Backstory for Thyrrith Richter (Half-elf Rogue, Lv. III)

Born in the capital of Cormanthyr in Faerûn, Thyrrith was first and foremost a proud and fierce soldier. Trained in the harshest conditions in the Dalelands, he was part of a private mercenary group hired to aid in the Cormanthyr War against the Zhentarim (a company known for being a cadre of self-serving thieves, spies, assassins and malevolent wizards).

One day, Thyrrith and his compatriots were sent to Teshendale to repel the Zhent invasion forces and free the people that were slain and enslaved there. Only did Thyrrith not know the danger that awaited him…

Despite their valiant efforts, the Zhent forces outnumbered Seiveril Miritar’s army at Teshendale. Worst of all, Thyrrith’s crew was held captive by decree of the Zhentarim. What he witnessed can only described by one word: diabolical. Every soldier lost the battle; some stabbed, burned, decapitated, poisoned… It went on.

During the battle, Thyrrith’s crew was surrounded by relentless men (orcs, wizards and assassins), and held captive at the Zhentil Keep because Thyrrith made a fatal mistake by leading them into a forest near the Zhentarim’s base. Little did he know that two fronts were ambushing them a short moment after that. Their leader Pereghost saw to the execution of each member of his crew. All seven of them died in front of him, including his war buddy Kivef Chaz and his confidante Javi Rainlight…

This memory haunts him to this very day. Now forced to live his life squandering as a mercenary-for-hire, discharged from the Dalelands army, Thyrrith closes himself to everyone, not by choice, but by force.

Going to be play-testing The School of Invention: https://www.dndbeyond.com/characters/classes/wizard#SchoolofInvention

A gnome who fell into wizardry almost by accident. When he was young he worked in a school of arcane study as basically a maintenance man. He was always good at fixing things and figuring out how things worked and taking stuff apart and putting it back together. He was also very small as a young gnome, smaller than usual, so could weasel his way into places others couldn't get to. It was while he was in a tiny space between 2 walls trying to discover where a leak in the roof was coming from when he noticed he could see into one of the classrooms through a crack in the ceiling. Being an ever curious youngster he started trying to discern what was being written in the books by the students. Over the course of several years of... well I wouldn't call it spying but being in the right places at the right times (where my high dex comes into play) he picked up a good amount of knowledge and starting creating his own spellbook and practicing by himself away from prying eyes. Not having the formal wizard training some of his results were unpredictable. He quickly learned that he would need a way to protect himself from his own magic and figured out a way to imbue leather with resistance to force. Hence his arcanomechanical armor was born.

Unfortunately his private studies did not go unnoticed for long. When the masters of the school found out what he had been doing they were furious. Saying that he was a disgrace to the art of wizardry and banished him on pain of death. Ever since he has been on a mission to prove that the study of invention not only has merit but should be recognized as one of the true schools of wizardry.

Wraven -- Raven Queen Warlock

You look around for the man you are supposed to meet. You see him wrecked against the bar. It is the same bastard you saw earlier in the evening in an alley screaming at a black bird and eventually skewering it on his sword. You are not so sure that you need to add his craziness to your chronicles but it is too late because he can see you now.

“Hello, I’m Padraig,” you begin and against propriety you ask “Weren’t you the one in the alley earlier today?”

He grimaces and nods. “******* raven.” He pushes his empty glass towards you and waits. You nod to the barkeep and it is refilled. It is going to be one of those interviews. He nearly cuddles up to the glass for warmth or something and this time you wait. He begins finally.

“We live terrible, shitty pointless lives and then we die.”

You set your quill down and sigh heavily. More angst. “How… poetic.”

“If we’re lucky,” he finishes the drink and nods for another.

You pick up your quill again. “Go on.”

“My husband, Edgar and I would do odd jobs. Reclaim lost goods. Salvage items. We made shit really, I read tarot occasionally but Edgar kept a roof over the three of us.” You make a question mark and begin to ask about “husband” but the man doesn’t really stop and doesn’t seem interested in clarifying. You notice a little bit of what might be blackish smoke coming from his fingers and sleeves as he remembers.

Edgar had a line on 500 gold, heard it from Nigel. Get some stupid book from a crypt on the rocky island out in the bay. The one nobody goes to? I asked him. He waved me off. He kissed me and our daughter Lenore and he was off. He didn’t return that evening or the next. On the third day I told Lenore I was going after him. She wanted to come to, always trying to prove she was ready but I told her No. Stay here, in case he comes back while I'm out.

I find a boat and gather my gear and make my way across the bay to the towering and jagged island that everyone pretends to ignore. It is dark by the time I get there. I find the crypt and search.  It’s quiet in the tomb. I’m quiet. I’m prepared. It turns out there was a book. Hidden. When I touched it the howling screams began. These creatures were everywhere, except they weren’t creatures they were decayed and wounded people. I saw Nigel shambling toward me. Fast. I saw my dear Edgar. Pain in his eyes. I screamed and ran. I burst through the crypt gate and ran straight into Lenore. ‘Run’ I screamed. I grabbed her hand and we tore through the woods and brush. Whatever was following us was fast. We charged across a fallen log over a ravine. We slipped going across. I seemingly had plenty of time to notice everything around me. Edgar at the edge of the ravine. Dead but not. Lenore and I in the air. Even a raven that was going to watch me fall.  I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I looked into its eyes for a long time and I knew. ‘Anything,’ I said. ‘Save my baby.’

I was pulled out of my body. I was floating next to the Queen. I knew who she was. We were watching two bodies falling from a log. Frozen in time they were. Well no, somehow I knew that they still falling, just so slowly that they might never reach the bottom. ‘No, not like this!’ but something in me acquiesced.

The Raven Queen flung her arm to the side and I was thrown across worlds and planes. My spirit was hurtling toward a tree. A raven was patiently pecking at a rope tied to a thick branch. A man was swinging from  the rope, its noose around his neck. I found myself hanging from a tree unable to breath and then I felt myself crashing into the ground and that damned raven watching me. Always watching.

You set the quill down. You notice your hand is shaking slightly. You realized there’s not anything you can say to this man. You push some gold his way. He ignores you. He drinks. You pack your things and make your way out into the night. A raven is perched on a nearby post. Waiting.

Brilliant, and well written Wakarusa. Nods tricorn hat.

Thanks lowrez. I need to get one of those hats.

Slightly broken Gnome Cleric (knowledge) lvl 1 i'm currently developing.

hope you enjoy!

 thanks for reading,

It's a constant struggle to give a colorful description without being overly wordy. I have gone over my Eberron half orc paladin several times trying to trim the excess without cutting out details I value. Here's where I ended up:

Harod grew up in a marsh town between the mountains and a large lake. Had fate not intervened, Harod would have likely made an excellent miner or fisherman and lived a good, if boring life of toil and satisfaction.

From an early age, Harod showed a talent for finding. He would be the one to spot a hidden deer between distant trees while walking with his father in the woods. And Harod would always spy the best apple in the pile for his mother to pick when she brought him along to the market. When someone misplaced a toy or lost a tool in the tall grass, people could count on Harod to track it down for them. His parents saw his ability and took him to see a Gatekeeper druid aligned with House Tharashk in hopes that Harod's gifts might lead him to a more ambitious future than the pastoral life that awaited him in the Shadow Marches.

The druid soon discovered that Harod had been blessed with a special connection to the land and to its wild creatures. While meditation and study never suited him, Harod's faith was undeniable and he excelled at martial combat. He had the makings of a paladin.

Harod's future is open before him. He journeys into the world to find the greatest need for his talents. He isn't sure where this will be, but he is confident he will know it when he sees it. Some day he wants to return home to show his parents what he has become. He continues to train his body and his mind to rise through the ranks of House Tharashk and prove that his humble upbringing won’t limit the glory he can achieve for himself, his house, and his holy order.

Quote from TexasDevin >>

It's a constant struggle to give a colorful description without being overly wordy. I have gone over my Eberron half orc paladin several times trying to trim the excess without cutting out details I value. Here's where I ended up:

Harod grew up in a marsh town between the mountains and a large lake. Had fate not intervened, Harod would have likely made an excellent miner or fisherman and lived a good, if boring life of toil and satisfaction.

From an early age, Harod showed a talent for finding. He would be the one to spot a hidden deer between distant trees while walking with his father in the woods. And Harod would always spy the best apple in the pile for his mother to pick when she brought him along to the market. When someone misplaced a toy or lost a tool in the tall grass, people could count on Harod to track it down for them. His parents saw his ability and took him to see a Gatekeeper druid aligned with House Tharashk in hopes that Harod's gifts might lead him to a more ambitious future than the pastoral life that awaited him in the Shadow Marches.

The druid soon discovered that Harod had been blessed with a special connection to the land and to its wild creatures. While meditation and study never suited him, Harod's faith was undeniable and he excelled at martial combat. He had the makings of a paladin.

Harod's future is open before him. He journeys into the world to find the greatest need for his talents. He isn't sure where this will be, but he is confident he will know it when he sees it. Some day he wants to return home to show his parents what he has become. He continues to train his body and his mind to rise through the ranks of House Tharashk and prove that his humble upbringing won’t limit the glory he can achieve for himself, his house, and his holy order.

 Well written Devin.  I have an issue with being overly wordy myself i can respect the work it took to pare this down!  I should take that lesson for myself.  ha.

Mirin Willswidow- An assimar who worked as a plague doctor. As in, they really just wheren't a doctor. They where just the only person willing to go into a quarantined area with litt le hope of leaving. They went in comforted the grieving, threw spices, and counted the dead. But then one day, they where caring for an older woman, when a plague thief broke in. At this point, Mirin met death. And they made a deal.

Greetings. I would love to share the backstory of my current character, Viktor Gavriil, the white dragonborn Grave Cleric. Viktor is about six and a half feet tall, with a barrel chest, thick limbs, and a rather menacing appearance. He's actually a really nice guy, once you get to know him. And he's not like a snow-white white dragonborn. He's more of a gloomy gray, with darker lines under his beady little yellow eyes. His scales darken toward his extremities, so much that his fingers and toes are nearly completely black, a remnant of frostbite. But we'll get to that. 

So here goes...

(imagine the following being spoken in a really terrible deep russian accent)...

Privet, druz'ya. I am Viktor. I come from frozen wasteland in distant north, on other side of the world. Small village near coast, where waters were frozen half the year. We survived by fishing, hunting, whaling, and doing trade with the Borean Dwarves in mine two days east. They used whale blubbers for their machines. I don't know how, or why, but they paid well and would buy all we could bring. I once traded small cask of this blubbers for a good shield and spear. They're good people. 

I was hunter. My job to keep village fed. Not easy in long dark winters. A curse on Zamorozhnneyy! Where I am from, he is God of Winter. He is miserable prick. Cruel, distant, unrelenting bastard, he is. I never much minded the gods back then. Of course, we all said thanks to Topka, goddess of the hearth, when family met for meal. We said toast to Khodosnovy, god of brewing and distilling, when raising our mugs of vodka or piva. We had to acknowledge Vishcha, god of wealth and mining, when doing trades with the Boreans. And we would curse and spit the name of the Blyedd when we were cheated. She was goddess of dark secrets. A real see-you-next-tuesday, if you know what I mean. The only remaining god I'll get to in a minute. But in day to day life, the gods were just words. Stories. Someone to blame sh-t on. 

One year, winter came early. Our long hunting trip south to the taiga forests was cut short by the snows. We got home to find waters already frozen and village half deep in snow. But this was life. We know the cold. We settled in for long winter. But winter was longer and colder than any before. After some months, village began to run low on food, and on fuel for fires. When wood ran out we had to burn valuable whale oil. A real shame. When that was gone we were reduced to burning our own sh-t for light and heat. But we weren't eating enough so we weren't sh-tting enough to provide enough fuel. A few died. The old, the young, the weak. This is normal. This keeps tribe strong. Is the natural way of things. But still it seemed unfair. Not really their time, I thought, since this was more a curse than a winter.

One day, after many months of this, weather suddenly cleared. I grabbed my spear and ran! Animals had all gone south months before, but I had to find meat for village. I had just gotten over the first hills, just out of sight of village, when the storm returned even stronger than before. That was when I knew, this was Zamorozhnneyy f#@&ing with me. I tried to turn back, but could not find my way in the storm. Wind so strong I could barely stand. Snow and ice tearing at my face. My fingers and toes freezing, then hot, then nothing. For days this went on. I would burrow into snow for shelter from wind, and to find some of the hard lichens on the rocks beneath. Weeks. Lost. Frozen. I know you probably think that white dragons cannot freeze, but trust me... we can. It just takes very long time. And this winter was very long. 

One day, frozen, starving, exhausted, I collapse. Is then that he appeared to me. Kurgan, the God of Death. Now, I know many of you think death is a bad thing, and it scares you, and your gods of death are all evil and whatever, but that is not the way of Kurgan. We call him Grandfather. We know that death is just another part of the natural order. The next step of the journey. And Kurgan is the one who is always there with us. He is quiet, he is fair, and he is inevitable. You see, there is no need to lie or cheat or steal when you are inevitable. He treats all the same. Rich, poor, tall, short, dwarf, elf... all the same to Kurgan, because all die. 

I stand and face him. "Grandfather...."   He asks me, "Are you ready?"   I suddenly feel a fire in my chest.   "NO!", I yell at him. "This is not my time! You know it! This is your brother, Zamorozhnneyy, f#@&ing with me!"   Grandfather smiles a bit. Is a strange thing to see Death smile.  "You know when is your time?", he asks.  I tell him, "No. But I know is not now."  Grandfather looks at me. Through me. Tells me he is impressed with how long I have survived the storm. Tells me he may have job for me. I ask what is job. He says, "You will go out into the world. You will find those whose time has come, and you will send them to me. You will find those whose time has not come, and protect them."   I tell him, "Grandfather, I am simple hunter. I do not know how to do this job."  He raises an arm and points off into the storm.  "Go that way. If you survive, you will find town. In town you will find temple. In temple you will find priest. He will train you."  

I run. I don't even respond. Just run the way he pointed. Cannot feel legs or face, but just knowing the way to go gives me strength. All day, all night, by next day I find a town. I must be many miles south by now. On edge of town, by the burial mounds, I find temple. A solid looking building of dark timber make. Pushing open large door I collapse inside. The soft warmth of a fire. The smell of meat and sweat and books. A dwarf in dark gray robes stands over me. Says he has been expecting me. I ask him, "How can you be expecting a stranger you never met?"   He says, "Grandfather came to me in a dream two nights ago. Says he is sending me someone. Is must be you."  So this must be priest. His name was Borgund. He was a dwarf of the mountains, not a Borean like those back home. For the next three years I am at temple. Working, studying, learning the ways of life and death. Dwarf say it usually only take two years, but I need three because I am not fast learner. Finally, one day, dwarf come to me and say, "Okay. Training is done. Go do your job."  I say him, "You know, this is kind of a big job. And world is big place... where do I begin?"  He tells me, "Go as far as you can. Go to other side of the world. Work your way back." 

So I gather my things. My armor and shield that I got from the Boreans for blubbers. My pack of priest stuff like candles and salves and med kits. And I go to the coastal town just to the south. I have a few coins that people had given me for healings, so I buy passage on boat. I go as far as boat goes. Get on another boat, go as far as boat goes, and so on. I earn my way on each boat by fishing to help feed crew, and by healing the scurvy. I am good at fishing. I am okay at healing. Finally, after many weeks on many boats we land at a city. A huge city. I did not know such places existed in this world. Crew mate says city is called Waterdeep. I head ashore with a sack full of dried fish and a job to do. 

Of course there is no temple to Kurgan in this new land. I find large place called The Plinth, where many gods are worshiped. "Worship". That is a strong word. I do not think I "worship" Kurgan. I work for him. Worship is word for children and old women. What it that? Singing songs? Psshh. What am I to Death? What does he need songs for? If I do not sing will he stop taking us? Will we live forever? Yerunda. I don't think so. Besides, "worship" is word people use when they don't really know what to do, so they pray, thinking that counts as something. I know what to do. I have faced my god and spoken to him personally. He told me what to do. He did not say to pray. He said to work.  So I meet people at Plinth and get job in part of city called "City of the Dead". Sounds like good place to start. I keep graves maintained, as sign of respect for the dead. But also we keep close watch for the occasional undead things. Undeads is a violation of the natural order. Kurgan teaches us to live every day like it's your last, because it might be. But when it is your time, it is your time. You go. Kurgan is patient, but he is inevitable. Undeads are an offense that must be wiped out. Turns out, I am pretty good at that. 

After a year or so keeping watch in City of the Dead, and maintaining the graves, and doing some healings in the Southern Ward for spare coins, I learn about big problem facing the region. There is some new cult that worships some old demon-fish-god thing. They are poisoning waters and stealing people and dragging them into the ocean to turn them into undead demon-fish-people. So in Southern Ward I meet group of people, adventurers. They say they are heading out to fight this new menace. I join them. There was a dwarf who was strong with an axe, there was woman who could control waters and could turn into fierce animals, and there was a wizard. A real elf wizard. The four of us spent the next year and a half journeying up and down Sword Coast, killing undead things, helping people and towns protect themselves, and following clues to this demon-fish-god cult. Their symbol is a starfish with an eye in the center. Is really creepy. Makes people have nightmares, makes them cut out their own tongues, makes them go insane and attack and kill anyone around them. 

We were doing pretty good. Learning a lot, helping a lot, getting closer and closer to finding the demon-fish cult. Wizard nearly died, twice. He was powerful wizard, but not strong in the body. I had to protect him especially. He was the smart one who followed the clues. He learns that cult has a sunken temple in city to the south, called Baldur's Gate. Says there is creature there, called Aboleth. Says the cult worships it. We head south to find sunken temple and kill it. But by the time we get to Baldur's Gate we find city is recovering from great calamity. Turns out, another group of adventurers had killed the aboleth just the day before. Is good that it's dead, but still we wished we could have done it. Is then that wizard decides to leave group and head back to home in place called Lothen, in a great forest. 

So I return to Waterdeep. Over the next year I assist with a new temple being built. Is temple to a new saint called Bevin. Apparently he was a priest who helped that other group kill the aboleth and its cult followers, and died in the process. I don't know all the details, but people say he was great guy. So I help out with building and lifting and healing people and cooking in soup kitchen for poor and so on. 

Is one day I am in temple just resting, lighting candle to Kurgan, and I meet a guy named Adams. He is elf, or part elf at least. Is some kind of music sorcerer. Turns out, he was part of the group that knew Bevin and killed aboleth. I tell him I am impressed. He says aboleth was not the demon-fish-god thing. It was just a pawn in a bigger war. Cult is still out there. Still much to be done. He says his group didn't just lose Bevin, they also lost a sorcerer who turned on the party and betrayed them to a devil. Says he was a dragonborn named Ikram Sahir. Says he was a brass. I tell him he should not have trusted someone from a desert anyhow. So I offer my help.

He leads me to Silver Street, where his group owns a house. Well, the tiefling of the group owns it. She is assassin, named Shadow. Is not her real name, I think. There is also ranger, a blue dragonborn, so that is good. And they have an elf wizard, too! He is a snooty little der'mo, but is good in a fight. There is also creepy little girl who can summon weapons and creatures and things, and a druid elf lady. 

Group says they need a healer. They have had many tough battles, and really need a healer. I tell them, "I am Viktor. I work for Kurgan, the God of Death. He tells me to find those whose time has come and send them to him, to find those whose time has not come and protect them. You help me do job, and kill undead things, and I will heal you. You get in my way, and maybe you meet Kurgan." 

. . . . . 

Well... that was several years ago. We have had many adventures since then. Too many to even tell you about here. I even founded a new temple to Kurgan, called "The Temple of Last Resort" in city called Neverwinter. We have nearly wiped out the cult. We have fought a dragon, bargained with a marid, traveled to the Hells and back, and saved the entire city of Waterdeep from a plague of slaad creatures. We are nearly done. Just one thing left to do. To kill a mind flayer creature that is trying to turn itself into a lich. It may have already succeeded. Whether it has or not, we will kill it. Kurgan commands it. 

If I survive the battle, I think I will retire to my temple and spend my years healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and teaching people that death is not something to be feared. But, if is my time, if Kurgan comes for me in the battle, I will go. I am on borrowed time as it is. I trust that he will be fair, and that what must happen will happen. Whether sooner or later, He is inevitable. One day he will come for me again, and I will not protest. I will gladly climb aboard the wagon for a ride over the hills to the Summer Village, where an eternity of work, and joy, and feasting awaits. 

Proshchal'nyy privet.

Viktor Gavriil. 20th level white dragonborn grave cleric of Kurgan. 

Just have a bit of a concept for a character, no true backstory yet but more a framework.

What makes a person follow you through the very gates of hell? Is it knowledge of what lies beyond those wrought iron gates? Perhaps it is a fearless crusader on the path for good? Is it a born leader with a tongue of molten silver? Is it all of these things? Instead it is a man with a mercurial tongue that drips lies and half truths like vitriol that scorches the world. To those closest it feels like they are scourged by the fire of light, not scoured away by the acidic lies and half truths of a skilled liar. A person who tells everyone that not only do they know a better way, but they know the best way. They have the insight and knowledge to bring about so much good in this world. If only others would listen. But fear not, for he is fearless. A crusader to bring light to this tortured world. He will do what is necessary when others quail at the 'necessities' of life. He forges a path where it MUST be forged, regardless of what finds itself in his path. He will be the savior. He will save you from hunger, pain, and strife. For the dead know none of these things.

I know these things. I know them because there must be someone to lead when no other will. To make difficult decisions when others are paralyzed with indecision. Indecision that gets more lives lost, that misses the big picture and allows everything wrong to continue in this world.

Barco of Pepperland

2 Lvl Moon Druid

1+ Lvl Horizon Walker Ranger

Neutral Evil

Backstory

Poor Barco of Pepperland.   When Barco was an infant he was abandoned in an enclave of reclusive and peaceful druids known as the Dream Keepers.   All his parents left in his crude wooden crate was 100gp, a note to the druids, and some mushed food labelled "Pepperland Farms - Mushed Peas". 

Barco never fit in with the Druids and often got into trouble.  Chasing birds, scaring squirrels, climbing trees and jumping in front of the unaware druids scaring them.  When Barco was five years old, he overheard the Master of Dreams talking with an acolyte, “Barco is a feral cat.  Lord have mercy.  He is not natural.  Bless his soul and watch over him”.   Barco, being a five-year-old, heard, “Barco is a fierce Cat Lord.  Have mercy, he is.  Nature bless his soul and watch over him”. 

Barco had never seen a cat while with the druids.  Only through sideways questions and research in some of the books was he able to learn about them.  Over the years, Barco trained himself to climb trees, jump and land softly.  He was to be a lord amongst men, a deity, maybe even a god! 

It was late fall when all went right.  Barco recently turned 15 and found himself in a tree studying by lantern light.  The druids had begun training Barco in the art of shapeshifting.  The druids believed it was a gift of dreams becoming reality.  Barco was practicing turning his skin into fur when he produced claws out of his fingers.  It gave him such a start that he knocked over the lantern onto the forest floor below.  The dry leaves quickly caught fire and raged.  Barco was utterly entranced as he leapt from tree to tree following the fire.  The circle arrived and put out the inferno, but not before most of the enclave was destroyed.  The Master of Dreams looked to Barco and saw the huge smile.

The next morning, Barco was expelled and given enough gold to find passage to Waterdeep with a note giving a glowing recommendation and request for his apprenticeship with an outcast Druid named “Kurgan”.  Kurgan took Barco in to continue his training.  Barco knew he was being exiled and had no love left for the druids.  He did however know what he wanted and nothing would stop him.

—Upon Reaching 2nd level—

After wandering and discovering more of the under-workings of Waterdeep with his newly found acquaintances, Barco completes his training with “Kurgan”.   Barco could now fully transform into a very convincing cat.  One late evening while in feline form, Barco knocked over some of Kurgan’s equipment.  Kurgan, furious, grabbed Barco and threw him across the room.  Barco, scared, jumped over to a side table, purposefully knocked over the oil lamp onto the bed where it blossomed into a fire quickly.  Barco quickly leapt to an open window and watched as Kurgan, completely insane with rage, was attempting to put out the fire.  Before he escaped, he watched the flames start to lick up Kurgans robes.  No regrets. 

The next morning, the news was around about a fire badly burning a man named “Kurgan”.   He was expected to survive......

—Before Reaching 3rd level—

Late one night, while hiding on a roof-top watching a warehouse nearby burn, a female dressed in a black tight-fitting leather garment with gold trimmings was walking along the rooftops.   When she nears you, oblivious to your presence, you call out, “Who are you?  Why are you here?”  Shocked to find anyone on the rooftops stops to eye Barco curiously.  “I am the domain between here and not here.  I am a Horizon Walker”.  The stranger vanishes in front of Barco’s eyes.  He sees her several rooftops away walking away.  He found himself in awe.  "As a Lord.... no.... I am a God, I must learn their secrets."

After some time at the lycaeum, Barco stumbled across a children’s book called “Walking the Horizon”, that told a story of rangers visiting villages and disappearing in mysterious ways.  There was something odd about pages.  They were folded several times vertically.  Barco had seen clever pamphlets called "MAD" in the street employing a trick to fold the paper vertically to produce a different image.  After folding the first page along the creases already there, a completely different text emerged.  It was the location for the safe-house of Horizon Walkers in Waterdeep.  Other pages revealed safe-houses in other cities.  Barco steals the book and heads to the safe-house.... and the rest is well.... to unfold.

Concept I am thinking about:

Race / Class:  Goblin Monk

As a youth the rest of my clan was killed by Orcs, I managed to run away and was found by a group of bugbears who raised me but were very cruel to me making me do all the whatever they said. The bugbears worked for a drow elf but were tasked my her to guard a human hideout a couple of days travel away so they took me with them. There the cruelty got worse and I had to do things like lick there boots clean.  After a couple of weeks a group of adventures invaded the hideout and killed the bugbears and most of the humans.

The adventures did not kill me as I expected but were kind to me especially a human Cleric of Ilmater, called Rani she told me Ilmater taught her to help all who suffered regardless of who they were and she really wanted to help me.  The adventurers allowed me to travel with them for a while but they did very dangerous things fighting monsters and stopping evil people carrying out their plans. I wanted to help but I was not very good at fighting so just hid when they fought. I wanted to be strong and brave like them and Rani had the idea of taking me to Vicfire, a master Monk of the Church of Illmater to receive training.  After 3 years of intense study both on the teachings Ilmater, on how to help those in need, suffering in their place when necessary but also how to stand up to the bully and the tyrant Vicfire declared that while I still had much to learn I would now learn more travelling with a group of adventures such as the one that had mercy on me, taking down the tyrants, helping the suffering also trying to challenge peoples prejudices that all goblins are evil and not deserving to be treated well.   

Heres the backstory for my winged tiefling, undying patron warlock, can't wait to play this guy. 

In the early years of his life. Nevari was tormented by his family. He was different to them, as he was born with bat like wings, and he also had different eyes to the rest of his family. While his family had full, beautiful ruby red eyes, he was born with obsidian eyes, with that same beautiful ruby red as the centre of his eye. It was a mystery to all, bar his father. And it would be many years before Nevari found out for himself.

He was born into a poor family, His mother and father worked hard every day to try and bring some money back to their little hovel of a home. Where they would see Nevari, and his two older brothers, who would have been playing and pretending that they could cast magic like the casters they read about in the local library, and the stories they heard from the old village preacher. Nevari's father found it amusing, seeing his little boys enjoying their lives while they could. As his father, Carti, knew that it unfortunately wouldn’t last for Nevari.

Carti had struck a pack with a powerful being, entrusting the safety of his family. The cost - one of his sons to become a servant of chaos, and he was told that the ruby of the night is the sign.

When Carti saw Nevaris eyes, he knew that he would one day lose his son. He didn’t know when, and so he tried to make him as happy as he could.

Many years later, when Nevari turned 18, he felt a sudden urge in him to cause a panic in those around. So once he found some time, he decide to grab one of the children of the village and flew them up. And panic he did indeed cause. The village people began screaming at Nevari, pleading him to carefully put the poor girl down. But instead he flew higher, with a look of pure enjoyment on his face. The screams grew, and even though he was higher, they didn’t fade away, until one man shouted “they made him like this, should never trust those devil spawn!”. Nevari knew those fading screams meant that the village was turning on his family. And so in a blind fit of rage he left go of the girl, while about 60ft in the air, and from his hand beamed and blast of eldritch power. Striking down a man and knocking him unconscious. He casted his first spell, never reading a spell book, and never been able to do so since birth. He didn’t know how. But now a man was hurt, Nevari was now the enemy. And he enjoyed it.

Before anyone else could even make a move, an ear piercing scream came from one of the nearby women. Everyone stopped. On the floor was the twisted body of that poor little girl. The horror on the faces of all, all but Nevari, who turned back around with a brutal smile, and a face full of malice. Carti and the rest of the family knew that Nevari, the sweet and kind caring boy they once knew, was now gone.

Nevari was forced out of the village. And some even tried hunting him down afterwards.

“Bring Torment” He heard a bellow in his mind. “Bring chaos to this world, bring TORMENT! In my undying name, and I will make you stronger than you could ever imagine, that I could give you, just let your imagination run wild. I will make you an undying terror in the night, a horror for to those on the streets. Soon even the mightiest will fear your name. Now bring TORMENT!”

That word began to ring in his head. Nevari was gone, all that was left, was Torment.

Torment was his new name. And now the spread of chaos shall begin. For his Undying lord

My first ever character in my first ever campaign. It's a homebrew campaign and im still working on details and trying to make it lore friendly as well, still have research to do but i figured why not share it with people other than my DM!

Hi my name is Cyrus Ravaysy, and I'm a half elf….is this how you start a journal? I'm not really sure what I'm doing here but Cadence is making me keep one of these wastes of time. So where should I begin? I guess the beginning is a great place to start. No no I wont bore you with all the long details that got me here to this point but there are some pretty important things you should know about me. My story started 34 years ago on a bright sunny day…was it really sunny I don’t ******* know I was being born….but it did take place on the second floor of a giant manse in a small fort town near the Archwood in Southern Faerun. Anyways I digress, I was born in my glory making the midwifes blush just looking at me…well they would of if things hadn't gone horribly wrong. My mother a human named Amadea, well she didn’t survive to help raise me. My father the lord Oloren was devastated at my mother's death, but he raised me fair and proper. Did he show resentment that I was the reason his star was taken away from him…sometimes it would slip but I never blamed him for sometimes hating me. Growing up were weapons and war, war all the time as my father was the leader of a band of soldiers that would hunt down goblin parties that would come down the thunder peaks. So I was always around  weapons and learned to use them…quite proficiently if I do say so myself…which I do!

Fast forward 26 years and I'm an expert in most weapons but unlike my father I gravitated to the spear more than the sword. But still being the war leaders kid was definitely good for me in more than one way... Yeah that’s right I'm referring to the ladies! Now I'm not one to brag….owww Cadence says I'm the biggest braggart there is and gave me good thump on the head for that but ill tell her ill erase it (of course I'm not, its my damn journal anyways)…Ah Cadence now she was a special one her. So you see my fathers right hand man was a surly man named Balferin and I was a perpetual thorn in his side mostly because of his daughter Cadence. Anyways long story short we fell in love and got married much to everyone's surprise….we kind of did it in secret…Old Bally was gonna kill me on the spot seeing as I was just a half elf and Cadence is well a pure bred. Not sure what she saw in me to want to wed me…must've been the mustache.  Now she is saying I should keep a journal to chronicle my not so exciting life.

Its been 4 years since my last entry, 4 years since she has been gone. The Goblins have a new leader and they have become increasingly organized and bold and have been launching raids in force on us these past few years, including the one where she was killed, an arrow as she rescued a little girl from being taken as a slave or food…hard to tell with these savages. She was the best of us, selfless, kind, and the world didn’t deserve her…I didn’t deserve her but It doesn’t look like we will survive this next raid if they come in force again. We have been evacuating the non combatants and only those who can wield a weapon are staying behind to buy them time. I figured I would write an entry in here just in case…if we….the horns are calling they are here….Cadence I love you and I will join you shortly.

2 years in the realm of death will change a man I can attest to that. How am I writing in this journal if I am dead you might be wondering….funny thing fate or the whims of my goddess Nevassa. Ill bring us back to the night I died defending my fathers keep from goblins….

The Goblins came in mass siege engines and the like…seriously what goblins use siege engines!?…they managed to breach the hall and we forced into a fighting retreat. Slaying goblins down left and right as we finally ended in the main hall our final stand to commence. Little did we know they found the secret entrance behind my fathers chair. Now you see my father was a blade singer and he personally trained me in a lot of the martial archetypes ( ill never be a sword singer or nearly as gifted as he was due to my heritage) but we were holding out and doing well…until  1  2   3  4 arrows sprouted from my fathers chest dropping him to the ground. Now as my luck would have it my spear snapped inside a dying goblin. So I dove to my fathers side picked up his plain worn long sword and with my training managed to almost turn the tide of the battle. I fought and fought until a big mean goblin came up and fought with such ferocity that his blow came down hard on my fathers sword and shattered it into a few pieces. Well as luck would have it one shard flew into his windpipe and he had gone down blood spraying in an arc (a mortal blow) I figured the goblins might turn tail after the death of their leader…. but wouldn’t you know a sharp pain came from my chest…you guessed it an arrow, which was promptly followed by 2 more arrows and next thing you know the world was spinning I felt myself hit the floor felt the blackness coming in and I knew we had lost. But then SHE came, Nevassa my goddess came to my side and banished the goblins. I heard her claim me as her own and she spirited me away with my fathers longsword what (what was left of it at least) still clutched in my hand. Months and months she nursed me back to life. She was the goddess of death and glory, so she wasn’t particularly good at healing magic but she got me to full strength. I spent the next 2 years training and learning and just being happy in her care. She assured me I was not dead and that I was perhaps the only living soul in the realm of death. Honestly I had never heard of this particular goddess before but I wasn’t going to question having the patronage of the goddess of death who was impressed with my valor and courage in the face of impending death. Eventually we became lovers and things escalated between us and I become her mortal consort…lofty status for a mere half breed but hey I wasn’t complaining…She was gorgeous! Long red hair that waved over her shoulders above a voluptuous body and piercing black eyes. Eventually I started noticing some changes to my body, I felt more powerful and even felt that I had use of magic if I could figure it out. I eventually with the help of Nevassa forged the remnants of my fathers blade into a spear head. Upon which I fastened it upon a piece of duskwood, a rare and very hard to break piece of wood that Nevassa gifted me. When I asked Nevassa she declared it was time I returned to the mortal world. She brought me home which of course was a ruin. Everything was burnt or toppled over. Somehow this journal survived though. So here I am in honor of Cadence and to write my story down . With my new spear across my back, a set of armor, the journal tucked into my coat I set off into the rest of Faerun and I know things will go better for me this time around for I have Death as my Mistress.

Been a few weeks since my last entry but hey nothing has happened, I jumped on a caravan as a guard and had a boring few week journey to the city of  ( whatever city Campaign starts in).

Walking into a tavern after a few years in deaths realm and then the hell of boredom for a few weeks gives you a new perspective on life. You notice the dull drab and utterly boring common folk that frequent these establishments but you don’t care about that or any of it, in fact being around this many people really makes you feel alive again! They spend their hard earned coin on drink and dice…which I believe I shall be the benefactor of their coin and drinks momentarily… and I will promptly be using that coin on a fine woman, for I have been without the touch of my goddess or any woman for way to long! Although as I head over to the a game of dice I notice a bunch of fools for sure but there are few stand outs…..a White dragonborn with a mean looking glaive, a little gnome that I cant quite put a feeling too, a halfling with a massive tiger at her feet and a pretty hot elf with a bow, they are separate as separate can be but I know they marked my presence in the room as surly as I marked theirs….

So here is Cyrus Ravaysy

You see a handsome man maybe in his mid twenties though its hard to tell due to his heritage. He tall maybe 6'1" with a lithe and powerful looking build. You can tell he knows his way around a fight by the grace of his movements. He has Medium length Brown shaggy hair that hides to slightly elongated ears that you would miss if you weren't paying attention. He has Grey/blue eyes and Full bushy mustache that seems well cared for. He is wearing a long brown over coat with pants and a white shirt that is open at the collar revealing curly chest hair.

Notes on his backstory*****

Nevassa is actually a succubus who is playing the long game in trying to become the queen of the succubi which is currently held by Malcanthet. She slaughtered her way to the throne. Nevassa instead of trying to take on the queen herself has been seducing mortal men and equipping them with legendary weapons and setting them forth through the world so that she can gather power through them. Cyrus spear is actually Shadows Edge, a spear that Nevassa stole from Shadowfell and swapped out. She was in charge of the goblins that attacked Cyrus home and helped to hone him into the deadly warrior he has become. Cyrus has no idea who she is in truth. Just that she an unknown goddess of death and glory which of course is a lie and illusion. He has no idea that he carries a spear of legend and no idea why he is becoming stronger with powers he can only dream of…he just assumes they are gifts from his goddess. While he was in deaths realm he was actually in the abyss in a small corner that she conjured for him. He would of course be furious if he found out and would seek to destroy Nevassa if he ever did. The forging of the spear and the blade from his fathers sword was an illusion implanted into his mind.  She gave him a symbol to show her him her favor that he carries on a charm on his wrist( also tattooed on his wrist). The symbol looks like a Bat clutching a Spear. This symbol was designed especially for him as are all the symbols to the men she has beguiled.

The powers actually come from Shadows Edge as leftover power from the plane of Shawdowfell become entwined with through blood and sweat and close proximity of the spear. ( Still figuring out how the Hexblade Patron bit works out)

Possible story lines:

1. Cyrus finds out and goes on a quest of vengeance to take Nevassa out
2. Malcanthet is the one who informs him after she discovers Nevassa's ploy
3. Raven Queen informs him as retribution for Nevassa's theft of Shadows Edge
4. Speaks with his fathers dead soul who has knowledge in death
5. ?????

The brightest light casts the darkest shadow.

Sometimes to truly embrace the light one must have delved into darkness. I have come from the darkness, I know how deep it can be. I only hope that with my knowledge of the dark I can lead others way from it and to a better life.

I am a spy. I am a spy sent by the Yuan-ti empire to bring about their rise to power again. Raised in a world where cunning and brutality are the only ways to stay alive, I excelled at using my cunning. I was marked at an early age to become an infiltrator in the lands dominated by the weaker races; elves dwarves humans. All inferior to the glorious supremacy that is Yuan-ti. I worked as a contact for a number of our agents, more like a courier than anything else. I was given something of immense importance, the means to contact a being from a higher plane. I was to deliver it to my superiors but I felt an overwhelming urge to see what an angel truly looks like. These beings that hold themselves in such high regard, these pitiful beings who claim their superiority over the serpent gods. I determined to summon it and make it bow down before me.

If that had happened my story would have gone much differently. But what did happen I never expected, and it changed me. The old me would have said that it made me weak. I no longer feel that to be the case. It has made me better than I was before, better than I ever could have been in my old life. I still only have hazy memories of what it looked like. I remember a brilliant light, ardent fire that burned me to my core. It cast light into the darkest shadows of my soul. The places that even I dared not to look. I felt so much, so many emotions that had been excised from me by the Yuan-ti society. He, no it had no gender. None that I could tell. It was so otherworldly that all thought of 'taming' this creature and forcing itself to abase itself before evaporated like the shadows scoured away by it's brilliance.

Then it Spoke.

It hurt so much. Pain I had never felt before, nor have I felt after. With three words I fell to my knees trembling in a beautiful agony. I began to cry, I don't remember ever having cried. Yuan-ti do not cry. We are not that weak. Emotion has no benefit, no strength to be gained. How could we be so wrong. Those words, I still feel them in my bones, to the core of my being. Sometimes I weep for no reason. Three words.

"My poor child"

Those words shattered me. It was I who needed to abase myself before this glorious being. Somehow repent for everything in my life. It's words carried so much intensity. I still cannot remember all that was said, or if anything was said at all. Maybe it just gave me understanding. I vaguely recall words, floating through the air, no maybe they were not words. Somehow more complete, like pure concepts. It frustrates me how little I still understand of that fateful day. I know the summoning ritual had the creatures name, but when I look in my memory all I find is a blank. I know there used to be something there. But there is just an empty feeling, a feeling of loss. In that empty space I was given a mission. To make this world better, to find those standing on the precipice. To bring them back from the darkness and into the light. There is a spark of good in everyone, sometimes all that is needed is to feed that spark before it can be snuffed out. The brightest light casts the darkest shadow.

I knew what must be done to atone for my sins. I was given a vision of another operative whom I had taken reports from. She was infiltrating an order of paladins dedicated to St. Cuthbert, and I had delivered the information which led to the destruction of every single one of their novices and recruits. She left the order shortly after that disastrous event, filled with bitterness and hatred for what she had allowed to happen to those she cared about. Philiandrul was a tormented creature, but her flame yet flickered. A guttering candle in a stiff wind. She needed to be rescued from tormenting herself. That is what the being had tasked him with. He must find her, she needed to have her light rekindled.

I didn't realize it at first, but I had entered a contract. Do good. Life is precious. Philiandrul Garberont does not want to be found, but find her I must. I think she may have a role to play yet. I almost fear it, what if I cannot find her in time before she steps fully into the abyss. I cannot dally I have a mission to accomplish, I have made use of some of the contacts I had in my former life. Made new contacts with good people. Yet all I know is she was heading north when she was last seen. Some brigands met her on her way from Daggerford to Waterdeep. But she turned from the road and left them.  Where she was heading none know, But anywhere I find the machinations of the Yuan-ti I feel she will not be far away.  This morning I found a book, the strangest book I have ever seen.  It has arcane knowledge between its pages, and a face on its cover.  The eyes seem to always be watching me.  I think I saw them blink once.  

With the powers of light on my side, and my lucky dice in my pouch I set out to determine what good I can bring to this world.  I will cultivate my own network of spies and informants if I must.  Whatever it takes I must find her, I know it.  I wonder if she knows it.  I wonder if she cares.

Yuan-t Pureblood Celestial Warlock, Pact of the Tome.

I think my favorite character would be my goblin Bugbiter the Foul from pathfinder, later converted to D&D. Mind you, it was a broken game as the DM was trying to teach me the basics and said do whatever. But my all my rogue skills were insane (lowest ability score was a 17, DM confirmed). And then I took into warlock, with my patron being the lucky gold coin in my pocket. Her name was Goldie and she talked to Bugbiter, giving hints and bad ideas and stuff. Just for the fun of it, we agreed that I was so compulsively greedy, that i had to roll Will save against it. With disadvantage, as it was great for plot. Which is actually how I discovered I could fly; our silver-tongued bard convinced me that a demons heart was made of pure gold, and I flew 30ft up and carved out its heart. Vikes lied to me...

“Barios, wait…”
Sarasa was breathless, her tail flicking back and forth between her legs as she tilted her head to listen more closely.
Barios couldn’t help but love the way she looked when she got like this. When she was figuring something out. Or when she was hunting something. He smiled silently at her, one foot on the wagon and one still on the ground where it was when she told him to halt. He loved her too much sometimes.
She could have sworn she heard something. Something that called out to her most basic instincts. She heard a crying babe.
Barios startled when he heard it too.
She didn’t hesitate. She darted under the caravan wagon behind theirs and she saw him; a Tiefling babe left alone in only swaddling. She couldn’t fathom how a Tiefling boy could have been abandoned in this human city. They were sure from the looks on the faces of the citizens that these people weren’t used to Tieflings. And while the humans didn’t display any lack of hospitality outright, Sarasa had noticed just how comforted they were to find out that the troupe was only passing through and wouldn’t stay longer than two weeks.
She held the boy tightly to her chest as she slid back out from under the wagon. Barios came to her and pulled her up. He stepped back when he saw the unexpected child, but couldn’t help to notice just how much he seemed to look like Sarasa as she and the babe gazed at each other.
“We can’t.” The babe turned and stared at Barios, studying the source of this new voice.
“Barios. What if it was you? What if nobody had found you and taken you in? How could you consider leaving this babe? He will die.”
“We can’t take care of him. Life in the caravan is harsh enough for us. A babe won’t survive it.”
Barios was right, of course. They traveled the countryside, from hostile village to hostile village. The townsfolk never could overlook the motley troupe of performers and accept them like they did the human companies. They just wanted to tell fortunes, sell skills, give performances, restock the caravan, and leave. Just like the other troupes. But they had Tieflings, Halflings, Elves, and Dragonborn in their company. Mostly orphans and outcasts who had come together to form the only family most of them had known. This child should be no different.
“Well, he won’t survive being left behind either. You’re not changing my mind. Especially not when he looks so much like you.”
Barios was unsettled by the accuracy of her statement as he looked again at the young boy staring back at him.
He sighed and lead them to their wagon, knowing that there would be no use fighting Sarasa this time. Especially since she was right, after all.
“What should we ca—”
“His name is Adomorn,” she said, stroking the boy’s cheek with a smile, “because fate brought him to us.”

“There’s no light in him, no fire…”
That’s what they would whisper to each other when they thought he couldn’t hear. When he was hiding under the caravan wagons. When he was unseen in the crowd. When they didn’t know he was wearing the faces of other children.
There was no light in him. He was repressed and restricted, silenced and censored in everything he did. His parents treated him like a secret, even among the Troupe.
He knew his adopted parents loved him. But he knew they weren’t his real parents. He knew he didn’t really belong with them. It didn’t matter that he looked like them. Nor that he was adept at all the skills required by caravan life. In fact, he adapted to it much faster than Barios or Sarasa thought possible and even told his first fortune at age six.
Nobody told him what the cards meant. He just had to ask a question in his mind, and he could hear, or sometimes feel, the answer. Being too young to do anything really useful for the caravan meant he roamed back alleys in the city, exploring its secrets, while the adults and older kids were performing on stage, or selling drinks and wares in the crowd. He was withdrawn but watching. He was silent but not dumb.
When he was alone he could hear the voice whispering in his mind, directing him where to go. Every time he followed it, it would lead him safely to a surprise or secret of some kind. Once, when he was nine, he happened upon the mayor kissing a woman with far too few clothes in the alley behind the inn. When the mayor recognized him having purchased a reading earlier that day with his wife, he promised the troupe could stay an extra week in town at no cost, he would arrange the payment himself if Adomorn just kept this secret. Adomorn kept that secret. An extra week in a walled city is a mighty boon in the long days of summer.
He could always trust the voice. He didn’t trust anyone else, really. He got along with the other families in the troupe but was never really one of them. He studied them. Watched what made them laugh, or sigh, and made sure to replicate it. It was better to fit in than to stand out.
He watched the short plays the troupe enacted over and over. He knew every line. When he was alone he would recite the plays, doing every part. He got good. He could sound just like any actor he saw. He could always remember the right lines. He could even make himself walk like them.
That summer, his ninth year, he told his parents he wished to become one of the actors and told them to watch as he performed the play for them from the top. Sarasa was delighted. Adomorn had never really chosen anything to be when he grew up and she was worried he wasn’t a happy boy. But the enthusiasm in him as he corralled them behind the wagon he had decorated as a stage and sat them in the chairs he had brought over reassured her.
To her horror, Adomorn was right. He could mimic every single one of the actors perfectly. Even changing to look like them as he took on their voice and manners. It was a blink. A mere thought and the boy was a different person. Sarasa and Barios had never seen anything like it. Which was surprising for a pair of performers who had spent their lives in one of the most outlandish troupes in existence. They knew, as they stared at one another, shocked, that they were going to have to crush this dream. No one else could know about this… abnormality.
Adomorn was furious when his parents rejected his proposal to perform. He fled his impromptu stage, tears streaming down his face, and hid for two days. He kept a ahead of the troupe families searching for him, following the whisper. The more focused he was, the louder the voice got. When he was mad, it was impossible not to hear the voice. Not only had he escaped capture for two days, he had it good.
He found a hole in a shop wall, probably made by rats. But he could reach his arm in and take something from the bin that was under the seller’s table. He could only manage to take one at a time, and he never knew what was going to be in the bin from morning to night, day to day. Once it had been a candied pear and he’d never tasted anything so delicious. At night he slept on the balcony of the town hall, which he could access from a branch on the adjacent tree which rested on the building. He used his cards to ask the voice questions, and the voice would reveal answers. Sometimes the answers came in the form of symbols in the cards, or sometimes a voice in his mind would whisper, or he would receive a feeling. The better he listened, the clearer the messages became.
When he finally relented and returned, he let his parents scold him, he let them tell him that he could never do what he had done on stage again. And he let them see him nod and agree. But he still practiced when he was alone. Nobody could stop him when he was alone.

“It’s happening too much,” he said with a furrowed brow. “He can’t control himself. He doesn’t even want to.”
Sarasa was shaking her head in disagreement. “He’s getting older, Barios. Everyone experiences changes at this age. He’ll be a man in a few years. He will grow out of this. He will learn to control it. I know it.”
“We don’t know what he is or where he came from. He chose to look like us. To invoke our sympathy when he was too young to walk! How do you know he doesn’t already know how to control it?”
“Stop it.”
“They know about him. They whisper about him. Some of the kids have caught him doing the plays. If he does it publicly… the townies don’t like us much already Sarasa.”
“I know but please just stop it. What can we do at this point? We can’t just abandon him.”
“There is a temple in the next town that takes boys and trains them to be priests. They study a god of knowledge. Maybe they will know how to help him. Or even what he is.”
He hoped she never had to look at him like that again, but her infernal rage at that moment must have made Asmodeus proud.

He was given to the priests at eleven years old. They assessed his education, or lack of education, and crafted a curriculum to matriculate him into the studies of his peers. They were not surprised to see his face changing as he studied each of the three headmasters of pupils. They had seen Changelings before. They even might be able to help him master it. They had scrolls, you see, which contained the histories of the various races, and scrolls to learn spells, and scrolls that showed how buildings were made. They had scrolls for almost everything, so maybe they had something for him too.
He wasn’t exactly happy to be abandoned by a second set of parents, but it was comforting to be recognized by the headmasters, scholars, and priests without fear. For the first time, he didn't have to hide his identity, his race, or his talents. 
He completed matriculation ahead of schedule, having been taught his heritage as a part of his remedial education. He learned to shift without hesitation, and when not to. His antics were quickly known throughout the small school run in the temple of Oghma. And while the headmasters may not have wanted him to impersonate the janitor to extract the liquor from the staff lounge, they were so delighted that the scheme had occurred to him that they considered it a boon for his education. These were strange men, who thought that all knowledge was worth having.
It was during this time that he mastered his shape-shifting. There were endless tombs of writing by other Changelings and he was allowed to practice shape-shifting freely once he agreed to certain rules about whom not to become, such as instructors and headmasters. Once he was able to take the form of anyone he wanted, he found that there was a new form he took when his thoughts were totally clear, during the quiet moments of communion with the dark voice in the void. He was no longer Tiefling, but rather something vaguely half-elven, with dark grey skin, light grey eyes and silver hair, his body sturdy but lithe. It was him. This was the real him for the first time. He finally felt happy.
The voice got very strong during these years, when he learned to focus his mind as a weapon. He began to study the histories of magic when he attained bachelor status at seventeen and could choose his own path of study in service to Oghma. Though it was an unusual choice, the headmasters had more than enough scrolls on magic, the occult, and divining. And the priests had even more.
As his independent studies matured, the voice began to direct him away from the temple, away from these men whom he had not chosen. It revealed to him that there would come a time when he would take his skills and his studies beyond the temple walls, beyond the service of Oghma. Desperate to know how to escape the life the voice told him to avoid, he delved into his studies. He begged the voice to reveal the way, but the way wasn’t clear yet.
Slowly the voice started revealing faces, images, words and sounds he had never experienced before. He began to recognize them, vaguely. He was starting to understand that these people were on his path and he should find them. So, becoming headmaster Denderek one last time, he smuggled all the scrolls he could and returned to the streets on which he had been raised.
It wasn't difficult to travel from town to town. Sometimes he appeared as a beautiful traveling fortune teller with a red dress and long black hair who always had better news for more generous customers. Sometimes he was a strapping field hand ready to bring in the harvest. He always seemed to find work as someone. The voice was always there to guide him to his next meal for the day or bed for the night. And as he traveled, he watched, and listened, and learned. He has traveled for close to five years now, always following the voice and searching for the faces he sees in the void.

Sixtoes the Jugged

Human Paladin, worships Issek of the Jug

Sixtoes was born into a modest merchant family in the small village of X. His father hewed to an odd family custom that went back generations. The first son inherited everything, down to the family wedding bed – 8 generations old and still going strong! The second son was farmed out to a trade guild, his apprenticeship fees proudly paid in full. The third son, Sixtoes himself, would become a priest. If there had been a fourth son, but there hadn’t, he would have been sold to the first hedge wizard passing through. A fifth son would have been given to gypsies (for good luck), and a sixth son fed to the livestock (for even more good luck). A seventh son, of that magic, lucky number 7, would have usurped the first son and been given everything the family owned. Sixtoes’ father was a wealth of peculiar family practices.

Despite this tradition, Sixtoes didn’t grow up knowing he’d become a priest. His mother had an aversion to the local church, “damned butt pirates, the lot”, and she raised him as a girl. Not knowing any better he acquiesced to the deception from an early age, his father none the wiser. His brothers, 2 and 3 years older, and his sister, 5 years older, didn’t care or notice. They inflicted on him the same cruel violence they tirelessly lavished on each other. Their vicious malice was of such a potent and unusual sort, that they eventually became known and feared by everyone in the village, young and old alike. No cat or dog was safe anywhere near the home of those young children. Stories were told that’d make you shudder. A town drunk disappeared mysteriously as well. Sixtoes didn’t take part in this familial, lethal merrymaking, he was generally too busy trying to stay alive and keep his ragged dress untorn in that household of deviant, larger siblings.

At age 13, the gig was up. His voice dropped and even his drunken, brooding father noticed the change. Sixtoes was a husky youth by then, growing big with wispy, unpleasant-looking hair sprouting from his pimply face. His father had been grumbling about “dowry price” for a while, until one day, frowning disapprovingly at his ugly daughter/son, the pieces fell into place. His tirade was wondrous. Sixtoes’ older siblings watched rapt, from safe hiding places, wide-eyed and thrilling. His father tore off his own shirt, screaming incoherently, and began smashing everything in the kitchen. Huffing ponderously, he was methodically crushing earthen jars using a leg from the table, his torso swelling and beet red, when he noticed Sixtoes still sitting at the overturned table. His whole head went livid purple, curse words that were mostly spit erupted in a volley, until he suddenly went chokingly silent, bent over clutching at his chest and staggered off to the local tavern. Within the year, Sixtoes was bundled off to the local church as its newest acolyte.

“The performance,” as the siblings came to know the day their father discovered his hidden son, gained Sixtoes a respite from their more malicious inspirations (that was about the time the local drunk went missing.) Until that is, the day he gained his name. Being a girl-boy naturally raised the curiosity of his siblings, who eventually contrived a convoluted, deceitful trap where they caught him naked and cornered. Their disappointment at finding him just a normal looking boy was so profound that they never forgave him. They stood there, mouths agape in stupefied silence, until one declaimed “look at that tiny pecker! A boy’s for sure but it’s no bigger than his toe. It’s just another toe, he’s got six toes!” (Math wasn’t their strong suit. Their strong suit was dashing up silently and delivering staggeringly brutal blows, mostly with blunt household belongings.) Forever after, he was known as Sixtoes. His parents picked up on the name immediately, without any questions, and it somehow spread through the village.

Moving to the church only changed the game. His siblings became singularly focused on ruthlessly abusing their hapless sister-brother at every opportunity. He would get ambushed running errands to the market, hazed while stumbling along in priestly processions and he developed a hunted appearance and an almost preternatural alertness to danger leaping out of nowhere. He also developed lightning fast reflexes, both out on the dirty streets as well as in the bare chamber where he slumbered. For the church proved to be less than ideal. Sixtoes had initially been overawed by suddenly leaving home and becoming an acolyte. The idea of hidden wisdom, divine fervor, holy artifacts and wrathful gods intoxicated him and he dreamed of splendor and glory. But, to his consternation and then growing vexation, the only attention the lecherous priests paid to him was to the twin moons of his youthful behind. Sixtoes became rapidly disenchanted with the liturgies his superiors insisted on with strange, hushed urgency in the middle of the night.

Nevertheless, when some of his old neighborhood friends suggested a bit of adventuring, a sense of duty held him back. He cursed himself afterward and counted himself the biggest fool alive, even when none of his friends nor anyone from the party of adventures returned. Before departing, they had spoken of disturbing, godly visions and of mysterious magic and a temple hidden in fog. Gods! Magic! Sixtoes fretted. Truth be told though, things had gotten better, and laziness played its part in his decision. For the hissing caldron of his youth had forged a big, muscular fighter of unusual strength. Granted he was chiefly skilled at lightning defense, but from every type of threat or situation imaginable, because his siblings were, truly, gifted in imagination. He eventually bested each one of them, in decisive, crushing defeats that won him safety in the streets. And when he tried out his fist on the face of an extra-devout, late night interloper, the effect was so remarkable and welcome that Sixtoes cursed his dim wits for not trying it out much sooner. When Sixtoes heard a rumor of out-of-towners forming another party to look into the disappearance of the first, he dashed about the village desperate to find its source. That’s how he came to join the group of strangers he travels with still. When they asked him his name, the inquisitive, suspicious looks he got in return invoked within him a vision of being some great warlock who’d made a nefarious bargain with some infernal beast for terrible knowledge, and he smiled to himself and never looked back.

An acolyte still, at least in dress if not profession, he trailed behind him a yearning to discover dark mysteries and to hold powerful, dangerous magic in his meaty hands. Descending into the lost temple of his first adventure was glorious and captivating. Any signs of enchantments or spells filled him with a covetousness that was blinding. Then, in near total darkness, when the party found itself in desperate straits, in open dread of the certainty that they were all going to die imminently, Sixtoes pulled a huge sword out of a stash of weapons just discovered, and in an arching, mighty swing drove the blade clear through the evil creature menacing him. That, was the first religious experience of his life.