D&D 5E Hold Back The Night - Dramatis Personae

[sblock=Stats]

Teryn Mallus
Eldridge Knight

Str 16
Dex 10
Con 14
Int 14
Wis 8
Cha 12

HP 20
AC 17
Prof Bonus +2
Init +0

Race
Human
+1 Str, +1 Con
Bonus Feat - (Dual Wielder)
Bonus Trained skill - (Investigation)
Bonus language - (Elvish)

Class
Fighter
Two Weapon Fighting Style
Second Wind
Action Surge

Proficiencies
Armor: All
Weapons: All
Saves: Strength, Constitution

Background
Sage
Skills: Arcana, History
Bonus Language: Two bonus languages
Feature: Research - Know where to find research on any subject

Feats
Dual Wielder - +1 AC when wielding two weapons, can wield two weapons even if one is not light, can draw and stow two weapons instead of one.

Skills
Athletics +5
Intimidation +3
Investigation +4
Arcana +4
History +4

Languages
Common, Elvish, Sylvan, Infernal


Equipment
Cash: 10

Weapons

Longsword: +5/1d8+3
Handaxe: +5/1d6+3


Armor
Chain Mail

Gear

2 Curved longswords (falchions)
Chain mail
2 Handaxes
Dungeoneers pack
Bottle of ink
Quill
Small knife
Letter from dead colleague posing a question I have not been able to answer
Common clothes

[/sblock]

[sblock=Story]
Teryn Mallus was a scholar in the service of the Magi. He lived fairly well, as well as any. He was slightly overweight, a side effect of always having enough food for his family and having a career that kept him in a chair looking at books. He always wished he could have joined the town guard or something, but never did.

He married at a young age, and had three children, but he spent most of his time away from home working for the Magi. When he married, he loved his wife, and he was proud of his kids at first. Eventually, the strain of his job caused trouble at home. When his oldest was a teenager, and his youngest was 8, he had an affair with a female student at the Academy.

What he didn't know was that the student was <Insert Hook>.

Early one morning, after being out with the other woman most of the night, he returned home, and the Magi came for him. They slaughtered his wife, his son and one of his girls in front of him. His youngest child, 8 years old at the time, survived only because she was away at a friend's house at the time.

The Magi did not speak to him. They did not gloat or even tell him why they were doing what they did. He does not know why they did what they did. It could be for any number of a thousand reasons, and he has wondered at them all.

All he knows is that he never realized how much he loved his wife, and how much he would miss her and his children once they were gone. They'd had problems, neither had been perfect, and yes, he had been weak and sought comfort in the arms of another, but he had loved her. And now it was too late to fix it.

For the next year, the rest of his life crumbled. He lost his position at the Academy, his theories and research discredited. He was made to look like a hack, and rumors spread that he had killed his family and somehow gotten away with it. He turned to alcohol, drowning his sorrows. His surviving daughter was sent to live with relatives.

And he had a burning desire to hurt the Magi. It didn't matter how. To anyone watching, he was a shell of a man who rarely left his home except to drink himself to sleep at the bar. Everyone assumed his loss of weight was attributed to not eating enough. And for six months, they were right.

But then something changed. At first, it was just to vent his rage. He started punching his couch, and when that wore out he began punching a punching bag he bought from a friend. The workout cleared his mind, helped him forget. The pain and soreness were a thousand times easier than the pain in his heart. He started seeing his daughter more, though she was still staying with relatives, his wife's sister and her family. They never liked him anyway, and were more than happy to keep him away. But as he transformed from a shallow academic to a drunk, they just figured he was becoming what he always was. When he began to transform from a drunk to something more...dangerous...they started to fear him and what he might do.

He was smart, smarter than many of the Magi themselves, even when drunk a quarter of the time. They'd used him as council before he had inexplicably fallen out of their favor. He was good at figuring things out, at investigating mysteries. They'd often give him problems they had trouble working out, and his creative, abstract brain would make connections amongst the information given. He knew about magic, that there were things the Magi did that anyone could do, if they knew how.

But he wasn't gifted in that area. Not naturally. So one day, he made his way to his old job, and managed to sneak out with a spell book. Just a simple one. So far, he has not been able to figure out how to make the spells work, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

In the meantime, he also began training with the blade. He went to a friend who was skilled in this area, and asked for one on one training. He dove headfirst into this training, wanting to learn to use a weapon in either hand, first so he would simply never be caught with just his off hand, but later so he could wield two blades at once, in perfect unison.

It has been two years since his wife's death, and he has just begun to join the world outside his home. Those who knew him before would not recognize him now. Before he was unkempt, pudgy, a little slow and very clumsy. But now, his body has been tone with constant training, his hair is cut short, and there is nothing clumsy about the way he moves. Most still believe he is a drunk. They aren't wrong.

He looks out at the world around him, seeing it clearly for the first time. Seeing the injustices. The evil. The darkness. And it makes him sick. He can't just sit on his hands. Something has lit inside him, and it won't go out. A darkness of his own. A beast within, crawling and snapping at his mind, wanting release, wanting...permission.

Permission to attack. Permission to defend. Permission to end the threats to his family. He still has a daughter to take care of. He can still make the world a better place for her.

[/sblock]


[sblock=Personality]
Traits
I . . . speak . . . slowly . . . when talking . . . to idiots, . . .which . . . almost. . . everyone . . . is . . . compared . . .to me.


I’m willing to listen to every side of an argument before I make my own judgment.

Ideal
Knowledge. The path to power and self-improvement is through knowledge. (Neutral)


Bonds
Someone I loved died because of amistake I made. That will never happen again.


Flaw
I speak without really thinking through my words, invariably insulting others.



[/sblock]

Fitz Augertorque
Rock Gnome "Golem Artisan" 2nd-level Wizard (Transmuter) Lawful Good
A curmudgeonly gnomish tinker with a heart of gold, a guilty conscience, and unflappably bleak humor

Fitz character sheet



Basics: AC 11, HP 14 (d6+2); passive perception 12 (darkvision 60 ft.); Str 8 (-1), Dex 12 (+1), Con 14 (+2), Int 17 (+3), Wis 15 (+2), Cha 8 (-1); Arcana +5, History +5, Investigation +5, Stealth +3; alchemist's supplies, tinker's tools; Common, Gnomish, Dwarvish; advantage Int/Wis/Cha saves vs. magic, arcane recovery 1/short rest, artificer's lore, bat familiar "Squomble", minor alchemy, tinker, cantrips (dancing lights, mending, prestidigitation), spells (1st: alarm, catapult, comprehend languages, detect magic, expeditious retreat, find familiar, identify, illusory script)

Party Role: Fitz' build and spell selection make him a "swiss army knife" caster/ritualist. He is a poor combatant, lacking an attack cantrip (though he does have catapult from EE), but has good lore skills.

[SBLOCK=Backstory]Everyone despises the "Rumpels", twisted gnomes who traded the caverns and hills of their birth for counting houses of The Magi where they track the vast fortunes of The City's rulers destined for ritual ceremonies. It was rock gnomes who were responsible for the failure of the Tower Incident, so human great grandparents and demi-human elders say. <GM HOOK> Whether this was because the rock gnomes truly were geased by The Magi as they claim or because the cowardly wretches sought only to line their own pockets is a secret as murky as any other hiding behind the gnomish ledgers. Miserable misshapen sellouts, the lot of them.

Fitz Augertorque was especially loathsome, possessing all the charm of a rutting porcupine. However, with his dismal spirits came labyrinthine intellect. Recognizing the magical talent of the Augertorque family, Severen the Gaunt - a ranking member of The Magi overseeing translation of archaic manuals of golems - <GM HOOK> saw fit to take on the gnarled gnome as his apprentice. And so Fitz studied the art and craft of making all manner of mechanical marvels, competing rigorously with rivals. Along the way there were left many broken and berserk half-formed things, a perverse blend of man, construct, and imbued elemental spirit. <GM HOOK> But in time, Fitz's work improved under the guidance of his cold master. These marvels, the sour yet kindly gnome believed, would improve the lives of The City's subjects. Golems and other automatons, after all, meant the citizens could spend more time bettering themselves and no longer fear famine. Misguided in his belief that he would at last receive the recognition that eluded others of his benighted race, Fitz worked tirelessly in the golem works. until the day came when he was confronted with the reality of how The Magi actually used the golems. Many, including some who would cross paths with Fitz such as <INSERT PC> were dragged from their beds at night, or witnessed loved ones dragged from theirs, by the golems. By then it was too late.

Feeling trapped within the halls of the Golem Works, <GM HOOK> Fitz increasingly saw his rivalry with the brothers Dwimb and Deiter Ulmentiss <GM HOOK> as irrelevant in the face of Severen's exploitation. Coming out from under the literal and figurative spell of Severen, Fitz began to recall how he'd been geased to provide grotesque entertainment for the cold-hearted mage, from simple jesting to perverse acts violating female prisoners with his "prodigious gnomish member", including Lorelei.

A snide remark to Severen the Gaunt (coupled with an attempt to sabotage a golem) resulted in Fitz being beaten, expelled from the household and deposited in the gutter. The sagacious mage could not bring himself to kill his apprentice, either out of some sick care for the gnome or a fierce pride in the face of the criticism of his mage peers. Swearing revenge, Fitz gathered some poison, planning to dump it in the soup pot of Severen's household, but Rána stopped him from doing something Fitz would have regretted and instead introduced him to a desperate underground resistance...[/SBLOCK]

Grandfather
Human Druid of the Land 2

Description: A boy far too young for the knowledge and weariness in his eyes.
Role: A healer and support spellcaster, along with a potentially useful scout and spy in wild shape.

[sblock=Stats]Str 8
Dex 15
Con 14
Int 12
Wis 16
Cha 10

HP 18
AC 15 (10 + 2 dex + 1 armor + 2 shield)
Prof Bonus +2
Init +2

Race
Human
+1 Wis, +1 Dex
Bonus Feat
Bonus Trained skill
Bonus language

Class
Druid
Druidic Language
Spellcasting
Wild Shape (CR 1/4, No fly or swim)
Circle of the Land (Grassland)
- Bonus Cantrip
- Natural Recovery (recover 1/2 lvl in spell slots on short rest 1/day)

Proficiencies
Armor: Light, Medium, shields (only nonmetal armor)
Weapons: Clubs, daggers, darts, jevelins, maces, staves, scimitars, sickles, slings, spears
Tools: Herbalism Kit
Saves: Intelligence and Wisdom

Background
Inheritor
Skills: Survival, History
Tools: Musical Instrument
Bonus Language:
Feature: Inheritance
Traits
- When I make up my mind, I see it through
- I judge actions, not words
Ideal
- No one and nothing can turn me aside from my calling
Bond
- Balance must be restored if the land and its people are to heal
Flaw
- Delusion: I act like a cranky old man even though I'm clearly not

Feats
Bonus - Resilient (Constitution)

Skills
Insight +5
Medicine +3
Perception +5
History +3
Survival +5

Languages
Common, Druidic, ?, ?

Spellcasting (Save DC 13)
Slots 1 - 3
Cantrips
- Shillelagh
- Guidance
- Produce Flame

Prepared (5)
1 - Entangle, Charm Person, Cure Wounds, Faerie Fire, Thunderwave

Equipment
Cash: 15

Weapons
Scimitar +4 atk, 1d6+2 dmg

Armor
Leather, +1 AC
Wooden shield, +2 AC

Gear
Traveler's clothes
Musical instrument
Herbalism Kit
Explorer's kit
Magic Acorn (Druidic focus - inheritance)
Pouch (coins)[/sblock]

[sblock=Story]In the sanctuary, shaped from the bole of one of the Old Trees, the strange light of the spirits died out, leaving only a faint and fading gleam in the object cradled in a rough-hewn stone altar in the center. An old man, dressed in brown wool robes that were stained and disheveled, reached down to pick it up with a hand that trembled slightly just as he did. He planted the end of his staff more firmly in the bare earth and pushed himself upright again.

It was a rank betrayal he'd done here. It left a foul taste in his mouth, and a deep and abiding guilt that he would carry for...well, for a very long time. But he hadn't done it lightly. He knew with the cursed burden of long years that this was the only way to continue the fight.

They wouldn't thank him...but he knew that in a way, they were coming out far better than he in this arrangement.

There was a muted rumble from outside, and the ground shook slightly.

One of the initiates...no, he'd been raised that morning, and far too soon, but initiates did not fight in war...came bursting in. The fear on the boy's face wasn't panic. There was a manic sort of hope that broke the old man's heart to see. Yes, the youth might hope. When old 'grandfather,' took up his great staff and went into the sanctuary to conduct a ritual, the youth might have visions of nature's wrath called forth in howling tornados of fire, and hurricanes that would dash the armies of the warlords beneath mountains.

They didn't understand yet...this was not how nature worked. Oh, the heirophants could do some things of that sort, certainly. Many of the Mysteries commanded forces that were spectacularly destructive. But in the end, the earth took the long view. Ages of men came and went, and were of no consequence to mountains and hurricanes. No Mystery yet had been found to rouse those spirits to the call of men. And the wise would never seek such things.

"Master," the boy said breathlessly. "The outermost circles are breached! The sleeping trees have awoken, but Nyssimer says they won't last long...the invaders have fire! They sent me here...to...I'm to ask..." he swallowed, for a moment not sure whether he feared the ravening hordes outside more than even the appearance of issuing a demand to the archdruid.

Another hour and he might have enjoyed the irony of it before setting him at ease. Not today.

My boy...I'm so sorry. I would tell you all I know, but the only difference is that you would meet your end in despair, instead of with hope still in you. I am cruel, but not that cruel.

"Don't bother," he grumbled. "I know what you're to ask. Go back. Tell Nyssimer and the other six to meet me here. I must speak to them."

Relieved, he whirled and scampered out...and it was only minutes before the Seven arrived. Seven students he had personally trained. Each brilliantly strong in the ways of the Green. Nyssimer was an elf, with nut-brown skin and dark green hair, his face always seeming to look down from a height his body couldn't quite offer him. Yves, a human woman with fair complexion and a sunny disposition. The halfling twins, Tarnass and Triessa prowled in just behind them, nearly feral in their keen perceptions. An awakened bear named Comet...slow and methodical of mind, but absolutely unstoppable once he made it up. Renine and her pixie friend Silvershard. And of course, Edragan...the half elf who fretted so about his love of cities and civilization, and how that seemed so at odds with his love of the natural places and the wild.

They formed a semicircle around the archdruid automatically, as if attending one of his lessons again. Their faces were bleak, but he saw an echo of that initiate's hope in their eyes. They thought he could save them. He was the one who always had a plan.

And he did. But it wasn't what they thought.

Nyssimer started. He was always the one to seize the initiative...the one who felt he would be next to carry the staff and bear the mantle. The one who wanted it. "Master, there's something very wrong. We've tried activating the wards to keep their mages at bay, but they aren't working."

Several others started chiming in with similar accounts, but he lifted a gnarled hand and nodded. "I know. I've taken the power from the wards. All of them. I needed it for this."

He held up the object from the altar. An acorn, much larger than normal, with a rich green color and a brown cap. It glimmered in the dim light of the glowing mosses that bedecked the sanctuary.

They all reacted with shock, but that hope seemed even to intensify. It was insane, they knew. Absolutely crazy. Which meant it must also be brilliant. How would it save them?

Yves asked, "I...why? What is it? Can it stop them?"

There was another rumbling blast, louder. The earth shook again, and dust and bits of bark fell from the domed roof of the sanctuary as the Old Tree itself was shaken.

"No," was Grandfather's reply, as heavy as his ancient bones felt. "Stopping them is not in my power. It is not in any of our powers. Not now."

"Then what is the plan, old man?!" Nyssimer shouted suddenly. Anger and frustration, driven by fear and the dawning realization that his hope was misplaced. "What is this thing you've made? That you've killed us all to make?!"

Yves went to the elf's side to try to calm him, but she and the others were still mostly focused on Grandfather. They wanted to know as well.

"A focus. For a spell. Cast into it, the focus will grow into the world, into the spirit of the world...and it will keep that spell alive. Just one spell. I will need one of you to cast it."

Pandemonium erupted...several of them demanding to know how one spell could change anything, demanding to know why this was worthwhile...others pleading with them to stop to slow down, to listen, to trust. Another explosion outside silenced them.

"Reincarnation. Spinning the great wheel. That is the spell. I will need one of you to cast it on me." He kept his voice calm, his face furrowed but hard. It would be easier if they hated him for it.

"THAT'S what this is?!" Yes, Nyssimer would understand first. "You've sacrificed our best defenses so you could come back?! Just YOU?!"

Renine frowned. "It's not just that though," she said. "It wouldn't just be coming back once. If the spell...lives, like you say, then..."

Nyssimer strode towards the archdruid, fury on his face. "Yes," he spat. "Immortality. And it only took the sacrifice of everyone who trusted you. Is your human fear of death truly so..."

"ENOUGH!" Grandfather roared suddenly, and Nyssimer flinched back even in his rage. The pain in his eyes was palpable, the anger that exploded outward also compressed inward. "I do not do this for myself! We would not be any less dead if the wards worked. It would only delay that reckoning...cost them more soldiers...but then that power would be expended and GONE. With this though...one of us can fight on. And on. And on. His every living moment can be a war against the monstrous machine that will be built on our ashes. As long as there is life in the world, he will be bound to the wheel...with none of the balm of forgetting that we enjoy. Keeping his purpose."

He took a shuddering breath. "You all know death is a door, not an end. The difference is that I will not have peace. I will shoulder the burden each time, and each time it will grow heavier. I do this because I believe...I believe that even a mountain can be worn to nothing by one man...if that man has time."

"It's done, regardless. Hate me if you wish. I do not begrudge you that. I...have failed all of you, and everyone here." Grandfather threw his staff to the floor. "Nyssimer. I will need you to kill me. Then you, or someone else, cast the spell. If you do not, you'll thwart my plan...which may come as a cold satisfaction I suppose...but I ask that...that against all your instincts and emotions, that you trust me one final time. I will find a way to make this right. Give me the time I need."

The elf, already close, scowled at him. "Why me?"

Grandfather chuckled dryly. "Because you'll feel the least guilty."

Nyssimer barked a laugh at that, then looked away for a moment. "Maybe you don't know us the way you think you do." He traced a sigil in the air and spoke a word of invocation. Grandfather felt his heart start to seize up...and rather than fight the magic, he accepted it...and collapsed to the floor.

He felt an instant of tranquility in the end, as darkness closed over him. Resolution.

Then nothing.

================

Tarquin was four, and not allowed to leave his mother's side...but he was a clever lad, far beyond his years. The Weavers, their closest neighbor, near town, often joked that he was like an old man in a little boy's body...a claim that Tarquin just sniffed disdainfully at. They were crazy. He was young and strong! And old men smelled bad.

He often slipped away from mother when she was washing clothes in the river, because there was a tree he liked to visit. A special tree, even if no one else seemed to see it...and he himself couldn't quite explain why. It had one acorn that was way too big, and it made a sound sometimes like a far off song, or voice. When he went there today though, the acorn was gone!

A moment later he found it though...it had fallen off. Seeing that filled Tarquin with a moment of near panic for some reason, but he bent over to pick it up...and when his hand touched it, he felt something take root in him. Not literally, of course. But the branches of the tree of that seed curled not in vines or roots, but in time and mind. His fingers closed around the hard shell of it, and he knew.

By the ten teats of the wolfmother though, he had a lot of work to do before he'd be ready to start this war again.

===========

Rin Carliyle was three, his father visiting the grave where his mother had been buried, when he heard the faint sound from an old oak on the hill overlooking the cemetary and slipped away to find a strangely big acorn on a fallen branch...

===========

Anton tripped over a tree felled during a storm, and his hand grabbed something as he hauled himself up...

===========

And the wheel turned.[/sblock]

[sblock=Backstory]She was a girl when the first Tower fell. Her people swiftly declared that so long as The City did not interfere within their business, it was not the duty of her Elven Tribe to get involved. As the years went by, and the Towers rose higher, Rána continued her prayers to the totem of her Goddess, knowing that at least one of the Divine could hear her in this broken world. The years went by, and the trees of her home slowly withered until the call came for battle: Men and Women of all races had declared that the oppression of The Magi had gone too far. The loudest amongst them was Randír, Rána's older brother, a warrior of The Green who could not sit by while The Light was plunged into shadow. Though she wanted desperately to heed the call of Jezanna and hunt with her brother, he bade his youngest sister stay behind, entrusting the future of their people to her. He bestowed upon her the amulet that held the totem of their Moon Goddess, with a blessing upon it: Should the lunar surface on it ever fade, then he would be no more. So long as that light still shone, however, then Randír's spirit would still be alive.

Rána watched her brother leave, and then never come back. It was said that the last heroes of man had been Forsaken, by both The City and The Magi. However, her amulet still burned brightly: she knew that somewhere, out there, her brother lived. Before she could do anything about this, however, The Magi and their Golems came for her people. Though they cried for help, The City could not save them now. Many were slaughtered, their homes taken and preserved to create food for the ever-growing metropolis. For their own part, the Elven Tribes were taken away from their trees and sunlight and relocated to dark mines deep below the surface where they toiled endlessly for anything of value. Separated from their magic, separated from nature, they, like many others, accepted that there was nothing more that could be done.

Not Rána. She could not stand to see her hands, hands trained to heal and mend, made to rend earth and cripple spirit. While the others claimed to not hear the voice of Jezanna, Rána knew that it was the Elves who rejected Her, not the other way around. She still heard the call of the Moon Cat, and heeded that call back to The City that had destroyed her life, but not her spirit. Not her brother's spirit. She would find a way to cure this darkness, find her sibling, and bring the light of the Moon back.

While once her loyalty was only to her people, she knew that This City needed her now.[/sblock]

Derngar (Secret Spear) Son of Korgon. Last Earl of Caledor

[sblock=Character Portrait]

[/sblock]


[sblock=Character Sheet]
Height 6’ 3”; Weight 250# ; Hair: Black ; Age 21; Patron Deity:
Sex: Male Race: Human Class: Barbarian Level:2
Alignment: Chaotic Good Size: Medium Type: Humanoid
Init +2; Passive Wisdom ( Perception) 10
Languages : Common, Elven

AC 15,
HP 25 (HD: 12 +7+ 6 Con)
Saves: Strength and Constitution
Death Saves:
Speed 30ft.
Proficiency Bonus: +2
Special Actions
Combat gear: None

Abilities Str 16, Dex 14, Con 16 , Int 9, Wis 10, Cha 12
Combat Stats: Greataxe +5 1d12+3
Hand axe +5 1d6+3
Javelin +5 1d6+3
Racial Traits: Ability scores increase each by 1, one extra language
Background: Criminal
Skill Proficiencies: Deception and Stealth
Tool Proficiencies: Thieves Tools, Dice
Equipment: Crowbar, a set of dark common clothes including a hood, belt pouch with 15 gp
Feature: Criminal Contact
Personality Trait: I can stare down a hellhound. I enjoy being strong and like breaking things.
Ideal: Destiny: No one and nothing can steer me away from my calling, fulfilling my father’s quest.
Bond: No one should endure the hardships I’ve been through
Flaw: Now that I have seen what the city offers, I enjoy it’s delights a little too much at times.

Class Features:
Proficiencies:
Armor: Light, medium and Shields
Weapons: Simple, martial
Tools: None
Saving Throws: Strength and Constitution
Skills: Choose two from Animal Handling, Athletics, Intimidation, Nature, Perception, Survival
Rage: 2 rages per long rest
+2 Rage damage
Advantage on Str checks and Str saving throws
Resistance to piercing, bludgeoning, and slashing damage
Unarmored Defense: AC = 10+Dex+Con when not wearing armor. Shield OK
Reckless Attack: Advantage on melee weapon attack rolls using Strength during this turn, but
attack rolls against you have advantage until your next turn.
Danger Sense: You have advantage on Dexterity saving throws against effects that you can see,
such as traps and spells. To gain this benefit, you can’t be blinded, deafened, or incapacitated.


Skills :
+2 Acrobatics
+0 Animal Handling
-1 Arcana
+5 Athletics P
+3 Deception P
-1 History
+0 Insight
+3 Intimidation
-1 Investigation
+0 Medicine
-1 Nature
+2 Perception P
+1 Performance
+1 Persuasion
-1 Religion
+2 Sleight of Hand
+4 Stealth P
+2 Survival

Equipment:
Greataxe (1d12 slashing, heavy, two-handed)
2 Handaxes (1d6 slashing, light, thrown range 20/60)
4 javelins (1d6 piercing, thrown range 30/120)
Explorer’s Pack
[/sblock]

[sblock=Background

Derngar was born into luxury on his father’s estate. His father the Earl of Caledor, owned all the lands around the estate and the estate provided a bounty of food, animals, and wood. Life would be easy for the young viscount.
That is, in another place, another time. A place without the magi. Without the City. Instead, the estate of the Earl of Caledor was commandeered for farming after the walls went up. After the Magi declared themselves, their home, like most of the old aristocracy, was demolished. Nothing was even put up in it’s place. The old manors were left as ruins as a display that the old ways were dead.
However, even if the lands were gone, and their manor destroyed the Caledor family still had it’s blood and it’s valor. That blood was shed for the people of the city, and that valor stood up to the Magi in every uprising. The blood of the Caledor ran true. The last Caledor fought in the Great Uprising.
Korgon Caledor was a mighty hero. He rose and fought against the power of the magi. He was one of the Great Heroes. The Fallen, The Forsaken. Forsaken by the people of the city, the people he was trying to protect. Korgon was a warrior, strong of arm and of mind. His kind will not be seen again. The magi saw to that. After the Heroes fell, the golems sought out the families of the heroes. Every man woman and child that had even a drop of blood of the heroes was hauled off. To the people of the city they were as good as dead. No one ever was seen again after they were taken away. But the Magi were thoughtful and did not waste tools. Some of the Magi had the idea to use the families of the Forsaken to breed new, powerful people to serve the magi. Of course some were merely used to construct additional flesh golems. It is rumored that a magi named Tasha laughed quite often at the irony of their own flesh hunting the families of the heroes.
Many of the families were thrown into one of the magi’s prisons. And prison is a generous term. Hellhole, death trap, Pit of Corruption , all these might be better for the wretched squalor those who were forced to live, nay, survive there. For of course the prison was not only home to the families of the Fallen, but to all manner of criminals who could not be permitted to still roam the City, and considering how much the Magi tolerated violence and crime that did not target or affect them, that is saying something.
Into this wretched pit of vile darkness, both physical and spiritual, was born the son of Korgon. To survive in such darkness requires resourcefulness, stamina, strength, both mental and physical, and a tenacity for life. A grown man in possession of all of these traits stood a chance of living for a good amount of time, in relative safety, and of keeping his sanity. A child born into this stygian abyss stood none whatsoever. And yet, and yet, somehow this boy lived. He survived. No one could claim he thrived, but he grew. His mother and other relatives who survived provided him with what food they could. And more importantly, they fed his mind. Stories of his father, and of his father’s father. Of a time before the Magi, before the walls, before there was a need for walls, of his name and it’s meaning. His mother named him Derngar which means Secret Spear, for the Magi did not know that she was pregnant when they took her, and within him was the blood of Korgon , a mighty spear in the side of the Magi. In him, all their hopes were placed, in him all their quest for freedom and vengeance were planted and grew in the darkness.
And if there is no rest for the wicked, the wicked then do not let the virtuous rest either. The families of the Forsaken had banded together upon their imprisonment. Over the years their numbers dwindled, as did their influence on the prison. Being taken for parts for flesh golems, age, the violence of the prison, illness, all these and of course despair, took their toll. As the Forsaken families declined, the number of other prisoners increased. So it was that one horrific night, the quarters of the Forsaken were overrun, and the last blood of the Forsaken was brutalized, tortured and finally destroyed. Whether this was orchestrated by the Magi or was merely the random, senseless and vicious violence endemic to the prison, no one knew or would say. However, somehow Derngar escaped the attack and slaughter.
Derngar was a lad of 14 when he lost his family and everything that anchored him to life. He became a shadow, a ghost, a rumor. He managed to survive in that prison, despite being alone. He hid, he crept, he stole, whatever it took to keep alive. He was caught at times, beaten, brutalized, raped, and tortured. Derngar somehow managed to always escape his tormentors and slip back into the darkness. At some point Derngar found himself back in his old living area, the place the families had lived. His feelings he suppressed, sorrow was lethal down here. Yet some part of him lingered, recalling happier days (a relative concept for sure). Amongst his mother’s old bedding and piles of rags he found a remarkable find. There was a stone with a runic K on it. Feeling the stone, and tracing the rune he felt the stone shift under the pressure just slightly. Prying the stone up carefully he found a small hollow and within it he found his mother’s treasures, items that she had somehow hidden from the Magi when she was captured. There was a small book with stories of his father’s exploits and small words of hope to him from his mother. There was a ring, the book said it had belonged to his father and had been in his family for generations. There was a picture of an animal on it that Derngar did not recognize, but he had not seen many animals in his life (other than rats) and hadn’t had a picture book to grow up with. Lastly within that small inheritance he found a knife. Beautiful, sharp and deadly, the letters of his father were on the blade, somehow part of the pattern in the metal. This find was amazing, not only because he now had a connection to his family, including his father he had never met, but because for the first time, he now had a weapon besides his wits and his fists.
Now the ghost in the shadows had a gleam, a deadly gleam. Men and monsters fell in the darkest shadows, their throats cut. Soon even the most hardened criminals in the prison were becoming wary of the shadows. Derngar learned to kill quickly and quietly. He learned to focus all his hatred, all the anger at years of living in fear, years of abuse into his weapon. He became a terror in the prison. A one man embodiment of vengeance. Over the course of the next year or so Derngar did not show himself if he could help it. Those who did catch a glimpse of him would never have recognized the gangly youth who they tormented several years ago. Now those who saw him saw a tall, dark man. Muscular, hard and fell. And no one, not even the Magi’s spies knew that he was from the Forsaken.
One day, Derngar was reading the small book his mother had left for him. In the back he found his favorite section, the part where she implored him to seek the light. To help hold back the night as his father had done. Derngar decided that the time had come. He had been born into the darkness, it had forged him into a merciless killer. He had been tempered in cruelty, fortified by love, and had emerged from the crucible of hatred, shadow and violence scarred but unbroken.
That day Derngar decided that his destiny lay not down in the prison terrorizing these pathetic creatures. His destiny had been laid many years ago by his father. His destiny lay up there, in the Light, fighting for the prisoners, the entire city, against the wardens of the prison they had built the city into.
No one ever comes back after they are taken away. No one is ever seen again. And that still stands true today. Because Derngar had never been taken, he had never been seen before. How he escaped few will ever know. Derngar does not speak about it, or even in days in the darkness. But he left a long and bloody trail behind him. As he looked down into the pit he had just escaped from, he thought of his mother’s words and as he looked for the very first time upon the city and saw it’s beauty he said to himself “I come to bring Light to the city, I keep none for myself”

Appearance: Derngar is a tall, muscular man. His long dark hair hangs loosely around his head. He wears a full beard. Dengar was 18 before he ever even saw a decent reflection of himself, so he has little inclination or practice caring for his appearance. He has learned to take (and enjoy) bathing and so is clean.
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Background:

There's something about this girl I know.

She's so sweet and kind, spreading that kindness wherever she goes. Even as the darkness of The Towers grows higher, her blue eyes remind me of the sky's brightness. The curls of her red mane bounce as she skips through the streets while playing with the other children, and I can't help but follow them as I tell her father that The Magi are pleased with our work: the tax collection was the highest in the Sector this year. He plans to put the money aside to pay for her instruction, as he tells me she wants to be a singer. I can see why: her voice fills me with ...

Her father tells me he wishes her mother were still alive to help take care of her. But he doesn't have to worry about that: I will be there for her. I will watch over her.



There's something about this girl I know.

She's growing now. I can see how her body fills out, how her youth sheds away into womanhood. The first swells of her breasts, the way her hips move as she heads off to school. I enjoy watching her go. I follow her without her knowing. My work with The Magi has placed me in the guard, so it is only right that I protect her. I told her father I would. The other children, they bully her sometimes. They don't like her father: they hear their parents curse his name and so they curse her.

I wait until those children are alone. I corner them. I remind them that they should be nice to others. But this only makes them act worse to her. That won't do. I accuse their parents of speaking out against The Magi. I have the golems take them away. I have the children relocated. Now they won't bother her anymore.

She finds me and asks me where the children who bullied her went. I tell her I made sure they wouldn't hurt her anymore. She's thrilled - she thanks me, she throws her arms around me and kisses my cheek. The feel of her body pressed against mine overwhelms me with carnal urges.

I knew she felt something for me.

I knew it.



There's something about this girl I know.

She's finally fourteen. I can't think of anything but her. I have made Ordinator. I am powerful in the Sector now, yet she makes me weak in the knees. Her voice is enchanting: I try to hear her as often as I can. I desire her immeasurably: she would do well as my bride. Her father would be happy to have it so.

But when I ask him, he is angry. He yells at me. He tells me that I am sick for what I desire, but how can love be a disease? How can the way she tells me that she's so happy to have me around be anything other than a vow? This won't do. This won't do at all. I need her. I will have her.

I wait until she is gone for the evening. I fetch the Golems. I make sure that all know that her father is a traitor to the state, a rebel with hopeless dreams. How he has killed innocents. I chase him down. The Golems carry him away.

Now he can't stand in the way of our love anymore. When I see her again, I tell her that I will protect her now. She cries, she cries in my arms and I hold her. I smell her hair and press her to my chest. I can no longer resist having her so I finally take her. She cries tears of joy when I do.

She's mine now.



There's something about this girl I know.

She's more gorgeous now than ever. She sings on the stage of The Velvet Rose, that thick, red hair still bouncing when she performs. I go to the Rose whenever I can, a source of brilliant light in this dark city. She is my light, she is everything I crave. She insists on working here even though I could take care of her myself. I allow her this small independence: it seems to make her happy, and when she is happy, I am happy. I know that the caged bird does not sing.

But she does not entertain just me: I see her taking others upstairs with her. It drives me mad, knowing that others have touched her. Kissed her. It fills me with fury, fury I take out on the prisoners of The Magi afterwards, but never on her. Sometimes she tells me I hurt her, but I know she is merely being dramatic. She's an actress after all, a performer. I would never hurt her. I love her.

Someday I will make sure she doesn't work at that filthy tavern anymore. Someday she will come with me and bring her cheerful light into my home, into the dark Tower where I live. She will sing only for me. She will be touched only by me. And she will love me for as long as she lives.



There is something about this girl I know. She is mine, and she will always be mine.

~ Absalom