Sen was born to a single parent, deep within the lands of the Tembloran Coalition. Her mother, Ruuga, was an Orc, and her departed father - as far as her mother had explained - was too. Except, he was different. He was weretouched. This, fortunately, had little effect on Sen's young life. Growing up in a small town in the Tembloran lands was a treacherous feat enough in itself. From wandering groups of tribalistic bandits, to lumbering creatures born of the surrounding swamps, everyone fought for their lives at some point.
Especially Sen.
Despite her mother's cautions, Sen was an overly-explorative spirit. She was always itching to go out into the treacherous swamp lands, or wherever she could set her eyes upon, and see what she could face. This led to many encounters with creatures and dangers that a single person would have little hope of overcoming -- but Sen was resourceful. She'd, somehow, always manage to escape - even if battered.
But a adventurous soul was not always for the best. On one of her many fledgling-journeys, she narrowly escaped her pursuer, proud of the skills she had acquired over the years. But escape is not what she did. In truth, she only managed to lead the wicked creature back to her village, where its true strength was realized.
It ravaged the town entirely, and in the chaos, Sen's mother was slain.
It took years for Sen to come to terms with the death of her mother, and even still she is haunted by it. But there is no use in simply sulking. She wanted to make sure something like that wouldn't happen to innocent people any longer. So, she joined the Red Wraiths.
I also must admit that I can't get over how good Benzaiten's sheet layout is, compared to mine. I'm considering swapping to such a format as well, because mine is a mess ^^'
I've got an idea for a zealot barbarian, and pending DM discretion maybe a gunslinger fighter. Most likely will get my rolls up here soon and use them for either or.
Most likely going to roll up a Spirits Bard, Dream / Spore Druid, or Redemption / Watcher Paladin. Wildest build I'm least confident on is an Artificer of some sort. Should have a better idea tonight or tomorrow.
Current DnD Character Sheet HERE. Went with College of Spirits Bard since I've never tried that out before, and I like the idea of a haunted archaeologist/mercenary who tells ghost stories and strums haunting melodies by the fire.
Name: Haelion Vae du Magna'mearah Age: 28 Gender Male Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual Race: Genasi (Air) Class: Cleric, Life ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Backstory
Haelion is a Prince of the Skies, the noble lineage he belongs to stretches far back from the early pages of history, but you'd likely not heard of him unless you're keeping up with the Genasi Royalty. Yet as with all Air Genasi they have the tendency to wander. To explore. To drift on the currents and getting involved in the schemes of the children of other races. Haelion himself, was challenged by one the mewling Gods claiming that he would not be able to understand the hardships of those lesser than him. That he had ne’er walked one mile in their shoes. Disregarding the preposterous notion that he Haelion Vae due Magna’mearah had no sense of compassion, he claimed that if this God found it so horrible, then why not alter fates. After all, Gods were supposed to have the power to do that. After getting a lecture about the intricate innerworkings of the law of ‘Free Will’ Haelion had waved the issue aside claiming that was a poor excuse of not wanting to get one’s hands dirty. It was at this moment however when the clever trickster of a god sprung its trap. After all, if Haelion knew better, then why not offer a demonstration. He would beget some of the God’s powers and cultivate them and whilst he wandered he could show his delicate touch regarding matters of fate, or in this case Life & Death. Perhaps it had been the Summerwine, perhaps Haelion had been too careless, but in his lapse of judgement he had agreed upon the terms….and found himself transported…transported to a temple. In this particular temple there was one of the most horrible persons ever to have existed. A ancient old bat called the Mother Superior. A hag to be sure, wielding her threats with a smile, loving all manner of creatures except him it seems. Slavedriver. That was what she was. He should have smited her there and then…but he had a nasty suspicion that even Death himself rather stayed far away from the tiniest of grannies. Thus the Noblest of Princes was pushed into a Healer’s role, forced to start with the poorest of the poor. His pristine, lilywhite hands were put to work. Surrounded by all the filthiest orphans, he scrubbed all of them clean, upon instructions of the Mother Superior. He was then ordered to give out soul cakes, basically hard stale bread that was deemed enough for the poor to live on. If he ever wanted to break all his teeth all at once, then he would try and eat one of those. He did like the part where they shook down people for money, although he was told not to threaten the miscreants, he learned that the old bat had a trick or two up her sleeve as well, she might not threaten them, but she certainly could guilt them into giving. The granny had it down to a fine art. Now after cleaning up the dredges of the city, she send him out in to the world, to heal the hurting and to help the needy… And so he went. He would grow more powerful and bring forth a better world. Also as a bonus he would ultimately put that lousy god in its place, maybe he would even supplant it. Haelion Vae du Magna’mearah…The God of Life, The Merciful.
Wrapping up the sheet on mythweavers and just rolled hp gaining an extra 16+4con for the level ups to level 3. Decided to go with a bronze dragonborn gunslinger/fighter. Just gotta find a good Bronze dragonborn portrait I like.
Quantaro's origin, parents, and childhood is something the Shadar Kai has not spoken about to anyone, no matter how much some have tried to ply it out of him. The only thing known is his origin in the academic circles of the Lonthinn Empire. He wasn't particularly rich or well connected, instead earning his way into academia through perseverance and a desire for knowledge. He wasn't interested in unraveling the arcane or controlling magic like most academics. Instead, Quantaro was interested in things old and strange: relics, trinkets, and oddities were his focus. Quantaro would assist on small expeditions and research in the field of archeology, doing his best to earn a name for himself among his peers. But after a rather harrowing trip into an older ruin and the recovery of a strange medallion, Quantaro seemed changed.
The once respectable academic began speaking to himself often, in empty rooms. Candles would go out in his presence, and Quantaro seemed to know things he should have no knowledge of. Nearly twenty years ago, Quantaro had lost most of his friends and reputation among those of status within the Empire. Around 10-15 years ago, it was clear that he sought fame among a rather different crowd. Quantaro was frequenting the taverns in Scithia. Despite his pale skin and predominantly black clothing, he was a well-liked man, smart and determined. Scithian mercenaries often found themselves joined by the strange traveling elf, who would sing them songs and tell stories of beasts and monsters and wars from ages past. His peculiarities remained: private conversations with no one present, and the strange magic he seemed to possess. After some time, his spooky appearance and strange magic earned the elf the nickname "Tarrot." He didn't mind: a name like that was catchy and memorable.
Tarrot took an interest in the surge of arcane fluxes, and this interest naturally has brought Tarrot to an accord with the Red Wraiths. The traveling Bard was more than happy to help fill out its ranks while searching for some sort of answer or connection regarding these incidents. After all, if Tarrot and allies could piece together this mystery... well, even Quantaro's old peers would have to recognize his accomplishments!
Xernoa. Land of cold and hot. Barren and lonely. Xernoa. Accursed land. Rent asunder by arcane chaos. Xernoa. Home. Forevermore unattainable.
Wander was born to a south-eastern Xernoa village existence. A feeble child, sustained by the desperation of a mother and the fraying diligence of a father. Whilst the mother scrambled to make ends meet to care for a sickly child, to whom death whispered in the nights, the father toiled in the fields for a meagre crop. He did as his father had done and his father before him, for what else was there in this land for an honest man to do? They were not warriors, nor merchant-folk, and the suspicions of their neighbors were hard-pressed to find fault in the Kenku community of the village.
The crop was weak. Weaker than usual, at least, and the father was pushed to wit's end. The night's were long, the cold of winter deep and malicious, and in the howling winds of the night dangers whispered from far away. The Prairies made for poor farmland, the frosts made the harvest year short, and the wildlife made the people hard.
Wander's earliest memory is of his father's decaying sanity, strained by the hardships of his upbringing. By the time Wander could talk, he had witnessed his father awake late into the night with ink and quill working at parchment. Words flowed from the farmer-bird like a torrent of endless muse, and the sight of it had inspired Wander with a dreadful and terrible desire.
The next morn, as father went to market (secreting away his scrawlings amongst the harvest) and his mother gathered with the womenfolk to do the laundry, Wander lit a candle and unrolled one of the scarce sheets of parchment his family possessed. Secreting his father's quill and ink, excitement burned within the Kenku as the limitless possibilities of storycraft bloomed within his mind...
He set quill to parchment. And it was like this, ink dripping onto the page, Wander's body frozen in a rigid and motionless state as his eyes bored into the page as if seeing the core of the world beyond it and the floor and the earth itself, that his mother returned that afternoon. He had remained motionless there for hours, screaming at his body to move, to write even just the first word of the dream he bore.
A Kenku boy awoke one morn Wings no longer torn The Fates gaze forlorn- No more! Their eyes a-shine and a-gleam As Kenku boy danced upon tower's beam Wings a-flutter and a-feather chained by his terrestrial tether- No more! The sky itself would be his home Darkness and cold would be forgone The sun itself would gaze ere long- Upon the Kenku boy's heralding song.
The words, so clear and burning bright within his mind, turned to mush and fled his body as he translated thought to action. He worked himself into a frenzy, feathers soaked in sweat and frayed from maddening effort, as he tried every trick he could conceive. Start with one letter? His mind knew he meant to form the words, and something deep and rooted halted him there. Jumble the words? That worked, a page of meaningless words was his reward. Change the words? No, no, that doesn't work-
As his mother's hand rested upon his shoulder, he wept. In her embrace he felt her weeping as well- as any mother would, when she witnessed her child's first true encounter with the curse of his people. The voiceless existence had by now come natural to the Kenku; the flightlessness become a dream and ambition to chase...
But the Divine Curse of Creation plagued them still. No less in Wander's case. The desire, the inclination, to create art- to produce inspiration and muse- to go beyond their station and express their creativity in its truest form!- was forever unattainable. He wept in his mother's arms, and perhaps the fates saw fit to guide him on that day to another life. One within his grasp. For, on that day, the day he wept over the plight of his ancestors and the plight that would some day belong to his children's children...
The world ripped asunder in the center of Dalhurst, the village he called home near the border with the myriad unclaimed lands. The screams he heard, the chaos he witnessed, and the everchanging world he barely escaped would change him and bestow upon him a countenance most severe. Witnessing the arcane chaos grip his mother- seeing feathers turn to scales then back again in an instant, seeing the kind and frightened woman suddenly beset by a dark creature who rose from the shadows- pushed him into despair. Despair into terror. Terror into the wilderness.
And it was in the wilderness that Wander survived for the next several years. This time of his life was formative, and filled with the petty dangers of wild lands and harsh predators, but also with the hopeful growths of the feeble into the capable, and the childish into the mature. He never returned to the ruins of Dalhurst, instead he made his trade as a guide and naturalist through the cold lands of Xernoa. He could move as shadow, stand as still as stone, and in the wild places he felt, after years of fear and terror, at home at last. His dealings with the cities were in the shadows of their walls, in the light of the moon, and in the company of smugglers and thieves whose trades he learned well.
But it was when he witnessed the Red Wraiths at work that the Fates smiled upon him yet again and dictated that he change his path once more. Whilst carrying forged documents- as he came to learn his father had before him- through to the Xernoan border keep of Ifracombe on behalf of a smuggler caravan he got to witness the wrath of Runaish firsthand. Algonne had long ruled his life, spiting and cursing Wander, but on this auspicious day of days he saw a path where, just maybe, that young child inside him who never got to truly have a childhood could dream of spreading wings once more.
Ifracombe stood fast, the landscape around it shifting and changing as another swelling of Arcane Chaos gripped the lands. Wander raced to the shadow of its walls, seeking the safety of its shelter. The gates opened- but not to let him in. Sallying out came the Red Wraiths. Wander cowered, seeking refuge within the walls- but he witnessed them in action that day. Slaying foebeast, braving the warping world- and emerging, wounded but alive, with peace restored. The balance maintained...
Discovered by the guard of the fortress, he was searched. His forgeries discovered. And his punishment decided- but through the mercy of the Red Wraiths, he was given another choice. Stay and face dungeon rot in this barren border keep, or put his skills to use in service of a higher power and a greater purpose. He had, apparently, impressed them with his ability to survive in the wilds alone and the tenacity with which he sought survival whilst in the chaotic storm.
