OKay this is not going to be your typical story hour. More a collection of Cut Scenes and little bits of role-playing, plus some updates on my players progress. It's more a central repository for me to put down what's going on. Feel free to read, enjoy and comment as you wish.
So we started playing a while ago, for most of us this is our first foray into 4th edition DnD. We are playing the game online, using maptools and skype. But the biggest challenge is getting a time when everyone can play as we straddle 3 different time zones. Stupid life, thinks it's so cool. So, we've played 7 online sessions up to this point over several months and from this point on I hope to run a more regular game.
In the meantime, I've started up an in character e-mail thread where between sessions the characters can interact with each other and NPC's so that we can get the feeling of progressing the game outside of the session and it allows us to keep things fresh in our mind.
Also, my wife played in the first couple of sessions (goliath sorcerer) and then had to drop out due to being incredibly busy with work so we added an extra player in the middle.
So hopefully at this point we'll have hit our stride, worked out all our technical bugs and keep on pushing the eberron game forward.
I also still need a good title for my campaign.
Character Backgrounds
Grayos
Greetings, to whoever may be reading this. I am Harrag, a goblin lorekeeper for the Daughters of Sora Kell. This is, most likely, the last time I get to perform any sort of cognitive thinking before having my internals feasted upon or my mind splintered into 8 different sparks to give sentience to some aberrant creation of one of the “scientists” working within the capital. What can I say? Speaking against the will of the Daughters is folly, even if it is simply to warn them of some pretty ominous signs, ones that don’t bode well for them. So since they’d rather put me to death, I’ll write this down and hope that it gets to someone who will listen and warn the Daughters appropriately… or let them fall.
I suppose an explanation is needed. Fierna, the archdevil of Phlegethos, rules with her father Belial as counsel. Stygia, the hell below Phlegethos, is ruled by Levistus, an archdevil imprisoned in glacier for rebellion against Asmodeus. I’m sure merely writing their names to parchment furthers my death, but it’s important someone knows. Fierna, in a bout of unholy carnal pleasure, finds a way to Levistus, with whom she is forbidden to contact as Belial schemes to overthrow Levistus. When Belial learns of the unholy spawn that has been brought forth between Fierna and Levistus, he snatches the abomination and performs a blasphemous ritual to destroy it.
One cannot destroy such a being so easily, even if it’s the Lord of Secrets attempting to do so. Maybe a being of pure goodness could do it. Perhaps a deity of the Sovereign Host. However, Belial only succeeded in pushing the being to a far corner of the multiverse. So far and remote that no individual being, primordial or deity, has taken note. Most likely as they do not dream, merely us mortals. That is how I found out about this creature. You see, a child was born in the capital several years ago, a child with a strange mark. The mother was as boring as anything, a simple human from one of the nomadic tribes who died shortly after birth. The father was, to no one’s surprise, unknown. I was petitioned to research this mark in attempts to see if this was related to the Draconic Prophecies. Maybe the Daughters could use that as leverage, politically. I could have cared less, because studying this mark became fascinating. However, no books, tomes, or texts had anything on it, nothing. I was worried that I could not come up with a meaningful answer to my requestors regarding this plainly important and prophetic mark. That is until my obsessions lead to dreams.
My dreams took me to the most remote corner of the plane of Dreams, a place where no immortal has traveled, where only one would be banished. The blasphemous spawn visited me there, and my dreams turned to nightmares of the kind never recorded. In these nightmares I was shown things no denizen of Khorvaire should ever see, things that would break one’s mind. I’m not entirely sure I’m all sane as I write this. And so, amongst all these horrid, vivid, vibrant scenes of macabre and madness, I am shown the answer.
The mark of the child is where this devil of madness reached through the dreams of the mother and touched him. This child has been physically touched and warped by the influence of a devil mired in nightmares. I have no illusions that this child could spell devastation for the Daughters of Sora Kell, or domination, or any number of things. Such is the unpredictable nature of a nightmare incarnate.
Mathas
The low din of thunder rolls in the recesses of my mind…. Sounds of battle rage on in memory…. Yet, the only thing I can truly feel is the divine hand of Dol Arrah on my heart, sheltering me, as he has for lifetimes upon lifetimes.
Warmth.
Warmth is always the first sensation. It was no different this time as I awoke in the holy shrine of my creator, Dol Arrah, in a place unknown to me. Naked and alone, images flash in my mind of my previous life.
The Last War… Warforged armies... The Mournland… The hosts of undead… No escape… A brilliant flash of light.
So, I must have died, again.
Listening about me, there is only the sound of wind in the trees outside, so I focus my thoughts inward and meditate, giving thanks to Dol Arrah and beseeching the knowledge of what I must do now.
It was then that I met Ancorite Josef, a decrepit old man, and hermit, in service to The Sovereign Host, who knew me for what I was. He didn't speak to me then, only made himself busy finding clothing and food for me. It was only later that I found he lived here alone, tending this shrine among the trees of the forest near Woodhelm in Breland.
For a time, I made myself useful to Josef. We discussed war, and regaled in tales of honor and selflessness, the battles of The Last War, and my part as a soldier, and his as a commander. He showed me his armor and weapon, scarred with years of use, now covered in dust.
I spent nearly two years with Josef there caring for the shrine, learning and teaching as I could. It was during my daily devotion that my eyes and mind were opened to my purpose.
Vol… Abominations… Evil… Death….
I struggle with the information in my head, but slowly the fight shifts, and vengeance takes its place. The face of a creature, surely dead, fills my vision, white points of light peer into my very soul. I call to Dol Arrah for strength, and I know that this thing cannot touch me. I hear a whisper of a name, but cannot remember it.
Opening my eyes, I stand quickly. Josef asks what I'll need and I turn to his sword, a monstrous thing of steel. He nods, and retrieves it for me. After a moment of prayer, I leave the shrine, with the clothes on my back, sword, and a week of supplies; the whisper in my head becoming louder and more persistent as my heart beat thrums along side it.
Erandis d'Vol
*Thump Thump*
Erandis d'Vol
*Thump Thump*
Erandis d'Vol
*THUMP THUMP*
Tor
Tor's background has been filled with the blood of his family and friends. It is because of that he is the Shifter his is today.
Years ago his clans had occupied a coastal portion of Xen'drik in hopes to trade with the Drow and live their lives on a land as savage as them. The Drow had "played" along as they were more curious about Shifters on their lands and sought to know more …but when the curiosity wore off they eradicated the entire settlement. Unbeknownst to them was young Tor, not more than 8 summers, was fishing at sea.
Tor saw the smoke from the sea and began to return. With his keen eyes he saw the devastation of the settlement and waited till dark to return. When he returned everything was in ruin. There were so many dead if was hard to tell if any could have survived. In his anger he gave into his primal rage when he noticed two Drow scavenging amongst the dead. His attack was so furious that the Drow were unable to defend themselves against the savage Shifter child. Before he could morn the dead he noticed that more Drow were returning and took his fishing boat out to sea to escape.
It is difficult for even a skilled fisherman to survive in the oceans as he floated for many days until he was fortunately pick up by a trading vessel. It was there a female Half-Orc named Bre'al began to take care of him as her own. She returned with him to her homeland of the Shadow Marches. For many summers until he was 19, she would teach him to embrace his primal side, swordsmanship and to focus his rage.
She never talked about her past and when he would ask it brought great sadness to her face. He would wonder what could cause such emotion. She once told him that her dealings in acquisitions has lead to strained relationships in the very cutthroat business.
One night he returned to find her brutally murdered and an unknown symbol scribed in her blood on the wall. But the fact that another that he loved has died was more than he could deal with. He buried her and this time he could at least morn over her body. He left the Shadow Marches with only his battleaxe, his shield, a parchment with an unknown symbol on it …and his rage.
Valwryn
Vralwyn of the Valenar -- Elven Ranger
The humans of Breland call us mad. I say it is the humans who are mad. It is they after all who call it the Last War. Can there ever be a last war? Surely it is madness to think so. Surely it is madness to claim that the five nations can ever live in harmony again. They have tasted glory. They have tasted power, and though they talk of peace, they scheme and plot to claim all of Khorvaire for themselves. In the marketplace, they greet each other with false smiles and talk of trade, and yet on the roads they hire us to raid and plunder each other. Surely it is madness to pretend this is peace?
We Valenar know better. There will come a time when all races are once again tested in battle. We shall be ready. We shall not be found wanting. On that day, I know the name of Vralwyn shall be known to all Valenar. I shall take my place among the honored ancestors and prove myself worthy of remembrance. Until then, I wait and find what glory I can among the deceitful diplomats who call themselves a nation.
There is always work to do in this supposed time of peace. There is always someone who needs to be found and his bounty collected. There are secrets to be scouted out and adventures to be had. I am glad for their gold, but more glad of the glory. I shall not rest until every bard knows my tale and my name is spoken in honor. You laugh and think me mad. Perhaps it is so, but all truth was once madness. My mad truth merely awaits to be born.
Graelen
Graelen, Human Warlord
He had thought his life was over for sure. The Elf stood above him as he lay on his back, his sword a mere inches from his outstretched grasp. The sound of the battle, that seemed so deafening moments earlier, had all but disappeared as he tried to focus his eyes through the thick, acrid smoke of the burning building. He finally found the face of his soon to be maker. The elf had a calm look to him, his eyes cold and focused. The blood dripped onto Graelen's chest from the brilliantly shiny steel blade of the long sword, now held high over the Elf's head. As the sword arched down towards him he thought it comical that life did indeed flash before your eyes moments before you meet your end.
He remembered his hometown of Moonwatch, in Breland. And of the day he found out he was an orphan, raised by his Aunt and Uncle as one of their own. He still knew nothing of his heritage as his family refused to speak of it.
He recalled his first kiss. A schoolmate by the name of Glorinda. Oh how his friends had teased him!
He remembered the day he joined " Krendall's Hundred ", the mercenary band named after it's leader. How naive he was and so full exitemnt!
He thought back to his first kill. A stinking Kobold he had impaled with his war pick. He had finally felt like one of his fellow brothers in arms!
He couldn't forget his first women. A whore named Mirabelle at an establishment called the " Divine Ambrosia ".
Now, as he sat quietly on the train, remembering, he realized how lucky he was to be alive. As the Elven blade began it's descent, a crossbow bolt ripped open half of the Elf's throat and the blade had fallen harmlessly to the side, dead before he hit the ground. Graelen managed to collect himself and resume the fight.
Although they were victorious that day, losses were heavy. Over half of their number had perished, all good men. Graelen couldn't help but think that he should have been among them.
So here he was, a week later, on a train bound for Wroat. He had been one of five men charged with finding new recruits to replenish the band. He had found a few good prospects in Sharn and hoped his trip to Wroat would be as fortuitous...
So we started playing a while ago, for most of us this is our first foray into 4th edition DnD. We are playing the game online, using maptools and skype. But the biggest challenge is getting a time when everyone can play as we straddle 3 different time zones. Stupid life, thinks it's so cool. So, we've played 7 online sessions up to this point over several months and from this point on I hope to run a more regular game.
In the meantime, I've started up an in character e-mail thread where between sessions the characters can interact with each other and NPC's so that we can get the feeling of progressing the game outside of the session and it allows us to keep things fresh in our mind.
Also, my wife played in the first couple of sessions (goliath sorcerer) and then had to drop out due to being incredibly busy with work so we added an extra player in the middle.
So hopefully at this point we'll have hit our stride, worked out all our technical bugs and keep on pushing the eberron game forward.
I also still need a good title for my campaign.
Character Backgrounds
Grayos
Greetings, to whoever may be reading this. I am Harrag, a goblin lorekeeper for the Daughters of Sora Kell. This is, most likely, the last time I get to perform any sort of cognitive thinking before having my internals feasted upon or my mind splintered into 8 different sparks to give sentience to some aberrant creation of one of the “scientists” working within the capital. What can I say? Speaking against the will of the Daughters is folly, even if it is simply to warn them of some pretty ominous signs, ones that don’t bode well for them. So since they’d rather put me to death, I’ll write this down and hope that it gets to someone who will listen and warn the Daughters appropriately… or let them fall.
I suppose an explanation is needed. Fierna, the archdevil of Phlegethos, rules with her father Belial as counsel. Stygia, the hell below Phlegethos, is ruled by Levistus, an archdevil imprisoned in glacier for rebellion against Asmodeus. I’m sure merely writing their names to parchment furthers my death, but it’s important someone knows. Fierna, in a bout of unholy carnal pleasure, finds a way to Levistus, with whom she is forbidden to contact as Belial schemes to overthrow Levistus. When Belial learns of the unholy spawn that has been brought forth between Fierna and Levistus, he snatches the abomination and performs a blasphemous ritual to destroy it.
One cannot destroy such a being so easily, even if it’s the Lord of Secrets attempting to do so. Maybe a being of pure goodness could do it. Perhaps a deity of the Sovereign Host. However, Belial only succeeded in pushing the being to a far corner of the multiverse. So far and remote that no individual being, primordial or deity, has taken note. Most likely as they do not dream, merely us mortals. That is how I found out about this creature. You see, a child was born in the capital several years ago, a child with a strange mark. The mother was as boring as anything, a simple human from one of the nomadic tribes who died shortly after birth. The father was, to no one’s surprise, unknown. I was petitioned to research this mark in attempts to see if this was related to the Draconic Prophecies. Maybe the Daughters could use that as leverage, politically. I could have cared less, because studying this mark became fascinating. However, no books, tomes, or texts had anything on it, nothing. I was worried that I could not come up with a meaningful answer to my requestors regarding this plainly important and prophetic mark. That is until my obsessions lead to dreams.
My dreams took me to the most remote corner of the plane of Dreams, a place where no immortal has traveled, where only one would be banished. The blasphemous spawn visited me there, and my dreams turned to nightmares of the kind never recorded. In these nightmares I was shown things no denizen of Khorvaire should ever see, things that would break one’s mind. I’m not entirely sure I’m all sane as I write this. And so, amongst all these horrid, vivid, vibrant scenes of macabre and madness, I am shown the answer.
The mark of the child is where this devil of madness reached through the dreams of the mother and touched him. This child has been physically touched and warped by the influence of a devil mired in nightmares. I have no illusions that this child could spell devastation for the Daughters of Sora Kell, or domination, or any number of things. Such is the unpredictable nature of a nightmare incarnate.
Mathas
The low din of thunder rolls in the recesses of my mind…. Sounds of battle rage on in memory…. Yet, the only thing I can truly feel is the divine hand of Dol Arrah on my heart, sheltering me, as he has for lifetimes upon lifetimes.
Warmth.
Warmth is always the first sensation. It was no different this time as I awoke in the holy shrine of my creator, Dol Arrah, in a place unknown to me. Naked and alone, images flash in my mind of my previous life.
The Last War… Warforged armies... The Mournland… The hosts of undead… No escape… A brilliant flash of light.
So, I must have died, again.
Listening about me, there is only the sound of wind in the trees outside, so I focus my thoughts inward and meditate, giving thanks to Dol Arrah and beseeching the knowledge of what I must do now.
It was then that I met Ancorite Josef, a decrepit old man, and hermit, in service to The Sovereign Host, who knew me for what I was. He didn't speak to me then, only made himself busy finding clothing and food for me. It was only later that I found he lived here alone, tending this shrine among the trees of the forest near Woodhelm in Breland.
For a time, I made myself useful to Josef. We discussed war, and regaled in tales of honor and selflessness, the battles of The Last War, and my part as a soldier, and his as a commander. He showed me his armor and weapon, scarred with years of use, now covered in dust.
I spent nearly two years with Josef there caring for the shrine, learning and teaching as I could. It was during my daily devotion that my eyes and mind were opened to my purpose.
Vol… Abominations… Evil… Death….
I struggle with the information in my head, but slowly the fight shifts, and vengeance takes its place. The face of a creature, surely dead, fills my vision, white points of light peer into my very soul. I call to Dol Arrah for strength, and I know that this thing cannot touch me. I hear a whisper of a name, but cannot remember it.
Opening my eyes, I stand quickly. Josef asks what I'll need and I turn to his sword, a monstrous thing of steel. He nods, and retrieves it for me. After a moment of prayer, I leave the shrine, with the clothes on my back, sword, and a week of supplies; the whisper in my head becoming louder and more persistent as my heart beat thrums along side it.
Erandis d'Vol
*Thump Thump*
Erandis d'Vol
*Thump Thump*
Erandis d'Vol
*THUMP THUMP*
Tor
Tor's background has been filled with the blood of his family and friends. It is because of that he is the Shifter his is today.
Years ago his clans had occupied a coastal portion of Xen'drik in hopes to trade with the Drow and live their lives on a land as savage as them. The Drow had "played" along as they were more curious about Shifters on their lands and sought to know more …but when the curiosity wore off they eradicated the entire settlement. Unbeknownst to them was young Tor, not more than 8 summers, was fishing at sea.
Tor saw the smoke from the sea and began to return. With his keen eyes he saw the devastation of the settlement and waited till dark to return. When he returned everything was in ruin. There were so many dead if was hard to tell if any could have survived. In his anger he gave into his primal rage when he noticed two Drow scavenging amongst the dead. His attack was so furious that the Drow were unable to defend themselves against the savage Shifter child. Before he could morn the dead he noticed that more Drow were returning and took his fishing boat out to sea to escape.
It is difficult for even a skilled fisherman to survive in the oceans as he floated for many days until he was fortunately pick up by a trading vessel. It was there a female Half-Orc named Bre'al began to take care of him as her own. She returned with him to her homeland of the Shadow Marches. For many summers until he was 19, she would teach him to embrace his primal side, swordsmanship and to focus his rage.
She never talked about her past and when he would ask it brought great sadness to her face. He would wonder what could cause such emotion. She once told him that her dealings in acquisitions has lead to strained relationships in the very cutthroat business.
One night he returned to find her brutally murdered and an unknown symbol scribed in her blood on the wall. But the fact that another that he loved has died was more than he could deal with. He buried her and this time he could at least morn over her body. He left the Shadow Marches with only his battleaxe, his shield, a parchment with an unknown symbol on it …and his rage.
Valwryn
Vralwyn of the Valenar -- Elven Ranger
The humans of Breland call us mad. I say it is the humans who are mad. It is they after all who call it the Last War. Can there ever be a last war? Surely it is madness to think so. Surely it is madness to claim that the five nations can ever live in harmony again. They have tasted glory. They have tasted power, and though they talk of peace, they scheme and plot to claim all of Khorvaire for themselves. In the marketplace, they greet each other with false smiles and talk of trade, and yet on the roads they hire us to raid and plunder each other. Surely it is madness to pretend this is peace?
We Valenar know better. There will come a time when all races are once again tested in battle. We shall be ready. We shall not be found wanting. On that day, I know the name of Vralwyn shall be known to all Valenar. I shall take my place among the honored ancestors and prove myself worthy of remembrance. Until then, I wait and find what glory I can among the deceitful diplomats who call themselves a nation.
There is always work to do in this supposed time of peace. There is always someone who needs to be found and his bounty collected. There are secrets to be scouted out and adventures to be had. I am glad for their gold, but more glad of the glory. I shall not rest until every bard knows my tale and my name is spoken in honor. You laugh and think me mad. Perhaps it is so, but all truth was once madness. My mad truth merely awaits to be born.
Graelen
Graelen, Human Warlord
He had thought his life was over for sure. The Elf stood above him as he lay on his back, his sword a mere inches from his outstretched grasp. The sound of the battle, that seemed so deafening moments earlier, had all but disappeared as he tried to focus his eyes through the thick, acrid smoke of the burning building. He finally found the face of his soon to be maker. The elf had a calm look to him, his eyes cold and focused. The blood dripped onto Graelen's chest from the brilliantly shiny steel blade of the long sword, now held high over the Elf's head. As the sword arched down towards him he thought it comical that life did indeed flash before your eyes moments before you meet your end.
He remembered his hometown of Moonwatch, in Breland. And of the day he found out he was an orphan, raised by his Aunt and Uncle as one of their own. He still knew nothing of his heritage as his family refused to speak of it.
He recalled his first kiss. A schoolmate by the name of Glorinda. Oh how his friends had teased him!
He remembered the day he joined " Krendall's Hundred ", the mercenary band named after it's leader. How naive he was and so full exitemnt!
He thought back to his first kill. A stinking Kobold he had impaled with his war pick. He had finally felt like one of his fellow brothers in arms!
He couldn't forget his first women. A whore named Mirabelle at an establishment called the " Divine Ambrosia ".
Now, as he sat quietly on the train, remembering, he realized how lucky he was to be alive. As the Elven blade began it's descent, a crossbow bolt ripped open half of the Elf's throat and the blade had fallen harmlessly to the side, dead before he hit the ground. Graelen managed to collect himself and resume the fight.
Although they were victorious that day, losses were heavy. Over half of their number had perished, all good men. Graelen couldn't help but think that he should have been among them.
So here he was, a week later, on a train bound for Wroat. He had been one of five men charged with finding new recruits to replenish the band. He had found a few good prospects in Sharn and hoped his trip to Wroat would be as fortuitous...
Last edited: