I like how I never exactly specified that these had to be incredibly depressing origin stories, merely that the real character had to be working class
And so far we've gotten a waitress/prostitute, a deaf minstrel, a paraplegic orc, a war machine used as a scarecrow, an orphaned 9 year old, and others
GLEE
If it helps, I can add additional background to Rusty.
Rusty is awaken by the noise of Farmer Kragen, clambering back into the farmhouse, full of cheap corn mash and high on pixie dust. Rusty closes his eyes, hoping the farmer will pass out before he remembers the lowly warforged, asleep in his field.
Rusty is snapped back to reality, as he feels Farmer Kragen's rancid breath on his neck..."No, please," Rusty whispers, small oily tears running down his face.
"Shut up. You know you want this," growls Farmer Kragen, and his hands slide down his smooth chassis...
:winky:
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FaranguI am a beardy manWith a beardy planRegistered Userregular
Heh...sorry, long day at work. Was feeling a little punchy
I do find it amusing though, how everyone immiediately went towards very sad and damaged characters for the mundane side. I promise for the second submission to come up with something a little different.
Emma had so little. Her meager collection of coins under a floorboard, the tiny portion of her wages she was allowed to keep. Bors taunted her with this - earn enough coin and you can buy your freedom, he said. This was a cruel joke, she knew from other women working here. Gives Bors your coin and you were unlikely to receive anything in return. Women were born here and they died here. She witnessed it once, the hair was shaved off to be sold to a wigmaker, and the rest was cast aside like so much offal. The woman had been Emma's friend once, but a customer had been too rough with her. He had to pay extra for the damages he incurred.
She had a tiny shard of metal, not large enough to defend herself, but big enough to open her veins. She kept this as a last resort, a final insult to that grotesque man Bors. But she knew she could never really do this.
Her only other posession was a strand of hair from her son. A bastard child, son of a prostitute, one immediately sold into slavery. It gave Bors power over her. Disobey, and he dies. She was able to nurse him for a few weeks and was allowed a rare respite from the customers. It was the happiest time of her life. Then of course he was taken away. And the men returned.
Emma had very little. But she had her dreams. Some would call them nightmares. But they were such aching, gorgeous nightmares. She imagined the men coming into her room and her hatred twisted into a physical, writhing thing that flayed the skin from their bones. She boiled their eyes in their sockets, twisted their organs into grotesque shapes. They died in agony, and it nourished her, made her strong.
Bors. Surely he had a family? He did in Emma's dreams. She killed them one by one in front of Bors and inflicted a black plague upon him which caused his flesh to slowly rot. He would never harm another person. The women she freed looked upon her with awe and fear. This was something she dreamed nearly every night. It was perhaps the only thing that sustained her. When she slept, she was able to cut those who stood between her and her child into ribbons.
Arthur Ramias leaned over his mug of ale, eyes closed. The smell of the brew was pleasingly familiar. Arthur spent a lot of time in this tavern, escaping from his day-to-day work. However, his mind was always active, and no amount of drink could prevent him from remembering exactly how he got here.
--
After the children gathered around the local bard, listening to glorious tales of sword and sorcery against fantastical monsters, most walked away with dreams of become grand knights or feared wizards. Arthur Ramias did not have such ambitions. Instead, from the moment he heard about a warrior drinking a magical potion to cure his wounds, he knew he was destined to become an apothecary. What grand power! To be able to tame the essences of the elements, and even life itself - and to master them, to contain those essences in vials! The other boys could keep their wooden training swords and shields.
While other children played in the streets, he stayed inside to read, picking apart any text he could get his hands on. When he grew older and did his time in the fields, just as all young boys were expected to, he passed the time by dreaming of the day when he would open his own alchemical laboratory. Arthur never lost sight of his dream as he grew into a young man. He became an apprentice to a weaponsmith specializing in crossbows, and made enough money to live comfortably in his village. Still, he saved every piece of copper he could to finance his dream. He married, although Arthur's heart was never convinced. His love of the sciences always came first. His wife would tell others about Arthur's "silly dream", and they would laugh, but she knew that someday Arthur would make a choice.
That choice came when Arthur announced his pilgrimage. The dream of any potential potion-maker worth his residuum was to train under the dwarven artificers in the north. These dwarves weren't known for their generous hospitality, however, and to even be accepted as an apprentice was a great honor. Arthur knew that if he was to make his dream come true, he had to try. His wife tried to convince him that the life he had now was good enough, and that they were happy, but Arthur couldn't truly be happy until he saw this goal through. His wife left him, and with his remaining savings, he sold everything he owned and bought a wagon and supplies. Arthur then headed north.
The dwarves were gruff, but they knew talent when they saw it, and after a grueling initiation process, Arthur Ramias was admitted as an apprentice to the Order of the Iron Flask - the premier league of artificers in the world. There, he was only referred to as Apprentice.
"Apprentice, fetch me those reagents!"
"Apprentice! Mix those two vials, and hurry!"
"Gods be damned, Apprentice, a mistake like that could get someone killed!"
As the weeks turned into months, Apprentice was shortened to the quicker, slurred "Prentiss". Arthur smiled at this name. Soon, he would be the best apothecary there ever was, and he would show them all just how far a "Prentiss" could go. However, potion-making was hard work. Harder than Arthur had ever realized, even with years of reading theories under his belt. After constant mistakes and inaccurate measurements, it became clear the dwarves were less enamored with their human apprentice. Rumors began to fly around the order that their newest member wasn't cut out for the sciences after all.
Arthur knew he had to do something, and soon. One night, he snuck into the laboratory after hours in order to brew a potion all by himself. He had been struggling with a potion the dwarves called "the armor-eater", but the books called it a Rust Bomb. If he could just show them he could make a potion himself, without their guidance, maybe he could stay. A pinch of residuum here, a stir there...Arthur grinned. He could do this. He noticed a tendril of smoke from the vial. That wasn't specified in the recipe, he thought. He leaned over to smell it - and the flash of light was the last thing he could remember.
--
"Sir? Sir? Are you all right sir?"
Arthur opened his eyes and looked straight ahead. "Yes, I'm perfectly fine. I was just finishing up, actually." He felt for his cane leaning against the bar, and tapped out a clear space around the barstool. As Arthur shuffled out of the tavern, his cane probing for the exit, his active mind continued to race. No longer recalling what had happened, however - now he was dreaming of what could have been.
Token:
A little tragic, but hopefully not heartbreakingly sad. This was a lot of fun to put together, and I'll shoot for a second submission before the deadline.
"Hang on a sec... All right. Now drop it in the cauldron."
"Guhbluh?"
"The, uh, the big pot. Put it in the pot."
"UUUuuuuhh."
There is a splash, and the zombie known only as Brains is drenched in a foul smelling liquid. Brains doesn't notice, but the fluid begins eating through his flesh, slowly.
"Eeeexcellent. Now go stand on the cleansing circle, can't have you dissolving, can we?"
"Guhhh?"
"In the name of the- Go stand in the CIRCLE, Brains!"
"Fuuuh."
"Someday I'll wise up and get a LIVING assisstant. But for now you get the pleasure of serving my every whim, Brains. Now stay there. I'm going to bed."
"Guhnuhhh!"
Mafarion the Malevolent scampered out of his laboratory, leaving Brains to stand there, immobile, until he recieved further orders. In this period, images flicker before Brains eyes. He is standing over a defeated enemy, sheathing his greatsword. He is leaping from the shadows, striking down a foe with a single blow. He is disappearing into the night, all but invisible.
"Rise and shine, Brains, more potions to test!"
"S... Sc... Scuh..."
"What? Whats that your mumbling?
"...Uuuhhguhhh."
"Hm. Well, nevermind, then. To work!"
Explanation w/ Personality:
Well, Brains/Scourge is a Human revenant. In reality, he was a revenant who was on the recieving end of some really nasty dark magic, and most of his higher brain functions have been lost. Before this incident, though, he was a surprisingly snarky assassin, who smirked and joked (although, after becoming a revenant, his humor became a tad darker). In his dreams, he is who he once was, Scourge, Assassin of the Raven Queen, the Sneering Killer. Utterly confident in his abilities and in his foes' lack of skill.
Stegra removed herself from society ages ago. She had small talents as a ritualist, but had trouble understanding the subtle interactions of the people around her. She was mousy and ill-groomed and became a constant source of ridicule among her peers. Stegra felt more at home among the small creatures of nature, so as soon as she was able, she moved to the liminal space of the woods near her home.
For years, she was a hermit. She survived the dangers of the woods by knowing when to hide and constantly divining for when perils would close in. Her meager income was gained by performing the occasional ritual for a desperate farmhand or a suspicious housewife. This money was used only for tools she couldn't make herself; the rest was donated to shrines of Sehanine or left under pebbles in small brooks as a gift to the fey who had allowed her to live among them this long.
After 45 years of desolate living, Stegra has lost her mind. She stumbled into a temple of Bahamut a week ago in tatters, asking to speak to the Magpie King.
"He was here last. I see his feather dust. Not everyone can, mind you, but I've been blessed by him. Where's Skitter at? He'll show you. We'll open your eyes young man, like mine have been."
The temple took the mad woman in, but none of their restorative magic seems to be working. She runs up and down the halls, lost in another world; a world that only seems to intensify in her sleep...a sleep filled with excited shouts...a sleep where...
Aemille the Nine Lives has made deals with the Fey Court and lived to tell the tale. Her constant companion is a piece of the essence of the Magpie King named Skitter. Skitter brings her treasures thought long lost, like the Blood Pendant of the Harpy Witch, forgotten in a hollow of a tree in the Churlwood. She has charmed the magistrates of every town on the west coast from Brinewall to Magnimar. Her harp, capable of etherial melody, doubles as a bow that fires magical arrows nearly as sharp as her tongue. There is no skill she can't learn, no knowledge that can ever stay hidden from her, and no man's heart that will not be broken.
Appearance
Stegra is tall and withered. She is hunch-backed and has a wild mane of hair that never seems to stay un-matted for very long. She wears robes provided by the temple, but these robes are always filthy because Stegra likes to root for grubs and proclaim that they are the Silks of Sehanine. Stegra is 60, but appears much older.
Aemille is a short, willowy beauty often mistaken for a half-elf. Her blue eyes are keen and seem to follow several movements at once without ever losing focus. Her armor and clothing is light blue and white. She is quick with a smile or joke and ready to leap into adventure at any moment. She constantly speaks with her Magpie companion, Skitter, who seems content to chirp right back at her.
What She Brings to the Table
Skills, skills, skills! With her Bard of All Trades feat and her present (and future) multiclassing, there isn't a thing that Aemille doesn't have at least some knowledge of. Her average skill ranking is +8. Her Virtue of Prescience will likely negate at least one hit per encounter and her ability to operate at range will let her stay safe as a leader. Inevitable Shot helps to make sure that her critical daily and encounter abilities are not wasted. Arrow of Warning can cause an enemy attack to lead to its own quick demise. Grappling Spirits can aid defenders by disallowing shifts, while Prophesied Strike and Rhyme of the Blood Seeking Blade can nearly guarantee hits. Staggering Note keeps her safely at range along with Jinx Shot. Guided Strike provides a further "buff" by letting her lower a defense of her choice.
Her future feats will be mostly multi-class based allowing her to alternate her secondary role however she sees fit.
“Kriv, more heat!” shouted the master blacksmith
“Yes sir! Everybody…STAND BACK!” came the low growling voice of Kriv as he came out the back of the smithy he worked at. Taking a deep breath Kriv bent at the waist as he tried to unleash giant gout of flame.
Sadly, as with all the other times before, the only thing to leave Kriv’s mouth was hot air…and the only thing that left the other smithy’s mouths was laughter and tears from their eyes.
“Oh my god! I never get tired of that! Now go stoke the flames you scaly bastard!”
Begrudgingly Kriv went over to the master kiln and poked and prodded the coals, so the other blacksmiths could do their job. This was his usual day, he would talk with the customers and try to haggle all the money he could from them, then he would carry all the work that was done to the buyers, and lastly he was the standard shop boy; keeping the heat up in the forge, fetching water, and generally doing what the other smiths wouldn’t do.
As far as Kriv knows he may be the only Dragonborn in the world that can’t breathe fire, or some other kind of elemental blast. He was told as a child that he was a weakling and wouldn’t make it past childhood. All through his childhood Kriv kept trying to belch flames, or shoot lighting, really anything! His father would take him to the backyard so that he could practice, Kriv would stay out there all night long screaming and trying to breathe some sort of flame until his throat was sore and his voice was even more crackly than usual.
As Kriv grew older he knew that he wouldn’t be able to make it in the Dragon Corps, so he left his home and went to the city. A place where he could finally make some money! Unfortunately everybody in the city when they seen a Dragonborn they all want him to do one thing…breathe some fire!
Kriv was finally able to get a job at a smithy were the owner was usually pretty kind, and paid the Dragonborn fairly well, as he was a welcome draw to the customers. After all, he was the only blacksmith in the city that had a Dragonborn. The shop even decided to change their catch line:
Runesmith’s weapons and armor Forged in the flames of a dragon’s breath
When Kriv is done with his shift and he can finally go home to his small shack, with his cot and a small fireplace (that he won’t light until he can do it himself) he dreams of a day when he can belch massive walls of flame, and stride into battle beside his fellow Dragonborn, bolstering their attacks and being a truly effective member of the elite Dragon Corps.
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astrobstrdSo full of mercy...Registered Userregular
You probably cannot find a more universally well-liked soul in all of Hook Mountain than Otis Redbeard. A devout member of the Church of Moradin, Otis is a recently retired stonesmith whose works hold up a great portion of the great hall there. Otis is well-known and well-loved for possessing an unusual dwarven trait -- generousity. He has donated nearly all of his great fortunes to helping the needy of the city and restoring the once defunct Temple of the All-Creating to its ancient glory. His wife Myrna passed away years ago (her image serves as a cornerstone on several structures in the area) and he never remarried. His grown sons joined the army, embracing the military life that the near-pacifist Otis never developed a taste for.
After his retirement, Otis became bored and despondent until he started having a recurring dream. In his dream, he becomes a servant of Moradin who upholds the Dwarven ideal with honor and authority. He is a warrior ready to purge goblins and orcs from the depths of the lost halls and speaks his tough wisdom without regard for the feelings of others. This holy warrior, Zardoun, is willing to sacrifice everything for the glory of his race and his god.
Thanks to the feeling of empowerment from this dream, Otis has re-established contact with his sons, Gyrden and Olaf, and has begun dating again. He feels more self-confident than ever and is learning to balance his needs with the needs of the community and people that he loves.
Appearance
Redbeard is a handsome and charming dwarf. He is in his old age, but still of firm mind and body. His once red beard is now a faded blonde that nears white. He has been bald for a number of years. His clothing is typical of upper-middle class society in Hook Mountain; several layers of light earthy colors for the wild temperature changes on the mountain.
Zardoun is slightly younger, but in many ways resembles Otis. Where Otis's features are soft and inviting though, Zardoun's are hard and stern. He is large for a dwarf, though not necessarily muscular. His beard is braided immaculately and his hair shines with an other-worldly auburn luster.
Role in the Party
Zardoun is a tough controller who can operate equally well from the front or the backlines. His wrath based powers gives enemies a disincentive to target him, while his powers to harry and harass foes insure that they will want to anyway. Astral Wind lets him operate a bit like a warlock, pressing enemies back and punishing them if they step forward. Grasping Shards limits the movement of enemies and can wipe out hordes of minions. Lightning's Revelation drops all enemy defenses by 3, setting up a round of nasty striker and defender powers. Brilliant Beacon is a guaranteed 5 or 10 damage with the potential to stack quite quickly. The zone it leaves behind debuffs not only attacks, but defenses and saves as well. His other area prayer, Wall of Light, can give out THP and AC bonuses for as long as he is willing to sustain it. Falling Leaves deals decent damage in a ranged burst and damages any enemy that ends its turn next to an ally...something any defender in the group in sure to love.
Dude...it sounds like Otis is just going through a mid-life crisis? Did he buy an ultra fast convertable coach with lots of horse power? Has he pulled his hair back into a pony tail?
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astrobstrdSo full of mercy...Registered Userregular
Dude...it sounds like Otis is just going through a mid-life crisis? Did he buy an ultra fast convertable coach with lots of horse power? Has he pulled his hair back into a pony tail?
Well, kind of. He just thinks that these dreams are a little blessing from Moradin to get him involved and interested in life. Other than his wife's passing, which was relatively painless, he hasn't known much tragedy.
Then again, the visions could be coming before the real tragedy strikes. He does have two kids in the military, a nice little nest egg, and a comfy place in society that could come crashing down at any time that Moradin (in his guise as DM) chooses.
...And Otis's preferred method of mid-life crisis coping is dating a young dwarf lady with low self-esteem and daddy issues :P.
Dude...it sounds like Otis is just going through a mid-life crisis? Did he buy an ultra fast convertable coach with lots of horse power? Has he pulled his hair back into a pony tail?
Well, kind of. He just thinks that these dreams are a little blessing from Moradin to get him involved and interested in life. Other than his wife's passing, which was relatively painless, he hasn't known much tragedy.
Then again, the visions could be coming before the real tragedy strikes. He does have two kids in the military, a nice little nest egg, and a comfy place in society that could come crashing down at any time that Moradin (in his guise as DM) chooses.
...And Otis's preferred method of mid-life crisis coping is dating a young dwarf lady with low self-esteem and daddy issues :P.
Dude...it sounds like Otis is just going through a mid-life crisis? Did he buy an ultra fast convertable coach with lots of horse power? Has he pulled his hair back into a pony tail?
Well, kind of. He just thinks that these dreams are a little blessing from Moradin to get him involved and interested in life. Other than his wife's passing, which was relatively painless, he hasn't known much tragedy.
Then again, the visions could be coming before the real tragedy strikes. He does have two kids in the military, a nice little nest egg, and a comfy place in society that could come crashing down at any time that Moradin (in his guise as DM) chooses.
...And Otis's preferred method of mid-life crisis coping is dating a young dwarf lady with low self-esteem and daddy issues :P.
HAWT
Sounds like my last relationship, except for the daddy issues part.
Being a trainee at the monk squadron of the army, Kartosh learned everything he knew about fighting from his masters. He had a great future ahead but there was one obstacle that he couldn't overcome. It was ale, beer, wine, booze, whatever you can get drunk off, Kartosh would love it. His love of brewery finally led him to be kicked out of the army and out to the gold. Determined now to get some money of his own (and maybe some moonshine), he started working at a farm to earn some money.
Personality
Loving the art of brewing alcohol, there is a certainty that if he's in a town, He'll go out of his way to find someone to sell him some liquor. Even after waking up wasted, there is no stopping him trying to find more ways to get intoxicated. However when battle and serious situations occur (one of the most serious are no more beer/alcohol), he gets his head together and shows what the army was looking for. At heart though, he's a decent companion with always a hidden stash of wine (just in case)
And that is Kartosh. Hopefully It's good enough
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FaranguI am a beardy manWith a beardy planRegistered Userregular
edited July 2010
Tomorrow's the big day. Just a quick note - I need to see a character sheet up here by the time I wake up tomorrow, or else you're not in consideration.
Also for consideration, submissions to this point:
Farangu, mind if I contribute a third submission? Just to add to the minuscule numbers of controllers
Edit: I guess I could also just retool Ceana...she already imagines herself as a powerful magic user. So I guess I could just switch her over to a wizard...but they are just SO damn over played
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FaranguI am a beardy manWith a beardy planRegistered Userregular
edited July 2010
No third submissions, but you can change one you've already put in.
Marla Lyne wouldn't call her life a good one, but she wouldn't describe it as bad either. The question had never been posed to her, so she never considered it. Were you to ask her, if you received any answer at all, she would describe her life as a life.
She rises before the sun most mornings, to begin the innumerable chores and tasks that are always present on a farm. Breakfast had to be cooked, the animals tended, milked and fed. In winter her husband rose with her and began chopping wood for the hearth, and together they would work the fields. It was a tough life, but certainly not without its rewards - they went to bed with full bellies and had some money to spend at the stops in town.
Marla had buried three of her children, this was true, and she had wept over their still bodies. It happened in this land, there was always sickness and accidents and dangers that she could not control. Still though, she had the distinct joy to watch five of her children grow to adulthood. She cried with joy as she witnessed her sons grow tall, strong, and handsome, and earned the jealousy of her neighbors when her two daughters became rare beauties. Only her last and youngest daughter remains at the farm, and already suitors are starting to clamor at Marla's door for her hand in marriage.
When Marla retires each evening she does so both exhausted and satisfied. And when she closes her eyes, she dreams...
She is Marla of Light, a stout and powerful woman. Her hair tied in two long braids, she is dressed in shining steel. Her name is whispered to comfort crying children, and men and women pray to her to deliver them from weakness and illness. Marla wields the very light of the gods, and darkness, evil and despair are her enemies.
She seeks to offer succor and comfort to those in need, and to punish the wicked for their transgressions. To describe her as uncompromising would be something of an understatement - her companions know her will and conception of the world be be as flexible as iron. Nonetheless, she is a powerful and valuable ally, and will never abandon those whom she has sworn to protect and serve.
I need to boot over to windows to use the character creator so I can post stats in an hour or so
Rickard always wondered what it would like to be big. He always had plenty of time to think, as being an alchemist involves a lot of careful planning, followed by a lot of sitting around waiting for the result.
For as long as he could remember, he was the smallest person he knew, even among his family. He always thought that someday, he would at least find someone his age that was shorter. He continued gazing inwardly while the pinkish thing on the braizer in front of him burbled higher and higher.
Being an alchemist is no job for someone of my, *sigh*, stature, he thought. I wish I had could be outside right now, doing something, anything, other than staring at a potion. I wish I could really be that hero I keep dreaming about.
When Rickard went home that night, he reflected on how sad it was to look forward more to sleeping more than being awake.
Ah well...he thought, at least I'm not like that bum I saw earlier today, or drunk in some bar, or dirty all the time. I really have it alright compared to some other people. What's the harm in a few dreams?
Sinhammer always wondered what it would like to be small. He didn't wonder about too many things, but this kept coming back to him, slowly picking its way through his brain.
For as long as he could remember, he towered over everyone his age, and quickly grew to do the same to everyone else. Nobody ever gave him any trouble...at least not for long.
Sinhammer's musings were interrupted by the sound of a human yelling "Hey! Stop! Thief!" and the sight of two more young humans running past him in the street.
His hands shot out and grabbed each of them by their shirts (such as they were). "So, hatchlings," he boomed, "What is going on here?"
"Er, nothin', sir, we was just goin' to uh, give them apples right back to the nice shopkeeper there-"
"Them's THIEVES!," the shopkeeper shouted as he plodded up the street.
"OHO! THIEVES, eh? Well, young ones like you can't be allowed to start on a life of CRIME!" Sinhammer pulled them to the side of the street.
"Now wait just a minute, uh, sir..." the shopkeeper said.
Sinhammer turned his gaze on him. "SIR, I am about to teach these hatchlings about the justice and goodness of BAHAMUT! Only the most DIRE circumstances take precedence over such a VITALLY important lesson in the life of a hatchling!"
"Uh..."
Sinhammer turned his head back around to the two boys still in his grasp. "Now, listen, for I will tell you of the Platinum Dragon and his endless quest for JUSTICE!"
Oblivious to the incredulous stares of everyone within earshot (quite a long way), he began to do, to the boys' increasing horror, just what he said he would.
That evening, as he let the boys go, he said "Well, hatchlings, what have we LEARNED today?"
They replied, "That Bahamut is the best god ever."
"And?"
"That justice and honor are the best things ever."
"GOOD!"
Smiling to himself, Sinhammer got up and looked for another wrong to right.
Posts
If it helps, I can add additional background to Rusty.
Rusty is snapped back to reality, as he feels Farmer Kragen's rancid breath on his neck..."No, please," Rusty whispers, small oily tears running down his face.
"Shut up. You know you want this," growls Farmer Kragen, and his hands slide down his smooth chassis...
:winky:
Chicago Megagame group
Watch me struggle to learn streaming! Point and laugh!
I do find it amusing though, how everyone immiediately went towards very sad and damaged characters for the mundane side. I promise for the second submission to come up with something a little different.
Will hopefully be uploading more background tonight.
Emma, the Half elf dark pact warlock.
She had a tiny shard of metal, not large enough to defend herself, but big enough to open her veins. She kept this as a last resort, a final insult to that grotesque man Bors. But she knew she could never really do this.
Her only other posession was a strand of hair from her son. A bastard child, son of a prostitute, one immediately sold into slavery. It gave Bors power over her. Disobey, and he dies. She was able to nurse him for a few weeks and was allowed a rare respite from the customers. It was the happiest time of her life. Then of course he was taken away. And the men returned.
Emma had very little. But she had her dreams. Some would call them nightmares. But they were such aching, gorgeous nightmares. She imagined the men coming into her room and her hatred twisted into a physical, writhing thing that flayed the skin from their bones. She boiled their eyes in their sockets, twisted their organs into grotesque shapes. They died in agony, and it nourished her, made her strong.
Bors. Surely he had a family? He did in Emma's dreams. She killed them one by one in front of Bors and inflicted a black plague upon him which caused his flesh to slowly rot. He would never harm another person. The women she freed looked upon her with awe and fear. This was something she dreamed nearly every night. It was perhaps the only thing that sustained her. When she slept, she was able to cut those who stood between her and her child into ribbons.
Introducing Prentiss, Human Artificer
Background:
--
After the children gathered around the local bard, listening to glorious tales of sword and sorcery against fantastical monsters, most walked away with dreams of become grand knights or feared wizards. Arthur Ramias did not have such ambitions. Instead, from the moment he heard about a warrior drinking a magical potion to cure his wounds, he knew he was destined to become an apothecary. What grand power! To be able to tame the essences of the elements, and even life itself - and to master them, to contain those essences in vials! The other boys could keep their wooden training swords and shields.
While other children played in the streets, he stayed inside to read, picking apart any text he could get his hands on. When he grew older and did his time in the fields, just as all young boys were expected to, he passed the time by dreaming of the day when he would open his own alchemical laboratory. Arthur never lost sight of his dream as he grew into a young man. He became an apprentice to a weaponsmith specializing in crossbows, and made enough money to live comfortably in his village. Still, he saved every piece of copper he could to finance his dream. He married, although Arthur's heart was never convinced. His love of the sciences always came first. His wife would tell others about Arthur's "silly dream", and they would laugh, but she knew that someday Arthur would make a choice.
That choice came when Arthur announced his pilgrimage. The dream of any potential potion-maker worth his residuum was to train under the dwarven artificers in the north. These dwarves weren't known for their generous hospitality, however, and to even be accepted as an apprentice was a great honor. Arthur knew that if he was to make his dream come true, he had to try. His wife tried to convince him that the life he had now was good enough, and that they were happy, but Arthur couldn't truly be happy until he saw this goal through. His wife left him, and with his remaining savings, he sold everything he owned and bought a wagon and supplies. Arthur then headed north.
The dwarves were gruff, but they knew talent when they saw it, and after a grueling initiation process, Arthur Ramias was admitted as an apprentice to the Order of the Iron Flask - the premier league of artificers in the world. There, he was only referred to as Apprentice.
"Apprentice, fetch me those reagents!"
"Apprentice! Mix those two vials, and hurry!"
"Gods be damned, Apprentice, a mistake like that could get someone killed!"
As the weeks turned into months, Apprentice was shortened to the quicker, slurred "Prentiss". Arthur smiled at this name. Soon, he would be the best apothecary there ever was, and he would show them all just how far a "Prentiss" could go. However, potion-making was hard work. Harder than Arthur had ever realized, even with years of reading theories under his belt. After constant mistakes and inaccurate measurements, it became clear the dwarves were less enamored with their human apprentice. Rumors began to fly around the order that their newest member wasn't cut out for the sciences after all.
Arthur knew he had to do something, and soon. One night, he snuck into the laboratory after hours in order to brew a potion all by himself. He had been struggling with a potion the dwarves called "the armor-eater", but the books called it a Rust Bomb. If he could just show them he could make a potion himself, without their guidance, maybe he could stay. A pinch of residuum here, a stir there...Arthur grinned. He could do this. He noticed a tendril of smoke from the vial. That wasn't specified in the recipe, he thought. He leaned over to smell it - and the flash of light was the last thing he could remember.
--
"Sir? Sir? Are you all right sir?"
Arthur opened his eyes and looked straight ahead. "Yes, I'm perfectly fine. I was just finishing up, actually." He felt for his cane leaning against the bar, and tapped out a clear space around the barstool. As Arthur shuffled out of the tavern, his cane probing for the exit, his active mind continued to race. No longer recalling what had happened, however - now he was dreaming of what could have been.
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no that's just the character concept I can make a sheet tonight
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Emma the Half Elf dark pact warlock
http://4e.orokos.com/sheets/2269
Backstory:
"Bluuuhhh"
"Hold this."
"Buh"
"Hang on a sec... All right. Now drop it in the cauldron."
"Guhbluh?"
"The, uh, the big pot. Put it in the pot."
"UUUuuuuhh."
There is a splash, and the zombie known only as Brains is drenched in a foul smelling liquid. Brains doesn't notice, but the fluid begins eating through his flesh, slowly.
"Eeeexcellent. Now go stand on the cleansing circle, can't have you dissolving, can we?"
"Guhhh?"
"In the name of the- Go stand in the CIRCLE, Brains!"
"Fuuuh."
"Someday I'll wise up and get a LIVING assisstant. But for now you get the pleasure of serving my every whim, Brains. Now stay there. I'm going to bed."
"Guhnuhhh!"
Mafarion the Malevolent scampered out of his laboratory, leaving Brains to stand there, immobile, until he recieved further orders. In this period, images flicker before Brains eyes. He is standing over a defeated enemy, sheathing his greatsword. He is leaping from the shadows, striking down a foe with a single blow. He is disappearing into the night, all but invisible.
"Rise and shine, Brains, more potions to test!"
"S... Sc... Scuh..."
"What? Whats that your mumbling?
"...Uuuhhguhhh."
"Hm. Well, nevermind, then. To work!"
Explanation w/ Personality:
I hope this proves acceptable!
Stegra the Hag
who dreams of
Aemille De Suvair, The Nine Lives. Human Prescient Bard.
Images:
Stegra
Aemille
Background:
For years, she was a hermit. She survived the dangers of the woods by knowing when to hide and constantly divining for when perils would close in. Her meager income was gained by performing the occasional ritual for a desperate farmhand or a suspicious housewife. This money was used only for tools she couldn't make herself; the rest was donated to shrines of Sehanine or left under pebbles in small brooks as a gift to the fey who had allowed her to live among them this long.
After 45 years of desolate living, Stegra has lost her mind. She stumbled into a temple of Bahamut a week ago in tatters, asking to speak to the Magpie King.
"He was here last. I see his feather dust. Not everyone can, mind you, but I've been blessed by him. Where's Skitter at? He'll show you. We'll open your eyes young man, like mine have been."
The temple took the mad woman in, but none of their restorative magic seems to be working. She runs up and down the halls, lost in another world; a world that only seems to intensify in her sleep...a sleep filled with excited shouts...a sleep where...
Aemille the Nine Lives has made deals with the Fey Court and lived to tell the tale. Her constant companion is a piece of the essence of the Magpie King named Skitter. Skitter brings her treasures thought long lost, like the Blood Pendant of the Harpy Witch, forgotten in a hollow of a tree in the Churlwood. She has charmed the magistrates of every town on the west coast from Brinewall to Magnimar. Her harp, capable of etherial melody, doubles as a bow that fires magical arrows nearly as sharp as her tongue. There is no skill she can't learn, no knowledge that can ever stay hidden from her, and no man's heart that will not be broken.
Appearance
Aemille is a short, willowy beauty often mistaken for a half-elf. Her blue eyes are keen and seem to follow several movements at once without ever losing focus. Her armor and clothing is light blue and white. She is quick with a smile or joke and ready to leap into adventure at any moment. She constantly speaks with her Magpie companion, Skitter, who seems content to chirp right back at her.
What She Brings to the Table
Her future feats will be mostly multi-class based allowing her to alternate her secondary role however she sees fit.
So here we go, I give unto you:
Kriv Markov
Background:
“Yes sir! Everybody…STAND BACK!” came the low growling voice of Kriv as he came out the back of the smithy he worked at. Taking a deep breath Kriv bent at the waist as he tried to unleash giant gout of flame.
Sadly, as with all the other times before, the only thing to leave Kriv’s mouth was hot air…and the only thing that left the other smithy’s mouths was laughter and tears from their eyes.
“Oh my god! I never get tired of that! Now go stoke the flames you scaly bastard!”
Begrudgingly Kriv went over to the master kiln and poked and prodded the coals, so the other blacksmiths could do their job. This was his usual day, he would talk with the customers and try to haggle all the money he could from them, then he would carry all the work that was done to the buyers, and lastly he was the standard shop boy; keeping the heat up in the forge, fetching water, and generally doing what the other smiths wouldn’t do.
As far as Kriv knows he may be the only Dragonborn in the world that can’t breathe fire, or some other kind of elemental blast. He was told as a child that he was a weakling and wouldn’t make it past childhood. All through his childhood Kriv kept trying to belch flames, or shoot lighting, really anything! His father would take him to the backyard so that he could practice, Kriv would stay out there all night long screaming and trying to breathe some sort of flame until his throat was sore and his voice was even more crackly than usual.
As Kriv grew older he knew that he wouldn’t be able to make it in the Dragon Corps, so he left his home and went to the city. A place where he could finally make some money! Unfortunately everybody in the city when they seen a Dragonborn they all want him to do one thing…breathe some fire!
Kriv was finally able to get a job at a smithy were the owner was usually pretty kind, and paid the Dragonborn fairly well, as he was a welcome draw to the customers. After all, he was the only blacksmith in the city that had a Dragonborn. The shop even decided to change their catch line:
Runesmith’s weapons and armor
Forged in the flames of a dragon’s breath
When Kriv is done with his shift and he can finally go home to his small shack, with his cot and a small fireplace (that he won’t light until he can do it himself) he dreams of a day when he can belch massive walls of flame, and stride into battle beside his fellow Dragonborn, bolstering their attacks and being a truly effective member of the elite Dragon Corps.
Otis Redbeard the Timid
who dreams of
Zardoun Ironhides, Dwarven Wrathful Invoker of Moradin.
Images:
Redbeard
Zardoun
Background
After his retirement, Otis became bored and despondent until he started having a recurring dream. In his dream, he becomes a servant of Moradin who upholds the Dwarven ideal with honor and authority. He is a warrior ready to purge goblins and orcs from the depths of the lost halls and speaks his tough wisdom without regard for the feelings of others. This holy warrior, Zardoun, is willing to sacrifice everything for the glory of his race and his god.
Thanks to the feeling of empowerment from this dream, Otis has re-established contact with his sons, Gyrden and Olaf, and has begun dating again. He feels more self-confident than ever and is learning to balance his needs with the needs of the community and people that he loves.
Appearance
Zardoun is slightly younger, but in many ways resembles Otis. Where Otis's features are soft and inviting though, Zardoun's are hard and stern. He is large for a dwarf, though not necessarily muscular. His beard is braided immaculately and his hair shines with an other-worldly auburn luster.
Role in the Party
Well, kind of. He just thinks that these dreams are a little blessing from Moradin to get him involved and interested in life. Other than his wife's passing, which was relatively painless, he hasn't known much tragedy.
Then again, the visions could be coming before the real tragedy strikes. He does have two kids in the military, a nice little nest egg, and a comfy place in society that could come crashing down at any time that Moradin (in his guise as DM) chooses.
...And Otis's preferred method of mid-life crisis coping is dating a young dwarf lady with low self-esteem and daddy issues :P.
HAWT
Sounds like my last relationship, except for the daddy issues part.
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Picture:
Background:
Personality
And that is Kartosh. Hopefully It's good enough
Also for consideration, submissions to this point:
Controllers:
Nasir, Tiefling Psion - lodwilk
Zardoun Ironhides, Dwarf Invoker - astrobstrd
Defenders:
Laineth the Free, Half-Elf Battlemind - delroland
Gurk, Half-Orc Fighter - licwidcake
Tristan, Human Fighter - Razorwired(Need sheet)
The General, Warforged Warden - ironzerg
Owen, Human Paladin - KamikazeCommunist
Korsahn The Valiant, Human Paladin - Korsahn
Strikers:
Thoradin, Dwarven Barbarian - KamikazeCommuist
Ceana The Wise, Eladrin Sorcerer - Crimson Phantom
Gwyn-Lai, Genasi Monk - Rainfall
Pieter Jaeger, Human Rogue - licwidcake
The Feathered Maiden of Riddleport, Human Rogue - Interrobang
Searus Lightstep, Elf Assassin - Woogity
Chant, Tiefling Warlock - Alphaboomerang
Emma, Half-elf Warlock - Casual Eddy
Scourge, Revenant Assassin - Alphaboomerang
Kartosh, Human Monk - Eriec
Leaders:
Prentiss, Human Artificer - Zaximus
Aemille, Human Bard - astrobstrd
Kriv Markov, Dragonborn Ardent - Crimson Phantom
??:Naell The Deaf - Foolish Chaos(Need sheet)
...Damn. I know strikers are usually over-represented, but that's a little ridiculous.
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Edit: I guess I could also just retool Ceana...she already imagines herself as a powerful magic user. So I guess I could just switch her over to a wizard...but they are just SO damn over played
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And unfortunately I am going to probably be gone this next week or two so Naell will have to keep dreamin'.
Henry Teach, human cutthroat
the game assassino_O
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Marla of Light, Human Cleric
She rises before the sun most mornings, to begin the innumerable chores and tasks that are always present on a farm. Breakfast had to be cooked, the animals tended, milked and fed. In winter her husband rose with her and began chopping wood for the hearth, and together they would work the fields. It was a tough life, but certainly not without its rewards - they went to bed with full bellies and had some money to spend at the stops in town.
Marla had buried three of her children, this was true, and she had wept over their still bodies. It happened in this land, there was always sickness and accidents and dangers that she could not control. Still though, she had the distinct joy to watch five of her children grow to adulthood. She cried with joy as she witnessed her sons grow tall, strong, and handsome, and earned the jealousy of her neighbors when her two daughters became rare beauties. Only her last and youngest daughter remains at the farm, and already suitors are starting to clamor at Marla's door for her hand in marriage.
When Marla retires each evening she does so both exhausted and satisfied. And when she closes her eyes, she dreams...
She is Marla of Light, a stout and powerful woman. Her hair tied in two long braids, she is dressed in shining steel. Her name is whispered to comfort crying children, and men and women pray to her to deliver them from weakness and illness. Marla wields the very light of the gods, and darkness, evil and despair are her enemies.
She seeks to offer succor and comfort to those in need, and to punish the wicked for their transgressions. To describe her as uncompromising would be something of an understatement - her companions know her will and conception of the world be be as flexible as iron. Nonetheless, she is a powerful and valuable ally, and will never abandon those whom she has sworn to protect and serve.
I need to boot over to windows to use the character creator so I can post stats in an hour or so
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Just a reminder, if you don't have a sheet in here by the time I wake up and close the subs, you won't be considered.
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I get:
- Two rituals for free.
- I make magic items as if I were 4 levels higher.
- Make Whole for free once a day.
Also, they're my first real D&D characters.
Also also, super late submission!
Rickard Millstone, halfling alchemist's apprentice
Rickard always wondered what it would like to be big. He always had plenty of time to think, as being an alchemist involves a lot of careful planning, followed by a lot of sitting around waiting for the result.
For as long as he could remember, he was the smallest person he knew, even among his family. He always thought that someday, he would at least find someone his age that was shorter. He continued gazing inwardly while the pinkish thing on the braizer in front of him burbled higher and higher.
Being an alchemist is no job for someone of my, *sigh*, stature, he thought. I wish I had could be outside right now, doing something, anything, other than staring at a potion. I wish I could really be that hero I keep dreaming about.
When Rickard went home that night, he reflected on how sad it was to look forward more to sleeping more than being awake.
Ah well...he thought, at least I'm not like that bum I saw earlier today, or drunk in some bar, or dirty all the time. I really have it alright compared to some other people. What's the harm in a few dreams?
Zanben "Sinhammer" Stormtooth, dragonborn paladin of Bahamut
For as long as he could remember, he towered over everyone his age, and quickly grew to do the same to everyone else. Nobody ever gave him any trouble...at least not for long.
Sinhammer's musings were interrupted by the sound of a human yelling "Hey! Stop! Thief!" and the sight of two more young humans running past him in the street.
His hands shot out and grabbed each of them by their shirts (such as they were). "So, hatchlings," he boomed, "What is going on here?"
"Er, nothin', sir, we was just goin' to uh, give them apples right back to the nice shopkeeper there-"
"Them's THIEVES!," the shopkeeper shouted as he plodded up the street.
"OHO! THIEVES, eh? Well, young ones like you can't be allowed to start on a life of CRIME!" Sinhammer pulled them to the side of the street.
"Now wait just a minute, uh, sir..." the shopkeeper said.
Sinhammer turned his gaze on him. "SIR, I am about to teach these hatchlings about the justice and goodness of BAHAMUT! Only the most DIRE circumstances take precedence over such a VITALLY important lesson in the life of a hatchling!"
"Uh..."
Sinhammer turned his head back around to the two boys still in his grasp. "Now, listen, for I will tell you of the Platinum Dragon and his endless quest for JUSTICE!"
Oblivious to the incredulous stares of everyone within earshot (quite a long way), he began to do, to the boys' increasing horror, just what he said he would.
That evening, as he let the boys go, he said "Well, hatchlings, what have we LEARNED today?"
They replied, "That Bahamut is the best god ever."
"And?"
"That justice and honor are the best things ever."
"GOOD!"
Smiling to himself, Sinhammer got up and looked for another wrong to right.
That has to count for something.
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