Name:
Race:
Profession:
Magic: (2) Minor Spells, (1) Major Spell
Inventory: A weapon or two would be a good idea.
Description: 2 paragraphs max. Include things your companion travelers would notice about you.
Optional Questions: There are no wrong or right answers, and you may interpret questions as you please.
What is your characters crime?
Favorite poem?
What do you treasure most?
Given the choice, how would you die?

Name: Jhang Chao
Race: Human
Profession: Fighter (Rogue/Assassin)
Magic:
Minor Spells




Major Spell


Inventory:

* Shortsword named Xùnjié (Pronounced: Zoon-Gee) which has been enchanted to make its bearer 10% faster in the sword’s use. Xùnjié is crafted from the finest steel with a leather and fibrous black woven handle. It was a gift from the head of his Assassin’s Guild.
* four blackened steel daggers
* six blackened steel throwing knives
* 12 shuriken (throwing stars)
* set of black leather hand spikes (for climbing walls.)
* set of black foot claws (for climbing walls. Slips over footwear.)
* black studded leather jerkin with silver ornate markings.
* black studded leather vambraces match the jerkin ending at the elbow. At the tip of the elbow is a 3” spike prepared to produce damage if Chao delivers an elbow strike to an opponent.
* three-inch-wide black leather belt with the same ornate designs as on the jerkin and vambraces. * knee high form fitting soft leather boots.
* black silk leggings or bloomers
* black hooded cloak descending to the back of his knees
* black silk mask that covers his nose, mouth and chin area.
* dungeoneer’s pack containing a blanket, 25’ of rope, food, water and wine.
* thieves’ tools
* disguise kit
* signet ring of a minor noble
* a set of dark common clothes
* three belt pouches
* flint & tinder
* bit of bat fur
* piece of coal
* pouch of sulfur

Description:



Optional Questions:











Biography:

Name: Saoirse Lockwillow
Race: Human
Age: 31
Profession: Tinkerer and Treasure Hunter
Inventory: A pair of leather-bound spark-protective goggles with several magnifying lenses, a long gray scarf, a string necklace threaded with a dozen different keys, a tarnished necklace chain with a heavy compass pendant, a pair of nimble leather gloves, a ball of twine, a set of small wrenches, a set of small screwdrivers, a lockpicking kit, a set of pliers and tweezers, a set of needles and pins, a small ceramic bowl, an oil lantern and oil, several short candles, a small supply of chalk, a long hunting knife, a paring knife, a long rope, a supply of dried fish, several lidded jars, a canteen, a set of playing cards, a set of dice, a sturdy leather backpack.

Description:
Saoirse's scrappy stature and bright grin often get her mistaken for a child, which error she'll be quick to turn to her advantage. She's a practiced liar and storyteller when there's something she wants -- and there is always something she wants. The secrets of the world before the Obliteration -- the civilizations that created the automatons -- call to Saoirse out of the old ruins and the deep black forests. She is confident she will be the one to discover the lost techniques of the ancient tinkerers; she is, after all, willing to go where few in her field would dare.

At first glance, Saoirse is a boyish, quick little tinkerer with a mess of gray-brown hair and loose cotton clothes and hard leather boots suited for mountain-climbing and machine-clambering; the goggles, the key collection, and the burn marks on her hands and forearms confess her profession. She is nimble and strong, proud to show muscle gained from lifting heavy machinery, eager to demonstrate her getaway speed.

What is your character's crime?


Favorite poem?


What do you treasure most?


Given the choice, how would you die?

Name: Durandal, “Dali the Dream-Painter"*

Race: Ophidian

Profession: Bard

Age: 22, (mid thirties, in human years)

Magic:
Minor Spells
Hallucination- Causes a target to see and hear visions of Dali's choosing, so long as the target can hear Dali's voice or guitar. If the song or story is interrupted, or if the target is unable to hear Dali's voice or guitar, the spell is broken.

Pacification- Induces a target with extreme relaxation, to the point of incapacitation, so long as the target can hear Dali's voice or guitar. If the song or story is interrupted, or if the target is unable to hear Dali's voice or guitar, the spell is broken.

Major Spell:
The Epoch's Epic- An ancient magic exclusive to Ophidian Bards, passed from one bard to the next, generally from a master to an apprentice. Summons the spirits of dead Ophidian heroes and villains of lore to Dali's defense, serving as bodyguards or soldiers, or even as entertainment. Spirits last so long as Dali can hear his own voice or guitar. If he is unable to hear his own song or story or is interrupted, the spell is broken. Spell can only be cast once per week, with some situational exceptions, primarily regarding the blessing of a Holy Serpent. With that blessing, the spell can be cast as many times as desired for so long as the blessing is in effect, (requires proximity to the blesser).

Desription:
Tall, a good 6'1", covered in scales of varying shades of green, a coat of tropical camoflage. His tail is an additional 7'9", extremely long for his species, and though his family has a history of long tails, his surpasses all others. It is a point of pride for him, similar to phallic size for human males. His back bears a line of dark green and brown spikes, not for defense, but for both temperature sensitivity as well as a deeper interaction with the world's magnetic poles, giving him and his kin exceptional sense of direction, similar to the method birds use for migration. He generally wears an old brown duster coat and matching wide brimmed hat, simply for protection from the sun when he is too warm. He wears his guitar on his back, and his knife on the strap. His chain he keeps coiled around his arm, or tied onto his beaten leather rucksack. His claws are brown, some with a vein of white running through them, and are long and sharp on one hand and both feet. His left hand's claws are filed down, generally with a rock, so that he can play his guitar without breaking the strings. His eyes are almost always wide, the reptilian smile, and his head always cocked, a reptilian mannerism for curiosity, so eager is he to gather material for his life's all-important yet technically useless work.

Biography:
Durandal grew up in a large family, even by Ophidian standards. His brothers and sisters proved to be capable soldiers, mercernaries, bodyguards, hitmen, even some negotiators. All were important, all bore reasonably high social status. Dali was left in the dust, until he discovered his niche.

He began telling stories in the town square. First, just to other children. Then adults began to gather. Gradually, he had a daily crowd, buying him drinks, throwing money at him, into his vase, his lap, until he had become one of the wealthiest citizens in town, the envy of his siblings. His grandfather, the last bard his family had ever borne, was dying for most of Dali’s childhood. He gifted to Dali a guitar on his deathbed, saying “Storytelling ain’t a career. You wanna keep it up, be a bard. And a bard ain’t a bard without music.”

Dali took this to heart, earning him the nickname “Dream-Painter”*.

He coasted for years until his 22nd birthday, the same age his grandfather was when he got sick. He told a tale, to a great crowd on the outskirts of the empire, of a mighty emperor who oppressed his people. The people let him do it, for a long, long time. But one day, a small boy stood up against the Emperor's secret police, and his parents joined in. Soon, the whole village was in uproar against the tyrant. Then the city. Then, the empire. They overthrew the emperor and brought about an age of prosperity. Needless to say, the real emperor was not happy. It was time for a change anyway.

Dali now must undertake a journey, one he may not return from. But, even if he dies, one thing is for certain: it’ll be a damn good story.

Psychological Evaluation:
Dali, as he prefers to be called, is, plain and simply, a storyteller. He claims to be the last of a long line of Ophidian royalty, a prince among lizards. He claims to be able to weave magic spells with his guitar and his stories, conjuring up otherworldy gods and conversing with them. He claims to have once slain a troll with a song.

In the end, he is not a liar. He is a storyteller, and that is the key difference. A liar deserves guilt for their deception. For a storyteller, skilled deception is not only part of the job, but the job. Dali is not a fighter, but he can scrap with the best, earning him a nickname in his hometown: “Dali the Dream-Bringer”. Preferring to be known for his stories, he spread that his nickname was “Dream-Painter, and now no one agrees what it started as. Clearly, he has a flair for not only the telling of a story, but the story itself. After all, as he often says, “Story’s only as good as the journey that made it.”

Dali’s interests include: Laying out in the sun, playing songs, telling stories, eating, and laying out in the moonlight.
Equipment:

Black Ironwood Acoustic Guitar, custom made, egg shaped body, diamond-shaped sound hole, brown leather sling. The guitar is well-built and strong enough to deflect blows if need be, or even be used as a shield, if it came to it.

Three empty scrolls for recording stories and songs that were particularly good. Each is in its own leather pouch.

15 ft. Chain whip, barbed tri-point grappling hook on the end for combat and traversal, generally tied with leather string onto Dali's rucksack or coiled around his arm. He is skilled with it both as a weapon and a method of climbing. The hook's great weight allows the tool to be used like a barbed flail, and the long chain gives it great range.

Rucksack, primarily filled with fruit and dried meats, also containing a box of 35 34 matches, a little flint firestarter, and a little clay tube pipe and cleaning kit. He also carries with him a magnifying glass, in the event that he runs out of everything else.

Folding polished steel mirror, for sunbathing. He also uses it sometimes as a tray when rolling one of his cigars.

A bag of birdseed, as songbirds make very good snacks. His birdseed can also attract mice fairly well.

Quadruple-sized Water Sack, as a reptilian is quite prone to dehydration on the road. This is his heaviest possession, next to his guitar.

A pouch of seeds, from a variety of fruit trees. He plants them as he walks, and always extracts the seeds from any fruit he eats.

Ophidian ceremonial knife, given, as per tradition, on his twelfth birthday, his first day of adulthood. He has carried this with him for ten years. It is half serrated, with a ‘Dragon’s Tooth’ curved tip, designed for hooking, slashing, and gouging. It also makes an excellent carving knife and fruit peeler, as Dali has found.

A pouch of herbs, which he rolls into accompanying leaves and smokes as cigars when relaxing or entertaining. They are petals from a secret flower that grows only in the Empire. It is a commonly smoked herb among Ophidians for spiritual purposes, and is known to induce relaxation and euphoria, even in humans. He carries also a larger bag in the bottom of his rucksack from which he refills his pouch.

Goals:
He desires to return home with the greatest story ever told, an epic to be resung for centuries. He believes that this will grant him true immortality: a legacy.
Dislikes:
Birds of prey, predatory fish, eating birds of prey or predatory fish, hecklers

What is your crime?
"I am no criminal. My only crime is bringing hope, inspiration, angst, fear or sadness, depending on the demographic.
Your most treasured item?
"My tail, undoubtably. My brother lost his, and I am terrified."
Your favorite poem?
"Something I wrote a long time ago. Hang on, it's in here somewhere. Nope. Ah well. I'll find it later."

How would you like to die?
"In any way that would reach my family. Especially if it's shocking or horrifying. Bonus score if I also die heroically."

Special Notes: Dali is a conduit, as have been every bard in his family's lineage, for an Old God known as Zsaakeo/Frmeidr. In the throes of his passion, the God is known to take hold of his body in order to interact with the living people. He is not aware of this fact, nor is he ever likely to notice it. In fact, he believes that he was abandoned by his god, when he was exiled. His grandfather never knew, his great-grandmother never knew, and his great-great-great grandfather never discovered it either. Unlike his ancestors, however, Dali's faith is pristine. Despite his belief that Zsaakeo no longer hears him, he prays often, on many occasions using his prayer to work his magic. Little does he know, the prayer amplifies his power, allowing Pacification to become potentially lethal, and Hallucination to be potentially permanent. This is an extremely rare occasion, generally requiring that Dali be under threat of imminent death for Zsaakeo to intervene. When Zsaakeo does intervene, Dali seems to become a shadow-lizard, growing several feet taller and sprouting six other arms and two other heads. Those who have seen this attest to extremely disturbing images flashing through their minds, almost too quickly to fully register. Almost.

Zsaakeo has taken Dali's body on only two occasions, once as a child, once at the Squished Fish. Though he was in no danger at the Squished Fish, the specific notes he played called to his god. And Zsaakeo always watches over the faithful.

Frequent Quotes:

"Sure as scales"

"Walloped"

"Snorf Snorf"

"Caterpillars are delicious/ taste incredible/ gotta find me some caterpillars/ caterpillar-good"

"Wanna hear somethin' crazy?"

"If I had an inch for every _______ ___ _______, my tail could be its own snake."

"I got a song for that."

"You ever wonder if ________."

"That tastes awful. Really awful."

"Go on, eat it."

"You'll never know unless you try it."

"Wanna hear a stupid story? Your career. Slap."

"Snakes talk funny."

Intro Description:
As Dali rounded over the hill, he heard his father in the back of his head, past all the songs, and the story he was making up specifically for an automaton audience. "How're you gonna sssurvive? Gonna sssing sssongsss all your life? How ya gonna find a mate? Tellin' ssstoriesss? No girlsss' gonna think you could protect her! Or her brood! Embarrasssssment! Now you've ssshamed the family in front of the emperor! Get your thingsss! You no longer have my name. Leave! EXsssILE!"

Deep down, he remembered how the guards had waited for him outside. He'd collected his things. His entire collection of worldly possessions could fit on his back. He'd always done everything he could for the family, given all his water-rations and money to his home, to be doled out to his younger siblings. He remembered all of this, and the way his father had shouted at him. And all his high and mighty brothers and sisters and all their holier-than-thou mates and their perfect little children-

Of course! He thought. Automatons love tragedies! That's it! Grumblers like them, too, right? I can never tell. The sun was just reaching its peak, so Dali removed his hat. There was a lone dead tree and a big, flat rock on the hill. Just perfect.

He lay on the flat rock, carefully folding his coat, and placing his hat on it. His rucksack went on top of that, only on his hat's brim, to hold it down, but not to crumple it. He sighed as a slight breeze rolled in, but otherwise, the air was still. Not a cloud in the sky. Absolutely perfect. He tugged a pouch out of his rucksack, a soft little brown thing, packed with fluffy herbs and dry leaves. He gently removed a leaf, careful not to rip it, and folded it in his left hand, making sure to keep his claws out of the picture. He passed it to his right hand, and pulled out a little pinch of herbs, sprinkling them into the paper in a gradual line. Needed a little more. Satisfied, he extends a long, forked tongue, and places the leaf's edge just between his tongue-tendrils, leaving a line of sticky saliva soaking into the leaf's surface. He tucked the dry edge underneath, and rolled a tight cone, just enough airflow, with practiced technique.

He slipped a little box of matches from his bag, and with surgical precision, extracted a single match with his claws. He put the cigar in his mouth and tasted the leaf. Sssweet. He rubbed his left hand's claws on the rock with great vigor, filing them down flat, before gripping the match head in between them and squeezing.

KKZZZZkksshh!

He puffed gently as his cigar caught the flame. Sweet lemon-pine smoke filled his mouth and nostrils. He inhaled deeply, and coughed a bit. Sure as scales, this is nice. He took up his guitar and began to strum simple chords, just enjoying the sun on his scales.

C- C- C- G- G- G- Am- Am- Am- G- C- C- C- G- Em- Am
He was high up, on a hill over a hill over a flat mountain, and the mist below filled the valley like water. A thin wooden bridge, a snake of splinters and nails, serves as the road beyond. Make a good start for a story. 'In the company of friends, high on a hilltop above a sea of mist, where black shadows dance around green lights at midnight, the road ahead stretches far, a serpent with no end. But there is an end, yes, and it is more terrible than any of us could have imagined.' "Oh yeah." He says to no one in particular. "That's good."

Sample Passages:

• The fire was hot, and bright. It lit gaunt shadows across the face of every listener. Dali's face became a lantern, lit by the cherry on his cigar while he spun his ancient magic. The crickets chirped, and a distant murmur floated on the wind, the mass whispering of the Grumblers in the valley. His claws clicked on his guitar strings as he played a slow, sad and steady tune, a melody that evolved quickly from melancholy to sinister in the darkness. Fireflies glowed in the distance, fairy lights that lent credence to his story. The group leaned in, pacified, dark shadows growing smaller in the light cast by the flames. The little ring of rocks around their small campfire cast darkness into their laps where they sat. It all came together into a little world of darkness where the only inhabitants were these pale faces and everything that lay beyond was alive, the hallucinogenic unknown.
  
  Dali spoke softly, and they leaned in close to hear.
  "Many deny the existence of pure evil. They say it is subjective. They say that without an entity to represent evil, its qualities cannot be truly defined. Yet, we can identify evil when we see it. That is because evil does, in fact, have a manifestation. In these very hills. The Grumblers have seen it. You can still hear its name if you listen to their nonsense closely enough. It's all they ever talk about." Something rustled in the brush below the hill. The whispering in the valley seemed to grow louder.
  
  "It has no face, but is the face of everyone you've ever known. Just for cruelty's sake. Those who know of It live in terror, of seeing It in the mist, of hearing It, calling their name." A voice rang out below the hill, but the sound of the Grumblers in the distance drowned out its words. "They fear death. But it is not death that It brings." There were soft, slow footsteps coming up the side of the hill, crunching on old leaves and dry brush. "It has long, thin arms, for reaching deep into hiding places. Its skin is black as tar, and its feet have long talons, like a vulture." Something black fluttered into the tree above, then, in an instant, it was gone. "They can rend a man's soul from his body. But It cares little for your soul. It stands tall as a tree, and thin as Death himself." The old dead tree groaned and leaned, but there was no wind. "And sometimes, it calls a name. When it calls your name, you have no choices. There is only to obey. You have no choice. Your legs will walk, and your mouth will scream, but you can make no sound. Your eyes will roll back in your head when you behold It. Description can give It no justice." Dali stood, and his voice grew louder and louder, his song's tempo increasing, a deep crescendo. "Your heart will jump to action, faster and faster and faster and FASTER AND FASTER AND FASTER until you can take no more. Your brain will turn to jelly, and your mind, your mind will scream as it peels you apart from the soul up. You will feel everything. You will feel every memory it reaps, every lost love it devours, every childhood nightmare it dredges up." The whispering rose to a dull roar in the background, maddening white noise.
  
  "And you will weep. You will weep for everything you've lost, and more, for everything you've learned.
  
  Well, The End! Good night!"
  
  Dali tugged his coat over him, and rolled onto his stomach, kicking out his arms and legs and letting loose a satisfied sigh.
  
  Notes:
  
  Currently at Squished Fish, waiting to play a show, sitting with Chao and Saiorse. Hungover. Has acquired an Erstwhile coin.
  
  About to sit up, greet the two newcomers, wonder at the wizard, order a drink, and have to chug said drink as his show starts.
  
  Just completed his show, ran out to follow Chao and Chama
  
  Challenged Chama, currently laying on the ground, avoiding swift death, and praying desperately.

@Goldeagle1221

Name: “Sir Cole Crumb” or just Cole to his friends
Race: Human
Profession: “fighter”
Magic: Who needs it, amirite
Inventory: A noble’s arming sword and shield, a rich fitted dagger, back pack of toiletries and rations, waterskin, hidden purse, hauberk and bloodied/burned tabard over rich clothes, inconspicuous pocket purse of torque wrenches and lock picks amid other breaking in gadgetries.
Description:

Tall and athletic if not on the slightly thin side, he is a stone cut example of a hero. With piercing chestnut eyes and long sandy hair he looks like he crawled out of a story for better or worse. He wears a charming grin that might even be seen as devilish. He is clean shaven and bears the accent of the poor, but bears it with a pride that almost emulates confidence.

He wears a noble's outfit of red and blues under a shining hauberk and a singed tabard that lays evidence to his many deeds often sung about in his brother’s tales.

Silver tongued and always quick in a conversation. Often found laughing with his brother who shares his quickness for a joke.


The Lie
Sir Cole and his brother are mighty heroes of poem and prose. Having fought many abominations and saved many a settlement, they are something of a legend, particularly Sir Cole, whom the many poems tell tale about.

They go from town to town, saving the day and mingling with the many fans. Often they are invited to lavish feasts and noble halls. Sir Cole is quite the shining knight, and his brother quite the master minstrel!

The Reality

Expert Con-men, the two Crumb brothers grew up as urchins, where they learned the great art of robbing people blind in all sorts of fashions, their favorite being the silver tongued method. One such con got them in trouble with a local knight, an Old man whose name is lost in time by now. Luckily the man was compassionate and hired the two as pages in his troup. Cole being an hour older than Charlie was taken as the knight’s squire and taught many knightly things and skills, while his brother continued his quest of music that had started many a year ago.

Eventually and rather quickly actually, the old knight keeled over one day and cracked his head open on a passerby rock. The two con-teens at the time took this to their advantage and stole the old knights gear and crafted the tale of the hero Sir Cole Crumb, beginning their long journey of lies and sweet undeserved rewards. After all, why use the talents and gear bestowed upon them for heroic activities when it is so much easier to just say you did?

Optional Questions:
What is your character’s crime? -- Liar, cheat, illiteracy, and other high crimes and misdemeanors.
Favorite poem? -- Those written by his brother
What do you treasure most? -- Treasure
Given the choice, how would you die? -- Dunno how but the day his brother dies is the when
-------------------------

@Solamelike

Name: Charlie Crumb
Race: Human
Profession: Bard
Magic: None
Inventory: Lute, Harmonica,blow dart gun (looks like a flute), Small fold knife, lockpick set, 10 feet of rope, tinderbox, Rapier.

Description:
A cheerful man, making light out of any situation.
Average Height, Slightly underweight, with brown eyes and dirty blonde scruffy hair.
Wears a poncho which covers most of his upper body, underneath reveals scraps of leather and belts that could in a pinch be classified as “armour”, and traditional shirt and pants. The most striking part of his outfit would either be his hat, a wide brimmed stetson, or his leather boots that look like they are worth more than his entire ensemble of items and clothing put together.

Optional Questions:
What is your characters crime?
Liar, cheat, and other high crimes and misdemeanors.

Favorite poem?
Sir Cole Crumb
Sir Cole Crumb of dashing fame!
Sir Cole Crumb dragons he maims!
Sir Cole Crumb gets all of the dames
Sir Cole Crumb we love you!

Who defeated the monsters of the east?
Sir Cole Crumb! Sir Cole Crumb!
Who stopped the wretched horrible beasts?
Sir Cole Crumb! Sir Cole Crumb!
Who will you invite to your feasts?
Sir Cole Crumb! Sir Cole Crumb!
Sir Cole Crumb we love you!

What do you treasure most?
My boots… oh and my brother I suppose.

Given the choice, how would you die?
Side by side with his brother