erase all evidence of its existence to this day, the need to do so having become a compulsion.
Now people can only whisper fables of Eromon, the city that is no more.
(recent past.) Ever since her husband was murdered, Sylvara has made attempts to bring him back, seeking the aid of gods and charlatans alike to no avail. This eventually lead her to a disastrous journey to the Shadowfell, where she learned some harsh truths that she did not want to hear.
Desperate to forget what she had learned there, she intentionally overdosed on a drug called Hazeweed to ruin her memory. Unfortunately for her, she also unintentionally erased her knowledge of magic along with the location of her hideout.
She is used to being all-powerful, but now all of that power is gone. Shes washed up, broke and has no idea where she is or who might have an ax to grind with her. She needs to find some allies to watch her back while she regains her strength and seeks out her hidden fortune, hopefully forging stories filled with new thrills along the way.
TL:DR Basically she hit max level and got used to being an untouchable jerk until life made her re-role as a level one after she went on a major bender and now she is sweating because she has to hope her enemies don't find out.
Here’s the background of one of my characters: Niendesmia, the Levistus Tiefling Draconic Sorcerer
About a few thousands years ago, the region now know as the kingdom of Malizards was ruled by the ancient white dragon Kryonduseisdra, or Ruthless Blizzard. Nardla and Marixe, my grand grand grand grand grandmothers, two tribal chiefs and lovers, were forced to make a bargain with The Nine Hells (Levistus, I think.) to gain power to oppose the dragon, they killed her and drunk her blood, wanting that every single one of their descendants (they were lovers but also had a huge harem) would have draconic power. But no one make deals with the Nine Hells and stay good, and they slowly become tyrants as the devils beginned to take more prominent roles as their councilors and, later, even concubines, they were two old ladies full of children and grandchildren (mostly tiefling) when the common folk decided to get rid of them once and for all. They asked for help from the Cailidrae, a cabal of wizards devoted to good deities, and the leaders of the Cailidrae, the High Arcanists, fought them, but they were too powerful to be defeated, so they bounded the old crones to the former lair of the Ruthless Blizzard. What they did to that children? The rebelled against the Old Crones and voluntary used their magic in service of the kingdom. Since sorcerer magic is most used application is for combat, most of them become members of the elite sorcerer troop called “Thalivas Shalaesti” or something like “Icy blades of the Kingdom” in elvish or Frozen Hell in most cotidian language (most of it’s members were tieflings wielding ice magic) So, now that you’ve been properly introduced to my homeland, let me introduce myself properly. I’m Niemdesmia, a former member of the Frozen Hell. I was “expelled“ becauseof my “indiscipline” so now I wander the world working as a chief, a mercenary, anything that give me money to live. And there’s a former general fo the arcane army that is obsessed with capture and “discipline” me, a half orc Wizard.
Niendesmia has white hair, black curly horns, silver eyes and red skin, she usually wears a coat and wields a crystal staff.
Two hundred years ago, under the cover of darkness, Nev Van’shir, an ancient vampire and servant to Strahd Von Zarovich, murdered thirty Paladins devoted to Eldath. Nev Van’shir used a weapon called Bloodthirst which was directly connected to Strahd Von Zarovich. The sentient blade was designed to feed it’s master. Whether it landed the killing blow or merely drew blood, it fed the life energies into the master vampire, strengthening the very land of Barovia itself.
Knowing that Nev Van’shir would be attacking the next town – the Paladins of Eldath prepared themselves and ambushed Nev Van’shir. Gravely wounded, the vampire was forced to flee. However, in his attempt to escape, Bloodthirst fell into the darkness of the night - lost forever. The blade without a master sought desperately to fulfill its purpose.
Vandal was born into the Waterdhavian noble house of Whiteraven. Vandal grew up with all of the benefits of wealth, including good schooling, and a stable home. He was however a prodigal, squandering everything in orgy of self-indulgence.
Ashamed by his behavior his father confronted him. “You soil our name the way you soil your trousers, you drunkard fool. Your behavior has wrought shame to our family name.” “What good is wealth if one does not enjoy it?” Vandal asked, taking another deep drink from the bottle in his hand. “If we die without spending that which we have who will take it? It is better to live a life of fulfilment.” “This,” his father gestured, “is not fulfilment. This is how a commoner’s pig would live. And you will not live like this any longer. Not here.” “What are you going to do? Cast me out? Your only son?” Vandal chuckled drunkenly.
Vandal next found himself standing outside the manor’s gate with no way back in. The true tragedy of the moment struck him: he would need to get… a job.
Too many knew the Whiteravens, and thus, Vandal’s reputation. Changing his last name to Morn, he left Waterdeep for a small nearby town. He lived well by selling his jewelry. But more often than not, he fell back into his ways of debauchery and squandered even what little wealth that brought him.
Unable to afford the protection of a caravan, Vandal was forced to walk to yet another town. The road was lonely, the trees cast dark foreboding shadows. He saw an approaching group of people which he had mistook as gnomes initially, but as he drew closer, he realized it was a band of goblins! His heart sank as he realized he had sold off his last dagger.
He dove into the bushes just off the road and held his breath. As the goblins approached, one of them paused. “Somethin’ been here,” it growled as it pointed at the road. “Fresh tracks.” Vandal knew that they would find him. Like a rabbit he dashed deeper into the woods, the goblins immediately pursued. He could hear their gleeful cheering mixed with hoots and callings. He ran for seemingly forever, the goblins showed no signs of tiring, Vandal stumbled into a graveyard (Here in the wilderness?)– a misty maze of ancient tombstones. Aside from the thundering beat of his heart, the world was silent as if it held its breath.
With no other choice, he bolted across as quickly as he could, and fell directly into a freshly dug grave. Frantically he tried to climb out. If the goblins found him, it would be like spearing fish in a barrel. The wet soil prevented him from getting a solid hold. Vandal sunk to the ground realizing he would die like a pig in mud, just as his father had predicted. He watched from the pit as the sun passed over, then the moon, then the sun again. He noticed, because there was nothing else to do, that the entire day and night, not a single sound could be heard – no birds, deer, owls – nothing.
Believing he was safe, Vandal tried to climb again, and this time as he tried to stand, his hand touched something that sent a spark of energy through his body. Looking down and saw the hilt of a blade protruding from the mud. He pulled it out – and for a brief moment – had a vision of a pale being, bathed in blood, slaying armored men.
Vandal tried to drop it – but something refused to let him go. The jet-black sword seemed to have a crackling energy about it. “Take me,” he heard the voice in his head as the blade shimmered, “and you will never be afraid again. Kill for me, let me drink the blood of those who stand against you.” The voice was soothing and calming, despite the tone of the message. “Take me up, and I will make YOU a devastating weapon!” Vandal took the weapon, and it melded into his arm, leaving only the tattoo of a black sword.
Feeling a surge of power, Vandal leapt from the grave. Fearlessly, he entered the forest, where he heard the unmistakable chatter of goblins. Purple energies erupted from his hands. Six squealing goblins quenched the blades thirst. There was no blood left in them, not a drop, just a look of horror.
Vandal stepped onto the path. He felt like a man for the first time. He wasn’t a servant; he was a weapon. He liked that. Vandal was no longer a rake, a drunk, or a loser. Vandal was going to be a hero. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Pact:
Vandal made a deal with Bloodthirst, a weapon designed to strengthen Strahd and his realm. With every death (he need not cast the killing blow), blood and energy flow into the land of Barovia. Not a drop of blood will even stain the clothing of his victims. BUT. Anyone struck by either ray, spell, or sword will die with a look of horror.
Vandal is not required to commit murder. An adventurer’s life provides enough blood to suffice. Vandal is not aware he ultimately serves Strahd, just a nameless sword. Strahd is aware of the energy he receives but not who wields it (indeed there are several feeding Barovia this way). Bloodthirst is simply fulfilling its purpose: to feed Strahd. Finally, Strahd cannot issue orders through the sword. Vandal is under no compulsion to obey Strahd, even if they should meet. The undead and all who wield divine magic can be killed but do not feed Strahd. ---------------------------------------------------------
As I have stated many times before, I have been working on this character for a very, very long time and I thought it would be cool if I turned it into my first D&D character. I am extremely proud of what I have accomplished and I hope you enjoy it as well. The backstory itself is quite dense, including spaceships, “super soldier” programs and so on, so I've tried to keep it relatively simple. I have also kept certain things secret, because of reasons.
D&D Character Backstory
Know As: Alex Shepherd
Name: William Ryker
Race: Human
Class: Fighter (planning to multiclass)
Background: Solder
Status quo: Unknown
Part One: Introduction
William Ryker was a US marine famously known for his impressive fighting skills and quick thinking. Although only being raised by his mother, Ryker was seemingly unmatched in almost every aspect of his life. Winning multiple sports carnivals, a couple science fairs and somehow, he even managed to help his uncle develop a more advanced version of MMA. At the age of 17 he joined the military and through sheer determination, became one of the most loyal and well trained marines the US has ever produced. However, years of service left Ryker feeling as though they were stuck in an endless loop. Fighting the same battles with the same people, over and over and over again.
Part Two: Top of The List
When the time came, Ryker left the navy in hopes of living a more peaceful life. However the world was falling apart, another world war was around the corner and the UN (United Nations) was getting desperate. As part of their last ditch effort, the UN decided to fund a “super soldier” program, which was run by the US. A handful of the world's best were selected to participate and Ryker, due to his outstanding achievements, was at the top of the list.
Part Three: Lets Go Camping
After being forced back into the military, Ryker decided that he would be better off dead than to be turned into someone's lab rat and planned to disappear on a solo camping trip a couple weeks before the “super soldier” program was supposed to begin.
Now, during this “camping” trip, Ryker did everything in his power to make sure that his disappearance looked like an accident. However, before he could execute his seemingly brilliant plane, something resembling a “spaceship” crashed into the lake he was so conveniently set up next to. This in turn foiled Rykers escape plan, as what he found inside that spaceship almost killed him... twice.
What was it exactly?. Well nobody knows for sure. Some say it was just a military mishap, while others go as far as believing that it was a sign of the gods, but what we do know is that it was mechanical, and had a strong fascination with Mr Ryker.
Part Four: Irony
Now, returning to the story. After almost dying, Ryker just managed to make his way to a hospital. Where ironically the only way to save the best of the best from the brink of death, is to use the “super soldier serum” developed for the same program Ryker was running from. This allowed Ryker to heal at an accelerated rate and provided him with increased strength but due to it being an experimental drug it was still unpredictable.
Fast forward a few days and the “Thing” that almost killed Ryker back in the spaceship, returned but not to finish the job. Instead it kidnapped Ryker and took him to a place otherwise known as “The Middle of Nowhere”.
Part Five: The End?
This would be the last we would hear of both, Ryker and the machine, until “The Battle of Chicago”, where they were seen several times throughout the city. Then again in Greenland, 48 hours before Ryker was pronounced dead. No details involving Ryker's death were ever released to the public, but what they did tell us was that neither his body or the machine were ever found.
Part Six: Conspiracy!!
Of course, with no proof of Ryker's death, many conspiracy theories flooded the internet. Many say that he was a traitor and a terrorist, while others go on to say that he was fighting a hidden war and is still alive, lurking in the shadows.
Dead or alive, there's no doubting that Ryker was an interesting man. He rose up, only to be crushed by his own success. If only he chose to camp next to a different lake, maybe than his plan might have worked.
QnA
The Battle of Chicago?
The Battle of Chicago was a small war between Us armed forces and a group known as (Insert cool name here). Ryker played a key part in this.
The thing/machine?
Um.... Think of it as sentient heavy armour, inspired by Pop cultural. ex. Iron man + The Mandalorian. Until I find out how to insert an image without it braking on me, my profile picture is the closest thing you'll get to seeing it and just in case you where wondering, I draw it.
Is Ryker alive?
Yes and no. Due to story purposes, William Ryker is dead, and now Alex Shepherd is in charge. (He changed his name)
How would you like him to be introduced into a D&D campaign?
Again, due to reasons, I will keep it short. After Ryker was presumed dead, he used a "secret" weapon he managed to get his hands on, to travel to another universe. One most likely filled with dungeons and dragons.
I think that's It. Any more questions, just ask and will try my best to answer.
This story is of my all time favorite character I made and yes he was my first character. His name was Ancalagon. I was a red dragonborn figther battlemaster. the setting was a wild west based.
"In a small village near the base of an active volcano, the Dragonborn clan of Ixen Altiui, or the clan of the Fire Wing, lived peacefully. On the eve of the summer solstice, Ancalagon was born to the into the head family. Ancalagon grow in the village and was proclaimed to become the next chieftain of the Ixen Altiui. He learned how to fight and survive in the wild from the warriors of the clan and politics and leadership from his father. For many years, Ancalagon lived in peace.
On the night of his tenth year, Ancalagon was to perform his coming of age ceremony and inherit the clan’s famous fire breath. However, Ancalagon was not able to produce his fire. Bringing shame upon his clan, Ancalagon was exiled from the Ixen Altiui and force to suffer alone in the outside world.
Ancalagon faced many hardships in his travels. In every town he visited, the human inhabitants were fearful of him and would attack him for no reason. Ancalagon was of peaceful mind and never wished to harm anyone, Unfortunately, his strength proved otherwise. On the 8 year of his travels, arrived in the small human settlement of Talonwood on banks of an unnamed river. It was in Talonwood were Ancalagon was able to find work as a blacksmith/bladesmith and acquired enough money to buy a large plot of land outside the town limits. It was here that Ancalagon set up a shop of his own and eased into a life of blacksmithing, bladesmithing, and cattle raising.
Some years passed and Ancalagon shop prospered and he took the surname of Usk Jhank, meaning Iron Hammer in his native tongue. On the seventh month of his 21 year, Ancalagon meet a young human woman. Her name was Keona. She was orphaned at a young age and grow up in the towns church. Keona and Ancalagon shared a strong bond and fell in love, even though they were of different races. She moved into Ancalagon’s house and together they ran the business.
Their lives seemed peaceful for a few years until the townspeople found out about their relationship. While Ancalagon went out into the countryside to find one of his cattle that busted through the fence, a gang of drunken men came from Talonwood to confront to two lovers. Upon his return, Ancalagon found his shop and home burning, his cattle butchered, and Keona hanging from a tree near the house.
After cutting down Keona and giving her a proper burial, Ancalagon’s rage reached it breaking point. Using what was left of the forge and created a crude sword. He then marched into the center of town and demanded that Keona’s murderers be brought to justice. See his blind rage, the townspeople took up arms against him and attack Ancalagon. Summoning his inner power, Ancalagon’s fire breath awakened and he set the entire town on fire. Those not caught in the initial blast attempted to flee but they where trapped. Encircled by Ancalagon’s flames and the river, Ancalagon slaughtered the remaining people and reduced Talonwood to ash.
After destroying Talonwood, news of Ancalagon spread like wildfire and a bounty was placed on his head. Ancalagon abandoned his surname of Usk Jhank, feeling unworthy of the title. With his newfound power, Ancalagon set out once again in a rage filled state to find an opponent that could strike him down to atone for his crimes and be reunited with his beloved Keona. Ancalagon took up his third surname of Charir Ibafarshan, meaning Ancalagon of the Red Flame.
Post campaign: After surviving through the trials of the wild west setting Ancalagon has learned to overcome his grief and longing to be killed through the support of his newfound friends; Gardetto (the female trifling sorcerer, Gordina (the elf druid), Dread Roberts (the human gunslinger), Brock Hardbody (the gnome bard) and his most trusted and loyal friend Ephraim (the previously human now drow death domain cleric). From taking down a corrupt railroad corporation, to reuniting Brock with his long thought for dead sister, to creating many allies including a dwarven monk, human wizard, a town of goblins, two silver dragons and a very sweet aboleth, and even creating a very well off street meat busness; this band of of friends shown that they have the power to overcome any obstacles thrown their way. Ancalagon’s was also found a way to bring back the love of his life and, with the aid of his best friend Ephraim, is determined to bring her back.
Servant of the One true maker and defender of the light.
and this is my story~well some of it
My mother was raped by an Orc and I grew up as a slave for the Orc tribe of Untarak...
While in captivity mother born many more brothers and sisters who were sold as slaves or slain for sport. To my knowledge I have one sister left, but I'm not sure where she is.
One dark day during the solstice in the midst of winter
there was a raid on the Orc tribe by a darker more Ogre mutt tribe. When the warriors were engaged and the killing was bloody, we saw a chance and mother and I ran - ran and ran, ran for our lives.
After what seemed like days on the run We ended up at an old ruin, so we thought. Turned out to be a hidden runic monastery. A Kindly priest of an Unknown God took us in and hid us from the hunting Orcs, secluded us in a home of safety and devotion. This became home for many years & years. With him I learned much, how to wield a sword and hammer, how to fight and sit. He was fatherly to me and mother grew in comfort and kindness and broke free of her burdensome reserved fearful slave persona that years of slavery and injustice birthed in her soul...
Life was good and over time mother and the no named priest grew fond of each other and married. It was just the three of us and everyday we would read and train and pray and study. As I grew and learned the ways of the warrior, the devoted knight. But devotion is not something so easily come by, and any true holy knight need know and choose what they serve and fight for.Mother and the Priest had a child, my young brother, Life' was his name and he was such an adorable baby. Shortly after his 1st nameday I went away and pondered my own way in this world for some time
In seclusion after many good years with mother and the nameless priest I embarked on my own holy pilgrimage.I traversed many lands, deserts, mountains, snow covered plains, and wreaking hot jungles. For 389 days I wandered knowing not what I was looking for but seeking, seeking the truth not settling for less.
One day it hit me, literally hit me from above-mentioned a beautiful winged bird dropped dead mid flight and fell from the sky, socked me right on the head and knocked me out. I just happened to be traversing a steep path up a sloped cliff.
When I awoke I was battered and bruised at the bottom of a great ruin. Inside the ruin were tomes and ancient books. I knew this was where I was meant to be. I made camp and spent days praying and listening. Days went by, days turned to weeks, weeks fell into months. I was content - I had learned how to wait, how to fast, and how to pray. I believed in this and in immesne study the truth would be revealed.
I started comparing the tomes with the languages I knew and slowly seeing similarities and word structure. I inserted letters for runes and runes for symbols until one day I started making recognizable words. It was a story of a man who taught and lived right and died for the evils of others.
I learned that Toril millions of eons earlier was once called earth and all the gods and demigods and demons and devils once were not and had not been the creators. This claimed that there had been only one Creator and one God and the name was YHWH. It meant Creator of community and togetherness, praise and worship it, the securing tent peg a refuge for safety, praise and worship.
I read and believed and called upon this being and he answered - tears poured down my face and I could not see nor stop for days upon days. The pain and joy and intense emotions overwhelmed me and I did not know what to do.
Then he answered to me. Not in a shout nor in a feeling, but in a tiny small voice - and pierced hence my heart and soul. From that day forth my essense has ne'er been not shall be the same. I found the truth I sought as is the promise to all who seek and ask and knock.
Once I knew the truth I ventured out and away back into the world to share the (salvation word) into every who believe in the name of the son.
My mother and the priest were lost to me when I came back to the area where the monastery was. I hold faith that I will meet them again when time is right. And I wound up here in my life of journey to be blessed by you fine folks and to still the spread of evil across our lands.
This is the story of Penance, the Human Warlock (Hexblade) of Daggerford who was born a Tiefling Sorcerer in Barovia.
What follows is a description of how my character fits into the Curse of Strahd campaign setting followed by her backstory itself. Both contain a minor spoiler for the module but nothing major.
Campaign Setting Info
I'm currently playing her through the Curse of Strahd campaign and, as stated, she was born in Barovia. This was my request to the DM who decided Penance should have some ties to the material if we were going to bother having her be from this cursed land. It was therefore decided that she would be a part of the Strazni family in Vallaki. The Straznis are the biological family of the NPC Ireena Kolyana, who was separated from her birth family at a young age and then adopted by Kolyan Indirovich, the Burgomaster of Barovia. Penance would replace Ireena only in her connection to the Straznis (including the "long lost" connection to her brother, Izek). Ireena would remain the adopted daughter of the Burgomaster and she would keep all of her other character aspects.
Penance was born in the Barovian village of Vallaki but spent her very first night in the rain outside the gates of Krezk with her parents, both of whom were soaked and scared and desperately seeking help from the divine. Penance was born a tiefling, the consequence of her family's bloodline. A curse in her lineage was seeded long ago by an archdevil and has lurked there for an age, only occasionally showing itself in the form of a horned infant sadly left abandoned in the terrible dark. Miron and Cordellia Strazni had travelled across the land in the hopes that the famed abbot of Krezk could save their child. She was taken before the abbot only after the family had donated the majority of their holdings to the church.
After observing the baby, the abbot determined she had a "spot of dark" in her blood, cursing her with upward-twisting horns and colorless eyes. Determined not to have their first child stolen away by Strahd, the omniscient vampire tyrant of Barovia, or abandon her before such a fate could befall the child, her parents donated the rest of their wealth and named their daughter Penance, in dedication to the church. This convinced the abbot to advise them about purging the dark from their child. He instructed them to have her hold onto a blessed object and pray to the Morninglord for forgiveness until the darkness poured completely from her and into the object. (though he gave the family no such object) Finally, he left the family with a warning: the darkness within Penance would not simply stop its manifestation with her appearance. If she were to survive to maturity, the child would exhibit infernal sorcerous acuity unless purged of dark and forgiven in the light of the Morninglord.
Although she didn't bear their name (due to the pretense of her christening) Penance's family was once a proud and noble one and, like other noble families, claimed many precious heirlooms. But over the centuries, their wealth, land, and indeed their most prized possessions were methodically stripped away by Strahd. Among the few items the vampire spared (or scorned, perhaps) was a finely crafted rapier, gifted to Penance's great grandfather in his youth by a cleric after he uttered a prayer to his god and swathed the blade in holy water. The weapon appeared delicate and beautiful but to Penance, it was heavy and long and sharp. It began in earnest when she was three and it didn't end until she was thirteen. She didn't always hold it and a few times she was able to throw it far enough away that she thought she'd never see or feel it again. But her parents were dedicated and devout and their bonds wound tight and red around her wrists and the hilt. In the dark, she cried and prayed.
Without horns, her scarlet hair framed her honey-rose cheeks in tumbling waves falling just past her lithe shoulders. The last shades of white had faded from her now striking emerald eyes. However, behind their luster hid a decade of misery. She was a human but inside she could feel the empty cavity left behind by exhuming the devil. Her parents were exulted but piously restrained in their relief. The abbot had advised them divinely. They celebrated by taking her and her younger brother on an afternoon of fishing.
She didn't know why she did it. She could not fathom what compelled her to slip into the cellar and retrieve the sword before hiding it in the fishing bag along with the poles. And after her parents had been so proud having finally returned the disdained weapon to the cellar to resume collecting dust among the family's other relics. Now that their daughter was normal, they had been beyond relieved to be rid of it, and Penance was more so... Yet, something inside of her needed that blade. She needed it near and even just one afternoon at the lake only a few hundred feet down the hill was too long and too far for Penance and her sword.
When her father found it wrapped up with the other rods and poles, he admonished her brother, Izek. On a few occasions, Izek had expressed interest in the sword. Being a young lad, he was fascinated by stories of knights and hunters who wielded such magnificent weaponry. He managed to get Penance to let him hold the sword once but when Miron had caught his son dangerously swinging and heaving the weapon, the boy had his hand rapped so hard, he could hardly hold a twig. His bones never fully re-straightened from his father's disapproving strikes. Miron placed the sword in the back of the boat and distributed the poles to his family.
When she wouldn't stop staring at it, he put it back in the fishing bag. When she tried to take it back out, he put it on the lakeshore. When she jumped out of the boat and swam for it, he called off the trip and had them walk home with barely enough fish for that night's dinner. As the family hiked back up the hill, a dismayed Miron could not contain his frustration any longer. He turned on his heel to face his family but before he could begin his tirade, his breath caught in his throat and the fishing bag fell to the dirt.
The attack lasted only a dozen seconds. The pair of dire wolves easily stalked the four humans down the hill, keeping to the trees as they quickly and silently closed in. They plowed over Penance and Izek and collided with their parents. The girl could hardly see but she could hear the screams of her family. Her outfit still soaked through and weighed down by a net of twigs and leaves, Penance dragged herself toward the loudest voice she could hear. Miron, Cordelia, and Izek fell in a bloody haze all around her while she crawled for her sword. When her trembling fingers finally closed around its sheath, she hugged it close and shut her eyes tight. When she opened them, the sound of struggle had gone and the dire wolves' bodies had joined those of her family's on the ground. Four new figures stood all around, staring at Penance as they lowered their weapons and wands.
The party of adventurers gently told Penance the sad fate of her family and made arrangements with the Father of the church concerning the remains. Although the adventurers had just returned from Castle Zarovich, having just slain the vampire, Lord Strahd himself, ensuring a new dawn of promise was upon the land, it was decided that Penance would leave with the party. They would find a suitable place for her wherever the winding road out of Barovia would lead, now that the gates were finally open. Though her companions were decent enough not to trouble the traumatized girl about it, throughout the entire journey, Penance never took her hands off her sword.
I still love my Halfling druid backstory. Kelpie/Arkvius:
On a winter night, Kelpie Autumn Applecreeck was born as twin in a what he was known a rich family.
His parents were rich halflings by selling high valuable potions. Before their born Blossom was an amazing Herbalist as Temo had great skills in Alchemy. Grandfather Jobin was a talented druid who was proud on his daughter who helped the town and people. One day Blossom suddenly discovered a way to make high valuable potions and soon she found out it were strong ones.
Blossom and Temo lived a happy rich live as they decided to marry and build their home at the edge of the village. It was home, their home. Soon Merdak and Paeeni were born as they were the only ones who knew their parents rich live.
Two years later Kelpie and Arkvius were born and not later the youngest brother Arzu. The family Applecreeck were not standard halflings, they could act crazy and love to experiment as family. Example that Grandpa once switched the feeding bottle with that of a fertilizer to grow plants quicker. From now on Kelpie had two small kelp saplings growing above his ears.
Kelpie his twin brother Arkvius spend most of his time with his grandfather. While he was reading books about creatures. learning the ins and outs of being a druid as Kelpie loved to make trouble and giving away his pocket money. Kelpie itself hated the rich and spoiled life. As siblings they played a lot with each other.
As the children grew, Paeeni decided to learn from her mother to become the next herbalist and Merdak took the footsteps of his father. Arkvius was always around grandfather who became older and could not do a lot. Kelpie didn’t know what he wanted in the future. He wanted to become someone where his parents could be proud off. Arzu was still too young to choose his path. As Kelpie and Ark grew more to each other as twin brothers they decided to grab some mushrooms in the forest and took the time to play some. They loved to play a lot of hero and adventure games. Arkvius knew a few of the wildlife from grandpa but not the strange looking fruit growing at the waterside. Then the terrible fate happened that Ark ate the fruit out of nowhere. Nothing happened but hours passed, and Ark became terrible. Before they could reach home, he was already on deaths door. Even mother and father couldn’t find a clue to heal him as his best potions didn’t work. Sadly, the only one who could help was Grandpa who died a year ago. When the morning came, Arkvius died by the fruit. Since then Kelpie was traumatized by losing his soulmate. His parents made him responsible for his dead. One night after a long fight with his parents and siblings he decided to go run away. Leaving his money. The only belonging was grandfather his fish hat, bag, and his brother’s scarf. He took the name of his brother Arkvius and to remember him he decided to become a druid. After some years he got used to his new name forgot his old one and learned about his grandmother who was a druid like his grandfather. He decided to go up north to where he was told his grandmother would live. He also wanted to know who had killed his brother.
His dnd name is Arkvius around my party members. He never told them about his whole background..
I've built this one up as a backup to a current campaign. I don't have all the details / story hooks for my DM put in here, but I like it. We're currently in the Feywild, and it's pretty much how I described his Spirit Voyage, months before it happened in our campaign.
He is T'sela, or "Stars Lying Down." He is a Circle of the Moon Druid, essentially a Navaho somehow transported to the Prime Material Plane. Obviously, a Far Traveler background... ___________________________
I am a wanderer, as are my people. But I fear I have wandered too far - this land is very strange, as are the people and creatures here. When the shaman told me I was ready, I drank from the Cup of Spirits, and began my Spirit Voyage. I have no idea how long I walked, because night turned to day, and back to night - quickly, and many times - and the skies were filled with many colorful mists, strange powerful aromas, and unusual sounds. I found myself here.
My name is T'sela - it means "Stars Lying Down" in the language of my people, but none of my people are here, and of course nobody speaks my tongue. Dilyéhé, the Horse Stars, were on the horizon and the moon was full when I was born. I look to those symbols to guide me, but of course I cannot find the Horse Stars in your skies. Perhaps I need to wander farther - those are probably waiting for me on a distant horizon. I worship Estsanatlehi - the Moon Mother. I carry her runestone with me, never parting with it. But her name means nothing to you. It seems you would call her Selūne, and so I do too. Her symbol and her spirit will suit me on my journey.
I wish to travel back to my lands. The voices of my ancestors, and their spirits, are becoming more quiet. Often I feel that my gods are too distant, their true followers so far away. The nature and the people of this land is different, but I seek to understand them, with Estsanatlehi's guidance. My spirit guides - the Bear, like my father Bidzi'il (He Is Strong) - the Wolf, like my mother Mitexi (Sacred Moon) - and the Eagle, like my sister Aiyana (Eternal Bloom) - are always here to help me fight, hunt, and guide me in these lands.
This is Adairior Hammerfell, a dwarf Mason from Sarbreenar of some 101 years of age.
Adairior spent alot of his youth exploring what little remained of the old ruined Keep and admiring the ancient stonework of his ancestors in the largely intact Tomb of Buluar. This began Adairiors' committment too and love of Masonary and working with stone. Adairior apprentised with his father, a Mason himself at 15 and learned all his father could teach in a short 3 decades. Helping to rebuild parts of Sarbreenar, mostly homes for those that lived there or recently moved to there, and even took it upon himself to restore some of the ancient stonework and statues in the old Keep.
In Adairiors' 60th decade, he joined the Sarbreenar militia during an increase in Orc, Goblin and Troll activity which lasted for roughly 15 years. This saw the youngish dwarf venture all over the Earthfast Mountains, some expeditions into the Grey Forest and even as far North as the Troll Mountains on one occation. Adairior fought with a great but measured strength during these skirmishes, becoming quite skilled with the weapons the militia issued him. However he would, almost without fail, fall into a rage whenever he came across desecrated homes. At which point he would inspect the destroyed home with a murderous intensity before going out to find and slaughter the perpetrators. His comrades always found it difficult to pursuade him from this path unless he could be convinced that his target and those of his comrades were one of the same. He acquired his weapons, crossbow and armour during this period and has managed to keep them maintained and in good repair in the intervening decades as well as improving his skills with the weapons, and hunting for food in the mountain with the Crossbow.
Over the last decade, Adairior has taken it upon himself to construct shelters and waypoints in the mountains surrounding Sarbreenar and along the Trails leading to Procampur, Maerstar and Ravens Bluff. Hoping that more secure routes may bring greater prosperity to his home and add his Kin living there. As well as providing more comfortable and defensible dwellings for the militia forces that patrol and guard the trails. Himself often wishing for such shelters during his time with the Sarbreenar Militia when his tent got cold and rainfilled.
This in my new character, yet to be played. My boyfriend is very good with words and helped me piece this together.
Warning, it is pretty graphics and contains r a p e. So if you are sensitive to that subject, please avoid this.
I hope you do enjoy this backstory. It is my first tragic story, and I am excited to play this character.
If you are wondering what a dusk elf is, it is a homebrew.
Origin Story
Name: Saphira
Race: Dusk Elf
Class: Grave Cleric
Deity: Naralis Analor (lesser god)
Age: Unknown
True Neutral
Faction: Harper (if needed) or none
Background: Haunted one
Appearance: Pale gray-blue skin, red eyes, white hair. Wears a sheer veil over her face to help avoid eye contact.
When Saphira was young she was a sweet girl who lived a simple quiet life. She lived with an elderly Elven man named Ryo Admaer whom she affectionately referred to as “Grandfather”. Saphira was orphaned at a young age and Ryo was kind enough to take her in and care for her despite not sharing blood. They lived in a small cottage in the forest where they would forage for food and supplies. The pair would often travel to the nearby village to sell goods and wares. Everyone in the village valued the trade goods as they were precious resources that were hard or dangerous to come by. The villagers adored Saphira, as she always tried her best to help out when she could and was very eager to learn about the village and its people. As she grew older she became more and more beautiful. Saphira had very soft features, exotic pale gray-blue skin, pearl white hair, and soul-piercing red eyes. Her beauty only garnered more affection from the villagers.
After many years of a simple happy life with Ryo, Saphira’s grandfather fell ill and sadly did not have the physical strength to overcome the sickness. After weeks of suffering, death’s cold embrace finally swept over Ryo’s body, though his very soul fought to hold on. Saphira’s grandfather did not want to leave her alone and refused to move on from this mortal plane. The will of Ryo’s soul piqued the curiosity of Naralis Analor, The Elven God of Death. Naralis was curious as to why the soul was so stubborn and refused the inevitable cessation of a mortal's life. Naralis had to see what could possibly halt a soul from ascension and decided to visit Ryo’s body. As the Death God approached he saw Saphira sitting at her grandfather's bedside, mourning his passing. Saphira was folding Ryo’s arms across his chest and placing delicate white and red flowers in his hands. Naralis was awestruck by Saphira’s beauty, despite the sorrow in her face and tears flowing from her sullen red eyes. Mixed with the signs of grief were flecks of calm and understanding as Saphira knew Ryo’s suffering was over and wished only for his peace in the next life. Naralis finally understood why Ryo’s mortal soul fought so hard to stay and even felt a slight wrest in his own godly essence. For the first time, Naralis felt uneasy as he gently nudged Ryo’s soul from his body.
In the following weeks, the nearby villagers would urge Saphira to move into the village proper. They had been trying to get both Saphira and Ryo to move into the village for years but were more persistent since Ryo’s passing. The villagers warned her of recent Hobgoblin activities and pleaded with her to stay within the safe walls of the village. Saphira refused as she felt she knew the woods well. Ryo taught her much in the ways of survival and she could take care of herself. Saphira also felt like she was being watched and maybe protected by an unseen force. She believed it was the spirit of her Grandfather watching over her. Little did she know that a Death God had taken a fancy to her.
Naralis watched over Saphira for weeks after Ryo’s passing. While he would never outright kill any of the creatures of the forest, he did what he could to guild them close to Saphira’s home when they were close to death. Saphira would never go hungry and had plenty of pelt for trade. Completely enamored with Saphira, Naralis started entering her dreams to get to know her better. Not long after, ungoverned by the morals of the living, Naralis started altering Saphira’s dreams. He couldn’t be with her in body, but perhaps in the depths of her subconscious, he could satiate his godly desires.
Naralis' physical form was that of a tall athletic pale skinned Elf. He had sharp striking features; gray-blue eyes that could quite literally pierce one's soul, short silver hair and a thin lipped mouth. Naralis would appear to Saphira in this form and create settings based on Saphira’s subconscious ideas of romance. Sometimes he would create elaborate landscapes of far off places that Saphira would hear about from local bards. One time while she had been out a little too late she came across a clearing in the woods. The grove was bathed in moonlight and a single willow tree stood tall in the center. Wild flowers, surrounding the weeping tree, swayed in the cool breeze. Dew on their petals reflected the crescent moon’s beams and sparkled ever so slightly while the stars glistened in the night’s sky above. Saphira had never seen such a beautiful place. That night as she slumbered, Naralis recreated the grove and guided her to the base of the willow tree. Naralis escalated his nocturnal advances little by little as the weeks passed, this night he finally fulfilled his godly desires.
Saphira did not know what to make of these dreams. She didn’t recognize the tall handsome Elf, he certainly wasn’t a local villager. She started to realize that the dreams mostly took place in fanciful far off places that she’d only read or heard about. The grove she had stumbled upon was one of the few places she had actually seen in person. She started to wonder if these were really just dreams as everything felt so real. Saphira bit her lip slightly as her body quivered from the memory of the previous night's lustful fantasies.
While foraging one day, Saphira came across a rare patch of medicinal flowers. After collecting as many as she could, she began to head home. Saphira could hear a faint russell in the brush behind her. Saphira turned around to see a thick arm swinging down on her. Unable to react in time, Saphira’s vision went dark. When she awoke, Saphira was in a dark damp room. A soft flickering torch stood alone on a crude stone wall. Saphira’s vision was blurry and her head was pounding. The smell of the room made her stomach turn. Sweat, blood and death assaulted her nostrils. She could hear sobbing nearby. Saphira tried to move and get up only to find that she was chained down. As her vision started to clear, she could see all the horror around her. Women of varying races were chained up all around her. Their bodys were covered with blood, vomit and other bodily fluids. Hair gnarled and matted, mouths toothless and drooling. Those that still had eyes were vacant and numb. Some had missing limbs, severe lacerations and bruising. Dead bodies were mixed in with the still living, if you could even consider these broken, beaten and mutilated bodies as “living”. Not a single body had a stitch of clothing. Tears streamed down as Saphira wretched and vomited, the sights, smells and sheer reality of where she was setting in.
Saphira continued to take in her surroundings as she wiped a sleeve across her mouth. In the opposite corner stood a tall muscular dark orange skinned beast of a Hobgoblin. The creature was naked and was thrusting into a wailing female halfling with savage vigor. The halfling was laid out on a crude wood table, legs spread in the air and held in place by the creature that was violating her. Saphira could see blood dripping from the edge of the table and heard a sickening sticky wet thwapping sound with every thrust. The halfling eventually became quiet and motionless. The Hobgoblin started slapping the poor halfling in an attempt to get a rise out of her. Each slap was harder than the last till finally he was just hammering her in the face with his closed fist. After getting no response for several minutes, the beast backed away from the limp body of the halfling, blood dripping from his now exposed loin. The hobgoblin looked around and met eyes with a human woman to his right. He grabbed the woman by the back of the neck and slammed her, face down, on top of the halfling's still body and began his bloody thrusting once more.
Saphira wretched, body shaking, tears flowing, she couldn’t process what was happening, why she was in such a place and how she could escape. There was a steady stream of Hobgoblins coming to take their turns. Most were as violent, if not more so then the first beast she saw. Saphira’s turn finally came. The hulking creature started by stripping her bare and beating her bloody. He layed Saphira on the table and punched her so hard in the face that she passed out. Saphira awoke confused, reeling in pain and anguish. Reality set in as her visions cleared and she saw the orange fleshed beast having his way with her. Hours seemed to pass before Saphira was thrown to the cold hard floor. Saphira lay motionless and thought about her Grandfather, the village and her recent dreams. She tried to sleep, tried to dream so she could escape this hell, even if it was only her mind that found respite, but sleep wouldn’t set in and dreams were only nightmares.
After weeks of daily use, Saphira’s body could no longer feel the pain of her violations. Her mind hid deep inside her and everything was a blurry haze. Despite not feeling pain, Saphira’s body was still being beaten, cut, burned and used in every way. Her wounds were starting to get infected and subconsciously she knew she would die soon. Saphira wished for death, prayed for it with the devolution of a zealot. It was her only way of escape now.
Naralis frantically searched for Saphira but could no longer connect with her within Saphira’s dreams. After weeks of trying to reach out to Saphira’s subconscious, Naralis felt a tiny flutter, barely a whisper of Saphira. He followed the feeling and it got stronger. There was something different about it, something darker and desperate. Comprehension set in as Naralis realized it was prayer. Saphira had been praying for release, death, an ending to some kind of immense pain, a new beginning, and to forget. Naralis dove deeper and saw what had transpired over the last few weeks.
Naralis felt Saphira dying. Death was a normal thing for mortals, yet he did not want this one to die. He knew a way to help her, but it would change her. She would lose a part of herself. Her gentle soul would have to become a servant of death. Naralis decided to take all memories of her past, including her dreams of him. He wanted her to forget what happened and knew that any tie to her past could nudge her memories and all the horrors could come flooding back. He also knew that he couldn’t visit her in her dreams anymore for the same reason.
Naralis the God of Death killed every creature in the cave, every tortured soul, every Hobgoblin, even the insects that feed on the dead. Naralis pulled Saphira’s body and soul into a plane of existence where it would be safe and suspended till he could bring himself to let go of her. Naralis watched over Saphira for a long time, long to mortals anyway, while he prepared himself to lose Saphira.
Saphira awoke as if she just flickered into existence. As she took in her surroundings, she found that she didn’t recognize where she was. People dressed in robes were around her as she laid in a soft bed. Once she fully came to, the Priests that were tending to her started to ask her who she was and where she came from. Saphira quickly realized that she didn’t know. She had no memory of where she came from, what her name was, how she had come to be in the care of these Priests. The only clue to who she was, was a necklace with a small charm and the image of a white dove. Etched into the back of the charm was the name “Saphira” and a short phrase “ Death is but only a new beginning”
Made a small backstory for my first ever dnd character.
Name: Yrell Lightfoot.
Race: Levistus tiefling.
Class: Lvl 5 life cleric (gona give her some lvls in another class soon).
Backstory: Acolyte.
Stats: 8/8/15/13/15/17.
The story: Yrell is the typical ”bookworm” of her monastery and spent most of her youth inside reading and studying. The few times you dont see her with a book or papper and quill Yrell enjoys playing harmless pranks on anyone unfortunat to be close to her. When she reached 19 years of age the priest decided that it was time for her to go out and explore, get some hands on experience and actually get some sunlight since shes already unusually pale for a tiefling rare as they are in this world. So after some whining and arguments shes now on the road working as an adventurer together with a few new people she calls friends. One thing noone is aware of is the existance of an egg she found inside the monastery that the priest told her to get rid of but she secretly kept it inside one of her many books that she hollowed out. Yrell dont know whats inside the egg but for the priests of the twin gods of earth, life and magic to make her destroy it just made her curious to what it is so now shes trying to find a way to hatch it.
This is the backstory for my Human fighter for the campaign im currently playing in. Beware that it does have some rather abhorrent language, so feel free not to read it if you do not approve of such things. There is also a part that could be considered erotic so if you want nothing to do with that just don't read it.
October 31
1712
Last night I killed a man. His name was Ivan and I killed him. Caught him cutting snow while counting all the coin he’d lawlessly demanded from taxes. The son of a ***** sat there on his ivory cushioned chair looking all smug. People like him make me sick. So I climbed through his window and gave him the old one-two in the back with my knife. Nothing like the smell of a corrupt governors blood late at night. After that I headed out of Slakos to head to Pilheim. Ahhh yes. Pilheim. This good for nothing pigpen of whores and criminals makes me sick. I was begotten in this sorry town. Had a nice family too. On day I woke up and they were gone, house as empty as a church on Monday. Doesn’t matter no more though. All I got is this piece of shit city. And I will do all I can to separate the greedy industrious wolves from the innocent lamb. My name is Kovacs. And I will not stop.
November 11
1712
The rain won’t stop. It’s been raining like a double-****ed cow pissing on a flat rock for days now. Doesn’t bother me though. Everyone leaves the street the second they smell downpour. Gives me the space to do my work. I hate walking through the crowds anyway. All I see are faceless people looking for their next high. Disgusting.Anyway, I gotta kill another corrupt official. His names Josephi or something. He’s been up to no good falsifying insurance claims. I plan on falsifying his suicide. The thought of it brings a smile to my face. The rain just got heavier and everyones inside for the night. Time to work.
November 13
1712
Woke up to the sound of a couple yelling in the room next to me. Seems one of them had a distaste for the others dope addiction. Sounds about right. Another family ruined by street drugs. Another day in Vandaheim. I stumbled sleeplessly down the steps into the bar to grab my morning cup of mud when I saw her. She was as a real ripe tomato, with red hair and a body designed by the devil himself. I pushed my way through the tavern rabble and sat at her table. I thought she’d be dettered by my grizzled appearance, but instead she smiled a grin of stars and asked my name. I introduced myself as Johnny and she was Josephine. I asked her what a beauty like her was doing in a place like this. She asked me the same thing. I chuckled and offered to buy her a drink, an offer she accepted without hesitation. We spent all day at the table laughing together. Laughing about how we both grew up in Slakos, how she got the snake tattoo that encircled her neck and how I used to be a banker before all . . . this.Day turned to night when finally, Josephine told me she had to retire. I asked if she would stay just a bit longer when she turned and put a hand on my shoulder. I felt my heartbeat faster as she pushed herself up against me. I knew getting mixed up with a doll this good looking would only bring me trouble. But hey, I'm a man. I pulled her over to the record player and asked her what her favorite song was. “White Jazz” by JamesEllroy. I slid the black disk under the needle and played the song. I grabbed her waist and she wrapped her arms around my neck as we swayed back and forth to the smooth rhythm. As the music swelled, I spun her with my hand and then pulled her close into my chest. She moaned slightly and put her crimson lips up to my ear. She whispered all the things she wanted to do to me in a sinister tone, and all the things she wanted me to do to her.Josephine pulled away from my ear with a cheeky smile on her face. I smiled back at her and brought my lips to hers. Our tongues entwined in an erotic dance for fivesweet seconds before we left each other's mouths. I was taken aback with how delightful it had been when she put her soft hand up against my face and her other hand on my belt. I chuckled in bewilderment and pulled her upstairs to my room with haste.
November 17
1712
Josephine has got me doubting my crusade. Are people as bad as I make them out to be? I told her everything about what I do. I told her how I kill the scum of this city, so the innocents don’t suffer. She agreed. Josephine thinks they deserve to die too. But she said for us to be together I must stop. She doesn’t want me being found out by the boys in blue. I told her I won’t, but she doesn’t think it’ll last. I love Josephine. I love her with a burning passion, one that surpasses my love for watching the unjust suffer. Perhaps I will stop. Josey wants to settle down with me in a farmhouse in the countryside. I would love nothing more than to go with her. But there is just one more man I must kill. One more devil to send back to hell.
November 18
1712
Tonight, I left Pilheim. Without Josephine. I buried her corpse beneath the front gate. It was the first time I cried in a couple years. When I went out to find the cat I was gonna jab, Josey stayed at our room at the tavern. I tracked the guy down; his name was Jacobi Stormsong. I found his house in the posh area of the city and snuck through a window into his room. Thought I had him cornered when I saw him in his bed. I flipped open the covers and stabbed at him with my knife. My blade met only feathers. He had expected me. I quickly dashed out of his house and ran through the streets back to where I left Josephine. Inside I found her body strewn across the floor like a fallen angle, red slits scattered across her chest. With her last breath she once again put her crimson lips up to my ear. She whispered to me her last words. I will remember her honeyed voice as she whispered those last words for the rest of my life. I took her body out and buried it. Then I tracked down Jacobi and his men. Ended each of them the way they ended my woman. 12 stabs in the chest. Got each one of them except the ringleader. That ******* coward skipped town before I could tear him limb from limb. When I get my hands on him, I'm gonna make him suffer in ways that the ******* executioners of this pisshole town couldn’t possibly imagine. So,I'm on a horse leaving for a manhunt. A manhunt fueled by my undying thirst for Stormsongs death.
December 4
1712
Finally caught Jacobi. When I found him, I performed something that my ancient ancestors would know as a ‘Blood Eagle’. I cut his back open and pulled out his lungs and placed them on his shoulders. All while he was still alive. His screams urged me on. I did it all for Josephine. Every time I close my eyes, I see her red hair and blue eyes. I think of her every day. How she would brush her fingers through my hair like a comb of comfort. I think of how she would hold me every night in bed and caress my cheek as we drifted into quite slumber. I would do anything to get her back. Oh Josey. Come back to me please. I would never seek to kill again if it meant Icould see you just one more time. Sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear you talk to me. I hear you whisper those final words in my ear. Will you ever come back? Please come back. Please.
December 28
1712
It’s been about forty days since I last saw Josephine. I spend most of my days as a small time bounty hunter. Corruption in vandaheimdisinterests me now. I couldn’t care less about the inner workings of the human government. I plan on leaving for Isvaath now. Hear there’s a guy whose been dumping innocents into the ocean cause their lives are not ‘cost-effective’. Goes by the name Mjovan. You could probably guess what I plan on doing to him. This is gonna be my last job before I retire. Thought it would be nice to end it in a foreign land. Anyway. I heard that the stiffs in the high houses in Vandaheim know me as “The Karma Killer”. Probably the only good thing that’s come out of my career. Josephine would have loved the thought of them shaking in their boots because of me.
There's somethings you need to know about the world first:
if someone is described as Gifted, it means they're a magic user.
The setting is Medieval England.
T.A.R.C. is an organization dedicated to protecting gifted people.
Here, the charater's backstory, i know it's long, but i hope at least one person will read it:
Many years ago, when John Carthas the second was but a lad of twelve, he was learning the art of swordplay from his father, the lord of their house. While John could weave around his father's blows, his defense could be called meager at best. Though he was agile, it was all but impossible for him to block his father's blows. John stumbled backwards, knocking over a lit brazier. His hand swept through the flames, and he gasped, not in pain, but in shock. When his hand had touched the fire, he had felt nothing at all.
"Come," His father said, beckoning John into to his study. "My boy," John's father said to him. "You'll soon be man. I've had a copy of our house seal for years, and now the time is right to give to you." "But why now?" John asked. "I've little time to explain. They may come in an hour, they make come in a fortnight, but when they come, run. And don't worry about me. I'll win this one just like I've won all the fights before it." "But I don't want leave you," John said. "We seldom have a choice in life, and when we do, the options are rarely to our liking. Now listen carefully, my boy. If we are killed, do not pursue our killers. And what ever you do, don't come back here. Ever."
The next day, three men in the trappings of thieves and marauders came to the manor. "Hide," His father said, "And be quick about it." John rushed to his room, slamming the door just as the gates of the manor were heaved open. "Where is the boy?" came a calm but icy cold voice from the entry hall. "What boy do you speak of?" his father snapped back. "You should know better than to lie to us," the voice said. "We will find him, one way or the other. And we'll make certain you suffer if you attempt to stop us." "You wouldn't dare!" his father replied. "Burn this place to the ground." sneered the voice. "And make sure the so-called lord of this glorified outhouse doesn't attempt to leave. He'll be incinerated along with his gifted son."
While John couldn't see the man, he could imagine his cruel finger pointing at his father, sentencing them to doom. Then he heard the telltale swish of a sword being drawn from its sheath. He heard half a dozen clangs of metal on metal, then he heard a thump, and the only sound left was the crackling of fire. John thrust open his window and sprung outside, racing towards the nearby woods, hoping to stay unseen. Just as he reached the line of trees, a hand reached out from behind and grabbed his wrist, pulling him behind the tree. "Be silent, unless you wish our mutual demise!" the man hissed. "I'm here to help you. If you come with me, you'll have a chance to learn how to master your gift, and ultimately avenge your father. Now, will you come with me?" John gave a uneasy nod, even as tears rolled down his cheeks. The man beamed, though his eyes seemed filled with sorrow. "Welcome to T.A.R.C."
Thank you so much! I really wanted to do something super tragic and would really wanted to make someone fell the pain she went through. I can’t wait to play her!!!!!!!!
I'm preparing to start character in 7 days. I've been wanting to play for 15 (I'm 33) years. Tried actively(ish) for last 4 and finally found an awesome dude who seems like he's gonna be a fantastic DM, he's been so helpful, honestly I'm worried I'm annoying him because the excitement is real. I don't know full details on the world, it's a homebrew campaign, so some things are vague because they have to be and originally this was like 8 pages and I whittled it down to this (large😝) paragraph.
Forced into servitude (forced is how he perceives it as he was never even given a chance to prove them wrong) as he was deemed too small (6'1" 255lbs) for a soldier or warfighter, Lokheed learned to use his personality to compensate for his shortcomings. He even earns his nickname for his ability to spark conversation, the Clipper. An opportunity was born from his charming ways. Hand to the ambassador. This is how he met Letrel. They never quite defined their feelings, but it was powerful. Lōkheed didn't find it difficult to break away once ambassador duties were finished, on longer stays, he made a new family. They were barely adults, some still children but for some reason or another never found the right rhythm with their birth families. They found each other. They had a code. They'd never steal from anyone who couldn't afford to lose. Some of them knew how hardship could shape children and they weren't about that. They were full of delusions of grandeur. Everybody knew about a guild of thieves and a guild of assassins and this and that, they were their own guild. A guild of misfit rogues. Lōkheed crafts this elaborate, Ocean's 11 scheme for the next formal ceremony the regional ambassadors. He uses his privileged knowledge as hand to the ambassador to concoct this plan. But, he was out of his depth. They all were. And they are caught. The fallout is still felt. Not only was he involved with local hellions, but the romantic implications with an elf Letrel... it all came crashing down. For his misdeeds and dishonor brought to his clan, he is expelled. He feels this as a relief almost. He actually takes it in stride, which only offends his clan more. He can now be with his true guild. But when he makes it back, their hideout is ravaged. Everyone is accounted for and fine except for Letrel, who is nowhere to be found.
I have had this character for a long time. Never really played D&D before aside from a few one shots as a kid, but it would be cool to use her someday. i'm not a huge d&d lore nerd so various things would have to be tweaked depending on what kind of world she was in, but here are the basics.
Name: Sylvara Hollow
Race: Half elf (drow)
Alignment: Lawful(?) Evil
Class: Shadow Sorcerer
origins (ancient past)
Sylvara is an ancient being that was cursed with immortality when a king's wish went awry, causing a group of everyday sell swords to receive his wish instead of him. These sell swords, who eventually founded a secret order known as the Unblinking Eye, do not age and if they die there is no heaven for them, just a painful limbo where they are held until being reincarnated.(though reincarnation takes long enough that it still functions like normal death in a campaign setting.) No gods seem able or willing to save them.
Sylvara started out normal enough. She had joined the mercenary group on their fated adventure as a young woman whose only motivation was seeing more of the world and earning enough coin to buy a home back in Kell. But after being cursed, her humanity slowly began to fade away as the years went by; the passage of time rendering most things once sacred, now insignificant. She has been a queen and a beggar, a pacifist and a warlord. She has gained, lost and then gained again untold wealth and power over the centuries but it means little to her now. For at night she is haunted not by the atrocities she has committed, but by the emptiness of outliving everything. She is incredibly bored and desperate to find new experiences and stories to entertain her. A difficult task when you have lived as long as her.
Hometown: Kell of the Darkwood. (optional depending on world lore)
Sylvara had a good childhood. Hell, she had a good life. Several, in fact. Her father, a drow, was a blacksmith and her best friend. Her human mother was a stern but fair woman who trained horses for a living. Shes thankful that old age took them before they could see what she became.
They lived in a small town hidden in an ancient forest simply called the Darkwood. A place where the trees were so vast an ancient that they blocked out much of the sun.
The inhabitants of the Darkwood villages had a unique religion, believing that a rare type of tree that only grew in their woods was sacred. When a child was born, a seed from one of these trees would be chosen and planted in the child's chest and as they grew up they would develop a symbiotic relationship with that seed. If they took care of their seed, it would grant them minor protections from things such as sunlight, sickness or poison. As a seeded individual grew older and observed the teachings of the Darkwood, their symbiotic relationship often visually manifested with individuals growing wooden horns or bark skin, while others might have flowers bloom in their hair or develop a green thumb.
When these individuals eventually passed away, their bodies would be planted and the seed would grow into a tree. It was their belief that the departed lived on as this tree and that eventually they would return either as a dryad, or through reincarnation when a seed from their tree was chosen for a newborn.
Sylvara tended diligently to the trees of her parents and other family members, patiently waiting for them to come back to her. But they never did and eventually, their trees died.
It was the common belief of the Darkwood that any tree struck down had been black of heart in life and nature had judged them unworthy of reincarnation. The loss of Sylvara's trees was a sad one but the people of Kell, now several generations removed from that of her parents, did not question natures judgment of these long dead strangers.
But Sylvara did. It was then that her faith was finally shattered and she knew her religion to be a lie, for her parents had been good people and the judgment of nature had been unjust. So she left Kell and never looked back. She dose not know what became of the forest or her people's sacred trees after that. As for her own seed, it has withered and died, her wooden horns having long since petrified.
Eromon, (The city that is no more)
Perhaps the most impactful and horrific aspect of Sylvara's “recent” history is the city that is now only known as Eromon. Some might say that its real name has been lost to time or that the city never existed at all, but the truth is its name was intentionally erased as a punishment. For you see, Eromon killed its king, a black dragon made cunning by his half lung heritage.
Never mind that the townsfolk had had no love for their old king. Never mind that the kingdom had prospered under the cunning work and toil of him and Sylvara, his queen. No, when the clergy learned their true king had been replaced by a chromatic, they only wanted blood. And despite all their dragon king had given them, their fear and hatred drove them to murder.
Sylvara tried to save him. Her failure to do so haunts her to this day. She barely escaped the encounter herself and when next she returned to the city to resurrect him, she found that her husband's scales had been dolled out as gifts among the usurpers. Once a king- now a pair of gloves.
Whatever they had done to him, her magic failed to bring him back. The loss left her heartbroken, all the while her citizens cheered in the streets around her, celebrating his demise.
It was in a state of cold, collected rage that she then went and collected the most powerful artifacts from her hoard and sacrificed them to erase the city. She called down magic and hellfire and raging storms upon those who had stolen her love from her and did not stop until all that was left was dust in a pit. She struck the city's name from every map, every book and every story she could find until all that was left of those that betrayed her was a legend and a blank spot on a map. She continues to erase all evidence of its existence to this day, the need to do so having become a compulsion.
Now people can only whisper fables of Eromon, the city that is no more.
(recent past.) Ever since her husband was murdered, Sylvara has made attempts to bring him back, seeking the aid of gods and charlatans alike to no avail. This eventually lead her to a disastrous journey to the Shadowfell, where she learned some harsh truths that she did not want to hear.
Desperate to forget what she had learned there, she intentionally overdosed on a drug called Hazeweed to ruin her memory. Unfortunately for her, she also unintentionally erased her knowledge of magic along with the location of her hideout.
She is used to being all-powerful, but now all of that power is gone. Shes washed up, broke and has no idea where she is or who might have an ax to grind with her. She needs to find some allies to watch her back while she regains her strength and seeks out her hidden fortune, hopefully forging stories filled with new thrills along the way.
TL:DR Basically she hit max level and got used to being an untouchable jerk until life made her re-role as a level one after she went on a major bender and now she is sweating because she has to hope her enemies don't find out.
Interesting start to the character. I look forward to when the full story comes around.
I'm not begging for attention, but if you like World Anvil, go give me a look.
Here’s the background of one of my characters: Niendesmia, the Levistus Tiefling Draconic Sorcerer
About a few thousands years ago, the region now know as the kingdom of Malizards was ruled by the ancient white dragon Kryonduseisdra, or Ruthless Blizzard. Nardla and Marixe, my grand grand grand grand grandmothers, two tribal chiefs and lovers, were forced to make a bargain with The Nine Hells (Levistus, I think.) to gain power to oppose the dragon, they killed her and drunk her blood, wanting that every single one of their descendants (they were lovers but also had a huge harem) would have draconic power. But no one make deals with the Nine Hells and stay good, and they slowly become tyrants as the devils beginned to take more prominent roles as their councilors and, later, even concubines, they were two old ladies full of children and grandchildren (mostly tiefling) when the common folk decided to get rid of them once and for all. They asked for help from the Cailidrae, a cabal of wizards devoted to good deities, and the leaders of the Cailidrae, the High Arcanists, fought them, but they were too powerful to be defeated, so they bounded the old crones to the former lair of the Ruthless Blizzard. What they did to that children? The rebelled against the Old Crones and voluntary used their magic in service of the kingdom. Since sorcerer magic is most used application is for combat, most of them become members of the elite sorcerer troop called “Thalivas Shalaesti” or something like “Icy blades of the Kingdom” in elvish or Frozen Hell in most cotidian language (most of it’s members were tieflings wielding ice magic) So, now that you’ve been properly introduced to my homeland, let me introduce myself properly. I’m Niemdesmia, a former member of the Frozen Hell. I was “expelled“ becauseof my “indiscipline” so now I wander the world working as a chief, a mercenary, anything that give me money to live. And there’s a former general fo the arcane army that is obsessed with capture and “discipline” me, a half orc Wizard.
Niendesmia has white hair, black curly horns, silver eyes and red skin, she usually wears a coat and wields a crystal staff.
Vandal Morn. Servant of the Black Blade
Barovia
Two hundred years ago, under the cover of darkness, Nev Van’shir, an ancient vampire and servant to Strahd Von Zarovich, murdered thirty Paladins devoted to Eldath.
Nev Van’shir used a weapon called Bloodthirst which was directly connected to Strahd Von Zarovich. The sentient blade was designed to feed it’s master. Whether it landed the killing blow or merely drew blood, it fed the life energies into the master vampire, strengthening the very land of Barovia itself.
Knowing that Nev Van’shir would be attacking the next town – the Paladins of Eldath prepared themselves and ambushed Nev Van’shir. Gravely wounded, the vampire was forced to flee. However, in his attempt to escape, Bloodthirst fell into the darkness of the night - lost forever. The blade without a master sought desperately to fulfill its purpose.
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Faerun.
Vandal was born into the Waterdhavian noble house of Whiteraven. Vandal grew up with all of the benefits of wealth, including good schooling, and a stable home. He was however a prodigal, squandering everything in orgy of self-indulgence.
Ashamed by his behavior his father confronted him. “You soil our name the way you soil your trousers, you drunkard fool. Your behavior has wrought shame to our family name.”
“What good is wealth if one does not enjoy it?” Vandal asked, taking another deep drink from the bottle in his hand. “If we die without spending that which we have who will take it? It is better to live a life of fulfilment.”
“This,” his father gestured, “is not fulfilment. This is how a commoner’s pig would live. And you will not live like this any longer. Not here.”
“What are you going to do? Cast me out? Your only son?” Vandal chuckled drunkenly.
Vandal next found himself standing outside the manor’s gate with no way back in. The true tragedy of the moment struck him: he would need to get… a job.
Too many knew the Whiteravens, and thus, Vandal’s reputation. Changing his last name to Morn, he left Waterdeep for a small nearby town. He lived well by selling his jewelry. But more often than not, he fell back into his ways of debauchery and squandered even what little wealth that brought him.
Unable to afford the protection of a caravan, Vandal was forced to walk to yet another town. The road was lonely, the trees cast dark foreboding shadows. He saw an approaching group of people which he had mistook as gnomes initially, but as he drew closer, he realized it was a band of goblins! His heart sank as he realized he had sold off his last dagger.
He dove into the bushes just off the road and held his breath. As the goblins approached, one of them paused. “Somethin’ been here,” it growled as it pointed at the road. “Fresh tracks.”
Vandal knew that they would find him. Like a rabbit he dashed deeper into the woods, the goblins immediately pursued. He could hear their gleeful cheering mixed with hoots and callings.
He ran for seemingly forever, the goblins showed no signs of tiring, Vandal stumbled into a graveyard (Here in the wilderness?)– a misty maze of ancient tombstones. Aside from the thundering beat of his heart, the world was silent as if it held its breath.
With no other choice, he bolted across as quickly as he could, and fell directly into a freshly dug grave. Frantically he tried to climb out. If the goblins found him, it would be like spearing fish in a barrel. The wet soil prevented him from getting a solid hold. Vandal sunk to the ground realizing he would die like a pig in mud, just as his father had predicted. He watched from the pit as the sun passed over, then the moon, then the sun again. He noticed, because there was nothing else to do, that the entire day and night, not a single sound could be heard – no birds, deer, owls – nothing.
Believing he was safe, Vandal tried to climb again, and this time as he tried to stand, his hand touched something that sent a spark of energy through his body. Looking down and saw the hilt of a blade protruding from the mud. He pulled it out – and for a brief moment – had a vision of a pale being, bathed in blood, slaying armored men.
Vandal tried to drop it – but something refused to let him go. The jet-black sword seemed to have a crackling energy about it. “Take me,” he heard the voice in his head as the blade shimmered, “and you will never be afraid again. Kill for me, let me drink the blood of those who stand against you.” The voice was soothing and calming, despite the tone of the message. “Take me up, and I will make YOU a devastating weapon!”
Vandal took the weapon, and it melded into his arm, leaving only the tattoo of a black sword.
Feeling a surge of power, Vandal leapt from the grave. Fearlessly, he entered the forest, where he heard the unmistakable chatter of goblins. Purple energies erupted from his hands. Six squealing goblins quenched the blades thirst. There was no blood left in them, not a drop, just a look of horror.
Vandal stepped onto the path. He felt like a man for the first time. He wasn’t a servant; he was a weapon. He liked that. Vandal was no longer a rake, a drunk, or a loser. Vandal was going to be a hero.
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The Pact:
Vandal made a deal with Bloodthirst, a weapon designed to strengthen Strahd and his realm. With every death (he need not cast the killing blow), blood and energy flow into the land of Barovia. Not a drop of blood will even stain the clothing of his victims. BUT. Anyone struck by either ray, spell, or sword will die with a look of horror.
Vandal is not required to commit murder. An adventurer’s life provides enough blood to suffice. Vandal is not aware he ultimately serves Strahd, just a nameless sword. Strahd is aware of the energy he receives but not who wields it (indeed there are several feeding Barovia this way). Bloodthirst is simply fulfilling its purpose: to feed Strahd. Finally, Strahd cannot issue orders through the sword. Vandal is under no compulsion to obey Strahd, even if they should meet. The undead and all who wield divine magic can be killed but do not feed Strahd.
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As I have stated many times before, I have been working on this character for a very, very long time and I thought it would be cool if I turned it into my first D&D character. I am extremely proud of what I have accomplished and I hope you enjoy it as well. The backstory itself is quite dense, including spaceships, “super soldier” programs and so on, so I've tried to keep it relatively simple. I have also kept certain things secret, because of reasons.
D&D Character Backstory
Part One: Introduction
William Ryker was a US marine famously known for his impressive fighting skills and quick thinking. Although only being raised by his mother, Ryker was seemingly unmatched in almost every aspect of his life. Winning multiple sports carnivals, a couple science fairs and somehow, he even managed to help his uncle develop a more advanced version of MMA. At the age of 17 he joined the military and through sheer determination, became one of the most loyal and well trained marines the US has ever produced. However, years of service left Ryker feeling as though they were stuck in an endless loop. Fighting the same battles with the same people, over and over and over again.
Part Two: Top of The List
When the time came, Ryker left the navy in hopes of living a more peaceful life. However the world was falling apart, another world war was around the corner and the UN (United Nations) was getting desperate. As part of their last ditch effort, the UN decided to fund a “super soldier” program, which was run by the US. A handful of the world's best were selected to participate and Ryker, due to his outstanding achievements, was at the top of the list.
Part Three: Lets Go Camping
After being forced back into the military, Ryker decided that he would be better off dead than to be turned into someone's lab rat and planned to disappear on a solo camping trip a couple weeks before the “super soldier” program was supposed to begin.
Now, during this “camping” trip, Ryker did everything in his power to make sure that his disappearance looked like an accident. However, before he could execute his seemingly brilliant plane, something resembling a “spaceship” crashed into the lake he was so conveniently set up next to. This in turn foiled Rykers escape plan, as what he found inside that spaceship almost killed him... twice.
What was it exactly?. Well nobody knows for sure. Some say it was just a military mishap, while others go as far as believing that it was a sign of the gods, but what we do know is that it was mechanical, and had a strong fascination with Mr Ryker.
Part Four: Irony
Now, returning to the story. After almost dying, Ryker just managed to make his way to a hospital. Where ironically the only way to save the best of the best from the brink of death, is to use the “super soldier serum” developed for the same program Ryker was running from. This allowed Ryker to heal at an accelerated rate and provided him with increased strength but due to it being an experimental drug it was still unpredictable.
Fast forward a few days and the “Thing” that almost killed Ryker back in the spaceship, returned but not to finish the job. Instead it kidnapped Ryker and took him to a place otherwise known as “The Middle of Nowhere”.
Part Five: The End?
This would be the last we would hear of both, Ryker and the machine, until “The Battle of Chicago”, where they were seen several times throughout the city. Then again in Greenland, 48 hours before Ryker was pronounced dead. No details involving Ryker's death were ever released to the public, but what they did tell us was that neither his body or the machine were ever found.
Part Six: Conspiracy!!
Of course, with no proof of Ryker's death, many conspiracy theories flooded the internet. Many say that he was a traitor and a terrorist, while others go on to say that he was fighting a hidden war and is still alive, lurking in the shadows.
Dead or alive, there's no doubting that Ryker was an interesting man. He rose up, only to be crushed by his own success. If only he chose to camp next to a different lake, maybe than his plan might have worked.
QnA
The Battle of Chicago?
The Battle of Chicago was a small war between Us armed forces and a group known as (Insert cool name here). Ryker played a key part in this.
The thing/machine?
Um.... Think of it as sentient heavy armour, inspired by Pop cultural. ex. Iron man + The Mandalorian. Until I find out how to insert an image without it braking on me, my profile picture is the closest thing you'll get to seeing it and just in case you where wondering, I draw it.
Is Ryker alive?
Yes and no. Due to story purposes, William Ryker is dead, and now Alex Shepherd is in charge. (He changed his name)
How would you like him to be introduced into a D&D campaign?
Again, due to reasons, I will keep it short. After Ryker was presumed dead, he used a "secret" weapon he managed to get his hands on, to travel to another universe. One most likely filled with dungeons and dragons.
I think that's It. Any more questions, just ask and will try my best to answer.
This story is of my all time favorite character I made and yes he was my first character. His name was Ancalagon. I was a red dragonborn figther battlemaster. the setting was a wild west based.
"In a small village near the base of an active volcano, the Dragonborn clan of Ixen Altiui, or the clan of the Fire Wing, lived peacefully. On the eve of the summer solstice, Ancalagon was born to the into the head family. Ancalagon grow in the village and was proclaimed to become the next chieftain of the Ixen Altiui. He learned how to fight and survive in the wild from the warriors of the clan and politics and leadership from his father. For many years, Ancalagon lived in peace.
On the night of his tenth year, Ancalagon was to perform his coming of age ceremony and inherit the clan’s famous fire breath. However, Ancalagon was not able to produce his fire. Bringing shame upon his clan, Ancalagon was exiled from the Ixen Altiui and force to suffer alone in the outside world.
Ancalagon faced many hardships in his travels. In every town he visited, the human inhabitants were fearful of him and would attack him for no reason. Ancalagon was of peaceful mind and never wished to harm anyone, Unfortunately, his strength proved otherwise. On the 8 year of his travels, arrived in the small human settlement of Talonwood on banks of an unnamed river. It was in Talonwood were Ancalagon was able to find work as a blacksmith/bladesmith and acquired enough money to buy a large plot of land outside the town limits. It was here that Ancalagon set up a shop of his own and eased into a life of blacksmithing, bladesmithing, and cattle raising.
Some years passed and Ancalagon shop prospered and he took the surname of Usk Jhank, meaning Iron Hammer in his native tongue. On the seventh month of his 21 year, Ancalagon meet a young human woman. Her name was Keona. She was orphaned at a young age and grow up in the towns church. Keona and Ancalagon shared a strong bond and fell in love, even though they were of different races. She moved into Ancalagon’s house and together they ran the business.
Their lives seemed peaceful for a few years until the townspeople found out about their relationship. While Ancalagon went out into the countryside to find one of his cattle that busted through the fence, a gang of drunken men came from Talonwood to confront to two lovers. Upon his return, Ancalagon found his shop and home burning, his cattle butchered, and Keona hanging from a tree near the house.
After cutting down Keona and giving her a proper burial, Ancalagon’s rage reached it breaking point. Using what was left of the forge and created a crude sword. He then marched into the center of town and demanded that Keona’s murderers be brought to justice. See his blind rage, the townspeople took up arms against him and attack Ancalagon. Summoning his inner power, Ancalagon’s fire breath awakened and he set the entire town on fire. Those not caught in the initial blast attempted to flee but they where trapped. Encircled by Ancalagon’s flames and the river, Ancalagon slaughtered the remaining people and reduced Talonwood to ash.
After destroying Talonwood, news of Ancalagon spread like wildfire and a bounty was placed on his head. Ancalagon abandoned his surname of Usk Jhank, feeling unworthy of the title. With his newfound power, Ancalagon set out once again in a rage filled state to find an opponent that could strike him down to atone for his crimes and be reunited with his beloved Keona. Ancalagon took up his third surname of Charir Ibafarshan, meaning Ancalagon of the Red Flame.
Post campaign: After surviving through the trials of the wild west setting Ancalagon has learned to overcome his grief and longing to be killed through the support of his newfound friends; Gardetto (the female trifling sorcerer, Gordina (the elf druid), Dread Roberts (the human gunslinger), Brock Hardbody (the gnome bard) and his most trusted and loyal friend Ephraim (the previously human now drow death domain cleric). From taking down a corrupt railroad corporation, to reuniting Brock with his long thought for dead sister, to creating many allies including a dwarven monk, human wizard, a town of goblins, two silver dragons and a very sweet aboleth, and even creating a very well off street meat busness; this band of of friends shown that they have the power to overcome any obstacles thrown their way. Ancalagon’s was also found a way to bring back the love of his life and, with the aid of his best friend Ephraim, is determined to bring her back.
~ I am
In seclusion after many good years with mother and the nameless priest I embarked on my own holy pilgrimage. I traversed many lands, deserts, mountains, snow covered plains, and wreaking hot jungles. For 389 days I wandered knowing not what I was looking for but seeking, seeking the truth not settling for less.
One day it hit me, literally hit me from above-mentioned a beautiful winged bird dropped dead mid flight and fell from the sky, socked me right on the head and knocked me out. I just happened to be traversing a steep path up a sloped cliff.
When I awoke I was battered and bruised at the bottom of a great ruin. Inside the ruin were tomes and ancient books. I knew this was where I was meant to be. I made camp and spent days praying and listening. Days went by, days turned to weeks, weeks fell into months. I was content - I had learned how to wait, how to fast, and how to pray. I believed in this and in immesne study the truth would be revealed.
I started comparing the tomes with the languages I knew and slowly seeing similarities and word structure. I inserted letters for runes and runes for symbols until one day I started making recognizable words. It was a story of a man who taught and lived right and died for the evils of others.
I learned that Toril millions of eons earlier was once called earth and all the gods and demigods and demons and devils once were not and had not been the creators. This claimed that there had been only one Creator and one God and the name was YHWH. It meant Creator of community and togetherness, praise and worship it, the securing tent peg a refuge for safety, praise and worship.
I read and believed and called upon this being and he answered - tears poured down my face and I could not see nor stop for days upon days. The pain and joy and intense emotions overwhelmed me and I did not know what to do.
Then he answered to me. Not in a shout nor in a feeling, but in a tiny small voice - and pierced hence my heart and soul. From that day forth my essense has ne'er been not shall be the same. I found the truth I sought as is the promise to all who seek and ask and knock.
Once I knew the truth I ventured out and away back into the world to share the (salvation word) into every who believe in the name of the son.
My mother and the priest were lost to me when I came back to the area where the monastery was. I hold faith that I will meet them again when time is right. And I wound up here in my life of journey to be blessed by you fine folks and to still the spread of evil across our lands.
This is the story of Penance, the Human Warlock (Hexblade) of Daggerford who was born a Tiefling Sorcerer in Barovia.
What follows is a description of how my character fits into the Curse of Strahd campaign setting followed by her backstory itself. Both contain a minor spoiler for the module but nothing major.
Campaign Setting Info
I'm currently playing her through the Curse of Strahd campaign and, as stated, she was born in Barovia. This was my request to the DM who decided Penance should have some ties to the material if we were going to bother having her be from this cursed land. It was therefore decided that she would be a part of the Strazni family in Vallaki. The Straznis are the biological family of the NPC Ireena Kolyana, who was separated from her birth family at a young age and then adopted by Kolyan Indirovich, the Burgomaster of Barovia. Penance would replace Ireena only in her connection to the Straznis (including the "long lost" connection to her brother, Izek). Ireena would remain the adopted daughter of the Burgomaster and she would keep all of her other character aspects.
Penance's Backstory
(ambience suggestion: Vicar Amelia Theme - Bloodborne Soundtrack)
Penance was born in the Barovian village of Vallaki but spent her very first night in the rain outside the gates of Krezk with her parents, both of whom were soaked and scared and desperately seeking help from the divine. Penance was born a tiefling, the consequence of her family's bloodline. A curse in her lineage was seeded long ago by an archdevil and has lurked there for an age, only occasionally showing itself in the form of a horned infant sadly left abandoned in the terrible dark. Miron and Cordellia Strazni had travelled across the land in the hopes that the famed abbot of Krezk could save their child. She was taken before the abbot only after the family had donated the majority of their holdings to the church.
She didn't know why she did it. She could not fathom what compelled her to slip into the cellar and retrieve the sword before hiding it in the fishing bag along with the poles. And after her parents had been so proud having finally returned the disdained weapon to the cellar to resume collecting dust among the family's other relics. Now that their daughter was normal, they had been beyond relieved to be rid of it, and Penance was more so... Yet, something inside of her needed that blade. She needed it near and even just one afternoon at the lake only a few hundred feet down the hill was too long and too far for Penance and her sword.
When her father found it wrapped up with the other rods and poles, he admonished her brother, Izek. On a few occasions, Izek had expressed interest in the sword. Being a young lad, he was fascinated by stories of knights and hunters who wielded such magnificent weaponry. He managed to get Penance to let him hold the sword once but when Miron had caught his son dangerously swinging and heaving the weapon, the boy had his hand rapped so hard, he could hardly hold a twig. His bones never fully re-straightened from his father's disapproving strikes. Miron placed the sword in the back of the boat and distributed the poles to his family.
When she wouldn't stop staring at it, he put it back in the fishing bag. When she tried to take it back out, he put it on the lakeshore. When she jumped out of the boat and swam for it, he called off the trip and had them walk home with barely enough fish for that night's dinner. As the family hiked back up the hill, a dismayed Miron could not contain his frustration any longer. He turned on his heel to face his family but before he could begin his tirade, his breath caught in his throat and the fishing bag fell to the dirt.
The attack lasted only a dozen seconds. The pair of dire wolves easily stalked the four humans down the hill, keeping to the trees as they quickly and silently closed in. They plowed over Penance and Izek and collided with their parents. The girl could hardly see but she could hear the screams of her family. Her outfit still soaked through and weighed down by a net of twigs and leaves, Penance dragged herself toward the loudest voice she could hear. Miron, Cordelia, and Izek fell in a bloody haze all around her while she crawled for her sword. When her trembling fingers finally closed around its sheath, she hugged it close and shut her eyes tight. When she opened them, the sound of struggle had gone and the dire wolves' bodies had joined those of her family's on the ground. Four new figures stood all around, staring at Penance as they lowered their weapons and wands.
The party of adventurers gently told Penance the sad fate of her family and made arrangements with the Father of the church concerning the remains. Although the adventurers had just returned from Castle Zarovich, having just slain the vampire, Lord Strahd himself, ensuring a new dawn of promise was upon the land, it was decided that Penance would leave with the party. They would find a suitable place for her wherever the winding road out of Barovia would lead, now that the gates were finally open. Though her companions were decent enough not to trouble the traumatized girl about it, throughout the entire journey, Penance never took her hands off her sword.
I still love my Halfling druid backstory. Kelpie/Arkvius:
On a winter night, Kelpie Autumn Applecreeck was born as twin in a what he was known a rich family.
His parents were rich halflings by selling high valuable potions. Before their born Blossom was an amazing Herbalist as Temo had great skills in Alchemy. Grandfather Jobin was a talented druid who was proud on his daughter who helped the town and people. One day Blossom suddenly discovered a way to make high valuable potions and soon she found out it were strong ones.
Blossom and Temo lived a happy rich live as they decided to marry and build their home at the edge of the village. It was home, their home. Soon Merdak and Paeeni were born as they were the only ones who knew their parents rich live.
Two years later Kelpie and Arkvius were born and not later the youngest brother Arzu. The family Applecreeck were not standard halflings, they could act crazy and love to experiment as family. Example that Grandpa once switched the feeding bottle with that of a fertilizer to grow plants quicker. From now on Kelpie had two small kelp saplings growing above his ears.
Kelpie his twin brother Arkvius spend most of his time with his grandfather. While he was reading books about creatures. learning the ins and outs of being a druid as Kelpie loved to make trouble and giving away his pocket money. Kelpie itself hated the rich and spoiled life. As siblings they played a lot with each other.
As the children grew, Paeeni decided to learn from her mother to become the next herbalist and Merdak took the footsteps of his father. Arkvius was always around grandfather who became older and could not do a lot. Kelpie didn’t know what he wanted in the future. He wanted to become someone where his parents could be proud off. Arzu was still too young to choose his path. As Kelpie and Ark grew more to each other as twin brothers they decided to grab some mushrooms in the forest and took the time to play some. They loved to play a lot of hero and adventure games. Arkvius knew a few of the wildlife from grandpa but not the strange looking fruit growing at the waterside. Then the terrible fate happened that Ark ate the fruit out of nowhere. Nothing happened but hours passed, and Ark became terrible. Before they could reach home, he was already on deaths door. Even mother and father couldn’t find a clue to heal him as his best potions didn’t work. Sadly, the only one who could help was Grandpa who died a year ago. When the morning came, Arkvius died by the fruit. Since then Kelpie was traumatized by losing his soulmate. His parents made him responsible for his dead. One night after a long fight with his parents and siblings he decided to go run away. Leaving his money. The only belonging was grandfather his fish hat, bag, and his brother’s scarf. He took the name of his brother Arkvius and to remember him he decided to become a druid. After some years he got used to his new name forgot his old one and learned about his grandmother who was a druid like his grandfather. He decided to go up north to where he was told his grandmother would live. He also wanted to know who had killed his brother.
His dnd name is Arkvius around my party members. He never told them about his whole background..
I've built this one up as a backup to a current campaign. I don't have all the details / story hooks for my DM put in here, but I like it. We're currently in the Feywild, and it's pretty much how I described his Spirit Voyage, months before it happened in our campaign.
He is T'sela, or "Stars Lying Down." He is a Circle of the Moon Druid, essentially a Navaho somehow transported to the Prime Material Plane. Obviously, a Far Traveler background...
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I am a wanderer, as are my people. But I fear I have wandered too far - this land is very strange, as are the people and creatures here. When the shaman told me I was ready, I drank from the Cup of Spirits, and began my Spirit Voyage. I have no idea how long I walked, because night turned to day, and back to night - quickly, and many times - and the skies were filled with many colorful mists, strange powerful aromas, and unusual sounds. I found myself here.
My name is T'sela - it means "Stars Lying Down" in the language of my people, but none of my people are here, and of course nobody speaks my tongue. Dilyéhé, the Horse Stars, were on the horizon and the moon was full when I was born. I look to those symbols to guide me, but of course I cannot find the Horse Stars in your skies. Perhaps I need to wander farther - those are probably waiting for me on a distant horizon. I worship Estsanatlehi - the Moon Mother. I carry her runestone with me, never parting with it. But her name means nothing to you. It seems you would call her Selūne, and so I do too. Her symbol and her spirit will suit me on my journey.
I wish to travel back to my lands. The voices of my ancestors, and their spirits, are becoming more quiet. Often I feel that my gods are too distant, their true followers so far away. The nature and the people of this land is different, but I seek to understand them, with Estsanatlehi's guidance. My spirit guides - the Bear, like my father Bidzi'il (He Is Strong) - the Wolf, like my mother Mitexi (Sacred Moon) - and the Eagle, like my sister Aiyana (Eternal Bloom) - are always here to help me fight, hunt, and guide me in these lands.
My first post about one of my favourite things. Making characters. He'll be my flagship character should I ever get to play a game. Dwarfs are cool.
https://ddb.ac/characters/32307539/p4lxb8
This is Adairior Hammerfell, a dwarf Mason from Sarbreenar of some 101 years of age.
Adairior spent alot of his youth exploring what little remained of the old ruined Keep and admiring the ancient stonework of his ancestors in the largely intact Tomb of Buluar. This began Adairiors' committment too and love of Masonary and working with stone. Adairior apprentised with his father, a Mason himself at 15 and learned all his father could teach in a short 3 decades. Helping to rebuild parts of Sarbreenar, mostly homes for those that lived there or recently moved to there, and even took it upon himself to restore some of the ancient stonework and statues in the old Keep.
In Adairiors' 60th decade, he joined the Sarbreenar militia during an increase in Orc, Goblin and Troll activity which lasted for roughly 15 years. This saw the youngish dwarf venture all over the Earthfast Mountains, some expeditions into the Grey Forest and even as far North as the Troll Mountains on one occation. Adairior fought with a great but measured strength during these skirmishes, becoming quite skilled with the weapons the militia issued him. However he would, almost without fail, fall into a rage whenever he came across desecrated homes. At which point he would inspect the destroyed home with a murderous intensity before going out to find and slaughter the perpetrators. His comrades always found it difficult to pursuade him from this path unless he could be convinced that his target and those of his comrades were one of the same. He acquired his weapons, crossbow and armour during this period and has managed to keep them maintained and in good repair in the intervening decades as well as improving his skills with the weapons, and hunting for food in the mountain with the Crossbow.
Over the last decade, Adairior has taken it upon himself to construct shelters and waypoints in the mountains surrounding Sarbreenar and along the Trails leading to Procampur, Maerstar and Ravens Bluff. Hoping that more secure routes may bring greater prosperity to his home and add his Kin living there. As well as providing more comfortable and defensible dwellings for the militia forces that patrol and guard the trails. Himself often wishing for such shelters during his time with the Sarbreenar Militia when his tent got cold and rainfilled.
This in my new character, yet to be played. My boyfriend is very good with words and helped me piece this together.
Warning, it is pretty graphics and contains r a p e. So if you are sensitive to that subject, please avoid this.
I hope you do enjoy this backstory. It is my first tragic story, and I am excited to play this character.
If you are wondering what a dusk elf is, it is a homebrew.
Origin Story
Name: Saphira
Race: Dusk Elf
Class: Grave Cleric
Deity: Naralis Analor (lesser god)
Age: Unknown
True Neutral
Faction: Harper (if needed) or none
Background: Haunted one
Appearance: Pale gray-blue skin, red eyes, white hair. Wears a sheer veil over her face to help avoid eye contact.
When Saphira was young she was a sweet girl who lived a simple quiet life. She lived with an elderly Elven man named Ryo Admaer whom she affectionately referred to as “Grandfather”. Saphira was orphaned at a young age and Ryo was kind enough to take her in and care for her despite not sharing blood. They lived in a small cottage in the forest where they would forage for food and supplies. The pair would often travel to the nearby village to sell goods and wares. Everyone in the village valued the trade goods as they were precious resources that were hard or dangerous to come by. The villagers adored Saphira, as she always tried her best to help out when she could and was very eager to learn about the village and its people. As she grew older she became more and more beautiful. Saphira had very soft features, exotic pale gray-blue skin, pearl white hair, and soul-piercing red eyes. Her beauty only garnered more affection from the villagers.
After many years of a simple happy life with Ryo, Saphira’s grandfather fell ill and sadly did not have the physical strength to overcome the sickness. After weeks of suffering, death’s cold embrace finally swept over Ryo’s body, though his very soul fought to hold on. Saphira’s grandfather did not want to leave her alone and refused to move on from this mortal plane. The will of Ryo’s soul piqued the curiosity of Naralis Analor, The Elven God of Death. Naralis was curious as to why the soul was so stubborn and refused the inevitable cessation of a mortal's life. Naralis had to see what could possibly halt a soul from ascension and decided to visit Ryo’s body. As the Death God approached he saw Saphira sitting at her grandfather's bedside, mourning his passing. Saphira was folding Ryo’s arms across his chest and placing delicate white and red flowers in his hands. Naralis was awestruck by Saphira’s beauty, despite the sorrow in her face and tears flowing from her sullen red eyes. Mixed with the signs of grief were flecks of calm and understanding as Saphira knew Ryo’s suffering was over and wished only for his peace in the next life. Naralis finally understood why Ryo’s mortal soul fought so hard to stay and even felt a slight wrest in his own godly essence. For the first time, Naralis felt uneasy as he gently nudged Ryo’s soul from his body.
In the following weeks, the nearby villagers would urge Saphira to move into the village proper. They had been trying to get both Saphira and Ryo to move into the village for years but were more persistent since Ryo’s passing. The villagers warned her of recent Hobgoblin activities and pleaded with her to stay within the safe walls of the village. Saphira refused as she felt she knew the woods well. Ryo taught her much in the ways of survival and she could take care of herself. Saphira also felt like she was being watched and maybe protected by an unseen force. She believed it was the spirit of her Grandfather watching over her. Little did she know that a Death God had taken a fancy to her.
Naralis watched over Saphira for weeks after Ryo’s passing. While he would never outright kill any of the creatures of the forest, he did what he could to guild them close to Saphira’s home when they were close to death. Saphira would never go hungry and had plenty of pelt for trade. Completely enamored with Saphira, Naralis started entering her dreams to get to know her better. Not long after, ungoverned by the morals of the living, Naralis started altering Saphira’s dreams. He couldn’t be with her in body, but perhaps in the depths of her subconscious, he could satiate his godly desires.
Naralis' physical form was that of a tall athletic pale skinned Elf. He had sharp striking features; gray-blue eyes that could quite literally pierce one's soul, short silver hair and a thin lipped mouth. Naralis would appear to Saphira in this form and create settings based on Saphira’s subconscious ideas of romance. Sometimes he would create elaborate landscapes of far off places that Saphira would hear about from local bards. One time while she had been out a little too late she came across a clearing in the woods. The grove was bathed in moonlight and a single willow tree stood tall in the center. Wild flowers, surrounding the weeping tree, swayed in the cool breeze. Dew on their petals reflected the crescent moon’s beams and sparkled ever so slightly while the stars glistened in the night’s sky above. Saphira had never seen such a beautiful place. That night as she slumbered, Naralis recreated the grove and guided her to the base of the willow tree. Naralis escalated his nocturnal advances little by little as the weeks passed, this night he finally fulfilled his godly desires.
Saphira did not know what to make of these dreams. She didn’t recognize the tall handsome Elf, he certainly wasn’t a local villager. She started to realize that the dreams mostly took place in fanciful far off places that she’d only read or heard about. The grove she had stumbled upon was one of the few places she had actually seen in person. She started to wonder if these were really just dreams as everything felt so real. Saphira bit her lip slightly as her body quivered from the memory of the previous night's lustful fantasies.
While foraging one day, Saphira came across a rare patch of medicinal flowers. After collecting as many as she could, she began to head home. Saphira could hear a faint russell in the brush behind her. Saphira turned around to see a thick arm swinging down on her. Unable to react in time, Saphira’s vision went dark. When she awoke, Saphira was in a dark damp room. A soft flickering torch stood alone on a crude stone wall. Saphira’s vision was blurry and her head was pounding. The smell of the room made her stomach turn. Sweat, blood and death assaulted her nostrils. She could hear sobbing nearby. Saphira tried to move and get up only to find that she was chained down. As her vision started to clear, she could see all the horror around her. Women of varying races were chained up all around her. Their bodys were covered with blood, vomit and other bodily fluids. Hair gnarled and matted, mouths toothless and drooling. Those that still had eyes were vacant and numb. Some had missing limbs, severe lacerations and bruising. Dead bodies were mixed in with the still living, if you could even consider these broken, beaten and mutilated bodies as “living”. Not a single body had a stitch of clothing. Tears streamed down as Saphira wretched and vomited, the sights, smells and sheer reality of where she was setting in.
Saphira continued to take in her surroundings as she wiped a sleeve across her mouth. In the opposite corner stood a tall muscular dark orange skinned beast of a Hobgoblin. The creature was naked and was thrusting into a wailing female halfling with savage vigor. The halfling was laid out on a crude wood table, legs spread in the air and held in place by the creature that was violating her. Saphira could see blood dripping from the edge of the table and heard a sickening sticky wet thwapping sound with every thrust. The halfling eventually became quiet and motionless. The Hobgoblin started slapping the poor halfling in an attempt to get a rise out of her. Each slap was harder than the last till finally he was just hammering her in the face with his closed fist. After getting no response for several minutes, the beast backed away from the limp body of the halfling, blood dripping from his now exposed loin. The hobgoblin looked around and met eyes with a human woman to his right. He grabbed the woman by the back of the neck and slammed her, face down, on top of the halfling's still body and began his bloody thrusting once more.
Saphira wretched, body shaking, tears flowing, she couldn’t process what was happening, why she was in such a place and how she could escape. There was a steady stream of Hobgoblins coming to take their turns. Most were as violent, if not more so then the first beast she saw. Saphira’s turn finally came. The hulking creature started by stripping her bare and beating her bloody. He layed Saphira on the table and punched her so hard in the face that she passed out. Saphira awoke confused, reeling in pain and anguish. Reality set in as her visions cleared and she saw the orange fleshed beast having his way with her. Hours seemed to pass before Saphira was thrown to the cold hard floor. Saphira lay motionless and thought about her Grandfather, the village and her recent dreams. She tried to sleep, tried to dream so she could escape this hell, even if it was only her mind that found respite, but sleep wouldn’t set in and dreams were only nightmares.
After weeks of daily use, Saphira’s body could no longer feel the pain of her violations. Her mind hid deep inside her and everything was a blurry haze. Despite not feeling pain, Saphira’s body was still being beaten, cut, burned and used in every way. Her wounds were starting to get infected and subconsciously she knew she would die soon. Saphira wished for death, prayed for it with the devolution of a zealot. It was her only way of escape now.
Naralis frantically searched for Saphira but could no longer connect with her within Saphira’s dreams. After weeks of trying to reach out to Saphira’s subconscious, Naralis felt a tiny flutter, barely a whisper of Saphira. He followed the feeling and it got stronger. There was something different about it, something darker and desperate. Comprehension set in as Naralis realized it was prayer. Saphira had been praying for release, death, an ending to some kind of immense pain, a new beginning, and to forget. Naralis dove deeper and saw what had transpired over the last few weeks.
Naralis felt Saphira dying. Death was a normal thing for mortals, yet he did not want this one to die. He knew a way to help her, but it would change her. She would lose a part of herself. Her gentle soul would have to become a servant of death. Naralis decided to take all memories of her past, including her dreams of him. He wanted her to forget what happened and knew that any tie to her past could nudge her memories and all the horrors could come flooding back. He also knew that he couldn’t visit her in her dreams anymore for the same reason.
Naralis the God of Death killed every creature in the cave, every tortured soul, every Hobgoblin, even the insects that feed on the dead. Naralis pulled Saphira’s body and soul into a plane of existence where it would be safe and suspended till he could bring himself to let go of her. Naralis watched over Saphira for a long time, long to mortals anyway, while he prepared himself to lose Saphira.
Saphira awoke as if she just flickered into existence. As she took in her surroundings, she found that she didn’t recognize where she was. People dressed in robes were around her as she laid in a soft bed. Once she fully came to, the Priests that were tending to her started to ask her who she was and where she came from. Saphira quickly realized that she didn’t know. She had no memory of where she came from, what her name was, how she had come to be in the care of these Priests. The only clue to who she was, was a necklace with a small charm and the image of a white dove. Etched into the back of the charm was the name “Saphira” and a short phrase “ Death is but only a new beginning”
Made a small backstory for my first ever dnd character.
Name: Yrell Lightfoot.
Race: Levistus tiefling.
Class: Lvl 5 life cleric (gona give her some lvls in another class soon).
Backstory: Acolyte.
Stats: 8/8/15/13/15/17.
The story: Yrell is the typical ”bookworm” of her monastery and spent most of her youth inside reading and studying. The few times you dont see her with a book or papper and quill Yrell enjoys playing harmless pranks on anyone unfortunat to be close to her. When she reached 19 years of age the priest decided that it was time for her to go out and explore, get some hands on experience and actually get some sunlight since shes already unusually pale for a tiefling rare as they are in this world. So after some whining and arguments shes now on the road working as an adventurer together with a few new people she calls friends. One thing noone is aware of is the existance of an egg she found inside the monastery that the priest told her to get rid of but she secretly kept it inside one of her many books that she hollowed out. Yrell dont know whats inside the egg but for the priests of the twin gods of earth, life and magic to make her destroy it just made her curious to what it is so now shes trying to find a way to hatch it.
Journal of Kovacs
This is the backstory for my Human fighter for the campaign im currently playing in. Beware that it does have some rather abhorrent language, so feel free not to read it if you do not approve of such things. There is also a part that could be considered erotic so if you want nothing to do with that just don't read it.
October 31
1712
Last night I killed a man. His name was Ivan and I killed him. Caught him cutting snow while counting all the coin he’d lawlessly demanded from taxes. The son of a ***** sat there on his ivory cushioned chair looking all smug. People like him make me sick. So I climbed through his window and gave him the old one-two in the back with my knife. Nothing like the smell of a corrupt governors blood late at night. After that I headed out of Slakos to head to Pilheim. Ahhh yes. Pilheim. This good for nothing pigpen of whores and criminals makes me sick. I was begotten in this sorry town. Had a nice family too. On day I woke up and they were gone, house as empty as a church on Monday. Doesn’t matter no more though. All I got is this piece of shit city. And I will do all I can to separate the greedy industrious wolves from the innocent lamb. My name is Kovacs. And I will not stop.
November 11
1712
The rain won’t stop. It’s been raining like a double-****ed cow pissing on a flat rock for days now. Doesn’t bother me though. Everyone leaves the street the second they smell downpour. Gives me the space to do my work. I hate walking through the crowds anyway. All I see are faceless people looking for their next high. Disgusting. Anyway, I gotta kill another corrupt official. His names Josephi or something. He’s been up to no good falsifying insurance claims. I plan on falsifying his suicide. The thought of it brings a smile to my face. The rain just got heavier and everyones inside for the night. Time to work.
November 13
1712
Woke up to the sound of a couple yelling in the room next to me. Seems one of them had a distaste for the others dope addiction. Sounds about right. Another family ruined by street drugs. Another day in Vandaheim. I stumbled sleeplessly down the steps into the bar to grab my morning cup of mud when I saw her. She was as a real ripe tomato, with red hair and a body designed by the devil himself. I pushed my way through the tavern rabble and sat at her table. I thought she’d be dettered by my grizzled appearance, but instead she smiled a grin of stars and asked my name. I introduced myself as Johnny and she was Josephine. I asked her what a beauty like her was doing in a place like this. She asked me the same thing. I chuckled and offered to buy her a drink, an offer she accepted without hesitation. We spent all day at the table laughing together. Laughing about how we both grew up in Slakos, how she got the snake tattoo that encircled her neck and how I used to be a banker before all . . . this. Day turned to night when finally, Josephine told me she had to retire. I asked if she would stay just a bit longer when she turned and put a hand on my shoulder. I felt my heart beat faster as she pushed herself up against me. I knew getting mixed up with a doll this good looking would only bring me trouble. But hey, I'm a man. I pulled her over to the record player and asked her what her favorite song was. “White Jazz” by James Ellroy. I slid the black disk under the needle and played the song. I grabbed her waist and she wrapped her arms around my neck as we swayed back and forth to the smooth rhythm. As the music swelled, I spun her with my hand and then pulled her close into my chest. She moaned slightly and put her crimson lips up to my ear. She whispered all the things she wanted to do to me in a sinister tone, and all the things she wanted me to do to her. Josephine pulled away from my ear with a cheeky smile on her face. I smiled back at her and brought my lips to hers. Our tongues entwined in an erotic dance for five sweet seconds before we left each other's mouths. I was taken aback with how delightful it had been when she put her soft hand up against my face and her other hand on my belt. I chuckled in bewilderment and pulled her upstairs to my room with haste.
November 17
1712
Josephine has got me doubting my crusade. Are people as bad as I make them out to be? I told her everything about what I do. I told her how I kill the scum of this city, so the innocents don’t suffer. She agreed. Josephine thinks they deserve to die too. But she said for us to be together I must stop. She doesn’t want me being found out by the boys in blue. I told her I won’t, but she doesn’t think it’ll last. I love Josephine. I love her with a burning passion, one that surpasses my love for watching the unjust suffer. Perhaps I will stop. Josey wants to settle down with me in a farmhouse in the countryside. I would love nothing more than to go with her. But there is just one more man I must kill. One more devil to send back to hell.
November 18
1712
Tonight, I left Pilheim. Without Josephine. I buried her corpse beneath the front gate. It was the first time I cried in a couple years. When I went out to find the cat I was gonna jab, Josey stayed at our room at the tavern. I tracked the guy down; his name was Jacobi Stormsong. I found his house in the posh area of the city and snuck through a window into his room. Thought I had him cornered when I saw him in his bed. I flipped open the covers and stabbed at him with my knife. My blade met only feathers. He had expected me. I quickly dashed out of his house and ran through the streets back to where I left Josephine. Inside I found her body strewn across the floor like a fallen angle, red slits scattered across her chest. With her last breath she once again put her crimson lips up to my ear. She whispered to me her last words. I will remember her honeyed voice as she whispered those last words for the rest of my life. I took her body out and buried it. Then I tracked down Jacobi and his men. Ended each of them the way they ended my woman. 12 stabs in the chest. Got each one of them except the ringleader. That ******* coward skipped town before I could tear him limb from limb. When I get my hands on him, I'm gonna make him suffer in ways that the ******* executioners of this pisshole town couldn’t possibly imagine. So, I'm on a horse leaving for a manhunt. A manhunt fueled by my undying thirst for Stormsongs death.
December 4
1712
Finally caught Jacobi. When I found him, I performed something that my ancient ancestors would know as a ‘Blood Eagle’. I cut his back open and pulled out his lungs and placed them on his shoulders. All while he was still alive. His screams urged me on. I did it all for Josephine. Every time I close my eyes, I see her red hair and blue eyes. I think of her every day. How she would brush her fingers through my hair like a comb of comfort. I think of how she would hold me every night in bed and caress my cheek as we drifted into quite slumber. I would do anything to get her back. Oh Josey. Come back to me please. I would never seek to kill again if it meant I could see you just one more time. Sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear you talk to me. I hear you whisper those final words in my ear. Will you ever come back? Please come back. Please.
December 28
1712
It’s been about forty days since I last saw Josephine. I spend most of my days as a small time bounty hunter. Corruption in vandaheim disinterests me now. I couldn’t care less about the inner workings of the human government. I plan on leaving for Isvaath now. Hear there’s a guy whose been dumping innocents into the ocean cause their lives are not ‘cost-effective’. Goes by the name Mjovan. You could probably guess what I plan on doing to him. This is gonna be my last job before I retire. Thought it would be nice to end it in a foreign land. Anyway. I heard that the stiffs in the high houses in Vandaheim know me as “The Karma Killer”. Probably the only good thing that’s come out of my career. Josephine would have loved the thought of them shaking in their boots because of me.
I just read your backstory Astra322 and it is fantastic! Keep up the great work!
There's somethings you need to know about the world first:
Here, the charater's backstory, i know it's long, but i hope at least one person will read it:
Many years ago, when John Carthas the second was but a lad of twelve, he was learning the art of swordplay from his father, the lord of their house. While John could weave around his father's blows, his defense could be called meager at best. Though he was agile, it was all but impossible for him to block his father's blows. John stumbled backwards, knocking over a lit brazier. His hand swept through the flames, and he gasped, not in pain, but in shock. When his hand had touched the fire, he had felt nothing at all.
"Come," His father said, beckoning John into to his study. "My boy," John's father said to him. "You'll soon be man. I've had a copy of our house seal for years, and now the time is right to give to you."
"But why now?" John asked.
"I've little time to explain. They may come in an hour, they make come in a fortnight, but when they come, run. And don't worry about me. I'll win this one just like I've won all the fights before it."
"But I don't want leave you," John said.
"We seldom have a choice in life, and when we do, the options are rarely to our liking. Now listen carefully, my boy. If we are killed, do not pursue our killers. And what ever you do, don't come back here. Ever."
The next day, three men in the trappings of thieves and marauders came to the manor. "Hide," His father said, "And be quick about it." John rushed to his room, slamming the door just as the gates of the manor were heaved open. "Where is the boy?" came a calm but icy cold voice from the entry hall.
"What boy do you speak of?" his father snapped back.
"You should know better than to lie to us," the voice said. "We will find him, one way or the other. And we'll make certain you suffer if you attempt to stop us."
"You wouldn't dare!" his father replied.
"Burn this place to the ground." sneered the voice. "And make sure the so-called lord of this glorified outhouse doesn't attempt to leave. He'll be incinerated along with his gifted son."
While John couldn't see the man, he could imagine his cruel finger pointing at his father, sentencing them to doom. Then he heard the telltale swish of a sword being drawn from its sheath. He heard half a dozen clangs of metal on metal, then he heard a thump, and the only sound left was the crackling of fire. John thrust open his window and sprung outside, racing towards the nearby woods, hoping to stay unseen. Just as he reached the line of trees, a hand reached out from behind and grabbed his wrist, pulling him behind the tree. "Be silent, unless you wish our mutual demise!" the man hissed. "I'm here to help you. If you come with me, you'll have a chance to learn how to master your gift, and ultimately avenge your father. Now, will you come with me?" John gave a uneasy nod, even as tears rolled down his cheeks. The man beamed, though his eyes seemed filled with sorrow. "Welcome to T.A.R.C."
There is no dawn after eternal night.
Homebrew: Magic items, Subclasses
Thank you so much! I really wanted to do something super tragic and would really wanted to make someone fell the pain she went through. I can’t wait to play her!!!!!!!!
Oof this is scary.
I'm preparing to start character in 7 days. I've been wanting to play for 15 (I'm 33) years. Tried actively(ish) for last 4 and finally found an awesome dude who seems like he's gonna be a fantastic DM, he's been so helpful, honestly I'm worried I'm annoying him because the excitement is real. I don't know full details on the world, it's a homebrew campaign, so some things are vague because they have to be and originally this was like 8 pages and I whittled it down to this (large😝) paragraph.
Daardendrien (expelled) Lōkheed, the Clipper:
Dragonborn, Rogue (eventual swashbuckler/fighter multiclass)
Forced into servitude (forced is how he perceives it as he was never even given a chance to prove them wrong) as he was deemed too small (6'1" 255lbs) for a soldier or warfighter, Lokheed learned to use his personality to compensate for his shortcomings. He even earns his nickname for his ability to spark conversation, the Clipper. An opportunity was born from his charming ways. Hand to the ambassador. This is how he met Letrel. They never quite defined their feelings, but it was powerful. Lōkheed didn't find it difficult to break away once ambassador duties were finished, on longer stays, he made a new family. They were barely adults, some still children but for some reason or another never found the right rhythm with their birth families. They found each other. They had a code. They'd never steal from anyone who couldn't afford to lose. Some of them knew how hardship could shape children and they weren't about that. They were full of delusions of grandeur. Everybody knew about a guild of thieves and a guild of assassins and this and that, they were their own guild. A guild of misfit rogues. Lōkheed crafts this elaborate, Ocean's 11 scheme for the next formal ceremony the regional ambassadors. He uses his privileged knowledge as hand to the ambassador to concoct this plan. But, he was out of his depth. They all were. And they are caught. The fallout is still felt. Not only was he involved with local hellions, but the romantic implications with an elf Letrel... it all came crashing down. For his misdeeds and dishonor brought to his clan, he is expelled. He feels this as a relief almost. He actually takes it in stride, which only offends his clan more. He can now be with his true guild. But when he makes it back, their hideout is ravaged. Everyone is accounted for and fine except for Letrel, who is nowhere to be found.
And so the story begins…..
Is this your first character? If it is, it's really good!
You got any spare change? I need some spare change.
My first D&D character, yes. I've written for fun my whole life though. Why D&d seems perfect to me.