Flamestrike
Legend
'Grog has no family or attachments. He just is. He wanders from place to place getting in adventures. Grog is CN.'
...is a sure fire way to earn the ire of this DM.
...is a sure fire way to earn the ire of this DM.
D&D 5E Character Backstories: Care to share?
BoldItalic
First Post
I once made a backstory for a whole party of five characters, introducing them one at a time, illustrating how they related to each other and to the world around them. It ran to 70,000 words and that was just Volume One 
As you have been such good children, I will read you some extracts from the first chapter. You must imagine the parts in-between ...
[sblock="Ganhard Healshrine, Cleric/Acolyte"]It was early evening and the light was beginning to fade. The town seemed as far away as ever as Ganhard trudged painfully on. His boots were hurting and nothing seemed to help. He wasn't used to all this walking. Why did towns have to be so far apart?
'Go to the town of Redcott', the High Priestess Anelia had said to him yesterday, 'and you will meet friends there who will help you.' He wasn't quite sure how that was supposed to work but you didn't ask High Priestesses for explanations. Not unless you wanted to look like a fool. He assumed it meant that someone would greet him at the town gate. If not, he would ask the way to the Temple of Gyri and make himself known there. It couldn't be that difficult. Or perhaps it was. He really didn’t know.
Ganhard was a priest, in the sense that he had passed all the academic tests and could recite the scriptures from memory, but in truth, he wasn’t a very impressive priest. He was short, for a man, and skinny as a rake. He wore his hair in a top-knot to try to give himself a bit of extra height, and a thick woollen habit under the regulation linen one to give himself extra bulk, but it didn’t really make any difference. He was the sort of disregarded young man who was always last to be picked when the best positions were being handed out. Except that, according to Anelia, he had been personally chosen by the Goddess Gyri herself for this important task. He ought to feel proud but he didn’t. He assumed that, as usual, he had been given a task that no-one else wanted. Still, it was something to be chosen for anything and he thanked Blesséd Gyri for noticing him.[/sblock]
[sblock="Poliva Pursetaker, Rogue/Folk Hero"]Poli had been watching her mark carefully. You didn't see many clergymen in this street in the daytime. Not in this street. This one was lost. You could tell. It was the way he kept looking left and right and stopping to gaze up at the sky. Small man, shorter than her, and skinny as a rake. Town-dweller, doesn't eat enough. Farm lads are better built. And limping slightly. New boots. Belt pouch on the left, about 20 coins by the weight of it. Pack on his back looks new and it's overfilled, so he's come from another town and isn't a seasoned traveller; hasn't learnt what to leave out.
She made a slight motion with her hand – this one is mine – and further down the street the three men who had been unobtrusively following her mark faded back into the afternoon shadows. She adjusted her body language subtly to 'you can talk to me' and moved across his path.[/sblock]
[sblock="Poli and Ganhard"]This girl seemed disturbingly ready to talk to him. He hoped she wasn't a fallen woman. He wasn't sure how to tell, really, but you heard stories. She was a bit taller than him, quite solidly-built, in a plain brown woollen dress like a peasant girl and with her hair done up in braids. And she had eyes. Deep brown eyes. Her eyes seemed to be talking to him in a way that eyes usually didn't. He tried to drop his gaze slightly and found himself staring at her nose.[/sblock]
[sblock="Aromin Rainshield, Elf Fighter/Criminal"]Aromin was in a foul temper. He was safe enough here, in these cheap lodgings, and there were good sight-lines for crossbow fire from the windows and doorway in case of trouble. But he was on his own, an elf in a human town, and though he tried not to admit it to himself, he missed his old comrades. He missed his dead wife most of all and the dreams of her untimely death were bad every time he tranced. The bitterness he felt did not lessen.
There was a caravan leaving in a few day's time and there should have been work. He needed work, to occupy his mind. But the caravan master had been very off-hand and said he had enough guards, and to come back next week – meaning, of course, don't come back at all.[/sblock]
[sblock="Aromin, Ganhard and Poli"]There were voices downstairs. A man, a woman and Mrs. Maggins. Then footsteps coming up the stairs. A floorboard squeaked; that was the one on the turn of the staircase. Three people. He sat on the bed with his sword close to hand but covered by a pillow. There was a knock on the door. Mrs Maggins. 'Mr. Aromin, sir? There's a priest here asking to see you, and young Poli Pursetaker is with him?' There was a disapproving sniff to her voice. That was normal. He relaxed marginally and stood up, but poised on the balls of his feet, alert. 'Enter !' he called.
The door opened and Ganhard came in, followed by Poli and Mrs. Maggins. He quickly sized up Ganhard as small, weak and harmless. The girl might have had a knife about her and looked able to handle herself but was keeping behind the priest and not posing immediate threat. 'Yes?' he said, non-committally. If these people wanted something, striking a deal might be profitable.[/sblock]
[sblock="Aromin and Poli"]The arrangements made, Poli and Aromin returned to the square to wait for Ganhard. Poli noticed the elf glancing at a pie-seller and guessed he hadn't eaten lately. She nodded imperceptibly to a street-sweeper, who moved over and began busily plying his broom around the pie-man's feet, loudly complaining about the pie crumbs that his customers had dropped, just as Poli and Aromin strolled past, arm in arm, chatting amiably. A few moments later, across the square and out of sight behind a market stall, Poli handed Aromin a hot pie. 'Nifely dum,' said Aromin, his mouth full of pie.[/sblock]
[sblock="Valerise Pengazer, Wizard/Soldier"]Val strode along the street, staff in hand, her cloak flapping behind her. People made way for her. She expected them to, and didn't even think about it. There was a caravan leaving tomorrow and she would be joining it. Merely a matter of finding the caravan master and telling him so. Job done.
That looked like the right man. 'You there! Are you the caravan master?'
'Yes, madam?' He was aware of a cloak, a wizard’s staff and a lithe young woman with long fair hair and a purposeful air. He turned away from the underlings he had been admonishing and gave her his full attention. He suppressed an urge to salute. You didn't see wizards every day and even when you did, they were normally bearded old men with a air of absent-mindedness, which this one certainly wasn't, on at least four counts. Nor did they normally have that thousand-yard stare that marked out professional soldiers who had seen serious action in the field. This woman was ... unusual.[/sblock]
[sblock="Val, Ganhard, Poli and Aromin"]Exactly five minutes later, Val was crossing the square with two guards in tow when she spied Ganhard coming towards her with Poli and Aromin. Excellent, she thought. From a distance, she assessed Aromin as an irregular infantryman, just from the way he held himself and his general alertness. Poli had the makings of an archer and there was a certain strength of character there, that belied her generally demur demeanour. They were slightly behind Ganhard to either side. But they weren't following him, they were propelling him. A healing cleric was supposed to be worth two soldiers and most clerics had some combat training, but it was generally minimal and this one didn't look experienced. He was walking too softly and not looking where he was going.[/sblock]
[sblock="Grimfund of Black Keep, Dwarf Fighter/Noble"]The Very Important Dwarf called Grimfund was covered head to toe in the finest dwarven mail, over which he wore an oxhide travelling cloak and iron-shod Grodzh boots. Strapped to his back was his shield – one of those round wooden ones that dwarves favour – and his prized battle axe, a gift from his grandfather.
He stood calmly while people busied themselves around him. The wizard-woman seemed to have things organised. To establish his authority over her, he had ordered some fur rugs for his bench in the wagon and she had gone off to find some. People liked being given little jobs to do – it gave them a sense of worth. Now, three other people seemed to be approaching; a cleric of some sort, a soldier and a woman. The woman was well-built but too tall for a dwarf. The cleric was impossibly thin. The soldier was an elf. None of them was in any way aristocratic. He ignored them briefly. If they waited respectfully for a minute or two, he would allow them to speak.
He stroked his beard. He did that, sometimes, to give an air of thoughtfulness and it kept people waiting because they naturally assumed he was about to say something momentous. He was quite young, for a dwarf, still in his forties, but he was always conscious of being his grandfather’s grandson and his grandfather, being the Warden of Black Keep, was very important indeed.[/sblock]
[sblock="Grimfund, Ganhard, Poli and Aromin"]'Do you wish to address me?' he said to Ganhard after a suitable interval. He chose Ganhard as the most insignificant-looking of the three, so that the other two wouldn’t feel as important. To keep them in their places.
'The spell-captain has assigned us to your wagon as extra guards. We were instructed to make ourselves known to you,' said Ganhard, unsure of just how important this dwarf actually was. He was certainly acting like someone who was accustomed to being treated as someone important, but that could all be put on.
'I see. Yes, quite correct,' said the dwarf. 'These are my bags. You may stow them on the wagon. Be careful with the two chests. You will guard them at all times.'
Ganhard and Aromin exchanged glances. 'I'll fetch one of the porters,' said Poli, and made some complicated hand-signals to a group of men loitering nearby. One came forward and lifted the bags and chests expertly onto the wagon. Poli watched how he placed his hands. Fingers held just so. That meant that the chests were locked but the locks were of the simplex type that would be no great trouble to pick, that the contents were evenly distributed but no heavier than a full chest of clothes would normally be, and that there was no sound of any metal objects such as weapons or coinage inside. The man resumed his loitering, unnoticed by the dwarf.[/sblock]
As you have been such good children, I will read you some extracts from the first chapter. You must imagine the parts in-between ...
[sblock="Ganhard Healshrine, Cleric/Acolyte"]It was early evening and the light was beginning to fade. The town seemed as far away as ever as Ganhard trudged painfully on. His boots were hurting and nothing seemed to help. He wasn't used to all this walking. Why did towns have to be so far apart?
'Go to the town of Redcott', the High Priestess Anelia had said to him yesterday, 'and you will meet friends there who will help you.' He wasn't quite sure how that was supposed to work but you didn't ask High Priestesses for explanations. Not unless you wanted to look like a fool. He assumed it meant that someone would greet him at the town gate. If not, he would ask the way to the Temple of Gyri and make himself known there. It couldn't be that difficult. Or perhaps it was. He really didn’t know.
Ganhard was a priest, in the sense that he had passed all the academic tests and could recite the scriptures from memory, but in truth, he wasn’t a very impressive priest. He was short, for a man, and skinny as a rake. He wore his hair in a top-knot to try to give himself a bit of extra height, and a thick woollen habit under the regulation linen one to give himself extra bulk, but it didn’t really make any difference. He was the sort of disregarded young man who was always last to be picked when the best positions were being handed out. Except that, according to Anelia, he had been personally chosen by the Goddess Gyri herself for this important task. He ought to feel proud but he didn’t. He assumed that, as usual, he had been given a task that no-one else wanted. Still, it was something to be chosen for anything and he thanked Blesséd Gyri for noticing him.[/sblock]
[sblock="Poliva Pursetaker, Rogue/Folk Hero"]Poli had been watching her mark carefully. You didn't see many clergymen in this street in the daytime. Not in this street. This one was lost. You could tell. It was the way he kept looking left and right and stopping to gaze up at the sky. Small man, shorter than her, and skinny as a rake. Town-dweller, doesn't eat enough. Farm lads are better built. And limping slightly. New boots. Belt pouch on the left, about 20 coins by the weight of it. Pack on his back looks new and it's overfilled, so he's come from another town and isn't a seasoned traveller; hasn't learnt what to leave out.
She made a slight motion with her hand – this one is mine – and further down the street the three men who had been unobtrusively following her mark faded back into the afternoon shadows. She adjusted her body language subtly to 'you can talk to me' and moved across his path.[/sblock]
[sblock="Poli and Ganhard"]This girl seemed disturbingly ready to talk to him. He hoped she wasn't a fallen woman. He wasn't sure how to tell, really, but you heard stories. She was a bit taller than him, quite solidly-built, in a plain brown woollen dress like a peasant girl and with her hair done up in braids. And she had eyes. Deep brown eyes. Her eyes seemed to be talking to him in a way that eyes usually didn't. He tried to drop his gaze slightly and found himself staring at her nose.[/sblock]
[sblock="Aromin Rainshield, Elf Fighter/Criminal"]Aromin was in a foul temper. He was safe enough here, in these cheap lodgings, and there were good sight-lines for crossbow fire from the windows and doorway in case of trouble. But he was on his own, an elf in a human town, and though he tried not to admit it to himself, he missed his old comrades. He missed his dead wife most of all and the dreams of her untimely death were bad every time he tranced. The bitterness he felt did not lessen.
There was a caravan leaving in a few day's time and there should have been work. He needed work, to occupy his mind. But the caravan master had been very off-hand and said he had enough guards, and to come back next week – meaning, of course, don't come back at all.[/sblock]
[sblock="Aromin, Ganhard and Poli"]There were voices downstairs. A man, a woman and Mrs. Maggins. Then footsteps coming up the stairs. A floorboard squeaked; that was the one on the turn of the staircase. Three people. He sat on the bed with his sword close to hand but covered by a pillow. There was a knock on the door. Mrs Maggins. 'Mr. Aromin, sir? There's a priest here asking to see you, and young Poli Pursetaker is with him?' There was a disapproving sniff to her voice. That was normal. He relaxed marginally and stood up, but poised on the balls of his feet, alert. 'Enter !' he called.
The door opened and Ganhard came in, followed by Poli and Mrs. Maggins. He quickly sized up Ganhard as small, weak and harmless. The girl might have had a knife about her and looked able to handle herself but was keeping behind the priest and not posing immediate threat. 'Yes?' he said, non-committally. If these people wanted something, striking a deal might be profitable.[/sblock]
[sblock="Aromin and Poli"]The arrangements made, Poli and Aromin returned to the square to wait for Ganhard. Poli noticed the elf glancing at a pie-seller and guessed he hadn't eaten lately. She nodded imperceptibly to a street-sweeper, who moved over and began busily plying his broom around the pie-man's feet, loudly complaining about the pie crumbs that his customers had dropped, just as Poli and Aromin strolled past, arm in arm, chatting amiably. A few moments later, across the square and out of sight behind a market stall, Poli handed Aromin a hot pie. 'Nifely dum,' said Aromin, his mouth full of pie.[/sblock]
[sblock="Valerise Pengazer, Wizard/Soldier"]Val strode along the street, staff in hand, her cloak flapping behind her. People made way for her. She expected them to, and didn't even think about it. There was a caravan leaving tomorrow and she would be joining it. Merely a matter of finding the caravan master and telling him so. Job done.
That looked like the right man. 'You there! Are you the caravan master?'
'Yes, madam?' He was aware of a cloak, a wizard’s staff and a lithe young woman with long fair hair and a purposeful air. He turned away from the underlings he had been admonishing and gave her his full attention. He suppressed an urge to salute. You didn't see wizards every day and even when you did, they were normally bearded old men with a air of absent-mindedness, which this one certainly wasn't, on at least four counts. Nor did they normally have that thousand-yard stare that marked out professional soldiers who had seen serious action in the field. This woman was ... unusual.[/sblock]
[sblock="Val, Ganhard, Poli and Aromin"]Exactly five minutes later, Val was crossing the square with two guards in tow when she spied Ganhard coming towards her with Poli and Aromin. Excellent, she thought. From a distance, she assessed Aromin as an irregular infantryman, just from the way he held himself and his general alertness. Poli had the makings of an archer and there was a certain strength of character there, that belied her generally demur demeanour. They were slightly behind Ganhard to either side. But they weren't following him, they were propelling him. A healing cleric was supposed to be worth two soldiers and most clerics had some combat training, but it was generally minimal and this one didn't look experienced. He was walking too softly and not looking where he was going.[/sblock]
[sblock="Grimfund of Black Keep, Dwarf Fighter/Noble"]The Very Important Dwarf called Grimfund was covered head to toe in the finest dwarven mail, over which he wore an oxhide travelling cloak and iron-shod Grodzh boots. Strapped to his back was his shield – one of those round wooden ones that dwarves favour – and his prized battle axe, a gift from his grandfather.
He stood calmly while people busied themselves around him. The wizard-woman seemed to have things organised. To establish his authority over her, he had ordered some fur rugs for his bench in the wagon and she had gone off to find some. People liked being given little jobs to do – it gave them a sense of worth. Now, three other people seemed to be approaching; a cleric of some sort, a soldier and a woman. The woman was well-built but too tall for a dwarf. The cleric was impossibly thin. The soldier was an elf. None of them was in any way aristocratic. He ignored them briefly. If they waited respectfully for a minute or two, he would allow them to speak.
He stroked his beard. He did that, sometimes, to give an air of thoughtfulness and it kept people waiting because they naturally assumed he was about to say something momentous. He was quite young, for a dwarf, still in his forties, but he was always conscious of being his grandfather’s grandson and his grandfather, being the Warden of Black Keep, was very important indeed.[/sblock]
[sblock="Grimfund, Ganhard, Poli and Aromin"]'Do you wish to address me?' he said to Ganhard after a suitable interval. He chose Ganhard as the most insignificant-looking of the three, so that the other two wouldn’t feel as important. To keep them in their places.
'The spell-captain has assigned us to your wagon as extra guards. We were instructed to make ourselves known to you,' said Ganhard, unsure of just how important this dwarf actually was. He was certainly acting like someone who was accustomed to being treated as someone important, but that could all be put on.
'I see. Yes, quite correct,' said the dwarf. 'These are my bags. You may stow them on the wagon. Be careful with the two chests. You will guard them at all times.'
Ganhard and Aromin exchanged glances. 'I'll fetch one of the porters,' said Poli, and made some complicated hand-signals to a group of men loitering nearby. One came forward and lifted the bags and chests expertly onto the wagon. Poli watched how he placed his hands. Fingers held just so. That meant that the chests were locked but the locks were of the simplex type that would be no great trouble to pick, that the contents were evenly distributed but no heavier than a full chest of clothes would normally be, and that there was no sound of any metal objects such as weapons or coinage inside. The man resumed his loitering, unnoticed by the dwarf.[/sblock]
AaronOfBarbaria
Adventurer
I have a character that bears some similarity to Grog, though I expect that he'd earn far less ire from a DM such as you:
"Garrett", if that even is his real name, is a man that has run far and long to leave his past behind and chase after his goal; to become a figure of legend, like the heroes in the stories his father put him to bed with as a child. He's left his younger brother to carry the responsibilities their father expected of him, and convinced all the friends and family he left behind that he was deploying with the nation's army, when in truth he joined a pirate crew to pay his way to a new continent. It is there that he intends to foster his already budding reputation, as black as it is given his apparent penchant for grandiose acts of violence and lack of self-preservation instinct (He didn't like that his captain let other crew mistreat women that had been taken to ransom, and set the ship aflame after killing the captain because of it), to grow into eventual legendary status... hopefully as a hero, but that is entirely up to how people choose to interpret his willingness to answer villainy with violent death.
I thoroughly enjoyed this little tale - especially the linguistic note on the meaning of Leth'ael's name. The ties to the Hebrew language (for example, the name Ariel meaning "Lion of God") brought Tolkien to mind, of all things. Not bad, if you managed that!
You had me at Primeval Thule. Kudos on the origin tale!
User_Undefined;
A two-fer! And both well-told. Your warlock's story is the sort to keep a nightmare well-fed.
A two-fer! And both well-told. Your warlock's story is the sort to keep a nightmare well-fed.
Wow, thanks for the high praise! That's a first for me, that's for certain. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I've toyed with the idea of writing more about him because I'm very much enjoying playing him. But his story is still slowly developing. So I haven't gotten to a point where I know enough about him to really try. Thanks again for the kind words!
Chaosmancer
Legend
I'm going to post my stories, and then go back and read other people's later. I'm trying to avoid doing homework, but I shouldn't avoid it that much.
Not the full story, but I can't find the original anywhere at the moment.
Merric Silverhorn: Tiefling Storm Sorcerer Jeweler
[sblock] Merric grew up on the streets of Silva Lapis, running with a street gang as a lookout and pickpocket. One night he broke into the shop of Gregory Handel, the Jeweler and Merchant in charge of the Runic Ring Trading Company. That night changed Merric's life forever.
Inside a newly arrived crate Merric spotted a massive deep blue gem, but once he grasped it lightning arced through him and he blacked out. Master Gregory found him the next morning, arm blackened to the shoulder and the gem fused to his palm. Instead of turning in the young thief Gregory instead took him as an apprentice. Merric's life was given a new purpose, the idea of creating things instead of taking them had never occurred to the 8 year old child. MAster Gregory taught him much, instilled in him a deep respect for the Goddess Waukeen, and helped his burgeoning magic powers granted by the Elemental Gem of Lighting that fused to him.
Years passed, and Merric felt somewhat confined by his home, taking up his tools Merric decided to take up life as a traveling Jeweler for the company. During his travels he joined with an Orcish caravan, learning about the Orcs and how they had turned from the worship of their dead god Gruumsh to the worship of Waukeen. However, Merric also learned of the bias against the divine who had withdrawn from the world and decided to keep his own beliefs to himself when amongst strangers. Later, Merric was overcome with a strange compulsion. He dreamed of a mountain, far away from where he had traveled and he felt it calling to him.
Following this call he met his traveling companions and was inducted into The Guiding Light order, believing it was the will of his Goddess and that he had been chosen to serve her more directly in the world. Once again, his life was completely changed.[/sblock]
Warren "Doublelock" Sinder Raulnor: Gnome Cleric of Life Hermit
[sblock]The Nickname "Doublelock" came from Warren's cautious nature. He would always double check any task he was sent to do, to the point sending him to lock the gate was the same as locking it twice.
When Warren was born, he was set upon a path in life, much like his father before him. It wasn't an exciting life, tending the farm of Symphonica Acres granted to them through his Great-Great-Great Grandfather “Skippy” Jon Jones Sinder Raulnor's bravery and cunning. A simple life of driving “Big Red” or “Blue-no” amongst the crops and driving off the occasional hassle.
That path was altered one morning when he was 14 years old. The family was down at the market, and Warren did not pay as much attention as he should have. A wagonneer, possibly drunk, possibly not used to looking for small gnomish children, ran him over, shattering his leg in several places.
Without magical healing readily available, his family made do with a local doctor, who informed them Warren would likely never walk without a crutch, and possibly not with one either. As he lay in his family's burrow Warren worried, this meant that he would never be the capable of filling the role his family had prepared for him. It meant the one thing he had ever considered doing was now outside his reach. He could not drive the great machines without two working legs to pedal them, and if he could not drive the machines then he could not be in charge of the farm or defend it from attack.
It was three months later when a new path was opened before him. Lady Ellywick “Thornbrush” Waywocket Orla Lopmottin Nackle arrived in their community, she had traveled far in some quest, but she informed the community that she was a healer of great skill, infused with the blessings of the gods, and that she would offer her services to the community while she continued her research as her adventuring days were far enough behind her that she desired more to settle than to seek.
As reports of her miracles reached Warren, he determined to hobble down to her abode and plead for her magic to right his leg. She was kind, but firm, it had been too long since the injury and the bones had set to firmly for her magic to restore him to what he was before. However, there were other ways for her to try and heal him, other techniques which would strengthen muscles and adapt his body to the reality of his leg. In exchange, she simply required that he assist her, and since he could not imagine how much help he could be to his parents, he agreed.
She put him through strenuous physical therapy, taught him the language of the angels, and set him to organizing and editing the massive tomes of notes and journals which she had collected. It turned out that Lady Ellywick was a member of a group calling themselves “The Gumshoes” who believed it was a sacred duty to heal a rift in the community of the gods. Every Gnomish child was aware of the Lords of the Golden Hills, Garl Glittergold and his sparkling wit and keen eye, Old man Segojan Earthcaller who watched over the dead in their Barrows, The Sly Baravar Cloakshadow who mastered illusions and trickery to protect their people and on and on, but Lady Ellywick spoke of rumors, legends of that spoke of the Ladies of the Golden Hills who had vanished without a trace millenia and millenia ago. Most of the clergy either believed these rumors nonsense or worse, since the Lords would give no comment to support or detract from them.
Warren was fascinated, and an eager student for all the teachings Lady Ellywick could provide. As he left behind his crutches, he also left behind any doubts as to his purpose. Lady Ellywick taught him medicine, history, and all of the religious rites and texts no matter how strange or foreign. She taught him that it was the community of the gods which needed to be worshipped, not an individual god, and that in service to that community they must find the Lost Ladies. That it was more than possible that the Lords mourned their sisters, and that the loss of an immortal family could not possibly be measured in the same ways as they could be amongst mortals. She taught him to harness divine magic, she taught he sacred rituals to strengthen the bonds between members of the community, including rites of sacred sex which many found to be strange at best.
Decades passed, Warren grew strong in devotion as well his body and mind. Then, one morning while Lady Ellywick was off tending to a far-off community Warren was struck with a vision.
He stood before a great roaring Hearth. It was filled with light and warmth and happiness that seemed boundless, and he laughed in delight along with the crackling cackle of burning wood. Then he saw a great Sword, lying above the Hearth. A terrible and keen Sword, which crouched like a great cat, watching him with lazy eyes. It meant him no harm, but it was made for violence and slaughter, and such things are chilling even towards those they protect. He lowered his gaze, and saw himself standing upon a great Compass Rose which pointed him straight to the West.
When he came to Warren was ecstatic, for clearly this was a sign from the Ladies. He would find them, or at least the trail which would lead him to them to the West. When Lady Ellywick returned they would set out together, but first he needed to record the vision so that he forgot no detail. Scrambling for quill and paper he accidentally knocked over an old set of fortune cards, and settling upon the page he held was a card depicting himself, clad in armor and with a pack upon his back. The name of the card was destroyed by the passage of time, all that remained was the clear image of himself, alone, on a journey.
So, Warren wrote down his vision, then made a second copy to leave with the letter he left, thanking Lady Ellywick for her hosipitality and generosity. Then, he gathered an old battered set of arms, and his few possessions, and headed westward, the morning sun warming his back as he marched towards destiny. [/sblock]
And my current character:
Haldren Redfen: Half-Orc Fighter Samurai Soldier
[sblock] I suppose the story properly starts with my father, Johnathan Redfen, Sword for hire. He made a decent living as a mercenary adventurer, started when he was 15, or to hear him tell it, from the moment he was born to the blade. Approximately three decades ago, in the plains between the City of Silvery Moon and the dwarven fortress of Mithral Hall, there was a “Peace Tournament” held between the Silver Marches, the Dwarves, and Many-Arrow orcs.
Wanting to put on a good show, one of the local lords hired my father to participate, he’d gained enough renown as a swordsman that the lord figured it wouldn’t be seen as an insult, and he wouldn’t need to send any of his important warriors to go fighting orcs for fun. My father could care less for all that, he cares more about gold and a good challenge, but he always made sure I understood that this was a political move for this guy. Anyways, my father arrived at the tourney grounds, and nearly immediately fell madly in love with this Orc maiden he saw stirring cook pots and butchering a dire boar in the Many-Arrows camp.
I’m told my father is a strange man.
Absolutely besotted with her "emerald beauty" and "raw unchecked strength", he decided he would woo her and earn the tribe’s permission to wed her. Orcs respect strength above all else, and so what had once been a quick cash job turned into my father’s quest for his true love, Rásha of the Many-Arrows. He penned an epic poem of the whole ordeal, from his laying eyes upon her, the blood glistening in her hair, to the mighty warriors he defeated and his eventual fall to the axe of a dwarven warrior, earning only third place in the tournament. It’s gotten him banned from at least three bars and a forest glen, my father’s talents do not extend into the written word, he’s much better with a sword.
Despite all that though, it was enough to earn the tribe’s grudging respect, and my mother did not have any better prospects within the tribe itself. So they headed off for a life together, slaying monsters, earning coin, and eventually settling in Nesmé when I was born. Father found work as a city-guard, the Evermoors are dangerous enough to keep him entertained, and mother runs a sundry stores, leatherworking and turning other bits and pieces of the dead things dragged through the gates into useful things to sell.
It was a good life, this sword was my 7th birthday gift. My father told me when I could wield it properly I would finally be a man. Unfortunately, his definition of “properly” seems to be a bit more complex than most drill sergeants. My axes were a parting gift from my mother, hand-crafting from Troll bones to bring luck and strength when I left to join the army. Must have worked, I ended up a lieutenant before they put me in the reserve corps. First Lieutenant Redfen of Blackwater Company of the Silver Marches, won’t deny the army was good fun. Learned a lot too, about swordsmanship, battle, the difference between a soldier’s “blade” and a noble’s “blade”. Met a lot of good people to top it off, plus as an officer I got this nice Halberd as a bonus.
Blackwater Company was called up to investigate a disturbance in some small village out in the Nether Mountains. We see smoke, find the place under siege by some goblins, with a hob commanding the whole thing. That’s where I picked up this little dagger. I was holding the frontline with Druth, keeping the little buggers off of Caleb while he sniped that poor hob from over 350 ft. I don’t care what that guy says, elf eyes, even half ones, make a difference. Anyways, I’m feeling ready to congratulate the team on a job well down, we’re cleaning up the last bits, when suddenly I’ve got fire shooting through my side like I’ve never felt before. Little bugger was hiding in some crates, Kerick says this dagger had to have knicked a kidney. I payed the thing back and then some, and kept this little blade. Might be cursed with my name for all I know, you can’t risk it with weapons that get that close to sending you to the other side.
Anyways, we served our time, got moved to the reserve units, and I decided that instead of getting fat and lazy like the Commander, I’d head out and make coin as a merc. Maybe make a name for myself.
Bits from when we were constructing a group story
He wouldn't have given any advice or encouragement unless you tried to quit, which seems a little out of character for early Vaalyun.
If you did, he probably would go the anecdote route, while you were doing magic training he would have been going through sword kata's, or maybe switching it up to his axes or halberd after a while. So it would have been something like " My father gave me this sword when I was a small child (pulls out a greatsword the size of himself [6 1/2 foot tall]). Told me that when I could wield it properly I would be a man. Took me a year to lift it and hold it in the ready position. (slowly begins going through simple blocking and striking pattern) Another year and I could swing it twice without dropping it. Before I left to join the army, my father asked me to do this (speeds up the point where the blade barely pauses between strike and defense, a seamless fluid wall of steel. With a final swing he lands a sideways blow, a small strap of leather hanging from the hilt wrapping around his arm). He said 'Good enough for guard duty boy' and then told me I still needed to tighten my grip and shift my balance less between swings. The strap should snap on that final move, like a whip. (Sheathes sword) Commander says I'm one of the best swordsmen he's ever seen. Father still thinks I'm a child struggling to hold my sword. He's right, of course, and the road stretches, disappearing into the distance. When I get there, I'm going to beat him, because that's the point. To be better than they are, then raise your child to be better than you."
Not sure if you read them, but here are the superstitions that I listed on Haldren's character sheet:
Certain weapons old the "name" of a person, those are the weapons most likely to kill you. If a weapon almost kills me, I'll keep myself safe from that weapon by claiming it and carrying it, preventing someone else from using it (This is be difficult with magic weapons claimed by group members, but I figure by the time we get to that point he'll trust the group enough to simply be uncomfortable with it)
When leaving a place to go somewhere dangerous, bury five rocks by the entrance, to help guide you home. Carries a bag of rocks with him for this purposes, in case he can't find any nearby.
Follows a more orcish way of looking at the gods. Before a battle an orc warrior will ask the gods to see his strength and courage, recognize it and bless him for it. A human or elf will instead ask the gods for strength and courage. Haldren figures as long as he is good enough, the gods will notice and bless him instead of him having to go and ask them for assistance.
Then here is a Quick Breakdown of Blackwater Company of the Silver Marches, those still alive at least. No clear idea what most of them are doing now that we broke up and went into the Reserve list.
Druth: Dwarven Fighter, axe and shield, very traditional. Came from Mithral Hall and never gave much reason for why he left home and joined a foreign army. Initially didn’t like Haldren, and really didn’t like being under the command of a “runtling orc”. However, after a few battles and butting heads a few times, Haldren decided to push the issue and challenged Druth to a drinking contest. Haldren drank Druth under the table, and in the way of dwarves that plus his combat skills earned Haldren enough respect to get past their racial enmity. What Druth never found out was that Haldren used an old officer trick to cheat, and was drinking quite a bit less than the dwarf.
Caleb Baker: Half-elf archer, suave ladies man and consumate gambler, at least in his mind. Caleb gets rejected by about half the women he tries to woo and loses at cards way too much. Haldren would seem him enter an establishment with gold, leave with coppers, then tell the guys at camp about how he’d made the barmaids swoon and felt sorry for the poor sods he was playing, so he lost a little more than he should have. Despite all that, Caleb is a damn good shot and was instrumental in killing the Hobgoblin commander during the in the Nether Mountains, a feat which grows with every telling. Good man overall, and likes Haldren well enough as another half-blood.
Kerick of Erend: Field medic and cleric of Kelemvor. I haven’t decided on Kerick’s race but I’m saying male. Kerick isn’t a coward per se, but a pragmatist. He keeps the rest of us breathing and on this side of the Veil, doesn’t make sense for him to be charging the line like Haldren and Druth. Very devout, and dour because of it. Joined the army because of duty, followed orders because of duty, is in an arranged marriage because of duty. Came from money, but didn’t care about it, all that mattered was doing what was expected. Good doctor and medic though, even if he had to ask if we wanted to be saved, because religion.
Commander: The Commander is human, probably a guy, and has moved from the battlefield to a cushy position in advising and training. An older career soldier whose best years are behind him and wants to just live out his days, but can’t quite bring himself to leave the army that he’s always known.
Bri Thorngauge: Halfling Scout, easy enough to get along with, until you crossed her, then she showed a mean streak that was a bit legendary in the Company. Once Caleb made the mistake of calling her a “dainty little lady” he found all sorts of unpleasant prickly, itchy, and poisonous things in his bedroll for the next 4 months until he finally caved. They’d taken turns keeping watch for her sneaking over to his stuff, no one ever caught her.
Some of the missions we went on and other misc.:
Defeating that goblin warband in the Nether Mountains. Probably one of their most dangerous and harrowing fights.
Fighting the “Skum Raiders” in the Evermoore swamps. A band of kobold and lizardfolk pirates that were causing problems. Haldren kept their flag, which is a dragon skull and crossbones, as a souvenir because they avoided the company for 6 weeks of raiding. This is probably also where they got the moniker “Blackwater Company” because most of the other teams gave up pursuit, we didn’t, we crawled through the muck for weeks to complete our mission.
We already established that we escorted Solfiamma’s at least once, before Vaalyun met Erebus. Possibly once after that as well.
Haldren, as an officer, would have had to track down the sons and daughters of nobility who joined the army, and then later deserted or abandoned their post. He’s had experience with angry noble parents, and spoiled kids. He’s also seen a few of them cracking under the pressures of a title or heritage, so he knows they aren’t all bad, but you still don’t want to anger any of them if you can avoid it. Too much trouble, as he found out.
A lot of missions to track down and capture or kill bandit groups, and break up bandit camps. You know, I like the idea that there was one individual who kept getting away. A sort of bandit rival for the Blackwater Company. Let’s say they went under the moniker “The Wolf”, the company would hear about their activity, track them down, bust in, but only find low-level, expendable mooks, never the core group which would eventually reform. I imagine a form of respect would develop between them. To pre-empt a cliché, let’s not make Wolf secretly be Bri or one of the other members of the Black water company. I think that would be a little hoakey.
Probably had boring jobs like man this toll road, drive off this ogre, guard this merchant, deliver this package. All the normal stuff.
And then, because I want to have a story of a big battle, where they would have called up a lot of different groups, Blackwater and a few other companies had to clear an Ankheg nest infestation which had destroyed a small village. It was a brutal, terrifying job. Lot of people died. Ended in victory and earned them 2 months off though, as well as comp pay that led to quite a few drunken parties in the days that followed.
[/sblock]
I have a few other than these, but these have been my 5e characters of the last 4 or 5 years.
Not the full story, but I can't find the original anywhere at the moment.
Merric Silverhorn: Tiefling Storm Sorcerer Jeweler
[sblock] Merric grew up on the streets of Silva Lapis, running with a street gang as a lookout and pickpocket. One night he broke into the shop of Gregory Handel, the Jeweler and Merchant in charge of the Runic Ring Trading Company. That night changed Merric's life forever.
Inside a newly arrived crate Merric spotted a massive deep blue gem, but once he grasped it lightning arced through him and he blacked out. Master Gregory found him the next morning, arm blackened to the shoulder and the gem fused to his palm. Instead of turning in the young thief Gregory instead took him as an apprentice. Merric's life was given a new purpose, the idea of creating things instead of taking them had never occurred to the 8 year old child. MAster Gregory taught him much, instilled in him a deep respect for the Goddess Waukeen, and helped his burgeoning magic powers granted by the Elemental Gem of Lighting that fused to him.
Years passed, and Merric felt somewhat confined by his home, taking up his tools Merric decided to take up life as a traveling Jeweler for the company. During his travels he joined with an Orcish caravan, learning about the Orcs and how they had turned from the worship of their dead god Gruumsh to the worship of Waukeen. However, Merric also learned of the bias against the divine who had withdrawn from the world and decided to keep his own beliefs to himself when amongst strangers. Later, Merric was overcome with a strange compulsion. He dreamed of a mountain, far away from where he had traveled and he felt it calling to him.
Following this call he met his traveling companions and was inducted into The Guiding Light order, believing it was the will of his Goddess and that he had been chosen to serve her more directly in the world. Once again, his life was completely changed.[/sblock]
Warren "Doublelock" Sinder Raulnor: Gnome Cleric of Life Hermit
[sblock]The Nickname "Doublelock" came from Warren's cautious nature. He would always double check any task he was sent to do, to the point sending him to lock the gate was the same as locking it twice.
When Warren was born, he was set upon a path in life, much like his father before him. It wasn't an exciting life, tending the farm of Symphonica Acres granted to them through his Great-Great-Great Grandfather “Skippy” Jon Jones Sinder Raulnor's bravery and cunning. A simple life of driving “Big Red” or “Blue-no” amongst the crops and driving off the occasional hassle.
That path was altered one morning when he was 14 years old. The family was down at the market, and Warren did not pay as much attention as he should have. A wagonneer, possibly drunk, possibly not used to looking for small gnomish children, ran him over, shattering his leg in several places.
Without magical healing readily available, his family made do with a local doctor, who informed them Warren would likely never walk without a crutch, and possibly not with one either. As he lay in his family's burrow Warren worried, this meant that he would never be the capable of filling the role his family had prepared for him. It meant the one thing he had ever considered doing was now outside his reach. He could not drive the great machines without two working legs to pedal them, and if he could not drive the machines then he could not be in charge of the farm or defend it from attack.
It was three months later when a new path was opened before him. Lady Ellywick “Thornbrush” Waywocket Orla Lopmottin Nackle arrived in their community, she had traveled far in some quest, but she informed the community that she was a healer of great skill, infused with the blessings of the gods, and that she would offer her services to the community while she continued her research as her adventuring days were far enough behind her that she desired more to settle than to seek.
As reports of her miracles reached Warren, he determined to hobble down to her abode and plead for her magic to right his leg. She was kind, but firm, it had been too long since the injury and the bones had set to firmly for her magic to restore him to what he was before. However, there were other ways for her to try and heal him, other techniques which would strengthen muscles and adapt his body to the reality of his leg. In exchange, she simply required that he assist her, and since he could not imagine how much help he could be to his parents, he agreed.
She put him through strenuous physical therapy, taught him the language of the angels, and set him to organizing and editing the massive tomes of notes and journals which she had collected. It turned out that Lady Ellywick was a member of a group calling themselves “The Gumshoes” who believed it was a sacred duty to heal a rift in the community of the gods. Every Gnomish child was aware of the Lords of the Golden Hills, Garl Glittergold and his sparkling wit and keen eye, Old man Segojan Earthcaller who watched over the dead in their Barrows, The Sly Baravar Cloakshadow who mastered illusions and trickery to protect their people and on and on, but Lady Ellywick spoke of rumors, legends of that spoke of the Ladies of the Golden Hills who had vanished without a trace millenia and millenia ago. Most of the clergy either believed these rumors nonsense or worse, since the Lords would give no comment to support or detract from them.
Warren was fascinated, and an eager student for all the teachings Lady Ellywick could provide. As he left behind his crutches, he also left behind any doubts as to his purpose. Lady Ellywick taught him medicine, history, and all of the religious rites and texts no matter how strange or foreign. She taught him that it was the community of the gods which needed to be worshipped, not an individual god, and that in service to that community they must find the Lost Ladies. That it was more than possible that the Lords mourned their sisters, and that the loss of an immortal family could not possibly be measured in the same ways as they could be amongst mortals. She taught him to harness divine magic, she taught he sacred rituals to strengthen the bonds between members of the community, including rites of sacred sex which many found to be strange at best.
Decades passed, Warren grew strong in devotion as well his body and mind. Then, one morning while Lady Ellywick was off tending to a far-off community Warren was struck with a vision.
He stood before a great roaring Hearth. It was filled with light and warmth and happiness that seemed boundless, and he laughed in delight along with the crackling cackle of burning wood. Then he saw a great Sword, lying above the Hearth. A terrible and keen Sword, which crouched like a great cat, watching him with lazy eyes. It meant him no harm, but it was made for violence and slaughter, and such things are chilling even towards those they protect. He lowered his gaze, and saw himself standing upon a great Compass Rose which pointed him straight to the West.
When he came to Warren was ecstatic, for clearly this was a sign from the Ladies. He would find them, or at least the trail which would lead him to them to the West. When Lady Ellywick returned they would set out together, but first he needed to record the vision so that he forgot no detail. Scrambling for quill and paper he accidentally knocked over an old set of fortune cards, and settling upon the page he held was a card depicting himself, clad in armor and with a pack upon his back. The name of the card was destroyed by the passage of time, all that remained was the clear image of himself, alone, on a journey.
So, Warren wrote down his vision, then made a second copy to leave with the letter he left, thanking Lady Ellywick for her hosipitality and generosity. Then, he gathered an old battered set of arms, and his few possessions, and headed westward, the morning sun warming his back as he marched towards destiny. [/sblock]
And my current character:
Haldren Redfen: Half-Orc Fighter Samurai Soldier
[sblock] I suppose the story properly starts with my father, Johnathan Redfen, Sword for hire. He made a decent living as a mercenary adventurer, started when he was 15, or to hear him tell it, from the moment he was born to the blade. Approximately three decades ago, in the plains between the City of Silvery Moon and the dwarven fortress of Mithral Hall, there was a “Peace Tournament” held between the Silver Marches, the Dwarves, and Many-Arrow orcs.
Wanting to put on a good show, one of the local lords hired my father to participate, he’d gained enough renown as a swordsman that the lord figured it wouldn’t be seen as an insult, and he wouldn’t need to send any of his important warriors to go fighting orcs for fun. My father could care less for all that, he cares more about gold and a good challenge, but he always made sure I understood that this was a political move for this guy. Anyways, my father arrived at the tourney grounds, and nearly immediately fell madly in love with this Orc maiden he saw stirring cook pots and butchering a dire boar in the Many-Arrows camp.
I’m told my father is a strange man.
Absolutely besotted with her "emerald beauty" and "raw unchecked strength", he decided he would woo her and earn the tribe’s permission to wed her. Orcs respect strength above all else, and so what had once been a quick cash job turned into my father’s quest for his true love, Rásha of the Many-Arrows. He penned an epic poem of the whole ordeal, from his laying eyes upon her, the blood glistening in her hair, to the mighty warriors he defeated and his eventual fall to the axe of a dwarven warrior, earning only third place in the tournament. It’s gotten him banned from at least three bars and a forest glen, my father’s talents do not extend into the written word, he’s much better with a sword.
Despite all that though, it was enough to earn the tribe’s grudging respect, and my mother did not have any better prospects within the tribe itself. So they headed off for a life together, slaying monsters, earning coin, and eventually settling in Nesmé when I was born. Father found work as a city-guard, the Evermoors are dangerous enough to keep him entertained, and mother runs a sundry stores, leatherworking and turning other bits and pieces of the dead things dragged through the gates into useful things to sell.
It was a good life, this sword was my 7th birthday gift. My father told me when I could wield it properly I would finally be a man. Unfortunately, his definition of “properly” seems to be a bit more complex than most drill sergeants. My axes were a parting gift from my mother, hand-crafting from Troll bones to bring luck and strength when I left to join the army. Must have worked, I ended up a lieutenant before they put me in the reserve corps. First Lieutenant Redfen of Blackwater Company of the Silver Marches, won’t deny the army was good fun. Learned a lot too, about swordsmanship, battle, the difference between a soldier’s “blade” and a noble’s “blade”. Met a lot of good people to top it off, plus as an officer I got this nice Halberd as a bonus.
Blackwater Company was called up to investigate a disturbance in some small village out in the Nether Mountains. We see smoke, find the place under siege by some goblins, with a hob commanding the whole thing. That’s where I picked up this little dagger. I was holding the frontline with Druth, keeping the little buggers off of Caleb while he sniped that poor hob from over 350 ft. I don’t care what that guy says, elf eyes, even half ones, make a difference. Anyways, I’m feeling ready to congratulate the team on a job well down, we’re cleaning up the last bits, when suddenly I’ve got fire shooting through my side like I’ve never felt before. Little bugger was hiding in some crates, Kerick says this dagger had to have knicked a kidney. I payed the thing back and then some, and kept this little blade. Might be cursed with my name for all I know, you can’t risk it with weapons that get that close to sending you to the other side.
Anyways, we served our time, got moved to the reserve units, and I decided that instead of getting fat and lazy like the Commander, I’d head out and make coin as a merc. Maybe make a name for myself.
Bits from when we were constructing a group story
He wouldn't have given any advice or encouragement unless you tried to quit, which seems a little out of character for early Vaalyun.
If you did, he probably would go the anecdote route, while you were doing magic training he would have been going through sword kata's, or maybe switching it up to his axes or halberd after a while. So it would have been something like " My father gave me this sword when I was a small child (pulls out a greatsword the size of himself [6 1/2 foot tall]). Told me that when I could wield it properly I would be a man. Took me a year to lift it and hold it in the ready position. (slowly begins going through simple blocking and striking pattern) Another year and I could swing it twice without dropping it. Before I left to join the army, my father asked me to do this (speeds up the point where the blade barely pauses between strike and defense, a seamless fluid wall of steel. With a final swing he lands a sideways blow, a small strap of leather hanging from the hilt wrapping around his arm). He said 'Good enough for guard duty boy' and then told me I still needed to tighten my grip and shift my balance less between swings. The strap should snap on that final move, like a whip. (Sheathes sword) Commander says I'm one of the best swordsmen he's ever seen. Father still thinks I'm a child struggling to hold my sword. He's right, of course, and the road stretches, disappearing into the distance. When I get there, I'm going to beat him, because that's the point. To be better than they are, then raise your child to be better than you."
Not sure if you read them, but here are the superstitions that I listed on Haldren's character sheet:
Certain weapons old the "name" of a person, those are the weapons most likely to kill you. If a weapon almost kills me, I'll keep myself safe from that weapon by claiming it and carrying it, preventing someone else from using it (This is be difficult with magic weapons claimed by group members, but I figure by the time we get to that point he'll trust the group enough to simply be uncomfortable with it)
When leaving a place to go somewhere dangerous, bury five rocks by the entrance, to help guide you home. Carries a bag of rocks with him for this purposes, in case he can't find any nearby.
Follows a more orcish way of looking at the gods. Before a battle an orc warrior will ask the gods to see his strength and courage, recognize it and bless him for it. A human or elf will instead ask the gods for strength and courage. Haldren figures as long as he is good enough, the gods will notice and bless him instead of him having to go and ask them for assistance.
Then here is a Quick Breakdown of Blackwater Company of the Silver Marches, those still alive at least. No clear idea what most of them are doing now that we broke up and went into the Reserve list.
Druth: Dwarven Fighter, axe and shield, very traditional. Came from Mithral Hall and never gave much reason for why he left home and joined a foreign army. Initially didn’t like Haldren, and really didn’t like being under the command of a “runtling orc”. However, after a few battles and butting heads a few times, Haldren decided to push the issue and challenged Druth to a drinking contest. Haldren drank Druth under the table, and in the way of dwarves that plus his combat skills earned Haldren enough respect to get past their racial enmity. What Druth never found out was that Haldren used an old officer trick to cheat, and was drinking quite a bit less than the dwarf.
Caleb Baker: Half-elf archer, suave ladies man and consumate gambler, at least in his mind. Caleb gets rejected by about half the women he tries to woo and loses at cards way too much. Haldren would seem him enter an establishment with gold, leave with coppers, then tell the guys at camp about how he’d made the barmaids swoon and felt sorry for the poor sods he was playing, so he lost a little more than he should have. Despite all that, Caleb is a damn good shot and was instrumental in killing the Hobgoblin commander during the in the Nether Mountains, a feat which grows with every telling. Good man overall, and likes Haldren well enough as another half-blood.
Kerick of Erend: Field medic and cleric of Kelemvor. I haven’t decided on Kerick’s race but I’m saying male. Kerick isn’t a coward per se, but a pragmatist. He keeps the rest of us breathing and on this side of the Veil, doesn’t make sense for him to be charging the line like Haldren and Druth. Very devout, and dour because of it. Joined the army because of duty, followed orders because of duty, is in an arranged marriage because of duty. Came from money, but didn’t care about it, all that mattered was doing what was expected. Good doctor and medic though, even if he had to ask if we wanted to be saved, because religion.
Commander: The Commander is human, probably a guy, and has moved from the battlefield to a cushy position in advising and training. An older career soldier whose best years are behind him and wants to just live out his days, but can’t quite bring himself to leave the army that he’s always known.
Bri Thorngauge: Halfling Scout, easy enough to get along with, until you crossed her, then she showed a mean streak that was a bit legendary in the Company. Once Caleb made the mistake of calling her a “dainty little lady” he found all sorts of unpleasant prickly, itchy, and poisonous things in his bedroll for the next 4 months until he finally caved. They’d taken turns keeping watch for her sneaking over to his stuff, no one ever caught her.
Some of the missions we went on and other misc.:
Defeating that goblin warband in the Nether Mountains. Probably one of their most dangerous and harrowing fights.
Fighting the “Skum Raiders” in the Evermoore swamps. A band of kobold and lizardfolk pirates that were causing problems. Haldren kept their flag, which is a dragon skull and crossbones, as a souvenir because they avoided the company for 6 weeks of raiding. This is probably also where they got the moniker “Blackwater Company” because most of the other teams gave up pursuit, we didn’t, we crawled through the muck for weeks to complete our mission.
We already established that we escorted Solfiamma’s at least once, before Vaalyun met Erebus. Possibly once after that as well.
Haldren, as an officer, would have had to track down the sons and daughters of nobility who joined the army, and then later deserted or abandoned their post. He’s had experience with angry noble parents, and spoiled kids. He’s also seen a few of them cracking under the pressures of a title or heritage, so he knows they aren’t all bad, but you still don’t want to anger any of them if you can avoid it. Too much trouble, as he found out.
A lot of missions to track down and capture or kill bandit groups, and break up bandit camps. You know, I like the idea that there was one individual who kept getting away. A sort of bandit rival for the Blackwater Company. Let’s say they went under the moniker “The Wolf”, the company would hear about their activity, track them down, bust in, but only find low-level, expendable mooks, never the core group which would eventually reform. I imagine a form of respect would develop between them. To pre-empt a cliché, let’s not make Wolf secretly be Bri or one of the other members of the Black water company. I think that would be a little hoakey.
Probably had boring jobs like man this toll road, drive off this ogre, guard this merchant, deliver this package. All the normal stuff.
And then, because I want to have a story of a big battle, where they would have called up a lot of different groups, Blackwater and a few other companies had to clear an Ankheg nest infestation which had destroyed a small village. It was a brutal, terrifying job. Lot of people died. Ended in victory and earned them 2 months off though, as well as comp pay that led to quite a few drunken parties in the days that followed.
[/sblock]
I have a few other than these, but these have been my 5e characters of the last 4 or 5 years.
Joel Green
First Post
This is for my fighter Joe, Just Joe
Orphaned from a young age, all he wanted was to get out of the village and away from all the suffering. His chance came when a band of travelling mercenaries came through the village.
For many years he was subjected to picking through the dead bodies on the battlefields until he proved his worth by saving the life of an officer of his company by hefting a glaive from one of the fallen and killing the assailant in one blow.
From that day on he acted as that officers bodyguard, hefting that very same glaive through every war on nearly every continent across the world. Rising through the ranks he earned his own band of men at the rank of lieutenant, leading them glaive first through many gory and scarring battles.
Finally, after one particulary brutal battle, his company was demolished, one of the last men standing, he took down man after man, finally taken down by a cowardly archer. This is why he holds no respect for those not proven as warriors.
Held captive for many months, he and another officer held a break out, ripping the throat out of his torturer and making his way to the armoury, slaughtering any soldier or guard that opposed him along the way. Claiming his prized weapon, he and his fellow officer freed 500 men and escaped making their way across many countries and finally arriving back in illuskan lands, home.
But his itch for adventure has never left him and he will continue until it eventually it does.
Orphaned from a young age, all he wanted was to get out of the village and away from all the suffering. His chance came when a band of travelling mercenaries came through the village.
For many years he was subjected to picking through the dead bodies on the battlefields until he proved his worth by saving the life of an officer of his company by hefting a glaive from one of the fallen and killing the assailant in one blow.
From that day on he acted as that officers bodyguard, hefting that very same glaive through every war on nearly every continent across the world. Rising through the ranks he earned his own band of men at the rank of lieutenant, leading them glaive first through many gory and scarring battles.
Finally, after one particulary brutal battle, his company was demolished, one of the last men standing, he took down man after man, finally taken down by a cowardly archer. This is why he holds no respect for those not proven as warriors.
Held captive for many months, he and another officer held a break out, ripping the throat out of his torturer and making his way to the armoury, slaughtering any soldier or guard that opposed him along the way. Claiming his prized weapon, he and his fellow officer freed 500 men and escaped making their way across many countries and finally arriving back in illuskan lands, home.
But his itch for adventure has never left him and he will continue until it eventually it does.
BoldItalic
First Post
I did some short backstories for some 5e pregens back on the old WotC forums. They were copied across to here in the Emergency Lifeboat but that seems to have sunk and they are no longer accessible.
Shautha Narg - Female Half-Orc Paladin - Urchin background
Shautha was a PO - a Professional Orphan - one of a small number kept by the Paladin Training College for would-be paladins to practise benevolence on. It wasn't a bad life, she had the run of the college kitchens when not needed for classes and she befriended the mice who lived behind the kitchen ranges. Her special favourite was a white mouse called Mee and she liked to play at being a paladin and do Lay On Thumbs on him. There is an age limit for PO's, obviously, and not much of a career progression path, so when she was 12 she asked if she could become a real paladin. She had already picked up more about paladin-ing than most of the teachers, so she passed all the tests easily and was accepted straight away. She's 13 now, and ready for her first real adventure outside the college. She will be taking Mee with her.
Polrianna Copefont - Female Cleric (Domain of War) - Soldier background
Polrianna, known simply as Anna, came from a military family and joined up with the Helmpath Stalwarts where she was popular with the troops and was soon promoted to sergeant. This came to an end when she caught religion as they say, and she left her unit to train as a battle cleric. She is now attached to the temple in her home village where, in truth, she spends most of her time socialising with old friends. She misses the thrill of combat, though, and is beginning to wonder if she made the right career choice after all. There just aren't enough enemies around, are there?
Parallel Reedstool - Halfling Rogue- Criminal (Blackmailer) background
Parallel hails from the halfling village of Goodbottom but he can't go back there for certain reasons. He has been hanging out in Waterdeep for a while, keeping his ear to the ground and soaking up salacious gossip, hoping to put the squeeze on anyone in power with a guilty secret to hide (but not anyone too powerful, obviously). He thinks he might branch out and try his luck in the smaller villages, where people are more afraid of what their neighbours known about them. He sees himself as a public servant - after all, he only takes money from the guilty, and they deserve to pay, don't they?
Lady Sparky of Gravewell - Fire Genasi Sorcerer (Draconic Bloodline Origin) - Noble (Knight) background
There are not many people who are descended from an efreeti on their mother's side and a white dragon on their father's, but then there are not many people like Sparky, either. Perhaps it is fortunate for world that she is unique. Someone has stolen a piece of jewelry that she treasured, and she is touring the district looking for the thief. She hasn't decided, yet, whether to freeze him or fry him, or possibly both.
Adrik Rumnaheim - Mountain Dwarf Cleric (Domain of Trickery) - Charlatan background
Adrik is a card-sharp, originally from the dwarven town of Black Barrow. He once ruined a naive young nobleman by cheating at cards but fled in haste when the nobleman's companions vowed to hunt him down. He said a quick prayer to Tymora, took refuge in a nearby temple, grabbed a robe and mingled with a line of people who were queuing for something. His prayers were answered - in a roundabout way. It turned out that these were candidates for the priesthood of Tymora and, having little choice but to play along, he pretended to be one of them. He was so convincing when his turn came, that he was admitted immediately. As part of his trickery training, he was required to create a false identity; he invented a hermit called Caviozuno who, whilst sojouring in the wilderness, had discovered mystical prophetic powers that allowed him, for example, to foresee the order of cards in a shuffled deck. Adrik is so good at pretending to be Caviozuno that can actually demonstrate this amazing ability. Using marked cards, of course.
Shautha Narg - Female Half-Orc Paladin - Urchin background
Shautha was a PO - a Professional Orphan - one of a small number kept by the Paladin Training College for would-be paladins to practise benevolence on. It wasn't a bad life, she had the run of the college kitchens when not needed for classes and she befriended the mice who lived behind the kitchen ranges. Her special favourite was a white mouse called Mee and she liked to play at being a paladin and do Lay On Thumbs on him. There is an age limit for PO's, obviously, and not much of a career progression path, so when she was 12 she asked if she could become a real paladin. She had already picked up more about paladin-ing than most of the teachers, so she passed all the tests easily and was accepted straight away. She's 13 now, and ready for her first real adventure outside the college. She will be taking Mee with her.
Polrianna Copefont - Female Cleric (Domain of War) - Soldier background
Polrianna, known simply as Anna, came from a military family and joined up with the Helmpath Stalwarts where she was popular with the troops and was soon promoted to sergeant. This came to an end when she caught religion as they say, and she left her unit to train as a battle cleric. She is now attached to the temple in her home village where, in truth, she spends most of her time socialising with old friends. She misses the thrill of combat, though, and is beginning to wonder if she made the right career choice after all. There just aren't enough enemies around, are there?
Parallel Reedstool - Halfling Rogue- Criminal (Blackmailer) background
Parallel hails from the halfling village of Goodbottom but he can't go back there for certain reasons. He has been hanging out in Waterdeep for a while, keeping his ear to the ground and soaking up salacious gossip, hoping to put the squeeze on anyone in power with a guilty secret to hide (but not anyone too powerful, obviously). He thinks he might branch out and try his luck in the smaller villages, where people are more afraid of what their neighbours known about them. He sees himself as a public servant - after all, he only takes money from the guilty, and they deserve to pay, don't they?
Lady Sparky of Gravewell - Fire Genasi Sorcerer (Draconic Bloodline Origin) - Noble (Knight) background
There are not many people who are descended from an efreeti on their mother's side and a white dragon on their father's, but then there are not many people like Sparky, either. Perhaps it is fortunate for world that she is unique. Someone has stolen a piece of jewelry that she treasured, and she is touring the district looking for the thief. She hasn't decided, yet, whether to freeze him or fry him, or possibly both.
Adrik Rumnaheim - Mountain Dwarf Cleric (Domain of Trickery) - Charlatan background
Adrik is a card-sharp, originally from the dwarven town of Black Barrow. He once ruined a naive young nobleman by cheating at cards but fled in haste when the nobleman's companions vowed to hunt him down. He said a quick prayer to Tymora, took refuge in a nearby temple, grabbed a robe and mingled with a line of people who were queuing for something. His prayers were answered - in a roundabout way. It turned out that these were candidates for the priesthood of Tymora and, having little choice but to play along, he pretended to be one of them. He was so convincing when his turn came, that he was admitted immediately. As part of his trickery training, he was required to create a false identity; he invented a hermit called Caviozuno who, whilst sojouring in the wilderness, had discovered mystical prophetic powers that allowed him, for example, to foresee the order of cards in a shuffled deck. Adrik is so good at pretending to be Caviozuno that can actually demonstrate this amazing ability. Using marked cards, of course.
Similar Threads
