The Gates of Hell opened twenty years ago, and all the world is covered in darkness. The streets of proud cities ran with blood, and humble villages were burned to ash. Men and women in their countless thousands were cruelly abused, worked to death as thralls or tortured endlessly for the amusement of Demon-Lords. Some resisted, but the King of Hell had laid his plans well and all who stood against his legions fell. Everywhere hope died.
Everywhere but here. In the rough highlands of the Silverpeak Mountains, a small remnant survived in relative peace and freedom. But all is not well. Even here the corrupting hand of evil is at work. The land withers, albeit slowly, and no children are born to replace the aging generations that first fled here. Something must be done, and soon, if the hope that has sustained this place is to survive against the gathering gloom.
The evening sun shone brightly through the stained glass windows set in the western wall, spreading a riot of dazzling color across the stones of the chapel floor below. Sinuous columns marched along the nave toward the high altar, where a fuming censer filled the air with the heavy smell of incense. Beside it was a golden vessel, filled with the ritual libation. It should properly have been wine, but the monastery cellars had been emptied of that years ago. Mead from the village of Whimble would have to do.
Osric hoped the gods were not offended by the substitution. He paused in his silent prayer and glanced upward, over his shoulder. The dome above the transept was painted a dark blue, spangled with starbursts of gold. Along its rims were the gods: Merciful Omida, the sagely god-man, dressed in tattered robes; Gashana, the beautiful Handmaid of the Queen; Garash her brother, mighty captain of Heaven's host; Harran the Herald, the bearer of messages to men. Others too were there, but above them all, among the glittering stars that were her handiwork, was Her. The Queen of Heaven, the Mother Above, looking down upon him in – what? Judgment? Forbearance?
The gears turned madly in Osric's mind. Surely the gods could not blame them, when wine was simply not available. But perhaps, on the other hand, they had just not tried hard enough to establish a vineyard. It might be that the grape vines might have taken to the soil, if they had just found the right place. Yet... and so on, ad nauseam. He often became lost in his thoughts when he contemplated divine matters. He was so preoccupied, in fact, that he failed to hear the footsteps approaching him from the chancel.
“You know very well that incense is only to be used for high holidays. It's much too dear, now, to be squandered on personal prayer.”
The rebuke was gently spoken by a familiar voice. Osric turned and rose, bowing his head in submission.
“I am sorry, Father. I needed guidance.”
“I expect you did, my son.” Father Superior Robert's wizened face cracked, ever so slightly, into a knowing smile, “As would I have. I do not blame you, though I think Brother Maynard will be rather upset at your indiscretion.”
Osric hadn't thought of that. He frowned, and began to walk up the steps toward the altar. “I will snuff it out at once, and return whatever hasn't been burned.”
A curt gesture from the elder man stopped him in his tracks before he had made it halfway. “I will see to that. You should have started for the village already. The Assembly will be waiting for you.”
“Of course,” Osric said, nodding, “I will go at once. Thank you, Father.”
But Robert interrupted him again. “You have quite made up your mind?”
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation, “I will go.”
The old man glanced briefly up at the dome that had so stupefied his young counterpart before nodding thoughtfully. “I am glad you are so steadfast. You will be carrying all our hope out of these mountains with you, you and whomever you can convince to join you. The road ahead will be difficult, but...” he sighed, shaking his head, “Ah, but you should be off. We will speak again soon. You are dismissed, my son.”
Osric forced a smile and bowed his head, before turning and scurrying down the nave with all the dignity he could muster. Despite his bravado, he was terrified.
The westering sun was sinking fast. The village green was shadowed by the monastery on the heights above. Torches had been driven into the ground at regular intervals, and their light illuminated more people than Osric had ever seen in his life. Everyone from each of the seven villages must have turned out. Men and women stood all over the green in clumps and knots, drinking and talking and smoking valley-weed from wooden pipes. He could hear the din of their merrymaking from the time he had passed the outer wall of the monastery.
It was hardly surprising that so many would come. Even without knowing what he intended, they would have guessed it was important. The members of the Order of Holy Wisdom had the right to call a General Assembly, though in twenty long years they had never bothered. To do so now, with rumors flying about as they were, was sure to stoke curiosity.
A hush fell over the crowd, though, as he approached, a handful of his fellow monks and nuns following behind him as a sort of escort. The Elder of Saint Antonia, Godwin, called unnecessarily for order and gestured grandly at a rickety old stool. It must have been carried out from The Gray Maiden, the local inn. Osric was glad for the extra height; he was shorter by nearly a head than most other men, and he needed every advantage he could get. He stepped gingerly up to his ad hoc platform and cleared his throat.
He felt every eye upon him, and was glad that the long sleeves of his habit hid his hands. He could feel them shaking as the other Wisdomites formed a semicircle behind him. None of them spoke, nor would they. This task was his alone.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said at last, “I am Brother Osric – ”
“What?!” Shouted one old-timer, several rows back, “What did he say?”
“All this ado about about meeting at once, and they send us a little boy?” Snickered a woman nearer to the front.
Osric felt his face flush, and silently thanked Heaven. Anger coursed through his heart, and anger always gave him courage. He drew up one arm and pointed slowly in a wide arc at the outer fringes of the crowd. Most of the villagers turned to look, gazing upon the empty space in surprise. He spoke loudly, his voice hard with conviction.
“In days gone by, there would have been scores, even hundreds of children playing there. Now there are none. Hell has taken that from you, you who laugh and smile as if all were well.”
There were no snide remarks now. No one spoke at all, as far as Osric could hear. The only sound was the low moaning of the autumn breeze, and the boughs of the nearby trees sighing. He went on.
“By now, most of you know that a knight passed our borders a fortnight ago and came to the Monastery. Despite all our efforts he is dead now, worsted by infernal blades, and may he be reborn upon the Starry Field. He came not only seeking healing, but also to commend unto the keeping of my order a holy relic. After much careful study, we are confident that it is the Cup of Woe.”
There was much murmuring at this, and well there would be. The Cup of Woe was the very vessel that had borne the poisoned wine that had slain Omida himself, the only son of the Queen of Heaven. It was a relic without equal, and one believed lost long ago. Osric raised his hands, calling silently for silence.
“We are blessed indeed to have the Cup, but not all is well. Before he died, its bearer informed us that he was being followed along the road –”
“Is there something wrong with the Barrier?” interrupted someone in the crowd. Concern was evident in the voice, and nervous muttering rippled through the assembly.
“No, no,” Osric said, shaking his head, “the Barrier is as strong as ever. But if our departed visitor was followed to the borders of these lands, it may only be a matter of time before the Demon-Lords know of our presence here. The fragile peace we have long enjoyed stands in jeopardy, but with vigilance and faith we shall yet prevail over the darkness.”
He had hoped his words would reassure the villagers. But they had rather the opposite effect. In an instant many were on the edge of panic, talking over one another and beseeching Heaven for aid. Godwin and the other village elders were all shouting, attempting to restore order. The whole gathering looked likely to degenerate into a frenzied stampede.
Osric watched helplessly for a moment, before exhaling sharply and clapping his hands together. A sound like thunder roared over the green. He extended his arms skyward and an eerie light appeared overhead, ghostly pale against the deepening darkness. In a moment it coalesced into a great chalice, sized for a giant. Aside from the healing arts, such glorified parlor tricks were all Osric knew of magic. Still, it very much got their attention, so he went on speaking.
“The coming of the Cup of Woe has brought us to the edge of terrible danger, and yet this event may prove to be our salvation. My brothers and sisters of the Order have been searching through the Book of Dreams, the Book of Wisdom, and the other holy texts for answers. We may have one.”
He paused, though not for dramatic effect. He was coming to the point, and was terribly nervous about how his plan might be received. He glanced back for the first time at the faces of his fellow Wisdomites. Something in their stolid silence gave him the will to continue.
“Saint Antonia herself said that the days of this world would not end so long as the Cup of Woe remained in its rightful place of honor in ancient Aldren Priory. That this prophecy was uttered by the patroness of our own monastery, by the namesake of this very village in which we stand tonight; such a thing could not possibly be a coincidence. It is the will of Heaven, the will of Our Mother Above! She has given us a sign, we are not abandoned! There is hope yet!”
He broke off briefly, near to rapture, breathing heavily. After a moment he went on again.
“I have called you here to inform you of my intention: I will return the Cup of Woe to its proper place. I will go alone if I must, but first I ask if any here assembled will join me in this quest. I will not lie; the road is long, and doubtless filled with danger. Few who have left these valleys have returned. No, alas, we are not assured of victory, only that victory is possible. But what other choice do we have? Shall we wait, as the earth withers, slowly starving? Shall we meekly cower, praying only that we remain hidden for another year, another season?
“I ask again: Has anyone here the courage, the faith, the will to do what must be done?”
His last words spoken, Osric bowed his head and fell quiet. He had made his play, and there was nothing to do now but see how his plan was received.
Sorry about the long-winded intro. So, you have volunteered. You will accompany the Cup of Woe to its rightful place, or die trying. Please feel free to fill out a character sheet and ask any questions you may have. I will add more to the lore sections below as necessary, particularly as the adventure proceeds.
In the north of Monothrana, hidden away deep in the Silverpeak Mountains, seven small villages hold out against the end of the world. Through hard work they scratch a thin living from the soil, though every year the yield is a little less. Some are zealous in their optimism that things will turn around, but most are just quietly desperate. Even so, there are moments of levity at spring dances and harvest fairs, and the goodness of the old world (such as it was) is not entirely forgotten.
The villagers are ethnically diverse, having fled from every corner of Monothrana and beyond to the safety of the mountains. Some worship gods outside The Faith, or none at all. Village elders handle the day-to-day affairs of government, with major decisions being made at assemblies where all adults vote. Class distinction has been rendered largely irrelevant. Men who had once been knights and high lords have no more say than goatherds and plowmen.
No children have been born for nearly twenty years, and the crisis that this fact may entail is already apparent. Time is running out, and soon the population may be too old to feed itself.
The largest and most important village is Saint Antonia, situated in the highlands near the center of the territory. Here is the best pastureland for cattle, as well as the Gray Maiden, the only fully-fledged inn. The inhabitants of this village have the most regular contact with the Order, and some of the leading men and women act as intermediaries in trade with the outlying settlements.
Other villages include: Whimble, a center for mead and beer production, and which also contains a number of disused silver mines; Lastbridge, a watchful settlement athwart the only easy pass in or out of the Silverpeak Mountains; and Fairwater, a fishing village built along the banks of the mighty River Irenflow, boasting both a sawmill and a gristmill.
On the rocky heights above the largest village, Saint Antonia, looms the monastery of the same name. Behind its high walls the monks and nuns of the Order of Holy Wisdom work and pray ceaselessly. They are largely self-sufficient, and trade with the villagers for what little they cannot grow or make for themselves. The knowledge of the scribes in their great library is an asset to the community, aiding in a wide variety of projects.
Their true purpose, however, is far more significant than repairing bridges and and copying manuscripts. By their magical arts they maintain a barrier that no evil can pass, a ward that not even the most powerful lord of Hell has managed to peer through. As far as the Order can tell, the demons don't even know of their presence.
It is doubtful, however, that this subterfuge will last forever. As many capable novices as could be found have been pressed into service with the Order, but with no new children being born eventually the monks and nuns will be too few to maintain the barrier.
The rough country now home to the Seven Villages was once part of the Kingdom of Pendria, the most powerful of the Monothanian realms. A great highway, often called the King's Road, ran north from the royal city of Caerlon, through the rich green fields of the Pendish Midlands, before terminating at the former mining town of Whimble.
Once the King's Road was famous for its safety. Inns and watchtowers were built at regular intervals along its length, usually about half a day's travel apart, and armed patrols passed frequently in either direction. By all accounts, this is no longer the case.
As Aldren Priory is located rather close to Caerlon, it is likely that the King's Road will be the first path taken by the party.
The currency-based economics that once facilitated commerce in Monothrana has been all but forgotten in the mountains, where gold and silver are now valued only for their ability to shine brightly in the firelight above a mantle. Simple bartering (and outright gifting) is the norm, though more complex transactions can be simplified by recourse to a unit of account known simply as the Pound. A Pound is the arbitrarily-fixed value of a one-pound iron bar, of the sort used in elder days to balance a merchant's scale.
Since very few actual Pounds are in circulation, is is exceedingly difficult for anyone to build wealth over the long term. This has had a leveling effect on the villagers as a whole, as the disparity between the richest and poorest among them is rather small.
The Continent of Monothrana (often simply called the Midrealms, owing to its position near the center of the known world) was once home to kingdoms, republics, and principalities of every description. The most significant of these were the Kingdom of Pendria, the Kingdom of Boliponia, and the Republic of Cortes.
Monothrana was a rich land, divided politically but united culturally. The Faith dominated religious life in every realm, its clerics and monks moving freely across borders. A common tongue, the High Speech, bound the upper classes together, while vulgar dialects spoken by the common folk of the various realms were (mostly) mutually intelligible.
Though sporadic warfare between the Midrealms was common, a delicate balance of power usually stopped these conflicts from escalating out of control and kept any one state from becoming truly preeminent over its neighbors. Complex, multi-polar diplomatic negotiations were the norm.
But things have changed. The world beyond the sheltered mountain valleys has been laid to waste, cities decimated and kingdoms of ancient pedigree reduced to ashes and memories. There are still many people, and here and there even towns, but you should not expect to make friends on the road. The few places where humans are not ruled directly by demons are little better off. Savage cruelty is the order of the day, and the whims of petty warlords are the only law.
Formerly a part of the Kingdom of Pendria, Watshire was a strategically-significant territory of vast forests and rocky highlands ruled by the mighty Rowan Clan. Laying between the fertile agricultural lands of the Pendish Midlands and the mineral wealth of the Silverpeak Mountains, its lords were tasked with protecting against incursions from the neighboring states to the east and west. Over generations of loyal service they grew both rich and powerful, building imposing fortresses and founding religious houses to glorify themselves and their gods. None of this availed them against the forces of darkness.
Watshire escaped the worst of the desolation that was visited upon the southern lands of Pendria, yet it would still be unrecognizable to its former rulers. The monasteries and shrines have long since been despoiled, and the cities decimated. Many of the castles and strongholds remain more or less intact, though, now serving as bases for local human warlords. These unsavory men and women rule as petty-kings and -queens, largely free of interference from Hell. This independence comes at a price: The demon-lords have an ever-growing need for new thralls, and so the warlords of Watshire must constantly war among themselves to take enough captives to fulfill their demands. The raiding bands are seldom particular about who they seize.
Mere human cruelty is not the only danger here. The depths of the Rowanwood, through which the King's Road runs for many leagues, is said to be be home to all manner of frightful creatures: wolves, spiders, and other beasts of monstrous size stalk their prey at will; malevolent spirits haunt ruined settlements and tempt unwary travelers to their doom; and various demonic beings, of lesser strength and intelligence than true demons, wander aimlessly in search of mortal flesh.
In theory any human is capable of learning magic, but most would require decades of strenuous effort to achieve even the simplest spells. Perhaps as few as one in a thousand have the inborn ability to really learn, but with proper training those few can work wonders. This ability generally manifests in early childhood, often first noticed by a dramatic (and unconscious) discharge of magical power. Such children are sent off at once to learn to control their abilities under a master or mistress of the arts, lest they be a danger to themselves and those around them.
Unless some few have hidden their talents, every magically-capable resident of the Seven Villages has been pressed into service with the Order of Holy Wisdom. Such heavy-handedness is regrettable, but without enough mages to maintain the Barrier all would be lost.
Interestingly, there does seem to be an unusually high number of mages among the local people, approaching ten times the average seen in elder days. None can say for sure why this is, but many suspect divine intervention to be the cause.
The Faith revolves around the worship of Our Mother Above the Queen of Heaven and her son Omida, the god-man and advocate of humanity. Alongside these are a panoply of lesser gods and saints which make up the Heavenly Court. The Faithful believe that, should they behave themselves, they will be reborn upon the Starry Field and live forever at the feet of the Mother Above. It is further asserted that, at the completion of the Last Days, She will unsheathe The Sword Unstained and destroy the Demon King.
Each of the Seven Villages maintains its own shrine to the gods of the Faith, and a few even keep holy places dedicated to foreign deities. Faithful shrines are administered by members of the Order of Holy Wisdom, who hold regular services for the edification and salvation of the villagers.
The heart of the Faith is to be found in a large body of ancient texts. The most prominent of these include the Book of the Law, the Book of Dreams, and the Book of Wisdom. These are joined by lesser works of edification, namely commentaries penned by religious scholars and books detailing the lives and deeds of holy saints. Careful study of these texts plays an essential role in the training of monks, nuns, and priests, and they are also popular reading for educated laypeople.
Religious rites include baptism by water, formal marriage ceremonies, weekly sacrifices of sanctified alcohol accompanied by prayerful singing, and cremation of the dead, whose ashes are scattered in a ritual pattern determined the the position of the stars at the moment of death.
The Faithful are commanded to speak honestly, to live humbly, to act with charity, and to kill only as a last resort. They are likewise forbidden from engaging in adultery, gambling, fraud, and are discouraged from seeking wealth over spiritual purity. As one might imagine, the extent to which an individual obeys these precepts can vary considerably.
While there is no legal requirement for villagers to participate in the Faith, the turbulence of the present age has resulted in a level of peer pressure that most would find difficult to resist.
Name: Self-explanatory.
Age: How old is your character? I was vague about exactly how long ago children stopped being born, but I think 17-18 years of age would be a good minimum. While I think it would be best that no one's too old, to preserve a sense of surprise at what the cataclysm has done to the outside world, I'm not going to set a hard cap. Use your best judgment.
Strengths: What is your character good at? Particularly, what skills or abilities do they have that might be useful on this quest? Are they handy with a bow, or particularly quiet? Are they strong, or fearless? Feel free to list as many as you like, but I'd suggest no more than three or four.
Weaknesses: What is your character bad at? Are they easily frightened, or do they get along poorly with others? Please list at least one fewer weaknesses than strengths (two weaknesses for three strengths, for instance).
Features: What does your character look like? How does their voice sound? How do they generally dress? Go as nuts as you want with little details. You can also include a picture, if you like.
Connections: How is your character connected to another in the group? Are they a childhood friend, a romantic interest, a hated enemy? The Seven Villages aren't large, so you probably know everyone at least in passing. You can leave this section blank initially, and then work out connections among yourselves via PM or directly in the OOC thread. If you can't think of one for the other PCs, you can always ask me for ideas on how to connect to Brother Osric.
Bio: What is your character's story up to this point? Who are their parents? What kind of work do they do in the villages? You can make this section as long or as short as you like, though bear in mind that a youth that's never left the local area before is unlikely to have had too many adventures.
Assembly Response: How did your character react to Osric's spiel at the General Assembly? What did they think and say when they volunteered? Essentially, this is a writing sample. It can be as long or short as you like, and you don't need to include a reaction to other PCs responses if you don't want to. Your character doesn't even have to speak, if they're not much on conversation.
Edit 8/4: Expanded most of the existing lore blurbs, and also added sections covering local economics and the King's Road, a likely route out of the mountains. I'm unsure if adding more lore would be useful/necessary at this stage, but if anyone wants more information about something I'd be happy to add it.
Edit 8/13:Anyone interested in participating is still very much free to do so. At present the existing party hasn't yet left its rendezvous point, so there's no problem with late-comers joining in.
Edit 8/21: I think that's probably enough for now.
I went ahead and posted a CS for Brother Osric in the 0th post of the 'Characters' tab. Everyone else can go ahead and post theirs' here when they're done.
I don't mean to be a nag, but is anyone actually working on CSs? If you're concerned about fitting a bio in with how vague some of the setting information is, don't be. I wanted to be vague enough to give you enough room to make up whatever elements of the Seven Villages you want, so long as it all makes sense with what's already established. In retrospect I think I probably should have mentioned that from the beginning, so I'm sorry if that was unclear.
I just found this and it looks interesting. Here’s an idea for a character. An occult magician. The resident heretic who pissed off a demon and got absurdly lucky by walking away with some magical power. The magic is inherently “bad” and would scare the shit out of a monk or a priest, but they aren’t an evil person. They travel from place to place pretending to just be some lowly drifter, but they have a fascination with magic and wish to learn more and just survive like anyone else.
They’re actually a pretty decent person. Probably a little rough around the edges and wouldn’t fit in at a monastery, but you’re ultimately better off with them and not without them. They’ve likely made enemies just by being “touched” by the forces of Hell.
Hmm. This sounds interesting. It is a little outside of what I had in mind for character backgrounds, but I'll shoot you a PM here in a minute with some thoughts.
Blood Magic: Due to circumstances long behind her, Katrina is adept in the most unholy forms of magic. The kind that some of the most insidious demons are known for using to bring terror down on humanity; Blood magic is centered on the idea of using a mortal being's life force to shape the world through a lens of violence. Every time Katrina casts a spell with it, there is a toll to pay. The toll ranges from mundane pain such as burnt flesh, to spilling blood and using it to fuel a spell. All blood magic is inherently selfish, and takes from others without return.
Blood is used to draw sigils with malicious intent behind them, such as draining someone of their life force when they come near a sigil, or sparking demonic fire that can destroy anything it touches. The sacrifice offered determines the potency of the effect. Katrina has gotten creative with this over the years, and has found a few tricks to use that do not risk her life. One such method involved drawing blood sigils over her skin, and allowing them to sear themselves into her skin like permanent, branded scars. Every time Katrina uses one of these, it's like sticking hot iron against her arms, and the pain makes her sigils particularly potent. Katrina can theoretically create any sigil she wishes, for any conceivable effect, but the sacrifice necessary will grow to match the intention. More blood must be spilled, more pain must be suffered, an animal must be killed, and so on- She could not bring a plague down on the all the Seven Villages without bleeding herself dry, along with a dozen other people.
The sigils on Katrina's arms can be cast at a moment's notice, but due to them being burned into her skin, they have very limited range compared to any other sigil she were to draw.
Devilflame: Katrina sparks a flame that burns with a sinister red hue. The fire will incinerate anything it touches- Trees, houses, flesh, even steel- Until only ashes remain. The only protection is that of a holy origin, such as holy water or a blessing from a priest. For this reason, the Devilflame can't set fire to a church or burn a book of holy text, or a graveyard that was consecrated by a monk.
Poison Touch: By holding a piece of a living creature, such as a vial of a person's blood, Katrina can curse them to feel incredibly sick. They will feel weak with fatigue, struggle to eat or sleep at night. A visit to the Holy Order would curse them right away, though they will never truly die. The victim only suffers longer and longer until someone with the right skills can intervene.
Devour: When the sigil is activated, a chosen target is slowly drained of their life force, steadily healing Katrina when she touches them. This is the only way to magically heal any of her wounds, but as with all blood magic, a victim will suffer the same injuries Katrina heals. To another person, it's as if Katrina were simply transferring her wounds to a victim.
Hysteria: The Hysteria sigil creates a nightmarish vision based on the internal fears of a person she touches. Katrina has no control over what the vision actually is, because the vision depends on what the victim fears more than anything in the world. Their vision is the worst possible outcome of this fear, known or not, taken to a harrowing extreme that only they can perceive.
Survival: From hunting to get through another hungry evening, to using nature as a compass, Katrina is used to living in places where most wouldn't. Even as the world clings to the last vestiges of civilization, there are wastelands of ash and hellspawn that go untouched for long spans. Katrina has travelled through these places, and used the terrain to hide from roaming demons enough that she doesn't need a roof over her head to avoid getting killed. She can always find out which direction is which, and where water might be running. Normally, the ground is too corrupted that she finds anything to eat, but her travels help her find shelter from rain and seclusion in unsafe areas.
Demonology: It's unsurprising that someone who uses the magic of demons would know a thing or two about them. Though, since Katrina keeps her magical abilities a secret, one has to wonder where she learned so much about demons. Katrina can easily translate things written in demonic tongues to High Speech, identify different types of demons and the perfect spot to stab them in with a knife, and tell anyone others with experienced certainty that the best way to survive an encounter with a demon is to simply not encounter them. There are some deep, esoteric details about the world of demons that a person simply cannot learn from a book. While priests and clerics learn about so much more, Katrina simply dives deeper into a single subject.
Knife Enjoyer: Katrina is an absolute menace with a dagger. She could throw one and shave the whiskers from a cat with her eyes closed. Katrina feels the most comfortable when she has some sort of sharp object on her person, and often makes very good use of one she always has with her no matter where she goes.
Weaknesses
Unholy Soul: Katrina's magic is a very destructive thing, meaning she would be murder in a battle situation. On paper, this sounds like a good thing, but Katrina's ability to wield blood magic is merely a product of her making the best of a bad situation. For all intents and purposes, Katrina is semi-demonic in her own right. Those of a holy background with firm faith are next to immune to any magic she throws at them. Katrina doesn't believe in the Starry Field, but even if she were the most devout woman in the known world, she simply could not set foot there because of the stain on her soul. Sacred objects like the Cup of Woe would burn her skin if she touched them, holy water is the same as poison to Katrina, and divine magic that would benefit another has the exact opposite effect on her. The fact that Katrina can even set foot on holy ground in the first place is a miracle.
To add insult to injury, Katrina is completely useless in any other field of magic despite the fact that other magicians could learn from each other. Without her... Condition, she'd be completely uninteresting magically.
Misfit: Katrina doesn't do very well around other people. She can't negotiate a tense situation without making it worse. She has bad people skills, which often translate to people turning their nose up at her because of Katrina's somewhat antisocial demeanor. Other people just can't seem to get along with her as easily as someone else she travels with, whether or not she tries.
Scrawny: Between the physical sacrifices, being 5'5" and spending many nights hungry, Katrina isn't exactly build for heavy lifting. Sure, she could climb a rope much easier than someone bigger and heavier than her, but Katrina throws a punch like wet sand, and therefore has to resort to magic or crafty tactics to win a fight.
Connections Anyone that Katrina knew is either in a different kingdom by now, dead, or perhaps both. She's on her own and can go wherever she wants. Is it any wonder a stranger like her came here of all places?
Bio By all accounts, Katrina was never anyone important.
She was 16 when the gates of Hell flew open. Katrina watched their leathery wings stretch over the horizon on the first few days, and ran in terror when they began to lay waste to her home. Katrina came from a simple farming village all the way in Pendria, far from where the Seven Villages are now. In the early days, she can droves of survivors ran and wandered as far as they could, looking on in horror as countless fires raged. Fields of once-lush grass were now dead and dying, corpses piled high up along the roads, and all Katrina could do was hope the stench didn't make her sick after she just ate what few rations could be spared that day. Eventually, the convoy she walked with dwindled to such small numbers that the armies of Hell missed them. Some flocked to strongholds ran by warlords both human and demonic, others simply perished in peace. Katrina was not so lucky on either account, she was found by a warband and taken back to a demon lord's stronghold, where she worked as a petty servant. The girl was too scrawny to dig trenches or make weapons, and they had enough people to cook food already. And so, Katrina was the warlord's personal servant. She brought him food when he was hungry, kept his house clean and entertained guests from other parts of Hell.
It was demeaning, and Warlord Kroshtyre was not a kind demon. Sure, Katrina had it easy compared to the trenchers and the farmers who slept in shacks, but she only ate when she could sneak out of the fort and into the kitchen. This was usually late at night when most of the stronghold was asleep. Katrina rarely slept as a child. In fact, she was afraid to, lest some angry demon find her and murder her in her sleep. She slowly learned to slip past guards and explore places that Kroshtyre forbade her from setting foot in. He had a special chamber in his glorified palace that she wasn't allowed in. He said he'd draw out her death for a hundred years if he even thought the scraggly little child went near the door. By 18, Kroshtyre started to believe that Katrina's spirit was broken. After all, she never once rebelled and always obeyed his commands. His home was always clean and she always pleased him when he demanded something.
What Kroshtyre didn't know was that his fancy chamber of evil magic had a faulty lock. One spindly knife from a shack across the stronghold was all it took to break in. She had been snooping in there for a few months now, reading things and very carefully ensuring nothing looked disturbed down to the very last speck of dust. Books on food production, progress on expanding the border, and more. There were books on magic, something she heard whispers of here and there, but never really understood. One such book had a lot of shapes and shaky lines in a language she couldn't read. But night after night, Katrina got better at sneaking around, enough that sometimes she could spy on Kroshtyre performing magic from outside his window. The stupid bastard had gotten complacent with security- Why waste guards on securing a place no one would break into?
It wasn't particularly easy to learn his secrets with this espionage, but Katrina began to fathom how his magic worked from the shadows. There was a spell he cast that set fire to his hand when he spoke a word. Katrina couldn't hear it, but she recognized the page. On a night where Kroshtyre was sound asleep, she snuck in and attempted to cast the spell herself. It didn’t work, but the noise from saying the strange words out loud alerted Kroshtyre, who just happened to be walking by and heard someone on the other side of the door. He flung it open, and caught Katrina red-handed. In a fit of inhuman rage, he reached to strangle her.
Katrina was grabbed, but she pulled out the knife she used to break in and plunged it into Kroshtyre’s chest. Out of everything someone should’ve done in that position, the warlord laughed. He dropped her to the ground, and as she gasped for breath, Katrina watched him pull the bloody thing out as if it was just a toothpick. Kroshtyre bent down and looked her in the eyes. He wanted Katrina to bleed out slowly, and so he gutted her with her own weapon, just before pulling the knife out and throwing it out a window.
The wound… Burned.
She had been stabbed once or twice before ending up in this stronghold, but the pain wasn’t like this. It was like someone had poured something acidic in the wound, and she screamed. Katrina’s stomach felt like it was being ripped out of her skin little by little, while Kroshtyre simply watched. The pain made her head swim. Kroshtyre walked away, expecting Katrina to scream herself into sleep by the time he returned with a mug of beer. But her instincts told her to run.
Once he was out of sight, Katrina forced herself up as much as she could. Everything felt like she was underwater, but for some reason, Katrina reached for the book left on the floor first, and dragged herself out the window along with it after. She fell a few dozen feet and landed in mud. Her legs felt weak, but Katrina managed to run. The last thing she heard was the sound of Kroshtyre screaming from the window for someone to stop her, but no one could catch the girl.
Days passed and Katrina did not stop walking. Weeks passed, and she just kept moving. Both out of fear and out of a desire to be anywhere other than Pendria. Whenever she’d stop to rest, Katrina would read the book she stole. As she studied it more, everything became a bit clearer. She managed to parse a few vague meanings of the demonic language, and managed to cast a fire spell. It burned her skin, but it felt right for some reason… Whenever Katrina looked at her knife wound, the skin seemed to blacken like it was infected, but it felt numb to her. Her blood had taken on a darker color, and she suspected she had become part demonic when Kroshtyre’s blood contaminated her. Katrina came to the conclusion that this was why she could cast the spells now, and so she opted to exploit this as much as she could.
In the last 20 years, Katrina has travelled all over the remnants of the Midlands. During this time, she never found a place she could call home, knowing the Holy Order would look for her if they caught wind of her magical talent, and that they would damn near crucify her if they learned the nature of it. In the earlier days after the end of the world, people would drive her away on account of her inhuman eyes. Katrina has sought out secrets of demonology that most would shudder at, risking her life and her humanity to learn about the affliction she was left with. Sometimes, this desire took her to the very heart of territories controlled by demons, other times saw her spending entire days in crumbling libraries to improve her knowledge on demons.
Assembly Response
Katrina’s more recent travels took her through the northern mountains of Monothrana. For no particular reason other than the hope for a place where she could slow down for a while and find some temporary peace. The mountains seemed to be mostly untouched by Hell, and Katrina came here not knowing how long it would be before she left. At least that was the case until she discovered the Seven Villages, a stretch of civilization that lived in hiding. As someone used to running and hiding from demons, Katrina could respect that somewhat. It turned out to be a pleasant surprise and Katrina elected to stay for a while. Though, being around strange people meant that people would talk. She stuck to the story that she was just passing through, and planned to stay for a while to rest. The rest was nothing important.
That changed when she heard about an assembly called by the Holy Order. Something important was happening, and a man named Osric called for volunteers to bring a magic wine glass to a church off in bumfuck nowhere. The location sounded vaguely familiar to Katrina- She passed it a few weeks ago. Apparently this glorified mug had some special, divine properties that could secure humanity’s seat at the cosmological table by sticking it to the forces of Hell. That detail in particular was what intrigued Katrina, and so she offered her aid in the form of knowing the lands far and wide. If there was a place between here and the Priory, she probably went there and found a shortcut.
Of course, there was also the matter of her very dangerous and very heretical calling in life. Katrina would cross that bridge when she approached it.
Okay, so I am working on an opening IC post. IT should be up either later tonight or sometime tomorrow. I'm kind of anxious to get things rolling, but anyone else interested in playing is still welcome to join in! There's no reason we can't have new characters catch up to us on the road.
-snip-
Oh, very interesting. I like Katrina. It'll be interesting to see how her worldly cynicism plays out with the rest of the group. She is a fair bit older than I would have thought -- and kind of at odds with the 'naive kids on a deadly adventure' vision that I started with -- but I think that dynamic might actually work well. It's kind of on me for not setting a cap on age in the first place, and it's not as if there's any particular reason for Osric to insist that his volunteers be young. I imagine he's happy to get anyone at all.
I do have to insist that you come up with some connection, either to an existing character or to one that hasn't been posted yet. It doesn't have to be a particularly deep or meaningful connection; it can really be anything.
But: Tentatively accepted! You can go ahead and post her up in the CS tab, and just edit in a connection later.
Ok! Four hours later, here's a character. Unproofed, unedited for your enjoyment. I'll likely end up tweaking this further when it isn't THREE AM but these are the broad strokes. I took some liberties with the "Connections" and "Assembly Response" sections, so please pay careful attention to them to make sure that I established appropriate relationships with your characters and didn't step on any toes, or if you'd like to flesh our character's relations out further! Also, any feedback is appreciated. Now, to bed!
Features: Revna is no great beauty by continental standards. She stands over nearly all men at 6'8, covered in corded muscled and self-administered tattoos depicting everything from bears and dragons to forgotten runes and ancient Old Gods. Her nose is large and hooked, set on a harsh, heavily scarred face that seems carved from cracking and cold stone. Her thick hair, unkempt and greasy, is braided tightly in a style once considered barbaric in Pendria. Then demons took over, and no one really cared about hairstyles anymore.
Back in her homeland, though? She would be a great favorite.
Revna normally wears standard, soiled peasant clothing cut for a man, though she has recently donned her mother's armor. Well, the breastplate, anyways. The rest was too large for her. Revna also wears her father's cloak and travelling clothes, thick leather armor with padded and rugged garb underneath.
Bio: Like most youths in the Seven Villages, Revna's story begins at the end.
Revna's people come from Illskaheimr, a continent far to the north of Monothrana and connected only by a small strait. A cold and unforgiving land, it is inhabited by various tribes and small war-like nations, but the greatest among them are the Dottir people, a semi-matriarchal society ruled by both a queen and a council comprised of both men and women. Unlike those of the continent, they don't worship The Faith but their own pantheon of ancient and mysterious animistic gods and goddesses. Revna's mother, Roska, was a hulking woman, cunning warrior, and their princess.
Her father, Haldor? Not so much.
Revna's parents met while in service to the king of Pendria as part of the Norrgard, an elite unit of warriors from Illskaheimr who acted as royal bodyguards and shock troops when at war. They were prized for their loyalty to their patrons, since they were from foreign lands with no real ties to the political intrigue of the continent, and their disturbing love of battle.
Despite Haldor's small stature and unimpressive, he managed to charm Roska, a task many had tried their hand at and promptly lost them. The two married in the foreign land in the forest, an attempt to appease their gods. Shortly after, Revna was born. Just in time for the end of the world.
The attack came without warning, with large swaths of the city crumbling and giving way to hordes of hellish creatures crawling up from the depths. According to her father, he was ready to die alongside his wife defending the king in glorious battle, but Roska begged him to flee with their daughter. Somehow, he also managed to bring along her weapons and armor when he did so, Revna would later learn.
Revna remembers little of these days, only three years old, but she remembers how the sky turned black and the grass shriveled, and how they were constantly running or hiding. Then, as if they entered another world, everything returned to normal. They made it to the Seven Villages.
Her early life was one big identity crisis. While a diligent father, Haldor sent mixed messages. She was the "promised warrior princess, destined to return to Illskaheimr and liberate it from the demonic hordes," but she was also Revna the farmer. Revna the shit-shoveler. He secretly taught her the ways of their own gods, but also those of The Faith so they could blend in. He taught her to fight, training every evening with steel, but also never to draw her blade in town. He told her tales of battle, her mother the warrior princes cutting down men by the dozens with a swing of her halberd, and then scolded her for beating up the neighbor's son. Haldor had tried his best, but only left his daughter confused.
Then Haldor fell ill.
Her father had told her that, to their people, nothing was more glorious than dying in battle. Conversely, nothing was more shameful than to die in bed. Though he seemed more than content to do so, his faithful daughter helpfully reminded him of this tenant of their true faith. Not wanting to fail his only daughter, Haldor left the Seven Villages, burdened by illness and a sword and shield that he could hardly carry anymore. Revna begged to go, to die alongside him in battle, but Haldor turned her back home, telling her, "Greater glories await you than this death I go to."
In the three years since, Revna has been restless and with little direction. She plows the fields of her failing farm, tends to the animals, drinks at the tavern, and relentlessly trains with her mother's halberd and sword. She's starting to wonder why she trains at all. No death or glory awaits her in the Seven Villages.
Strengths:
Warrior's Blood: The people of Illskaheimr are unusually large compared to those in the Midrealms, but Revna's size would stand out even among the Dottir. She is unbelievably strong, and while her fighting style may lack refinement, Revna more than makes up for it in raw power. She is most skilled with her mother's halberd and longsword.
Animal Affinity: Legends have passed down from generation to generation of some of the Dottir people's ability to tame wild beasts with a nothing but a calm word and gentle touch. A blessing from their gods. Haldor even told Revna as a child that her mother rode a behemoth bear into battle that would tear men apart with tooth and claw. The legends may or may not be true, but Revna believes she's been blessed with the ancient power, and with good reason. She is able to tame a bucking and wild horse with ease, guide runaway cattle gently into their pen, and once even sent a lone wolf running from the chicken coop with nothing but a calm word. Renva can ride any beast with complete control and grace, and farmers from all over the Seven Villages bring their shepard dogs to her for training.
She hasn't gotten to test her suspected powers on bears. Yet.
Magnetic: Maybe it's her imposing size, maybe it's her borderline-delusional confidence, or maybe it's the blood of a warrior princess flowing through her veins, but something about Revna's personality compels people to listen to what she has to say. They're drawn to follow Revna, often placing their trust in her much faster than they would another. If that fails, she can simply intimidate them into getting her way. Few in the Seven Villages can match her in physical strength, so this combined strategy has worked well so far.
Weaknesses:
Illiterate: The most Revna's ever read is a martial arts manuscript, and she only looked at the pictures. Warriors don't read.
Reckless: Part cultural and part personality, Revna is an impulsive decision maker and rarely thinks her actions through. She just makes a choice and leans on her strength like a crutch to get her through tough spots. Like many Dottir people, she has a sort of "death-drive." When you come from a culture that glorifies death in battle, charging into a room of fully armed enemies with nothing but a butter knife in hand is a win-win; either you leave victorious, or achieve the death you venerate.
Connections: Revna is well-known throughout the Seven Villages, for good or for ill. Wagon tipped over on your brother's leg? She'll lift it. Steer got stuck in a muddy ditch? She'll lift it. Grandma fell over and can't get up? You get it.
Revna spends most of her free time at the tavern, where she's recently picked up a new drinking companion, Katrina. A symbiotic relationship of sorts, Revna's mere presence scares off most of the village idiots from Katrina, and the small woman provides Revna with someone who isn't constantly talking her fucking ear off. Most of the time, they simply sit there at their table and drink in silence, and as a consequence, they know very little about eachother.
Revna hardly ever attends any official "church functions," and Brother Osric would know this. She appears at only the most important events, which missing would seem very suspect, but that's the extent of her interactions with The Faith. Brother Osric would also note that she often mixes up the names of their divine gods and goddesses, occasionally using names that sound strange and foreign. She isn't the only person living in the Seven Villages who is just keeping up appearances, but Revna is certainly the worst at it.
Her closest established relationship with the party is by far Sage. The two met several years ago when Sage was first "adopted" by the shop owner, from whom Revna often bought goods from for her father's farm. Their unusual friendship began when Revna noticed Sage's sword. Eager for a new sparring partner, the began meeting regularly for bouts despite the distance between their homes. Perhaps not the most personal friendship, as they mostly discuss swordplay and some kind of desire for a different life, but a friendship nonetheless.
Assembly Response:Gods, this again?
To Revna, it seemed like a General Assembly was called to order every other day. "Oh, a pig got loose and we need everyone to find it, oh, oh no, we think we saw a demon and he might have even touched a priest with his little red finger, oh no oh dear," Revna mocked bitterly from her spot at the back of the crowd. Of course, a General Assembly was rarely called, but when you had to travel twenty miles of bad roads like Revna did, leaving behind a full days work, they became a nuisance more than anything. Still she attended, if only because a little monk would arrive at her home two days later asking where she'd been if she skipped.
Even behind the entire audience she had a good view of the scene, though she hardly paid any attention. To her, it sounded like a typical service with a little more jeering. Something parable about a dying knight and a chalice. It wasn't until the end of the brother's speech that Revna really listened, and then only because the crowd grew silent. Her eyes widened. This was her chance. No more shoveling shit. No more wrestling oxen to plow dusty fields. A real chance at glory, at battle. Maybe even the start to take back her homeland. She didn't care about any chalice, but the opportunity to get her hands dirty? Easy choice.
Her words broke the silence first, harsh and rasping voice cutting through empty air from the back of the audience.
"I will go with you Brother Osic!"
She strode through the crowd with confidence.
"I will go with you. By my life, the Cup of Foes will be returned to its rightful seat. I swear this to you, upon my honor and before the god Onäma." A foreign goddess, a war goddess of the North, but close enough in name to the Mother Above's son, Omida, that either no one noticed or was willing to call her out. That, or her other mistakes. They knew better than to correct her by now.
Revna made it to the brother's stool now and locked her sharp green eyes with his, and he instantly knew. She meant it. She would go. She would die if need be. Revna was afraid she'd have to spend perhaps the last days of her life with Brother Osric, a devout, faithful, and by her estimation, boring man. Luckily, a familiar face joined them. Katrina. When she stepped up, Revna clasped a heavy hand on the woman's shoulder and smiled broadly, revealing her gapped front teeth and a missing canine, but said nothing. As was their way.
But that was it. No more volunteers. Revna turned to the crowd and raised her dirty rake, the rake she'd been leaning on and that she brought twenty miles for just that purpose. She raised it above her head like a warrior rallying their soldiers to battle.
"Who else will come? Or are you all cowards? Content to sit here while the world dies?"
At this, practically a platoon men and women jolted up and stepped forth enthusiastically, all seemingly ready to go to war for the brother's cause. She held back a laugh, knowing that of the 20 or so that so eagerly volunteered, perhaps one or two of the eager would-be demon slayers would actually leave the Seven Villages when the time came. Still, better than nothing.
Revna's sharp eyes searched the crowd for another familiar face. Sage. She'd assumed her friend would have been the first volunteer after all their talk of adventure, of wanting something more of this life, but Sage remained firmly in the crowd. Unexpected, but Revna let her disappointment fade when a single thought came to mind.
Name: Brother Andrew Harran Greenwood Nicknames: Birdy, Brother Bird
Age: 17
Strengths:
Scavenger - This is a polite way of saying that Andrew is a thief. Since he was eight till he was thirteen, Andrew has been squeezing in and out of tight spaces to gain into places, pulling out hinge pins to open locked doors, and working at locks to make them open. Andrew has spent years on his own scavenging to survive. he has a way of finding things of value (to him) or are useful. An example, He might take a roll of string leaving coins. He has learned a fair amount about traps, mostly the hard way. People would set traps trying to keep him out and he has scars to prove it.
Illusion and ward magic - Andrews gifts with magic are still growing. His first native station was a veil in a do not see me prayer that happened when he was stealing food from the Monastery. Hiding down a side hall he crouched holding a meat pie. Around the corner was Father Superior Robert who caught him. Since then he has been able to produce other minor illusions. Andrew was surprised to find that many wards are related to illusions. If he would have thought about it, he would have realized both are affecting the mind and senses. His wards are good as long as he stays stationary and remains focused, a skill he is working at. He is able to cover an area and he is able to do a small area if he is moving very slowly.m
Binding - under the right conditions,Andrew can bind a demon into a crystal. It requires Holy water and some other agents. It is dangerous and still experimental (for him) in nature. (Aka once it is beaten down by the party).
Jack-of- some skills - Andrew is good with his hands and is a quick study for things physical. He can do some basic craft skills like sewing a garment together, spinning thread, weaving things like baskets or cloth, can improvise an arrow head or a knife from metal, can smelt metal to cast. He can even make smoke bombs, a positive side effect of his youth. He is not a blacksmith, tailor, alchemist, or metal worker and his items last for a while.
(For flavor) Cooking - Andrew has learned the art of making most things edible and most of the time tasty.
Weaknesses: Not a natural fighter - Running away, fighting from a distance, setting a trap, or the best way have someone else fight. That is the way he prefers to handle conflict. He is able to defend himself relying on his flexibility, speed, and a lot of luck.
This might be useful - Andrew is a gatherer. He will pick up things that he thinks might be useful at some point - The bastard sword that he can’t swing, the broken crossbow, a metal shield. He is normally scavenging even when it is not needed. it shows that is worried about not having enough or something will go wrong in the future.
Hear The demons in his head at times - There is something in Andrews family’s past that allows him the hear demons in his mind. The conversation the demon has is rarely pleasant. At times Andrew even agrees with his tormentor. He is the worst novice at the monastery. When he has a gem with a demon contained, the voice is louder.
Driven by food - Andrew is almost always hungry and is motivated by food. It is a trick that his Master figured out. Andrew was never late to a meal. It was how he was motivated to do his studies.
Features: Andrew was not much to look at, short and gangly with sandy brown hair and clear emerald green eyes that look like he could have stolen them from the Holy Mother herself. His clothes, an assortment of garments that were handed down to him. Sewn together with as much care as the he could muster with the rod of his master on his back. Small scars and cuts run his hands and his arms from his days of thieving and working with animals. A pendent of Rose colored quarts from deep in the mine hangs on a strap around his neck. A belt of small pouches line his waist with items from herbs, to nails, to smooth stones, and crystals he found interesting. On his feet are soft boots that he collected from a man who died. A sling and sending stones are tucked into his belt with a couple daggers use more for cooking than for fighting.
Connections: TBD
Bio:
Andrew was born to the family of a mine manager on the edge of one of the seven villages. His mother was a farmer, tending to a little livestock, growing a little feed crops and gardening. His father mined bringing up iron ore and smelting it. It was a hard life and Andrew hated that all they ever did was work.
His young life was spent trying to get out of weeding, collecting eggs, slopping pigs, and “working” in the mine (mostly sorting through ore and throwing it in the smelter).
Andrew's mother was a woman of faith and took Andrew to the festivals, worship, and to lessons. In Andrews mind, this was work as well.
Andrew always seemed to be at the spot where trouble occurred. If a cart of apples tipped, Andrew was probably near by. If a barrel leaked, Andrew was probably playing with a knife. Andrew was not bad, just a bit unlucky and way too curious for his own good.
His parents died in a fire leaving Andrew to fend for himself. That resulted in Andrew taking up scavenging (stealing). He found he was good at it. His magic manifested when he had stolen an entire meat pie at the monastery. He had managed to hide and hoped, wished, and prayed that he would not be seen. Magic flared out of him, hiding him from Sisters hunting for the thief. Unfortunately, Father Superior Robert was standing around the corner where he hid. Andrew did not get to eat the pie. That was also the end of his sneaking food from the monastery and his real education began.
— Morning prayers —
As the light hit the stain glass a bright beam of light streamed down to the floor. Squirming a little Andrew watched the light make its path from the middle of the sanctuary to the altar. In his chest a drum beat loud enough to fill the hall and am rushing sound filled his ear.
Why me? the young lad. Sweat started to run down his back. His Master Father Keiler whispered, “Just like we practiced.” The old man stood within arms reach and Andrew closed his eyes as he sang the first words of the invocation. “Blessed Mother, we give you thanks for this meal we are about to receive..” we’re the words that came out of his mouth. Snickers came softly from the room as the Father Keiler sighed. “Sit down Novice Andrew,” he said in a tone that indicated he expected this.
At the thump of Andrews rump on the Acolyte’s Bench. Father Keiler restarted the morning prayers with a smile and much grandiose as if nothing happened.
Looking at the floor as a boy having to confess his sins to his mother, Andrew started thinking of running away.
As he sat, images in the shadows danced and leaped. A lone figure jumped from the mass of figures and took flight changing into a bird. The bird was red and sped around and upward as arrows flew till it rested on the index finger of Holy Mother’s out stretched hand.
The room had gone quiet and now murmurs rumbled asking if this was a sign. Father Keiler stopped and looked at Andrew. “Andrew!” He said in a tone that was forceful. “Let it go,” He said just loud enough for Andrew to hear.
Big hot tears dripped down on his robes and like a shot leaving a sling Andrew was out of the chapel and up one of the flying buttresses.
Assembly Response:
Andrew’s time to take his monastic vows had come and passed with out even being mentioned. His friends were now Initiates and a few were now Sisters even. No mention was made about him taking vows. He did pray to the Holy Mother, just not the prayers the priests tried to teach him. He also did tended to lay on the bench looking up at the images contemplating them. His Master Keiler and The Father Superior normally called it hiding from his studies and chores. The brothers called it sleeping. Laziness was not accepted in the Holy Order.
With the Grand Assembly called, Andrew had been assigned to torch duty. This meant that he spent most of the day placing torches every so far apart around the green. Two young farm girls walked past as Andrew was placing a torch. As his hammer came down he nearly missed his thumb. dropping both the torch and hammer, and putting his thumb in his mouth to suck on it till the pain eased off. Laughter erupted from the girls as they headed off on their errand. Pounding torches was mindless work but it did have benefits. The first was he was not going to be beat for daydreaming. His stomach growled at the smell of cooking meat roasting over a grill. With his mouth watering he turned to follow the smell. Just a small snack would not hurt. As he headed that way Mother Osland caught his ear and redirected him back to work. Stealing was ground on by the Holy Order. The mother handed him a few coins when they got a break.
When it was time for the Assembly, Andrew was close to Brother Osric. He was short and with him came a procession of the Monastic Community. As Brother Osric took the stool and spoke. A fat merchant had knocked the torch that almost fell, giving Andrew a reason to give him a dirty look and to move closer to the front.
Andrew listened to what was being spoken. Father Robert had told him about the Cup of Woe and not to touch it. Andrew had even seen the cup in passing. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. In Andrew’s opinion the altar cup, being gold with gems seemed better to him.
“A strange quest for Brother Osric to take,” he thought. Brother Osric was liked maybe even loved in the community.
A warrior woman called out and strode to the front. She started heckling the crowd for volunteers to come forward. Some did.
The young woman’s words bit him hard. Cowards, yes he was. He was no warrior. He was not much of a Novice, or a monk. He was an unfortunate thief.
One of the Initiates teased him, “Well Birdy, do you have wings to fly?”
Andrew is definitely an interesting character, but I do notice a few issues with your sheet.
First off, it is a bit bare-bones in places. The strengths and weaknesses could probably use a little more description; they're not much to go on. And, while it's not a really big deal, the fact that you left some of my prompts in makes it look a little untidy.
Then there's the matter of the Order. Anyone pressed into service would have been made a novice (and thus bound by the Monastic Rule) as soon as they had been given basic religious instruction, and this would be a prerequisite for any advanced work with magic. They would only fully join the ranks of the Order as monks/nuns after making their solemn vows, usually between the ages of 15-20. If Andrew is a particularly bad candidate, as it seems he might be, then it's quite probable he wouldn't have been given the opportunity to make the solemn vow.
I probably should have been more specific about how monastic life in the Order works, so sorry if that was unclear. I guess I didn't originally expect anyone to want to play a monk/novice.
As to Andrew's Master, you can just make up a name for him/her. I assume there's several master mages in the Order, but I didn't bother coming up with names for any of them.
The only other note I have is related to connections. Take a look at the other character sheets posted in the CS tab and see if any of them would make a likely friend/associate/enemy/whatever of your character. Feel free to reach out via PM to anyone you might want to work out a connection with.
Oh, and feel free to ask me if you have any other questions, either here or via PM.
Okay, Andrew looks pretty good. There's just one thing that confuses me: What does "His first native station was a veil in a do not see me prayer that happened when he was stealing food from the Monastery" mean, exactly? I've read it a few times and I'm still not sure I understand it.
That aside, accepted! Go ahead and put him in the CS tab. Just edit in a connection whenever you come up with one.
