My roommate, Bret, is Dungeon Mastering a game of D&D and hit us with this one sheet that has inspired all manner of awesome chargen:
Once the characters were made and we'd fleshed out the world between us a bit, he hit us with this bit of awesome:
And my man, Storn drew up the following as a pic of the Master of Tents:
We play next Tuesday.
I can't wait.
Heh. Heroes. In this Age, heroes are strangled in their cribs by their mothers before the orcs tear down the door and eat them feet first so that they can listen to them scream while they chew.
No, this is no Age for heroes.
If the strongholds of civilization are points of light in the darkness, then this is a Dark Age, growing dimmer by the year as another candle flickers out. And another. And another.
The Andarian Empire of the far North is long dead. Once we all swore fealty to the God-Emperess and her Holy Daughters, angels in the flesh who it is said flew across the world to enforce her will. But a plague struck the capital of the Empire, spreading outward, and now we are on our own. Andar is dead, but it does not rest quietly. We no longer see the horrible beautiful faces of the Holy Daughters, but bear hunters and fisherman of the north tell of emissaries southbound, unable to speak for their tongues have long rotted out of their heads, but their message is clear enough. They'll melt the snow with the blood of any who let them come close.
To the East the Great Walls of Zinna built by Erathis himself have tumbled and shattered as the earth shakes. The walls beg forgiveness for failing in their task as they fall, and the people of Zinna weep as their ancient guardians crumble and die. The holy men of Zinna, monks of Ioun, sworn to peace and compassion for all beings, have begun to arm themselves as the Horseaters of Kalsoon come through the barriers that once kept them out and ransack their holy temples. Though they say it is not the Horseaters that cause them to raise swords, but the beasts of the earth that would swallow all of mankind.
The Raven Queen's flock of the South send warnings on their lavender-winged wordcrows. The mountains have awakened. They tear down the sky and rain fire and send their children to reclaim the temples of the elementals. The gods are dead, all but the Raven Queen who will remain until every last creature becomes soil, and the Primordials who they overthrew are taking back what they created. As the children of the gods, our time on this world is over.
The jungles of the far West have filled with a fog. The masked mute tribes, once isolated and avoiding contact with all but the Holy Daughters, are now fleeing their homes amongst the trees and seeking refuge in the keeps of the Mohadj. Their bodies are gaunt, sometimes marked with wounds and lashes, and their masks have twisted into expressions of pain and fear. The Mohadj, no friends of the masked mute tribes after the Curse War, admit them grimly and without protest and sharpen their swords.
It is not only the humans that have seen signs of the end. Dragonborn eggs hatch and spill out nothing but blood and bones. Tieflings turn on their kin and slaughter friends and family in the night when the Black Moons turn and run, still covered in blood, to the west, which you'd think might be normal for the demonspawn but as the Black Moons approach the Tieflings go white as salt with fear. Eladrin oracles without warning scream and scream until they drown in their own blood.
The heroes of the Andarian Age are gone. Statues of Bharash Proudscale and Brandis the Morbid crumble and crack, and instead the likes of Arjhan Acidblood who spends his time between mercenary jobs putting the skulls of Tiefling children atop spears or Cassi the Holy who would (and it is said, did) slit her mother's throat for an authentic elven goldwood lute are the subjects of tales and stories. No, this is no Age for heroes. In this Age, heroes are strangled in their cribs, and that is because the gods still smile on heroes.
Once the characters were made and we'd fleshed out the world between us a bit, he hit us with this bit of awesome:
Tales are whispered by refugees from the West who stake out tent towns outside our walls. Mohadj, mute mask tribesmen, dragonborn - all are being displaced as the mist moves Eastward bringing horror with it. Bardryn the Grim has cut down the trees and burned back the jungle and built walls and towers on the ashes to keep the mist at bay as well as the evil it brings with it.
Some of the mute mask tribes are breaking their vows and speaking. The other tribesman turn on them, removing their masks and leaving them to die or exiling them. The Mohadj who harbor the tribes stand by and do nothing. Apart from the tribes themselves, they alone know why the tribes stopped speaking and traded their faces for masks in the first place, and some say he or she who broke the vow in the first place is responsible for bringing all this evil upon us. The vow of an entire people is not made lightly, and to break it surely must bring great consequences.
The mad Bellatorias line is dead - a Tiefling clan that's convinced itself that it's stained blood is descended from one of the Holy Daughters. All of the Bellatorias family have been slain. Their servants found them seated in their private chambers as though at rest, but not drawing breath, their blood turned to water. Some say that the ghosts of the Holy Daughters finally killed them for their heresy. Though in these times any manner of dark fate could have swept them away.
Varsaanus Keep has fallen. Built atop the bones of the ancient dragon of the same name slain by the God-Empress in her days as a wandering Swordprophet, it is said that Dragonborn eggs brought to the Keep were able to avoid the Hatching Curse. The Dragonborn of the keep were stacked atop one another, torn apart, and the eggs were gone. This is dark news for the Dragonborn who begin to grow fearful of the fate of their race. It is said that even Arzhan Acidblood wept to hear it and slew one hundred Tieflings in his grief.
The Reliquary of the Raven Queen's Consorts has also been lost. It holds the remains of all those who have been wed to the Raven Queen, and it is through the Consorts that she whispers to us. The flocks of the far south are holding an Unkindness to determine what, if anything, they will do. And if they choose to do nothing, will the Black Pool be reopened so that they can once more commune with their god? The God-Empress had it sealed after the Shade Winter, but the God-Empress is no longer here.
The Eladrin Wanderers, untouchable due to their pacts with the fey Masters of Tents for as long as the tales speak of them, discovered one of their travelling bazaars burned, the Wanderers murdered, and nothing left of the Master of Tents but tatters of cloth and a shattered mask. Even the orcs would treat and deal peacefully with the Wanderers, and now another taboo is broken and the remaining Wanders worry that the blood of their fallen brethren has washed away the safety and protection of all their kind.
The times grow darker with every passing day and with every whispered tale.
And my man, Storn drew up the following as a pic of the Master of Tents:
We play next Tuesday.
I can't wait.
