MDSnowman
First Post
Eamon Vigil
2nd Level Expert, Human Male, Chaotic Good
CR 2; Medium Humanoid; HD 2d6+2; hp 13 (12); Init +3; Spd 30f; AC 15, (12 Flat Footed, 13 Touch); Base Attack +1; Grp +1; Atk +1 Melee (1d6; 18-20; Rapier), or +5 Ranged (1d10; 19-20; Pistol); Full Atk +1 Melee (1d6; 18-20; Rapier), or +5 Ranged (1d10; 19-20; Pistol); SA None; SQ None; SV Fort +1, Ref +6, Will +4;
Str 10, Dex 16, Con 12, Int 16, Wis 13, Cha 09
Languages: Mordentish *, Balok, Vaasi, Darkonese
Skills and Feats: Craft (Alchemy) +8, Craft (Gun Smithing) +8, Decipher Script +8, Knowledge (History) +8, Knowledge (Theology) +8, Knowledge (Engineering) +8, Listen +6, Search +8, Spot +6, Use Magic Device +4; Weapon Proficiency: Firearms, Eidetic Memory, Point Blank Shot, Weapon Focus: Pistol
Possessions: Breach loading Pistol, Rapier, Clothing, Cloak, backpack, note books, text books, Journal, Bullets (20), Gunpowder, Leather Armor, 20gp
Description:
Eamon cuts the opposite of an imposing figure. His tall gangly frame could best be described as wiry. His dirty blone hair is always mussed from lack of attention. He dresses in brand new traveling cloths, carries a backpack stuffed with logs, journals, and texts that he can use to reference, and always has his pistol at his side. Most striking however are his blue eyes, they have a sharpness to them that belies his unimpressive exterior. A small red birthmark rests on the back of his neck partially obscured by his messy hair.
Background:
Eamon Vigil was abandoned on the doorsteps of the Vigil family estate in Port-a-lucine. The lord of the house's first impulse was to hand the child over to the nearest orphanage. But they lady of the house, having just lost a baby boy in Child birth brought the foundling into their home and made him a member of the family. Eamon grew up with all the advantages that money could give, however his family always seemed distant to him. His father cold, and his siblings mean, only his mother could be counted on to give him warmth and affection. It didn't take him long to discover he was adopted, and by then he was a young man starting university.
Eamon's sharp mind made him stand out from his peers. He had a fine sense for detail and always found a way to ask the right questions. His questioning nature occasionally landed him in hot water with some of his professors. The real bone of contention proved to be Eamon's habit of wandering off without warning. His most common haunt was La Rue des Pistolets in Port-a-Lucine. This neighborhood was the haven for the domain's pistoleers and Eamon was fascinated by the weapons. The boy's intelligence and deft hands made him friends with the Gearling family. They taught him how to use a weapon, and even provided him with a state of the art pistol designed for quick reloading. To this day Eamon still escapes to La Rue to renew old friendships and shoot off a few rounds.
When Eamon graduated the university he stayed on performing all matter of research for professors and deans. This proved to be deathly dull for the young man, he wanted to explore, as if he felt the truth of himself, or at least the truth of existance laid waiting for him outside of Port-a-Lucine. His superiors must have taken notice of his ill ease because eventually they stumbled upon an old scrolls detailing the location of a supposedly one of a kind book. Eamon quickly came to mind. So with money for expenses in hand Eamon is called to the office of the Dean.....
Gravior Taleala
2nd Level Paladin, Dwarf Male, Lawful Good
CR 2; Medium Humanoid; HD 2d10+2; hp 20 (12); Init +1; Spd 20ft; AC 15 (14 Flat Footed, 11 Touch); Base Attack +2; Grp +4; Atk +4 Melee (1d10+2; 19-20; Dwarven War Axe), +4 Ranged (1d10+2; 19-20; Composite Long Bow); Full Atk +4 Melee (1d10+2; 19-20; Dwarven War Axe), +4 Ranged (1d10+2; 19-20; Composite Long Bow); SA Smite Evil 1/day (+2 To Hit, +2 Dmg); SQ Dwarven Traits, Aura of Good, Detect Chaos, Divine Grace, Lay On Hands (4hp); SV Fort +7, Ref +3, Will +4;
Str 14, Dex 12, Con 12, Int 12, Wis 14, Cha 14
Languages: Dwarven *, Darkonese, Mordentish
Skills and Feats: Bluff +2, Concentration +2, Diplomacy +4, Disguise +2, Gather Information +2, Handle Animal +3, Heal +6, Intimidate +4, Knowledge (Theology) +2, Knowledge (Royalty and Nobility) +2, Listen +4, Profession (Miner) +2, Sense Motive +5, Spot +2, Survival +2; Power Attack
Possessions: Masterwork Chain Shirt, Dwarven War Axe, Composite Long Bow (+2), and 40 Arrows
Description:
If anyone looked the part of the typical Dwarf it was Gravior. Possessing short thick brown hair and a longer, thicker beard he tended to blend into the background of his Darkonese mining camp home. When one gets closer they see jagged scars over the right side of his face, a trio of claw marks that look to have nearly put out his eye. He dresses in a beautiful chain shirt and always carries his axe, an old ring marked family weapon. A stoney glare fills his dark eyes making the warrior seem much bigger than his small stature.
Background:
Gravior was born in a small minging town in eastern Darkon. Life was almost entirely mundane for the large span of Gravior's life. All of this changed when a discovery was made in an old tunnel. The miners had apparently broken through into an ancient crypt. Before an expedition could be made the crypt proved to be inhabited. A horde of flesh eating monsters poured from the crypt and into the small mining community. The creatures were too tenacious and too numerous to fall to the living inhabitiants. During the chaos only one person survived, Gravior. Bleeding from a claw to the head he ran through the mountains convinced the undead abominations were a step behind him. Finally he reached the forest and collapsed. Before he lost conciousness he saw a bright light, in engulfed him, it made him warm, made him feel secure.
The Next morning he awoke, on the other side of Darkon. The axe he'd fought off the creautres with was by his side, and he felt a strange warmth inside of him. He'd been spared, by who he didn't know, but he did know that he was spared for a reason. That reason was to destroy those monsters that had destroyed his home. But he knew he wasn't ready yet, he would not squander his gift by throwing away his life. If he were succeed he'd need to know his foe........
Natheme
2nd Level Monk, Elf Female, Lawful Neutral
CR 2; Medium Humanoid; HD 2d8+2; hp 14 (12); Init +3; Spd 30ft; AC 16 (10 Flat Footed, 16 Touch); Base Attack +1; Grp +3; Atk +4 Melee (1d8+2; 19-20; MW Silver Long Sword); Full Atk +2/+2 Melee (1d8+2; 19-20; MW Silver Long Sword); SA Flurry of Blows, Unarmed Strike; SQ Elven Traits, Evasion; SV Fort +4, Ref +6, Will +5;
Str 14, Dex 17, Con 12, Int 12, Wis 14, Cha 10
Languages: Elven *, Sithican, Mordentish
Skills and Feats: Balance +6, Hide +8, Move Silently +8, Listen +6, Spot +7, Search +3, Sense Motive +4, Jump +7; Adamantine Style, Stunning Fist, Deflect Arrows
Possessions: Masterwork Silver Long Sword, Traveling Cloths
Description:
This slender bodied woman has a hard bitten look on her face. She's so slender in fact she could be mistaken for a young boy. Standing a shade over five feet tall her fave, her ears, even her limbs seem to be a jumble of sharp angles. Her black hair is in contrast to her pale skin, and her hair is cut savagely, likely by a knife. Her clothing is drab, and ugly, but clean, hanging loosely on her slender form. She doesn't seem to carry anything with her except a sheathed sword strapped to her back. Something about her presence makes you know she'd have no problem drawing it on someone.
Background:
I am cursed, cursed, there is no hope for me. I am outcast, anathema, banned, proscribed, denounced. I am mad, I have sunk to such depths that I no longer even desire to be sane. I am a wretch, a foul thing not even worthy of pity and soon I shall die.
Yet even as I write this I feel the revolt welling up within me. I repeat the words, over and over, hoping that I may thus defeat the demon that lives inside me, but it is all in vain. I still do not want to die.
I am an elf, I grew up among elves, I belong among elves, but I can never go near them again. I am exiled. How I detest the thought. But it is my life now.
They said that, even when I was a babe I was different from other elves, I was quarrelsome. I fought with the other children, and disobeyed my elders. Certainly I never cared for them. I cared nothing for anything that did not suit me. I cared nothing for anything. I wanted only to be left alone.
I neglected my studies, for I had no interest in them. I had no interest in the world; I wished only to avoid the discomfort of approbation. I sought only the peace of emptiness. The only time I knew joy or happiness was when I practiced the arts of the sword. The sword I treasured.
I devoted myself to the pursuit of the art and earned, for the first time, some measure of approval. I was a failure at all else, but swordsmanship is somewhat respectable. I grew even to enjoy the approval, to seek it, for it gave me license to do as I wished.
I did not notice that, around me, the other youths were leaving the training school and taking on status as adults. I expected that soon I would be told to join their ranks and I was content to wait until that time. Years passed and I became, slowly, not an admired up-and-coming sword master but an object of ridicule and scorn. I was made a mockery for I alone of the elves my age remained in the school. My instructors grew impatient, wishing to be rid of me.
I was mystified. If they wanted me to leave why was I not given a place among the guard? I had received no summons, been given no duties. I grew angry; why was I singled out for this humiliation? Finally I confronted the Master of the school about the matter.
“You cannot be given adult duties,” he said, “because you are not yet an adult.”
“Not yet an adult? I am older than many of those who have gone on!”
He sneered at me. “It is not simply a matter of age. When it comes, you will understand.”
I was furious but I held my peace. I spent less time at the practice field, more time in the libraries I had neglected, seeking some clue as to what I had missed. I grew short-tempered, lashing out at any who derided me for my “failure” while searching ever more desperately for a reason. There was none to be had. If the answer existed, I could not discover it.
Finally, the Master sent for me. “Nenlithali has offered to take you into his household. You will gather your belongings and depart at once.”
I was overjoyed. At last, I was free. “Will I be serving as a guard, then? A trainer?”
He was appalled. “A guard?! Are you mad? Nenlithali would never allow a Malawain to bear arms in his household. Be glad if they give you a knife to cut your food!”
“Malawain?”
“A . . . defective. Such as yourself.”
“I am not defective! I am a competent swordsman! If I am not to serve as a guard, what work am I to do?”
“You will do no work. There is no work you are fit to do. Go and be glad Nenlithali has offered you a place to stay, for the school tires of your disruptive behavior and would fain be rid of you!”
“You mean I am to be an object of charity?! FOREVER?! Forbidden even to earn my keep?”
“It is your fate, resign yourself to it.”
“Never! I’ll leave first!”
He slammed his fist on the table and hissed through clenched teeth. “Do not be absurd. Do you think we could tolerate the shame of letting one of you out into the world? You are not an elf! You will be taken care of. Be grateful for that, if you can!”
“Never!” I fled from the room, straight into the waiting arms of the guards. I seized a sword from a rack against the wall and forced them aside. They were not prepared for the brutality of my reaction, and I succeeded in making my escape.
Natheme finished her restless scribbling and carefully capped the ink, wiping the nub of her quill and putting them back in her pocket. She blew carefully on the scrap of paper to dry it, then folded it and put it in her pocket as well. She did not know what impulse had made her record her plight, perhaps only the knowledge that she would not leave these woods alive. It was comforting to think that, were someone to come across her corpse, they would find her note and perhaps think for a moment on the futile life of an unknown elf-girl.
Her eyes ached and she rubbed them tiredly, blinking against the firelight at the bleak landscape outside the cave. She was lost, and she knew it. She had never before traveled outside elven lands, much less into this barren and empty wood. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled, a dreadful sound. There were many wolves about, so many that she did not dare travel at night, when the woods seemed full of their eerie song.
Dawn was a long time in coming when you did not sleep, but eventually the dying firelight was replaced by the gray, faint light of morning and Natheme set off. She had few belongings. Some papers and pens, her clothes, and her sword.
She touched the sword gently, lovingly, drawing reassurance from its solid, comforting weight. When she snatched it up, she had not known what a treasure it was, but now she wondered if, in trading her former life for this weapon, she had not come off the better in the deal. For it was beautiful, an ancient, ancient blade.
“That is one thing, then, worth living for, if only I can figure out how,” she murmured as she trotted along. Already she was dirty and hungry and tired, and who knew how much further she might have to go.
The forest was not entirely barren, it seemed. She wandered into a stream and quenched her thirst, found mushrooms and berries and nuts to eat, enough for one day at least. As evening drew close, she managed to kill a rabbit with a well-placed stone, and built a fire to cook it. She supposed her ancestors would not be too displeased with her.
She put out the fire and moved on, searching for a place to spend the night. No cave was forthcoming, though, so she was forced to climb a tree, finding a not-too-uncomfortable perch where she could meditate and stay out of the reach of any curious wolves.
A week passed in this fashion, and Natheme began to think that perhaps she might be nearing the end of this forest, and, in the nature of things, that was when she found the werewolves.
She walked right into the clearing where they were tormenting some poor fool, a half dozen of the huge, stinking things, parading around half man, half beast. They whirled on her instantly and she almost fainted. Their catch, a human by appearances, cried out to her in desperation, “Please, if you have any mercy, help me!”
The pack leader grinned, displaying vicious teeth. Every nerve and muscle screamed for her to run. Yes, she thought, run. So they can chase you. They like to chase. So, instead, she took a step forward, and grinned.
They growled, not liking this turn of events, and edged to the sides. If she was not careful, soon she would be surrounded. She circled, warily, edging towards the man they had caught. If she freed him, he would run, and the wolves would chase. She might be able to get away.
“Please . . .” he whispered.
“I don’t know you. What do I care about your fate?”
His face crumpled, his shoulders slumped as the hope drained out of him. “Please . . . I don’t want to die . . .”
Natheme sighed. You and me both. But two of us cannot fight six werewolves.
The werewolves growled. They were surrounded, now. No help for it. Natheme drew the sword. “Come on, then, if you’re coming!”
The pack leader leapt almost on the same instant, but Natheme was ready for him. The blade flicked around and laid open his chest. He howled and the flesh sizzled and cooked, cauterizing itself. He scrambled to get away from her second blow and the others of the pack fell back around him.
“Silver!” The human cried from behind her. “You have silver!”
The werewolves snarled and made to lunge at her again, but she swept the blade in a glittering arc and they withdrew. “It won’t hold them for long.” The leader, having recovered somewhat, made bold to approach her again. Natheme bit her lip, then lunged, driving at one of his legs. She felt the blade do some damage, turned, and fled.
The human ran right beside her as they barreled through the woods. The werewolves howled and gave chase. It was a nightmare run, stumbling and crashing through the woods, fighting to breathe, to run, to swing the sword when any of them drew to close, then gasping and running again. Occasionally she realized that the human was keeping pace, still with her. She had no attention to spare for being surprised.
Finally they broke out of the woods. The werewolves snarled and snapped and withdrew, finally. Yet again, she had escaped. She cleaned the blade gratefully and sheathed it again.
“Thank you, sister.”
“Whatever. Be off with you, now.”
He looked startled. “I should reward . . .”
“I don’t want your money. Be off.”
He blinked at her, dumbfounded, then slowly moved away, shaking his head.
Some days later Natheme found herself walking into a city, a human city, the first she’d seen in her life. It was a strange and terrifying place, and these humans seemed sometimes like wolves in different skin. Yet their society had enough room on its fringes for her, so she stayed, sleeping in lofts high above the street, or in forgotten cul-de-sacs, doorways, wherever she could find room. There was no proper work for an elf, even a defective, but she found she could survive. In time, she scraped the money to rent a room, to replace the rags of her clothes, to subsist from day to day.
The streets were cruel, even so, and she fought many times, with fists and elbows and fingernails, terrified of the consequences if she used her sword. It was a struggle, day by day, moment by moment, to stay alive. She often wondered why she bothered. She decided that she would not give up until she could answer that question. At least it would give her something to do.
Connor ApTrease
2nd Level Shaman, Race Human Male, Chaotic Good
CR 2; Medium Humanoid, HD 2d8+2; hp 14 (12), Init +2, Speed 30ft, AC 15 (13 Flat Footed, 12 Touch); Base Attack +1; Grp +3; Atk +3 Melee/Ranged (1d8+2, 19-20; Spear), +3 Melee/Ranged (1d4+2, 19-20; Dagger); Full Atk +3 Melee/Ranged (1d8+2, 19-20; Spear), +3 Melee/Ranged (1d4+2, 19-20; Dagger); SA Rebuke Spirits; SQ Detect Spirits, Trancing, Spirit Empathy, Totem: Spirits, Totem: Healing, Illiterate, Taboos (Bathing); SV Fort +1 Ref +2 Will +5
Str 14, Dex 14, Con 12, Int 10, Wis 14, Cha 15
Languages: Forfarian *, Mordentish
Skills and Feats: Bluff +4, Concentration +4, Diplomacy +3, Heal +4, Intimidate +5, Knowledge (Planes) +2, Knowledge (Nature) +2, Perform (Oration) +4, Spellcraft +2, Survival +5, Dreaming +4; Track, Ethereal Empathy
Spells: 4/3; DC 12+Level
Known Spells: 0-Level: Purify Food/Drink, Resistance, Dancing Lights, Detect Magic, Prestidigitation; 1st-Level: Protection from Spirits, Spirit Dart, Cure Light Wounds
Possessions: Explorer Outfit, Studded Leather Armor, Spear, Dagger x2, Backpack, 50' Silk Rope, Rations x6, Flint/Steel, Water Skin, Bedroll, Small Mirror, Sewing Kit, Sun Rod x3, Light War Horse, Studded Leather Barding, Winter Blanket, Riding Saddle, Saddlebags, Bit/Bridle, Feed x6, Iron Pot
Description:
A tall athletic build is wrapped in a dirty woolen shirt and a dark kilt. The cloak over his soulders does little to hide the long dark auburn hair of this figure. His face is covered with short dark red bear and sideburns and a pair of green eyes peer out from the cloak. This stranger ride on a light warhorse, wearing a suit of studded leather armor that seems cut from the same cloth of the rider's matching armor. From his armor tattoos could be seen on his arm. His saddle bags bulge with supplies the glint of steel can be seen from each boot, hiding a dagger. On his back he carries a spear, made of gnarled oak and topped with an old steel head.
Background:
For generations the ApTrease clan had been loremasters of their people's history. But when the year of woe ended the family was devastaed, their ancestral home ripped apart by rampaging Goblyns. The remaining members were almost exlusively druids and they retreated into the family catacombs to defend their family's secerets.
Hundreds of years went by and the ApTrease clan suvived like that, emerging during the day to do their duties to nature and the gods, while hiding in the catacombs by night for fear of the Goblyns of the land. This was the world Connor was born into, he proved to be sensitve to spirits, much more so than any other member of his family had ever been. This sensitivity was so intense that he often felt uncomfortable around his family home as if he could feel the generations of terror and desperation that had taken place in the catacombs. When the elders thought he was ready the approached Connor and told him that it was his turn to leave the family and learn how to best fight the never ending war against the Goblyns and their masters. This same quest had been placed on one member of the family each generation, and it became Connor's quest. He left his home and began exploring the world outside of Forlorn. He proved to be an expert tracker, this talent alone made the unkempt shaman welcome in foreign lands. Recently the Univerity of Port-a-Lucine has put out feelers for skilled guides and trackers to acompany a expedition they were oganizing to Mordent.
2nd Level Expert, Human Male, Chaotic Good
CR 2; Medium Humanoid; HD 2d6+2; hp 13 (12); Init +3; Spd 30f; AC 15, (12 Flat Footed, 13 Touch); Base Attack +1; Grp +1; Atk +1 Melee (1d6; 18-20; Rapier), or +5 Ranged (1d10; 19-20; Pistol); Full Atk +1 Melee (1d6; 18-20; Rapier), or +5 Ranged (1d10; 19-20; Pistol); SA None; SQ None; SV Fort +1, Ref +6, Will +4;
Str 10, Dex 16, Con 12, Int 16, Wis 13, Cha 09
Languages: Mordentish *, Balok, Vaasi, Darkonese
Skills and Feats: Craft (Alchemy) +8, Craft (Gun Smithing) +8, Decipher Script +8, Knowledge (History) +8, Knowledge (Theology) +8, Knowledge (Engineering) +8, Listen +6, Search +8, Spot +6, Use Magic Device +4; Weapon Proficiency: Firearms, Eidetic Memory, Point Blank Shot, Weapon Focus: Pistol
Possessions: Breach loading Pistol, Rapier, Clothing, Cloak, backpack, note books, text books, Journal, Bullets (20), Gunpowder, Leather Armor, 20gp
Description:
Eamon cuts the opposite of an imposing figure. His tall gangly frame could best be described as wiry. His dirty blone hair is always mussed from lack of attention. He dresses in brand new traveling cloths, carries a backpack stuffed with logs, journals, and texts that he can use to reference, and always has his pistol at his side. Most striking however are his blue eyes, they have a sharpness to them that belies his unimpressive exterior. A small red birthmark rests on the back of his neck partially obscured by his messy hair.
Background:
Eamon Vigil was abandoned on the doorsteps of the Vigil family estate in Port-a-lucine. The lord of the house's first impulse was to hand the child over to the nearest orphanage. But they lady of the house, having just lost a baby boy in Child birth brought the foundling into their home and made him a member of the family. Eamon grew up with all the advantages that money could give, however his family always seemed distant to him. His father cold, and his siblings mean, only his mother could be counted on to give him warmth and affection. It didn't take him long to discover he was adopted, and by then he was a young man starting university.
Eamon's sharp mind made him stand out from his peers. He had a fine sense for detail and always found a way to ask the right questions. His questioning nature occasionally landed him in hot water with some of his professors. The real bone of contention proved to be Eamon's habit of wandering off without warning. His most common haunt was La Rue des Pistolets in Port-a-Lucine. This neighborhood was the haven for the domain's pistoleers and Eamon was fascinated by the weapons. The boy's intelligence and deft hands made him friends with the Gearling family. They taught him how to use a weapon, and even provided him with a state of the art pistol designed for quick reloading. To this day Eamon still escapes to La Rue to renew old friendships and shoot off a few rounds.
When Eamon graduated the university he stayed on performing all matter of research for professors and deans. This proved to be deathly dull for the young man, he wanted to explore, as if he felt the truth of himself, or at least the truth of existance laid waiting for him outside of Port-a-Lucine. His superiors must have taken notice of his ill ease because eventually they stumbled upon an old scrolls detailing the location of a supposedly one of a kind book. Eamon quickly came to mind. So with money for expenses in hand Eamon is called to the office of the Dean.....
Gravior Taleala
2nd Level Paladin, Dwarf Male, Lawful Good
CR 2; Medium Humanoid; HD 2d10+2; hp 20 (12); Init +1; Spd 20ft; AC 15 (14 Flat Footed, 11 Touch); Base Attack +2; Grp +4; Atk +4 Melee (1d10+2; 19-20; Dwarven War Axe), +4 Ranged (1d10+2; 19-20; Composite Long Bow); Full Atk +4 Melee (1d10+2; 19-20; Dwarven War Axe), +4 Ranged (1d10+2; 19-20; Composite Long Bow); SA Smite Evil 1/day (+2 To Hit, +2 Dmg); SQ Dwarven Traits, Aura of Good, Detect Chaos, Divine Grace, Lay On Hands (4hp); SV Fort +7, Ref +3, Will +4;
Str 14, Dex 12, Con 12, Int 12, Wis 14, Cha 14
Languages: Dwarven *, Darkonese, Mordentish
Skills and Feats: Bluff +2, Concentration +2, Diplomacy +4, Disguise +2, Gather Information +2, Handle Animal +3, Heal +6, Intimidate +4, Knowledge (Theology) +2, Knowledge (Royalty and Nobility) +2, Listen +4, Profession (Miner) +2, Sense Motive +5, Spot +2, Survival +2; Power Attack
Possessions: Masterwork Chain Shirt, Dwarven War Axe, Composite Long Bow (+2), and 40 Arrows
Description:
If anyone looked the part of the typical Dwarf it was Gravior. Possessing short thick brown hair and a longer, thicker beard he tended to blend into the background of his Darkonese mining camp home. When one gets closer they see jagged scars over the right side of his face, a trio of claw marks that look to have nearly put out his eye. He dresses in a beautiful chain shirt and always carries his axe, an old ring marked family weapon. A stoney glare fills his dark eyes making the warrior seem much bigger than his small stature.
Background:
Gravior was born in a small minging town in eastern Darkon. Life was almost entirely mundane for the large span of Gravior's life. All of this changed when a discovery was made in an old tunnel. The miners had apparently broken through into an ancient crypt. Before an expedition could be made the crypt proved to be inhabited. A horde of flesh eating monsters poured from the crypt and into the small mining community. The creatures were too tenacious and too numerous to fall to the living inhabitiants. During the chaos only one person survived, Gravior. Bleeding from a claw to the head he ran through the mountains convinced the undead abominations were a step behind him. Finally he reached the forest and collapsed. Before he lost conciousness he saw a bright light, in engulfed him, it made him warm, made him feel secure.
The Next morning he awoke, on the other side of Darkon. The axe he'd fought off the creautres with was by his side, and he felt a strange warmth inside of him. He'd been spared, by who he didn't know, but he did know that he was spared for a reason. That reason was to destroy those monsters that had destroyed his home. But he knew he wasn't ready yet, he would not squander his gift by throwing away his life. If he were succeed he'd need to know his foe........
Natheme
2nd Level Monk, Elf Female, Lawful Neutral
CR 2; Medium Humanoid; HD 2d8+2; hp 14 (12); Init +3; Spd 30ft; AC 16 (10 Flat Footed, 16 Touch); Base Attack +1; Grp +3; Atk +4 Melee (1d8+2; 19-20; MW Silver Long Sword); Full Atk +2/+2 Melee (1d8+2; 19-20; MW Silver Long Sword); SA Flurry of Blows, Unarmed Strike; SQ Elven Traits, Evasion; SV Fort +4, Ref +6, Will +5;
Str 14, Dex 17, Con 12, Int 12, Wis 14, Cha 10
Languages: Elven *, Sithican, Mordentish
Skills and Feats: Balance +6, Hide +8, Move Silently +8, Listen +6, Spot +7, Search +3, Sense Motive +4, Jump +7; Adamantine Style, Stunning Fist, Deflect Arrows
Possessions: Masterwork Silver Long Sword, Traveling Cloths
Description:
This slender bodied woman has a hard bitten look on her face. She's so slender in fact she could be mistaken for a young boy. Standing a shade over five feet tall her fave, her ears, even her limbs seem to be a jumble of sharp angles. Her black hair is in contrast to her pale skin, and her hair is cut savagely, likely by a knife. Her clothing is drab, and ugly, but clean, hanging loosely on her slender form. She doesn't seem to carry anything with her except a sheathed sword strapped to her back. Something about her presence makes you know she'd have no problem drawing it on someone.
Background:
I am cursed, cursed, there is no hope for me. I am outcast, anathema, banned, proscribed, denounced. I am mad, I have sunk to such depths that I no longer even desire to be sane. I am a wretch, a foul thing not even worthy of pity and soon I shall die.
Yet even as I write this I feel the revolt welling up within me. I repeat the words, over and over, hoping that I may thus defeat the demon that lives inside me, but it is all in vain. I still do not want to die.
I am an elf, I grew up among elves, I belong among elves, but I can never go near them again. I am exiled. How I detest the thought. But it is my life now.
They said that, even when I was a babe I was different from other elves, I was quarrelsome. I fought with the other children, and disobeyed my elders. Certainly I never cared for them. I cared nothing for anything that did not suit me. I cared nothing for anything. I wanted only to be left alone.
I neglected my studies, for I had no interest in them. I had no interest in the world; I wished only to avoid the discomfort of approbation. I sought only the peace of emptiness. The only time I knew joy or happiness was when I practiced the arts of the sword. The sword I treasured.
I devoted myself to the pursuit of the art and earned, for the first time, some measure of approval. I was a failure at all else, but swordsmanship is somewhat respectable. I grew even to enjoy the approval, to seek it, for it gave me license to do as I wished.
I did not notice that, around me, the other youths were leaving the training school and taking on status as adults. I expected that soon I would be told to join their ranks and I was content to wait until that time. Years passed and I became, slowly, not an admired up-and-coming sword master but an object of ridicule and scorn. I was made a mockery for I alone of the elves my age remained in the school. My instructors grew impatient, wishing to be rid of me.
I was mystified. If they wanted me to leave why was I not given a place among the guard? I had received no summons, been given no duties. I grew angry; why was I singled out for this humiliation? Finally I confronted the Master of the school about the matter.
“You cannot be given adult duties,” he said, “because you are not yet an adult.”
“Not yet an adult? I am older than many of those who have gone on!”
He sneered at me. “It is not simply a matter of age. When it comes, you will understand.”
I was furious but I held my peace. I spent less time at the practice field, more time in the libraries I had neglected, seeking some clue as to what I had missed. I grew short-tempered, lashing out at any who derided me for my “failure” while searching ever more desperately for a reason. There was none to be had. If the answer existed, I could not discover it.
Finally, the Master sent for me. “Nenlithali has offered to take you into his household. You will gather your belongings and depart at once.”
I was overjoyed. At last, I was free. “Will I be serving as a guard, then? A trainer?”
He was appalled. “A guard?! Are you mad? Nenlithali would never allow a Malawain to bear arms in his household. Be glad if they give you a knife to cut your food!”
“Malawain?”
“A . . . defective. Such as yourself.”
“I am not defective! I am a competent swordsman! If I am not to serve as a guard, what work am I to do?”
“You will do no work. There is no work you are fit to do. Go and be glad Nenlithali has offered you a place to stay, for the school tires of your disruptive behavior and would fain be rid of you!”
“You mean I am to be an object of charity?! FOREVER?! Forbidden even to earn my keep?”
“It is your fate, resign yourself to it.”
“Never! I’ll leave first!”
He slammed his fist on the table and hissed through clenched teeth. “Do not be absurd. Do you think we could tolerate the shame of letting one of you out into the world? You are not an elf! You will be taken care of. Be grateful for that, if you can!”
“Never!” I fled from the room, straight into the waiting arms of the guards. I seized a sword from a rack against the wall and forced them aside. They were not prepared for the brutality of my reaction, and I succeeded in making my escape.
Natheme finished her restless scribbling and carefully capped the ink, wiping the nub of her quill and putting them back in her pocket. She blew carefully on the scrap of paper to dry it, then folded it and put it in her pocket as well. She did not know what impulse had made her record her plight, perhaps only the knowledge that she would not leave these woods alive. It was comforting to think that, were someone to come across her corpse, they would find her note and perhaps think for a moment on the futile life of an unknown elf-girl.
Her eyes ached and she rubbed them tiredly, blinking against the firelight at the bleak landscape outside the cave. She was lost, and she knew it. She had never before traveled outside elven lands, much less into this barren and empty wood. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled, a dreadful sound. There were many wolves about, so many that she did not dare travel at night, when the woods seemed full of their eerie song.
Dawn was a long time in coming when you did not sleep, but eventually the dying firelight was replaced by the gray, faint light of morning and Natheme set off. She had few belongings. Some papers and pens, her clothes, and her sword.
She touched the sword gently, lovingly, drawing reassurance from its solid, comforting weight. When she snatched it up, she had not known what a treasure it was, but now she wondered if, in trading her former life for this weapon, she had not come off the better in the deal. For it was beautiful, an ancient, ancient blade.
“That is one thing, then, worth living for, if only I can figure out how,” she murmured as she trotted along. Already she was dirty and hungry and tired, and who knew how much further she might have to go.
The forest was not entirely barren, it seemed. She wandered into a stream and quenched her thirst, found mushrooms and berries and nuts to eat, enough for one day at least. As evening drew close, she managed to kill a rabbit with a well-placed stone, and built a fire to cook it. She supposed her ancestors would not be too displeased with her.
She put out the fire and moved on, searching for a place to spend the night. No cave was forthcoming, though, so she was forced to climb a tree, finding a not-too-uncomfortable perch where she could meditate and stay out of the reach of any curious wolves.
A week passed in this fashion, and Natheme began to think that perhaps she might be nearing the end of this forest, and, in the nature of things, that was when she found the werewolves.
She walked right into the clearing where they were tormenting some poor fool, a half dozen of the huge, stinking things, parading around half man, half beast. They whirled on her instantly and she almost fainted. Their catch, a human by appearances, cried out to her in desperation, “Please, if you have any mercy, help me!”
The pack leader grinned, displaying vicious teeth. Every nerve and muscle screamed for her to run. Yes, she thought, run. So they can chase you. They like to chase. So, instead, she took a step forward, and grinned.
They growled, not liking this turn of events, and edged to the sides. If she was not careful, soon she would be surrounded. She circled, warily, edging towards the man they had caught. If she freed him, he would run, and the wolves would chase. She might be able to get away.
“Please . . .” he whispered.
“I don’t know you. What do I care about your fate?”
His face crumpled, his shoulders slumped as the hope drained out of him. “Please . . . I don’t want to die . . .”
Natheme sighed. You and me both. But two of us cannot fight six werewolves.
The werewolves growled. They were surrounded, now. No help for it. Natheme drew the sword. “Come on, then, if you’re coming!”
The pack leader leapt almost on the same instant, but Natheme was ready for him. The blade flicked around and laid open his chest. He howled and the flesh sizzled and cooked, cauterizing itself. He scrambled to get away from her second blow and the others of the pack fell back around him.
“Silver!” The human cried from behind her. “You have silver!”
The werewolves snarled and made to lunge at her again, but she swept the blade in a glittering arc and they withdrew. “It won’t hold them for long.” The leader, having recovered somewhat, made bold to approach her again. Natheme bit her lip, then lunged, driving at one of his legs. She felt the blade do some damage, turned, and fled.
The human ran right beside her as they barreled through the woods. The werewolves howled and gave chase. It was a nightmare run, stumbling and crashing through the woods, fighting to breathe, to run, to swing the sword when any of them drew to close, then gasping and running again. Occasionally she realized that the human was keeping pace, still with her. She had no attention to spare for being surprised.
Finally they broke out of the woods. The werewolves snarled and snapped and withdrew, finally. Yet again, she had escaped. She cleaned the blade gratefully and sheathed it again.
“Thank you, sister.”
“Whatever. Be off with you, now.”
He looked startled. “I should reward . . .”
“I don’t want your money. Be off.”
He blinked at her, dumbfounded, then slowly moved away, shaking his head.
Some days later Natheme found herself walking into a city, a human city, the first she’d seen in her life. It was a strange and terrifying place, and these humans seemed sometimes like wolves in different skin. Yet their society had enough room on its fringes for her, so she stayed, sleeping in lofts high above the street, or in forgotten cul-de-sacs, doorways, wherever she could find room. There was no proper work for an elf, even a defective, but she found she could survive. In time, she scraped the money to rent a room, to replace the rags of her clothes, to subsist from day to day.
The streets were cruel, even so, and she fought many times, with fists and elbows and fingernails, terrified of the consequences if she used her sword. It was a struggle, day by day, moment by moment, to stay alive. She often wondered why she bothered. She decided that she would not give up until she could answer that question. At least it would give her something to do.
Connor ApTrease
2nd Level Shaman, Race Human Male, Chaotic Good
CR 2; Medium Humanoid, HD 2d8+2; hp 14 (12), Init +2, Speed 30ft, AC 15 (13 Flat Footed, 12 Touch); Base Attack +1; Grp +3; Atk +3 Melee/Ranged (1d8+2, 19-20; Spear), +3 Melee/Ranged (1d4+2, 19-20; Dagger); Full Atk +3 Melee/Ranged (1d8+2, 19-20; Spear), +3 Melee/Ranged (1d4+2, 19-20; Dagger); SA Rebuke Spirits; SQ Detect Spirits, Trancing, Spirit Empathy, Totem: Spirits, Totem: Healing, Illiterate, Taboos (Bathing); SV Fort +1 Ref +2 Will +5
Str 14, Dex 14, Con 12, Int 10, Wis 14, Cha 15
Languages: Forfarian *, Mordentish
Skills and Feats: Bluff +4, Concentration +4, Diplomacy +3, Heal +4, Intimidate +5, Knowledge (Planes) +2, Knowledge (Nature) +2, Perform (Oration) +4, Spellcraft +2, Survival +5, Dreaming +4; Track, Ethereal Empathy
Spells: 4/3; DC 12+Level
Known Spells: 0-Level: Purify Food/Drink, Resistance, Dancing Lights, Detect Magic, Prestidigitation; 1st-Level: Protection from Spirits, Spirit Dart, Cure Light Wounds
Possessions: Explorer Outfit, Studded Leather Armor, Spear, Dagger x2, Backpack, 50' Silk Rope, Rations x6, Flint/Steel, Water Skin, Bedroll, Small Mirror, Sewing Kit, Sun Rod x3, Light War Horse, Studded Leather Barding, Winter Blanket, Riding Saddle, Saddlebags, Bit/Bridle, Feed x6, Iron Pot
Description:
A tall athletic build is wrapped in a dirty woolen shirt and a dark kilt. The cloak over his soulders does little to hide the long dark auburn hair of this figure. His face is covered with short dark red bear and sideburns and a pair of green eyes peer out from the cloak. This stranger ride on a light warhorse, wearing a suit of studded leather armor that seems cut from the same cloth of the rider's matching armor. From his armor tattoos could be seen on his arm. His saddle bags bulge with supplies the glint of steel can be seen from each boot, hiding a dagger. On his back he carries a spear, made of gnarled oak and topped with an old steel head.
Background:
For generations the ApTrease clan had been loremasters of their people's history. But when the year of woe ended the family was devastaed, their ancestral home ripped apart by rampaging Goblyns. The remaining members were almost exlusively druids and they retreated into the family catacombs to defend their family's secerets.
Hundreds of years went by and the ApTrease clan suvived like that, emerging during the day to do their duties to nature and the gods, while hiding in the catacombs by night for fear of the Goblyns of the land. This was the world Connor was born into, he proved to be sensitve to spirits, much more so than any other member of his family had ever been. This sensitivity was so intense that he often felt uncomfortable around his family home as if he could feel the generations of terror and desperation that had taken place in the catacombs. When the elders thought he was ready the approached Connor and told him that it was his turn to leave the family and learn how to best fight the never ending war against the Goblyns and their masters. This same quest had been placed on one member of the family each generation, and it became Connor's quest. He left his home and began exploring the world outside of Forlorn. He proved to be an expert tracker, this talent alone made the unkempt shaman welcome in foreign lands. Recently the Univerity of Port-a-Lucine has put out feelers for skilled guides and trackers to acompany a expedition they were oganizing to Mordent.
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The Expert class from Unearthed Arcana is being used for Eamon Vigil (hence all the feats)
