Here is a cool background story about a man. If you were to make a PC from the characters in this story, what kind of PC would you make?
----
His feet burned with every step. Still, it would all be worth it if he could get inside. He would defile this holy place, desecrate the altar, and then this nasty patch of weeds would serve as a new base of operations. The handle seared his hand, and left it swollen and aching. He grit his teeth and stepped into the sanctuary. A small old man knelt at the front by the altar.
"Blessings." The old man leaned heavily on a cane to pull himself up. He turned slowly toward the door.
"May I help you?"
The lips of this most vile of visitors furled back into an internal grin. Too easy. He would turn this pathetic bag of bones into his prophet! Then the words hit him, and suddenly there were stars above him. The simple utterance of this man had forcibly thrown him back out into the street! Now everything burned, and his muscles ached, and his leg didn't want to bend the right way. He hurled a curse and a promise at the door and dragged himself off into the night. Amon Marlowe would be back.
"Hello? Anyone there?" The old priest tottered through the open door. "Hmm. I'll have to get those hinges looked at."
====================
Amon spent the next two weeks eavesdropping and visiting dreams. Turns out everyone loved their decrepit preacher, and that plot of land had been a church for hundreds of years. It might take years to do what he had attempted in one night. Well, it wasn't like he had anyplace else to go. . .
He had started with the dreams. Nightmares of death, blood, and war; the good stuff. The old codger shut that down almost immediately. By the end of the month there were blessed objects on every door, and the ones he had afflicted even had some in the windows. He was quick for an old man.
He tried the temptations. Week after week, he skulked around in the shadows, waiting for missteps.
Week after week, all his progress washed away in the words of blessing from that disgusting priest. He had even gone to the effort of crafting a cursed tome and leaving it where a certain child might find it. They had kept it for a few days, and then rushed to 'Papa Gabe' and told him everything. This would be much harder than anticipated.
He tried bringing in travelers to work with, hoping a few weaker minds might help corrupt the others. It went well at first, with several new families brainwashed to settle down and do business in the area. As the years went by, he started slowly growing a small band of ruffians willing to go along with his plans. Then one by one, they just didn't come. By the end of the decade, every single one of his carefully placed pawns had been stolen away by that doddering gadfly. He was craftier than he let on.
He had grown frustrated. If the old man needed help dying, who was he to argue? He had tried hiring an assassin with what little gold he had accumulated, but no one would take an offer to kill a priest. He had tried arranging 'accidents' as the venerable father visited his growing flock, but the man either had singular luck or uncanny perception.
Amon sighed as he crafted another cursed tome. He was running out of options. If he couldn't turn the townsfolk, and couldn't fight the ancient cleric, there was little more he could do. That old fool just wouldn't die, and his grip on the town was tighter than ever. Normally he would just try to lead them all away to a new town, and start a little cult that way, but this battle was becoming a little too personal.
====================
One night in late summer, as Father Gabriel was coming back from his visitation, a man wrapped in shadow stepped from the side of the road and spoke.
“May I walk with you?”
“I have no objections.” He slowed his pace slightly to get a better look at the figure.
“I have come to seek some advice from what all agree is the wisest man that walks the earth today.” The voice seemed familiar, but Father Gabriel struggled to place it.
“I have only wisdom gained from living, and wisdom gifted from God.”
“Do they ever quarrel, these givers of wisdom?” The question seemed genuine, and it gave him pause.
“Now that is something to ponder.” Their steps fell in unison as the path seemed to grow longer. “I do not think they have, though my younger self would disagree. Some lessons are simply not taught in one lifetime.”
“Then what piece of wisdom would you give a young man seeking a good life?”
“To keep seeking. Not for his own good, but for those he would love, and those that would love him.”
“Some men have seen naught but misery at the hands of their love.”
“And some have seen naught but love in the midst of their misery.” Father Gabriel chuckled. “Love is a hard mistress, and does not always reward those who seek her for themselves.”
“Then what wisdom would you give a man who strives for a goal, yet is always a step short?” Father Gabriel stopped at the gate of the churchyard. “To you I would say, if it is a goal worthy of striving for, then one step is better than most achieve. There is no shame in the striving, unless you fail to learn from the mistakes along the way.”
“I see.” The figure fell quiet as the venerable shepherd made his way to the church door. “Blessings. May you find the wisdom you seek.” The figure nodded, and Father Gabriel stepped into the sanctuary.
====================
The two became a familiar sight on the roads. Old ‘Papa Gabe,’ in his robe and flat cap, and the shadow in a cape called Amos. As the years passed, the children began to call him ‘Uncle Amos.’ They pestered him to do his magic tricks as he waited outside for the cleric to see the parishioners. He was always odd, but never unfriendly, and as the years passed, he seemed to grow fond of “the little rats.” He eventually took the position as the manager for the inn, and opened a small bar. It was always clean, and never rowdy. As the decades rolled by, the two became fixtures in the growing city. The Father and his Chapel, The Innkeep and his Inn. Never was one thought of without the other, and that was fine by them.
-----
I would love to hear what kind of character you think this could make.
Infernal warlock, with many faces, not sure starting race.
Depending on how enlightened they have become maybe a level of redemption paladin, or more depending on preference. You have strong core of some kind of corrupt individual finding some kind of redemption from the father. Cleric of some sort could also fit as the redemption side.
Another dark origin option would be shadow sorceror with the paladin still being a viable option, or celestial warlock for the redemption side.
"Where words fail, swords prevail. Where blood is spilled, my cup is filled" -Cartaphilus
"I have found the answer to the meaning of life. You ask me what the answer is? You already know what the answer to life is. You fear it more than the strike of a viper, the ravages of disease, the ire of a lover. The answer is always death. But death is a gentle mistress with a sweet embrace, and you owe her a debt of restitution. Life is not a gift, it is a loan."
To post a comment, please login or register a new account.
Hi,
Here is a cool background story about a man. If you were to make a PC from the characters in this story, what kind of PC would you make?
----
His feet burned with every step. Still, it would all be worth it if he could get inside. He would defile this holy place, desecrate the altar, and then this nasty patch of weeds would serve as a new base of operations. The handle seared his hand, and left it swollen and aching. He grit his teeth and stepped into the sanctuary. A small old man knelt at the front by the altar.
"Blessings." The old man leaned heavily on a cane to pull himself up. He turned slowly toward the door.
"May I help you?"
The lips of this most vile of visitors furled back into an internal grin. Too easy. He would turn this pathetic bag of bones into his prophet! Then the words hit him, and suddenly there were stars above him. The simple utterance of this man had forcibly thrown him back out into the street! Now everything burned, and his muscles ached, and his leg didn't want to bend the right way. He hurled a curse and a promise at the door and dragged himself off into the night. Amon Marlowe would be back.
"Hello? Anyone there?" The old priest tottered through the open door. "Hmm. I'll have to get those hinges looked at."
====================
Amon spent the next two weeks eavesdropping and visiting dreams. Turns out everyone loved their decrepit preacher, and that plot of land had been a church for hundreds of years. It might take years to do what he had attempted in one night. Well, it wasn't like he had anyplace else to go. . .
He had started with the dreams. Nightmares of death, blood, and war; the good stuff. The old codger shut that down almost immediately. By the end of the month there were blessed objects on every door, and the ones he had afflicted even had some in the windows. He was quick for an old man.
He tried the temptations. Week after week, he skulked around in the shadows, waiting for missteps.
Week after week, all his progress washed away in the words of blessing from that disgusting priest. He had even gone to the effort of crafting a cursed tome and leaving it where a certain child might find it. They had kept it for a few days, and then rushed to 'Papa Gabe' and told him everything. This would be much harder than anticipated.
He tried bringing in travelers to work with, hoping a few weaker minds might help corrupt the others. It went well at first, with several new families brainwashed to settle down and do business in the area. As the years went by, he started slowly growing a small band of ruffians willing to go along with his plans. Then one by one, they just didn't come. By the end of the decade, every single one of his carefully placed pawns had been stolen away by that doddering gadfly. He was craftier than he let on.
He had grown frustrated. If the old man needed help dying, who was he to argue? He had tried hiring an assassin with what little gold he had accumulated, but no one would take an offer to kill a priest. He had tried arranging 'accidents' as the venerable father visited his growing flock, but the man either had singular luck or uncanny perception.
Amon sighed as he crafted another cursed tome. He was running out of options. If he couldn't turn the townsfolk, and couldn't fight the ancient cleric, there was little more he could do. That old fool just wouldn't die, and his grip on the town was tighter than ever. Normally he would just try to lead them all away to a new town, and start a little cult that way, but this battle was becoming a little too personal.
====================
One night in late summer, as Father Gabriel was coming back from his visitation, a man wrapped in shadow stepped from the side of the road and spoke.
“May I walk with you?”
“I have no objections.” He slowed his pace slightly to get a better look at the figure.
“I have come to seek some advice from what all agree is the wisest man that walks the earth today.” The voice seemed familiar, but Father Gabriel struggled to place it.
“I have only wisdom gained from living, and wisdom gifted from God.”
“Do they ever quarrel, these givers of wisdom?” The question seemed genuine, and it gave him pause.
“Now that is something to ponder.” Their steps fell in unison as the path seemed to grow longer. “I do not think they have, though my younger self would disagree. Some lessons are simply not taught in one lifetime.”
“Then what piece of wisdom would you give a young man seeking a good life?”
“To keep seeking. Not for his own good, but for those he would love, and those that would love him.”
“Some men have seen naught but misery at the hands of their love.”
“And some have seen naught but love in the midst of their misery.” Father Gabriel chuckled. “Love is a hard mistress, and does not always reward those who seek her for themselves.”
“Then what wisdom would you give a man who strives for a goal, yet is always a step short?”
Father Gabriel stopped at the gate of the churchyard. “To you I would say, if it is a goal worthy of striving for, then one step is better than most achieve. There is no shame in the striving, unless you fail to learn from the mistakes along the way.”
“I see.” The figure fell quiet as the venerable shepherd made his way to the church door.
“Blessings. May you find the wisdom you seek.” The figure nodded, and Father Gabriel stepped into the sanctuary.
====================
The two became a familiar sight on the roads. Old ‘Papa Gabe,’ in his robe and flat cap, and the shadow in a cape called Amos. As the years passed, the children began to call him ‘Uncle Amos.’ They pestered him to do his magic tricks as he waited outside for the cleric to see the parishioners. He was always odd, but never unfriendly, and as the years passed, he seemed to grow fond of “the little rats.” He eventually took the position as the manager for the inn, and opened a small bar. It was always clean, and never rowdy. As the decades rolled by, the two became fixtures in the growing city. The Father and his Chapel, The Innkeep and his Inn. Never was one thought of without the other, and that was fine by them.
-----
I would love to hear what kind of character you think this could make.
A caffeinated nerd who has played TTRPGs or a number of years and is very much a fantasy adventure geek.
I presume its for Amon, or Amos.
Infernal warlock, with many faces, not sure starting race.
Depending on how enlightened they have become maybe a level of redemption paladin, or more depending on preference. You have strong core of some kind of corrupt individual finding some kind of redemption from the father. Cleric of some sort could also fit as the redemption side.
Another dark origin option would be shadow sorceror with the paladin still being a viable option, or celestial warlock for the redemption side.
"Where words fail, swords prevail. Where blood is spilled, my cup is filled" -Cartaphilus
"I have found the answer to the meaning of life. You ask me what the answer is? You already know what the answer to life is. You fear it more than the strike of a viper, the ravages of disease, the ire of a lover. The answer is always death. But death is a gentle mistress with a sweet embrace, and you owe her a debt of restitution. Life is not a gift, it is a loan."