Palps grew up poor. He never knew his mother, and his father was a lousy drunk. Palps was forced to pick pockets and steal to support his father's habit. When Palps was finally caught, his father pretended not to know him. He watched his son get his hand cut off without flinching. He ended up being the first person Palps ever killed, leaving him with a hammer in skull as soon as he recovered from the amputation.
After skipping town, Palps spent years in one misadventure after another. Smuggling, assassinations, spying, prison breaks. He had eventually blackmailed a high priest into restoring his hand, and settled down with his Bellinda, a long term partner in his get rich quick schemes. They bought an inn with the last of their ill-gotten fortunes and tried to live on the straight and narrow. But Palps got anxious with this calm life. It only got worse when Bellinda got pregnant. Palps didn't know how to be a father. He panicked and disappeared back into a life of schemes and crime. By the time he considered going back to his family, he found out that Bellinda had died of illness, and his son had been taken under the wing of a mob enforcer.
Palps kept up his misadventures well into his 60's, becoming a notorious snake oil salesman and charlatan, until he one day found himself in a cell with a gnome and a half-orc...
Born under a different name, Brother Azrael lived in a small, no-name village on the border of a mighty nation. His childhood was stable, though his found his parents' religiousness overbearing quite often, and the boy would eventually leave home like most young men do. He was conscripted into his nation's army and worked as an orderly for healers as the nation battled an army of undead lead by a cabal of Vecna-worshipping necromancers. The campaign was arduous, cruel, bloody and short as the necromancers began using hazardous gasses and clouds of pestilence to hamper the nation. The army and its healers would don masks designed to filter away some of the toxins, but that wouldn't always stop it all. Azrael saw much death assisting the clerics and various other healers in their tasks, learning non-magical remedies and theories of healing as they worked. He would earn a place as a healer himself just before a new command came attaching the new medic to a squad of 12 about to go to the front lines. Only three, including Azrael, would return.
It was on that battlefield that his squad was ambushed while on patrol; somehow it seemed like the undead were purposely targeting the easily identifiable healer. The good folk alongside him gave their lives to protect him, though a stray sword slash nearly took him to the world beyond. Two soldiers would drag the wounded healer away as he faded in and out of consciousness. It was during one of those moments between life and death that he bore witness to a vision of dark feathers and a velvet cloak. A whispered voice told him he would not move on so long as he devoted himself to her. He swore his life over to her and the mission of slaying those that befouled the natural cycle of life and death. When he awoke again, Azrael was a changed man.
As the war raged, Azrael changed his name and joined the church of the Raven Queen. He had commissioned a stylized, armored mask resembling the shape of a crow that he would wear. But just as soon as it had begun, the war ended and the necromancers were destroyed. Those that survived were tossed aside by the nation as they had served their purpose. Azrael would be left with nothing but a few scars and the tatters of an enemy standard he'd taken as a personal trophy to wear around his belt. He returned home to practice his faith there.
That is until a strange encounter with a young monster hunter named Barden. The two teamed up to deal with a small incursion of undead and decided a partnership would be beneficial.
Now the pair find themselves mired in an unnatural fog in a weary town at the base of a particular, accursed castle.
Mine is more of a conversation between two gods, Not really a character I'm using, more like a character I wanted to create
" It is sad " " Why must it be sad? This being was put on this world to record the events. " " It will experience too much " " Yes I suppose so " " It is a curse... " " No, it is a gift " " It cannot speak and yet exhibits emotions " " Then it is normal " " It is an abomination " " No, it is the gift to the world, the one that might save it " " It can do naught by shed tears for what it witnesses " " Yes " " It will witness the rise and fall of empires, it will experience the death of friends and comrades, and it can do naught but cry " " Yes, It will also experience our deaths... " " Yes but will it shed its tears for us "
I was in a rush when I created this character and succumbed to cliche, but I did enjoy writing his backstory. Chet is the name of Bill Paxton's character from Weird Science, and like him, has a lot of potential for personal growth ahead of him. Ahem.
Chet dan Gorst was on a road trip. He’d recently been suspended from wizard college and his parents had cut off his allowance in a fit of chagrin. Aggrieved, he scraped together what coin he had on hand, which turned out to be considerable, and bugged out.
Chet was the son of an immensely wealthy and influential noble family. When he showed an early talent for the Arcane Art of Conjuration, it was guaranteed he'd be attending the preeminent Lord’s College of Wizardry, not far from the estates of his family. Attend he did, and unsurprisingly but also completely unnecessarily, he could have easily been accepted based solely on the merits of his aptitude.
Not that Chet cared about that. In fact, he felt a kind of innate distaste for that sort of nonsense. The college admitted almost a quarter of their students based on their aptitude for the Arcane Arts. Far too many riff raff on the grounds, to Chet’s mind. Superior breeding was the cost of admission for everyone else, obviously. Breeding was the only measure of any real value, Chet knew in his heart. And it wasn’t that he was jealous of these more gifted students with no family names to speak of. On the contrary, he relished the challenge of competing with them, and victoriously putting the plebs in their place. Allowing those sordid plebeians into the Lord’s College just seemed to Chet like noblesse oblige gone horribly awry.
Chet fell into college life with gusto. He was inducted into the Fraternal Order of the Jeweled Skull, an exclusive and elusive Order with storied rumors, and spent all of his time in the company of his fraternal brothers. Freed from the shackles of his familial home, he took to wine, spice and girls with equal enthusiasm and shortly made a reputation for himself.
As a student, he was thoroughly uninspired. Classes were rarely attended, what with his taste for fine wine, his access to quality spice, and his keen eye for companionable women. He was vaguely aware that many on campus hated him: students rightfully resentful of the contempt he showed them and scholars justifiably disappointed to have him in their classroom. Somehow though, through all of the resultant haze and distractions, he still managed to excel in his exams. His secret: he was a huge nerd of the Arcane Arts.
Chet had geeked out on magic early in life. He’d read voraciously as a kid, from his father’s vast and cultivated library, and the mystical and magical were his obsessions. Despite having a natural talent for conjuration, he always knew his true love was for the art of violence. And he was a connoisseur on the subject, having delved deeply into and devoured innumerable arcane treatises on the subject. He lauded one above all the others, the Principle of Aoe. He was a devotee, a mega fan. There was another, too, that fascinated him. Alchemical and Philosophical calculations had long postulated the existence of the Principle of Dot, but a unifying thesis had yet to be published to vindicate the seers. Chet was captivated by lore of this nature or by metaphysical theorems pondering esoteric Principles.
Despite a lazy disdain for school, he’d occasionally get a stroke of inspiration and tear into some subject or another. Early in Chet’s junior year, he began scheming about his senior project. All seniors at the Lord’s College worked on a special final project: that of creating their very own Arcane Focus, an indispensable device for their future as a wizard. An Arcane Focus was usually constructed from a wand or staff or orb or other thoroughly pedestrian object. The base ingredient he’d settled on, however, was of an exceedingly novel sort, one worthy of his lofty eminence. Tragically however, it proved to be the instrument of his expulsion from the college. And all because of Mistress Sabine.
Mistress Sabine was the dean of students and a celebrated witch. She was also an undisputed WILF and endless stories were shared among the students about her. One particularly salacious story caught Chet’s attention and ignited a flash of sublime genius. Mistress Sabine was rumored to have secretly in her possession a peculiar, onyx phallus, from which she drew the power to resist ever consorting with any of the shoddy faculty or vermin-riddled student body of that esteemed institution. Chet’s most excellent plan was to procure this fabled object for himself and make it into his Arcane Focus. Epic.
One afternoon, Chet deviously snuck into Sabine’s quarters, and with the help of a magical scroll pilfered from his father’s collection, he managed to discover the hiding spot for Sabine’s prized possession and make off with it. Over the next several months, he worked feverishly in secret as he shaped it into his Arcane Focus. During that time, the college spun up into some kind of undisclosed crisis of indeterminate cause, mostly evidenced by harried-looking administrators scuttling about in greater and greater alarm.
How the mighty finger of judgement became pointed at Chet, he never found out. He’d triumphantly completed his senior project early and was basking radiantly in his own glory when they summarily hauled him into the dean’s office. Whatever they had on him wasn’t proof enough and ransaking his quarters turned up no incriminating evidence. Chet was too clever to let them find such a treasure easily and he’d hidden it with exorbitant care. But whatever they did know was convincing enough to get him suspended, despite his indignant denials, followed shortly by the wrath of his informed and subsequently mortified family.
Now Chet was on the road. He reveled in frequenting debauched locales and hanging out with odd or unsavory fellows. And despite lugging along a small fortune in coin, he quickly squandered it all on immensely frivolous but rapturous nights, memorable for all involved. Now Chet was living on promissory notes and scrounging for beer money, too proud to turn his path toward home.
I call this kind of trope, "a DM's playground." Almost zero established backstory. The DM can make up anything for character hooks.
Vague Tiefling Ranger 1
Gender: Male Hair: Black Skin: Fair Eyes: Solid white Height: 5'10" Weight: 180 lbs.
You have flat, scaly horns that start from above your brow toward the back of your scalp, ending in a small up-curl on each when they reach the back your skull. Your tail is the same fair color of your skin and smooth except for a spade at the tip.
Summary: Amnesiac found dying in a formerly insular Human commune, New Crommerth, in the Bluuwoods outside the city, Dalesdell, and now the only non-Human and a fond member of the welcoming commune.
Details: The priests who were becoming disquiet with the growing xenophobic atmosphere of their congregation took your unsettling arrival as a test for the commune. With the help of the Mothers and Fathers of the kirk of Brigantia who cured you, you were slowly introduced into the commune and became one of their own. There were some rather major bumps along the way to acceptance, but the teachings of the kirk and (ironically) an old, crotchety woodsman named Borond, won over the small populace with the value of your character.
More details: From books from the city, the priest's research into curing you and trying to discover your identity revealed nothing about who you might be, that Tieflings and Fiends are only peripherally linked, that you can speak and read Common and Elvish, that you can read but not currently speak Infernal and Abyssal, and that a common Tiefling tradition is to take a name of an aspect or quality. For a name, you chose a word with origins in old pre-Common meaning "to wander" (vagus) with the modern meaning of "uncertain".
The Mothers and Fathers took the inability to speak Infernal and Abyssal as a good sign that you were severed from any fiendish influences from your life. You don't know what to make of the fact that you know Elvish.
The town has, since, become more welcoming of outsiders from their experiences with you, and the commune is gaining a reputation of a friendly place, but you are still wary of outsiders. Someone in the world left you to die, after all. So when in situations that could bring you in contact with outsiders, you take to wearing a hood to hide your horns and wearing loose trousers to hide your tail wrapped around your right leg. You sometimes pretend to be blind with acute senses when you personally encounter outsiders when on your own.
You live in the kirk as you have since you awoke, and you're one of the commune's evening hunters in the Bluuwoods as trained by Borond. During the harsh seasons when travellers are scarce, you can be found in the tavern in the mornings, hooded, playing the viol with whomever might be around that morning. Your viol stays in the kirk otherwise. (A viol is similar to a viola but played upright like a cello and not under the chin.)
Life was simple, peaceful, and even fun... until one day, a DM got involved. :P
Alignment: Neutral Good Faith: New Crommerth Kirk of Brigantia and follower of Hestia (same as Borond) Lifestyle: Poor Age: ~30? Languages: Common, Infernal (read only), Abyssal (read only), Elvish Favored Enemy: Beasts Favored Terrain: Forests Background: Outlander Tool proficiency: Viol Origin: Hunter-gatherer/Unknown Personality Traits: You watch over your friends as if they were a litter of newborn pups. You feel far more comfortable around animals than people. Ideal: Greater good. It is each person's responsibility to make the most happiness for the whole commune. Bond: Your commune is the most important thing in your life, even when they are far from you. Flaw: You are slow to trust members of other non-Human races, other communities, and other societies.
Now with 200% more Heroforge!
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Human. Male. Possibly. Don't be a divider. My characters' backgrounds are written like instruction manuals rather than stories. My opinion and preferences don't mean you're wrong. I am 99.7603% convinced that the digital dice are messing with me. I roll high when nobody's looking and low when anyone else can see.🎲 “It's a bit early to be thinking about an epitaph. No?” will be my epitaph.
I tend to put a lot of thought into backgrounds as they're one of my favorite parts of creating characters. I'll toss up what I have for my newest active character, a fire genasi Bard in a new Wildemount game. I give you Akani the Fire Dancer.
“You wish to know my story? The story of Akani the Fire Dancer? Well, perhaps with a bit of something to ease my parched throat… No story of me would be complete without mentioning those who came before. My mother, you see, was the most captivating, beautiful dancer in the whole of the Menagerie Coast. People would come from far and wide to see her, to gaze upon the beauty of her dance. Cloaked in the vibrant colors and stirring music of her Ki’nau people she drew the gaze of men, of women, of all who found themselves in her presence. Time after time offers of marriage were thrown at her feet, yet none could capture her fiery spirit. Until, that is, she met my father. They say he was a ship’s captain, a man of bravery and skill who commanded the utmost loyalty from those that served him. From the moment they saw one another, the two became inseparable. Within months they were married and she joined him on his ship. Life was a whirlwind of adventure. But such things are only ever transient in nature, and soon enough my mother was pregnant. Deciding that life aboard a sailing vessel was no place for a pregnant woman, my mother returned to her home in Othe. My father came to visit her when he was able, but life as a ship’s captain is one of long voyages and their visits were rare but heartfelt. My mother took up work in a tavern, serving drinks and food, and charming everyone who stepped foot inside. As so often happens in life, tragedy came unexpectedly. Word made it to my mother that my father’s ship had vanished and all were presumed lost. But I had been born a scant four months before, and there was no true time for mourning in my mother’s life. Life moved on, but sadness had settled in her heart. Thus was the stage set for my childhood years. Days spent playing and roughhousing with the other children of the neighborhood, children of all heritages and bloodlines, who gave no thought to the fact that I was of mixed blood myself. At night I scampered about my mother’s tavern, trying to keep out from underfoot while taking in as much as possible. The performers who came nightly to entertain the guests were my favorites. Musicians, storytellers, comedians, dancers… they fascinated my young mind and I was determined to learn as much from them as I possibly could. I was, perhaps, ten years of age when I almost set the tavern on fire. It was entirely an accident, of course. Truly, how was I to know that somewhere within my blood lingered the blessings of the ancient fire spirits? And it was only a single table that was lost, in the end. My mother’s people, the Ki’nau, were delighted, the elders crowing about the old bloodlines proving true and strong. Thus went my childhood. I learned of the ancient spirits and my Ki’nau heritage from the elders in our neighborhood, and of the ways of music and laughter from the entertainers in the tavern. I learned swordplay and wordplay, music and dance, magic and lore. And I learned that I would never be happy staying there. So many stories of the world beyond Othe had found purchase within my imagination, calling me to the world outside of my childhood. Bearing little more than the collected teachings of my mother’s people and an endless parade of performers and travelers, I set out to see the world and to find my own place in it. As I was leaving, my mother gifted upon me one of the few mementos that my father had left behind. A necklace, something that had been a treasured possession for many years. A simple copper pendant on a chain, with Marquessian script along the edges. “Sky above, sea below, fire within.” I will spare you the details of that heartfelt parting, but suffice it to say that it was truly a beautiful moment in the midst of such an ugly world. There were tears, and words of wisdom that shall ever live on in my heart. In the years since, I have truly made the whole of the Coast my home. From Port Zoon to Nicodranus and beyond I have wandered, bringing with me the traditions of the Ki’nau and the fire within my blood.”
Thillis DiVir escaped House DeVir was a drow house of Menzoberranzan. The Ancestral home was constructed among five floor-to-ceiling, hollow stalagmites in the midst of a mushroom grove on the plateau of Qu'ellarz'orl. The house was protected by gargoyles, traps, glyphs, and wards.[5] Additionally, every fifth mushroom around the compound was a shrieker that would make loud noises when potential attackers approached.
ALLIES
svirfneblin Traders and underground caravans
ENEMIES
Followers of Lolth , the Matriarch of the Clan that controls his ancestral home ....anyone in the Underdark that Helped destroy his family History In 1297 DR, House DeVir was the fourth house and planned to target the third house for destruction. In the plot, Matron Mother Ginafae DeVir used her clerical powers to aid a patrol of svirfneblin so that they would kill the wizard son of the third house. By doing so, Ginafae and her house lost the favor of Lolth. House Do'Urden, the tenth house, took advantage of their vulnerable state and destroyed House DeVir. Fifty commoners of the house joined House Do'Urden.
BACKSTORY
Youngest grandson of the DiVir Matriarch with no natural magical talent. his youth was spent in study and preparation Of an arranged marriage for city politics, his magical skill would be used to support the House defenses. Used library history section often as a youth. During the purge he was able to secure a set of family spellbooks Made a habit of trading scrolls with underground dwarves and caravans that he was able to call upon during his escape After exile: Worked with a traveling performing group as, used stops to rebuild spellbook library Settled and helped underground adventures and resource collectors continued Wizard training
Thought I'd drop one of my character backgrounds into this ocean of them! I have yet to play them yet, and may detail the story better, but here ya go!
Name: Wafku Dyandriver
Race: Mountain Dwarf
Background: Criminal/Spy
Alignment: Lawfully Neutral
Gender: Male ( Some sneaking feminine qualities)
Height: 5'4 ( on the considerably taller side for a dwarf)
Skin: A pale perwinkle tinged an earthy red puckered in scars.
''Ay, I walk in here dripping and gold, and yet you think your pretty penny gaze is going to interest me?’’ He said gruffly, throwing his leg up onto the barrel across from them. A cocky grin had wormed its way across his face, yet under the aloof demeanor was a fire burning in his gaze. They stared back at him, noting the batteredness of his clothes, the wisp of smoke curling from the dangled cigarette in his mouth, the bloody dagger sitting in his belt. He had leaned closer while they were observing him, eyes lacking the beadiness most men had in this rowdy pub. Clasped on his propped up knee was bandaged hands, skillfully wrapped like a boxer. They didn’t know if it was for style, injuries, or rather a survival instinct. Instead, they suggested to themself that it was all three.
People tend to buy him a beer, awkwardly avoiding the topic of his past. He is rough in appearance and demeanor, yet he had the graceful movements of a lion. His mysterious eyes are the biggest puzzle for some to solve, not that he wants anyone solving them. This man's name is Wafku Dyandiver but most people call him Whiskers for the small beard he tends to grow which has lead to much teasing. Wafku's name stems from an original naming ritual with the name of, '' Waegmund Dynadriver.''. Exiled from the mountains of his people, stripped of his clan name, for a crime of dark nature magic, marred with a scar marking of the Malum, he is thrown into the inhumane world below. Forced into the black market trade and pressured into using his warlock magic, he begins to become twisted into the dark side of magic. Finding refuge in the Dark Seladine brotherhood, the mark of the Gemini is carved into his back. After an underground fight gone wrong, Wafku is cast out of the group set to die. Struggling with a drinking and smoking problem, he morphs into a hustler known to frequent alleys with a woman or man pinned against the wall. With this new fate laid out before him, he begins to roam from pub to pub making new one night lovers along the way, leading to a trail of broken hearts but none as broken as his. Consumed by anger, this usually expressionless man can erupt. When will Wafku face the pain his people gave him, if ever?
Physical/Mannerism Description Cause Why Not:
He stands at a slightly taller height for a dwarf clocking in at 5'4. His build is all lean muscle, framed in by narrow shoulders with a feminine tilt of the hips. His hair is black with streaks of purple, short cropped to the ears and spiked. You can find him regularly chewing on seeds with dirt under his nails from the latest garden find. An amused half smirk seems to be permanent on his angular face as a scruffy small beard lines his chin. A small scar and mole lies below the pucker of full lips and a smatter of freckles marches its way across the wide nose area. Permanent eye bags are home underneath gorgeous violet slanted eyes (yes depression is his designer). His ears are pointed though his left one is cut at the tip, earrings lining themselves down the sides. Bush brows hang over his feline eyes, twin scars marring the left one. The zodiac symbol of a Gemini is carved into his back, taking up more then half the space near his shoulders. A diagonal scar slashes across his muscular torso, hidden mostly by the cover of a dark laced up leather breastplate. A dark purple tippet is his trademark. Wafku typically has his hands wrapped up like a boxers though it does not stop the blood seeping through it when he gets into fights though the blood isn't always his. A dagger is always strapped to his thigh, along with the rest of his weapons concealed near a pack. He likes to wear a thick double serpent belt, the only wealthy mark on him, though it was stolen. His appearance is generally battered and his wears a roguish look from his days on the prowl.
Here is some more information of his if anyone would like any more! Wafku Dyandriver
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Fintan Alasadiar: |High (Moon) Elf|Fighter| Rime of the Frostmaiden|
Wafku Dyandriver:|Mountain Dwarf|Warlock|Fighter|
Errk:|Arakorca|Ranger|
DM:The Dragons of Icespire Peak Campaign, Frozen Sick
''I will serve injustice with justice.'' 𝕱𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖓𝕬𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖗𝕼𝖎𝖑𝖆
The game hasn't started yet. My friends and I are finishing Oracle of War in the Eberron setting. There I'm playing a paladin. However, the next adventure we go on the DM wanted an artificer. Let me introduce you to Erfiz Scheppen, Rock Gnome Archeologist Artificer. We are starting at level 1. In word it is three pages long. I'm hiding it behind a spoiler to make the post much shorter.
If you are reading this, I’m either alive, in which case you need to close this journal now because I don’t like sneaks or peeping whatever you are, or dead, in which case, as an archeologist, I really don’t mind because, well, I’m dead. How could I fault you for looking at my stuff when I’m dead when I look at other’s people stuff when they are dead? So, make sure I’m dead (and if I am, do I have my hat? If I don’t, I charge you with finding my hat and bringing it to me or I will come back to haunt you) before you continue. If I am alive, I can’t promise what you might happen.
Who am I? Erfiz Scheppen is the name. Who might you be? Oh, wait, if I’m dead, I won’t hear you or care and if I’m alive, you won’t tell me for fear of me tracking you down and doing who knows what to you. Well then, we’ll have to keep that a mystery. Though, if you want to get on my good side, do you have a bag of holding I could borrow? I promise to return it after I get everything needed from my latest archeology dig. Loaning me a bag of holding will go a long way to getting back into my good graces. If you lack a bag of holding, I can always use help carrying back what I want. It may take several… ahem… dozen… trips but we have time. That would really get you back into my good graces.
Since this is a journal, and I could be dead when you read this, I need to get started (though if I’m alive, this is a good place to stop, come find me with a bag of holding or help me move items from my latest dig and we never have to talk about you looking at other people’s private notes, unless of course, they are dead).
I’ll introduce myself… wait, I did that up above. Did you tell me who you were? No. Right. I can’t hear you whether I’m alive or dead. Never mind.
Maybe you have heard of me? I improved the wand of fireball. It can toast bread or turn into a tanning rod for those cloudy days when you wanted to tan. You just need to say “fe-way-gO” for toast, not “fe-way-go”, which is tanning, or “Fe-way-go” which is fireball. Please read the disclaimer on all new fireball wands. I can’t help if you pronounce it wrong and cast fireball in the middle of your tanning salon or try to tan your toast. My lawyers insist I am not responsible for prior accidents or accidents caused by people with speak impediments. Please contact them if you have any concerns.
My earliest memories were of the war. My parents where archeologists too. They never told me who they worked for. They’d go out on digs whenever they were called upon. Being gnomes, they had a special way about them in finding what their employer wanted. When the digs were safe, I got to go with them. We went on many digs. Sometimes we had to go home, or at least I went home, if the war got too close.
Going on digs changed me for some of my fellow gnomes. I love (if I’m still alive) or loved (if I’m dead) old things. Anyone can invent something new. I decided my goal was to take something old and improve upon it. I did with that wand of fireball. My next project is turning a ring into a light source with a comb. There are many times I wanted a light and had to carry a torch instead. A ring that shoots light would be great. It would need a verbal component to turn it on, like “In the darkest of dungeons, in the blackest of halls…” and that’s as far as I got. The comb idea came to me when watching my colleagues run their hand through their hair when we talk. It always messes their hair up. If it was a comb, their hair wouldn’t get messed. That’s how considerate I am for my friends looks. I want to use a ring of protection because it’d help if the comb hits a snag in their hair. Unfortunately, everyone I know doesn’t seem to have one to loan me.
Where was I? Oh, right, going on digs. I remember one dig my dad was showing me this really old jar that no matter how much he poured out of it, the jar kept refilling. I thought that was great. Ideas where already blooming in my mind. I turned to show mom and she wasn’t there. I started to panic. Dad calmed me down to show me mom had found a secret door. How wonderful was that! A door that was a secret. I liked secrets. I liked doors too. This was both in one. I learned people install secret doors because they have secrets. Since I like secrets, I need learn where there are secret doors. Plus, I asked mom and dad for a secret door for my next birthday. I didn’t find one. I think they hid it very well. Even though others call me obsessed with secret doors, I really want to learn what is so important that people have to hide their secrets behind a door (and maybe I’ll find the one that says “Happy Birthday! You found your secret door!”)
One other thing I remember from those days were the puzzles. My parents would bring back many things from their digs. Then late at night or early in the morning, they were hard at work trying to figure out what an item was. There was one item they spent so much time trying to figure out what something was they kept going back to the dig to get more items. Five trips, even though on every trip I kept pointing out all the great and wonderful things they could take back with them, to determine the item was a chamber pot. That’s when I decided I needed a bag of holding or someone stronger than me to bring back everything I felt was important. Five trips (If you can’t tell because I’m dead, I’m shaking my head right now) and that was because we couldn’t go back to the site any more. It is important to grab anything and everything of possible importance because one may never go back again (which I can’t remember, did you say you have a bag of holding?).
By the way, if you do help me get items from a dig, we have to store them in an empty office (there is still about 25 sq ft in the upper right corner of the room) down the hall. The chair of my department ordered me to keep my office clean, and clean didn’t mean there was a 1 ft path from the door to a very stable pile of books and papers for visitors to sit (not my fault they decided to remove a book to look at it before sitting). I had to store my materials somewhere. So, if anyone asks, that office isn’t an office. It is a figment of their imagination and they want the office on the OTHER end of the hall. There is an office opening up on the floor above me. I hope I can snag it before someone else. I believe that that proves I’m not a pack rat because I have a place to store my items from my digs and my office is clean.
If you are reading this while questing for my hat, my student assistant just brought it to me. That must mean I’m alive. Wait, I could be dead because you aren’t here right now (unless you are my student assistant in which case thank you) when I’m writing this when my hat was found so I have my hat now but may not have it when you are reading this. Carry on, quest away and find my hat.
As I got older, my parents sent me to university to become an archeologist just like them. I tested and it was determined I could be an artificer too. What may have convinced them I was an artificer was a wind-up frog I created. We dropped boulders on it, fireball (“Fe-way-go”, or was it “fe-way-go” – never mind), did all kinds of things to it and it kept going. It was indestructible. Then it wound down and fell apart. I have never been able to duplicate that feat. Needless to say, I became an archeologist artificer, or is that an artificer archeologist? Arti-ologist? Archificer? I need to give that some thought.
Say, by this point people seem to be running their hand through their hair. Do you have a ring of protection I could borrow? I wouldn’t want your hair to get messed up. It doesn’t look good, especially if you have a very important meeting right after this. Now if your meeting is beating up the thing that took may hat, then maybe leaving it messy would scare that thing into giving it back to you and you wouldn’t have to resort to violence. Hmmm… nope, keep your ring of protection right now. I want you to scare whoever or whatever has my hat and combing your hair while running your hand through it wouldn’t do that. Once you get my hat back, then I can improve your ring.
The only other thing I can add is my parent made my graduation. After I graduated, they headed off on another dig. They couldn’t tell me where, but that’s how parents are. As they explained it to me, I had a dig assigned to me by my university and it was far more interesting than what their dig was going to be. They didn’t want me to give up the opportunity to go on my first solo dig while they just “played in dust”. I wished them well as they headed off.
As I write this now, I’ve added a few more digs under my belt. I found this really neat comb that I thought I could incorporate into that ring of protection. All the important items were taken to the university’s museum to be stored and cataloged. Someday they’ll be displayed and my name will be listed as the one who found them. Unfortunately, it appears a few have been misplaced at the warehouse. They are looking for them as I write.
Before I finish this section, a word of note. You will know it is my hat because it won’t have a coffee stain on the brim. My assistants tell me that the coffee stain is there to confuse me into thinking it is my hat. It moves from hat to hat tempting me to pick it up and wear it. I’ve gotten too smart for that trick though. I now put a coffee stain in a different spot to show that it is my hat. Then it moves to another hat because I have a clean new one that my assistants always find when I’m looking for my hat. Word of warning – beware the coffee stain. That isn’t my hat.
Now, if I’m alive, please kindly bring this journal to me, along with a bag of holding or least six months worth of time because you and I are going to labor at moving my latest finds from the dig that I’m on. If I’m dead, then keep questing for my hat. When found, return it to my grave. Be sure to bury it deep because I don’t want to lose it again. My journal can go to the university, either the office down the hall or, if I snagged that office on the floor above me, it can go there. The university will know what to do with it.
I want to make a skill-monkey-focused character that still makes sense in backstory, but it looks like I'll need SCAG to do it for a particular subrace. Tempting... I'll give it more thought before I take the plunge. As always, it'll be LVL 1 so there won't be too much backstory. This is a more of an experiment of "can it be done so it's indistinguishable from RP rather than being obvious stats manipulation" using existing rules as of right now. (An upcoming source might change everything, but there's a different thread for that.)
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Human. Male. Possibly. Don't be a divider. My characters' backgrounds are written like instruction manuals rather than stories. My opinion and preferences don't mean you're wrong. I am 99.7603% convinced that the digital dice are messing with me. I roll high when nobody's looking and low when anyone else can see.🎲 “It's a bit early to be thinking about an epitaph. No?” will be my epitaph.
Meet Lumixiros Mohradyllion. (Yes, that is a very confusing name.)
He's a dragonborn sorcerer with a dual heritage. His parents had the ancestry of a silver dragon, but his sorcerous bloodline was that of a brass dragon.
His story:
When I was born, I was seen as a... well, freak. Apparently I not only had the blood of a dragon in me, but it clashed with my parent's heritage to the point where I looked like patchwork scale mail. My eyes also made me look scary, multicolored and all. My parents disowned me, and my father simply got me to self sufficiency and left me there. So I studied, and learned a lot of skills to keep myself alive. I met my friend Amphak on the street corner, when he stood up for me when I was bullied about my looks. We became friends easily, but eventually went our seperate ways. I continued to study magic, to see if I could gain an understanding of spells, and maybe I can prove myself to the clan if I can master this art. So when I came of age, I left.
And I saw a lot. People starving, cold and dying. Bandits, looting villages. Outcasts, sent away because of their looks or characteristics. All of this made me want to work more with my magic, to help save people from these fates. Eventually I found a small town. I figured that I could be accepted. I also thought that they would appreciate someone who could defend them and help them with magic.
Oh, how wrong I was. They took one look at me and thought I was a monster. Some people already thought dragonborn were monsters, I knew that much, but I thought people would have stopped panicking by now. But the townsfolk grabbed weapons and attacked. Maybe it was my scale color. My dual ancestry isn't doing me any favors. So I left for a new town, to put down new roots.
Next, I tried a big town. I saw a few dragonborn here, so I thought people wouldn't be to afraid of me. But everyone still called me something barely short of a freak show. Nevertheless, I stayed, taking jobs and learning about what magic was as a whole. I've managed to eke out a living at the Inn of the Weary Traveler, as a cook. I get a room to live in, and I cook all day for customers. I manage to make dishes that people like, so I figured that I'd stay here.
One day, another sorcerer came. Took one look at me and knew what I was. Told me that she would teach me some basics, so she did. Now I could do a little magic. I got that understanding, and she left. But the inn's proprietor had an idea. I could go off and do more jobs, likely higher paying ones. I would send him some proceeds from the jobs and teach some recipes to the cook, and I was essentially free at that point. He told me, "If you've got magic, don't waste your life staying in a inn. It'll keep ya alive, but with magic, you can do so much more. So go eke out a living. You can still be in my employ and come back to this job whenever you like. We'll be waiting for you. If you send some money back as well, we'll stay open and ready for ya."
I want to make a skill-monkey-focused character that still makes sense in backstory, but it looks like I'll need SCAG to do it for a particular subrace. Tempting... I'll give it more thought before I take the plunge. As always, it'll be LVL 1 so there won't be too much backstory. This is a more of an experiment of "can it be done so it's indistinguishable from RP rather than being obvious stats manipulation" using existing rules as of right now. (An upcoming source might change everything, but there's a different thread for that.)
Oh wow, love this character it has some similarities to the one a friend created some time ago, brings some memories back!
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
I love Dnd, it's like reading a fantasy book but being part of the action, this, together with the fact that I love to pain miniatures made Dnd to be the best hobby for me. When I need inspiration for new campaigns I resort to books such as Malazan, Dragonlance, or even Lord of the Rings.
Hmm. Bael actually sounds like a good choice. So how about this. Ozai grew up in the city of Regalo as the son of an innkeeper who also a Tiefling. His father, Novak, was regarded as being a just and fair man who was usually called on to settle disputes, the townsfolk knowing his decision would be just. Growing up in the inn, Ozai learned to hold his own against bully guests and learned a little magic from mages who stayed a the inn. His personality is blunt to people he has no care for but can be manipulative when need be. When he was 20, he found a book left by a mage who had stayed the night before. Looking through the book, Ozai realized it contained a spell that would allow him to travel to the Nine Hells. Longing for adventure and to leave the inn, Ozai decided to use the spell. Knowing that it would be foolish to go into the Nine Hells unprepared, he bought several healing potions and invisibility potions from the local apothecary. Finally, when he was ready, he used the spell and stepped into the portal. When he looked around, he saw Bael, whom he knew as the Bronze General. He also saw Hutijin, Mephistopheles' second in command. Bael and Hutijin were dueling each other with neither one seeming to get the upper hand. Ozai watched the battle, quickly realizing that Bael was the better warrior. Finally, after two hours of constant fighting, Hutijin used a dirty trick and knocked Bael to his feet. Realizing that Bael would die, in an uncharacteristic moment of mercy, Ozai threw a healing potion and an invisibility potion at Bael, making Hutijin miss the fatal attack. Bael, now restored and invisible, began lashing out at Hutijin, who had no idea what to do. Fearing he would die, Hutijin flew away. Bael used his magic to pull Ozai from his hiding spot and, instead of killing him, thanked him for his aid. In return for Ozai saving his life, Bael agreed to be his patron, giving him immense power. However, Ozai would have to swear to seek out and destroy cultists of other devils, especially Hutijin and Mephistopheles. Ozai agreed, and Bael teleported him back to the inn. To this day, Ozai seeks out the other cults while also seeking arcane knowledge to further his patron's goals.
Hmm. Bael actually sounds like a good choice. So how about this. Ozai grew up in the city of Regalo as the son of an innkeeper who also a Tiefling. His father, Novak, was regarded as being a just and fair man who was usually called on to settle disputes, the townsfolk knowing his decision would be just. Growing up in the inn, Ozai learned to hold his own against bully guests and learned a little magic from mages who stayed a the inn. His personality is blunt to people he has no care for but can be manipulative when need be. When he was 20, he found a book left by a mage who had stayed the night before. Looking through the book, Ozai realized it contained a spell that would allow him to travel to the Nine Hells. Longing for adventure and to leave the inn, Ozai decided to use the spell. Knowing that it would be foolish to go into the Nine Hells unprepared, he bought several healing potions and invisibility potions from the local apothecary. Finally, when he was ready, he used the spell and stepped into the portal. When he looked around, he saw Bael, whom he knew as the Bronze General. He also saw Hutijin, Mephistopheles' second in command. Bael and Hutijin were dueling each other with neither one seeming to get the upper hand. Ozai watched the battle, quickly realizing that Bael was the better warrior. Finally, after two hours of constant fighting, Hutijin used a dirty trick and knocked Bael to his feet. Realizing that Bael would die, in an uncharacteristic moment of mercy, Ozai threw a healing potion and an invisibility potion at Bael, making Hutijin miss the fatal attack. Bael, now restored and invisible, began lashing out at Hutijin, who had no idea what to do. Fearing he would die, Hutijin flew away. Bael used his magic to pull Ozai from his hiding spot and, instead of killing him, thanked him for his aid. In return for Ozai saving his life, Bael agreed to be his patron, giving him immense power. However, Ozai would have to swear to seek out and destroy cultists of other devils, especially Hutijin and Mephistopheles. Ozai agreed, and Bael teleported him back to the inn. To this day, Ozai seeks out the other cults while also seeking arcane knowledge to further his patron's goals.
I commented on this backstory on the thread where you originally posted it.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
All stars fade. Some stars forever fall. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Homebrew (Mostly Outdated):Magic Items,Monsters,Spells,Subclasses ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- If there was no light, people wouldn't fear the dark.
My first time posting here. Decided to post my first three characters. I have plenty of others waiting but these are the ones I have played before.
Mai'ra. A wood elf path of totem barbarian/circle of moon druid.
My current character and easily my favorite so far.
She grew up in a nomadic elven tribe. She was always the adventurous type, always out exploring the different forests her tribe visited. One day while she was out exploring she had gotten lost, she was able to eventually find her way back to where her tribe was to see them disappeared. She had seen animal tracks where her tribe had settled and tracked them. She followed the tracks until she came across a pack of wolves. At first she was afraid, frozen from fright with the wolves circling around her. She had debated attacking them but after seeing their demeanor and the fact that they were wearing her clan's jewelry, she had the sense that they weren't bad. In fact the wolves reminded her of her lost clan. The longer she spent with them the more that feeling rose. She stayed with them for a few years, waiting until she was of age to go off on her own. Once she was able to leave on her own she did so, with the goal to figure out what happened to her tribe as well as saving them.
I rolled on the tables for her background and got the one that said she was raised by wolves. I took that and ran with it. Basically a wizard(she doesn't know this) cursed them so she's gonna have to figure out how to get them back. I asked my dm to make it a difficult curse to cure(especially since we have a cleric and I don't want it to be something simple as a remove curse solving my character's backstory) so we'll see what he comes up with!
Lilith a Hexblade Warlock
This character was more from a jokey campaign. Basically a group of failed villains.
Lilith I did not make evil. She was born to an evil tiefling family who spoiled her rotten, giving her everything she could have ever wanted. They are actually evil villains who unintentionally sheltered her from said evil so she's more neutral aligned then anything else. Her parents however believe that she'll surpass them, not realizing that the way they raised her gave way to her not having that demeanor. She herself wants to do evil deeds and be villains like her parents, not really understanding what evil entails. Her family's goal for her to make her own army to rain terror on those around her.
She became a warlock when her caretaker, who was a warlock, died protecting her and she grabbed on the weapon she was using. The Raven Queen's power was still there and they made a pact together.
So yeah. I didn't take this character too seriously given how we made the campaign. So I'd say she's my weakest one lol. The campaign had started with our group coming together after failed villain attempts and it went from there. Unfortunately I can't really flesh her out right now since the DM of this campaign has been having issues. :/
Seraphina a half-elf life Cleric
This was my first character and probably the most generic. But I still have a bit of a soft spot for her.
Abandoned at a church of Lathander as a child. Found a friend in a bard who would occasionally come to the village she was in from time to time and tell her adventures of everything she experienced. Seraphina never left the village so the stories her friend told amazed her, and she wanted to go and adventure when she was finally able to. One night her bard friend took her out of the village so that she could see the world and the two were attacked by bandits. Her friend died protecting her as they were trying to go back to village. Guards came before anything happened to Seraphina. It was that moment that she wanted to become a cleric, to heal those she can so that she can prevent people dying from such ways. Her current goal for the campaign was figuring out a plague that was going around in Neverwinter.
These are just summarized verisons of my actual backstories. Each character had about 2 pages of story that I summarized into one paragraph.
I'm still new to DND so my characters probably aren't the best lol.
Dornheim was born to clan Sharpaxe, in the Dwarven hold of Khaz Zank far to the north and east of the seas he now sails. The Sharpaxe clan was a notable clan within Khaz Zank, being focused on martial prowess and military service. Dornheim, having an icy temperament, bucked family tradition and chose to pursue a path of healing over harm. His younger brother, Ornhelm Sharpaxe, continued with the clan's martial traditions and became a warrior and eventually a commander of troops.
Dornheim was training to become a surgeon when the war with the Orcs, Goblins, and Giants flared up once again. The Dwarves of Khaz Zank had always had bad blood with the greenskins and their allies. There had been wars both brief and prolonged for as long as the Dwarves kept records. Ornhelm led his clan's warriors into battle while Dornheim volunteered as a battlefield surgeon.
Both their lives changed forever when the hold finally fell to the Greenskins, who indiscriminately massacred clan Sharpaxe. Including the cruel murder of Ornhelm's wife Ciarrah and young child, Hannae. Ornhelm went mad with rage and swore an oath to take his vengeance upon the Orcs and Goblins. Swearing the same oath, Dornheim became a sharpshooter due to his steady hands.
The two of them formed the Grudgeaxe Mercenary Company in the aftermath of the massacre of their Dwarf hold. They recruited not only Dwarves but Humans and Halflings as well. Together the two brothers and their mercenaries wrought bloody vengeance on the greenskins.
But one day went too far. While scouting alone, Dornheim came across a male and female minotaur. Using his flintlock rifle, he shot them down in cold blood, not hesitating for a moment. But then, something unexpected happened.
Fate would have it that the Minotaurs were mates and had a child with them. A relatively tiny bundle on the dead mother's back contained an infant Minotaur girl wrapped within. The horror of what Dornheim had done, what he had been doing for decades, finally struck him. He swore a new oath to atone for his and his brother's sins by doing good by this Minotaur girl he had cruelly orphaned.
Dornheim became her adopted parent, abandoned his blood-crazed brother Ornhelm and his mercenaries, and struck out on his own with the infant Minotaur. He became a gun for hire, looking for any angle to make gold. But more than that, to find a safe place far from Khaz Zank and Ornhelm Grudgeaxe where he can peacefully raise his adoptive daughter.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
To post a comment, please login or register a new account.
That was a really nice backstory as it included unknown origins that could come up while playing a game and making it believable.
Palps grew up poor. He never knew his mother, and his father was a lousy drunk. Palps was forced to pick pockets and steal to support his father's habit. When Palps was finally caught, his father pretended not to know him. He watched his son get his hand cut off without flinching. He ended up being the first person Palps ever killed, leaving him with a hammer in skull as soon as he recovered from the amputation.
After skipping town, Palps spent years in one misadventure after another. Smuggling, assassinations, spying, prison breaks. He had eventually blackmailed a high priest into restoring his hand, and settled down with his Bellinda, a long term partner in his get rich quick schemes. They bought an inn with the last of their ill-gotten fortunes and tried to live on the straight and narrow. But Palps got anxious with this calm life. It only got worse when Bellinda got pregnant. Palps didn't know how to be a father. He panicked and disappeared back into a life of schemes and crime. By the time he considered going back to his family, he found out that Bellinda had died of illness, and his son had been taken under the wing of a mob enforcer.
Palps kept up his misadventures well into his 60's, becoming a notorious snake oil salesman and charlatan, until he one day found himself in a cell with a gnome and a half-orc...
Born under a different name, Brother Azrael lived in a small, no-name village on the border of a mighty nation. His childhood was stable, though his found his parents' religiousness overbearing quite often, and the boy would eventually leave home like most young men do. He was conscripted into his nation's army and worked as an orderly for healers as the nation battled an army of undead lead by a cabal of Vecna-worshipping necromancers. The campaign was arduous, cruel, bloody and short as the necromancers began using hazardous gasses and clouds of pestilence to hamper the nation. The army and its healers would don masks designed to filter away some of the toxins, but that wouldn't always stop it all. Azrael saw much death assisting the clerics and various other healers in their tasks, learning non-magical remedies and theories of healing as they worked. He would earn a place as a healer himself just before a new command came attaching the new medic to a squad of 12 about to go to the front lines. Only three, including Azrael, would return.
It was on that battlefield that his squad was ambushed while on patrol; somehow it seemed like the undead were purposely targeting the easily identifiable healer. The good folk alongside him gave their lives to protect him, though a stray sword slash nearly took him to the world beyond. Two soldiers would drag the wounded healer away as he faded in and out of consciousness. It was during one of those moments between life and death that he bore witness to a vision of dark feathers and a velvet cloak. A whispered voice told him he would not move on so long as he devoted himself to her. He swore his life over to her and the mission of slaying those that befouled the natural cycle of life and death. When he awoke again, Azrael was a changed man.
As the war raged, Azrael changed his name and joined the church of the Raven Queen. He had commissioned a stylized, armored mask resembling the shape of a crow that he would wear. But just as soon as it had begun, the war ended and the necromancers were destroyed. Those that survived were tossed aside by the nation as they had served their purpose. Azrael would be left with nothing but a few scars and the tatters of an enemy standard he'd taken as a personal trophy to wear around his belt. He returned home to practice his faith there.
That is until a strange encounter with a young monster hunter named Barden. The two teamed up to deal with a small incursion of undead and decided a partnership would be beneficial.
Now the pair find themselves mired in an unnatural fog in a weary town at the base of a particular, accursed castle.
Mine is more of a conversation between two gods, Not really a character I'm using, more like a character I wanted to create
" It is sad "
" Why must it be sad? This being was put on this world to record the events. "
" It will experience too much "
" Yes I suppose so "
" It is a curse... "
" No, it is a gift "
" It cannot speak and yet exhibits emotions "
" Then it is normal "
" It is an abomination "
" No, it is the gift to the world, the one that might save it "
" It can do naught by shed tears for what it witnesses "
" Yes "
" It will witness the rise and fall of empires, it will experience the death of friends and comrades, and it can do naught but cry "
" Yes, It will also experience our deaths... "
" Yes but will it shed its tears for us "
: Systems Online : Nikoli_Goodfellow Homebrew : My WIP Homebrew Class :
(\_/)
( u u)
o/ \🥛🍪 Hey, take care of yourself alright?
Chet dan Gorst
Variant Human, Wizard - School of Conjuration
I was in a rush when I created this character and succumbed to cliche, but I did enjoy writing his backstory. Chet is the name of Bill Paxton's character from Weird Science, and like him, has a lot of potential for personal growth ahead of him. Ahem.
Chet dan Gorst was on a road trip. He’d recently been suspended from wizard college and his parents had cut off his allowance in a fit of chagrin. Aggrieved, he scraped together what coin he had on hand, which turned out to be considerable, and bugged out.
Chet was the son of an immensely wealthy and influential noble family. When he showed an early talent for the Arcane Art of Conjuration, it was guaranteed he'd be attending the preeminent Lord’s College of Wizardry, not far from the estates of his family. Attend he did, and unsurprisingly but also completely unnecessarily, he could have easily been accepted based solely on the merits of his aptitude.
Not that Chet cared about that. In fact, he felt a kind of innate distaste for that sort of nonsense. The college admitted almost a quarter of their students based on their aptitude for the Arcane Arts. Far too many riff raff on the grounds, to Chet’s mind. Superior breeding was the cost of admission for everyone else, obviously. Breeding was the only measure of any real value, Chet knew in his heart. And it wasn’t that he was jealous of these more gifted students with no family names to speak of. On the contrary, he relished the challenge of competing with them, and victoriously putting the plebs in their place. Allowing those sordid plebeians into the Lord’s College just seemed to Chet like noblesse oblige gone horribly awry.
Chet fell into college life with gusto. He was inducted into the Fraternal Order of the Jeweled Skull, an exclusive and elusive Order with storied rumors, and spent all of his time in the company of his fraternal brothers. Freed from the shackles of his familial home, he took to wine, spice and girls with equal enthusiasm and shortly made a reputation for himself.
As a student, he was thoroughly uninspired. Classes were rarely attended, what with his taste for fine wine, his access to quality spice, and his keen eye for companionable women. He was vaguely aware that many on campus hated him: students rightfully resentful of the contempt he showed them and scholars justifiably disappointed to have him in their classroom. Somehow though, through all of the resultant haze and distractions, he still managed to excel in his exams. His secret: he was a huge nerd of the Arcane Arts.
Chet had geeked out on magic early in life. He’d read voraciously as a kid, from his father’s vast and cultivated library, and the mystical and magical were his obsessions. Despite having a natural talent for conjuration, he always knew his true love was for the art of violence. And he was a connoisseur on the subject, having delved deeply into and devoured innumerable arcane treatises on the subject. He lauded one above all the others, the Principle of Aoe. He was a devotee, a mega fan. There was another, too, that fascinated him. Alchemical and Philosophical calculations had long postulated the existence of the Principle of Dot, but a unifying thesis had yet to be published to vindicate the seers. Chet was captivated by lore of this nature or by metaphysical theorems pondering esoteric Principles.
Despite a lazy disdain for school, he’d occasionally get a stroke of inspiration and tear into some subject or another. Early in Chet’s junior year, he began scheming about his senior project. All seniors at the Lord’s College worked on a special final project: that of creating their very own Arcane Focus, an indispensable device for their future as a wizard. An Arcane Focus was usually constructed from a wand or staff or orb or other thoroughly pedestrian object. The base ingredient he’d settled on, however, was of an exceedingly novel sort, one worthy of his lofty eminence. Tragically however, it proved to be the instrument of his expulsion from the college. And all because of Mistress Sabine.
Mistress Sabine was the dean of students and a celebrated witch. She was also an undisputed WILF and endless stories were shared among the students about her. One particularly salacious story caught Chet’s attention and ignited a flash of sublime genius. Mistress Sabine was rumored to have secretly in her possession a peculiar, onyx phallus, from which she drew the power to resist ever consorting with any of the shoddy faculty or vermin-riddled student body of that esteemed institution. Chet’s most excellent plan was to procure this fabled object for himself and make it into his Arcane Focus. Epic.
One afternoon, Chet deviously snuck into Sabine’s quarters, and with the help of a magical scroll pilfered from his father’s collection, he managed to discover the hiding spot for Sabine’s prized possession and make off with it. Over the next several months, he worked feverishly in secret as he shaped it into his Arcane Focus. During that time, the college spun up into some kind of undisclosed crisis of indeterminate cause, mostly evidenced by harried-looking administrators scuttling about in greater and greater alarm.
How the mighty finger of judgement became pointed at Chet, he never found out. He’d triumphantly completed his senior project early and was basking radiantly in his own glory when they summarily hauled him into the dean’s office. Whatever they had on him wasn’t proof enough and ransaking his quarters turned up no incriminating evidence. Chet was too clever to let them find such a treasure easily and he’d hidden it with exorbitant care. But whatever they did know was convincing enough to get him suspended, despite his indignant denials, followed shortly by the wrath of his informed and subsequently mortified family.
Now Chet was on the road. He reveled in frequenting debauched locales and hanging out with odd or unsavory fellows. And despite lugging along a small fortune in coin, he quickly squandered it all on immensely frivolous but rapturous nights, memorable for all involved. Now Chet was living on promissory notes and scrounging for beer money, too proud to turn his path toward home.
Now with 200% more Heroforge!
Human. Male. Possibly. Don't be a divider.
My characters' backgrounds are written like instruction manuals rather than stories. My opinion and preferences don't mean you're wrong.
I am 99.7603% convinced that the digital dice are messing with me. I roll high when nobody's looking and low when anyone else can see.🎲
“It's a bit early to be thinking about an epitaph. No?” will be my epitaph.
I tend to put a lot of thought into backgrounds as they're one of my favorite parts of creating characters. I'll toss up what I have for my newest active character, a fire genasi Bard in a new Wildemount game. I give you Akani the Fire Dancer.
“You wish to know my story? The story of Akani the Fire Dancer? Well, perhaps with a bit of something to ease my parched throat… No story of me would be complete without mentioning those who came before. My mother, you see, was the most captivating, beautiful dancer in the whole of the Menagerie Coast. People would come from far and wide to see her, to gaze upon the beauty of her dance. Cloaked in the vibrant colors and stirring music of her Ki’nau people she drew the gaze of men, of women, of all who found themselves in her presence. Time after time offers of marriage were thrown at her feet, yet none could capture her fiery spirit. Until, that is, she met my father. They say he was a ship’s captain, a man of bravery and skill who commanded the utmost loyalty from those that served him. From the moment they saw one another, the two became inseparable. Within months they were married and she joined him on his ship. Life was a whirlwind of adventure. But such things are only ever transient in nature, and soon enough my mother was pregnant. Deciding that life aboard a sailing vessel was no place for a pregnant woman, my mother returned to her home in Othe. My father came to visit her when he was able, but life as a ship’s captain is one of long voyages and their visits were rare but heartfelt. My mother took up work in a tavern, serving drinks and food, and charming everyone who stepped foot inside. As so often happens in life, tragedy came unexpectedly. Word made it to my mother that my father’s ship had vanished and all were presumed lost. But I had been born a scant four months before, and there was no true time for mourning in my mother’s life. Life moved on, but sadness had settled in her heart. Thus was the stage set for my childhood years. Days spent playing and roughhousing with the other children of the neighborhood, children of all heritages and bloodlines, who gave no thought to the fact that I was of mixed blood myself. At night I scampered about my mother’s tavern, trying to keep out from underfoot while taking in as much as possible. The performers who came nightly to entertain the guests were my favorites. Musicians, storytellers, comedians, dancers… they fascinated my young mind and I was determined to learn as much from them as I possibly could. I was, perhaps, ten years of age when I almost set the tavern on fire. It was entirely an accident, of course. Truly, how was I to know that somewhere within my blood lingered the blessings of the ancient fire spirits? And it was only a single table that was lost, in the end. My mother’s people, the Ki’nau, were delighted, the elders crowing about the old bloodlines proving true and strong. Thus went my childhood. I learned of the ancient spirits and my Ki’nau heritage from the elders in our neighborhood, and of the ways of music and laughter from the entertainers in the tavern. I learned swordplay and wordplay, music and dance, magic and lore. And I learned that I would never be happy staying there. So many stories of the world beyond Othe had found purchase within my imagination, calling me to the world outside of my childhood. Bearing little more than the collected teachings of my mother’s people and an endless parade of performers and travelers, I set out to see the world and to find my own place in it. As I was leaving, my mother gifted upon me one of the few mementos that my father had left behind. A necklace, something that had been a treasured possession for many years. A simple copper pendant on a chain, with Marquessian script along the edges. “Sky above, sea below, fire within.” I will spare you the details of that heartfelt parting, but suffice it to say that it was truly a beautiful moment in the midst of such an ugly world. There were tears, and words of wisdom that shall ever live on in my heart. In the years since, I have truly made the whole of the Coast my home. From Port Zoon to Nicodranus and beyond I have wandered, bringing with me the traditions of the Ki’nau and the fire within my blood.”
My campaign: https://app.roll20.net/campaigns/details/8751420/forgotten-realms-d-and-d-campaign
Thought I'd drop one of my character backgrounds into this ocean of them! I have yet to play them yet, and may detail the story better, but here ya go!
Name: Wafku Dyandriver
Race: Mountain Dwarf
Background: Criminal/Spy
Alignment: Lawfully Neutral
Gender: Male ( Some sneaking feminine qualities)
Height: 5'4 ( on the considerably taller side for a dwarf)
Skin: A pale perwinkle tinged an earthy red puckered in scars.
Age: 350yrs
Weight: 130lbs
(more physical detailed description below backstory)
Backstory:
''Ay, I walk in here dripping and gold, and yet you think your pretty penny gaze is going to interest me?’’ He said gruffly, throwing his leg up onto the barrel across from them. A cocky grin had wormed its way across his face, yet under the aloof demeanor was a fire burning in his gaze. They stared back at him, noting the batteredness of his clothes, the wisp of smoke curling from the dangled cigarette in his mouth, the bloody dagger sitting in his belt. He had leaned closer while they were observing him, eyes lacking the beadiness most men had in this rowdy pub. Clasped on his propped up knee was bandaged hands, skillfully wrapped like a boxer. They didn’t know if it was for style, injuries, or rather a survival instinct. Instead, they suggested to themself that it was all three.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
People tend to buy him a beer, awkwardly avoiding the topic of his past. He is rough in appearance and demeanor, yet he had the graceful movements of a lion. His mysterious eyes are the biggest puzzle for some to solve, not that he wants anyone solving them. This man's name is Wafku Dyandiver but most people call him Whiskers for the small beard he tends to grow which has lead to much teasing. Wafku's name stems from an original naming ritual with the name of, '' Waegmund Dynadriver.''. Exiled from the mountains of his people, stripped of his clan name, for a crime of dark nature magic, marred with a scar marking of the Malum, he is thrown into the inhumane world below. Forced into the black market trade and pressured into using his warlock magic, he begins to become twisted into the dark side of magic. Finding refuge in the Dark Seladine brotherhood, the mark of the Gemini is carved into his back. After an underground fight gone wrong, Wafku is cast out of the group set to die. Struggling with a drinking and smoking problem, he morphs into a hustler known to frequent alleys with a woman or man pinned against the wall. With this new fate laid out before him, he begins to roam from pub to pub making new one night lovers along the way, leading to a trail of broken hearts but none as broken as his. Consumed by anger, this usually expressionless man can erupt. When will Wafku face the pain his people gave him, if ever?
Physical/Mannerism Description Cause Why Not:
He stands at a slightly taller height for a dwarf clocking in at 5'4. His build is all lean muscle, framed in by narrow shoulders with a feminine tilt of the hips. His hair is black with streaks of purple, short cropped to the ears and spiked. You can find him regularly chewing on seeds with dirt under his nails from the latest garden find. An amused half smirk seems to be permanent on his angular face as a scruffy small beard lines his chin. A small scar and mole lies below the pucker of full lips and a smatter of freckles marches its way across the wide nose area. Permanent eye bags are home underneath gorgeous violet slanted eyes (yes depression is his designer). His ears are pointed though his left one is cut at the tip, earrings lining themselves down the sides. Bush brows hang over his feline eyes, twin scars marring the left one. The zodiac symbol of a Gemini is carved into his back, taking up more then half the space near his shoulders. A diagonal scar slashes across his muscular torso, hidden mostly by the cover of a dark laced up leather breastplate. A dark purple tippet is his trademark. Wafku typically has his hands wrapped up like a boxers though it does not stop the blood seeping through it when he gets into fights though the blood isn't always his. A dagger is always strapped to his thigh, along with the rest of his weapons concealed near a pack. He likes to wear a thick double serpent belt, the only wealthy mark on him, though it was stolen. His appearance is generally battered and his wears a roguish look from his days on the prowl.
Here is some more information of his if anyone would like any more! Wafku Dyandriver
Fintan Alasadiar: |High (Moon) Elf|Fighter| Rime of the Frostmaiden|
Wafku Dyandriver:|Mountain Dwarf|Warlock|Fighter|
Errk:|Arakorca|Ranger|
DM: The Dragons of Icespire Peak Campaign, Frozen Sick
''I will serve injustice with justice.'' 𝕱𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖓𝕬𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖗𝕼𝖎𝖑𝖆
The game hasn't started yet. My friends and I are finishing Oracle of War in the Eberron setting. There I'm playing a paladin. However, the next adventure we go on the DM wanted an artificer. Let me introduce you to Erfiz Scheppen, Rock Gnome Archeologist Artificer. We are starting at level 1. In word it is three pages long. I'm hiding it behind a spoiler to make the post much shorter.
If you are reading this, I’m either alive, in which case you need to close this journal now because I don’t like sneaks or peeping whatever you are, or dead, in which case, as an archeologist, I really don’t mind because, well, I’m dead. How could I fault you for looking at my stuff when I’m dead when I look at other’s people stuff when they are dead? So, make sure I’m dead (and if I am, do I have my hat? If I don’t, I charge you with finding my hat and bringing it to me or I will come back to haunt you) before you continue. If I am alive, I can’t promise what you might happen.
Who am I? Erfiz Scheppen is the name. Who might you be? Oh, wait, if I’m dead, I won’t hear you or care and if I’m alive, you won’t tell me for fear of me tracking you down and doing who knows what to you. Well then, we’ll have to keep that a mystery. Though, if you want to get on my good side, do you have a bag of holding I could borrow? I promise to return it after I get everything needed from my latest archeology dig. Loaning me a bag of holding will go a long way to getting back into my good graces. If you lack a bag of holding, I can always use help carrying back what I want. It may take several… ahem… dozen… trips but we have time. That would really get you back into my good graces.
Since this is a journal, and I could be dead when you read this, I need to get started (though if I’m alive, this is a good place to stop, come find me with a bag of holding or help me move items from my latest dig and we never have to talk about you looking at other people’s private notes, unless of course, they are dead).
I’ll introduce myself… wait, I did that up above. Did you tell me who you were? No. Right. I can’t hear you whether I’m alive or dead. Never mind.
Maybe you have heard of me? I improved the wand of fireball. It can toast bread or turn into a tanning rod for those cloudy days when you wanted to tan. You just need to say “fe-way-gO” for toast, not “fe-way-go”, which is tanning, or “Fe-way-go” which is fireball. Please read the disclaimer on all new fireball wands. I can’t help if you pronounce it wrong and cast fireball in the middle of your tanning salon or try to tan your toast. My lawyers insist I am not responsible for prior accidents or accidents caused by people with speak impediments. Please contact them if you have any concerns.
My earliest memories were of the war. My parents where archeologists too. They never told me who they worked for. They’d go out on digs whenever they were called upon. Being gnomes, they had a special way about them in finding what their employer wanted. When the digs were safe, I got to go with them. We went on many digs. Sometimes we had to go home, or at least I went home, if the war got too close.
Going on digs changed me for some of my fellow gnomes. I love (if I’m still alive) or loved (if I’m dead) old things. Anyone can invent something new. I decided my goal was to take something old and improve upon it. I did with that wand of fireball. My next project is turning a ring into a light source with a comb. There are many times I wanted a light and had to carry a torch instead. A ring that shoots light would be great. It would need a verbal component to turn it on, like “In the darkest of dungeons, in the blackest of halls…” and that’s as far as I got. The comb idea came to me when watching my colleagues run their hand through their hair when we talk. It always messes their hair up. If it was a comb, their hair wouldn’t get messed. That’s how considerate I am for my friends looks. I want to use a ring of protection because it’d help if the comb hits a snag in their hair. Unfortunately, everyone I know doesn’t seem to have one to loan me.
Where was I? Oh, right, going on digs. I remember one dig my dad was showing me this really old jar that no matter how much he poured out of it, the jar kept refilling. I thought that was great. Ideas where already blooming in my mind. I turned to show mom and she wasn’t there. I started to panic. Dad calmed me down to show me mom had found a secret door. How wonderful was that! A door that was a secret. I liked secrets. I liked doors too. This was both in one. I learned people install secret doors because they have secrets. Since I like secrets, I need learn where there are secret doors. Plus, I asked mom and dad for a secret door for my next birthday. I didn’t find one. I think they hid it very well. Even though others call me obsessed with secret doors, I really want to learn what is so important that people have to hide their secrets behind a door (and maybe I’ll find the one that says “Happy Birthday! You found your secret door!”)
One other thing I remember from those days were the puzzles. My parents would bring back many things from their digs. Then late at night or early in the morning, they were hard at work trying to figure out what an item was. There was one item they spent so much time trying to figure out what something was they kept going back to the dig to get more items. Five trips, even though on every trip I kept pointing out all the great and wonderful things they could take back with them, to determine the item was a chamber pot. That’s when I decided I needed a bag of holding or someone stronger than me to bring back everything I felt was important. Five trips (If you can’t tell because I’m dead, I’m shaking my head right now) and that was because we couldn’t go back to the site any more. It is important to grab anything and everything of possible importance because one may never go back again (which I can’t remember, did you say you have a bag of holding?).
By the way, if you do help me get items from a dig, we have to store them in an empty office (there is still about 25 sq ft in the upper right corner of the room) down the hall. The chair of my department ordered me to keep my office clean, and clean didn’t mean there was a 1 ft path from the door to a very stable pile of books and papers for visitors to sit (not my fault they decided to remove a book to look at it before sitting). I had to store my materials somewhere. So, if anyone asks, that office isn’t an office. It is a figment of their imagination and they want the office on the OTHER end of the hall. There is an office opening up on the floor above me. I hope I can snag it before someone else. I believe that that proves I’m not a pack rat because I have a place to store my items from my digs and my office is clean.
If you are reading this while questing for my hat, my student assistant just brought it to me. That must mean I’m alive. Wait, I could be dead because you aren’t here right now (unless you are my student assistant in which case thank you) when I’m writing this when my hat was found so I have my hat now but may not have it when you are reading this. Carry on, quest away and find my hat.
As I got older, my parents sent me to university to become an archeologist just like them. I tested and it was determined I could be an artificer too. What may have convinced them I was an artificer was a wind-up frog I created. We dropped boulders on it, fireball (“Fe-way-go”, or was it “fe-way-go” – never mind), did all kinds of things to it and it kept going. It was indestructible. Then it wound down and fell apart. I have never been able to duplicate that feat. Needless to say, I became an archeologist artificer, or is that an artificer archeologist? Arti-ologist? Archificer? I need to give that some thought.
Say, by this point people seem to be running their hand through their hair. Do you have a ring of protection I could borrow? I wouldn’t want your hair to get messed up. It doesn’t look good, especially if you have a very important meeting right after this. Now if your meeting is beating up the thing that took may hat, then maybe leaving it messy would scare that thing into giving it back to you and you wouldn’t have to resort to violence. Hmmm… nope, keep your ring of protection right now. I want you to scare whoever or whatever has my hat and combing your hair while running your hand through it wouldn’t do that. Once you get my hat back, then I can improve your ring.
The only other thing I can add is my parent made my graduation. After I graduated, they headed off on another dig. They couldn’t tell me where, but that’s how parents are. As they explained it to me, I had a dig assigned to me by my university and it was far more interesting than what their dig was going to be. They didn’t want me to give up the opportunity to go on my first solo dig while they just “played in dust”. I wished them well as they headed off.
As I write this now, I’ve added a few more digs under my belt. I found this really neat comb that I thought I could incorporate into that ring of protection. All the important items were taken to the university’s museum to be stored and cataloged. Someday they’ll be displayed and my name will be listed as the one who found them. Unfortunately, it appears a few have been misplaced at the warehouse. They are looking for them as I write.
Before I finish this section, a word of note. You will know it is my hat because it won’t have a coffee stain on the brim. My assistants tell me that the coffee stain is there to confuse me into thinking it is my hat. It moves from hat to hat tempting me to pick it up and wear it. I’ve gotten too smart for that trick though. I now put a coffee stain in a different spot to show that it is my hat. Then it moves to another hat because I have a clean new one that my assistants always find when I’m looking for my hat. Word of warning – beware the coffee stain. That isn’t my hat.
Now, if I’m alive, please kindly bring this journal to me, along with a bag of holding or least six months worth of time because you and I are going to labor at moving my latest finds from the dig that I’m on. If I’m dead, then keep questing for my hat. When found, return it to my grave. Be sure to bury it deep because I don’t want to lose it again. My journal can go to the university, either the office down the hall or, if I snagged that office on the floor above me, it can go there. The university will know what to do with it.
I want to make a skill-monkey-focused character that still makes sense in backstory, but it looks like I'll need SCAG to do it for a particular subrace. Tempting... I'll give it more thought before I take the plunge. As always, it'll be LVL 1 so there won't be too much backstory. This is a more of an experiment of "can it be done so it's indistinguishable from RP rather than being obvious stats manipulation" using existing rules as of right now. (An upcoming source might change everything, but there's a different thread for that.)
Human. Male. Possibly. Don't be a divider.
My characters' backgrounds are written like instruction manuals rather than stories. My opinion and preferences don't mean you're wrong.
I am 99.7603% convinced that the digital dice are messing with me. I roll high when nobody's looking and low when anyone else can see.🎲
“It's a bit early to be thinking about an epitaph. No?” will be my epitaph.
Meet Lumixiros Mohradyllion. (Yes, that is a very confusing name.)
He's a dragonborn sorcerer with a dual heritage. His parents had the ancestry of a silver dragon, but his sorcerous bloodline was that of a brass dragon.
His story:
When I was born, I was seen as a... well, freak. Apparently I not only had the blood of a dragon in me, but it clashed with my parent's heritage to the point where I looked like patchwork scale mail. My eyes also made me look scary, multicolored and all. My parents disowned me, and my father simply got me to self sufficiency and left me there. So I studied, and learned a lot of skills to keep myself alive. I met my friend Amphak on the street corner, when he stood up for me when I was bullied about my looks. We became friends easily, but eventually went our seperate ways. I continued to study magic, to see if I could gain an understanding of spells, and maybe I can prove myself to the clan if I can master this art. So when I came of age, I left.
And I saw a lot. People starving, cold and dying. Bandits, looting villages. Outcasts, sent away because of their looks or characteristics. All of this made me want to work more with my magic, to help save people from these fates. Eventually I found a small town. I figured that I could be accepted. I also thought that they would appreciate someone who could defend them and help them with magic.
Oh, how wrong I was. They took one look at me and thought I was a monster. Some people already thought dragonborn were monsters, I knew that much, but I thought people would have stopped panicking by now. But the townsfolk grabbed weapons and attacked. Maybe it was my scale color. My dual ancestry isn't doing me any favors. So I left for a new town, to put down new roots.
Next, I tried a big town. I saw a few dragonborn here, so I thought people wouldn't be to afraid of me. But everyone still called me something barely short of a freak show. Nevertheless, I stayed, taking jobs and learning about what magic was as a whole. I've managed to eke out a living at the Inn of the Weary Traveler, as a cook. I get a room to live in, and I cook all day for customers. I manage to make dishes that people like, so I figured that I'd stay here.
One day, another sorcerer came. Took one look at me and knew what I was. Told me that she would teach me some basics, so she did. Now I could do a little magic. I got that understanding, and she left. But the inn's proprietor had an idea. I could go off and do more jobs, likely higher paying ones. I would send him some proceeds from the jobs and teach some recipes to the cook, and I was essentially free at that point. He told me, "If you've got magic, don't waste your life staying in a inn. It'll keep ya alive, but with magic, you can do so much more. So go eke out a living. You can still be in my employ and come back to this job whenever you like. We'll be waiting for you. If you send some money back as well, we'll stay open and ready for ya."
So I began to go on an adventure.
The fire giants made a gundam wheeeeee
No
Oh wow, love this character it has some similarities to the one a friend created some time ago, brings some memories back!
I love Dnd, it's like reading a fantasy book but being part of the action, this, together with the fact that I love to pain miniatures made Dnd to be the best hobby for me. When I need inspiration for new campaigns I resort to books such as Malazan, Dragonlance, or even Lord of the Rings.
Hmm. Bael actually sounds like a good choice. So how about this. Ozai grew up in the city of Regalo as the son of an innkeeper who also a Tiefling. His father, Novak, was regarded as being a just and fair man who was usually called on to settle disputes, the townsfolk knowing his decision would be just. Growing up in the inn, Ozai learned to hold his own against bully guests and learned a little magic from mages who stayed a the inn. His personality is blunt to people he has no care for but can be manipulative when need be. When he was 20, he found a book left by a mage who had stayed the night before. Looking through the book, Ozai realized it contained a spell that would allow him to travel to the Nine Hells. Longing for adventure and to leave the inn, Ozai decided to use the spell. Knowing that it would be foolish to go into the Nine Hells unprepared, he bought several healing potions and invisibility potions from the local apothecary. Finally, when he was ready, he used the spell and stepped into the portal. When he looked around, he saw Bael, whom he knew as the Bronze General. He also saw Hutijin, Mephistopheles' second in command. Bael and Hutijin were dueling each other with neither one seeming to get the upper hand. Ozai watched the battle, quickly realizing that Bael was the better warrior. Finally, after two hours of constant fighting, Hutijin used a dirty trick and knocked Bael to his feet. Realizing that Bael would die, in an uncharacteristic moment of mercy, Ozai threw a healing potion and an invisibility potion at Bael, making Hutijin miss the fatal attack. Bael, now restored and invisible, began lashing out at Hutijin, who had no idea what to do. Fearing he would die, Hutijin flew away. Bael used his magic to pull Ozai from his hiding spot and, instead of killing him, thanked him for his aid. In return for Ozai saving his life, Bael agreed to be his patron, giving him immense power. However, Ozai would have to swear to seek out and destroy cultists of other devils, especially Hutijin and Mephistopheles. Ozai agreed, and Bael teleported him back to the inn. To this day, Ozai seeks out the other cults while also seeking arcane knowledge to further his patron's goals.
I commented on this backstory on the thread where you originally posted it.
All stars fade. Some stars forever fall.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Homebrew (Mostly Outdated): Magic Items, Monsters, Spells, Subclasses
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If there was no light, people wouldn't fear the dark.
I responded in the original post.
My first time posting here. Decided to post my first three characters. I have plenty of others waiting but these are the ones I have played before.
Mai'ra. A wood elf path of totem barbarian/circle of moon druid.
My current character and easily my favorite so far.
She grew up in a nomadic elven tribe. She was always the adventurous type, always out exploring the different forests her tribe visited. One day while she was out exploring she had gotten lost, she was able to eventually find her way back to where her tribe was to see them disappeared. She had seen animal tracks where her tribe had settled and tracked them. She followed the tracks until she came across a pack of wolves. At first she was afraid, frozen from fright with the wolves circling around her. She had debated attacking them but after seeing their demeanor and the fact that they were wearing her clan's jewelry, she had the sense that they weren't bad. In fact the wolves reminded her of her lost clan. The longer she spent with them the more that feeling rose. She stayed with them for a few years, waiting until she was of age to go off on her own. Once she was able to leave on her own she did so, with the goal to figure out what happened to her tribe as well as saving them.
I rolled on the tables for her background and got the one that said she was raised by wolves. I took that and ran with it. Basically a wizard(she doesn't know this) cursed them so she's gonna have to figure out how to get them back. I asked my dm to make it a difficult curse to cure(especially since we have a cleric and I don't want it to be something simple as a remove curse solving my character's backstory) so we'll see what he comes up with!
Lilith a Hexblade Warlock
This character was more from a jokey campaign. Basically a group of failed villains.
Lilith I did not make evil. She was born to an evil tiefling family who spoiled her rotten, giving her everything she could have ever wanted. They are actually evil villains who unintentionally sheltered her from said evil so she's more neutral aligned then anything else. Her parents however believe that she'll surpass them, not realizing that the way they raised her gave way to her not having that demeanor. She herself wants to do evil deeds and be villains like her parents, not really understanding what evil entails. Her family's goal for her to make her own army to rain terror on those around her.
She became a warlock when her caretaker, who was a warlock, died protecting her and she grabbed on the weapon she was using. The Raven Queen's power was still there and they made a pact together.
So yeah. I didn't take this character too seriously given how we made the campaign. So I'd say she's my weakest one lol. The campaign had started with our group coming together after failed villain attempts and it went from there. Unfortunately I can't really flesh her out right now since the DM of this campaign has been having issues. :/
Seraphina a half-elf life Cleric
This was my first character and probably the most generic. But I still have a bit of a soft spot for her.
Abandoned at a church of Lathander as a child. Found a friend in a bard who would occasionally come to the village she was in from time to time and tell her adventures of everything she experienced. Seraphina never left the village so the stories her friend told amazed her, and she wanted to go and adventure when she was finally able to. One night her bard friend took her out of the village so that she could see the world and the two were attacked by bandits. Her friend died protecting her as they were trying to go back to village. Guards came before anything happened to Seraphina. It was that moment that she wanted to become a cleric, to heal those she can so that she can prevent people dying from such ways. Her current goal for the campaign was figuring out a plague that was going around in Neverwinter.
These are just summarized verisons of my actual backstories. Each character had about 2 pages of story that I summarized into one paragraph.
I'm still new to DND so my characters probably aren't the best lol.
Dornheim Sharpaxe, Dwarf Ranger:
Dornheim was born to clan Sharpaxe, in the Dwarven hold of Khaz Zank far to the north and east of the seas he now sails. The Sharpaxe clan was a notable clan within Khaz Zank, being focused on martial prowess and military service. Dornheim, having an icy temperament, bucked family tradition and chose to pursue a path of healing over harm. His younger brother, Ornhelm Sharpaxe, continued with the clan's martial traditions and became a warrior and eventually a commander of troops.
Dornheim was training to become a surgeon when the war with the Orcs, Goblins, and Giants flared up once again. The Dwarves of Khaz Zank had always had bad blood with the greenskins and their allies. There had been wars both brief and prolonged for as long as the Dwarves kept records. Ornhelm led his clan's warriors into battle while Dornheim volunteered as a battlefield surgeon.
Both their lives changed forever when the hold finally fell to the Greenskins, who indiscriminately massacred clan Sharpaxe. Including the cruel murder of Ornhelm's wife Ciarrah and young child, Hannae. Ornhelm went mad with rage and swore an oath to take his vengeance upon the Orcs and Goblins. Swearing the same oath, Dornheim became a sharpshooter due to his steady hands.
The two of them formed the Grudgeaxe Mercenary Company in the aftermath of the massacre of their Dwarf hold. They recruited not only Dwarves but Humans and Halflings as well. Together the two brothers and their mercenaries wrought bloody vengeance on the greenskins.
But one day went too far. While scouting alone, Dornheim came across a male and female minotaur. Using his flintlock rifle, he shot them down in cold blood, not hesitating for a moment. But then, something unexpected happened.
Fate would have it that the Minotaurs were mates and had a child with them. A relatively tiny bundle on the dead mother's back contained an infant Minotaur girl wrapped within. The horror of what Dornheim had done, what he had been doing for decades, finally struck him. He swore a new oath to atone for his and his brother's sins by doing good by this Minotaur girl he had cruelly orphaned.
Dornheim became her adopted parent, abandoned his blood-crazed brother Ornhelm and his mercenaries, and struck out on his own with the infant Minotaur. He became a gun for hire, looking for any angle to make gold. But more than that, to find a safe place far from Khaz Zank and Ornhelm Grudgeaxe where he can peacefully raise his adoptive daughter.