Tric
First Post
This is a character I made for a another D&D board. It uses that board's formatting. He gained +2 cha from drawing off that board's version of the Deck of Many Things 
Szyldryn Starwind
Gloaming Male
Sorcerer 3 (ECL +2)
Alignment: True Neutral
Deity: Tymora
Current Experience: 12,289 xp
Next Level: 15,000 xp
Funds: 3264.32 gp (300 pp, 264 gp, 3 sp, 2 cp)
7 Strength (-2)
13 Dexterity (+1)
18 Constitution (+4)
13 Intelligence (+1)
9 Wisdom (-1)
18 Charisma (+4)
Spot: +1
Languages: Tradespeak (Common), Elven, Undercommon
Initiative: +1
Speed: 20' Move, 40’ Fly (average)
BAB: +1
Grapple: -5
Ranged Attack Bonus: +4
Damage: 1d6+1 (Small Crossbow +1)
AC: 14 (+1 Dex, +1 Size, +1 Armor, +1 Luck), touch 13, flat-footed 13
Hit Points: 23
Fortitude Saves: +6
Reflex Saves: +3
Will Saves: +3
+2 against Illusion (Shadow) spells
+4 against Psionics
Feats:
Simple Weapon Proficiency
Luck of Heroes (Level 1)
Portal Sensitive (Bonus Gloaming Feat)
Alertness (Granted Feat)
Toughness (Level 1)
Abilities:
Small Size (+1 on attack rolls, +1 AC, +4 on Hide checks)
Luminescence (skin glows at will, from nothing up to torchlight)
Darkvision 60'
Low-light Vision
Light Blindness
+2 on Saves against Illusion (Shadow) spells
+4 on Saves against Psionics
+4 on Move Silently checks
Illusion (Shadow) spells cast at +1 Caster level
Native Outsider
Familiar (Hairy Spider; Hexcel)
Sorcerer Spells: (0% Arcane Spell Failure)
Level 0 spells: (6/day, DC 14)
Detect Magic
Electric Jolt
Mage Hand
Prestidigitation
Read Magic
Level 1 spells: (6/day, DC 15)
Disguise Self
Forcewave
Magic Missile (2 missiles)
Skills:
+1 Appraise [X]+1 (Int)
+1 Balance [X]+1 (Dex)
+9 Bluff [5]+4 (Cha)
-2 Climb [X]-2 (Str)
+10 Concentration [6]+4 (Con)
+1 Craft [0]+1 (Int)
+1 Decipher Script [X]+1 (Int)
+6 Diplomacy [X]+6 (Cha, Bluff)
+6 Disguise [X]+6 (Cha, Bluff)
+1 Escape Artist [X]+1 (Dex)
+1 Forgery [X]+1 (Int)
+6 Gather Information [X]+6 (Cha, Bluff)
-1 Heal [X]-1 (Wis)
+5 Hide [X]+5 (Dex, Size)
+4 Intimidate [0.5]+4 (Cha)
-8 Jump [X]-8 (Str, Speed)
+2 Knowledge (Arcana) [1]+1 (Int)
+1 Listen [X]+1 (Wis, Alertness)
+5 Move Silently [X]+5 (Dex, Race)
+4 Perform [X]+4 (Cha)
+1 Ride [X]+1 (Dex)
+1 Search [X]+1 (Int)
-1 Sense Motive [X]-1 (Wis)
-- Speak Language [X]+1 (Int)
+6 Spellcraft [5]+1 (Int)
+1 Spot [X]+1 (Wis, Alertness)
-1 Survival [X]-1 (Wis)
-2 Swim [X]-2 (Str)
+1 Use Rope [X]+1 (Dex)
Weapons and Armor: (3.5 lbs)
Small Light Crossbow +1 (1d6, 19-20/x2, 80' Range, 2 lbs)
10x Bolts (0.5 lbs)
Bracers of Armor +1 (1 lb)
Ring of Protection +1 (0 lbs)
Equipment: (12 lbs)
Disc of Ancestry (100 gp value, 0 lbs)
Spell Component Pouch (2 lbs)
Adventurer's Pack (10 lbs)
* 30x Bolts (1.5 lbs)
* Coins (15.2 lbs)
Total Equipment Weight: 15.5 lbs (light load; max load = 52.5 lbs)
Description: Szyldryn is short, but not like dwarves: Resembling a miniature elf, he hates having such a disadvantage to humans. Still, he uses what resources he has to the greatest extent possible. His body is covered by a multitude of scars and cuts, given to him by generous humans, and tattoos grace his face and torso. His hair is long, wild, and jet-black and his eyes are like a cat’s: in dim light, they reflect a pale, metallic color, just like the animal. His skin is very pale, but, sometimes, it projects a slight glow. Sometimes, a little spider is seen, just for a second, running across his body under his clothes. This is Hexcel, a spider Szyldryn found, befriended, and eventually enchanted. Starwind is a silent sprit, brooding and dark: he has grown cynical in a word that hates anything that differs from the norm. However, he takes pride in restraining his hate, and he sees himself above humans in that he never takes someone for what they look like.
Despite being mutilated and hurt over the years, Szyldryn has hardened his heart and body. He has a very forceful personality and he’s hardy beyond mere words. In face of danger, Szyldryn is calm and focused: having been stranded on the brink of death on more than one occasion, he fears little any more. Once, he was quite the good-looking Gloaming, which is evident in his fine skin, although now damaged, and features. One thing that has caused endless confusion is the ring Szyldryn carries. It sits on his finger, always did, and it is quite impossible to remove it. It does not seem to have any effect – not that he could know, having no one to compare with. Even more strange is that his mother carried a ring just like it. Perhaps… but he doesn’t like to think about it.
He is not very proficient at combat, as one might notice. He carries no weapons, except for a small crossbow. Through his lacking muscle, and due to being hurt over the years, he has lost much of his former agility. How he manages to survive in such a hostile world is anyone’s guess.
Height: 3’1”
Weight: 30 lbs
Eyes: Blue-grey (cat-like)
Hair: Jet Black
Age: 14
Region: Gloaming
History:
How do you find strength to move on despite everything that is against you?
Szyldryn was hated. Always was. He would show up, someone would find out. Someone would grow suspicious. A small, hooded figure, with dark skin and strange looks. That couldn’t be good. What if it was a demon? So it would go on, until they openly resented him, and drove him off. Or worse. If there was anyone that would be even marginally hospitable, they refrained from such a course of action out of fear of being persecuted by the prejudiced ones. It was so demanding, he could not slack off for a second or someone could strike him.
“What? You again?! What are you doing here? I thought I killed you already!” yelled the man. The small, hooded creature laughed softly.
“I’m hard to kill,” he said, smiling in the darkness that was his cloak.
“You’re such a pest!”
Szyldryn clearly remembered all the events that had led to this: The human was some kind of racist, who revelled in killing all kinds of non-humans. Somehow he knew Szyldryn was travelling through the Mulhorand city. In a cowardly act, he had attacked Szyldryn in a dark alley. The human had cut him down, leaving him at death’s door. Szyldryn had only subconsciously been aware of his surroundings, but somehow he found the willpower to keep on fighting. No one helped a Gloaming, he knew. After an age had passed, he slowly opened his eyes, and the pain was all too eager to flow over him. He steeled himself, carefully sitting up against the nearby brick wall. His wounds were deep, and grievous, but he was calm as he saw the dark tendrils of death eating away at his vision.
Curtains close.
An infinite darkness stretched before him, and there was a chilling wind like no other. He instinctively knew he was dead. So it was then, he thought. It ends here. He felt he was being drawn somewhere. Being godless, he had no idea where he would go… He called out for guidance. Silence settled in but he felt no fear: it wasn’t like he’d lost anything. Nobody would miss him, that’s for sure.
Death is inevitable. You run from it, try to hide away your passion. The more you climb away from the pit, the easier it is to fall back down, becoming devoured, and destroyed by your attempt. Death is inevitable. The farther you run from it, the larger does the shadows become, the more insidious, threatening to eat way your soul, to sprite away what is you. Death is inevitable. One can save you; one can bring you back from the depths. One that will never be the same…
Suddenly Szyldryn felt a sting in his chest, and the feeling grew steadily, like a potion threatening to boil over. It was as if his body was being pulled backwards, ever faster, his soul fetched from the pit. Suddenly, that familiar, great pain came upon him, coming like an old friend for a long visit. It was as if a hundred spikes had suddenly pierced his entire being, driving in and out of his frail chest in a crazed attempt at mutilation. Choking, his body was gripped by a seizure, momentarily. Yes, his body… Feelings came rushing back, like a wild river of bliss! He was invigorated, energized, empowered, and a familiar feeling of self-confidence settled. Pictures came rolling in his mind, and soon it became a coherent stream: vision.
Curtains open.
He saw a man stand in front of him, chanting solemnly like a priest.
“That was… interesting,” Szyldryn groaned as he sat up. The man lost his concentration, and opened his eyes, looking down at the creature at his feet.
“Oh, perhaps I exaggerated the ritual a bit… Well, It’s good that you’re up again. I’d hate to see such a rare creature go to waste,” he said, and Szyldryn immediately noticed that familiar, power-hungry glow in his eyes.
“Oh, great. What do you need me for, human?” he said, spitting at the human’s feet, which the man promptly ignored.
“Ehh, nothing big… I just need a… hehehe, live sample,” he declared. He was clearly insane.
“How about ‘no’?” said Szyldryn confidently. He had been stripped of the few items he possessed, but he could always figure something out.
“Ahh, I don’t think so… Just come with me, I promise it will only hurt for a second…,” said the man with a soft, but crazy, tone.
“Look, I’ve already got things to do, places to be, people to kill! I don’t have time for some insane wizard,” Szyldryn shouted.
“I’m afraid you have no choice. I raised you, after all… It’ll just take a second to get a few pints of blood… and then…,” he said, as his words were trailing off and he began biting his nails, his eyes glazing over in some strange seizure. Szyldryn stood up from his bed and casually walked out through the door, as the man was deep in his… ‘thoughts’.
“Moron.”
So he went to search for the man that wronged him. He was *not* getting away with his wrongdoings. Szyldryn acted silently, asking around and putting a puzzle of clues. With a healthy amount of luck he managed pin down the subject of his ire. And now, he had him within his grasp…
“Pest? You cut me down in an alley and I was *this* close to staying down! And now, you’re the one getting punished, so defend yourself!” he yelled, and then he cast a spell, which completely took the man by surprise. He was roughly pushed backwards and violently slammed into the wooden wall of his home. The Gloaming seized the moment, flying forward as fast as he could. As the man was recovering from the blast, he was hit in the stomach hard, and stars filled his view.
“This is for attacking an innocent bystander!” Szyldryn said as he hit the man squarely in the face. “And this is for being a goddamned idiot!” “And this for being a racist!” “And this for… being ugly!” he said as he made the final blow. He landed on the man’s chest, reached up, and twisted his neck sharply, not being the type that enjoyed bringing prolonged pain to his enemies.
“Now, let’s see if you have anything of value, here,” Szyldryn mumbled to himself as he flied about the house, picking up some trinkets that seemed useful. There were a number of texts that told of some kind of underground network that worked to destroy pretty much anything that did not look like a human.
“I hope they meet the dragons,” Szyldryn chuckled.
Szyldryn was sitting in another dingy tavern, sipping the watery mead, thinking about the world, magic, and humans. He really didn’t want to hurt anyone, he reasoned. But the humans just *have* to act as if he is a demon all the time. It was tiring… He felt saddened because he had no friends, much less anyone to share his most intimate thoughts with. There were no other Gloamings that he knew of… His mother had died very early in his life, to some incurable disease… Perhaps he would inherit it and die, too. He had lived a few “good” years with his mother, though. Good, compared to the rest of his life. He only knows a single name she had: Carneria. She had taken care of him, fed him and taught him a few things. What their race was called and a few other facts. She also taught him two languages simultaneously: Draconic and Undercommon. Undercommon seemed logical enough to Szyldryn, but Draconic… Then she had died, and he still remembered how it had happened: she had been sick for a long while prior to that, and it was her ring… It had glowed ever stronger as she approached death. Then she died, and the ring’s glow faded. It was tied to her death, somehow.
But he was hardy. Szyldryn liked the phrase, “I’m hard to kill”. That was definitely true. During the last three decades, he had been kicked, stabbed, shot, burned, hanged, punched, chopped, sliced, slashed, hacked, pierced, punctured, incinerated, frozen, knocked out, nigh decapitated… He had not been struck with the ugly stick in a natural way, quite the opposite. But now he had lost much of his natural good looks, except for his face, which was more preserved with tattoos covering the few scars there. He drew back the sleeve on his arm to see a deep cut there. Luckily, he had an odd combination of persuasive powers, magic, smarts and extraordinary luck that helped him survive hordes of angry humans and others. Sometimes, he would stare in disbelief at the luck that seemed to follow him sometimes. It was during one of these days that he picked up Tymora, since he felt he owed much to his luck.
However, he was so tired, so tired of being hunted like an animal. He often had to hide his true self with magic… A prospect that did not entice him. One should not need to hide himself to keep from being killed, he thought.
He never really knew where his mother came from. He had been quite young when she died. However, he knew something: his skin burned like hellfire when he removed his cloak during the day. That meant that either, it was a side effect of his mother’s disease, or, it was something common to his race. But he could not figure out why their skin and bodies were so adapted to staying out of the light… But he was becoming more and more resilient to it as the years passed. Perhaps, one day, he would gaze at the sun, unfazed by its radiance… Or maybe not. However things developed, he had grown hardy during the years, both physically and mentally. Taunts meant little to him these days. He never gave up. Giving up would be cowardly, and agreeing that it's perfectly fine to attack people that look different. And Szyldryn can't stand for that. He fears little anymore.
One day...
Magic. Without it, Szyldryn knew well, he would be long dead. Magic has always been with him; he cannot remember starting to use it, he has simply always had it, used it. He knows a few spells, which are very handy, indeed. He finds them exceedingly useful, especially the Disguise Self incantation. It has saved his skin hundreds of times.
For now, he wanders the face of Faerûn, from his humble beginnings in Mulhorand, weak, friendless and with little gold to spare. He looks at other, more powerful magic-users with a burning desire to one day have that same power.
Szyldryn Starwind
Gloaming Male
Sorcerer 3 (ECL +2)
Alignment: True Neutral
Deity: Tymora
Current Experience: 12,289 xp
Next Level: 15,000 xp
Funds: 3264.32 gp (300 pp, 264 gp, 3 sp, 2 cp)
7 Strength (-2)
13 Dexterity (+1)
18 Constitution (+4)
13 Intelligence (+1)
9 Wisdom (-1)
18 Charisma (+4)
Spot: +1
Languages: Tradespeak (Common), Elven, Undercommon
Initiative: +1
Speed: 20' Move, 40’ Fly (average)
BAB: +1
Grapple: -5
Ranged Attack Bonus: +4
Damage: 1d6+1 (Small Crossbow +1)
AC: 14 (+1 Dex, +1 Size, +1 Armor, +1 Luck), touch 13, flat-footed 13
Hit Points: 23
Fortitude Saves: +6
Reflex Saves: +3
Will Saves: +3
+2 against Illusion (Shadow) spells
+4 against Psionics
Feats:
Simple Weapon Proficiency
Luck of Heroes (Level 1)
Portal Sensitive (Bonus Gloaming Feat)
Alertness (Granted Feat)
Toughness (Level 1)
Abilities:
Small Size (+1 on attack rolls, +1 AC, +4 on Hide checks)
Luminescence (skin glows at will, from nothing up to torchlight)
Darkvision 60'
Low-light Vision
Light Blindness
+2 on Saves against Illusion (Shadow) spells
+4 on Saves against Psionics
+4 on Move Silently checks
Illusion (Shadow) spells cast at +1 Caster level
Native Outsider
Familiar (Hairy Spider; Hexcel)
Sorcerer Spells: (0% Arcane Spell Failure)
Level 0 spells: (6/day, DC 14)
Detect Magic
Electric Jolt
Mage Hand
Prestidigitation
Read Magic
Level 1 spells: (6/day, DC 15)
Disguise Self
Forcewave
Magic Missile (2 missiles)
Skills:
+1 Appraise [X]+1 (Int)
+1 Balance [X]+1 (Dex)
+9 Bluff [5]+4 (Cha)
-2 Climb [X]-2 (Str)
+10 Concentration [6]+4 (Con)
+1 Craft [0]+1 (Int)
+1 Decipher Script [X]+1 (Int)
+6 Diplomacy [X]+6 (Cha, Bluff)
+6 Disguise [X]+6 (Cha, Bluff)
+1 Escape Artist [X]+1 (Dex)
+1 Forgery [X]+1 (Int)
+6 Gather Information [X]+6 (Cha, Bluff)
-1 Heal [X]-1 (Wis)
+5 Hide [X]+5 (Dex, Size)
+4 Intimidate [0.5]+4 (Cha)
-8 Jump [X]-8 (Str, Speed)
+2 Knowledge (Arcana) [1]+1 (Int)
+1 Listen [X]+1 (Wis, Alertness)
+5 Move Silently [X]+5 (Dex, Race)
+4 Perform [X]+4 (Cha)
+1 Ride [X]+1 (Dex)
+1 Search [X]+1 (Int)
-1 Sense Motive [X]-1 (Wis)
-- Speak Language [X]+1 (Int)
+6 Spellcraft [5]+1 (Int)
+1 Spot [X]+1 (Wis, Alertness)
-1 Survival [X]-1 (Wis)
-2 Swim [X]-2 (Str)
+1 Use Rope [X]+1 (Dex)
Weapons and Armor: (3.5 lbs)
Small Light Crossbow +1 (1d6, 19-20/x2, 80' Range, 2 lbs)
10x Bolts (0.5 lbs)
Bracers of Armor +1 (1 lb)
Ring of Protection +1 (0 lbs)
Equipment: (12 lbs)
Disc of Ancestry (100 gp value, 0 lbs)
Spell Component Pouch (2 lbs)
Adventurer's Pack (10 lbs)
* 30x Bolts (1.5 lbs)
* Coins (15.2 lbs)
Total Equipment Weight: 15.5 lbs (light load; max load = 52.5 lbs)
Description: Szyldryn is short, but not like dwarves: Resembling a miniature elf, he hates having such a disadvantage to humans. Still, he uses what resources he has to the greatest extent possible. His body is covered by a multitude of scars and cuts, given to him by generous humans, and tattoos grace his face and torso. His hair is long, wild, and jet-black and his eyes are like a cat’s: in dim light, they reflect a pale, metallic color, just like the animal. His skin is very pale, but, sometimes, it projects a slight glow. Sometimes, a little spider is seen, just for a second, running across his body under his clothes. This is Hexcel, a spider Szyldryn found, befriended, and eventually enchanted. Starwind is a silent sprit, brooding and dark: he has grown cynical in a word that hates anything that differs from the norm. However, he takes pride in restraining his hate, and he sees himself above humans in that he never takes someone for what they look like.
Despite being mutilated and hurt over the years, Szyldryn has hardened his heart and body. He has a very forceful personality and he’s hardy beyond mere words. In face of danger, Szyldryn is calm and focused: having been stranded on the brink of death on more than one occasion, he fears little any more. Once, he was quite the good-looking Gloaming, which is evident in his fine skin, although now damaged, and features. One thing that has caused endless confusion is the ring Szyldryn carries. It sits on his finger, always did, and it is quite impossible to remove it. It does not seem to have any effect – not that he could know, having no one to compare with. Even more strange is that his mother carried a ring just like it. Perhaps… but he doesn’t like to think about it.
He is not very proficient at combat, as one might notice. He carries no weapons, except for a small crossbow. Through his lacking muscle, and due to being hurt over the years, he has lost much of his former agility. How he manages to survive in such a hostile world is anyone’s guess.
Height: 3’1”
Weight: 30 lbs
Eyes: Blue-grey (cat-like)
Hair: Jet Black
Age: 14
Region: Gloaming
History:
How do you find strength to move on despite everything that is against you?
Szyldryn was hated. Always was. He would show up, someone would find out. Someone would grow suspicious. A small, hooded figure, with dark skin and strange looks. That couldn’t be good. What if it was a demon? So it would go on, until they openly resented him, and drove him off. Or worse. If there was anyone that would be even marginally hospitable, they refrained from such a course of action out of fear of being persecuted by the prejudiced ones. It was so demanding, he could not slack off for a second or someone could strike him.
“What? You again?! What are you doing here? I thought I killed you already!” yelled the man. The small, hooded creature laughed softly.
“I’m hard to kill,” he said, smiling in the darkness that was his cloak.
“You’re such a pest!”
Szyldryn clearly remembered all the events that had led to this: The human was some kind of racist, who revelled in killing all kinds of non-humans. Somehow he knew Szyldryn was travelling through the Mulhorand city. In a cowardly act, he had attacked Szyldryn in a dark alley. The human had cut him down, leaving him at death’s door. Szyldryn had only subconsciously been aware of his surroundings, but somehow he found the willpower to keep on fighting. No one helped a Gloaming, he knew. After an age had passed, he slowly opened his eyes, and the pain was all too eager to flow over him. He steeled himself, carefully sitting up against the nearby brick wall. His wounds were deep, and grievous, but he was calm as he saw the dark tendrils of death eating away at his vision.
Curtains close.
An infinite darkness stretched before him, and there was a chilling wind like no other. He instinctively knew he was dead. So it was then, he thought. It ends here. He felt he was being drawn somewhere. Being godless, he had no idea where he would go… He called out for guidance. Silence settled in but he felt no fear: it wasn’t like he’d lost anything. Nobody would miss him, that’s for sure.
Death is inevitable. You run from it, try to hide away your passion. The more you climb away from the pit, the easier it is to fall back down, becoming devoured, and destroyed by your attempt. Death is inevitable. The farther you run from it, the larger does the shadows become, the more insidious, threatening to eat way your soul, to sprite away what is you. Death is inevitable. One can save you; one can bring you back from the depths. One that will never be the same…
Suddenly Szyldryn felt a sting in his chest, and the feeling grew steadily, like a potion threatening to boil over. It was as if his body was being pulled backwards, ever faster, his soul fetched from the pit. Suddenly, that familiar, great pain came upon him, coming like an old friend for a long visit. It was as if a hundred spikes had suddenly pierced his entire being, driving in and out of his frail chest in a crazed attempt at mutilation. Choking, his body was gripped by a seizure, momentarily. Yes, his body… Feelings came rushing back, like a wild river of bliss! He was invigorated, energized, empowered, and a familiar feeling of self-confidence settled. Pictures came rolling in his mind, and soon it became a coherent stream: vision.
Curtains open.
He saw a man stand in front of him, chanting solemnly like a priest.
“That was… interesting,” Szyldryn groaned as he sat up. The man lost his concentration, and opened his eyes, looking down at the creature at his feet.
“Oh, perhaps I exaggerated the ritual a bit… Well, It’s good that you’re up again. I’d hate to see such a rare creature go to waste,” he said, and Szyldryn immediately noticed that familiar, power-hungry glow in his eyes.
“Oh, great. What do you need me for, human?” he said, spitting at the human’s feet, which the man promptly ignored.
“Ehh, nothing big… I just need a… hehehe, live sample,” he declared. He was clearly insane.
“How about ‘no’?” said Szyldryn confidently. He had been stripped of the few items he possessed, but he could always figure something out.
“Ahh, I don’t think so… Just come with me, I promise it will only hurt for a second…,” said the man with a soft, but crazy, tone.
“Look, I’ve already got things to do, places to be, people to kill! I don’t have time for some insane wizard,” Szyldryn shouted.
“I’m afraid you have no choice. I raised you, after all… It’ll just take a second to get a few pints of blood… and then…,” he said, as his words were trailing off and he began biting his nails, his eyes glazing over in some strange seizure. Szyldryn stood up from his bed and casually walked out through the door, as the man was deep in his… ‘thoughts’.
“Moron.”
So he went to search for the man that wronged him. He was *not* getting away with his wrongdoings. Szyldryn acted silently, asking around and putting a puzzle of clues. With a healthy amount of luck he managed pin down the subject of his ire. And now, he had him within his grasp…
“Pest? You cut me down in an alley and I was *this* close to staying down! And now, you’re the one getting punished, so defend yourself!” he yelled, and then he cast a spell, which completely took the man by surprise. He was roughly pushed backwards and violently slammed into the wooden wall of his home. The Gloaming seized the moment, flying forward as fast as he could. As the man was recovering from the blast, he was hit in the stomach hard, and stars filled his view.
“This is for attacking an innocent bystander!” Szyldryn said as he hit the man squarely in the face. “And this is for being a goddamned idiot!” “And this for being a racist!” “And this for… being ugly!” he said as he made the final blow. He landed on the man’s chest, reached up, and twisted his neck sharply, not being the type that enjoyed bringing prolonged pain to his enemies.
“Now, let’s see if you have anything of value, here,” Szyldryn mumbled to himself as he flied about the house, picking up some trinkets that seemed useful. There were a number of texts that told of some kind of underground network that worked to destroy pretty much anything that did not look like a human.
“I hope they meet the dragons,” Szyldryn chuckled.
Szyldryn was sitting in another dingy tavern, sipping the watery mead, thinking about the world, magic, and humans. He really didn’t want to hurt anyone, he reasoned. But the humans just *have* to act as if he is a demon all the time. It was tiring… He felt saddened because he had no friends, much less anyone to share his most intimate thoughts with. There were no other Gloamings that he knew of… His mother had died very early in his life, to some incurable disease… Perhaps he would inherit it and die, too. He had lived a few “good” years with his mother, though. Good, compared to the rest of his life. He only knows a single name she had: Carneria. She had taken care of him, fed him and taught him a few things. What their race was called and a few other facts. She also taught him two languages simultaneously: Draconic and Undercommon. Undercommon seemed logical enough to Szyldryn, but Draconic… Then she had died, and he still remembered how it had happened: she had been sick for a long while prior to that, and it was her ring… It had glowed ever stronger as she approached death. Then she died, and the ring’s glow faded. It was tied to her death, somehow.
But he was hardy. Szyldryn liked the phrase, “I’m hard to kill”. That was definitely true. During the last three decades, he had been kicked, stabbed, shot, burned, hanged, punched, chopped, sliced, slashed, hacked, pierced, punctured, incinerated, frozen, knocked out, nigh decapitated… He had not been struck with the ugly stick in a natural way, quite the opposite. But now he had lost much of his natural good looks, except for his face, which was more preserved with tattoos covering the few scars there. He drew back the sleeve on his arm to see a deep cut there. Luckily, he had an odd combination of persuasive powers, magic, smarts and extraordinary luck that helped him survive hordes of angry humans and others. Sometimes, he would stare in disbelief at the luck that seemed to follow him sometimes. It was during one of these days that he picked up Tymora, since he felt he owed much to his luck.
However, he was so tired, so tired of being hunted like an animal. He often had to hide his true self with magic… A prospect that did not entice him. One should not need to hide himself to keep from being killed, he thought.
He never really knew where his mother came from. He had been quite young when she died. However, he knew something: his skin burned like hellfire when he removed his cloak during the day. That meant that either, it was a side effect of his mother’s disease, or, it was something common to his race. But he could not figure out why their skin and bodies were so adapted to staying out of the light… But he was becoming more and more resilient to it as the years passed. Perhaps, one day, he would gaze at the sun, unfazed by its radiance… Or maybe not. However things developed, he had grown hardy during the years, both physically and mentally. Taunts meant little to him these days. He never gave up. Giving up would be cowardly, and agreeing that it's perfectly fine to attack people that look different. And Szyldryn can't stand for that. He fears little anymore.
One day...
Magic. Without it, Szyldryn knew well, he would be long dead. Magic has always been with him; he cannot remember starting to use it, he has simply always had it, used it. He knows a few spells, which are very handy, indeed. He finds them exceedingly useful, especially the Disguise Self incantation. It has saved his skin hundreds of times.
For now, he wanders the face of Faerûn, from his humble beginnings in Mulhorand, weak, friendless and with little gold to spare. He looks at other, more powerful magic-users with a burning desire to one day have that same power.
