Ok, so hear me out, this is gonna look a bit insane, but I promise...I am only a little bit crazy.
Edit: I probably need to do some more editing as I kind of ran out of time this morning, but hopefully this all makes sense.
Essentially what I would imagine is that Lis joins the party as either Dylis the thief or Lisandra the wizard (I might go full insanity and have her at some point adopt whichever persona she doesn't at first portray if she is caught).
βπππ: Lis πΈππππ€ππ€: Lis has a seemingly endless collection of past and prepared aliases. Currently she calls herself Lisandra the Actress or Dylis depending on which persona she is wearing. πΈππ: 25 ππ‘πππππ€: Changeling πΎπππππ£: Female ππππ¦π‘ππ₯ππ π: Currently posing as traveling wizard, turned actress and a thief. πΈππππππππ₯: True Neutral
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βπππππ₯: 5' 7'' πΉπ¦πππ: Lis possesses a dancer's build, hiding strength born from agility beneath a gentle, pleasant appearance. πΌπͺππ€: Her eyes are ever changing to match many forms, but in her true form her eyes are a stark, entirely empty white. βπππ£: Lis has long silver cast a light shade of silver. Usually tied in an elegant bun using an ornate set of silver hair pins, they conveniently work exceedingly well as lockpicks. ππππ ππ ππ: She has pale gray skin. πππ₯π₯π π π€/ππππ£π€/βπππ£πππππ€: Considering her ability to change forms, Lis has little interest in marking her true form with ink, instead she takes great pleasure in adorning her assumed forms with scars and tattoos as befitting these intriguing forms. βππ£π€π πππ ππ₯πͺππ: A chameleon, Lis changes her clothes to fit the mask or persona she wears, however in the rare times that she remains in her natural form, she favors well fitting garments of a distinctly older elven cut.
Lis is a thousand faces and a thousand personalities. She is whoever she thinks other people want her to be. She is whoever the job needs her to be. And in each moment, she is exactly who she wants to be. Or so she would claim. Not that she has ever told anyone as much. Not that she would ever tell anyone half as much. She is a walking, talking ambiguity, a paradox wrapped in the cloak of constant change. She knows that she is who she is...and who she seems to be, all at once.
She wears many masks. Fleeting creations, driven by need or whim, and discarded without hesitation. Faces with simple names. Names without identities. A serious faced soldier. A pleasant severing girl. A dour faced constable. A dangerous looking bandit. She crafts ambitious personas. Not just faces. Not just names. But people. People that she cares for. People that she loves. People with their own pasts. People with their own lives. People with their own fears. People with their own ambitions. People with their own hopes. People with their own families. People with their own friends. And people with their own beliefs.
Lis keeps a handful of personas, suitable for a range of situations and applications. Some she has played for years. Some she knows better than herself. Some she has had to retire ahead of their time. Lis recalls such moments with sorrow and bitter regret. But she knows hard choices are necessary. She knows that sacrifices have to be made. She has had to disappear, she has had to allow her compromised identities to perish, so that she might assume another of her personas.
Within the endless Matryoshka doll created by her masks and personas, Lis feels increasingly lost. Beneath each discarded layer a new person emerges, another mask suitable for the moment or an invented persona for her to embody for long stretches of time. Trapped in performances, Lis is consumed by a gnawing sense of dread that there will be nothing real, nothing true, when she gets to the last little doll inside of her.
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Eavesdropping - Lis, the Changeling, has a habit of eavesdropping. There are few better ways to discover useful information than to discreetly overhear a conversation or four.
Compulsive Liar - By profession, Lis has found herself becoming something of a compulsive liar. She is loath to reveal anything that could be considered true about herself, no matter how seemingly unimportant or harmless any sliver of information about her might be.
Pacing - When subject to intense excitement or anxiety, Lis tends to pace, although mercifully for anyone lodging below her, she is somehow a most quiet pacer.
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Reading - Few things are regarded with as much affection from the Changeling as books, particularly rare and old ones.
Visual Arts - Lis takes solace in drawing in a small journal she keeps. Less often she will take time to execute a full painting. Her artistic persona, a tiefling painter, is known to have a small but dedicated following of admirers and collectors.
Calligraphy - Enmeshed in creation, Lis will spend hours writing admirable calligraphy in the many languages she commands.
Sewing - What began as simply a way to insure that the clothing required for her many roles would pass muster, soon became a genuine passion and Lis is quite proud of her skills with thread and needle.
Singing - Part profession, part pleasure, Lis still finds singing to be an amusing way to spend her time.
Tobacco - Despairing of drinking, Lis instead finds smoking tobacco, preferably in a pipe, to be quite amusing.
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Stagnation - Chief among the fears that assail the Changeling is the fear of settling down, of becoming too comfortable, and of forgetting that each role can only be played for so long.
Commitment - Stuck with permanent wanderlust and a lust for life, Lis is notably afraid of the mere idea of a committed relationship with one or several people (sheβs not one to judge).
Imprisonment - With a long list of crimes behind her, Lis is understandably worried about ending up in a small prison cell.
No More Great Roles - Although she considers it a distant worry, Lis canβt help but fear that one day there will be no more great roles for her to play, whether on or off the stage.
Self Less - Jumping from adopted role to role, Lis fears that one day she might not be able to recall her true self.
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Acting - Taking a broader view of acting, Lis takes immense pleasure in successfully playing a role, particularly when she manages to convince someone that one of her masks or personas is a real person.
Money - Fond of the things that money can buy, Lis is keen to make a tidy profit, regardless of how ethically this profit is acquired.
People Watching - Lis enjoys watching people across all the domains of life, all people, from the lowliest guttersnipe to the most elegant socialite. What better way to further her craft and gain inspiration?
Social Events - Fond of festivities and people from all walks of life, Lis will do her best to find any reason to be social and has been known to successfully converse with even most cantankerous settlers.
Art - Lis adores all forms of art and all manners of artistry. Music, literature, paintings, drawings, and craftwork, all happily occupy her attention. And if she has the coin to spare, she is more than willing show her appreciation in cold hard cash.
Cleverness - A schemer at heart, the young changeling appreciates a clever quip, witty comment, or complex plan.
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Interruptions - On or off the stage, nothing angers Lis more than unwelcome interruptions.
Fear of Changelings - Understandably, but perhaps hypocritically, Lis loathes the fearful, distrustful view that most people have of Changelings.
Poor Manners - Seeing herself as more than a little refined, Lis takes great offense at poor manners and has been known to plot a lengthy con simply to spite someone who forgot to offer her the proper salutations.
Conservatism - A creature of endless flexibility and constant change, Lis holds little interest in the status quo or keeping things forevermore as they currently are.
Orders - Happiest when free to make her own choices, Lis internally bristles as at being told what she to do. She can listen. She can follow orders, but she doesnβt like it, and if possible will offer a snide comment or two, provided it doesnβt break character.
Violence - Lis takes no pleasure in violence and sees no appeal in physically harming others. Sheβs no saint, but sheβs no killer, robbing people of their burdensome wealth is plenty enough for her, she has no interest in stealing lives.
Actress - Lis a talented performer, able to perform plays old and new of almost any genre. She has a talent for single mannerisms and a sharp ear for voices, able to mimic a wide range of accents. Generally presents as a woman, but more than capable of assuming a masculine role.
Languages - Perhaps due to her nature as a Changing and Actress in equal measure, Lis is gifted when it comes to the many tongues spoken across the lands and she shows great ease learning new languages.
Passable Shot - Uninterested in violence, Lis is nonetheless capable of proficiently using a firearm.
Riding - Although Lis far prefers to ride in a comfortable carriage, she knows how to ride a horse.
Athletics - To prepare for the stage, Lis has engaged in long hours of practice over many years, and she has the athleticism that one might expect from a seasoned performer.
Acrobatics - At times, a role requires feats of physical strength, balance, or agility. Lis has spent some time tumbling, tightrope walking, and performing other entertaining feats for coin.
Insight - In order to create her masks and personas, Lis has had to cultivate an insight into others. She often manages to deduce how others might think, how they might act, and what their intentions are towards her.
Investigation - Lis has a knack for finding out information or the location of items that she might like to steal.
Perception - Acting that Lis observe the world and the people around her. The beginning of every mask and persona that she creates lies in the careful observation of others.
Deception - The bread and butter of most changelings, deception is perhaps Lis' oldest friend. She is able to convincingly hide the truth. She can mislead other through ambiguity, or as often, by telling outright lies. She fast-talks officers of the law. She cons merchants. She passes herself off in disguises that compliment her shapeshifting. She dulls suspensions with false assurances. And she maintains a straight face while telling blatant lies, lies that shape her very person, and her very soul.
Persuasion - In all her roles, Lis finds persuasion to play a critical role. To sell a story, for a range of purposes, she is wields tact, her social graces, and assumed nature to influence and beguile.
Performance - Beyond her deceptions, deep beneath her own conceptions and hangups, Lis is a performer. She lives to delight an audience with an truly extraordinary performance and to draw attention from potential patrons.
Stealth - If worst comes to worst, Lis is no stranger to vanishing from sight, and quietly escaping.
Shapeshifting: A changeling, Lis has the magical ability to change her appearance. She can alter her facial features, skin (coloration/texture), hair (length/color), apparent race, sex, size (height/weight), within the limits of a human and halfling scales. Her transformations take several seconds, but Lis is able to change her form as often as she likes and her new appearances last until she changes her form again. Far from a minor illusion, shapeshifting for Lis is a physical transformation. Given her shapeshifting talent, Lis is rarely seen in her true form, and she instead prefers to adopt all kinds of humanoid shapes. However, unlike some changelings, she does not treat her forms as mere clothes to wear and discard haphazardly, but roles to cleverly portray.
Illusion Magic (Wizard): A proper wizard, Lis has been trained by some of the finest wizards and arcane tutors that can be found in the land. Her travels have afforded her many opportunities to pursue knowledge hidden in ancient tomes. Although she is capable as a spellcaster, her specialty is doubtlessly the school of illusion. The Changeling shows great talent when it comes to creating illusions both big and small.
Thievery: Off the stage, Lis lives a life steeped in the shadows. She sneaks. She picks locks. She lightens pockets and empties all manner of containers. She performs sleight of hand tricks to beguile. And her trade in this maleficent role is to liberate the property of others for her own profit.
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Props Appropriate to the Role - Aware of the dangers of keeping her own personal possessions, Lis keeps only items that belong to her current masks or personas.
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The only child of two changeling parents, Lis grew up among a traveling troupe of changelings. Harmless religious fanatics, her parents were cultists of sorts, Becomers, changelings that believed that the the essence of being a changeling was to possess different shapes, different identities, and different lives. They taught Lis that her purpose, her true purpose, and the way to enlightenment was to keep changing.
Enmeshed with a merry band of performers, Lis came to embrace such ideas. She grew up seeing her parents change appearances at a whim. She learned to call them by different names. She learned to recognize them with different faces. She learned new pasts. She experienced new presents. And she accepted new futures. Lis remembers her childhood as happy. She recalls her excitement at learning how to shapeshift.
She remembers her first mask, a reflection of joy. She remembers her first persona, a street urchin raised on the streets of the old Imperial city. She remembers her first performance, playing the youngest daughter of King Gawain in the classic Elven tragedy Aramil.
In time, convinced that she had learned what she could as a member of the traveling troupe of changelings, Lis struck out on her own, accompanied by the the happy and proud encouragement of her parents.
Exploring new depths, Lis found herself studying at one of the few sanctioned arcane institutions that remained. She was Emmeline, an idealistic human, full of love and loyalty to the Iridian Republic. Unfortunately despite her success, Lis lost the permit sanctioning her official use of magic when she discarded the persona following a storied romance, but controversial romance with her evocation professor and the subsequent theft of the noblewoman's sizable dowry.
In the years that followed, Lis experimented with a number of different personas. Enamored by the work of long dead painter, she became Nija, a young tiefling woman from the distant city of Daklan, far to the east across the Northern Sea. Trying her hand at painting, Lis discovered that an unexpected natural talent, and soon found herself selling paintings for outrageous prices. Commanding a small following of devoted admirers and collectors, Lis found herself mingling with the upper-crust of Iridian society. Pleasant summers spent painting the children of the aristocracy ended dramatically when Lis decided to attempt to channel her visions of change into her art, resulting in an highly abstract series of paintings that were quickly deemed heretical by the artistic gatekeepers of the young republic.
Fleeing the capital with bitter tears in her eyes, Lis changed into Sedilia, a serving girl in a brothel. Quickly growing bored with this role and the unwelcome advances of her customers, Lis created two new personas. Lisandra, the half-elf actress, and the half-elf thief, Dylis.
Seeking out a new challenge, Lis decided to play these two roles in parallel. And so, Lisandra, bastard daughter of an elven nobleman, began a meteoric rise to the top of the theatrical world. Concurrently, Dylis, guttersnipe of no repute, turned into a skilled thief, well regarded by her swift fingered peers. In time, Lisandra would come to loathe the established world of theater, the predictable schedule of plays demanded by the common citizen, and the profitable ventures supported by the investor. At the same time, Dylis would find herself under growing scrutiny from the local constabulary, following a string of infamous thefts that culminated in the theft of a golden bust of Emperor Hadrian Augustus from the newly renamed Iridian Museum of Art.
Convinced it was once again time for change, Lis decided to travel west. Soon after, Lisandra announced the creation of her new one woman show and her intentions of traveling west to spread her art beyond the stiffing metaphorical walls of the capital. And conveniently, on the very same night, Dylis sold her most recently acquired valuables to her favorite fence, purchasing new papers and a seat on a train traveling west.
βAll the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts.β - As You Like It by Shakespeare
βπππππ₯: 5' 7'' πΉπ¦πππ: Dylis has the lithe, slender build best kept by a professional thief. πΌπͺππ€: Dylis has pale green eyes. βπππ£: The young half-elf has auburn hair that rests a short distance above her shoulders. ππππ ππ ππ: Dylis has light skin, reflecting her wood elf heritage. πππ₯π₯π π π€/ππππ£π€/βπππ£πππππ€: Dylis bears the many familiar reminders of a life spent in constant motion. A noticeable scar, likely from a blade, cuts across her collarbone and down her chest. βππ£π€π πππ ππ₯πͺππ: Dylis goes to great pains to blend in, wearing the simple outfits expected from a woman of meager means. Unassuming and meek looking, she favors outfits with many convenient and subtle pockets.
βππππ₯ππ ππ€πππ‘ ππ₯ππ₯π¦π€: Unattached βππ£π€π πππππ₯πͺ: The sweet thief of your dreams, blessed with a golden heart and a kindly demeanor. Dylis seems far from an expert thief. Instead, there is something helpless about the young half-elf. She seems to be a young woman caught up with the wrong crowd and in the wrong place at the wrong time. An unfortunate soul forced by circumstance rather than desire to commit a long list of crimes. Unaided by sweet wine, Dylis is a timid mouse, nervous, but not unsociable. With the fire of alcohol burning through her, she can manages to be far more confident and direct.
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Superstitious - Like many a thief, Dylis is exceedingly superstitious, and firmly convinced that the appropriate personal ritual is an important part in her ability to remain unnoticed.
Coin Flipping / Sleight of Hand Tricks - When bored, Dylis can often be found flipping coins along her fingers or performing a wide range of sleight of hand tricks with said coins.
Fingernail Biting - To her own embarrassment, Dylis bites her fingernails when nervous, a habit not even her parents could get her to stop.
Snacking - In quiet moments, Dylis likes to snack on small treats, often fruit or sweet candies. And while she often makes sure to bring her own supply with her, in a pinch she is not above stealing to satisfy her sweet tooth.
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Games - Dylis enjoys playing board games and games of chance whether for money or simply fun.
Carving - Handy with a knife, Dylis is fond of carving wood into various shapes that take her fancy.
Dancing - Blessed with nimble feet and a natural sense of rhythm, Dylis will dance if there is opportunity to do so. Music helps, but is not needed.
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Pain - Dylis is no gunslinger, she is no bounty hunter, and she is no soldier. She recoils from the very idea of pain and does her best sidestep any great amount of suffering, for herself as well as others.
Imprisonment - A thief since her earliest years, Dylis maintains a healthy fear of imprisonment.
Starvation - A product of her upbringing, Dylis struggles with constant worry about her next meal. She keeps her hunger at bay by keeping small snacks on hand.
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Music - If you like to dance, you like music, and Dylis is no exception.
Drinking - Drawn to others, Dylis finds drinking only serves to make her more social and silences any gnawing nerves she might experience among strangers.
Money - What thief doesnβt like money?
Food - Having grown up hungry, Dylis takes immense pleasure in eating food, and shows an adventurous spirit when it comes to trying out new cuisines.
Animals - Dylis loves animals, small or big, friendly or not. She claims no great expertise, other than an ability to find animals very cute.
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Classism - Dylis holds a particularly negative view of the classism that still prevails in the Iridian Republic. Having grown up on the streets, having starved, having clawed her out of the gutter, and having been forced by circumstance into a life of crime, Dylis sees the Iridian Republic with clear eyes.
Braggarts - Surrounded by criminals, Dylis has grown rather tired of others boasting about how much money they have made.
Rain - Early years as a street urchin has left Dylis with a strong dislike of the rain. She remembers far too many nights spent soaked and shivering in the mud filled streets.
Officers of the Law - For understandable reasons, the young half-elf has little positive to say about officers of the law. She views all constables, sheriffs, marshals, and assorted lawmen as inevitable opponents.
Evangelists - An unfortunate encounter with a wandering preacher trying to encourage her to turn a new leaf and pursue a nobler life of virtue has convinced Dylis that the religiously inclined, in a professional capacity, are probably best avoided.
Violence - Interested only in profit, Dylis positively abhors violence, and will do anything she can to avoid having to harm or kill others.
Athletics - Keen to enter through second story windows, Dylis is an accomplished climber.
Acrobatics - Catlike in her movements, Dylis moves easily and stealthily, managing agile bounds, well-timed dodges, and finding or staying on her feet in remarkably tricky situations.
Investigation - An old hand at robbery, Dylis has by necessity learned to discover clues that may aid her deductions, particularly when it comes to figuring out where valuables might be hidden.
Sleight of Hand - Quick with her hands, Dylis is capable of effortlessly performing acts of legerdemain or manual trickery.
Stealth - Keen to perform her ill deeds without being seen or heard, Dylis has a talent for sneaking, concealing herself, slinking past guards, slipping away without being noticed and sneaking up on others.
Thievery - Dylis is a talented thief. She is an experienced burglar. A gifted pickpocket. A speedy lockpick. And a quiet sneak, lightfooted and hard to detect.
Illusion Magic - Although no wizard, Dylis claims she has a modest talent for magic and merely picked up some tricks along the way. Wizards and others of a magical persuasion may discover that Dylis seems far more capable as a spellcaster than she lets on.
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Derringer (.41) - For her own protection, Dylis keeps a small, sleek two shot derringer hidden somewhere on her person.
Blackjack - As a last resort before lethal violence, Dylis relies on her blackjack. A short, easily concealable club, consisting of a lead weight attached to the end of a short wood shaft, the small club allows Dylis to bludgeon as needed.
Dagger - Less of a weapon and more of a tool, the young half-elf is nonetheless fond of the unremarkable dagger that she carries in a sheath attached to her belt.
Thievesβ Tools - Dylis keeps a well-used set of so-called Thievesβ Tools in a canvas tool roll carefully secured to her lower back. Dyis favored set of tools consists of a small file, a set of lock picks, a small mirror mounted on a metal handle, a set of narrow-bladed scissors, and a pair of pliers
Colt Single Action Army Revolver (.44) - Dylis keeps enough questionable company to know that it is in her own best interest to openly carry a firearm. The Colt Single Action Army revolver she wears in a holster on her hip, is reliable, cheap, and gets the job done.
Backpack - Dylis keeps a packed bag with the assorted tools needed for travel and enough supplies (food and water) for a couple of days spent in the wilderness.
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Dylis was born in the great port city of Meldryn, in the northernmost reaches of the Iridian Republic.
She knows precious little about her parents. Save that her father was an elf. She never met him, the man was gone, lost in yet another peasant uprising before she was even born. And her mother, the proprietor of a small tavern, died from an unnamed plague during her early childhood. With no relatives to speak of, Dylis found herself sold to a textile merchant, Harol Wellby. Regarded as a mere servant, treated poorly, and suffering no small degree of abuses, Dylis ran away at the age of seven, promising to never again be dependent on anyone else.
She became just another street urchin, just another orphan that prowled the streets of Meldryn in one of the countless gangs of children that afflicted the poorer districts of the city. Still, she learned from the older children. She learned to lie. She learned to sneak. She learned to steal. She learned to hurt. And she learned to kill.
Guttersnipe became thief as years passed and Dylis joined the ranks of the true criminals that threatened the purses of the honest citizens of Meldryn. In short order, she found Meldryn had become too small her. There was only so much to steal. There was only so much to rob. And her reputation had begun to catch up with her.
In search of greener pastures, Dylis traveled to the capital. She found a new racket. She found a new gang. She found new friends. And for some time, she found a paramour. At least until the law caught up with the infamous Black Boot Gang and its leader, Thrice Hanged Jarsali outside the Iridian Republic National Bank. Escaping the fatal shootout that followed, Dylis returned to more discreet crimes, acquiring a respectable reputation among her fellow thieves.
Things were good, until a sudden ambition saw Dylis completing a daring set of jobs targeting a loosely distributed collection of priceless artwork depicting the Emperor Hadrian August and his family. What had been more of a caper than proper job, brought unwelcome attention, as law enforcement grew concerned that a potential imperial conspiracy was afoot, given the thematic link between all the stolen artwork. To her great horror, Dylis discovered that that an entire department of lawmen were now dedicated to finding her and bringing her to a justice.
Hounded by the law, Dylis acquired new identification papers at a premium cost and burned her last favors with the old fence One-Ear to purchase an escape. Boarding a train, she fled west, eventually finding herself the Kharaki desert. Far from the reaches of the law, she began to offer her unassuming services in Christiana Town and New Hope.
βπππ: Lisandra Thervan πΈππππ€ππ€: Lisandra the Actress πΈππ: 25 ππ‘πππππ€: Half-Elf πΎπππππ£: Female ππππ¦π‘ππ₯ππ π: Traveling Actress, Occasional Wizard for Hire πΈππππππππ₯: True Neutral
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βπππππ₯: 5' 7'' πΉπ¦πππ: Lisandra has a slender build, with the right amount of curves to perfectly fill out the tantalizing attire expected of a professional actress. πΌπͺππ€: Lisandra has captivating gray eyes βπππ£: She has long dark brown hair that reaches just past her shoulders. Lisandra goes to great pains to ensure that her hair is well kept and spends a noticeable amount of time grooming. ππππ ππ ππ: Her skin is fair, light, and untouched by anything as imposing as manual labor. πππ₯π₯π π π€/ππππ£π€/βπππ£πππππ€: Earning her living by acting, Lisandra has made sure that her skin is unmarked, unblemished, and largely untouched by the harsh sunlight, following the practices of the ancient nobility when it comes to always carrying an umbrella. βππ£π€π πππ ππ₯πͺππ: As Lisandra, Lis catches all eyes, dressing in only the most elegant and fashionable attire, leaving many observers to conclude that she must, at the very least, be the wayward daughter of a wealthy land baron.
βππππ₯ππ ππ€πππ‘ ππ₯ππ₯π¦π€: Extremely Unattached βππ£π€π πππππ₯πͺ: A pleasant glass of sweet elven wine, Lisandra wields the practiced charm and grace of an actress. Full of stage honed confidence, she speaks easily, and is happiest when she is in the center of attention. She is daring in her art, holding great confidence in her own abilities, and this belief has carried over into her behavior off the stage. She holds no regards for tradition, seeing rebellion against the status quo, be in art or life as completely necessary. She is meticulous in her craft, but decidedly fond of debauchery in her private life, a trait she deems most fitting for an entertainer.
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Daydreaming - When faced with particularly boring situations, Lisandra is unapologetic about her habit of daydreaming.
Name Dropping - Lisandra enjoys casually or not so casually mentioning the names of famous entertainers that she has worked with or wealthy patrons that she has entertained, professionally and socially.
Lip Biting - In moments of great anger, Lisandra tends to bite her lip rather than fall prey to distasteful habits like yelling or cursing.
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Art Appreciation - Holding herself to be a cultured woman, Lisandra spends much time appreciating the arts.
Socializing - It does not take much to convince Lisandra to attend a social event or gathering.
Entertaining - Lisandra is fond of holding private salons, consciously aiming to please or to educate.
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Being Boring - Lisandra is deathly afraid of being boring, by her own measure or that of others.
Lack of Fame - For all professions regarding her dedication to the art of acting, Lisandra wants to be famous and she wants to be remembered. Fading into obscurity is simply not something she is willing to accept.
Poverty - Desiring a comfortable life full of expensive things and many homes, Lisandra sees poverty for herself as a true horror.
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Music - Lisandra adores music and everything related to music. She sings. She dances. She plays instruments. She happily listens to others sing or play. And she pleasantly watches others dance, never poorly judging even the worst of dancers.
Art - An art appreciator through and through, Lisandra fancies art in all forms.
Social Events - Something of a social butterfly, the half-elf actress is drawn to others, finding renewed energy from engaging conversation, and especially when it involves big parties.
Finer Things - Claiming a refined taste and noble origins, Lisandra enjoys the finer things in life. Expensive food, expensive wine, fine jewelry, priceless furniture, and exquisite accommodations are all things she desires.
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Drunkenness - Despite her love of parties, long experience has taught Lisandra that drunkenness leads only to boorish behavior and violence.
Impatience - A woman of the stage, Lisandra holds it as a great sin for others to be impatient, particularly when she is speaking or performing.
Physical Labor - A lady in her heart, Lisandra firmly believes that physical labor is best left to other...more capable individuals.
Performing - Few can compare to Lisandra when it comes to performing. She is a gifted singer, a talented dancer, a wonderful actress, and a noteworthy musician.
Persuasion - Full of charm, Lisandra is quite capable when it comes to influencing others.
Perception - Lisandra is an astute observer, quick to note important information about other people.
Acting - Lisandra is an actressβs actress, she can play any role, simple to complex, ancient to trail blazing modern. She has a talent for single mannerisms and a sharp ear for voices, able to mimic a wide range of accents. Gender is merely a passing thought for her, and she can convincingly play a man if production requires it. Unlike her more common colleagues, Lisandra seems to not just play a role, but to become the very character that she is portraying.
Illusion Magic (Wizard) - As part of her show, Lisandra utilizes minor illusion spells. When asked, she claims that she is in fact a state trained wizard, quickly producing an authentic looking document sanctioning her use of magic and a letter from, Lamlis Varis, the well-known head of the Actor's Guild of the Iridian Republic explaining that one Lisandra Thervan is a close...very close personal friend, and great friend of the arts.
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Elegant Dress - Ignoring all matters of pragmatism, Lisandra wears long, elegant black dress.
Matching Elegant Hat - Lisandra has an elegant hat (more even) that matches her dress.
Fancy Boots - Showing a surprising disregard for the terrain found out west, Lisandra has donned a pair of fancy boots.
Umbrella - Wary of too much sunlight or rain, Lisandra takes care to always bring an umbrella suitable for the weather.
Large Suitcases - Lisandra has brought several large, heavy suitcases with her. Full of clothes, personal items, and props for her performances, the collection of luggage has proven the bane of more than one valet.
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ππ¦ππππ£πͺ: Lisandra Thervan was born in Cedarspire, the product of a brief dalliance between an elven noble, rumored to be the scion of the wealthy Quillathe family, and Imelda Balmont, a famed courtesan from Eshkrigal, city of the brilliant flowers. Having accepted a sizable sum of money for her silence, Lisandra's mother never spoke of her father, much less uttered his name, and instead set about to raising Lisandra in the brothel where she worked. In large part, this choice was made due to the largess of the brothel madam, who had taken a liking to Lisandra's mother and her newborn, and the coin that the exotic woman she brought in every week.
Growing up among the gentle ladies of the night, Lisandra came to understand much about the world.
In her early teens, Lisandra was taken in by a distant cousin,
performances all over the Iridian Republic. It was at this time that she first began to sing and act in public. She encountered many companions and admirers, growing her confidence.
She was discovered by the theater house owner Jeremias Van Brock, who persuaded her to act in a play performed by the then unknown Dwarven playwright Duergath Urshar. A role and play that saw both actress and playwright receive unprecedented acclaim and attention. Leveraging this unexpected success, Lisandra secured a roll as the understudy to the great elven actress Melisende Galerne. Under the watchful eye of Galerne, Lisandra developed her craft, blossoming into a true talent. Lisandra established herself as a formidable actress, highly regarded for her theatrical instinct, her ability to with a mere indication to understand a role, and successfully perform it. As her roles increased in prominence, Lisandra's career continued to grow in pace with her growing fame. Her rise, as far as the critics of the capital was concerned, culminated in the memorable performance she gave as the Princess Tiaathque in a modern rendition of the classic elven comedy Two High Elves of Jhakala. After this performance, she was called the natural successor to Galerne a statement her mentor accepted generously.
Success on the stage, brought Lisandra many rich rewards. She earned a significant amount of money. She mingled with the nobility. She dined with the wealthiest citizens of the capital. She gained devoted admirers. She received a bounty of gifts from those seeking to catch her attention and to hold her favor. Less reported on was her intimate association with the gnomish wizard, Duvamil, from whom Lisandra claims to have learned all her magic.
Eventually, tiring of the burdensome aspects of fame, repeated roles, and seeking a new creative outlet, Lisandra announced her intentions to journeyed west, and embarked upon a thus far mostly well received one woman show. Critics willing to brave the lawless territories beyond the comfortable reach of the Iridian Republic have noted her wide range of expertly, some say impossibly well played roles, and her clever usage of illusions to create sets that compliment her elaborate performances.
Despite her artistic endeavors, Lisandra has also offered her services as a wizard for hire in between performances, finding the extra coin useful for her continued comfort. To some fanfare she has also occasionally joined theatrical productions performed by lesser known colleagues, partly out of amusement and partly because of the generous pay offered.
A new current pulled at the souls imprisoned beneath the arena. Cold Hands could sense the change. The guards talked less. They moved more. And when they spoke it was in hurried whispers amongst themselves or loud shouts accompanied by the piercing crack of whips. The cold stone of her cell pleased her. The darkness that surrounded her sharpened her senses. And hunger filled her stomach with gentle expectation.
Panicked prayer. Screams of rage. Futile struggling. Cold Hands listened. She allowed the feelings to flow through her. She did not retreat. She did not withdraw. She chooses acceptance. She welcomes the rolling waves of suffering that come crashing over her.
Her breathe was slow, a rhythmic inhale and then exhale. Sitting with her legs tucked beneath her, Cold Hands contemplated the parable of the Bitter Wind. She thought of the Unsmiling One and her lips moved in silent recollection.
My feet stand upon the frozen waters.
The cold wind cuts across my heart.
And I strike with fists shaped by despair.
The slavers presumed she merely waited. They could not see her preparation. They thought the metal bars would keep her. They hoped the heavy chains would bind her. They had already forgotten what she had told them.
I know, I initially envisioned Feras as a peacekeeeper of sorts, keeping the most volatile members of the group from killing each other and on mission. Now I think he's more likely just to hide in the back and hope no one notices him when the rest of the team start murdering each other.
The party needs some level of humanity to hold the real monsters back or at the very least someone who won't trigger the "UNSPEAKABLE EVIL" alarm bells from ringing. :D
I'm really digging the cast, I think Sariel is going to be very curious about @A Lowly Wretch's Gangraena. An ancient undead of a mysterious origin, fueled by dark energies even more ancient and mysterious would seem to be almost incomparably interesting to a necromancer.
Weaves and Cian seem like other characters Sariel will be by default interested in conversing with or politely studying. With that being said, everyone has provided a lot of material to work with, so I can easily think of so many ways to have Sariel interact with the others.
Furthermore, the fear or dislike of magic in the party is going to be very fun to explore. :D
I'm not sure if it worked out, but I tried to string together some in character style passages for the background section.
"Unhappy rumors have reached my ears, Aldhelm. They say a darkness hangs over the High Fells of Valandor. I pray that you have returned to us now to dispel such fearful tales."
Bowing down on his left knee as he entered the room, Aldhelm rose with greater difficulty, feeling his many years as he slowly stood up. He was no longer a young man. It had been fifty years since he had arrived in the Spired City. He had fought and defeated great evils. The faded scars and old injuries earned from such deeds were plain for all to see. He was a hero in Talcus, Aldhelm knew, for all the good it did him.
He had been richly rewarded for his services to the kingdom. He had risen to highest echelons of society. He had a title. He had lands. He dined with the nobility. He spoke with members of the royal family. He had more servants than he could count. He had a cadre of apprentices learning under his careful tutelage. And he slept in a luxurious bed. Such rich rewards had to be safeguarded by continued service, he knew, but it did not diminish the weariness he felt deep in his bones. Leaning heavily on his staff, Aldhelm collected his thoughts, consider how best to begin.
"I bring grim news, my lord Baron, there is a dark presence that dwells in the tomb of Adgyth Mara, a sorcerer who can summon the undead, a necromancer."
Loud gasps escaped from the court scattered in groups across the great hall and the Baron raised a calming hand, smiling good-naturedly as he beckoned for order to be restored.
"My old friend, surely you jest, perhaps this spellcaster is simply a maleficent conjurer, a charlatan dabbling in black magic in order to frighten the wretched people."
"There have been sightings of large groups of undead, moving across Thalore. To what end, we do not yet know. However, it is only a matter of time before this foul creature, this baleful necromancer, assembles an army of undead and moves to threaten the nearby settlements."
"What do you suggest?"
"We must act, your grace. We must secure the silver mines of Umeth. The King would be most displeased if the supply of silver was interrupted."
"Of course," the baron agreed, nodding sagely. "And of the necromancer?"
"Forgive me, my lord, but I have already taken the liberty of dispatching Inquisitor Nelriel and her company. I did not wish to trouble you with such minor details."
"Inquisitor Nelriel? Heartening news, indeed!" the baron proclaimed with a smile, to a smattering of cheers and clapping hands,"Why, I almost feel sorry for this pitiful necromancer."
"Just so," Aldhelm said, returning the board smile.
"What do they call you?"
"Cefrey."
"I see."
"Who sent you? Oh, donβt bother. I know you did not come here by your own accord."
Cefrey hesitated. There was subtle violence in the soft words of the stranger and Cefrey knew she did not have much time,"Aldhelm the Bright Handed"
"I know him."
"You cannot."
"Oh, why not? He knew my master. He was ever a friend of Taman Hakothi in those distant days," the robed figure said, taking a slow step forward, her cold blue eyes filling Cefrey with inescapable dread.
"Stay back! Donβt come any closer!" Cefrey stammered, pressing her back against the ice covered stone of the tomb, pointing the tip of her blade at the other speaker. "What do you want?"
A faint look of amusement crossed the pale elfβs face, "To talk, nothing more. I wish to know why old Aldhelm sends assassins to invade my home."
Cefrey tried to stay calm. She tried to think. She was cornered, surrounded by a host of undead, bristling with weapons and armor. They had lost Kalli to a trap as they entered the second level of the tomb. Brem had fallen to a hail of arrows not long after. The cleric accompanying them, Cesvel, had burned when he tried to rebuke the approaching undead. Nelriel had told her to run, screaming as an axe split her skull open. It had been a trap. Their spells had failed them. Their wards had been useless. The Necromancer had been ready. And Aldhelm had been wrong.
"Where is Vladislak? What have you done with him?" She meekly managed, her blade growing heavy in her hand and beginning to shake.
"Your friend is dead. Like the others that came with you."
"Why?"
"Do not ask foolish questions. You came here to kill me. Did you think that I would not defend myself? Your friend chose his fate. And now you may choose yours."
"Pleaseβ¦"
The crypt echoed with the loud clatter and clank of metal as the expressionless skeletons closed in on Cefrey, holding their weapons ready.
"No, stop that," the necromancer commanded,"Do not do that. Do not beg. You had a choice. You always have a choice."
Inquisitor Tessele clasped her hands together offering a quick prayer, before she lit the votive candle sitting on the battered wooden table in front of her. Brilliant light shaped by her divine magic began to spread across the room, driving away the darkness that surrounded her. She felt a pang of sorrow as she studied the figure chained to the chair across from her. Dipping the tip of her quill in ink, she began to write in a careful hand.
"State your name, wizard, so that it may formally be recorded."
"You know my name."
Tessele smashed her first into the table, unwelcome flames of anger erupting in her bosom as her voice rose, "I will not ask you again, state your name, prisoner."
The reply came slower than the first, each syllable carefully delivered, "You know my name. You know me."
Unwelcome, painful silence followed, until unable to stand it any longer, Tessele spoke in a mournful tone,"You are Sariel, Sariel Amastacia."
"Indeed, I am Sariel Amastacia."
"So there you sit, chained, and left to languish in the darkness."
"I have no need for the light."
"They always say that."
"You waste my time."
"Your time is mine to waste."
"So you say," the shackled elf agreed.
"You subverted an agent of the crown. You had her murder a court wizard."
"I repaid Aldhelm for his poor manners and for his foolishness. The assassinβ¦well, I gave her a choice. It would seem she found undeath preferable to death. Have you captured her?"
Tessele chose not to reply, pursing her lips in unbidden anger.
"Aha, now that is interesting. What will your superiors say? A wight on the loose in Talcus. I doubt they will be very pleased."
"Where is she?"
"In truth, I do not know. She is no longer bound to me. Her geas ended when she killed Aldhelm as I promised her when we struck our bargain."
"You released a wight in the city? To what end?"
The necromancer seemed to study Tessele with a pitying look before she spoke, "A wight is no lesser undead. She retained the memories of her life. Her personality was untouched. She possessed free will. I am not cruel. I have little desire to enslave sentient creatures."
"Such kindness," Tessele hissed, "And yet, you summoned an army of undead, razing the town of Camor to the ground. One hundred innocent souls, lost in one night."
"An accurate count, by my measure, but they were not slain by my hand alone."
"You deny it then?"
"It was not my intention to fight in the town. Unfortunately, your soldiers did not share my apprehensions about conducting a battle among the peasantry."
"Do you regret nothing?"
"What is there to regret, Tessele? I offered them a way out. I simply wanted to be left alone. The tombs were not theirs to claim. My home was not theirs to sully. And my work was not theirs to interrupt."
"You blame us for the slaughter?"
"What reason is there to lie?"
"You killed innocents. You killed the Kingβs men. You killed servants of the Holy Sun."
"Your clerics, your paladins, and your crusaders killed themselves with their own foolishness. I offer no apology for the deaths of the wicked."
"Wicked! They were good, kind souls devoted to the one true faith-"
"Oh, kill me now! But spare me this ridiculous story. You sent killers. You sent evil men. Their faith will not absolve them from their deeds. The righteous dead feast on their souls this day! I promise you that. I have but to listen and I can hear the screams of your soldiers. And I can hear the laughter of their countless victims rising louder still."
"You are the monster they said you were. I had vainly hoped that they might be wrong."
"There was no mistake."
Tesseleβs voice wavered, her hands balling into tight fists, "I thought you lost, Sariel. I thought you were dead. After the battle of Eliorin. I looked for you. I looked for you for weeks. I searched for your body. And I found nothing."
"I was never lost," the wizard interrupted, seemingly unmoved.
"Where did you go?"
"To the East, beyond the narrow sea. I sought out the masters of magic, the great wizards of the forgotten ages. The ancient undead hidden from your prying eyes and shielded from your violence."
"You found them then, the hateful liches still remaining?"
"They are not so hateful, at least when you are polite."
"We heard stories about a great disaster befalling the lands of Thalore. It was said that the people had fallen into the hands of a Necromancer."
"It was peaceful, before you came."
"You consort with the undead. You damn you very soul, Sariel, there is no peace in that!"
The wizard leaned forward, placing a skeletal hand over Tesseleβs before the inquisitor had time to pull back.
"Tessele, there is only fear in your words. You do not see. You do not listen. You do not understand. You are blinded by the light. You are deafened by the thunder of your new faith."
"You are halfway in the grave and you speak like that!" Tessele shouted, almost jumping back as she withdrew her hand, sending the candle clattering to the floor. She pointed at the wizard's skeletal arm,"Look at yourself, Sariel! You are dying, you are turning into a monster."
"If I have changed, then it is only for the better."
"You have traded your flesh. You have bartered away your soul. And for what? Unholy magic?"
"This?" the necromancer scoffed, raising her skeletal arm. "That arm was a small price to pay for knowledge."
Otherwise, I am just excited to see more of the cast of characters and also where this goes in character.
A high elf, touched by the slow beginnings of undeath, Sariel is said to have been cursed by her close association with the undead. Her skin is pale, her hair midnight, and her eyes seem almost to glow with a cold, baleful blue light. Hidden beneath a layer of fabric, her right arm is skeletal, and moves through arcane means.
The light of the elves has begun to fade from her being. Warm joy now turning to cool detachment. Sariel moves no longer with the effortless grace of her people, but with the ghostly agility of the undead. Her visage has become that of a fell apparition, conjured from the depths of some long forgotten tomb.
Personality
Sariel is a creature driven by her singular obsession with understanding the cosmic forces of life, death and undeath. Marked by her studies, her emotions have been tempered by the wisdom of the grave. She feels all that she once did, but she notes a growing detachment in her passions and a cold chill that has begun to envelope her soul.
Far from menacing in most situations, Sariel is polite, kind even, if permitted such graces by the situation or those she encounters. She knows that many fear her. She knows that many revile her. She holds little hope for reconciliation. The Maw is proof enough of the paltry mercy offered by the kingdom. Sariel does not deceive herself. She sees no advantage in such desperate deception. They will not free her, all know this to be true, but the dead counsel her to be patient, and Sariel intends to heed their whispers.
Imprisonment has done little to dampen her confidence. However, Sariel remains far from reckless and the dark, damp cell in which they have left her has only sent her gaze further inwards. Even in the Maw there are dead to speak to. They can take her arcane components. They can take her possessions. And they can take her beloved grimoire. Sariel does not dispute this. Yet, a wizard, a necromancer, a true seeker of the truths that lie beyond death itself cannot be so easily dissuaded.
In happier times, Sariel was disagreeable only when faced with the ignorant and those quick to judge her for her vocation, reviled as it is across the land. For all her differences with her kin, she still possesses the storied charm of the elves, transformed as it has been into the dread presence of the grave. She navigates social interactions in the Maw with unexpected ease for a wizard with a habit of engaging in lengthy conversations with the dead.
Uninterested in tradition wreathed in ceremonial judgment, Sariel is unconcerned with the social mores and taboos that would restrict her practice of necromancy. In turn, she would happily offer others the same freedom and keeps an open mind.
Background
"Unhappy rumors have reached my ears, Aldhelm. They say a darkness hangs over the High Fells of Valandor. I pray that you have returned to us now to dispel such fearful tales."
Bowing down on his left knee as he entered the room, Aldhelm rose with greater difficulty, feeling his many years as he slowly stood up. He was no longer a young man. It had been fifty years since he had arrived in the Spired City. He had fought and defeated great evils. The faded scars and old injuries earned from such deeds were plain for all to see. He was a hero in Talcus, Aldhelm knew, for all the good it did him.
He had been richly rewarded for his services to the kingdom. He had risen to highest echelons of society. He had a title. He had lands. He dined with the nobility. He spoke with members of the royal family. He had more servants than he could count. He had a cadre of apprentices learning under his careful tutelage. And he slept in a luxurious bed. Such rich rewards had to be safeguarded by continued service, he knew, but it did not diminish the weariness he felt deep in his bones. Leaning heavily on his staff, Aldhelm collected his thoughts, consider how best to begin.
"I bring grim news, my lord Baron, there is a dark presence that dwells in the tomb of Adgyth Mara, a sorcerer who can summon the undead, a necromancer."
Loud gasps escaped from the court scattered in groups across the great hall and the Baron raised a calming hand, smiling good-naturedly as he beckoned for order to be restored.
"My old friend, surely you jest, perhaps this spellcaster is simply a maleficent conjurer, a charlatan dabbling in black magic in order to frighten the wretched people."
"There have been sightings of large groups of undead, moving across Thalore. To what end, we do not yet know. However, it is only a matter of time before this foul creature, this baleful necromancer, assembles an army of undead and moves to threaten the nearby settlements."
"What do you suggest?"
"We must act, your grace. We must secure the silver mines of Umeth. The King would be most displeased if the supply of silver was interrupted."
"Of course," the baron agreed, nodding sagely. "And of the necromancer?"
"Forgive me, my lord, but I have already taken the liberty of dispatching Inquisitor Nelriel and her company. I did not wish to trouble you with such minor details."
"Inquisitor Nelriel? Heartening news, indeed!" the baron proclaimed with a smile, to a smattering of cheers and clapping hands,"Why, I almost feel sorry for this pitiful necromancer."
"Just so," Aldhelm said, returning the board smile.
"What do they call you?"
"Cefrey."
"I see."
"Who sent you? Oh, donβt bother. I know you did not come here by your own accord."
Cefrey hesitated. There was subtle violence in the soft words of the stranger and Cefrey knew she did not have much time,"Aldhelm the Bright Handed"
"I know him."
"You cannot."
"Oh, why not? He knew my master. He was ever a friend of Taman Hakothi in those distant days," the robed figure said, taking a slow step forward, her cold blue eyes filling Cefrey with inescapable dread.
"Stay back! Donβt come any closer!" Cefrey stammered, pressing her back against the ice covered stone of the tomb, pointing the tip of her blade at the other speaker. "What do you want?"
A faint look of amusement crossed the pale elfβs face, "To talk, nothing more. I wish to know why old Aldhelm sends assassins to invade my home."
Cefrey tried to stay calm. She tried to think. She was cornered, surrounded by a host of undead, bristling with weapons and armor. They had lost Kalli to a trap as they entered the second level of the tomb. Brem had fallen to a hail of arrows not long after. The cleric accompanying them, Cesvel, had burned when he tried to rebuke the approaching undead. Nelriel had told her to run, screaming as an axe split her skull open. It had been a trap. Their spells had failed them. Their wards had been useless. The Necromancer had been ready. And Aldhelm had been wrong.
"Where is Vladislak? What have you done with him?" She meekly managed, her blade growing heavy in her hand and beginning to shake.
"Your friend is dead. Like the others that came with you."
"Why?"
"Do not ask foolish questions. You came here to kill me. Did you think that I would not defend myself? Your friend chose his fate. And now you may choose yours."
"Pleaseβ¦"
The crypt echoed with the loud clatter and clank of metal as the expressionless skeletons closed in on Cefrey, holding their weapons ready.
"No, stop that," the necromancer commanded,"Do not do that. Do not beg. You had a choice. You always have a choice."
Inquisitor Tessele clasped her hands together offering a quick prayer, before she lit the votive candle sitting on the battered wooden table in front of her. Brilliant light shaped by her divine magic began to spread across the room, driving away the darkness that surrounded her. She felt a pang of sorrow as she studied the figure chained to the chair across from her. Dipping the tip of her quill in ink, she began to write in a careful hand.
"State your name, wizard, so that it may formally be recorded."
"You know my name."
Tessele smashed her first into the table, unwelcome flames of anger erupting in her bosom as her voice rose, "I will not ask you again, state your name, prisoner."
The reply came slower than the first, each syllable carefully delivered, "You know my name. You know me."
Unwelcome, painful silence followed, until unable to stand it any longer, Tessele spoke in a mournful tone,"You are Sariel, Sariel Amastacia."
"Indeed, I am Sariel Amastacia."
"So there you sit, chained, and left to languish in the darkness."
"I have no need for the light."
"They always say that."
"You waste my time."
"Your time is mine to waste."
"So you say," the shackled elf agreed.
"You subverted an agent of the crown. You had her murder a court wizard."
"I repaid Aldhelm for his poor manners and for his foolishness. The assassinβ¦well, I gave her a choice. It would seem she found undeath preferable to death. Have you captured her?"
Tessele chose not to reply, pursing her lips in unbidden anger.
"Aha, now that is interesting. What will your superiors say? A wight on the loose in Talcus. I doubt they will be very pleased."
"Where is she?"
"In truth, I do not know. She is no longer bound to me. Her geas ended when she killed Aldhelm as I promised her when we struck our bargain."
"You released a wight in the city? To what end?"
The necromancer seemed to study Tessele with a pitying look before she spoke, "A wight is no lesser undead. She retained the memories of her life. Her personality was untouched. She possessed free will. I am not cruel. I have little desire to enslave sentient creatures."
"Such kindness," Tessele hissed, "And yet, you summoned an army of undead, razing the town of Camor to the ground. One hundred innocent souls, lost in one night."
"An accurate count, by my measure, but they were not slain by my hand alone."
"You deny it then?"
"It was not my intention to fight in the town. Unfortunately, your soldiers did not share my apprehensions about conducting a battle among the peasantry."
"Do you regret nothing?"
"What is there to regret, Tessele? I offered them a way out. I simply wanted to be left alone. The tombs were not theirs to claim. My home was not theirs to sully. And my work was not theirs to interrupt."
"You blame us for the slaughter?"
"What reason is there to lie?"
"You killed innocents. You killed the Kingβs men. You killed servants of the Holy Sun."
"Your clerics, your paladins, and your crusaders killed themselves with their own foolishness. I offer no apology for the deaths of the wicked."
"Wicked! They were good, kind souls devoted to the one true faith-"
"Oh, kill me now! But spare me this ridiculous story. You sent killers. You sent evil men. Their faith will not absolve them from their deeds. The righteous dead feast on their souls this day! I promise you that. I have but to listen and I can hear the screams of your soldiers. And I can hear the laughter of their countless victims rising louder still."
"You are the monster they said you were. I had vainly hoped that they might be wrong."
"There was no mistake."
Tesseleβs voice wavered, her hands balling into tight fists, "I thought you lost, Sariel. I thought you were dead. After the battle of Eliorin. I looked for you. I looked for you for weeks. I searched for your body. And I found nothing."
"I was never lost," the wizard interrupted, seemingly unmoved.
"Where did you go?"
"To the East, beyond the narrow sea. I sought out the masters of magic, the great wizards of the forgotten ages. The ancient undead hidden from your prying eyes and shielded from your violence."
"You found them then, the hateful liches still remaining?"
"They are not so hateful, at least when you are polite."
"We heard stories about a great disaster befalling the lands of Thalore. It was said that the people had fallen into the hands of a Necromancer."
"It was peaceful, before you came."
"You consort with the undead. You damn you very soul, Sariel, there is no peace in that!"
The wizard leaned forward, placing a skeletal hand over Tesseleβs before the inquisitor had time to pull back.
"Tessele, there is only fear in your words. You do not see. You do not listen. You do not understand. You are blinded by the light. You are deafened by the thunder of your new faith."
"You are halfway in the grave and you speak like that!" Tessele shouted, almost jumping back as she withdrew her hand, sending the candle clattering to the floor. She pointed at the wizard's skeletal arm,"Look at yourself, Sariel! You are dying, you are turning into a monster."
"If I have changed, then it is only for the better."
"You have traded your flesh. You have bartered away your soul. And for what? Unholy magic?"
"This?" the necromancer scoffed, raising her skeletal arm. "That arm was a small price to pay for knowledge."
Talents
Spell Caster with a Capital S - Sariel is no mere hedge wizard, no unstudied practitioner of magic, and no unrestrained spellcaster. No, she is a wizard, a true wizard, a supreme magic-user who draws on the subtle weave of magic that permeates the very cosmos to cast powerful spells.
Necromancer - Sariel is a necromancer, a feared and hated wizard concerned chiefly with mastering the school of necromancy magic. Her spells manipulate the power of death, unlife, and the life force that animates all living creatures.
* Animate Undead - By imbuing a pile of bones or corpse with arcane energy, Sariel can create an undead servant, raising the target as an undead creature in a foul mimicry of life. This is the first act of necromancy expected of any true necromancer. * Summon Undead - Calling forth an undead spirit, Sariel can manifest such a spirit into a corporeal form, creating an undead creature shaped according to her will. * Command Undead - By uttering dread words, Sariel can command those undead creatures unable to resist her demands. * Dark Mending - Channeling hateful necromantic energies, Sariel is able to heal the wounds of the undead and unexpectedly her own, suggesting a growing change in her person. * Deathless Vigor - Years of tireless study have infused Sariel's body with a deathless vigor and she has become something more akin to the undead she once freely kept in her cohort. * Dead Whispers - Searching for answers, Sariel has come to understand the whispers of the dead and is able to speak with them, provided they retain some level of sentience or sanity. * Thrall Boon - She has become acclimated to the undead, strengthening the bond she has with her undead thralls, offering these servants a powerful boon. * Undead Graft - Long before her capture, Sariel grafted a necrotic rune into her right arm, dissolving the flesh from her arm, and leaving behind a skeletal appendage. A mere touch from her right arm can siphon the life force of others, bolstering her own health, dealing necrotic damage, and even paralyzing those unfortunate enough to be trapped in her cold grip.
Arcane Scholar - Deeply concerned with the underlying mechanics and nature of magic, Sariel is an ardent student of the arcane. She seeks to uncover arcane secrets through extensive studies, even trapped as she currently is in the hellish pit of the Maw. Steeped in the writings of mages past and the cryptic advice of the undead, Sariel possesses an extensive knowledge of arcane lore and history of the realm.
Flaws
Necromancer's Stubborn Pride - Sariel is prideful, convinced of her own righteousness, how else could she wander a path that most perceive as leading only to inescapable damnation? Her pursuit of arcane knowledge has grown beyond mere obsession and Sariel is unwilling, perhaps unable, to consider the dangers inherent to such unwavering single-mindedness.
Undead Torpor - At times, Sariel appears to be wracked by the apathy often identified in the spirits of the dead. The concerns of the living no longer seem quite as important to her. The petty squabbles and bloody wars of the narrow-minded now seem beneath her enlightened mind. Even death has begun to feel like an old, familiar friend, rather than something she should be afraid of. Rousing Sariel from such musings and moods can require significant effort.
Still Human - Besides a skeletal arm and her slow transformation into something undead, Sariel remains distinctly mortal, a noticeable disadvantage when compared to some of the other prisoners in the Maw.
Equipment
Taken from her when they tossed her into the Maw, Sariel's arcane grimoire contains the culmination of her study of necromancy. It is no exaggeration to say that Sariel would do anything to recover her ancient tome. She can see the silver ruins inlaid into the black leather cover in her dreams.
Another of her prized possession lost to her jailers was a bag of holding containing a number of arcane components and small items of comfort.
Predictably, her guards also took away her ornate silver dagger, an enchanted blade that courses with the souls of more than one willing sacrifice.
Her final piece of confiscated property is a long robe, a gift from a patient demilich amused by her questions. An elegant garment made from exquisite black cloth, woven into the robe are protective magics far beyond mortal understanding.
BunniesOfDoom,
Bork Lazer,
Red Wizard,
Dark Light,
vietmyke,
Guardian Angel Haruki,
wintersoldier,
wanderingwolf,
TokyoPewPew,
Snowdrops
