Exclusive Contest! Todd Lockwood draws your character! [NO MORE ENTRIES!]

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Mr Vergee

First Post
Love the idea! May the best character win!

My character’s name is Angelo. He’s a slim, tall young man, only seventeen years old. His shoulders are broad and his arms are muscled from doing the dirty work on his stepfather’s farm during his youth. His skin is bronzed, his hair is pitch black and tied together in a tail. He has a serious demeanor which is reflected by the stern look in his gray eyes. He has a thin moustache which runs on to join his fine beard.

Angelo is the bastard son of a travelling gypsy. His mother had an affair with the man while he was passing through the village. This resulted in her last son, Angelo. When he was born, it was immediately evident that farmer Simon was not his father. Angelo had the traits of his gypsy forefathers written all over him. Farmer Simon beat up Angelo’s mother so badly that she had to stay in bed for weeks and could never bear children again.

Angelo grew up enduring his stepfather’s anger and aggression. Any excuse was enough to give the poor boy a beating. His half brothers were only too happy to join their father in the fray. Still, Angelo took this treatment stoically and developed an inner strength to withstand the punishment he was given. Whatever didn’t kill him, made him stronger.

Angelo’s adventuring career began when his village was attacked by hobgoblins and most of the villagers killed. The survivors were saved by soldiers from a neighbouring country and taken across the border. There all able-bodied young men were forced to join the army. This fate didn’t displease Angelo, though, since it would give him the chance to prove his worth and be appreciated for it.

Angelo, male human Ftr4/Bbn1, 1m82 tall, hp 41, init +2 (Dex), Spd 40 ft.; AC 22 (+2 Dex, +6 Chain shirt +2, +2 buckler +1, +1 ring of Protection +1, +1 Amulet of Natural Armor +1); Atk +11 melee (d8+6/crit 19-20, Longsword +3) or +7 (d8/crit x3, Longbow); SQ Rage (1/day), Fast Movement; AL CG; SV Fort +9, Ref +4, Will +2; Str 17, Dex 14, Con 14, Int 13, Wis 10, Cha 11.
Skills: Climb +6, Jump +7, Listen +6, Ride +9, Spot +5, Swim -4. Feats: Dodge, Expertise, Improved Disarm, Improved Trip, Mobility, Spring Attack.
Possessions: Bag of Holding, Ring of Sustenance, Eyes of the Eagle, Glove of Storing, Cloak of Resistance +1, Chain Shirt +2, Buckler +1, Ring of Protection +1, Amulet of Natural Armor +1, Longsword +3, Longbow with 50 arrows.

Angelo’s longsword consists of two woven blades and catches fire when he wields it.



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First Post
Minolin "The Mouse"

Basic Information:
Name: Minolin
A.K.A: The Mouse, Min, The Meanest Thing In Pigtails This Side Of Hellgate Keep.
Human Rogue 2/ Sorcerer 1
Age: 13
Forgotten Realms

Description: Minolin is 4'6 in height and weighs about 75 pounds. She has bright brown eyes that dart this way and that catching everything within their gaze. Her black hair is worn either in a short ponytail or pigtails tied with whatever baubles and string she can find. She has an angelic face with freckles that lightly dust her button nose and on her right cheek has a seemingly permanent dirt smudge. The only thing that mars the image of innocence is the knowing smirk that comes from having seen to much of "humanity". The only thing matching on Minolin is the pair of throwing daggers she keeps hidden up the voluminous sleeves of a oversized tunic, both of which (tunic & daggers) she won off a Dwarf in a dicing game. She has patched and frayed trousers with a hole starting to wear in one knee. These are tucked into old scuffed and battered floppy boots. Usually perched on her shoulder parrot-like is her familiar, a fluffy orange kitten.

Personality: Despite the look of abject poverty she carefully cultivates, Minolin is actually doing rather well for herself. She is a first rate pick pocket and a daring young entrepreneur. Her latest business venture is making "Potions of the Lion". This is a concoction of high proof alcohol of various types mixed with alumn into a noxious smelling brew. She adds a couple of over ripe berries for color and a quick cast of Nystul's Magic Aura on the mix. She claims that the hairs of the lion, seen in the vial, (actually from a poor bewildered tomcat she caught in the alley) lend their vitality and potence to the men who imbibe it. She has the solution of offering a part of the profits to certain ladies of negotiable affections, who then offer it to their patrons. She is quick of wit and of feet, not hesitating to flee when the tide turns against her. She is more than capable in a fight; most opponents discount her presense entirely until one of those knives flashes out into a tender area. Despite her years she can handle herself with surprising decorum when it is called for. She is a pint-sized cynic but fiercely loyal to those who have earned her trust and respect.

Background: Minolin was born into the world of the Citadel of the Raven, last stronghold of the Zhentarim. Her mother died in childbirth, Her father was never known. She was adopted by a prostitute by the name of Serida. Her life was brutal and painful. Until one day an up and coming Zhent mage stumbled on a little girl who’s cunning belied her age. She was taken by the mage, Jhedrim to train and use as his personal informant. It was through Jhedrim she learned the ways of stealth and earned her nickname of The Mouse, for she was small and quiet and quick. As she grew up Jhedrim noticed Minolin had a talent for magics. He fostered and encouraged Minolin's experimentation with her innate magics. Jhedrim hoped to one day harness them one day making her an even more potent agent prehaps even his personal assasin. Minolin worked steadily for her master digging up dirt on all his rivals and feeding false information to their spies. Until one day Jhedrim got himself killed after she gave him bad information. She had been duped and knew that her days were numbered. She had no other choice but to flee. She stowed away on a ship, squeezing her way into a thin crevice to avoid detection by the crew. She emerged at night using all her skills at stealth to steal water and crumbs left over in the galley. It was also on the ship she found her familiar, a flame-colored kitten named Bungry. When the ship docked in Skullport it brought more than it's haul of pirated goods. It also brought the Mouse to Waterdeep.

Minolin is originally a character from 2nd edition that I got to make but never play, as our game quickly broke up due to Desert Storm. But always I loved her. I recently have ressurected and updated her for 3rd edition and am currently playing her in my husband's campaign. ^_^

edited for typos :p
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First Post
Jacc Swinn, the Swindler Bard:

Ol' Jacc is the epitome of the raffish bawd: he sings poorly but makes up for it in volume. He can always be counted on for a good story (most of which prominantly feature himself). Jacc Swinn always tells the truth, but only if it makes a good story.

Jacc fancies himself comely, and is undoubtedly handsome in a rough-hewn sort of way. He sports a brass tooth and energetically courts the ladies. Jacc Swinn neither brushes twice a day, nor is he adverse to smelling of salami. Fortunately, he does not object to others sporting the same qualities.

He wears a multi-hued cloak patched together from various sources. Bells and baubles jangle from every button on his outfit. His shoes are often mismatched. He keeps a whistle tied to his neck that he suspects has magical properties -- if for no other reason than when he gets to blowing it, his friends dissappear.

Swinn fights masterfully with a most unlikely weapon: he wields a long, dented clarion (a sort of straight bugle blown by mideavil heralds and such). He is chaotic and self-absorbed, but fundamentally decent sort of fellow. He is like a wild uncle that never grew up.

His main sidekick is a giant pair of voluptuous magical lips with the unlikely name of..."Lips". Having been magically saddled to Swinn as the result of a curse (by a powerful sorceress who objected to a kiss he gave to her daughter...which Swinn subsequently denied), Lips floats behind Swinn and offers sarcastic commentary on Swinn's activities. Although Swinn is now powerful enough to have absented himself from this unlikely companion, some soft spot in him has prevented him from doing so.

Buddha the DM

Aust Liadon
Half-Elven Ranger
32 years old
Mid-back length Black Hair (kept pulled back in a ponytail to keep it out of his eyes), Ice Blue Eyes
5 ft 2 in, 142 lbs

Aust was raised in the forest by his parents who were both rangers. At a young age his family was ambushed by a band of goblins that were lead by a particularly nasty orc. Quickly his parents shoved him into the forest's underbrush. In chaos of the ensuing battle Aust's parents we killed by the orc, and his band, while Aust watched helplessly from his hiding spot. After the battle the raiders searched the area for Aust but they had no luck in finding him. Once the orc, and the remaining goblins, had left Aust crawled from his hiding spot and over to his parents' bodies where he mourned over them for 3 days. At the end of his period of mourning Aust spent the next day digging 2 graves for his parents. Aust took his father's longbow, and his mother's longsword, before placing the bodies into the graves gently into the graves that he had dug. With the bodies in their graves, and the graves filled in and marked, Aust gathered what was left of his families' supplies and headed off into the deep forest. Ever since the attack on his family, Aust has wandered his home forest protecting travelers of all sorts from a distance so the same thing would not happen to them.

I have included what I think is the valid parts of Aust's character sheet. If you want more info than what I have given from his character sheet you can go here. Aust's prefered mode of attack is with his composite longbow. He keeps his longsword strapped to his back underneath his backpack and bedroll when not in use.

<b>Aust Liadon:</b> Male Half-Elf Ranger 2; Medium-sized Humanoid (Elf); HD 2d8; hp 16; Init +2; Spd 30 ft; AC 15, touch 12, flat-footed 13 (+2 Dex, +3 Armor); Base Atk +2; Grp +3; Atk +3 melee (1d8+1/19-20/x2, Longsword) or +5 ranged (1d8/x3, Masterwork Composite Longbow); Full Atk +3 melee (1d8+1/19-20/x2, Longsword) or +5 ranged (1d8/x3, Masterwork Composite Longbow); SQ Favored Enemy (Magical Beast +2), Half-Elf Traits, Low-light Vision, Wild Empathy +2; AL NG; SV Fort +3, Ref +5, Will +1; Str 13, Dex 15, Con 11, Int 11, Wis 13, Cha 11.

<i>Skills & Feats:</i> Diplomacy +2, Gather Information +2, Hide +7, Knowledge (Nature) +7, Listen +7, Move Silently +7, Search +1, Spot +7, Survival +6; Point Blank Shot, Rapid Shot, Track.

<i>Combat Style (Ex):</i> Aust has selected archery. He gains the Rapid Shot feat without the normal prerequisites.

<i>Possessions</i>: Masterwork studded leather (AC +3, MDB +5, ACP 0, ASF 15%, 20 lbs), masterwork composite longbow, quiver (2 each with 20 arrows), longsword, backpack, bedroll, waterskin, sack, explorer's outfit, flint & steel, trail rations (3 days), signet ring, <i>potion of cure light wounds</i> (5), 37 gp, and 3 sp.
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Jon Potter

First Post
Ixin is my wife's PC and I think she's a rather clever creation. She pulls in ideas and mechanics from many disparate sources (Green Ronin Publishing, Malhavoc Press, Dragon Magazine, Malladin's Gate Press, Badaxe Games, and Mongoose Publishing, to name the biggest influences) to create an exotic but never the less cohesive character concept.

Ixin is a draconic drakeling from a renaissance-era world who came to my dragonless, medieval campaign world in a rather spectacular fashion.

A roiling knot of luminescent cloud began to swirl in the air above the barnyard. Lightning crackled and the wind whipped and swirled. Fat Gurnie had time only to gasp and stare dumbly before the center of the cloud dilated, revealing a glittering black hole in the sky. Over the howl of the wind could be heard the increasing sound of a woman screaming. The screaming grew louder and louder and an instant later, a woman fell out of the hole. She belly-flopped in the barnyard with a bone-jarring thud and her screaming stopped abruptly.

The black hole in the sky began to close, but not before it also vomited out a gleaming sword that tumbled end over end through the air. Gurnie found himself unable to move, his eyes transfixed by the sword tumbling toward him blade over pommel. For an instant he was sure that he was going to be skewered by the falling weapon, but it embedded itself in the ground at his feet. Gurnie watched the blade's basket hilt waggle back and forth in the air and suddenly realized that he hadn't been breathing. He sucked in a lungful of air and took a frightened step backward.

The woman groaned and started to get to her feet. As she rose, Fat Gurnie's first thought was that she was beautiful. The next was that she was huge, standing fully half-a-head taller than he did. And finally, as he got a more complete look at her, he thought that he might be in serious trouble. She was dressed in fine - if a bit odd - clothing: leather boots and pantaloons, a frilly shirt beneath a tight-fitting leather vest and jerkin. Over it all, she wore a voluminous cloak trimmed in cloth-of-gold. Her head was bare and surmounted by fiery red hair, pulled back in a thick braid that hung to the middle of her broad back. Her complexion was ruddy and as she regarded him with honey-yellow eyes, he thought that he saw fine, iridescent scales on her cheeks and along the line of her strong jaw. Her sparklingly white teeth might have been a little pointed.

"Nunca confíe em um pixie," she grumbled as she dusted herself off and looked in the direction of the closed gate. "Näo podem ajudar-lhe mas fazer batota."

Born 125 years ago on the Io's Blood Islands far out in the great Western Ocean, Ixin has, much to her disgust, spent the last several decades as a pampered prisoner in the Imperial City of Highgate in the County of Bluffside on the western coast of Castillia.

"My name is Ixin, daughter of Ventisjir the Red, granddaughter of Lady Dominor Corastrixarosvith of Clan Vermillion," she said as she sheathed Arivivexoth at her hip, "Ur-Corastrixarosvith serves as Grand Councillor for Clan Vermilion to the Council of Wyrms. Her daughter, my mother, Ventisjir the Red, is a Clan Champion."

She spoke the litany without much interest or conviction. She'd repeated her lineage enough times in the last decades that it had ceased to impress her much anymore. But it was impressive, she knew, for Skrazargul the Green and his sons Drakes Thuulsias, Irthos, and Ulric made her repeat it often, their eyes flickering with lust and greed at each syllable. It was a gem in the horde for any Green Dragon, even one of Ur-Skrazargul's age and wealth, to have in his holding one of the lineage of Cr'Corastrixarosvith. Even though she only shared 1/4 of the Lady Dominor's fiery blood, Ixin knew that she was an important trophy for Skrazargul the Green. Not only was he naught but a Green, but neither did he claim clanblood on the Council; he had left the Dragon Isles to live in the human lands of Mid'gaard. But it was this very fact that made him attractive to Clan Vermilion who retained little of their former influence among the lesser races. So she, Ul-Ixin, was the linchpin of an elaborate political marriage of two Dragon Houses.

Given her lineage, it is not surprising that Ixin is a sorcerer with a proclivity for fire magic, who hopes to one day become a full-fledged dracomancer. In the meantime, she is unafraid to use her natural claws or her morningstar once her not-inconsiderable spells are exhausted. The intelligent cutlass, Arivivexoth, she never uses in combat, although its continuous Tongues ability allows her to communicate so long as the weapon is in her possession.

Once the townsfolk were convinced that she wasn't some type of demon, they warmed to her rather quickly. They pawed her mercilessly of course, clutching at her magical cloak, running their hands over the fine scales on her cheeks, marveling at the small horns that were all but hidden in her hairline. It was much the same treatment she experienced from Drake Irthos and more than a few of the more aggressive Hands in the Dragon's Claw. Of course, the townsfolk lacked the lecherous smirks and lascivious glances that were so common to all of Skrazargul's underlings.

Age: 125 (young by drakeling standards)
Sex: female
Height: 6ft. 2 in.
Weight: 215 lbs.
Hair: Red
Eyes: Gold
Skin: Coppery Red
Handedness: Right
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Marius Delphus

Akbar the Almost-Insane

High-level Elf Wild Mage and pseudodragon familiar.

A little insanity is good for the soul.

As if being a 6’2", bald elf wasn’t enough to make him a little kooky, Akbar fell in love with the manipulation of magical chaos. With a passion for magic and magical items, Akbar has made a career out of terrifying his friends with unpredictable spells, and a complete disbelief that anything bad could come out of his magic. Reckless dweomer is not just a spell…it’s a way of life.

Even when spells don’t turn out even remotely as anticipated, Akbar has made the mantra of, "Is that not wonderful? Look at what I have done with my magic!!" a cornerstone in his life.

Adorned with magical rings, necklaces, bracers, boots, and cloak, and armed with a staff of power and staff of the magi (twisted into one big staff with a wish), Akbar wanders the world looking for magic and fun.

Though the bright mischievous twinkle in his eye is often mistaken for utter madness, in reality Akbar just sees the world from a little different perspective that allows him to believe that it’s all good. There is no doubt in his mind that the chaotic forces of magic will one day save the races from the perils they face.

With his pseudodragon familiar "Mayhem" on his shoulder, Akbar constantly is looking to help his friends by empowering them with the magic that he truly believes they need to make their lives complete. Unfortunately, not all of his friends understand this philosophy; in fact, they sometimes seem to think he is out to kill them. Luckily he sleeps lightly. But someday they’ll all understand just how wonderful Akbar's magic really is.


Reverend Jon Falco is a human cleric of Pelor, god of the sun. Born and raised in Suundi, he is slightly taller than average with a slim muscular build and short, sandy blond hair. His blue eyes are set in a tanned, friendly face framed by laugh lines and centered on an aquiline nose. He wears masterwork full plate armor of golden steel that shimmers dazzlingly in bright sunlight and is adorned with images of the Shining One. His holy symbol is an ancient Flan amulet enhanced with a persistent protection from evil effect. He carries a heavy darkwood shield painted white with a golden image of Pelor and wields a powerful mace called the Rod of the Shining One, bequeathed to him by an angel of his god. The rod is four feet long and ornate, and the head is a depiction of Pelor's wrathful visage. It possesses all the powers of a sun blade as well as the blessed and wondrous ability to critically hit undead. Reverend Falco is a theologian and a peaceful man at heart, but when called to defend the faithful he is a tireless and implacable foe of darkness.


Worth a shot

Sarin is an aasimar monk. He serves Ilmater (Forgotten Realms god of endurance, suffering, and healing), and as such dresses in tattered gray clothes trimmed with dark red. His bushy, black hair reaches down to his shoulders, with a single longer braid hanging from the left side of his head that is tied off with a simple red ribbon. He wears sandles with straps going partway up his ankles to secure the bottom of his pants, providing maximum mobility. His hands are wrapped in strips of dirty red cloth. The only adornment on his body is a black sash around his waste covered in red runes.

Scars litter his skin, as he spent a year imprisoned by a traitor he thought was his friend in which he was tortured and malnourished. His pale flesh is drawn tightly over his small, lithe frame. He barely clears 5'2", and most of the time looks like a simple beggar. His eyes are usually a light yellow, but glow bright when he is focused on battle or has become angry. His demeanor switches back and forth between two extremes: a compassionate gentleness for most everyone he meets, which contrasts strongly with the intense, disciplined wrath he directs at those he considers irredeemably evil.


First Post
Dell - Monk of the Order of Shining Fists (female dwarf; worshipper of Pelor)

Description: I stand at the 4 foot with golden eyes like sunlight and red hair like the fire. My smile isn't perfect, for a lost my top front inscisor from my Orc enslaver and a tattoo on my right fist that I recieved shortly after I was freed. I only wear loose cotton clothes. They are kinda raggy now for it has been about 2 years since I have bought new ones.

Personality: I prefer to wear my brown sandals with gold tassels on my feet, but I will go barefoot if needed. My white cotton clothes are raggy, but all well whatever works. They serve their purpose. Nothing is exposed. My pants are all but held upon my waist by a golden colored sash. It is fairly abundant in fabric so I can hide things such as a vial or two of potions and some monies. My bedroll is home to everything else I carry. The silk rope that once belonged to my father is tied around my bedroll nice and tight so I can just sling it over my shoulder, for a snap of one's fingers is the same as the snap of one's neck. I travel lightly, so that I have everything all ready at a moment's notice. The trick is to know thy enemy and be quicker than they are. My belief is that all peoples are created equally but some choose the wrong paths to follow and sometimes they make others suffer from their gains. Slavery shall not be tolerated in my opinion, for it is the one flaw that I have found in some laws. It just should not exist to be. I use my strength to combine with my wits in a lethal combination so that I can enforce justice in this sometimes cruel world. Every sacrifice that I make personally is only for the better good.

Favorite Saying: "Slavery they can have anywhere. It is a weed that grows in every soil."

Background: I am the daughter of a merchant's slave ... making me a merchant serf from Stoneheim, the capital of Pomarj. There I worked trying to pay off my deceased parents' debts until I was brought out of my endentured life by a monk who won me in a contest of wits and fists. Upon my freedom I was able to learn from my new friend, Mego Yinn, who became known to me as my master, for that is what a student aptly calls his teacher. The tattoo that I bear has on my right fist has significant meaning to me. It consists of 4 axe blades rotating clockwise. The left and right axes, which are orange, are symbolic of the sun rising and setting showing the beginning and end of a day. The top axe, which is red, signifies noon when the sun is at it highest in the sky and also the hottest part of the day. Whereas, the bottom axe, which is blue, represents the sun down resting wisely preparing for a new day thus showing night. I wear this mark proud as my master always said, "explorers have to be ready to die lost." I am not sure I truly understand what he meant by that but I will continue traveling and seeking out justice for those like my family and seek out the truth in this life. Living the part of a student was my symbiotic life up until the wrongful death of my master/saviour, whom I lost in Sunndi about a year ago. Now as I wear the rings of my master, I seek out knowledge and self mastery through adventuring with an elven magics-user by the name of Destin Gimac and a roguish fighter by the name of Drago. I travel with my companions only to keep them out of trouble, for Destin is only a magic wielder, not one of fists, and Drago thinks he knows anything and everything. All peoples have the right to be protected just the same as the next. I am trying to live as how I had been for 10 years with my master, but focusing on law and order is not always as easily dealt. For example, when I see a chained being something within me just snaps and I lose all control of everything that I have been taught. Nothing but the task at hand matter to me then.
I am now on a quest that I have received in a vision from the all might Pelor himself to travel to the city of Greyhawk. In my vision I was told "when darkness falls" which I hope to find what this means. I have now journeyed to Greyhawk with my companions.


First Post
Figured I'd toss in my latest character for a shot. Thanks to Kai Lord for the opportunity, and best of luck to all.


Veqh is new to the Forgotten Realms, and an alien land it is. Created by Silpion, a Solar in the service of Lathander the Morninglord, Veqh is an Astral Deva not yet achieved of his full glory (Astral Deva lvl 8). Created with a single epic purpose, to destroy an evil artifact capable of creating nearly limitless numbers of undead, he searches the realms with dedicated purpose. When the artifact is found, he will succeed in destroying it by whatever means are necessary. Until then, Veqh seeks undead and their cruel creators, dealing justice to the masters and final death to the unliving.

Veqh stands just over 7 feet tall, with bronze-brown skin and brown hair with metallic gold highlights. His eyes glow with a faint but holy white light. His wingspan is nearly 15 feet, and he has practiced and perfected the art of flight with his glorious white, feathered wings. Unlike many of his celestial bretheren, Veqh has adapted to many of the customs of the realms with regard to clothing styles. He wears a brocade vest of white, emblazoned with gold and silver dragons. A heavy torc of white gold sits close about his neck. Pants and a long sleeved shirt of maroon silk, plain leather gloves and boots finish his 'costume' as he sees it.

But this pampered dress is often catches evil creatures off-guard, for Veqh is a powerful warrior for all righteous causes. Beneath his clothing, he wears a suit of elven chainmail, specially adapted to his inhuman physiology. In the customary manner of his kind he wields maces, one heavy and one light. With muscles rippling, two mighty arms wield two mighty weapons, all the better to subdue or destroy wrongdoers with alacrity. He possesses a large bow, but more often than not rushes into close contact, for justice is best meted out at arm's length.

Bashing foes in close combat, healing allies, and being a rock upon which the tides of the enemy break to no effect - these are the deeds for which Veqh of Lathander is noted by his companions. With his brilliant and holy aura surrounding him, Veqh is a beacon of justice and a warning to the unjust.

Veqh: Male Astral Deva 8; Medium-sized Outsider (Good); HD 6d8+18; hp 58; Init +3; Speed 50ft, fly 75ft (perfect); AC 27, touch 14 (+3 Dex, +7 natural, +6 armor, +1 deflection; never flat-footed); Base Atk +6; Grapple +9; Atk +11 melee (1d8+5/x2, Heavy Mace +2) or +9 ranged (1d8+2/x3, Mighty (+2) Composite Longbow); Full Atk +9/+4 melee (1d8+5/x2, +2 Heavy Mace) and +2 melee (1d6+2, +1 Ghost Touch Light Mace), or +9/+4 ranged (1d8+2/x3, Mighty (+2) Composite Longbow); SA Spell-like abilities; SQ Damage reduction 5/+1, darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision, immunity to electricity, protective aura, fire resistance 5, spell resistance 18, tongues, uncanny dodge; AL LG; SV Fort +9 (+13 vs. poison), Ref +9, Will +9; Str 16, Dex 16, Con 16, Int 14, Wis 16, Cha 20.

Protective Aura (Su): As a free devas can surround themselves with a nimbus of light having a radius of 20 feet. This acts as a double-strength magic circle against evil and as a minor globe of invulnerability, both as cast by a sorcerer whose level equal to the deva’s Hit Dice. The aura can be dispelled, but the celestial can create it again as a free action on its next turn.

Tongues (Su): Astral devas can speak with any creature that has a language, as though using a tongues spell cast by a 14th-level sorcerer. This ability is always active.

Spell-Like Abilities: 3/day - aid, cure light wounds, continual flame, detect evil, dispel magic, invisibility sphere, remove curse, remove disease, remove fear, see invisibility. These abilities are as the spells cast by a sorcerer of level equal to the deva's hit dice (save DC 15 + spell level).

Uncanny Dodge (Ex): Astral devas are never caught flat-footed and cannot be flanked.

Skills & Feats: Concentration +13, Diplomacy +9, Intimidate +9, Knowledge (Arcana) +10, Knowledge (Religion) +10, Knowledge (Planes) +10, Listen +16, Move Silently +3, Sense Motive +12, Spot +16; Common, Celestial, Chondathan, Draconic, Illuskan, Infernal, Undercommon; Armor Proficiency (Light), Two-Weapon Fighting, Improved Flight.

Possessions: +1 mithril chainmail (AC +6, MDB +6, ACP -1), +2 heavy mace, +1 ghost touch light mace, mighty (+2) composite longbow, quiver with 20 arrows, torc of the goddess +1 (MoF), masterwork potion belt, potion of cure light wounds, belt pouch, 7-500gp gems, 4-200gp gems, 4-100gp gems, 2-50gp gems, 5cp, 24sp, 14gp.

Editied to include the ever-popular stat block.

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Knight of Solamnia

Nighthawk is a Kagonesti (wild elf). He stands about 5 1/2 feet tall. He has an almost Native American appearance to him. His body is covered in various tattoos and body art, each depicting an animal.

His most noticeable tattoo is that of a black hawk on his face. The wings go across his eyes, the tail on his nose, and the head rises from his eyes to his forehead.

Nighthawk is a beastmaster. Amongst his animals are a squirrel, a cougar, an eagle, a wolf, and a wolverine.

Nighthawk wears buckskins, with some fringe here and there. His boots have a white fur top.

Nighthawk's eyes are an eerie yellow color, hinting at death.


Knight of Solamnia
Tagar and Whitefang

I don't know if we can have more than one entry or not. If so, here's my second one. If not, then ignore this.

This may be a bit munchkiny, as it was one of my first characters.


Tagar is a tiger-man, standing 5'4" tall. He appears as an orange bengal tiger, with a white stripe down his head. Tagar is accompanied by friend, companion, and steed - Whitefang. Whitefang is a white tiger.

Whitefang has a black saddle that lies on top of a brown fur saddle blanket. Black saddle bags adorn the saddle. Also, Whitefang has barding that goes up his back towards the top of his head. Note that Whitefang has no halter or reins.

Tagar wields two longswords, each one with a cat eye emblem. The one in his right hand is a bluish-white cat eye, that has a blue-white aura about it, generating cold. The other is a fiery red eye, with a fire aura about it.


Registered User
Francis Greenleaf, Half-elf Bard.

Often known to his friends simply as "bard". As in, "hmm, looks dangerous, chunk the bard at it". Son of a druid/mage (elf) and a bar matron, Francis grew to adult hood in a small cross-roads inn. His mother taught him to sing, and he proved to be very adept at anything he put his mind to.

He began as your typical wandering adventurer, putting his hand to various tasks. It was not until after his mother died (old age) that he gave any thought to who or what his father might be.

Paying an exhorbitant rate to an old sage, he tracked down his father. The senior Greenleaf had known nothing of the boy. By this time he was the senior druid amongst his peers, and a powerful mage besides. As both Greenleaf's proved to be stubborn and arrogant, their first meeting turned into a wash.

For many years the two were at odds. Assisting each other in endeavors where needed, but unable to hold a pleasant conversation for very long. Francis accompanied his father (and friends) through Dragon Mountain where he earned the nickname of "bardic sheath". Any time someone's grip slipped on their weapon it seemed to find Francis...

Francis migrated across planes to the Forgotten Realms where he quickly became just another bard on a street corner in Waterdeep. However, adventures followed one upon the other until he became a recognized name amongst some of the better circles. Occasionally invited to sing and to play harp in some of the upper-middleclass homes, he began to be known for his skill and (often times) discression.

During one adventure he found one of the fabled "King's Tears". He immediately recognized it for what it was and squirrled it away. When the time came, he planned to offer it as a sacrifice to his god (Oghma) for his heart's desire.

While quick witted, Francis is often known to outsmart himself, and this was no exception. In seeking information about King's Tears, Francis found that they were often sacred to the church of Melikke. Francis took the gem to the church in Waterdeep and offered a deal. He would give them the gem if they would give him something of equal value to present to Oghma.

The priestess agreed and took the gem. She gave him the knowledge of a fabled harp that had been crafted by the god himself. It had been given to a faithful follower in the past, but due to its powers had been hidden from the god. By granting the gift, Melikke gave the knowledge back to Oghma. Francis (and friends) journeyed to the heart of the High Forest and secured the harp from the clutching hands of demons, Talos worshipers and undead.

Currently Francis is recovering from wounds and learning the powers of the great harp.

Francis is 5'4" about 140 pounds. Fairly slim with slightly curly shoulder length brown hair. He has a quick laugh and an almost inhumanly beautiful voice. (Nat King Cole or Jim Reeves good!)


Registered User
Sebastian Van Der Gryphon, Priest of Cuthbert, Order of the Guardian Shield. (Cleric 6/ Divine Agent 3)

For 17 generations the Van Der Gryphons have been in the service of St. Cuthbert. An unbroken line of Priests, Paladins, Monks and other functionaries who have paid homage to the god of the Cudgel. Family history states that one of these ancestors fought along side St. Cuthbert before he ascended to godhood.

Sebastian was born only son to the great paladin Justin Van Der Gryphon. A bright child, he was often left in the care of his mother (and after her unfortunate death), or the local clergy as his father was off righting wrongs and providing order.

Growing up in the great man's shadow was sometimes dificult. Justin was a hard man, firm in his convictions and always correct about what the "right" way to do something was. Sebastian didn't rebel as such, he had a great love for the Lawgiver as well, but he felt that the cold justice of the church left something to be desired.

At a young age, Sebastian found an Order among the church that felt much as he did. The Order of the Guardian Shield felt that it was as important to protect those in St. Cuthbert's care as it was to destroy that which was evil. This order devote themselves to protecting all who need asistance, and to lifting up the downtrodden.

Not too long after Justin's death at the hands of fiends, Sebastian got his first calling to be a wandering cleric. He travelled the lands, often searching out writings of his father and holding a private debate with him in his own journalings.

However, among these travels, he heard the voice of St. Cuthbert clearly in his own heart. And found he was called to be Cuthbert's voice among the people. His sudden direct connection both proved what Sebastian had felt all along, and contradicted it. He found more often that the best way to protect those in his charge was to seek out those who would harm them and to destroy them. This dichotomy is at the heart of his internal turmoil, but to the outside world he remains staunch and devoted to his cause.

Sebastian stands 5'10" and is about 180. He wears a white enameled breastplate with the symbol of Cuthbert in the center. His Shield is probably the greatest treasure he holds. It is chevron and made of sturdy steel. It is also white enameled with the symbol of the order emblazoned on the outside in brass and steel.


First Post
A Wonderful Thing, Thanks KaiLord!


I'm certain this will go no where, 'cause all the big folk ever do is yap and curse like sailors..but..I am Carlos the Red, the Blue, the EverFine to you...!!!! I'll not bore you with long tales of ancestral might, my people have been tending the earth and pulling the hoods down over the ears of the big folk longer than I care to imagine. It's enough to know that I see them rarely, if at all, but they are all good looking gnomes like myself, although a bit too...pedestrian...form my taste. And I don't mean that literaly, I'm not some ghoulish flesheater, not like some I've known.

The Red? The Blue? What's this, some inane gnomish rhyme? You would know when you felt the cool icy drip of my control slip over your being, when you started to march around in circles like my monkey friend is inclined to do. (A prehensile tale really does look useful, maybe I should look at getting one attached). Or when you felt the breath escape and clutch you...and you would find my kind, gentle eyes staring slowly at you, whispers of love and loss washing over you, driving you deeper, til there is no more you, and only I remain.

My robes are an unpleasant red and blue mix. I tried to have them died black, or white, or anything. I bought new robes several times. They always get...stained somehow when my talent manifests...hehehe...

I decided to shave my head, cause I was sick of having it trimmed. I'm not big on tatoos like some Mindbenders get, and I travel simply, not with some bag full of gadgets I'd have to spend all day fixing. What hair I've left is dark, dark, dark...but sometimes white. Those are nice days...

I can hear the whispering all the time, ALL THE TIME, so it's hard to live amongst anyone for any length of time. Short adventures, get some money, and remove the memories of everyone involved..that's my motto.

I hear there's this demon gate up in the far North, maybe you and I should head up there for a spell...just you, me, and my monkey friend?

[Psion 13]

At the last minute, as usual...

This was a character that I played in 2nd edition D&D. I played her from the time she ended up in Faerun until she raided the Keep (see below).

I ported her over to 3rd, which is what the description is based off of, but I only have history up to right before I started playing her in 3rd edition.

Well, here goes...

Physical Appearance

T’aria is one of the rare cambions (half fiend, half human) that survived to adulthood. When first met, she would be constantly mistaken for a satyr… except for the fact that there are no female satyrs, and satyrs are not six-foot-one in height. Her fiendish heritage is difficult to hide in her physical appearance, although she can do so from all except the most observant when she wishes. She has 3-inch forehead horns, goat legs complete with cloven hooves, slight fangs noticeable when she smiles, and claws that even when retracted are often noted as unfashionably long and sharp fingernails. Ignoring those physical attributes, she has the appearance of a rather attractive human female of about 24 years of age (though she is truly over 100). T’aria has long, thick curly black hair with striking deep red highlights shot through it. Her hair falls past her waist, and is naturally falls into that attractive, semi-wild, tumbled curls state many women struggle to achieve. She will often plait small silver and crystal beads into it using small, hardly-noticeable braids for an accent. She always has at least two tiny, (unnoticeable in the wild mass of hair) finger-length poisoned silver daggers in sheaths that are braided into the mass of hair above her shoulders. Naturally, these are “Just for emergencies.”

While in her home city of Sigil or elsewhere where her demonic heritage is not a cause for immediate panic, T’aria generally wears more daring attire consisting of a black leather shorts that reveal her legs and cloven hooves, as well as a leather-and-silk top. The top is a simple band of black leather wide enough to cover her ample chest with a network of thin straps to hold it over her shoulders. A foot-wide length of silver-grey sheer silk is sewed to the bottom of the leather, in effect covering her torso from just below her chest to her waist. The overall effect is of the top half of a babydoll teddy, or some similar form of lingerie. One of her companions once wondered aloud which succubus she had robbed for her wardrobe.

When T’aria travels on the Prime Material Plane (where people are generally less accepting of her heritage than the Planes, and her home city of Sigil), she generally uses her skills at disguise along with many years of practice to assume the appearance of a ‘normal’, though highly exotic, human. While in disguise, she rarely utilizes her full six-foot-one height, instead opting to stand about five foot nine, allowing to her legs (and extensive practice) to alter her apparent height. She generally wears a unique headband studded with three-inch spikes that are set two inches apart and are slightly curved to match her forehead horns perfectly. Two of the ‘spikes’ are missing, and there are holes in the headband to correspond to where they would be set; when the headband is on and her horns are through the holes, it is nearly impossible to tell that it is anything other than an unusual piece of jewelry. A full, floor-length gypsy-like skirt conceals her legs and hooves. From the waist up, however, she generally wears much more daring attire – a form-fitting black leather vest, low-cut (and laced only far enough to barely be acceptable in public) is one of her favorites.

There is only one part of her appearance that is only rarely hidden when she travels to the Prime Material Plane. On T’aria’s right arm, she has a large design with geometrically precise and complex curves and twists tattooed to her skin. The design flows from the top of her forearm down, gradually spreading until it wraps completely around her arm at her wrist, where it ill-conceals (but serves to distract from) an old scar, which appears to have been the result of her wrist being nearly completely severed at some time in the past. The tattoo narrows and continues over the top of the back of her hand to her middle finger, on which she wears a silver ring set with a large gem that appears to be a black diamond the same smoky colour as her tattoo. The ink used replicates that smoky shadow-grey that true shadows have; and if one looks too long at the tattoo, it seems to shift slightly with her movements and breath as if it were truly a shadow projected onto the skin. When asked, T’aria merely shrugs and says it is simply a well-done tattoo – nothing more, nothing less.

Although her physical appearance is the most noticeable, T’aria has other, less blatant, traits inherited from her demonic sire. When she becomes angry, her eyes change from their normal cat-like green to a deep red, and seem to glow slightly. Her claws become excruciatingly noticeable (as she either cannot, or does not, retract them), her horns lengthen to between five and six inches, and she is surrounded by the smell of the Abyss – sulfur and brimstone. However, few people have seen her descend deep enough into anger to the point of her losing control, and fewer still have lived to tell the tale.


T'aria was born in Sigil, City of Doors, in the Outer Planes. She grew up on the streets of the Hive, one of the least savory areas of the city. Having no memory of her parents, and having the phrase “cursed spawn of the lower planes” flung at her many times, she was forced to do what she could to survive as it was clear that no help was forthcoming. Most of her childhood was spent in a struggle of survival, of attempting not to be noticed by those stronger than she, by living off of the scraps of others, and stealing from those who would not care, or would not notice. Somehow, she escaped the notice of the Thieves’ Guild in Sigil until she was 25, when she made the mistake of lifting a fat purse from one of the higher-ranking members of the Guild. The guild member, surprised at the young cambion’s audacity and self-taught skill (cambion being the name half-fiends such as herself were called), he sponsored her into the Guild. Always a dexterous individual (of both body and mind), T’aria took the training the Guild offered and rose through the ranks rapidly. As she grew more confident in her skills, she also became more confident of her wishes – to be Guildmaster of the entire Thieves’ Guild in Sigil. However, skill can only take one so far in the Guild’s hierarchy, and after she reached that glass ceiling her promotions became more and more often assisted by the mysterious resignations or deaths of those ahead of her. Although many suspected her helping her superiors to meet their gods or for blackmailing them into resigning, no evidence was ever found to indicate her in any such doings. Nonetheless, any direct superior of hers felt it wise to watch their backs, and their secrets, carefully.

In her 40th year (cambions being nearly as long-lived as their fiendish parent), T'aria was inducted into the second-highest rank of the thieves' guild (once again aided by the untimely and mysterious resignation of her immediate superior). As a member of the Shadows, T'aria was shown the history of the guild and its secrets. She was surprised to discover that the guild was headed by clerics of Mask, Lord of Shadows and God of Thieves, and was functioning as a sort of church in the heart of Sigil. This was something that the Lady of Pain, the ruler of Sigil, had forbidden - the founding of a church in her city. Historically, all others who had tried had been very swiftly punished by the Lady's harsh justice. However, the Lord of Shadows was well known for insinuating His influence into places where He wasn't wanted. As there was no actual church structure it was doubtful that the Lady even knew of the ‘church’ comprised of Mask's priests within Sigil.

T’aria was fascinated by the tenets of the God's faith, and swiftly became an acolyte Demarchess (Demarchess being a female cleric of Mask, Demarch being a male cleric of Mask). Mask seemed to favor her, for she quickly became a powerful priest, even by the standards of the eldest Demarchs. Her meteoric rise in power and rank made many of the clergy nervous, for all knew she was eyeing higher ranks... and all recalled the convenient resignations, deaths, and disappearances of those who stood in her way before. The highest Demarchs met with the Guildmaster discussed what to do about the growing threat. It was decided that they could not risk having her outright killed, as Mask quite obviously greatly favored her, and none wished to go directly against His favored. For the moment there was a standoff - T'aria had not directly or indirectly moved against any of them as of yet, but all felt she would within the next two years at a minimum. So, she was set a task that they hoped would occupy her for a good deal longer... and, if Tymora smiled upon them, would finish her threat for them.

Cyric, God of Tyranny, Madness, Murder and Lies, and one of Mask's main adversaries, drew a great deal of his power from his worshippers on one of the Prime Material Planes named Faerun. Most of those were gathered in a place called Zhentil Keep. T'aria was sent to investigate this Zhentil Keep, and to see if there was anything she could do to sabotage or subvert worshippers from Cyric. She knew she was being ordered to an absurd and hopeless quest, but dared not refuse. She knew that the fear the other Demarchs felt was such that had she refused, there was a good chance they would simply risk having her killed instead. Although this was obviously meant as a suicide mission, there was the possibility that she could find a way to survive until she was powerful enough to return and challenge the ones who had sent her on the quest.

A portal was located that would send her to the tunnels and caverns underneath Zhentil Keep - a very carefully researched portal. It was activated, and T'aria stepped through to find herself in a dark cavern that stretched off into the darkness in either direction. After taking a few moments to investigate, she came to the conclusion that the portal was, as she had suspected, one-way. Blessing the demonic blood that allowed her to see even in the pitch black of the tunnels, she set off. After walking for but a short time, there came from ahead of her sounds of battle, echoing down the tunnels, along with flickers of light from torches. Slipping into the shadows cast by the torches, she moved forward to see a group of humans and elves battling a small horde of undead. Calculating quickly, and glad now she had taken the time to don clothing that would disguise her as human, she stepped up to assist the adventurers.

After the battle had been won, she discovered to her chagrin that one of the adventurers was a Paladin of Helm, God of Guardians. Hiding her holy symbol (the half-mask that all the faithful of the Lord of Shadows wear), T'aria introduced herself and told her story… or rather, she told a story. She said that she had been bound out of Sigil, and she had been shown a portal and told that it led to Faerun. Stepping through, she had discovered herself in a place she did not wish to be – in these tunnels. Experimentation had shown her that the portal she had traveled through was one-way, so she was now stranded with way to currently return to her home city, and no way to the surface but wandering the tunnels. As T'aria had suspected, the simple-minded Paladin readily accepted her story, backed up as it was by his truth-detecting spells. She had told the utter truth… of course, she had left a few details out, but that was immaterial. Several of the others in the party were not so trusting, as she overheard (when they thought they were out of hearing). However, she also overheard that the Paladin could not detect for evil while the group was underneath Zhentil Keep, as he had attempted earlier and had nearly been blinded. Apparently, the very walls radiated evil.

Confident for the moment of her safety, T'aria requested that she be allowed to travel with the group, at least until they could reach the surface. They agreed, introduced each of themselves, and described their purpose in the tunnels. It turned out that the group (calling themselves The Lords of the Crimson Flame) was after a Holy Sword for the paladin that was rumored to be down here somewhere. There was a great war brewing on the surface between all the goodly races and the goblinoid races, and these adventurers were to be part of the forces to combat the enemy. Currently, they were on a mission to gather all the artifacts and magic that they could find that would assist in the upcoming battles.

After recovering the paladin's holy sword (although not without quite a few battles in which T'aria endeavored to make herself useful and earn their trust), the party left the caverns and teleported back to "Zan's Keep" - the Keep currently being built by the defacto leader of the resistance versus the goblinoid armies. Once there, and introduced to the Gold Elf Bladesinger Zantriel Silverymoon, she was told more of the current situation. The army that was massing had attracted nearly every goblin, hobgoblin, kobold, orc, and like races in the northern reaches of Faerun, and a good deal from the south. It was rumored that they were being led by a race of oddly militant, intelligent orcs that called themselves the "Scro".

Deciding she would get no better chance to ‘hide’ until she could amass enough power to challenge those who sent her here (and seeing the riches that the half-built Keep-in-progress already boasted) she offered her abilities as a scout to Zantriel. Seeing as they knew little about the Scro and their army, and had only very few true scouts, he accepted. Soon thereafter, Zan and several of his lieutenants (collectively known as the Silverlords, their old adventuring company name), decided to travel abroad attempting to gain new allies for the upcoming battle. T'aria joined them for the time being, as they would possibly come across enemy encampments or movements, and she would have a good chance to scout them out there. At least, that is what she told the Silverlords. Good luck seemed to hover about their leader, Zan - and the trip looked to be a profitable one, which had much more to do with her decision than any desire to help did.

T'aria traveled with the Silverlords on and off for close to four years. She did do a decent amount of scouting of the enemy - her skills at stealth far surpassing the security of the Scro's troops, although the Scro camps themselves were quite a bit more challenging. However, the more she learned, the more she believed that Zan's ragtag "army" of adventurers, elves, and some few squads of humans were far outclassed when it came to the Scro. Zan's troops were outnumbered at least 20 to 1. Faced with the unfailing optimism from most everyone else that the Scro would be defeated, she knew that no plans would be made for possible failure. As such, T’aria took a few steps to ensure, at the very least, her own survival. Doing a bit of research, she found a nearby portal that led back to Sigil... one that she could activate from this end. Unfortunately, the portal was one-way – she could not come back to Faerun this way. Normally, that wouldn’t matter – but she could not tell where exactly the Portal let out to, besides just “the Hive in Sigil” and she also couldn’t step through a little ahead of time to set things up on that end for her plans. But, still considering it lucky that those born in the City of Doors had the innate ability to sense portals to other Planes, she lifted a few maps of the surrounding area from the Keep and plotted the fastest and easiest course between the two.

It was another year before the armies began clashing in earnest. And it was 6 years after T'aria was all but exiled to this Prime when what she had been expecting finally came. The Scro armies were marching across everything placed in their path. The Silverlords were spread across the continent, desperately attempting to slow the tide, and Zan was attempting to implement one last-ditch effort to block the destruction sweeping the continent.

A contingent of Scro broke off from the main deployment and turned their march toward Zan’s Keep, having no doubt discovered that it was the safehold of one of the main generals of the opposition. Zan, or course, was not in residence – but the Keep had been being used as a barracks and training ground for new troops, and was thus a target. T’aria was one of the first to hear that the Scro were marching – and implemented the plans she had been making. Obviously, this minor little Prime Plane was going away rather soon, and she needed to be on her way back to Sigil for some important, unfinished business. As the half-trained troops gathered and attempted to prepare for the approaching enemy, she prowled her way into all the vaults, storehouses, and personal quarters of the Silverlords, picking up items that she had mentally marked over the past few years. A store of Bags of Holding and Portable Holes (easily lifted off of the Silverlords and the Lords of the Crimson Flame, each of which had expanded from simple adventuring companies into elite special forces units, as well as various other personages) carried whatever she deemed worthwhile to take. As a special ‘favor’ to Dan, Zan’s best friend and general ranking only below Zan himself, T’aria very carefully disarmed all the traps in the paranoid elf’s room, examined them for worn components, and replaced them as she left… taking everything of value in the room. Just in case the Keep should survive.

The fighting was drawing near to the Keep when she left, easily slipping past elven, human, and Scro scouts alike. Arriving at the Portal, she activated it with a quickly recited phrase. Without a glance backward, she stepped home.

Luckily, the portal led to an inconspicuous spot, and she was able to slink off without being noticed, using all her skill to do so. She contacted a few people that she knew in the Guild, and discovered that nothing had really changed in the years she had been gone. The meeting hall was in a different location, but that was moved twice a year or so anyway. She sold and traded most of what she had gained from the Keep for cash and items much more useful to her, and started making plans for dealing with the Demarchs and the Guildmaster.

So it was 3 days later that when the Demarchs and Guildmaster of the Thieves’ Guild gathered to discuss the month’s business, they found T’aria sitting in the new meeting hall (which had been locked, trapped both mystically and mundanely, and guarded magically and physically just a few minutes before). She was sitting at her ease, hooved feet up on the grand table, a glass of fine Baatorian wine from the sideboard in her hand. She smiled at them, fangs not too visible, and with her off hand whipped a poisoned dart in the direction of the Guildmaster. It took him in the throat and he dropped like a vrock on a hound archon.

“Now that I have taken care of that nasty little bit of business,” T’aria removed her feet from the table and leaned forward so her elbows were resting on the table, wineglass to her right, fingers steepled in front of her face, “let’s take care of this month’s business, shall we?”

The fact that she was sitting at the head of the table, in the Guildmaster’s own chair, was not lost on any of the Demarchs gathered in the room. With bows ordinarily reserved for the Guildmaster, and faces showing no more emotion than they always did, the others took their places around the great table. Leaning back slightly, T’aria pushed the button mounted underneath the table that summoned the guards stationed outside the great double-doors of the room. When one of them stepped inside, she gestured at the body laying in the middle of the floor. “Have that garbage disposed of promptly.”

The guard briefly glanced around the great table, then bowed to her. “Yes, Guildmistress.”

T’aria headed the Guild for close to 50 years. Then, one day for no reason, no reason at all, Mask abandoned her.

T’aria awoke with a jolt. Fearing an assassination attempt, she rolled off her lavish bed onto a certain “safe” spot on the nightingale floor, while piercing the darkness with her demonic darkvision. Seeing nothing, and no one, in the room, she attempted to activate one of the many protective spells she had cast on herself – only to discover all her protective spells had failed. Fearing the worst, she chanted a brief word and gestured, attempting to cast a simply light spell. Only to have it fail. And worse yet… to not even feel the power answer her call. Growing desperate, and reluctant to move from her location until she discovered what had awoken her, she reached along the link to her God… only to repel herself in shock. She touched Mask, yes, as she had many times before – but instead of the normal, mildly affectionate (much as one would feel affectionate towards a possession) presence she normally contacted, she instead touched… something else. Something undeniably Mask – but cruel, and amused. As if He had been just waiting for her to reach out, she felt another surge of amusement – and then, nothing. Her divine connection to her God was severed. T’aria fell to her hands and knees in shock as pain lanced through her, the pain of a High Priestess being severed from her deity.

She was indeed lucky that there was no assassin waiting in the wings, as she would have been an easy target for those several minutes she lie, panting, on the floor.

After she recovered, T’aria quickly gathered a few of her things, and activated the bracers she had kept to dimension door herself out of the room. As the glowing doorway opened before her, the door to her room opened behind her. Glancing behind herself as she stepped forward, T’aria noticed several of the Shadows, along with a few Demarchs and Demarchesses stepping into the room. The glowing portal closed behind her just as one started casting and several produced weapons.

She sighed and turned to the Planar Portal her dimension door had deposited her in front of and sighed. “Well, I lost them on this Prime before,” she murmured, recalling the first time she had been to Faerun. “At least this exile is by choice… at least until I find out what happened.” She activated the Portal and stepped through. “Hopefully, they’ve rebuilt by now…”

Da Man

First Post
Vito of the Dwarves (as he called himself)

Vito is an average-sized Halfling with a bit of a dark streak. His slightly-oiled, black hair is smoothed back over his head, cut just above his shoulders. He wears a loose-fitting shirt that just barely reveals a tattoo on his chest (naught but a jagged, black edge of whatever lies beneath shows through) and just barely conceals several daggers hanging from his waste. For pants, he wears tight fitting breeches that do little to hide another dagger strapped to his leg. He wears no boots or shoes, as he needs his toes for the various ‘tasks’ he does during his normal day. Most striking of all are his jet-black eyes and thinly cut eyebrows. Although small, Vito does not appear to fit the innocent Halfling mold.

Vito walks about, seeming to be without a care in the world. His lack of fear (or common sense as his comrades have been known to say) has caused more then one mishap in his life (although the effects are frequently laid on someone else’s shoulders.) Vito has an acute realization of the value of his own needs and desires, believing that if he isn’t looking out for them, no one else will. Indeed, if something does not obviously affect him, he is unlikely to give a hoot about it (unless, of course, it might put some change in his pocket.) And so, he is rarely called to action by his fellow comrades during the regular course of an adventuring day. On most occasions, Vito’s input is viewed as ‘let’s make a decision that benefits Vito, without a single care for its effects on the rest of the world.’ Indeed, many of his stalwart companions are forced to monitor this little halfling’s behavior, as he is not above doing things that others find squeamish (or, to step out of Vito’s mind, unethical and immoral=).

That said, when the going gets rough, his comrades are quick to call on Vito for his bravery, his skills and his loyalty. Newcomers to his band are very slow to trust in Vito. He gives them no reason to do otherwise. But, those long-standing companions know that the little rogue is rarely in the frame of mind to be taken seriously, but when all of Hades is breaking loose, companions are falling to the onslaught of the enemy and the day seems lost, it is Vito who will risk his own life to see that all make it safely away (which he has done on more then one occasion!).

And so, this last trait can be known as Vito’s Bane. For, within the vile rooms of some cavern of stone, Vito fell. Although Vito often joked about how such a motley crew of humanoids could have the gall to call this old garbage-pit-of-stone a ‘Temple of Elemental Evil’ or even that these self-proclaimed priests walked around feeling important for having a home in some god-forsaken den of foul creatures, one of their groups brought Vito to his end.

You see, Vito was quite a lady’s man. In fact, he often talked about the various races he had romanced and spent much of his hard-earned loot on wooing more. His exploits (he claimed in the bedroom, although others said it was his adventuring through the land), attracted a most hideous Halfling lass as a cohort. She could never be satiated and Vito spent much of his time hiding from her or trying to pawn her off on some of his comrades. Matilda, as she was called, was an overweight Halfling lass that wore naught but a g-string and had a greasy little rat as a familiar. Although Vito was never known for his tastes, this lass soon proved too much for him. Still, she remained his cohort and they traveled together into the ‘Caverns of Gold and Madmen’, as Vito called the Temple.

On one fateful evening, a great battle erupted and it soon became apparent that his group was no match for the likes of this enemy. As all made their way to flee, Matilda fell to a most devilish spell. Without a thought, Vito returned and made good on attempting to save the pig-like lass. Cloaked in invisibility, he administered what aid (potions) he could to the faltering she-thing (she was in the negatives) and brought her back from the brink of death. As she made good her escape, Vito locked in battle with the most fearsome foe of the enemies, giving her some time. Vito fell that fateful day, deep within that pit, and walks no more.

But, there are those who hope to one day find but a portion of his body and perhaps restore him to his former self. You can be sure that Vito will have a reckoning on his mind with one armored Troll that has quite a stink to him.


First Post
Frederick of Edgewater

Frederick of Edgewater
Ftr 2/Wiz 7/Spellsword 2

Str 14, Dex 14, Con 14, Int 16, Wis 10, Cha 10

Physical appearance: Frederick is a stern looking man of slightly shorter than average height and strong build. His light brown hair is wavy and tends to refuse all non-magical attempts to comb or manage it. A Van Dyke adorns his chin obscuring four faint evenly spaced scars along his left cheek.

He wears a headband of intellect designed to resemble the holy symbol of Pholtus (An emerald crescent moon in front of an alabaster moon) and openly wears a finely made suit of mithral chain shirt. His primary weapons are a silver-chased darkwood handled glaiveand a jet black longsword that seems to absorb the light as if the blade were made of darkness itself but he wears a wand on one hip as well. A plain white tabard with gold embroidery along the bottom and a shield made from the shell of a giant turtle complete the ensemble.

Frederick is was born in a small town on the edge of the Troll Fens in the theocracy of the Pale and grew up driving his grandfather's cattle to market. Intrigued by the possibility that Pholtus had given humans powers over nature, he also spent time studying with the Arcanist's Guild in Wintershiven when cattle drives took him into the city.

His career of adventure began when his grandfather sent him south to investigate the cattle market in Hatherleigh and he came to a small town where some local wanna-be adventurers had vanished investigating the ruins of an evil temple. With some trustworthy companions, he investigated the ruins of the temple and found that the cultists buried alive when the Knights Valorous collapsed the entrance had not simply starved to the death in the darkness but had been animated by the forces of darkness.

As time went on, he learned to master the magic he began learning in Wintershiven and learn how to merge it with his skill at arms. Now he is a stern crusader for justice from his home in the Theocracy of the Pale to the Duchy of Urnst.


Wycen was born from a nymph and rogue drow of House Eilserv who had been banished to the surface. Surviving sight of her the drow ravished her and left. Vhaerun, the drow god of males, looked upon this act with approval and kept the nymph from willing herself to die until she gave birth.

Wycen is sinfully handsome half elf, with uncharacteristically white hair, supremely confident in his abilities as a thief and psionicist. He has a long list of names for himself: Warlock, Guildmaster, Concubine to Trin and Nishta, Sorcerer's Supreme, Father, High Laymen, etc etc.

While he wears leather armor, it's mostly for style and generally relies on his psionic abilities or vast array of magic items for protection. His favored weapon is a weapon he liberated from an armory in the abyss, a planar broadsword, though he's just as likely to use a psychic blade to do the job.
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A dark haired half-elf born into a poor family in Perrenland, he eventually moved to the Sultinate of Zeif where he eventually joined the preisthood of Xan Yae, in order to avoid loosing his hand for picking pockets.

A cleric by need and rogue at heart, Daft's real name was left behind as he found himself in the windy caves of Pandemonium for a time with a group of individuals who'd often mistake him for some character named Burke.

He travels about trying to "keep the balance", an idea he admittedly sometimes can't quantify, but he has faith his goddess knows what she wants him to do.

Daft often wears a chain shirt of hauberk, and has become proficient in the chosen weapon of Xan Yae, the falchion. He often wears rings, medallions or other charms he "finds" during his various activities.
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