Valemon
1st-level Wood Elf Rogue
Medium Male Humanoid
Armor Class 15 (studded leather armor)
Hit Points 10 (1d8)
Speed 35 ft.
Senses Darkvision 60ft.
Str 10 (+0) Dex 16 (+3) Con 14 (+2)
Int 10 (+0) Wis 14 (+2) Cha 12 (+1)
Alignment chaotic good
Languages common, elvish, thieves' cant
TRAITS
Background - Criminal
Feature: Criminal Contact
Criminal Specialty: Hired Killer
Proficiency (+2)
Tools: Thieves’ Tools, Playing Cards, Poisoner’s Kit
Saving Throws: Dexterity, Intelligence
Sneak Attack (+1d6)
Thieves' Cant
Darkvision
Keen Senses
Fey Ancestry
Trance
Elf Weapon Training
Fleet of Foot
Mask of the Wild
SKILLS
Acrobatics +5, Athletics +2, Persuasion +3, Insight +4, Perception +6 (expertise), Sleight of Hand +5, Stealth +7 (expertise)
ACTIONS
Melee Attacks — Short Sword/Dagger: +5/+5 to hit (reach 5 ft.; one creature).
Hit: 1d6+3/1d4 piercing damage
Ranged Attack —Dagger: +5 to hit (range 20/60 ft; one creature).
Hit: 1d4+3 piercing damage
Ranged Attack—Longbow: +5 to hit (range 150/600 ft; one creature).
Hit: 1d8+3 piercing damage
EQUIPMENT
shortsword, longbow, 2 daggers, 40 arrows, studded leather armor, oil flask, crowbar, thieves’ tools, backpack, bedroll, mess kit, 50 feet of hempen rope, tinderbox, 10 torch, ration 10 days, waterskin, winter blanket, healer's kit, common clothes, locket containing a seedling, pouch 6 gp, 9 sp.
PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS
Appearance: I have rich, copper-colored skin, and hazel eyes. I wear my black hair in a mass of thin braids that spill over my shoulders to the middle of my back. I bear a Thayan slave brand tattooed across my forehead.
Traits: I always have a plan for what to do when things go wrong. I am incredibly slow to trust; those who seem the fairest often have the most to hide.
Ideals: Freedom: Chains are meant to be broken, as are those who would forge them. (Chaotic)
Bond: Secreted within the locket that I wear around my neck, I bear a seedling of Fanhadon, the Great Tree from which my people took their name. I will not rest until I have found a place to plant the seedling so that my tribe can be born anew. I owe it to my ancestors. I will trust in my dream visions to guide the way.
Flaw: I am wanted in Thay for killing the nephew of a tharchion. There is a considerable bounty on my head.
[sblock=BACK STORY]
Nocking a black-hafted arrow and drawing it back against his cheek, he threaded his way through the trees with practiced grace, a silent apparition, his senses primed to detect the slightest movement or sound. The faintest echo of a snapping twig brought him up short, pausing where the shadows pooled in the lee of an ancient oak, his brow furrowed in concentration, his upturned, hazel eyes drinking in the forested landscape, scanning the brush for the source of the sound. And then, he spotted it— the flash of a russet haunch flickering through the boles of the trees some one hundred paces to his left. With the suddenness of a saber cat, he exploded into motion, his green cloak swirling as he pivoted, loosing his shaft with the unerring eye of a huntsman born.
As far as I know, I am the last surviving member of my tribe. We called ourselves the Fanhaen, and we were a peaceful folk, content to practice our woodcraft far from the prying eyes of men, living as one with the natural order of things deep within the heart of the Yuirwood.
Secreted within the locket that I wear around my neck, I bear a seedling of Fanhadon, the Great Tree from which we took our name. The same tree that had sheltered us and given us life from time immemorial, burned to ash in a single night of horrors that will live on in my nightmares for as long as I walk the earth. It began as a night like any other. The Thayan war party crept up on us while we slept, slipping past our sentries undetected with the aid of their hell-spawned magic. Like butchers, they set about their work, and the air was soon filled with the screams of the dying. They slaughtered young and old alike, sparing a scant few of the children for transport to the Thayan slave pens. My older sister, Shaori, and I were among these few survivors.
Our captors treated us worse than dogs, but I vowed to remain strong for the sake of my sister, for she had been born without the gift of sight and I had always served as her eyes. The man who bought us was a highborn devil named Yakovel, third in line to the Tharchion of Priador. His first act as our master was to press my gentle sister into service as a common harlot. I myself was inducted into a brutal training program engineered to produce highly skilled infiltrators and assassins. Many of the boys who began the training with me did not survive. I persevered for no other reason than that my sister depended on me.
In the years that followed, I performed unspeakable acts in the name of our master. I had numerous opportunities to escape, but I would not leave Shaori behind. Perhaps she sensed that she was holding me back, or perhaps she finally lost the will to live. Whatever the case, I stole into Shaori’s chambers one morning only to find her corpse cooling in the sun, an empty bottle of hemlock clutched in one hand, and this locket in the other.
The rest of that day is a blur to me… Waiting amidst the gardenias for my master to appear on his nightly stroll… Slipping past the body guards to bury my dagger in his chest… Hurtling over the wall and disappearing into the shadowy byways of the market district before the general hue and cry could be raised. I should have felt anger, elation, or crushing despair. Instead, I felt only emptiness.
I managed to steal aboard a trading vessel that was bound for Sembia the next day. That night, as I sank into an exhausted trance amidst the crates and barrels littering the ship’s hold, I experienced the first of my dream visions. Shaori appeared to me, garbed in the ceremonial gear and body paint of a Fanhaen warrior priestess. She told me of the seedling secreted in the locket, and implored me to journey west that I might seek out a glade hidden from the prying eyes of men in which to plant the seed and reconstitute our tribe. She promised to appear to me again with further guidance when the time was right.
I made my way westward to Neverwinter, where I plied my trade as a freelance thief for a time before receiving an offer from a well-meaning old stump named Gundren Rockseeker. He had caught me with my hand in his pocket, but instead of involving the local authorities, he offered me a chance at “rehabilitation”. Somewhat amused, and lacking any brighter prospects at the time, I consented to his offer.
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