Exclusive Contest! WAYNE REYNOLDS draws OR PAINTS your character! No more entries!

[Rawwedge]

Krellick Chergoba

Greetings all; I enjoyed this contest last year. Close but no cigar so here I go again.

KRELLICK CHERGOBA; FORGOTTEN REALMS BERSERKER & FANG SCOUT
INTRODUCTION
Pure Rashemi blood flows through Krellick’s veins; he has the dusky skin, dark eyes, and thick black hair of his people. His features are that of a young man but they are somewhat masked by a closely cropped beard. His face is framed by a pair of thick, beaded braids running down either temple. His slightly weathered complexion already shows the effects of much time spent ranging across the northern steppes on his war mount. He is stocky, and muscular by human standards but not very tall.

Krellick is a human (Rashemen) male Barbarian/Ranger. He is trained as a scout for the Fangs (berserker military units). His strengths are as a mounted archer and a wielder of two handed weapons while dismounted. Through campaign play, his favored enemies have become evil outsiders and undead. He is extremely loyal to the customs and traditions of his family, the Ice Troll berserker lodge and the realm of Rashemen. He currently adventures outside of Rashemen only in answer to a fiendish threat to his homeland that takes him abroad.

CHARACTER SKETCH
Krellick adventures in a livery handed down from generation to generation and using gear and weaponry hard won on the field of battle. His adventuring garb consists of an Ice Troll Skull helm, a chain shirt, ranger’s cloak, Dastanas, elk-hide vest, chain gauntlets, leather girdle, riding chaps, and a pair of calfskin boots. His mundane gear and provisions are kept in a small haversack.

The helm is fashioned from the top portion of a petrified Ice Troll skull. This skull is fitted to a cured brown leather cap and trimmed with the mottled grey/black fur of a timber wolf. It is designed to cover the top of the head with the brain pan while the upper jaw extends over the temples. The cheekbones are trimmed away to the bottom of the large eye sockets so as to create a fixed half visor protecting the face above the cheekbones. The fur extends around the rim to the temples and the bone itself is painted with glyphs that invoke the favor of several Telthors (nature spirits).

A 2½ inch diameter disk of beaten steel hangs around his neck depicting the head of a grizzly bear. The disk is flanked by three bear claws on either side.
The mithral chain shirt is elaborately woven to create the likeness of the chest, shoulders and torso of an Ice Troll so that the wearer gains the semblance of a bare chested beast. The artful illusion does not extend to any coloration of the snowy mithral links. Krellick’s forearms are covered by a pair of Dastanas hewn from two pieces of massive Ice Troll femur. Each piece is fashioned into a half shell bound together by underlying leather. The curved surfaces are carved and painted with scenes honoring great battles from the founding years of the Ice Troll Lodge. Both ends of these Dastanas are trimmed in the familiar timber wolf fur.

The ranger’s cloak is mottled gray and black and trimmed with fur. The sleeveless elk-hide vest is soft, earthy brown in color and covers the upper body and rib cage; it is also trimmed and lined with fur. The front of the vest is decorated with small bone carvings of enraged Ice Trolls fixed to the hide. The brown leather girdle is six inches wide and fastened by three buckles and straps. Krellick also wears a potion belt slung across his right shoulder, under his vest, like a bandolier.

The chaps are fashioned from animal hide on the inner leg and through the crotch. The outer leg is fashioned from soft brown leather and covered with bone chips arranged in a flowing river pattern up and down each leg. These chaps are also lined but not trimmed with fur. His chain gauntlets are not made of mithral but crafted by the same artisan who made the chain shirt. They too support the illusion of Ice Troll anatomy created with the shirt and have adamantine studs on the knuckles. The final items in Krellick’s inherited livery are a pair of finely crafted boots. These calfskin boots are fur lined and trimmed for the harsh Rashemi steppe and come halfway up the calf. They are of double closure design and the buckles are on the outer ankle.

For battle Krellick carries a broad bladed Bastard Sword across his back, the hilt resting above his right shoulder. This weapon is very similar in appearance to the ‘Conan’ sword except for the hilt crafted from smooth, bleached bone. The curved shaft of the Shortbow slung across his back rises above the opposite shoulder. A quiver of arrows rests over top of his sword sheath. He carries a pair of short Darts fastened to the underside of his Dastanas with the pointed ends at the elbow. The wickedly curved blade of a Kukri is sheathed in a scabbard that rests over his belt buckle. Just behind his right hip there is a leather pouch hanging from his belt fitted with a loose draw string. This pouch holds the ball from a heavy flail. The 2 ½ foot long haft folds into the long and flexible leather sheath along with the chain of equal length. The mouth of this sheath is fitted with a nicely sized bronze funnel to allow the haft & chain to be easily drawn and replaced. The sheath runs along Krellick’s right thigh next to the ball pouch. This arrangement keeps the great weapon readily accessible but out of the way while he wields sword or bow.

KRELLICK’S MOUNT (Animal Companion): a Nars heavy warhorse (Thunderhoof)
This breed is powerful but manages to combine strength and speed. It stands 16 hands at the withers and has a chestnut coat with a white patch along the forehead and snout. It also has white socks above the hoof. Thunderhoof is protected by simple studded leather barding and bears a military saddle and saddle bags.

ACTION SNAPSHOTS
In one adventure, Krellick and his party were barricaded into a run down old building that once housed an Inn and Fest Hall for a small human mining community. The community was overrun by ghouls, who trapped the party, before they realized the danger. An incredible number of ghouls were scrambling around the building looking for a way in. The party had no choice but to make a break for it. Since Krellick was the only member of the party skilled in mounted combat and one of only two party members with a war horse, he elected himself to lead the charge.

KRELLICK’S BREAKOUT
In a barbarian rage, Krellick directed his mount to break down the double doors, thus crushing a couple of undead, and then he ploughed through the ring of ghouls screaming wildly and lashing out at the nearest ones with his (one-handed) flail. Then he was forced to turn around and charge back the way he came to rescue a paralyzed party member (Stone Child Shou Disciple Monk) who fell from the saddle just outside the shattered doors.
=============================================
A few hours later, after being pursued into the foothills, the party found themselves dismounted and surrounded by the horde of ghouls on a tiny plateau in the shadow of the mountains. A copper dragon appeared on the scene to start plucking the party members from the sea of undead. In the meantime, a fiendish necromancer controlling the horde of ghouls engaged the circling dragon with bolts of eldritch might. Amidst all of this chaos, Krellick was the last member of the party remaining on the plateau to face the ghouls alone.

KRELLICK’S LAST STAND
As the dragon circled yet again the party strained to find their friend in the sea of howling ghouls. Jastarael (Moon Elf Battle-mage), with her elven sight, was the only one to see Krellick’s last stand. The berserker lashed out madly with sword and fist as the irresistible mass of flailing claws and snapping jaws pressed in on him. With one last great sweep of his bastard sword and a battle cry lost to the night, Krellick disappeared beneath the snarling horde.

Here's my kick at the cat Kai-Lord. If it catches your fancy I have offered a couple of action snapshots but if I had my druthers I would love to see him in the mounted 'Breakout' scene.

Good luck to all.

 

[Menexenus]

First, Kai Lord, you are AWESOME! What a cool idea to have a contest like this!

Second, I'm *such* a big Wayne Reynolds fan. I couldn't believe it when I actually got the chance to shake his hand at GenCon last year. I was the very model of a pathetic, geeked-out, drooling fanboy. (But if you can't be a fanboy at GenCon, where can you?)

Third, when this contest first started, I thought to myself, "I really love my character, but he really hasn't achieved that signature moment that the rest of the players will be talking about for years to come." Then, just before New Years, it finally happened! Thus, the following entry...

The character's name is Hazmi, the Mighty, a.k.a. Hazmi, the Dragon. He is a tribesman from the Elos desert in the Kalamar setting. (I wish it was Dragonlance, but it isn't.) For most of his career, he and his companions have been fighting the minions of Shedra, a female lich bent on world domination. She and her undead armies have already ravaged the Empire of Kalamar and its armies. Hazmi's party of characters was primarily responsible for stopping the undead army by bringing an artifact of undead-slaying to the Kalamaran army's last stand. In gratitude, the Empress of Kalamar granted Hazmi the title of King of Basir, a vassal nation that had been ravaged by the undead and whose royal family had been slain.

That's the background. A couple days before New Years, I was playing this character for the last time. We had started the campaign as first level characters. After 2 years, we were all around 17th level, and our DM was ready to start something new. So this was to be our final battle. We were finally going after our longtime nemesis - Shedra herself!

So here is Hazmi's moment. The party was facing Shedra's second-in-command, a powerful vampire whose task was to guard Shedra's phylactery. Hazmi's party was pinned down by the vampire's thralls. Negative levels were being dealt out left and right. Hazmi knew that he needed to end the fight quickly, or all would be lost. So he flew up above the battle (with his winged boots). He dropped his signature weapon, his +3 scimitar. He also dropped his signature shield, a +2 large steel shield with the emblem of a red dragon on it. He pulled out a weapon that he had recently taken from an ancient mummy his party had defeated in a previous encounter: a +1 vorpal greatsword. With this weapon firmly clutched in both hands, Hazmi initiated his barbarian rage and flew directly at the lead vampire (praying for a critical hit). Low and behold, he got it! The lead vampire's head tumbled to the floor with one clean stroke! It was dead! The vampire's thralls became confused, giving the rest of Hazmi's party an opportunity to take the upper-hand. The party was victorious, thanks to Hazmi's heroic action!

That was definitely my character's most thrilling moment. Watching the number I needed to crit the vampire come up on the die was the cause of much rejoicing around the gaming table (to put it mildly).

If Wayne picks my character, here's a bit more description of him. Hazmi is a very large and muscular man (6 foot 4 inches, 235 pounds) with black hair, dark eyes, and a full (but well-manicured) black beard. He is now a king in civilized lands, so he doesn't quite look the part of a desert barbarian any more. But some aspects of that past are certainly still evident in his overall appearance. Although I haven't kept careful track of time, I assume that he's approximately 25 years old. He has a prominent scar running down his left cheek. Hazmi killed the vampire while it was sitting on its throne on a dais. In a corner of the room, Hazmi's 7 companions were surrounded by 12 vampire thralls. After beheading the lead vampire, Hazmi used the great sword to impale its body on the throne (a pointless but cinematic gesture).

As I described earlier, normally Hazmi carries a magical scimitar and a large steel shield with the emblem of a red dragon. But in the scene I described, he had been forced to drop these old friends and risk attacking with a lower AC and an unfamiliar weapon (a great sword). He wears +5 studded leather of the deep, winged boots, gloves of Dex +6, and a belt of giant strength +4, a ring on each hand (evasion and protection), and a cloak of resistance +4. He also has 3 ioun stones above his head: one is a pink rhomboid (+2 Con), one is a pink and green sphere (+2 Cha), and one is a pale green prism (+1 to all saves, skills, and attack rolls). At his side (as a back-up weapon), he wears a fabulous dagger whose hilt is encrusted with green jewels and whose scabbard carries a design resembling a green dragon. Being an adventurer, he also carries lots of other mundane items on his back. (But I'll leave these to Wayne's imagination.)

I'm so stoked about this contest! Even if I don't win, it has been fun reminiscing about my retired character's glory moment. BTW, I would *gladly* pay Wayne $180 for an oil painting of this character. Please, please, please pick me!

 

[ivocaliban]

TAURIAN THE BLACK (KILLIAN ADERRE)

Character Concept:
Taurian the Black (The Black Bull) is a tragic figure who lost everything fighting the forces of Iuz in the northern Vesve. A cunning ranger and warrior, he has lost his humanity in the dark well of grief and anger that followed the death of his wife and child. Taurian now survives more as a force of nature, fighting Iuz on his own land and at any cost. He considers orcs and fiends to be his greatest enemies and hunts them tirelessly.

Appearance:
Taurian is a large man, standing at 6’4” and weighing about 240 lbs. Despite his great strength and size, he is astoundingly agile. His skin is dusky and often dirt-smeared when visible at all. His hair is dark, shaggy and unkempt. What little of his body that does show (around his arms and neck or face if he’s not wearing the helm) is badly scarred. His face is strong, square-jawed and somewhat malformed due to his frequent battles. His left eye bears three deep, vertical scratch marks and he is missing the top part of his right ear.

He wears black studded leather armor that has seen better days. The small studs are sharpened to a point and the entire suit is dusted with dried earth to give it a dull, matte finish. He wears sturdy, black leather boots and a pair of heavy gloves. They appear to be made of the same material and crafted by the same leatherworker as the armor. He often wears a dark, viscious looking pot-helm, taken from an orc captain he killed in battle long ago. Taurian wields a longword and shortsword, but kept sharp, but obviously battle-marked. The blades of both are black and they are unmatched. The hilt of the longsword shows signs of an elven smith, while the shorsword is far more utilitarian in appearance. He carries a composite longbow, mostly for hunting or to disorient enemies by attacking from afar. All of his belongings show the signs of age and wear. Most are magical and still remain in tact, but dents and scratches cover both his belongings and his own body.

Backstory:
Taurian the Black began his life as Killian Aderre, a huntsman of Highfolk Town. Little is known of his formative years, but by the time of the Greyhawk Wars he was recognized by many as being a protector of the Vesve, often serving as a scout for Philidor the Blue in his battle against the Empire of Iuz. Though often brash and reckless with his own life, Killian would do anything within his power to make certain Iuz’s forces were kept from encroaching deeper into the forest he called home.

During a particularly dangerous endeavor in which he sabotaged an orc encampment, Killian found himself badly wounded and on the brink of death. When he awakened he found himself in a golden-green glade, his wounds being treated by a lovely elven priestess of Hanali Celanil. She explained that he was just outside of her temple and thanked him, for the orcs he had defeated were no doubt set on destroying the holy site. Love blossomed between the two, though it remained unspoken for several years. They traveled together, along with other allies, and fought united against the invaders from the north. After many struggles against the forces of Iuz and a second near-death for Killian, the two were wed in a small ceremony amidst their friends and soon his new bride (Seliana) was with child.

Trouble came again to the Vesve and Killian was called north to fight against Panshazek the Vile. Seliana, too full with child to accompany him, remained behind near the temple of Hanali Celanil. The fight against Iuz’s priest was a fierce one and in the end Panshazek held firm in Izlen, playing the defensive. When Killian returned home, however, he found that the true battle had been here: The temple razed, the forest burned and broken for miles around, Killian had been played for a fool and lost all in the gamble. Seliana and their child murdered with one devastating blow, he fell upon them and wept. But this was not all Killian had lost…unable to deal with his failure to protect those closest to him, Killian’s mind abandoned him. He took up his blade and went north; north beyond the Vesve and west into the land claimed by Iuz.

All believed Killian Aderre to have died there of grief, perhaps in battle against the orcs and fiends that served the Undying One. Indeed, Killian did die the moment he found his elven bride and his unborn child slain, but only in spirit. His flesh remained and longed for vengance. Legends began to drift south into Furyondy of a great warrior who fought the forces of Iuz from within the very empire’s borders. A massive man, dressed in studded black leather that cut through orcs as if they were fields of sickly wheat. One who carried on a personal battle against Iuz, attacking his forces and then vanishing into the dark mists of the demon-prince’s own lands. And there he remains to this day, this Taurian the Black, somehow surviving against all odds. Every thought and impulse bent on laying Iuz low regardless of the cost.

Killer Gaming Moment:
Taurian brought down the demon knight Rauxios, general of Iuz’s forces, during a fiendish assult on the Furyondian city of Grabford. It was a turning point in the battle that saved the rest of the nation from the onslaught. The demon forces scattered without their leader and Taurian vanished shortly after the fighting had ended.

 

[Quickleaf]

Thanks Kai! Here's my namesake character...

Quickleaf
Also known as Eolis, Son of Soratair and "The Ghost of Amn"

A whisper of pine needles. The shadow of a bird in two places at once. A penetrating sense of being watched. These are the only signs a traveler on the woodland trail to Amn receives of Quickleaf’s presence. Occasionally, a child reports seeing a wild ghost with hair burning like autumn leaves and hypnotic eyes the color of the sky. The rumors would be discounted were it not for the similarity in the childrens’ descriptions: A savage snarl on the ghost’s face, a hint of fallen nobility in his bearing, a red-winged hawk perched on his arm. When the ghost moves, they say only wind can be heard. Contrary to popular belief, “the ghost of Amn” is an elf of flesh and blood.

Concept: Quickleaf was once a noble high elven knight in service to Queen Amearthiel as a scout of the high elven lands. However, years spent as an oathbound slave of the sylvan elves and war prisoner of the orcs have left their mark on him. He is savage, even by sylvan elf standards, and is but a shadow of who he once was. His one true love, Loriel, was married to the son of the very sylvan elf King who enslaved him - as an insurance of peace between the two elven communities. The name “Quickleaf” comes from a conversation he had with Loriel. She compared his life to a twirling leaf falling from a tree, one side of the leaf revealing shadow and the other light.

Killer Gaming Moment: Quickleaf and his party were captured by the corrupted high elven guards, and taken before the puppet queen who sentenced them to die. As they walked out to the bonfire where they would be burned as traitors, white roses were thrown down on the path before them. Quickleaf only regreted that he had never revealed to his true love Loriel his feelings toward her. All the knights of Queen Amearthiel placed their very own swords upon the bonfire, and kneeled before Quickleaf, with the rest of the townsfolk following suit. The finale was when the noble Loriel herself lay upon the bonfire and revealed she was the Queen’s daughter! When the wicked puppet queen ordered the fire to be set anyhow, it became clear to everyone who she truly was – a shadowborn enchantress sent to sow strife amongst the elves. She was quickly deposed and the Queen restored, all without raising a single weapon. It’s good to have a reputation!!

Appearance: Quickleaf's most memorable feature are his haunting eyes, into which one can see twin wells of endless grief. Yet his eyes have a sharp light in them, the kind of light born from a savage hope, the kind of hope of a man armed with a stick has against a pack of wolves. A hope born from surviving. Even his lips bear a constant savage expression bordering on a snarl. He wears a faded tunic that splits above the waist and hangs about his sides. His wrists and forearms are wrapped in the manner of an archer. While he wears a curved sword slung across his back, he rarely needs to use it. A fur-lined cloak is thrown over one shoulder. Several scars can be made out along his neck, disappearing beneath the tunic. Quickleaf has rust red hair. His skin is very dark for an elf, and his frame is lean and wiry. A red-winged hawk with a curling crest perches nearby him.

Background:

All For Love...
Quickleaf was raised by his father Soratair to become one of the ranger knights of Queen Amearthiel. Even in his youth, Quickleaf was consumed with love for Loriel, an ambassador to the sylvan elves. He competed intensely with his cousin Arechas for her favor. Learning of the magical jewel of the Khejai said to reflect true beauty in its every facet, both Quickleaf and Arechas set off on a journey to find the hag guardian of the stone who dwelt in the mountains and convince her to give it to him as a gift for his lady. When at last they found the hag, the two rival suitors were shocked that she had been taken captive by an orcish warlord and his underlings were ransacking the mountain tombs in search of the jewel. Quickleaf pretended to be the disturbed “ghost of Amn” while Arechas stole the jewel from underneath the orc’s noses. Fleeing, the pair escaped into the woods, congratulating themselves. Though it pained him to admit it, Quickleaf acquiesced that it was Arechas who had taken the jewel and should be the one to seek Loriel’s hand in marriage.

However, upon returning to their home city, they learned that Loriel had been captured during her first negotiations with the sylvan elves. Quickleaf and Arechas were assigned to scout duty, and cautioned not to let their personal feeling get in the way of their duty to their Queen Amearthiel. Quickleaf grudgingly obeyed, but Arechas set off on his own. As Quickleaf became aware of the corruption that was spreading like poison in the Queen’s cabinet, he received word that his cousin had been slain. When the body was recovered, Quickleaf found two sylvan elf arrows in Arechas’ back; scouts reported he had been ambushed in sylvan elf lands. Cursing himself for not going with his cousin, Quickleaf wrapped the two arrows in silk, kissed his cousin on the forehead and swore to rescue his love.

Penetrating sylvan elf lands, Quickleaf made it all the way to the military headquarters where Loriel was held before being taken captive. Incredulous that a high elf could have made it so far alone, the sylvan elf King Hertheam demanded he reveal the locations of his allies. Quickleaf, claiming to be a noble suitor of great importance, made a counter offer: Not only would he reveal the location of his allies, but he himself would take Loriel’s place. The sylvan elf King agreed, and Loriel was returned to her people. Quickleaf then showed the king the shadows on the forest floor, the rustling of leaves, and the many hiding spots in the forest – these were his allies. Impressed, the king revealed to Quickleaf that Loriel had gone to meet an elvish suitor, and that a scrap of Quickleaf’s clothing was given to the scouts to take back to the high elven kingdom. He would be assumed dead, and forever doomed to serve the sylvan elves as a slave.

A Wild Heart

The first months were the hardest, but soon Quickleaf had befriended the Vait Asheras, one of the noble nature-seers of the sylvan elves. However, King Hertheam's son, prince Itholaras, watched Quickleaf grow into the community with scorn - he swore the enemy of his people would pay for his arrogance. While Quickleaf helped the Vait carry water to her home, she saw the far away looked and asked if he had lost one dear to him. "If she has lost me, I have not lost her." This was always his reply. When not serving the Vait or enduring abuses from the King's sons, Quickleaf taught himself to use the difficult bows of the sylvan elves. He even watched their masterful swordsmen perform the "deres met henethun", a sacred warrior's dance performed only by the sylvan elves. One day Quickleaf was caught practicing the dance by prince Itholaras, who demanded Quickleaf give up his sword. It was an outrage to see such a foreigner attempting this sacred rite! Quickleaf stared into Itholaras' eyes and refused. A fight ensued, and quickly ended with Quickleaf on the ground. Rising slowly, he picked up the sword again. This time Itholaras picked up a stick to teach the whelp. Again, Quickleaf stood up and held on to his blade. Those elves who watched said Quickleaf rose nine times, bruised and bloody, until Itholaras drew his sword and plunged it through Quickleaf's shoulder. The sword fell from his hands.

Though the Vait was a skilled healer, Quickleaf's wound kept him in a fever for days. During this time he learned that his father had been slain defending the Queen from an orcish ambush. Realizing how much he had lost, Quickleaf turned to the bottle to drink away his misery. After a month in bed, Quickleaf emerged healed, but addicted to the bottle His wound never healed completely, and to this day Quickleaf tires quickly when fighting with his off-hand due to the shoulder wound; it would always be a reminder to him of his moment of weakness, what he called "the dark night of my soul." He grew to become the laughing stock of the sylvan elves over the year, and when his manners became to coarse, the Vait was forced to refuse him housing.

Turning to the forest for nourishment, Quickleaf began to dream of escape. And he tried many tacts - hiding among outbound caravans, disguising himself as a scout, jumping into raging rapids. But everytime the King's magic lured him back, sometimes gently, sometimes by force, to fulfill his eternal oath to the sylvan elves. When the wood elven horns sounded the oncoming orcish raiders, Quickleaf was clutching a bottle muttering to himself outside the tannery. Soon word spread that several of the scouts had been captured, among them the King's own son Itholaras. The orcs wished to negotiate, and invited the King to come unarmed to an open field to barter for his son's life. Clearly it was a trap. Quickleaf, no longer watched by his guards, crept out to the clearing without a weapon, and undid the bonds of the captives before leading them in an escape. The fight was bloody, but they succeeded in reaching the King's entourage.

The Warrior's Warrior

With the orcs repelled, King Hertheam was perplexed at this captive who had saved his son for no apparent reason other than to garner favor with the king. When he demanded an explanation from Quickleaf, he said: "A scout is my brother, even if he serves a poor master. Your scouts took my fair cousin from me, and for that they deserve a swift death. But that is for no elf, no man, no orc to decide." Though impressed by Quickleaf's answer, the King was concerned his views against the sylvan elf throne would spread, and so he offered Quickleaf a chance to hunt the orcs. Quickleaf accepted, thinking his death was near.

Quickleaf, haggard and drunk, appeared the next morning at the forward camp where plans for a daring counteraid were being drawn up. It requires a small group of elves to track the orcs back into their territory in the crags and assassinate their commanders. The other elves were loathe to accept Quickleaf into their ranks, and he had nothing but contempt for them. That some planned to "accidentally" hit him with friendly fire in the upcoming conflict was no secret. Traveling into orc lands, the group of elves was ambushed. Black barbed arrows rained down upon them and the unit was broken. Quickleaf managed to scale the cliff walls, a knife he had taken from a slain "comrade" in between his teeth. An unnatural wind poured down the cliffs, speeding the orcish arrows to deliver swift death upon their enemies.
Quickleaf managed to get within 10 paces of Kathguara, the orcish commander, before he was spotted. Two, three, four guards fell under his knife, before Quickleaf was tackled and beaten into submission. He would be taken captive again, this time by the orcs.

The elves had been massacred. Quickleaf was chained to a rock awaiting death. And not a drop of wine in sight. Surely his world was ending. Days passed, with only a small pool of water serving to keep him alive. After two weeks of wasting away, Quickleaf looked up to see Kathguara standing above him. Would he be killed quickly, or would he be interrogated first? Kathguara presented Quickleaf with an elven bow. It was the most stunning bow Quickleaf had ever seen. "Fell me a bird for dinner, and I shall spare your life." Sweat forming on his brow, Quickleaf took the bow in his weak hands. Aiming at a hawk in the nearby tree, he squinted and let the arrow fly. But Kathguara had kicked his leg, knocking Quickleaf to the ground sobbing. The arrow flew over the cliffside into the forest. "You shall die tonight, elf, but my own hand."

Free as a Hawk

That night, Quickleaf was thrown into a pit with Kathguara, who held three snarling dogs by a leash in one hand and a ball-and-chain in the other. The orcs cheered on their leader, who paraded around. Quickleaf could barely stand, looking desperately for a weapon. Drawing near the crowd, Kathguara listened to one of his captains whisper in his ear, and picked up the arrow the captain offered. It was without a doubt the one Quickleaf had fired. Kathguara gave his dogs and weapon over to his captain, bringing the arrow over to Quickleaf, "Your arrow slew a great beast that will provide food for us till the next winter. I will most likely kill you in the morning."

And Quickleaf lived. Though life in the orcish village was hard, and he had to constantly protect himself even to get a scrap of food, Quickleaf thrived on their barbarism. The pain in his animal soul called for being free of the shackles of civilization. After a time, even Kathguara was impressed at his morning ritual of combat training, and slowly he began to take Quickleaf under his wing. The other orcs watched with displeasure as Kathguara taught Quickleaf the secrets of orcish fighting and Quickleaf shared the secrets of the elven bow. The orcish general hoped to learn a weapon that he could use against the elves, and Quickleaf hoped to learn the general's weakness and exploit it. Theirs was a strange relationship, and orcish assassins plotted both their deaths.

When the army of the high elves arrived outside the orcish realm calling for a battle, Kathguara rode out with Quickleaf. The terms of the fight were thus: 100 of the greatest warriors of either side were to fight. The victor would gain dominion over the other's territory. Kathguara had choosen Quickleaf as one of his 100 warriors. Dressed in orcish war paints, with a quiver of black barbed arrows, Quickleaf watched the elves readying for battle. To his horror, the frontlines were his countrymen and distant relatives.

The Witch-Queen

The terrible battle ended with elven victory, and the orcs were forced to flee. Quickleaf had done battle with and slain over a dozen of his former elven allies before he was bested and left for dead on the battlefield. However, one of the surviving elves recognized him and declared his body should be bought back to be buried in the elven tradition. When they reached the high elven halls, the party found Quickleaf was alive! Again, he was nursed back to health. He spoke with several of his old friends, who were shocked at the barbarism of their old ally. Slowly, Quickleaf returned to civilization, but as he did so, he learned that he faced charges of treason against the Queen. He also learned that the Queen was not herself recently, and there were many who feared she had become a puppet of the orcs. Gathering a band of rebels, Quickleaf fled into the forest to wage a guerilla war against the Queen's evil ways. He would become widely known as the "ghost of Amn", disappearing into the woods after each attack. Tales of his daring brought hope and courage to the high elven people that they would escape the thrall of their witch-queen.

D&D Terms: High Elf (feral) Ranger 4, Amearthiel's Knight 3, Barbarian 2, Druid 3

 

[Eosin the Red]

Let me be the thousandth person to say - "Way cool" to you Kai Lord and to WAR.

Jaran Enverness

It all changed the day the gods took my father away. I was with him in the great hall when they entered. In truth, I don’t remember much of the actual fight nor the death of my father. I do remember holding his hand and the look on his face as the light faded from his eyes; it was one of sadness and surprise. He tried to tell me something; I cannot help but believe it must have been important since it was so hard for him to breathe. Lord, how he struggled to tell me. I am shamed for I could not pick my own fathers voice out from the clanging of swords. In one final surge of life, he pressed a medallion into my hand. I swear that the unicorn on the medallion was glowing when I first saw it but as his light faded so did the light of the medallion.

Glorin, my guardian and companion, said I took my fathers sword and joined the battle. The men were trying to get to me out and away from the danger but I was lost in some kind of a fugue or battle trance. He said I had never fought like that; indeed, he seems to think that few have ever fought as I did that day. He carried me out after a horned dagger took the wind and nearly the life from me.

It was days before anyone was able to tend to my wounds and by then I had lapsed into a fevered world of laughing demons and fire breathing dragons. I felt the Night Lords hands reaching for me in the darkness, seeking to snuff me out to the last. Once I think I smiled at a toothless crone who was packing my wounds in mud of some sort.

Unable to bear the torments of demons and fire breathing gods of darkness, the angel Avalloc and his kin opened the stars to me. A bright light from beyond the stars called me home to be with my father. It was my father; he stood waiting for me among the angels. He was young and full of vigor, not as he had been the last few years when the blood cough had him.

The Lord of the Angels, the Shining Wrath of Ro, Avalloc waited while his companions came to me. First was the Silver Warrior, Brynn. His voice was contemptuous and scornful, “Lo though you are welcome in my father’s house it is with shame, for you have failed to bring wrath and war upon those who would take what we have given you to defend all of the people of Middea from the depredations of the Ennwrathi. You are as a mewling kitten lost and afraid of the world without a in your mouth. I will not aide you to journey with the Lord of Storms when you were but a zephyr in life.” So speaking, the Silver Warrior turned his back on me and my father.

Aislin known to scholars as the mistress of logic and light came next. She spoke to me and laid a hand upon my breast. “Oh, young Jaran. I do pity thee for you are lost and blinded by shadows. Unable to shed light and reason on your condition. As one who dwells in the shadows, you are lost to me.” I felt a cool wetness on my forehead and the heat of a goddess’s breath. Then she also turned away from me and moved to stand with the Silver Warrior.

Finally, Avalloc himself came to me. I could hear the rasping of his sword as it cleared its sheath and came to rest on my shoulder. “Little one, you come to us unfulfilled and your father has asked us to sit in judgment of you. You are yet unworthy to travel beyond time where the righteous dwell. There are unsung songs and in the great harmony of the universe, your voice must find its place. My kin have laid the way for you, if you listen to their words. Unsheathe your sword and right the wrongs done to your family, remove the shadows that cloud your vision and dwell again in the light. I also have use for you, as Ro has use for me, but you are yet too young for this.” His blade lifted from my shoulder and touched my brow “Return to where you came from Jaran Envernes and know that death is no release from your duty. You are my liegeman and I have need of you.”

All three angels began to speak as the form of my father hurtled toward the great light in the distant stars.

“All memories of light and dark return

We command this rising soul to forsake the sleeping.
He is an ember that has leapt from the hearth
For he has come alone, from a place of fire
He has come from the altar of the west where once we fell.
The sanctuary where the shadow wakes and fires fail.

Now awaken in this ritual, as a spark upon tinder
A Light returns to battle with the Dark.”

Soon after, I woke in Ormond. Glorin was all that was left of my guard and he was sorely wounded during the escape. We traveled north when I could again walk, which was not for some time. There in Highwall I became a man, I also became a warrior. All too soon, rumors began to circulate in the capitol and my identity was uncovered. Once again, I found myself running from assassins but not before one of the strangest events in my life.

I had taken to riding with scouts into the mountains, occasionally taking missions to monitor trollkin movements. On this occasion, we spotted a large band of trollkin moving at a good clip with several captives.

An Athan Re scouting party had been caught in the open and taken by the vicious brutes. Later we discovered how dear a price the Trollkin paid to get these three nature walkers. I followed along with one other scout, our companions returning to Ormond to inform the Duchess. On the fifth day, our prey entered a cavern complex. My companion and I were exhausted and needed to rest but were fearful of being so far north. I took first watch, which was uneventful and then woke up Marston for his watch. During my sleep, Marston was set on by Trollkin and was slain for I awoke to find his body several dozen yards away. It still puzzles me how they could have missed me?

Shortly after waking, the trollkin began to move with their captives once more. Unable to return to Ormond without aid, I did the only thing I could do; follow the Trollkin. We traveled north for days deep into the heart of the Avalkhmar [the Dire Wastes]; despairing to never survive the journey, I began to plot a way to free the captives.

I eventually decided to attack the Trollkin while they camped and had gone about getting ready for my final stand when I stumbled on a human ranger sitting near a bog. He had been watching me and told me I was about to kill myself. Together we made some plans and before they broke up camp, we slew the trollkin. The ranger said he knew the nature walkers but they did not appear any bit friendly towards the grizzled warrior.

We all worked our way back south where companies parted and I was given some directions and a map that assisted me in my return through the mountains. A day after returning to Ormond one of the Athan Re appeared in my chambers and bid me to follow her into the garden. My head swam with the delicate aroma.

“Your blood sings to me. Blood calls to blood.”

I was puzzled over her words, she must have sensed it. “You have the mark of the angels on you. Your blood is the blood of my kin. It is the blood of angels. Tonight you must flee this place. A great darkness looms here twisting a web of the finest spiders silk. If you stay, you will be snared.”

The delicate voice stilled the song of the night birds. “Take your sword and the medallion of your father but leave your other possessions.” Her hand took mine and pressed a warm ring of gold into it. “This ring will guard you and protect you.”

With assassins and who knows what else about, it was time to depart Ormond. I drifted south to the lands of Wingate where I apprenticed myself to some of the finest swordsmen in all of Middea. I worked hard those final two years learning tricks and skill with the sword that few can challenge. I also learned about leadership and subterfuge fighting deep within the Ravenswood where a war of illusion and stealth has raged for more than a decade.

Girded with skill and courage, I returned to the lands of my father to seek out those who had taken everything from me. The year has been hard, I have lost many friends but found many more. The White Knights of Enverness took my spiritual guide, Father Kalan; I pray nightly that he was quickly delivered to Ro. It was he who convinced me that I had indeed passed into Aion [Heaven]. Kalan believed that I had a special destiny, believing me to be the man referred to in the Book of Prophecies as the Second Champion in one verse and Ro’s Anointed in another. At first, I had difficulty believing such words had been spoken centuries before my time but Kalan was able to point out references in several texts. In time, he made me see the truth of his words. I struggle nightly knowing that I am a pawn in some greater battle and unaware of my place in it. I continue to have faith and pray that Ro will fortify me for the duty he has set. I continue to struggle against the forces that have already sent me to the grave once, not even death will make me relent from my chosen task.

Shining Moment
Jaran Enverness is a haunted man tormented by dreams of his father’s death and of his own. Each night he dreams of that battle but each night the nightmare comes closer to being defeated. Jaran’s dream always take place in the great hall but instead of the child who fell to a horned blade that day Jaran sees himself as he is today. As his skill increases, the battle becomes closer and closer. He is sure that someday soon he will triumph in the dream battle. The dream always starts with the shadowy forces of men and demons pulling his father to the ground delivering their savage cuts while Jaran leaps from the stair among them.

Description
Jaran is a big man with wide shoulders. His white hair flows like a lion’s mane when he enters battle or does not keep it bound. Though he is young, his shockingly blue eyes hold an intensity and a sadness that is unfathomable. Jaran is human but few who have seen him in battle would describe him that way, they would say that he was a great cat locked in the body of a man. He is a predator born to kill - not from malice or depravity but simply because that is what predators do.

Side notes: Jaran really does have the blood of the angels flowing in his veins and though he can pass for human, there is something to him that is not of this world. The setting has a Celtic flavor to it.

Equipment: Jaran carries the gilded bastard sword of his father. It is the finest Kaladian Steel [Damascian] that can be bought with coin. The steel of the blade has smokey patterns to it while the cross hilt and quillions are engraved with knotwork.

The Ring given to him by the sorceress is more than a simple loop. It is more of a bracelet that terminates with a silvered ring. The band starts as a bracelet with numerous threads running across the top of his hand in pattern. Where the threads or chains meet there is a small gem in a flat setting. Each of these connects to each other and then into the ring.

The medallion of his father is the house emblem. It is made of silver with amber patterned into a unicorn.

 

[talinthas]

wow, Kai! that addition is awesome! Makes me want to submit another character =)

 

[Ogre Mage]

Thieving Magpie

TOMI SUZUME, HENGEYOKAI (SPARROW) ROGUE/NINJA SPY

CHARACTER CONCEPT
A second generation immigrant from Kara-Tur, Tomi Suzume has the appearance of a sparrow but the mind of a thief. Like many shape-changers she is skilled in the art of deception, honed from years of living in Waterdeep. Moving around unnoticed and slipping past barriers is her usual M.O.

IMPORTANT SKILLS: Appraise +5, Bluff +10, Disable Device +19, Disguise +9, Hide +27/+33, Knowledge (Waterdeep) +5, Listen +12, Move Silently +22, Open Lock +19, Search +14, Spot +17, Tumble +15, Use Magic Device +11.

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
In human form, Tomi is a small Shou woman standing 5’0” and 90 lbs. She has slender, delicate fingers and limbs capable of unparalleled swiftness and accuracy. Her usual adventuring wear is simple black pants with a dark green shirt and vest embroidered with Shou designs. She also owns an elaborate scarlet silk kimono for formal wear or disguise purposes. Masterwork thieves’ tools are kept in her vest’s inner pocket and a silver dagger strapped to her lower leg is concealed by her boot. Her most prized possession is improved shadow leather armor which bears an unearthly black color and blends the wearer into nearby shadows. She has almond shaped black eyes, shoulder length black hair and a slightly pointed nose, the only visible hint of her avian nature. Her rapier +1, mighty composite shortbow +1 and boots of elvenkind appear unremarkable. She is capable of surprisingly foul language and when amused is known to flash a smile so brief you could blink and miss it.

In hybrid from, Tomi is a human-sized, bipedal sparrow with brown to black feathers, round bird eyes, a small beak and wings. Her hands and feet are human-shaped but resemble bird claws. Her equipment remains the same.

In sparrow form, Tomi appears as a typical sparrow.

KILLER GAMING MOMENT
The group was attempting to enter a mountain stronghold. Scouting ahead in sparrow form, Tomi spotted a back entrance guarded by a single orc. She landed behind a large rock and shifted to hybrid form, easily making her hide and move silently checks. From her hiding spot she cocked an arrow and fired, slaying the orc with a sneak attack before he could raise an alarm. In the city or wilderness, she is in her element skulking around.

BACKGROUND
The journey was long and arduous. The two sparrows crossed The Golden Way, through the mysterious lands of Thay, over The Sea of Fallen Stars and past the mighty kingdoms of Sembia and Cormyr.

Mitsue and Masa settled in Ardeep Forest near Waterdeep. It seemed like a good place for a new home: a reasonably peaceful forest not far from an urbane city. Shortly thereafter, two baby birds were born. The boy was named Takeshi and the girl was named Tomi.

Tomi’s memories of that time are fond. Her parents showed the children how they could assume human form and move among humans as one of their own. The family eventually took up residence in The City of Splendors, leaving the forest behind.

The cosmopolitan bustle of Waterdeep fascinated Tomi. Her parents seemed tied up in their own affairs and she became a “latchkey kid.” Soon, she fell in with a group of shady individuals and began dabbling in “activities.” Developing an immense talent for stealth and burglary, her ability to transform into a sparrow was an incredible edge which got her out of more than one jam. The yakuza crime lords of Waterdeep’s Shou Town quietly noted her as a potential recruit.

One significant incident occurred during her time with street gangs. She and three friends decided to do some grave robbing in The City of the Dead, Waterdeep’s cemetery. After “casing the joint,” they broke into the tomb of an upper middle class family. As they searched for valuables, the spectre of an old woman floated through the wall. She touched one of Tomi’s companions and his body fell to the ground, a desiccated husk. The spectre laughed and the coffins began to shake, as though the corpses inside were attempting to escape. Tomi and the others fled as unearthly moans and the rattle of coffins echoed down the crypt hallway. Since then, she has grown skittish of grave robbing and developed a phobia of incorporeal undead.

The year the children turned 40 (which is about 15 in human years) Mitsue and Masa announced that they were leaving for good and it was time for the kids to survive own their own. They turned to sparrow form, headed north toward The High Forest and have not been seen since.

Takeshi had long been enchanted with the legends of Kara-Tur. He said he wanted to fulfill his dream of traveling to their ancestral homeland and flew east.

Left alone, Tomi wondered what to do with her life. Unlike her brother, she had no desire to venture to Kara-Tur. The Waterdavian branch of The Nine Golden Swords chose this moment to offer her membership. She agreed to join their ranks. The Nine Golden Swords had been consolidating control over the criminal activities of Waterdeep’s Shou Town and beyond, avoiding detection by masquerading as a “Shou cultural society.” Tomi was also intrigued by their knowledge of the ninja arts. It’s time to see how the pros do business, she thought.

Thereafter, Tomi continued to work in Waterdeep, occasionally retreating to the forest to live as a bird for a time. During one of these retreats, she encountered a band of adventurers who helped her kill a harpy that plagued the woods. For the first time, she felt the urge to stretch her wings and see the world. Promising the Golden Swords that she would stay in touch, she hit the trail, hoping for the potential power and profit an adventuring life could bring.

 

[Ar'Salan]

Ar'Salan

NAME

Farzin Ad-ar'Sham Abu Al-Ja'Veed Ar'salan Ibn Sha'heen Al-Sepehr An-Shaha'ab, Learned Powerful Undying Lion of the Sky; Honored Son of the Falcon and the Flaming Star.

or, just Ar'Salan.

BACKGROUND

A Noble Djinni Fighter/Rogue. Basic personality type: a$$hole. This character was played in a short, experimental Savage Species/Planescape campaign based on the "Nameless Legion" scenario from Dungeon Magazine a few years back. He woke up one day with no memory in a prison camp / army boot camp and was told he was now an inter-planar mercenary. Whether he wanted to be or not. Needless to say, he was not happy. Teaming up with a bunch of other assorted weirdos (a female pixie thief, a psychotic ghaele warrior, an eccentric crystal-studded psionicist, a multi-legged feral reptilian ogre mutant, and a greatsword-weilding centaur) he was sent on a series of missions on various planes and worlds, including (I think) Scarn, Faerun, and Greyhawk. The only memories he possessed were more in the forms of desires: firstly, for fine foods and wines, but secondly and most overwhelmingly, for GEMS. This was one jewel-obsessed genie.

APPEARANCE

Big (ie. Large Size) - about 9 feet tall, with rippling muscled sky-blue skin and a bald pate, piercing ice-blue eyes and an overbearingly arrogant gaze. His feet never touch the ground, he considers it unclean and 'beneath him.' Instead, he appears to just 'walk on air,' constantly striding to and fro in impatience. He is often followed by dust devils and trails of mist, the air is never still around this being. His fingers are loaded with jewelled rings, taken from defeated foes, his neck encircled with glittering chains and amulets, his ears studded with gold. He wears loose-fitting balloon-like pants, and wrapped around his waist is a (Large-Sized!) spiked chain - his weapon of choice. When he's annoyed he likes to spin it slowly and marvel at the beautiful sound it makes, swishing through the air.

DRAMATIC MOMENT

The final session of the campaign - after battling through the steaming jungles of eastern Faerun, the party had finally reached its destination: the underground treasury room of an ancient temple to a death God. Having cut a swathe through giant crabs, living trees, white dragon wyrmlings and crazed temple fanatics, the biggest problem the party was facing was its own internal politics.The Legion had sent them to recover the famed artifact known as "The Raintiger." No one knew quite what it did, but they knew it was in the form of a huge emerald. In the final chamber, deep in the bowels of the crumbling ziggurat, the tomb guardian lich lying defeated in a pile of dust, the party debated how to open the obviously-trapped treasure casket holding the fabled jewel. While the rest of the party bickered, Ar'Salan ripped the box open, grabbed the jewel, and with a wave and a smile on his face, promptly planeshifted to the elemental plane of air, just as the walls of the tomb began to close around the group, and water began to rise up the walls...

A nasty way to the end the session, but satisfyingly in character, and a fitting finale to a wild and brutal campaign.

 

[Oryan77]

Geez, lots of good entries and I'm sure lots more to come. I don't know how my favorite PC can compete, but here he is:

Cyriss -of the Fated

Campaign: Planescape converted to 3.5

Profession: Master Locksmith & Tax Collector (Rogue)

Description:

Race: Tiefling

Age: Unknown. Looks to be about as old as a 28 y/o human, but he's many years older.

Height: 5'11"

Weight: 145lbs

Skin color: dull midnight black

Hair: Instead of a normal head of hair he has 8" tall tan/brownish quill-like strands that spike above his scalp. These strands are straight and stiff like a porcupines quill, only they don't cover his scalp as thick as a porcupine's body is covered. They are more spaced apart so where you can see his scalp between strands. You could actually count the strands easily if you took the time to do so (about 100-150 strands total). He has no facial hair or body hair. The quills don't brush back like a porcupines quills, they stick straight out almost like nails (but more flimsly).

Eyes: Milky black with a tint of gray. He has no pupils.

Ears: Looks like the Nymphs ears in the 3.5 Monster Manual pg 198 except that they're not as wide at the bottom and the upper thin tip protrudes another inch higher above the head. He has various exotic earring loops pierced around his ears.

Teeth: All of his white teeth are canine looking. He grins a lot just to show them off.

Physique: Fairly skinny with a muscular cut. His body looks humanoid in shape. He could be mistaken for a tall Drow if his head looked anything Drow-like. His face is thin with a thin nose and a strong jaw line which comes down to a pointed chin. He might be a handsome man if his eyes, teeth, ears, and hair weren't so odd.

Gear: He wears black leather armor with maroon, gray, and dark tanish colored pieces (it's mostly black but has lots of these colors mixed into the design to give him more color so the character isn't just a boring black figure...these colors can be changed to look better). He prefers dark colors because it enhances his talent of hiding in shadows. He loves decoration and details; so his armor consists of lots of buckles, straps, pouches, and exotic accessories all fitting tightly around his frame. He wears no cloaks, capes, or robes because "flowing" articles of clothing get in his way while he's working. He prefers to fight 2-handed with 2 exotic looking sickles or throw one of his many half-sized dirks that are sheathed in rows along his legs, body, and arms. His lockpicks are stored in a row of slots on one of his thighs. He wears boots and gloves. He prefers to travel with a light load so he can sneak around easier at a whim. This also allows him to return home with more "loot".

Personality: Chaotic Neutral. Cyriss belongs to a faction called "The Fated" (aka The Takers, The Heartless, The Crued, or Coldbloods) in the city called Sigil. Their main goal in life is to obtain power in every form, and as long as they "earn" it, it doesn't matter how they obtained it. This causes him to be very proud, confident, and a bit cocky. He conciders himself to be a good man. He will help out a companion and risk his life to do so if needed, but he will always expect compensation in some form afterwards. This might be a little extra portion of the loot to come, or first pick of the loot at hand. If he doesn't get it when he asks for it, he will obtain it his own way sooner or later. This doesn't always mean material payment either (knowledge is power too), and he might not always require payment because he knows his friends will return the favor in due time. Some might call Cyriss greedy if they don't know him, but his actions are no different than a wizard trying to fill his spellbook with more powerful spells...he just doesn't feel guilty if his actions anger a person. He believes that if he can obtain it & get away with it, he has earned it, and the better man deserves the prize.

He gives off a standoff-ish presence at first (due to his appearance), but is overall friendly to the people he likes. He can even be humorous at times. He likes to end his sentences in a sly grin to show off his odd teeth. He's VERY cunning and articulate. Even a fiend has a hard time pulling a fast one over on Cyriss.

Combat/Career:

He hates to fight toe-to-toe, but if he needs to, his opponents are very surprised at how skilled he is with his sickles. Graceful and precise, some might think Cyriss has been trained as a fighter...this isn't true. Growing up on the streets of Sigil has honed his fighting skills in a method that allows him to fight unpredictably and cunningly. If his opponent is a more skilled fighter & more armored, Cyriss doesn't hesitate to vanish in the shadows and wait for the enemy to be unprepared & unaware so he can strike hard while the opponent doesn't see it coming. He has a different unique variety of special abilities than the standard Tiefling has: Invisibility twice per week, Mirror Image once per day, and Detect Magic 3 times per week. The first two he uses to help him have an advantage in battle. Invisibility also helps him while he seeks great wealth in dungeons/palaces/manions, but he is so skilled at hiding in shadows and moving silently that he doesn't need this ability to get the job done. Detect Magic is his most appreciated ability. This helps him determine whether or not an item is worth "taking". There's been several situations where time was a factor and he had to choose which pieces of the horde he would take before fleeing...Detect Magic always helped him make this decision.

He is known for being a Master Locksmith who is also skilled in finding & disabling traps that could stop you from obtaining great treasure. He doesn't mind hiring himself out to adventurers as long as he gets the percentage of the loot he asks for (which is always high). Just don't call him a Rogue and definately don't call him a Thief...he's a Locksmith; his rates will raise if you do so, and you might find your belongings missing throughout the trip. His dark skin and black eyes help hide him in the dark while he sneaks around. Most of the time people only spot him while he's hiding in shadows right before his blade sinks into a vital area of their body. This is only because Cyriss has a bad habit of grinning before a sneak attack, so they notice the white of his teeth thru the darkness of night.

History:

Raised in the Tiefling community known as the Sandstone District near the Hive Ward of Sigil. Like most Tieflings, he doesn't know his heritage or a family name. He goes only by the name Cyriss. When Cyriss completed his courses at the Rowan Academy of Training to become a full member of the Fated, he immediately got a job as a "tax collector". He worked in a sub-branch of the official Taxers in the city. It was his responsibility to "legally" enter into a persons home without their consent or knowledge and collect the payments owed to the city for unpaid taxes. The residents were never victims, they were citizens of Sigil who haven't paid taxes on time and have yet to deliver the funds (and late fees) to the Fated. The method Cyriss would use to complete these jobs was to sneak into the home when the residents were either alseep or away because he doesn't like confrontation when it isn't personal. This makes his job easier because people usually don't cooperate when they are forced to hand over valuables as payment, plus they get angry when they find out how much the late fees are for not paying taxes on time. He also prefers this method because he gets to work alone and he pockets an item or two for himself, which he calls "a tip".

After years of working as a tax collector, Cyriss desired more power and definately more wealth. He began hiring himself out to adventurers to help them open locks that they wouldn't normally be able to bypass, and he would also help them avoid traps that would hinder their way. Currently he has found comfort with a certain group of adventurers that he can call "friends".

Shining Moment:

He's had his typical moments of saving the party from disaster at the last moment, but his companions have done the same for him plenty of times also...actions like these are expected among heroes and adventurers. So why sing about something everyone in the tavern has already heard? Instead, I'll tell a quick tale that he is proud about, but might make others question his character...

Cyriss was once hired by a petty group of adventurers (which, after time, he now calls them his friends). It was the same old job...disable that, unlock this, help kill them, save us from it. During the beginning of this job, the group was in an unfamiliar town. They had just killed some bandits and Cyriss was haggling with a merchant interested in buying the gems he pulled off a bandits body. When the merchant found out Cyriss's profession, he asked if him & his party would find and retreive a stolen heirloom from a bandits lair somewhere nearby. The merchant agreed to pay "1000gp" for the task. Cyriss agreed and just needed to convince the rest of the party. When he met up with the group later in town, he told them about this job that sounds like easy money....it paid an entire "800gp". This was a lot of money for this group at the time so of course they agreed to do this task.

Realizing that these adventurers were a bit simple-minded and unwary, Cyriss decided to see how far he could take advantage of these people. After the task was completed and Cyriss (privately) collected their reward, he announced to the group that it's time to divy up their "700gp" reward. Excited, everyone approached Cyriss to recieve their share of the prize. Out of a group of 4 (including Cyriss), the reward was split evenly and each was given "150gp" (totals only 600gp split 4 ways). Everyone was happy by the end of the day, 3 of them made an easy 150gp plus random loot, and Cyriss made a much easier 550gp plus random loot. It took awhile, but Cyriss finally trained his new friends in the art of awareness.

 

[Stormrunner]

Stormrunner

She Who Loves To Gallop Through The Wind And Rain (short form "Stormrunner" or "Stormy")

female centaur

height: 5'10" at withers, 10'2" forehooves to top of head
weight: about 1600-1700 lbs

Stormrunner is of the Hardsruthor, or "Northern Centaurs", a larger and heavier sub-race. While standard centaurs have the lower body of a light warhorse, Hardsruthor have the horsebody of a heavy warhorse, with the humanoid torso larger and more muscular to match. (Higher Str, lower Dex.) They also have shaggy tufts of fur on their lower legs (like a Clydesdale) and forearms. Their hair grows in a Mohawk-style strip over the top of the skull and down the spine of the upper torso all the way to the withers, like a horse's mane, and they have horse ears rather than human ones, though their faces are otherwise humanoid. They have a set of humanoid "naughty bits" between the forelegs in addition to the equine ones between the hindlegs; for illustration purposes, assume Stormy's frontal pubic hair is thick and shaggy enough to keep things PG-13.

Stormy's hide is a dark chocolate brown, and this coloration extends to her upper body as well. Her mane, tail, shagtufts, pubes, eyebrows, lips, nipples, fingernails, and hooves are all a pale cream color. She tends to favor green, gold, and white in her jewelry and bodypaint. She wears her mane long and flowing, with many thin rat-tail braids scattered through it, each ending in a tiny carved fetish (see below). Her tail is trimmed a little shorter, so it doesn't drag or get too many burrs in it, but is also mostly loose, with the exception of two braids tipped with three large blue-painted wooden beads apiece - these indicate her clan. Her eyes are hazel-green. While not flat-chested, she does lead an active lifestyle and her breasts are not the "cantalope-globes" depicted by some artists - the Players Handbook illo for Ember the monk is probably a good reference. Not being human, her facial features don't really match any real-world ethnic group, but she has a prominent ("Roman"/Native American) nose and cheekbones, and full ("African") lips.

Stormy's people are gymnophiles - that is, while not strictly nudist, they prefer to wear as little as possible. Thus Stormrunner is normally clad only in harness and jewelry, plus any items listed below, with a little bodypaint for extra decoration. Much of her gear is decorated with intricate spiral patterns reminiscent of Celtic knotwork.

How she got her name:
(Note: her name changes several times in her lifetime; this is standard practice in her culture. Just keep in mind that Ouzel, Red Legs, and Stormrunner are all the same person.)
Born to a small herd on the edge of the great northern plains, she was given the child-name of Ouzel, for like the small water-bird she was inquisitive, energetic, and easily distracted. Ouzel grew up strong and healthy, and something of a tomboy, insisting on tagging along with the colts as they hunted small game - a habit the colts grudgingly accepted after finding that she could outrun and outfight most of them. It was generally felt that upon reaching adulthood she would probably declare herself berdasha ("transvestite" - a mare who wears masculine jewelry and paint, and engages in traditionally male activities such as hunting and warfare. Male equivalent is berdasho, generic/plural form berdachi. Note that berdachi-hood is completely independent of sexual preference - while Stormy happens to be bi, just because someone is berdachi doesn't mean they're necessarily gay/bi/lesbian). This, plus her exceptional intelligence and inquisitiveness, attracted the attention of the Herd Shaman (berdachi often display either unusual talent for, or strong resistance to, magic), and Ouzel became the old mare's apprentice.

Ouzel proved adept at her studies, but also continued to hunt and explore whenever she had free time. Still, her restlessness grew. She didn't want to lead the life of a traditional mare, but the role of berdasha-stallion was almost as circumscribed, and the mantle of shaman would carry more responsibilities than freedoms. She hungered for something more, but was unable to express just what it was she wanted.

The autumn she was grown, the old Shaman called Ouzel to her side. "You have studied well, and learned all that I have to teach you. Only one final test remains, the most difficult and dangerous of all. You will die."
"If I fail, you mean?"
"No, you will die, and go to the Land of the Dead. There you will be judged, and if you are found worthy, you will return to life with the sacred knowledge, that which cannot be taught but must be retrieved anew by each initiate."
"And if I am not worthy?"
"Then I will sing the funeral songs for you, and find a new apprentice. But we will speak more of this later, for the test will not come until the Long Night of winter. Now it is the autumn festival, when trees change their leaves, animals change their coats, and a certain young filly must change her name, be mounted by the Herd Stallion, and become a full-grown mare. The best hunters are going on a far hunt, to bring back much meat for the feasts, and your colt friends will follow them, to learn and to help with the skinning and carrying. Go and join them - it is your last chance to experience the freedom of childhood before you take on the responsibilities of an adult."

So Ouzel joined the hunters, and as befitted the Shaman's apprentice, led them in the chants to appease the animal spirits. The spirits were pleased, and after several days they returned laden with meat. However, they were delayed several hours by the need to hide from a flight of griffons, and it was well past sunset by the time they approached the camp. In the darkness they stumbled over the gnawed corpse of a young stallion. Stashing their loads in a gully they approached the main camp stealthily with bows drawn, and surprised a pair of gnolls, filling them with arrows before they could cry out. Peering over the final ridge, a scene of horror met their eyes. The camp was a shambles, the bodies of the entire herd spread among the wreckage, along with a score of dead gnolls. Several dozen live gnolls moved through the wreckage, stripping, skinning, and butchering the corpses of centaur and gnoll alike. The bonfires that had been prepared for the celebratory dances now roasted the flesh of their families.

Something snapped inside Ouzel, and with a shrill scream of rage she charged over the hill, the startled stallions and colts following her half-instinctively. The gnolls, caught completely flat-footed, gaped in surprise at the screaming charge - gapes that became shrieks of agony as they were speared, shot, and trampled. The centaurs had thundered almost all the way through the camp by the time the hyena-folk rallied enough to send a shower of arrows and javelins after them, managing only to kill the hindmost colt and wound several stallions before the galloping centaurs disappeared into the darkness. Behind them, twenty-some-odd gnolls lay writhing in their death throes.

A half-dozen gnolls gave pursuit, but the fleeing centaurs doubled back and ambushed them, wiping them out as well. The group then paused to bind their wounds and discuss their options. Ouzel's legs were crimson to the knee with mud and blood, both centaur and gnoll. With the Herd Stallion and Herd Shaman both dead, she declared herself adult, and took the name Red Legs, vowing that she would never wash the blood from her legs until every gnoll in the pack was dead. A split quickly developed; Red Legs and several of the younger stallions wanted to continue to punish the gnolls, while the older stallions, realizing that with only one surviving mare the herd was no longer viable, were in favor of fleeing to a friendly herd and joining them, perhaps returning later with reinforcements to reclaim the lost territory. In the end, the older stallions took the colts and left: they never returned, and she later found that they never reached the neighboring herd either - whether they fell prey to more gnolls, adventurers, or some other monster is unknown.

Meanwhile Red Legs led the half-dozen younger stallions in a series of lightning raids over the next few months, steadily whittling down the numbers of the gnoll pack, who came to greatly fear her. For their part, the gnolls were not helpless and started laying traps and ambushes of their own. One by one Red Legs' companions fell, until only she was left. In one final desperate assault, she galloped out of the sunset into the last pitiful remnants of the gnoll pack, and slew all but one, a female who, wounded, fled the early stages of the fight. Herself wounded, Red Legs tracked the gnoll-bitch's blood trail through the deep snows, grimly pursuing her through the longest night of winter, and at last bringing her to bay atop a steep bluff. There the she-gnoll railed at Red Legs, calling her a monster and a murderer. In the course of her rantings, much became clear. The gnolls were not so much invaders as refugees: the reason they had been so disorganized at first was that they were not a single pack, but the tattered remnants of many packs, driven from their homeland by an invasion - of centaurs. The thought that her own kind might be even partially responsible for the past few month's horrors was too much - screaming at her to shut up, Red Legs speared and trampled the gnoll bitch into a red ruin in the snow.

Her oath was fufilled; the last gnoll of the pack was dead. Now what? She had expected to feel some sort of joyful triumph, but instead she felt hollow and empty. Mechanically she began to skin the dead gnoll for a final trophy - and discovered that the bitch had been pregnant, the pups crushed to death by Red Legs' pounding hooves. As hardened a killer as she had become, the sight of the pitiful little bodies still tugged at Red Legs' maternal instincts. What had she become? When had she stopped thinking of justice, or even revenge, and become filled only with hatred and the blind desire to kill? The she-gnoll was right - she had made herself into a murdering monster, even more so than the ones she sought to slay. And for what? Her herd was destroyed, her friends and family all dead. She had nothing left to live for.

With a cry of grief and despair, Red Legs leaped over the precipice. She bounced several times on the way down, and hit bottom with a bone-shattering crunch. After her legs had stopped kicking, there was a long silence, until the first small scavengers cautiously ventured from their hiding places to sniff at the cooling corpse.

Red Legs journeyed to the Land of the Dead, and was judged. Of that judgement she does not speak.

Wind stirred the grasses - and something more than wind. Gnawed and shattered bones drew together, slithering and rolling back into their proper places. When the skeleton was complete, it began to clothe itself in flesh.

She awoke to the touch of rain on her face. For a long time she did not move, becoming once again used to the feeling of lungs breathing, heart beating. Slowly, gingerly, she began to move. There was no pain. She was whole. She was alive.

She rolled over and struggled to her feet. The snows were gone - around her the long grasses whipped in the wind of a gathering spring storm. Thunder boomed, and she felt its vibration deep in her bones. She was alive.

The rain began to fall in earnest. Casting off the tattered remnants of her gear, she gave a great whoop of exultation and broke into a wild gallop across the plain, arms flung wide and face upturned to the lightning-stitched clouds, as the rain ran down her naked body, washing away the blood and horror of the past, washing her clean. She was alive!

She fashioned new gear, and journeyed south, to the lands of the two-leggers. There she found many adventures (including a riddle-contest with a dragon) and many new lovers (including a mermaid and a celestial unicorn). But she never forgot that moment of rebirth. From then on, she was Heyan-tekolli-heh-menitskaaya, Mare Who Loves To Gallop Through The Thunderstorm.

Visible gear:
Fetishes - similar to Quall's Feather Tokens, but in much more variety, ranging from tiny figurines to miniature masks to abstract symbolic shapes. Stormy creates and uses these in place of potions, and keeps several dozen dangling from her mane and portions of her harness.
Lance - A Native American-style heavy spear rather than the flared-grip jousting-style lance pictured in the PHB, may have a string of gnoll tails/ears dangling from it.
Two scimitars - a matched pair of enchanted blades.
Hipposandals - like the Romans used, basically lace-on horseshoes. References:
http://www.romansinsussex.co.uk/level3/search/detail.asp?sitenumber=1&objectnumber=17
http://www.hippotherapy.be/index-fr-fr.html?url=/chevaux/physio/hipposandal.htm
Several soft leather pouches.

Optional extras:
A pair of small parfleche-style saddlebags decorated with bead/quillwork (but no saddle)
Leggings - fringed and tooled leather, covering the front of the leg and laced in back, sorta like a cowboy's chaps. On all four legs, from just above the hoof to below the "knee" joint.
Bracers of armor - interlaced straps of studded leather entwining both arms from wrists to shoulders. The left forearm also has a leather archery pad to prevent her bowstring from catching in her arm-shag.
Composite longbow - asymmetric, like the Japanese daikyu, with a short lower limb and long upper limb, allowing her to shoot Parthian-style back over her own rump without whacking her flanks with the bow. Large box-style quiver slung from the waist and angled back along the right flank, holding about 50 arrows.

suggested poses:
-beheading a gnoll with a criss-cross double slash of her scimitars, while simultaneously mule-kicking another one into the air with her hind hooves
-looking innocent as she casually plants a dinner-plate-size hoof on the toe of an obnoxious bureaucrat-type human, causing him to shriek and flail and drop his paperwork
-galloping through the storm, as per her name
-emerging from the forest onto the plains, with the faces (both humanoid and animal) of spirits manifesting in the branches, grass, rocks, and clouds (very challenging to draw!) (for an example of what I mean, see Bev Dolittle's art )