Seraff, He Who Serves, Knight of Mysperea, Hero of Harven's Dale
Male Elan Psion 8 (Shaper) [Race XPH, class XPH]
Medium Aberration
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Height: 6' 2''
Weight: 206lbs
Hair: Black
Eyes: Blue
Age: 167
Str: 12 (+1) [4 points]
Dex: 12 (+1) [4 points]
Con: 12 (+1) [4 points]
Int: 18 (+4) [10 points +2 Level]
Wis: 12 (+1) [4 points]
Cha: 12 (+1) [6 points, -2 racial]
Class and Racial Abilities: Naturally Psionic: Elans gain 2 power points at first level. Resistance (Su): Elans can use psionic energy to increase their resistance to various forms of attack. As an immediate action, an elan can spend 1 power point to gain a +4 racial bonus on saving throws until the beginning of his next action. Resilience (Su): When an elan takes damage, anhe can spend power points to reduce its severity.As an immediate action, he can reduce the damage he is about to take by 2 hit points for every 1 power point he spends. Repletion (Su): A elan can sustain his body without need for food or water. If he spends 1 power point, an elan does not need to eat or drink for 24 hours.
Hit Dice: 8d4 + 8
HP: 33
AC: (+1 Dex)
Init: +1 (+1 Dex)
Speed: 30ft
Saves:
Fortitude +3 [+2 base, +1 Con]
Reflex +3 [+2 base, +1 Dex]
Will +5 [+4 base, +1 Wis]
BAB: +4
Melee Atk: +4 (1d4-1/19-20/x2/S, dagger)
Ranged Atk:
Skills: (20 + 35)
Concentration +12 [11 ranks + 1 Con]
Disguise +12 [11 ranks + 1 Cha]
Knowledge(History) +15 [11 ranks + 4 Int]
Knowledge(Psionics) +15 [11 ranks +4 Int]
Psicraft +15 [11 ranks + 4 Int]
Feats:
1. Psicrystal Affinity [Psionic]
1b. Combat Manifestation [Psionic]
3. Craft Universal Item [Item Creation]
5b. Craft Psionic Arms and Armor [Item Creation]
6. Craft Psionic Construct [Item Creation]
Languages: Common, Infernal, Giant, Dwarvish
Psionics
Power Points/Day: 76
Powers Known: 17
Equipment:
Money
27,000 gp, sp, cp
~~~~~
Appearance:
Seraff is tall and somewhat dark and grim looking, while maintaining a shy and rueful smile on his face. His body is wrapped in narrowly written script from his neck down, part of the interpretation of the process of of summoning the spirit of the elan that now inhabits his human shell. Even the tips of his fingers are covered in arcane scripture, but he rarely does anything to hide it unless needful or if it bothers someone. His hair is blue-black and thick, and even with his incredible elan metabolism his body has several scars on it. He favors dark, loose clothing and resists most attempts to make him wear a uniform of any kind.
Personality:
Quiet and stoic, Seraff holds back his passions so that he might better understand those around him.
Background:
Yes. I was with him, when he died.
That's usually the first question people ask of me, and the only one they truly wish me to answer. Oh, some ask what the great man was like, was I scared, did he die in pain, the usual sorts of questions that people might be expected to ask you. But they don't really care of course - Vicar Crist was that sort of fellow, that people did and still do make up their minds about him before they ever have had the opportunity to have met the man. So mostly I nod and tell them, yes, and then simply let them tell me how horrible and brave and stupid and evil the man was, let them announce their pet conspiracy theories, berate me for my role or lack of one. I smile and I nod and I try to be as considerate as I can manage, even when I'm trying to eat supper or am on the way to the latrine. People expect it of me, and he would have expected it of me, so I do.
In the end that truly is the only thing that mattered. I was with him, when he died.
~~~~~
I could begin to tell my story from the beginning, but my story is boring and uninteresting for the most part. I have a distinct and bothersome heritage, true, but I'd have likely cobbled shoes or milked cows for the rest of my life if it hadn't have been for Vicar. He was that sort of person, magnetic as they say; but I doubt that most people really know what it's like. There were already a few of us already, Aryllen and Bothen for a start, before he found me; but I was there already for most of the stuff they put into the history books. I'm even in the painting that Tyllas painted of the Battle at Moven Rhea. Yes, that's me, leftmost corner of the frame, looking much more brave and noble than I felt, I assure you.
When Vicar found me though, I had no compass. It was in the first few weeks of the war, when people were still deciding where they stood and why. I was a student then still, which meant mostly that I spent as few hours in meditation as possible and as many as I could chasing girls who were mostly horrified and sometimes intrigued. Anais Tallek was holding a rally in Sherenport and I'd blindly followed a girl to the event, mostly curious about the movement of her hips than any real interest in politics. Unless the army came and mustered me in by force I figured that not many people would be off recruiting a half-breed like myself for noble causes.
The problems began when Anais' company couldn't get through the crowds. He'd apparently had some difficulty finding the roads, or a late lunch, or something else terribly important and the crowds that had come to praise and heckle him in Margrove's Square had been sitting for hours drinking and harassing each other. Vicar was there too, apparently, but I didn't see him. When he did show up, Anais' men rumbled toward the podium, pushing and shoving to make their way. Tempers were short already, a bottle was thrown, some shouted that the military had shown up to break up the demonstration; others exclaimed that spells were being thrown. Me, I don't know what happened and doubt I ever will. There's a sense of urgency, a sense of panic that builds in a crowd though, right before it turns into a mob. I looked around for the pretty girl I'd followed, but the people were already bouncing everyone all over the grass and cobbles.
It was, of course, one of the cardinal moments in Vicar's life as recounted in his memoirs. Vicar's Margrove Square Massacre recollections are one of personal heroism and nobility, but for me it was one of panic and horror. Oh, don't be confused - I was young and scared and I ran. Occasionally someone's voice would plead from below me, someone who had fallen and was beginning to be trampled on that awful day, but I didn't stop nor even look down. That night, as the crowds turned darker still after the news of Tallek's death had spread, I huddled in a coal bin of a basement, praying that the many fires that spread that night to burn down most of Sherenport wouldn't spread to where I was hiding.
In the days that followed, I limped my way over the corpses and the ruins of the city in mostly a state of shock. I think it might have even been Bothen who handed me that first flier describing where one could find a pot of hot soap and a cup of clean water. I stumbled my way across the city in chaos, and discovered him. It was really like a revelation, seeing that clean golden pavilion with the now much beloved standard of Vicar's army waving almost happily above the poles. Inside there were healers and hot food, with stern warriors armed at the barricades to prevent the looter's madness that still spread outside from entering. That first bowl of soup and Vicar's sermon, it was life changing. Now, I won't get metaphysical and claim I found most of what Vicar had to say absolutely commanding like some have said later on. But the stuff about sticking together and his sheer presence, that made a difference. That was the thing about Vicar Crist though, he wanted to make a difference, and more importantly - he made you want to make a difference too.
So, in short, I decided to follow him. No, I didn't swear the oaths, at least not till much later, that always seemed to be the darker side of Vicar's merry little band. Vicar was very...certain. Given the uncertainty of the times, it was comforting. It was also disturbing and more disturbing when I saw it reflected in the attitudes of my companions. So we'd march to Mescalpea and on to Mu Varen and fight a little battle here or there, collect a few followers, print out some literature, rush onward before the Picks could sweep down and really fight us, and call it a victory. If it weren't for Vicar's optimism it would have been one hell of a life - dirty and sweaty, huddled in a tent in the late fall rains. Instead I recall it as one of the best times in my life ever and since.
The months dragged on though, and the Picks did find us, at Yarven and Mospe'Po Pass. These days it seems that people want to forget how uncertain things really were back then. We'd engineered no great elemental alliances yet though, the Picks all but ruled most of Mysperea with an iron fist, we were slowly losing men each day from illnesses and simple desertion, and there had yet to be a fortuitous death in the royal family back in Turana.
For a while I counted fair-haired Aryllen as one of my admirers then. It was before the Battle of Mospe'Po Pass when she felled the great warrior Durenil on the left flank, letting us retire the field. Afterwards, Vicar Crist himself called her to his tent and praised her, leading to one of the more endearing wartime romances of our age I suppose. Some have used that as an excuse for my actions during the war, but historians rarely have the clarity to account for the complexities of emotions that you go through in a time like that. I loved her, but in my way I also loved him. Later on I'd say that Vicar was truly my only friend, and Aryllen Phane my only love. How is one supposed to feel with such powerful emotions coursing through him? Me, mostly I simply turned my task to the battles and to the march. Tears may have fell and rages coursed, but there was still a war to be fought.
By the time I turned Captain, of course, I was doubly blessed and doubly cursed. I stood counsel for the great man, correcting his maps and carrying him his dinner, but I also stood beside him with The One Hundred at Beltencourt and Harven's Dale. And yes, at Moven Rhea I stood next to him close enough to hear the muttered curses as the Picks crested the hills with their mammoths and siege machines, and stabbed them in the eye as I could before the counterattack. After Moven Rhea, we retreated again, though contemporaries mark the battle as the turning point of the war, it was a grueling, horribly victory. Though we regained the city and demolished the Pick army, we'd lost over half our own men. Bothen's eye was lost, we had less cavalry left outside the pot than in, and there was Vicar laughing and clapping the men on their backs for what an enormous victory we'd one. It was, of course, but I can tell you true that it sure didn't feel like it.
We made our way to winter in Sherenport, where our new elemental lord allies could supply us with food and arrows and the other sorts of things that we'd worn ourselves into short supply of like bandages. It was there that Aryllen turned with child and our great victory suddenly felt like one as we were fed and clothed in real uniforms for the first time, and in a fit of weakness I sat myself down onto one knee in front of Vicar Crist and pledged myself to him as his sword, fist, and voice. When old Neirmund died under the mountain too, it sometimes felt as if things would be over quickly and simply anyways, and that my pledge would simply amount to good sense in getting a grant of land or a real knighthood. You know, the sort of things that put coin in your pocket and make men coy with their daughters to woo you with. We didn't know that the war would drag on for three long more years.
Before the spring mud dried, it was clear that Aryllen's pregnancy wasn't a fortuitous one. Many were a bit distressed to see the great man panic, but it made him more endearing to me that he truly cared for her so and mainly I was worried more about her. The soothsayers and priests we had left were next to useless, and Vicar's own spark of the divinities was less concerned about births than battles and glories. The army had to move though, to catch up with the latest movements of the Picks through Mysperean territories and halt them. The One Hundred had to stay with the army vanguard, so Vicar chose me to stay with her until the very end in that small inn room in Sherenport, surrounded by frowning midwives and dubious priests. Even Vicar pressed me, afterwards, about where she was buried, so that they could erect a monument to her. But I think that Aryllen had had enough of monuments by that sweet spring day, and she was at peace. I won't have anyone disturb her any longer, let the people place their monuments elsewhere.
The child lived, for a while. I took counsel and lit candles; whatever else I could find myself drawn to perform to aid the sickly thing. Sometimes I wonder what it would have meant if he had lived, a boy king in all but declaration trying to follow in the footsteps of his father. I wonder, would that produce ambition or resignation? In any case, the tomb of Vicar's child is more apparent than his mother, as he died one night in his sleep while I was away and those stern scholars and theologians entrusted with him produced him for display to the people so that they could weep for their mighty leader. As for me, I think I might have felt relief for the child, never having to grow up with that sort of pressure.
~~~~
The years stretched on and the legend grew, it seemed. Honestly, I don't know how it wasn't clear that we were losing despite all of our new advantages. We were simply stretched too thin and the Pick axmen too clever all through the country. Each season it became more difficult to recruit new troops to replace the ones we lost the last, and Vicar himself turned more and more stark and less humorous as the months dragged on. Still, new songs from the bards would make their way to camp daily, exalting this victory or that, and showering even our defeats with more honor than I thought they deserved. As Vicar's mood blackened, so did much of the camps. Many of the new recruits weren't simply content with the idea of driving the dwarves out of Mysperean land, they'd lost wives and sons and daughters and brothers and businesses to the invaders enough that only the absolute destruction of the Picks would be good enough. I watched with concern too, as I was shouted down in Vicar's officer meetings for railing against things that the old Vicar would have been concerned with like losses on our side, or the effects of the war on the civilians.
"The people will understand,” Vicar would go on, chillingly, "because some causes are simply right. And when you're right, you cannot lose." And when I'd express my doubts he'd simply clap me on my back and tell me I worried too much. I couldn't help the fact that it troubled me, watching the light in his eyes turn to steel. But I had pledged myself, you see, so what could you do?
~~~~
Some now claim to hear such things as the trumpet calls to battle for the Battle of Turana Valley, ghostly sounds that announce the shadows of the fallen dead as they come to arms. I don't see how they could, because neither side in Turana Valley had trumpeters. We'd cleverly gotten all of our trumpeters killed the week before, when the Picks had begun the merry little chase in the first place. Everyone knew what was happening; being driven into Turana Valley with its high fortresses on every side was a death sentence that we couldn't avoid with Neirmund's son Valtegeart hounding us in the rear. So, instead of trumpets that day, there was simply the music of the march; the grim stomping of boot upon the stones and the smell of sweat and resignation hanging palpably in the air.
As battles go though, we accounted ourselves well. The army was filled almost to overflowing with veterans by then, experience, bloodied-men that knew the consequences of breaking discipline. When in the afternoon, Valtegeart called parley though, most of were past all hate and bluster and simply bone-tired and weary.
"Surrender with honor," the messenger simply said, and I sighed with relief knowing that it was finally over. That we would all be going home, one way or another, that perhaps a favorable peace could be worked out. The men could barely lift their shields, they were so tired, and fresh Picks were already filing out of their deep warrens and onto the walls of the fortresses to reinforce those that had fallen.
The histories will tell you of our resolve, our united front of courage, our bravery, and suggest some sort of insight on the part of Vicar Crist that day that I simply can't. Personally I think that Vicar was simply afraid to stop fighting by then, terrified of losing what he thought he had been fighting for, afraid of the criticisms that would come with defeat, and maybe just plain scared of trying to figure out what defeated war heroes do with their time. I don't know. Maybe he really did have a visitation from his god then, that promised him the fought for peace if only Vicar and his armies would continue just this once more. At the time, I just thought he was crazy.
The messenger went back to his lines seeming almost sad, and I agreed with him because I was sure I was going to die that day. The rest of the fight is blurry to this day, the smoke from their catapults and lightning crashing down thunder. I can't even tell you how the flanks truly accounted for themselves, because I spent most of my time just fighting for dear life huddled with Bothen. When the standard fell, he and I tried to gather it and rally next to Vicar; but when Bothen grabbed it up he drew an arrow straight through his good eye and fell dead, so I let it lay. It was just like the pictures then, except that I was there, watching the Pick king and Vicar on that heap of flesh with the single strand of sunlight piercing down from the clouds. Vicar's eye was bloodied closed and his nose broken, Justicebringer shattered upon his knees and he kneeled beaten, or in prayer, before the dwarven king. Sometimes I remember Valtegeart looking over at me and nodding solemnly before he took Vicar's head, but sometimes I remember it as Vicar. It doesn't matter though, because I was there.
~~~~
The rest, as they say, is ancient history. Without Vicar to rally them, the resistance faltered and Mysperea negotiated a settlement with the Picks for the port they so desired. I spent some months in a prisoner of war camp best left to the imagination, and was released upon my own parole. For a while I was something of either a celebrity or a pariah, depending on how you looked at it. Some were happy enough to meet one of the famous One Hundred, one of the ones that got mentioned in the ballads every so often; others blamed me for not falling with the rest or worse blamed the expectations of my heritage. I got the knighthood and the land, but having a thing is apparently very different than wishing for it. I'd spent too much time under arms to be a good steward, and it wasn't long before I simply sold the land and left the expectations of knighthood, and Mysperea, behind me for the open seas.
