D&D Character Background Challenge (It's Own Thread Now)

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=100

Originally Posted by MrSol View Post
Bookmarked the thread for later reading. Absolutely love your writing style!
I'm rather new to the rpg scene and D&D in general and have pretty much zero Imagination when it comes to stuff like this. I'd be super grateful if you could come up with something if you find the time.

Forgotten Realms
Name: Morgan
Race: Human
Class: Forge Cleric of Gond
Background: Clan Crafter (Smith) Was trained by a dwarven master smith
Alignment: Neutral Good
Age: late twenties
Personality traits: I work hard to be the best there is at my craft. I believe that anything worth doing is worth doing right. I can’t help it—I’m a perfectionist.
Bonds: I owe my guild a great debt for forging me into the person I am today.

Notes:
• Doesn't shy away from a good fight and can take quite a punch but doesn't like unnecessary violence.
• Loves his work and aspires to be the best in the craft.

Had a lot of fun with this one - I feel like the "mother" your character lands with - may steal a bit of the show at the end...
And since you put no surname with your character... I actually stuck with it and explained it...
As always, please share ANY feedback - what you like, hated, enjoyed immensely, what worked, what could be re-worked... Things I miss the mark on, I can loop back and try to fix!
Please enjoy!
===============================================
Nestled between the Thunder Peaks, the town of Winterhaven often found itself under attack by Kobolds and Goblins. My parents – Mason and Lauren – tried their best to survive. My father had a small farm while my mother worked on leather.

The day came when a goblin by the name of Daruk Split-eye had united the goblins and kobolds of Thunder Peaks and launched a unified attack against Winterhaven. The guards of Winterhaven consisted of farmers who had taken up arms only when necessary or if there were adventurers passing through. On this night, with no moon or stars in the skies, Daruk led his minions into Winterhaven quietly, rather than screaming and charging down the mountain side as they had traditionally done in the past, which normally provided ample warning to be ready for the attack.

The goblins and kobolds had killed several people before the screams began alarming people that something was wrong. My father awakened my mother, who had been cuddling with me – as I was only just born seven days ago. The same day a quake had sent several rocks tumbling against Winterhaven’s side wall.

“We must go,” he whispered as he pulled her to her feet. He peered out the window cautiously and saw several goblins and kobolds moving in the darkness. He quickly pressed himself against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest.

“What’s going on?” she whispered fearfully.

“Goblins and kobolds,” my father had replied.

“Together?” she asked surprised.

He simply nodded in silence. They crouched beneath the window and made their way for the door. Just then, the door had been kicked down and two goblins peered inside – their short swords seemingly made of shadows on this starless night. My father quickly shoved the door closed, stunning both goblins as it slammed into them.

Pulling on my mother’s hand, they fled out of the home, with my mother clinging to me.

“Get them!” Daruk Split-eye had yelled, standing on a stone, commanding his forces from above.

“Don’t look back,” my father yelled as they tried to run for the town’s gated entrance to escape. The entrance, however, was littered with goblins and kobolds looting the dead that they had slain near the gate.

“The back gate will likely be blocked as well,” my mother cried.

“The side,” my father suddenly said.

“The side? There’s a wall all the way around,” my mother replied, fearful as they began running for the northern wall.

“The day our son was born,” my father was wheezing. “The quake.”

“The hole in the wall! They’ve not fixed it!” my mother shouted excitedly.

Just as he had remembered – the large stone that had tumbled through the northern wall was still there, as they had not figured out how to move the large rock. He helped my mother climb up but could not climb up himself. She kneeled down, “Give me your hand!”

“No,” he said, smiling at her knowingly. “My journey ends here. You must go. Take our son. He must live.” He reached down and picked up a large branch that had fallen from one of the sundered trees from the rockslide.

“I will not leave you,” she could not contain her tears as she saw goblins and kobolds rushing to them from her advantage.

“Do not condemn out son to death,” he smiled. “If I am to die tonight, let it be defending you and our son, so that you both might live another day.”

“I can’t!” she cried.

“You must!” He turned and faced the slowly approaching goblins. “Now go!” he shouted as he swung the thick branch. She waited, watched for a moment, as the goblins continued to lunge at him and he kept them at bay – having the length of the branch that exceeded the length of the goblin’s blade.

“Move!” a goblin’s voice shouted in guttural Common. The sound had caught her attention – and she saw Daruk Split-eye walking through the gathered goblins and kobolds who parted the way. My father gripped the branch nervously as Daruk Split-eye walked towards him fearlessly. My father swung the branch and Daruk Split-eye ducked under the clumsy swing, plunging his short sword deep into my father’s chest. My father collapsed, wordlessly.

Daruk Split-eye looked up at my mother and smiled. He commanded the other goblins and kobolds the climb one another until they had formed a pile that Daruk Split-eye could easily climb. My mother frantically continued to climb the mountain, sobbing out of fear of my fate, and having witnessed the death of the man she’d loved for thirty years at the hands of the very goblin that was eagerly pursuing her up the northern mountain side of the Thunder Peaks. She cried loudly as Daruk Split-eye gained on her, since she had to avoiding crushing my skull as she climbed against the jagged stones.

She whispered, “I am so sorry,” as she came to a stop, stroking my infant hairs on my head. “I am so very sorry.” She removed a necklace she had made by a Dwarven merchant in Winterhaven two days after I’d been born that simply had the name of my father, my mother, and myself.

Suddenly a rock moved and a dwarf stand with his hand extended. “Come with me,” he barked. Just as my mother moved to stand, Daruk Split-eye grabbed her ankle. Her eyes opened wide in terror. “Take my son!” she screamed and threw me into the arms of the Dwarf, who suddenly stepped forward to catch me. She continued to kick and push at Daruk Split-eye, to delay him – but the goblin eventually bested my mother, bringing his short sword to her throat. Daruk Split-eye stared at the Dwarf holding the child and growled, “Not yet. But the day will come where I will lead my army against you and your people.” And with that, Daruk Split-eye turned away and began descending down towards Winterhaven again.

That’s the story Hougrain Bloodmaul told me. I touched the necklace I wore around my neck – the only thing I had from my parents – and the sole reason I knew their first name but not their surname – or even my own for that matter.

My name is Morgan and I have spent twenty years being raised by Dwarves who felt it was their place to raise me – the request of a dying mother was undeniable. Hougrain had become my father for all intents and purposes and his wife, a lovely Dwarven woman named Ellastar was my mother. Hougrain seemed to run the house if you looked at it from the inside out; but having grown up with them, when Ellastar put her foot down, Hougrain knew the fight was over, and typically mumbled into his beard something about he was trying to explain it how she had said, but just hadn’t said it correctly.

Hougrain was a devote follower of Grond and as such, he showed me the Church and how they gave their Dwarven God praise. He had never expected me to accept it as my own since I was human; but not only had I accepted Grond as my god, but I also took an interest in working the forge – something Hougrain was very well known for in the Dwarven Community of Thunder Peaks.

Perhaps because I was human and among the Dwarves – though they all loved me and accepted me and appreciated me – I had always felt I had to push myself a little longer, a little harder, than anyone else. When Hougrain stopped for the night in the forge, drenched in sweat, arms screaming in pain, I would push myself for another two hours – or until my mother, Ellastar came into the forge to yell at me that my dinner was getting cold.

I asked about Daruk Split-eye from time to time, but the Dwarves of the Thunder Peaks rarely ventured outside – and thus had little in the ways of encountering goblins or kobolds. Only the occasional Goblin or Kobold that might be taking shelter from a storm and accidently find an access panel did the Dwarves deal with them.

I began to wonder what the world outside was like. Not that I was eternally thankful for the love, time and skills the Dwarves had shown me – but sitting at dinner and being the tallest person was beginning to feel awkward (despite their protests that they actually enjoyed seeing me!). I began to wonder how other humans lived… and Hougrain had told me about Elves (“Magic folk!” Ellastar would add. “Can’t trust them!”), Tieflings (“Demon Blood!” she would shake her head, “Can’t trust them!”), Aasimir (“Touched by angels?” she’d scoff, “More like touched in the head if you know what I mean!”) and other such people that walked the world.

I wanted to take what I heard learned – from the forge to the love I’d been shown – and take it to the world outside.

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=101

Originally Posted by n00b View Post
Dumont Castelle, Ghostwise Halfling, Circle of the Land Druid. His father and mother were both adventurers previously and settled down to run a farm. Although Dumont knew he didn't want to be a farmer he did have a love of plants so he became a Druid. He uses his knowledge of plants (and animals) to cook wonderful meals. He really sees himself as a Chef! His ultimate desire is to find the recipe for Ambrosia to prepare for his nature goddess. He is proficient in Cook's utensils, Herbalism Kit, and Poisoner's Kit (he does have a bit of a dark side).

Thanks in advance!

Lord, I had fun with this one. This is one where I also created a sister for you - to originally show the power of the Ghostwise (of speaking telepathically), but as I continued to write, the dynamic between your character and hers just bloomed... and I love how it came out. I, however, may have missed the mark on what you wanted... but I tried to hit all the notes you mentioned. Please let me know if it's good or not - or if you want something redone, or whatever! Honestly, even though I enjoyed writing (really I enjoy doing all of these, as I feel honored to be asked to walk in everyone's character shoes, if you will) - but I am more than willing to revisit and change things up if I missed something.
================================
“What do you think father will think when you tell him?” I heard her voice speaking directly into my mind.

Her name was Dyram Castelle and she was my older sister. We moved through the forest quietly as I spoke telepathically to her, “I don’t think father or mother will have much room to say anything, really,” I countered. “They were both adventurers before settling down.”

“Yes, but our kind does not typically go out into the world,” she countered. “Mother and father were an exception – and frowned upon by the Clan.”

“The Clan-Splan,” I signed mentally to my sister. “The Clan can think what they want. Father and mother can think what they want. I’ve made up my mind.”

My parents Aruk and Cerena Castelle had both done what our Clan considered the unthinkable. They had gone out to explore the world and become adventurers. After some small success and their curiosity sedated, they returned to the Clan. The Clan had shunned us until my sister was born and suddenly the Clan was forgiving of my parents.

“Do you plan on finding someone to wed?” I heard my sister speak into my mind, as if she could read my mind. As a Ghostwise Halfling our people were able to speak to one another telepathically within short ranges, and though my sister and I were not twins, we shared an unbreakable bond that sometimes allowed us to seemingly skim the most dominate thoughts.

Both my sister were raised close to the Clan who taught us both the ways of the Land. While I continued the ways of learning the land, my sister who had a mischievous side to her, took to learning to fight and defend, in the event someone dared raid our hidden homeland. She had no interest in learning how to read plants, animals, or to check for signs of sickness. All the while, I wanted to better understand how someone might poison the land – or even an animal or person – so I took a vested interest in learning more about poison. Initially it had been to better counteract poison, but I was admittedly amazed at how so many plants could be used to produce poison.

My sister gestured to me and snapped me out of my thoughts. The boar we had been tracking for an hour had finally stopped in a clearing and began feasting on the grass. My sister launched an arrow directly to the back of the neck, instantly killing it. The boar felt no pain. We jumped down from the tree and approached the kill. She looked at me, “There you go.”

“What do you mean ‘there you go’,” I said. “You’re the one who killed it,” I pointed out.

“I killed it for you,” she emphasized, “because you’re obsessed with becoming this world renowned cook.”

“World renowned Chef,” I corrected.

“Is there really a difference,” she sighed, exasperated (as I’ve corrected more than several times in the years we’ve been growing up). “Because regardless whether it’s cook or chef, it’s something you wanted so you can carry it.”

She slung her bow over her shoulder and began to walk away, leaving me standing next to the boar. “You’re so rude,” I signed. “I am going to get blood all over my new leathers.”

“Shouldn’t have worn your new leathers,” she retorted as she continued to walk away and say, “and not my problem.”

I heaved a deep sigh and picked up the boar and began dragging it back.


“You can’t!” my mother barked at me as I stirred the stew in the pot. (Stew, that I might add, smelled rather amazing!)

“You and father did,” I shrugged tasting the stew. (Just as I had expected! Perfect! I’m pretty sure I only know how to make this stew flawlessly!)

“For what purpose do you want to go out there – into the world?” my mother wrung her hands.

“Same reason you and father did,” I answered matter-of-factly. “To see the world, experience new things, and to cook the perfect Ambrosia for Yondalla.”

My mother started to say something, she blinked repeatedly as if she were having a seizure (as a side note – it’s the same look those that get poisoned by a small dose of Thistle Weed look like), before stammering, “Ambrosia for Yondalla?”

“Yes!” I said, as if it were obvious. “I have cooked here for our family – even the Clan. Everyone says the same thing! I am the best cook they’ve ever known! But there’s one person – one being who I truly want to ask if it’s as good as I – and everyone else! – thinks it is! Yondolla would speak true!”

“How do you even plan to do this?” my mother collapsed into her chair.

“You and father used to mention Cleric Temples out in the world,” I replied. “I could go to one of hers and present my Ambrosia at the feet of her statue and see if she responds. Also,” I stirred the stew a few more times before moving the pot off of the fire, “the supplies I have in regards to meat and plants is limited to this forest. From what you’ve told me there are all kinds of other plants and animals out there in the world beyond our woods. What if adding some of that into my food makes it even better than it is now?”

“Your father will never let you go,” my mother whispered.

“That’s why I am not going to tell him,” I smiled. “And neither are you.”

“Does your sister know?” my mother asked.

“She does,” I nodded. “She’s known for weeks.”

“Weeks!” my mother exclaimed. “You two… are bound. Is she going with you?”

“No,” I shook my head. “I definitely wouldn’t want her tagging along.”

That night dinner was tense and quiet with frequent inquiries from my father wondering why everyone was acting so weird. (He had wondered, one by one, if he had missed the anniversary of one of our births, or perhaps the anniversary of he and my mother’s ceremony of bonding). Truth was, no one wanted to say anything for fear of breaking and telling the truth.

That night I snuck out of our home and jumped out of the window to the floor below. I was started by my sister standing there, leaning against the tree.

“Take this,” she said, thrusting something into my hand.

I opened my hand and looked. A compass? “What’s this for?” I asked looking at her.

“So one day, you can find your way back home to us,” she said, then hugged me. I could hear her crying.

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=102

I have a character that I really don't know what to do with as I have never made a person like him before. This is for a horror campaign
Race: Warforged
Class: Fighter
Background: Soldier
Level 3
He is a dexterity based ranged Battle Master.
Age is 84 ( not in Eberon)

OK - so you have him at 84 years old (and good thing you put not in Eberon, because I know zilch about that campaign setting)... Now the story essentially ends with his birth - but it's easily believable that his "objectives" (mentioned in the story) have had him wandering around, attempting to complete it for the last 84 years!
I enjoyed writing this - because it was different. You mentioned the horror campaign, so I thought of Ravenloft type setting and worked from that mindset.
I've never really written any horror stuff myself... a few short story challenges here and there... and I don't feel like this was so much a horror story - but the birth of your character... and why and how he came to be - but with an emphasis that it's a dark world he lives in...
As always, feedback is appreciated! Whether good or bad, what I got right, what I got wrong, same old song and dance as the others.
==================================
“There is no reason to fear the dark, until the darkness blinks at you.”
- Tarik Moonstrider

The War of the Misthunters is legendary and tragic.

There had been a family that had taken up residence near Uren’tor, the main city on this side of the continent. Things seemed normal at first – but then people began to vanish. Concern grew and adventurers were hired to find out what had been going on. Some of those adventurers were found, years later, wandering aimlessly, their very mind stripped from them. The others were assumed to have been dead.

The family that moved near Uren’tor were called the Van’shin family. Perhaps that should have been the first clue, since the name – in ancient tongues literally meant ‘born from darkness.’ When a lynch party had formed and marched towards the Van’shin manor, they were greeted by undead – some of which were still recognizable as adventurers who had been employed to investigate what had been going on.

The few that had managed to escape the horrors of the undead returned to Uren’tor with the news. The Council immediately convened about what was to be done. But before the Council could decide, pounding came from the Chamber Doors. Allar was the one who answered it – and was surprised to see several of the people who had gone missing weeks ago standing at the door, wounded and bleeding. “By the gods!” he exclaimed. “Come in! Come in! Before they come!”

And those fatal words of granting the vampire spawns permission to enter – eight creatures now turned by the Van’shin family burst into the Council chambers and tore apart each and every person inside, leaving nothing but blood and body parts, before moving throughout the town to continue the same ruse and gain entrance to the residence of unsuspecting villagers of Uren’tor.

The City Guard managed to slay several of the vampire spawns, driving the others back to the manor. Assaults on Van’shin’s Manor typically left more undead to be used against the town of Uren’tor in the form of zombies, ghouls, or ghasts.

Tarik Moonstrider was a wizard who had dabbled into Necromancy in secrecy – but it was not to create undead, but to expand his own human life. As such he had made pacts with demons, devils, angels and gods. He knew why the Van’shin were here… they had actively been hunting him for over a hundred years. His knowledge of the afterlife and how to cheat it had caught the interest of the Van’shin who were vampires that sought to seek in daylight.

This was not because they had missed the feeling of the sun on their pale skin. This was because this would allow them to hunt for human food during the daylight and be stripped of the weakness wrought to vampires by their nature.

Tarik might have considered helping the Van’shin in the beginning, many, many, many years ago. The problem was the Van’shin had, unknowingly – before they were even aware of who Tarik was – killed and turned Tarik’s daughter into a vampire spawn.

Tarik had captured his daughter – and using the knowledge had gained – had managed to find a way to reverse the Vampirism. When the chord was severed between Tarik’s daughter and Nev Van’shin – the eldest of the Van’shin knew something was different. He had not sensed her death, as he had the others. He could still see through her eyes and hear all she heard, but he could no longer control her. As the weeks progressed she began to have bursts of violence and anger that had been completely irrational. Her need for raw meat increased as the weeks went on. Within a year, she was completely feral incapable of thought and Tarik knew what had to be done.

And now the Van’shin had caught up with him here in Uren’tor.

Tarik had expected this day to come and down in the tower he had worked vigorously on something he had spent years researching.

And now it was ready.

He could hear the Van’shin howling outside of his tower. That meant almost everyone – if not everyone – in Uren’tor was dead. The Van’shin rarely made their own presence known, relying instead on their charmed minions or the undead which they’d created.

From the basement, Tarik shouted, “Damn you Van’shin! Damn all of your souls to the planes of Hades! May they be ripped and torn and sent to every corner of Hell. If you think you can take me – then let’s end this tonight! I grow tired of running! This old bones will fight here and now – and one way or the other – this ends for me! So come in! Come in and find me in the basement!”

Tarik heard the door explode upstairs – and it sounded like a million bats screaming with excitement as they came into the tower. Nev Van’shin himself walked down the stairs, his cloak pulled tightly around him. He was extremely attractive, forever potentially looking as if he were a young twenty five year old human, when in truth he’d live nearly five hundred years.

“I don’t want to kill you, Tarik,” he said. “I won’t even turn you. Just tell us what you know about reversing this undeath.”

Tarik smiled. “There is no reason to fear the dark, until the darkness blinks at you.”

That was the moment of my birth.

I am not human.

I am the only weapon that can fight the Van’shin.

I am Warforged. Created to fight.

The command Tarik uttered - “There is no reason to fear the dark, until the darkness blinks at you”- activated me and set into motion the two primary objectives.

First – Kill Tarik.
I turned and grabbed the very man who forged me and snapped his neck.

Nev Van’shin howled in fury. “No!”

Objective two kicked in – Destroy the Van’shin.
Objective three – Destroy all undead.

Immediately I lunged for Nev Van’shin who immediately realized the danger he was in and shouted, “Retreat! Everyone out!”

I had managed to grab his cloak, but he ripped it off from his neck and turned to mist and fled. I had knowledge that Tarik had plugged into me – I knew where the Van’shin Manor was and immediately marched there. The undead perished at my hands as I reached the front door and smashed it in. I searched the entire manor but the Van’shin had fled.

Objective two – Destroy the Van’shin.

I will walk this world until the generations of the Van’shin have all been destroyed.

In between – Objective Three would be active – any and all undead must be destroyed.

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=105

Originally Posted by moonfly7 View Post
So, I always write my own backstories, and this next character is no exception. In fact, he is a main character in a book I'm currently writing, having first been made for DND, transferred to a book, and then back to DND. But quite frankly, your an AMAZING author, and I would be honored if you would take a crack at Asterius Velo, I need to see how you interpret this.
Asterius velo: variant human
Class: Artificer (cannot cast spells in any way)
Hair and eye color: Brown
Subclass: artilerist
Asterius was born to a famous family of sorcerers, all known for their powerful magic.
Asterius himself is a shy, soft spoken, and careful 16 year old who loves magic, he knows everything there is about magical theory, and he sees magic as beautiful and majestic. This might stem from the fact that he can't use a lick of it.

Asterius Velo was born without the ability to use any magic. After he had reached ten years of age, and could still no longer perform spells, even when sat down and taught them, he was disowned by his family, and tossed out with a small amount of money and told not to return until he could do magic "like a proper Velo".
Unbeknownst to either Asterius, or his parents, long ago in the Velo line, one of their ancestors made a deal with a great djinn, in exchange for djinn making their bloodline forever powerful in magic, the djinn would be able to absorb the magic potential of velos who met certain parameters(you decide what those are) these parameters don't come to pass often, maybe once in several hundred years, but when they do, that Velo is forever severed from magic, and, through no means can they ever, cast a single spell.

Fast forward to Asterius. Over the course of the years away from his family, he tries every possible way to gain magic, study, prayer, devotion, nature, and, against his better judgement, a warlock pact. None of these things worked. No matter what, Asterius would never be able to do the one thing he yearned to do, and never would he ever again be excepted by his family.
And then, one day, in his journey to find a way to do magic, he discovers artificery. As he studies this art, he realises, so long as he has spells stored in scrolls ahead of time, he can weave magic into items, he can take all of his knowledge, and finally use it.
So, thats Asterius Velo in a nutshell. A shy, bookish genius who wants only to be accepted. He's quiet, and he would prefer to stay unnoticed. Eventually, I think that he will realise (through help of his friends in the party when I finally play him) tgat he doesn't need acceptance from a family that through him out. He doesn't feel that way yet though.
So, please try to do this one, I can't wait to see what happens!

Moony - I don't know if I can do anything to enhance your story - if you're already putting into a novel type format.
But I do enjoy the Arabian Knights setting - which I sort of envisioned with the deal with the Djinn ... and that part of the story - and how it leads up to it, I really enjoyed!
So a lot of this is primarily the build up to how the power comes to Asterius' family - and how he is somehow not born with it...
I do come up with a reason as to why it happens... it may or may not work with your story.
Please give me any feedback - this was a little bit nerve wracking (in a good way) because you had said you were already doing a story - then you asked me to write something, so I was always worried I'd be stepping on toes.
So please give feedback as to what you liked, didn't like, what worked, what didn't work - I'd love to hear it!
=========================================
The Forgotten Sands.

Cursed lands for many reasons and the stories that surround the Forgotten Sands are countless. Some say that the Forgotten Sands stretch forever west with no end, and may actually be an entrance to the Plane of Earth. Others claim that spending more than an hour in the Forgotten Sands, you will lose your way – and that no matter the direction you go, within the next hour you will see your own footprints in the sand, as if you were walking in a circle. Some even say that in the Forgotten Sands, even the moon and stars hide away, for fear of being lost, and that only the sun has the courage to continue to shine there.

Several hundred years ago, a man, desperate to die by the name of Dorin Velo stared at the edge of the Forgotten Sands and took in a deep breath. Dorin had lost the woman whom he had spent his years attempting to court only to have her give her hand in marriage to someone Dorin had considered an arch-enemy, a vile human named Oken Bro’tar. Sarealia, the woman whom Dorin had loved had been attracted to Oken simply because he was everything her father detested, and having spent her years under his control, Oken offered her the freedom to do whatever she wanted with someone her father despised.

This was foolish – and Dorin knew this. Losing her love was not worth dying for – especially the slow, anguishing deaths that the Forgotten Sands were said to offer for the foolish who set foot and begin walking west, into the endless sand dunes.

But the ale that Dorin had drunk at the Scorpion Tail’s Tavern had given him the liquid courage to proceed. He took one step and thought, “It’s not too late.” He took his second step, and repeated the same thought. Each step forward, he had the same thought. On his seventy step, just after he had that thought, he turned around… and saw only barren wastelands. In every direction it was like looking in a mirror – endless dunes of sand, and a scorching sun that seemed to be eager to kill him.

The sun never seemed to set, nor did the mercy of night. For what seemed like days he walked, before stumbling down to his knees and crawling. The hot sands burned the flesh on the palm of his hands until he could no longer feel. Each time he had believed death had come for him, he seemed to awaken. He then realized he could not die here because his hatred of Oken burned just as bright as the sun.

The liquid courage had been burned from his body long ago; and the days or weeks he had been trapped in the Forgotten Sands had made it so his flesh clung tightly to his bones, and still he would not die.

Then he saw something different – an enormous pillar in the center of the sand. He crawled for it, desperate that it might have food, water or even shelter. When he reached it – he found a beautifully carved door over eighteen feet. Ancient text that he could not read had been scrawled all over it. It was odd (or perhaps his mind was leaving him now), but Dorin had studied ancient texts all of his life and he did not recognize any of the words and could not even begin to guess what race might have scrawled these words.

Too far gone to care if it was a warning, Dorin pushed the door open – and what he saw inside stole his breath away. While the tower was no more than twenty feet wide; inside the tower seemed to stretch sixty feet in every direction and was lavishly decorated. A large circular table sat in the middle of this gigantic room – and a vase with similar writing as the door sat in the center of that table.

He was drawn to the blue vial in the center – and as he reached for it thinking it might be an enchanted bottle of water – he heard as voice in his head as soon as he touched it.

“Break the rune at the top of this bottle and I shall grant you powers you can not believe.” It had been a male’s voice – and Dorin believed sincerely he was going mad – and that this was all just an elaborate mirage before his final death. But then the voice said, “If I am just a mirage, what fear do you have of breaking the seal?”

Dorin tilted the bottle and saw a rune at the top of the bottle.

“Unimaginable power?” Dorin asked the mysterious voice.

“Unimaginable,” the voice repeated. “I will bless your bloodline with magic.”

“Magic?” Dorin inquired. He had heard of the Wizards of the world, most of whom did not survive the tests of learning their mystical arts. “Can you bend time, if you are so powerful?”

“To a degree,” the voice replied. “But not far into the past. But such a thing would cost you, if I am to give you magic and put you into the past.”

“What cost?” Dorin asked looking about to see if he could see who was speaking to him.

“When I find the ones who imprisoned me, the line shall be broke, and I will call on my magic that I bestow upon you, to be returned to me,” the voice said.

“When will I know when that happens? Could it be as soon as I let you out?” I asked.

“I can scan the edges of your mind and see that those who imprisoned me also cursed the lands I once lived in,” the voice said. “If I am to give you most of my power, I will require what little I retain to escape these lands and track them down. It could be months, years, even centuries before I find them – because I have been trapped here for over two thousand years.”

That hardly seemed feasible in Dorin’s mind. History barely went back that far. Still Dorin had only one thing in mind – his goal was short sighted – to get magic and be placed in the past so that he can impress Sarealia and take her hand as his own before Oken takes it. Whatever happened after that did not matter.

He smeared his thumb across the rune on the top and the room filled with a blue mist that emitted from the bottle he was holding. The mist took the figure of a floating man with blue skin, a large, dark blue beard, piercing red eyes, an elaborate vest like nothing Dorin had ever seen before, with beautiful silk pants that ended in a misty blue mist. The figure drew his scimitar and said, “My name is Din’far – and you have freed me mortal. Per our agreement,” he tapped his scimitar on Dorin’s shoulder, and suddenly Dorin threw his head back and screamed as unimaginable power – just as he had been promised – coursed through him. Dorin looked up at Din’far, and now his own eyes glowed red. “I see in your mind where you want to go. Remember, your bloodline will be blessed with this magic – but the time may come when I find those who had imprisoned me and I take these powers back, forever.”

“Yes, yes,” Dorin nodded. “Send me back.”

Dorin was sent back three weeks before he knew Oken had met Sarealia – and for a brief moment he was in two places at once – as he saw himself dropping off Sarealia after one of the fine dinners he had taken her too in hopes of winning her heart. But then he saw that she closed the door, peered out the window and had watched until he was gone, before opening the door and running outside again. He followed her around to the rose garden where none other than Oken had been hiding and waiting for her. He watched with unbridled fury as the two engaged in passionate love making. She had been seeing Oken for weeks then before he made his presence publically known! She had been sleeping with Oken while Dorin had foolishly been trying to court her. He never had a chance. There was only one way to fix this now.

Dorin had watched Oken to learn his habits for the next few days. Each night he waited for Sarealia to sneak out and meet her in the rose garden so that they could enjoy each other’s passionate embrace. Then he would walk to the Sandstone Tavern and get a drink. It was there, one day before Oken would propose to Sarealia that Dorin ambushed him and using his magic he had been given, incinerated him so that only ashes remained.

Sarealia was devastated, especially as Dorin consoled her, explaining he had seen Oken riding away, saying something about “another notch on the saddle.” Dorin patiently waited and proposed to her several months later. He silently forgave her for all she had done with Oken – all that mattered was that she was finally his.

Their marriage had been a loveless one; as he soon began to grow bitter seeing that she was still sad about Oken and that she would sometimes stare out the window, awaiting his return. Despite their loveless marriage, she bore two children – a son and a daughter – both of which were born with great powers.

Generations of Velo were born with this innate magic surging in their bodies. The history of their power made them prominent people. Everywhere they went they were recognized for the sheer power they possessed.

Then Asterius Velo was born, and by the age of five – when the signs of magic typically presented itself - Asterius Velo appeared to be a normal child, stripped of any potential for magic. His parents were furious and sent him to Wizardry towers to see if they could help him unlock the magic that was clearly destined to be in his blood. After all it had been over sixteen generations of Velo born with magic – why would Asterius not have such power?

Still, despite intense – and sometimes abusive – weeks at the Wizardry towers, Asterius showed no signs of magic. By the age of sixteen, the timid, shy, soften spoken boy whose brown hair and brown eyes had made him seem so normal. All of his family had “Awakened Eyes” as they called it by the age of ten – when the magic truly surged in them. But Asterius had no such eyes and no such magic.

Whispers among the family wondered if Asterius was perhaps cursed – so off to warlocks and sorcerers who committed excruciating tests on him to “awaken” the magic in him – all for naught. The years of his family’s obsession with Asterius possessing magic had made him sincerely interested – he wanted it because his family wanted him to have it. He also wanted it because he had seen what others in his family could do with it.

Several months before seventeen seasons had passed, Asterius’ parents – Taneer and Ionna gave him a small bag of gold and told him to do the family a favor and “disappear forever if you can’t learn to do magic like a proper Velo.”

Stunned to have been asked to disappear from his family, Asterius left and eventually found a library where he often slept (safer, he discovered than sleeping in the streets, where he had been robbed several times). In the great library he found an ancient tome that spoke of making pacts with demons. Desperate to regain his family’s love, one night – just outside city limits, he repeated the spell of summoning a Vrock demon – which appeared, made an accord to give him power in exchange for his soul, which Asterius gladly agreed to. However, much to the surprise of the Vrock demon – nothing the demon could do invoked magic within Asterius – and so the Vrock was forced to decline the offer and leave.

Asterius was shattered.

Perhaps if he found some adventurers – he could go with them – and through their travels learn more about the world – and perhaps find a way to break this curse that has somehow clearly been bestowed upon him…

[Rath Darkblade]

Yikes. You sure put a lot of effort into these, but you post them so fast here that my poor eyes can't keep up. (I already wear glasses - I fear I might have to change to more powerful lenses...)

[Tawmis]

Yikes. You sure put a lot of effort into these, but you post them so fast here that my poor eyes can't keep up. (I already wear glasses - I fear I might have to change to more powerful lenses...)

Apologies!

I thrive on writing... there's no need to comment on each of them - or even read them all. I just post them here also in the event you did read it and had feedback. But that's certainly not mandatory! They can be read just for fun! All a part of the joy of D&D.

So... I never expected the thread over on Order of the Stick to actually take off. But what I do is only allow myself one hour (if it even takes that) to write these. Which is why I was able to pump them out so quickly.
I love the challenge - and that each one is different. Because a long time ago, I used to hang out on an ElfQuest forum (comic book) - and they used to do a monthly writing challenge, where people would recommend 3 to 5 objects to be in a story. The story had to be set in the ElfQuest world (did not have to involve the actual characters from ElfQuest - just be set in their world).
So for example (the first one I partook in, the objects were...)

A sending (of any kind) that goes unanswered
Autumn's first frost
First brush of love (meaning romantic love, I assume)
An insect or insects
Something that does not go according to plan
Something worn on the head: a hat, headband, etc.

(And to explain the first one - some elves were able to speak telepathically - and it was called Sending).

Well, I took it one step further for the challenge and said - not only is it going to be in the ElfQuest world - but I am going to create a story that connects from month to month. And thus Stonehowl was born - and led to a string of stories (the link is to the stories - no need to read them - just linking to show). To help me keep things straight, on the site I even made a character list and each of those buttons lead to more info about the characters, such as Echo - where some people even took the time to do fan art of my characters!

But the point of my rambling is - I loved doing those monthly challenges, because it was always something different being suggested and finding creative ways to make each story connect to the next was a tremendous amount of fun.

Honestly, this type of stuff helps me sleep at night. Literally. Because my mind is - for lack of a better way of describing it - a maelstrom of creative energy - when I get these chances to kick out a ton of writing - at night, I feel like I can actually sleep without my brain insisting that I keep writing.

#EndRambleForNow

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=118

Originally Posted by AH0098 View Post
Wow that was amazing, I like the spear addition, I might make it an axe since that is a more Barbarian weapon instead of a hunting one, but wow. Thank you so much.
I can't help myself but request an other one, your writing is insanely good.

Forgotten Realms:
Name: Yameia
Class: Paladin - Devotion
Race: Tiefling - Zariel
Alignment: Lawful Good
Notes:. Her adoptive father found her while he was on adventure with his friends while supporting his order. He found her abandoned at the end of the quest, but couldn't commit himself to ending her cursed existence. I stead he took her in and raised her since she was able to walk, she is devoted to him and loves their cause. She didn't realize how marked she really was until her father sent her out adventuring to learn her way to walk their sworn oath, protect others and fight for justice and protect the weak.
It is most likely too easier for you, but this thread should keep going as long as you have interest.

Done! Thank you for this one! I quite enjoyed it! (I've been using the Red Eye Orcs in other people's backgrounds, so it was actually kind of nice to even "flesh" them out, so to speak)...
The vision mentioned in the end is Zariel's castle (got the information from here - under "Possessions" - https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Zariel )
As always please tell me what you like, dislike, what I got right, what I was way off with, where I can improve, or any feedback!
Enjoy!
==============================================
I am the mirror of my father.

He enjoyed retelling the story of how he found me abandoned, and how, despite my outward appearance, he knew he could not abandon me.

You see, my father isn’t my father by blood. But family has never been just about blood.

From what he’s told me – and told me often (especially when I was between the ages of five and ten) – was that he had been a part of a caravan – hired to protect the people and the contents that had been traveling north along Trade Way, from Dragonspear Castle when a band of Orcs known as The Red Eye attacked.

The Red Eye Orcs were a ruthless lot – sometimes attacking and killing for the sheer pleasure of it.

When some of the Orcs had managed to escape with one of the maidens, my father and his best friend, also a Paladin of Helm, like my father gave pursuit, while the rest remained to defend the caravan in the event the orcs looped back around or planned a secondary ambush.

The pursuit led into the High Moor – an area known to be infested with not only goblins and orcs – but a far more dangerous threat lingered in the High Moor – trolls.

My father and his best friend, Arith moved cautiously, but as quickly as they could, so they would not lose sight of the Orcs. The Orcs knew they were being pursued so as they got closer to their destination, they purposely broke off from the main group to cause confusion if someone had been tracking them. But my father and Arith were already close enough to see them to know what they were trying to do. They focused on the leader who had been dragging the female prisoner along.

“It’s weird isn’t it,” Arith whispered as he moved some brush aside, “that they attacked the caravan and only kidnapped a woman? They didn’t attack it to try and get weapons or kill for the sheer pleasure of it, like this clan is known for.”

“They’re up to something,” my father had told him. “We just need to find out what.”

As Paladins of Helm, protection is what they had primarily focused on – and fighting honorably. But there were circumstances and individuals who did not deserve to have mercy bestowed upon them – and the Red Eye clan was close to the top of that list. My father stepped out and the two orcs standing guard at the entrance glanced at each other and smiled as they drew their crude, bloodstained weapons.

In a normal situation, two Red Eye orcs might actually defeat a trained Paladin of Helm. There were rumors that the Red Eye broke away from Gruumsh and devoted their souls to Orcus, lord of the undead, who bestowed upon them a sense of killing – and the ability to fight on when the body should already have collapsed, giving them an exceptional endurance to pain and suffering.

As they rushed towards my father, Arith sprung from the side, shouting – throwing them off – causing them to pause a moment. That had been all it took. My father brought his blade cleaving straight across, severing the head of the closest one, while Arith impaled the other directly through the ribs and heart. Both bodies seemed to growl and hiss for a few moments before accepting that death had come for them.

“Pleasant,” Arith said sarcastically as he pulled his blade out of the orc’s body.

Blood oozed into the thick, muddy waters of High Moor.

Arith and my father enter the cave, each of them with their backs to the wall. They peered into the main chamber and saw what appeared to be the orc chief. He was shouting at the woman they had taken in common, “Tend to the girl. She dies. You die.”

Girl? Both Arith and my father exchanged curious glances and scanned the room. That’s when they had taken notice to a small bundle atop of a shrine.

“Mother’s milk,” the Orc chief snarled.

“What?” the woman asked, shocked and stepping back. “But I,” she clutched her breast, “I have no mother’s milk.”

The orc chief lunged forward just as my father stepped in and shouted, “Hold, beast!”

The orc chief turned. “Humans,” the words hissed from his lips like a venomous snake. He shoved the woman aside as she slammed into the side of the cave. He drew a large scimitar and lunged forward, wildly swinging, putting both my father and Arith on the defense.

It was one thing to anticipate a sane man’s next strike; it’s another matter to try and anticipate a wild man’s attack. There was no rhyme or reason, nothing to set up – simply a flurry of blows. “Zariel will feast on your pure white souls!” He hissed as he locked blades with my father, then shoved him back.

Zariel – formerly an angel who fell, when she became obsessed with war. That would certainly explain the Red Eye’s bloodlust – so it wasn’t Orcus as the Paladins suspected. Arith cut into the chief’s sword arm, but that seemed to do little to slow the fanatical chief. My than once my father delivered what should have been fatal strikes through the chief’s body – but still the orc chief fought on. It was not until Arith had managed to strike the orc chief with the hilt of his blade that seemed to momentarily stun the orc, giving my father the opportunity to decapitate him.

Both my father and Arith sheathed their blades. My father rushed to check on the woman who had been abducted while Arith checked on the mysterious child. After confirming that the woman had been only stunned and suffered a small gash to the back of her head from hitting the wall, my father turned to see Arith drawing his blade while he stood in front of the child. My father rushed to his side and put his arm on Arith’s blade arm. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Look,” Arith said, staring down at the infant.

My father admits he gasped the first time he’d seen me – with purple-blue skin, yellow eyes, and small sprouting horns – my father and Arith both immediately recognized me as a Tiefling.

“It must be a spawn of Zariel,” Arith growled. “That’s why the orc was so concerned for its well-being.”

“No,” my father held Arith’s sword arm.

“What are you doing?” Arith asked as my father scooped me into his arms.

“She’s just an infant,” my father replied. “We can’t kill her.”

“She’s a Tiefling with Zariel’s blood,” Arith remarked. “She’s destined to be driven by the same blood lust these Red Eyes are. If not worse, having her blood flowing through her veins.”

“Are we not Paladins of Helm,” my father said, staring into my eyes. “Is our mission not to protect those who cannot protect themselves? She has done no evil. If she is raised properly, she may be saved.”

“Saved?” Arith asked stunned. “You can’t be serious.”

My father shot his good friend a knowing look, and Arith sheathed his blade. “Fine, but this is all on you.”


My father named me Yameia – which in the ancient tongue means ‘of shadow and light’ – and old Elven word that was used to describe eclipses.

My father taught me everything he knows. Taught me how to fight for the right, defend the weak, be the light the world needs. When he became too old to venture out into the world he gave me his sword, and told me to become the blade of justice.

I’ve set out to do as my father did. I am devoted to Helm. I am devoted to my cause.

I just don’t know how to deal with the recent nightmares that have come… showing me some distant castle in a bleak land… where bodies hung to the walls on the outside and screamed in eternal pain…

[Rath Darkblade]

Hmm. I don't know much about the backstory behind Tieflings, but I have a question. What kind of feedback would you like me to offer? I have some experience with proof-reading and editing, and I can offer that if you like. For instance (my comments in italics)...

------------------------------------------------------
I am the mirror of my father.

He enjoyed retelling (To whom? Perhaps "telling me", since it's her that he told the story to? -Ed.) the story of how he found me abandoned, and how, despite my outward appearance, he knew he could not abandon me. (Could not, or did not? And how did he know? Perhaps "...he did not abandon me." -Ed.)

You see, my father isn’t my father by blood. ("My blood-father" sounds better to me -Ed.) But family was never just about blood.

He told me the story often, especially when I was between the ages of five and ten. He had been a part of a caravan, hired to protect the people and the contents that had been traveling north along Trade Way, from Dragonspear Castle when a band of Orcs known as The Red Eye attacked.

The Red Eye Orcs were a ruthless lot, sometimes attacking and killing for the sheer pleasure of it.

When some of the Orcs had managed to escape with one of the maidens, my father and his best friend, also a Paladin of Helm like my father, gave pursuit. The rest remained to defend the caravan in the event the orcs looped back around or planned a secondary ambush.

The pursuit led into the High Moor, an area known to be infested with not only goblins and orcs. But a far more dangerous threat lingered in the High Moor – trolls. (You use far too many hyphens, which should be used sparingly; no more than one per sentence. Spice it up with commas or semi-colons. I've edited them out. Commas indicate a short break; semi-colons a longer one, and hyphens longer still -Ed.)

My father and his best friend, Arith, moved cautiously but as quickly as they could, so they would not lose sight of the Orcs. The Orcs knew they were being pursued, so as they got closer to their destination, they purposely broke off from the main group to cause confusion if someone had been tracking them. (...confuse potential trackers -Ed.) But my father and Arith were close enough to see them and know what they wanted. They focused on the leader, who dragged the female prisoner along.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Arith whispered, moved some brush aside. “They attacked the caravan and only kidnapped a woman? Why didn’t they try and get weapons, or kill for the sheer pleasure of it, like this clan is known for?”

“They’re up to something,” my father said. “We just need to find out what.”

As Paladins of Helm, protection is what they had primarily focused on – and fighting honorably. But there were circumstances and individuals who did not deserve mercy, and the Red Eye clan was close to the top of that list. My father stepped out and the two orcs standing guard at the entrance glanced at each other and smiled as they drew their crude, bloodstained weapons. (Um, stepped out of where - a cave? I can't picture the scene, it needs more. Does he shout defiance? Unsheathe his sword? What? Let me try and re-phrase this: 'The thin brush whistled in the merciless wind. One of the orcs looked up. "Wot dat?"

"It nuffink, just der brush! You keep watch!"

"By the hand of Helm!" My father cried, unsheathed his blade, leapt out of the brush, and rushed towards them.

"Oh, goody - hooman!" The orc guard grinned - he had just one blackened stump for a tooth - and drew his bloodstained sword.

"Yeh!" The other orc unsheathed a rusted, crude mace. "Me eat hooman flesh! Crush yez bones fer me stew!"

What do you think? -Ed.)

In a normal situation, two Red Eye orcs might actually defeat a trained Paladin of Helm. There were rumors that the Red Eye broke away from Gruumsh and devoted their souls to Orcus, lord of the undead, who bestowed upon them a sense of killing – and the ability to fight on when the body should already have collapsed, giving them an exceptional endurance to pain and suffering.

As they rushed towards my father, Arith sprung from the side, shouting – throwing them off – causing them to pause a moment. (How does her father know this? He can't know that Arith's shout threw them off. It also doesn't sound very heroic. Did he use a Paladin ability or cast a spell? Dazzle them, etc.? -Ed.) That was all it took. My father brought his blade cleaving straight across, severing the head of the closest one, while Arith impaled the other through the heart. Both bodies seemed to growl and hiss for a few moments before accepting that death had come for them.

“Pleasant,” Arith said and pulled his blade out of the orc’s body. Blood oozed into the thick, muddy waters of High Moor.

Arith and my father entered the cave, each of them with their backs to the wall. They peered into the main chamber and saw what appeared to be the orc chief. “Tend to the girl. She dies,” he shouted at the woman they had taken. “You die.” (This is a very small cave and a very small clan. Where are the other orcs? -Ed.)

Girl? Arith and my father exchanged curious glances, scanned the room, and noticed to a small bundle atop of a shrine.

“Mother’s milk,” the Orc chief snarled.

“What?” the woman asked, stepped back. “But I,” she clutched her breast, “I have no mother’s milk.”

The orc chief lunged forward. My father stepped in and shouted, “Hold, beast!”

The orc chief turned. “Humanssss.” the words hissed from his lips like a venomous snake. He shoved the woman aside; her head slammed into the cave wall, and she cried out and fell to the ground.

He drew a large scimitar and lunged forward, wildly swinging, putting both my father and Arith on the defense. (Can you describe the orc chief or his scimitar a bit more, please? What is he wearing - or is he naked? What does the scimitar look like? Is it spiked, for instance? Is his hair in dreadlocks, or matted, or dirty, or... pick and choose. -Ed.)

It was one thing to anticipate a sane man’s next strike; it’s another matter to try and anticipate a orc’s attack. There was no rhythm, nothing to set up – simply a flurry of blows. “Zariel will feast on your pure white souls!” He hissed, locked blades with my father, then shoved him back.

Zariel – formerly an angel who fell, when she became obsessed with war. That would certainly explain the Red Eye’s bloodlust – so it wasn’t Orcus as the Paladins suspected. (This is a tell. "As you know, George..." You can put this into the Paladins' mouths as they fight. Something like this:

"Zariel?" Arith called out.

"An angel who fell when she became obsessed with war!" My father cried. "That explains the Red Eyes’ bloodlust!"

"So it wasn’t Orcus?"

"No! Now shut up and help!"

Hope you like it -Ed.)

Arith cut into the chief’s sword arm, but that seemed to do little to slow the fanatical chief. My than once my father delivered what should have been fatal strikes through the chief’s body – but still the orc chief fought on. It was not until Arith had managed to strike the orc chief with the hilt of his blade that seemed to momentarily stun the orc, giving my father the opportunity to decapitate him. (Um. This is your climactic fight scene, so it needs more description. Here's a start:

Arith cut into the chief’s sword arm, but it didn't slow the fanatical chief. More than once, my father delivered what should have been fatal blows through the chief’s body, but still the orc chief fought on. Then Arith swung the hilt of his blade into the back of the orc chief's head. The orc stumbled, his swordarm dropped.

"By Helm!" My father cried and swung his sword at the orc's neck, a red light followed the swing.

The orc's head exploded into shards of bone, blood, gore, and bile which showered the two men.

My father took a step back, sheathed his swords, and tried unsuccessfully to clean himself.

"Ugggh," Arith gagged. "'Scuse me..." He leaned over, put one hand on the cave wall to steady himself, and threw up.

...and so on. Hope this helps... -Ed.)

My father rushed to check on the abducted woman, while Arith checked on the mysterious child. After confirming that the woman had been only stunned and suffered a small gash to the back of her head from hitting the wall, (Um - just a small gash? Hitting her head on a cave wall? Aren't there bits of rock in cave walls, etc.? And she was THROWN there by an orc. There should be a serious injury -Ed.) my father turned to see Arith drawing his blade. My father rushed to his side and put his arm on Arith’s blade arm. “What are you doing?” he said. (Split this paragraph. You're jumping between father, Arith, father, etc. My head is spinning - this dad seems to be everywhere at once. How about:

"Are you all right?" My father put a comforting hand on the woman's forehead, mumbled a few words. Golden light spilled between his fingers, like desert sand. "By Helm, let the spirit that confronteth this maiden--"

"Ugh," she mumbled. "My head feels like a melon. But I'll be - uggh..."

"Take a moment to rest," my father said. "That was a nasty blow and my healing spell could only draw out some of the pain. But you'll be fine."

He turned, and saw Arith drawing his blade. "Stop!" he cried, bounded across the cavern floor, put his hand on Arith's sword-arm. "What are you doing?"

Hope you like this -Ed.)

“Look for yourself.” Arith stared down at the infant.

My father admits he gasped the first time he’d seen me, with purple-blue skin, yellow eyes, and small sprouting horns. Both my father and Arith recognized me as a Tiefling.

“It must be a spawn of Zariel,” Arith growled. “That’s why the orc was so concerned for its well-being.”

“No.” My father held Arith’s sword arm. (Needs a stronger verb than "held" - "grasped"? "Grasped Arith's sword arm in a grip of iron? -Ed.)

“What are you doing?” Arith said.

“She’s just an infant.” My father scooped me into his arms. “We can’t kill her.”

“She’s a Tiefling with Zariel’s blood,” Arith said. “She’s destined to be driven by the same blood lust these Red Eyes are. If not worse, having her blood flowing through her veins.”

“Are we not Paladins of Helm?” My father stared into my eyes. “Is our mission not to protect those who cannot protect themselves? She has done no evil. If she is raised properly, she may yet be saved.”

“Saved?” Arith asked, stunned. “You can’t be serious.” (Don't tell us that he's stunned - show us, e.g.:

"Saved?!" Arith creased his brow, took a step back. "You can't be serious."

How's that? -Ed.)

My father shot his good friend a knowing look, and Arith sheathed his blade. “Fine, but this is all on you.” (This needs more. What does a knowing look - well - look like? Does he raise an eyebrow? Does he ... I don't know, remind him of his paladin oath to save innocents?

Also, split this sentence. Whenever a new character speaks, give them a new paragraph.

"Fine!" Arith growled and sheathed his blade. "But this is all on you. If she returns to Zariel..."

"But she will not," my father said. "You may leave her with me."

Something like that? -Ed.)

My father named me Yameia, which in the ancient tongue means ‘of shadow and light’, and an old Elven word that was used to describe eclipses.

My father taught me all he knows: how to fight for the right, to defend the weak, to be the light the world needs. When he became too old to venture out into the world he gave me his sword, and told me to become the blade of justice.

I’ve set out to do as my father did. I am devoted to Helm. I am devoted to my cause.

I just don’t know how to deal with the recent nightmares. They come when I least expect and show me some distant castle in a bleak land, where bodies hang from the walls and scream in eternal pain…
=========================

Rath's notes.
Overall, I like this very much. You clearly have a knack for turning these out! There's just two more suggestions I'd make:

1. Give Yameia's father a name. If she's as close to him as it seems, surely she'd know his name. Also, it's a bit tiring to read "My father" all the time.

2. Give us more description - a lot more. What do the Paladins look like? Armour, weapons, hair, eyes facial hair - tattoos or war paint, maybe?

What do the orcs look like (as above)? The woman? The only person you've described is Yameia, and only her skin, eyes, and horns (as a baby).

Just think, what will grip your reader more? To read of "a paladin" - or...

A grizzled and tough old man sat by the fireside, stroked his black and well-trimmed beard, lifted his ale mug to his lips. The ancient teak table was spotless, I'd seen to that. The logs in the fireplace crackled merrily. The winter wind blew outside the door, but inside, he and I were snug and warm.

"Tell me," I said, "The story of how you found me, father."

"Again?" His chapped lips parted in a smile. "It is not a pleasant tale. I was no father then, neither - just old Farin Oakbuckler, child."

"Tell me." My yellow eyes gazed into his. "Your strength, your skill in healing and - dare I say it? - your charity are renown throughout the lands."

"Ha! Flattery will get you anywhere." He smiled indulgently. "Well, where shall we begin..."

What do you think?

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=120

Originally Posted by Jaryn View Post
I am also just loving simply reading what you come up with. There's an idea for a different PC that's been floating around in my head for a while, and I'd be really interested to see what you would come up with, if you don't mind:

Name: Taman Brightwood
Race: Human
Class: Wizard
Background: Investigator
Character traits: Likes nothing more than a good mystery, can stare down a hellhound without flinching
Ideal: Obtain justice for those who have been wronged
Bond: Would do anything for the other members of my old unit in the watch
Flaw: Can't resist a pretty face
Skills: Perception, Arcana, Investigation, Insight, Persuasion

Going with Resilient (Con) as the free feat from variant human for the slight noir detective feel, which also fits with the flaw!

First! Thank you SO much for the compliment!
Second - I've never done a noir detective type thing before... or noir in general.
But I put on some noir music on Youtube and closed my eyes and let my fingers type...
I may have gone entirely TOO noir for what you wanted, but I had fun doing it...
If it's not something you like or doesn't come close to what you want - let me know and I am happy to rewriter it.
As always - ALL feedback is welcomed - good, bad (as long as it's constructive) - let me know what you like, hated, whatever! Replies in this thread keep it alive and bumped! So not only do I thrive on it, it also gives others the chance to discover this thread.

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“Murdered you say?”

My name is Taman Brightwood and I’ve found myself in the middle of a murder investigation. I’ve spent my early years as a part of the City Watch, trying to do what was right for the town of Havenfall. More often than not, there were those that were mugged or robbed, and the ones who were a witness never stepped forward, making the case on bringing them to justice increasingly more difficult.

When Mary Twogem was murdered – that’s when I left the City Watch and took up learning magic. I figured I could twist the mystic arts to provide the voices and clues I needed to hear and find. By the time I had learned to manipulate – after all, no one ever masters magic – it was too late to find out what happened to Mary Twogem. But her murdered haunted me –not as in keeping me up at night – but more so never wanting to feel that helpless again.

I had begun making a name for myself in Havenfall for solving mysteries and handling criminals who tried to push their ways onto innocent people.

When I saw the beautiful elf maiden, her golden curls bouncing as she walked. Her eyes shimmered like a waterfall and her smile was the rainbow across the heavens. I had watched her from the moment she walked in – her eyes scanning the room. She was a beautiful dame to say the least – and when our eyes locked, I could feel the harpoons of her soul piercing mine as she walked towards me. I tried to look away, keep my cool – but I felt like my tongue had fallen out of my mouth.

She planted herself next to me, and glanced in my direction and asked, “Buy a lady a drink?”

“Yes!” I said eager, reaching into my pouch and putting a handful of coin on the oak bar. “Bartender,” I cried out. “Get the lady whatever she wants.”

“That’s sweet of you,” she smiled timidly at me. “So, are you who you think you are?”

“Depends if you work for my ex-wife,” I joked.

“Oh, you were married?” she asked.

“No,” I smiled. “It was a bad joke. Who is it you’re looking for?”

“Taman,” she said her voice sultry. “Taman Brightwood.”

“Well, good news. You found him,” I smiled. By the gods, she was beautiful. The way the light was catching her hair, it was like she had captured the heavens and wove it directly into her golden locks of hair. “And you are?” I asked, extending my hand.

She took it, and I tell you, it felt like I was touching the hand of an Aasimir. “Goldenleaf,” she replied with a slight smile. “Goldenleaf Streamrunner.” She let go of my hand, reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue to dab her watering eyes. “I believe my husband was murdered,” she whispered.

“Murdered you say?” I asked. “Why do you think that?”

“Well, he got involved with some… less than shady people,” she explained. “And he went to go clear things up … and hasn’t come back.”

“When did he leave,” I asked, leaning forward to comfort her.

“A week ago,” she answered.

“That’s a long time,” I nodded. “Do you know who he went to go see?”

“Brek Twogem,” the wonderful elven woman answered.

“Twogem?” my eyes widened. I hadn’t thought of the name for a while. “Mary’s son? He’s doing shady deals? His mother would be disappointed…” I heaved a deep sigh. I couldn’t figure out what happened to Mary Twogem, but perhaps I could put that piece of my soul to ease by setting her son on the right path. I looked at the elf and smiled, “I’ll take the job.”

“We haven’t discussed a cost?” she asked, puzzled.

“Listen if I can turn Mary’s son’s life around,” I said, “and figure out what happened to your husband, then this is all on me.” I looked at the dame one more time as I slid my drink away from me and grabbed my hat, tipped it towards her, grabbed my coat and walked outside. I stood in the rain for a moment. My heart was heavy. I hope that Brek can be set straight.

I walked through the street, the moon dogging me. I reached the Twogem residence and gave a rap on the door. Brek answered the door and I peered directly into his eyes. “Listen, don’t jerk me around kid. Have you got anything to do with the disappearance of Goldenleaf’s husband?”

“Me?” Brek looked astonished. “Did that dame send you this way claiming I rubbed out her old man?”

“She did,” I replied. Looking at Brek he looked honestly surprised. That was good.

“Listen, I don’t have anything to do with that,” he assured me. “It’s true he came by – but that’s because he was looking for a gift for his dame. I sold him a bracelet. He paid in gold and left. I never saw him after that.”

My gut told me the kid was telling the truth. But that left me wondering where Goldenleaf’s husband might have disappeared to. I decided to return to her and see if I could speak with her more. She lived in a large manor, and greeted me at the door, asking if I had found any clues.

I told her I hadn’t – yet – but I was not going to give up. As I walked in the manor I threw my coat over one of her couches and glanced around the room. “What exactly did you husband do? This is a pretty nice spread you got here.”

“He was a Wizard,” she replied, “specializing in illusions.”

Then it donned on me. Illusions. I sat down and looked at Goldenleaf. “When I was speaking to Brek, he kept referring to your husband’s significant other as ‘dame’ – not once did he say ‘wife.’ I hadn’t thought much of it, especially after I got the feeling that Brek did not have anything to do with your husband’s disappearance. But Brek was raised as a good kid, to be respectful… The fact he referred to you as ‘dame’ hadn’t crossed my mind until now. He wouldn’t refer to you as ‘dame’ – he would have referred to you as ‘wife’ when speaking about your husband.”

I stood up. “Your husband is cheating on you,” I said as I turned and picked up my hat and turned to face her. “But I suspect you knew that already. And that you probably knew he had left Brek’s after buying a bracelet for his mistress. I highly suggest you release him from the basement before the City Guard gets here. If I hear that your husband is dead, trust me,” I opened the door, “I will come for you.”

[Tawmis]

Hmm. I don't know much about the backstory behind Tieflings, but I have a question. What kind of feedback would you like me to offer? I have some experience with proof-reading and editing, and I can offer that if you like. For instance (my comments in italics)...

I'd love any feedback, honestly! Especially since I know you're an incredible writer (I've yet to finish reading what you'd sent me before! It's there and not forgotten! Just D&D has taken over everything... I've not even done a new episode of Neverending Nights in awhile, mostly because of D&D)!

As for Tieflings... the have a bloodline that traces back to a demon or devil, and thus have that human-looking demon appearance.

He enjoyed retelling (To whom? Perhaps "telling me", since it's her that he told the story to? -Ed.) the story of how he found me abandoned

That is a good point!

You see, my father isn’t my father by blood. ("My blood-father" sounds better to me -Ed.) But family was never just about blood.

Blood-father does sound better (especially coming from a Tiefling), but I had the line about "not my father by blood" to set up "But family was never just about blood."
I think the Blood-father line would have definitely worked as a solo line!

The pursuit led into the High Moor, an area known to be infested with not only goblins and orcs. But a far more dangerous threat lingered in the High Moor – trolls. (You use far too many hyphens, which should be used sparingly; no more than one per sentence. Spice it up with commas or semi-colons. I've edited them out. Commas indicate a short break; semi-colons a longer one, and hyphens longer still -Ed.)

I am so super guilty of this.
Someone else on the forum called me out on that for another story...

... as more than just a friend – in the event anything ever went wrong with the relationship – how awkward it might become for our family. And so we buried those feelings – but each time we looked at each other – or our hands brushed against each other – magic surged from our veins – and not because I was a sorcerer – this was something deeper.

There’s a whole bunch of unnecessary dashes here! I think I was catching what was happening- there was a lot of things happening within these two sentences. If I would go over it, I’d put it like this:

“... as more than just a friend. In the event anything ever went wrong with the relationship, we reminded ourselves of how awkward it could be for our families. And so, we buried our feelings. But each time we looked at each other, or our hands brushed against each other, magic crackled and surged in our veins. I felt his way not because I was a sorcerer, but because this was something deeper.”
(Italics for phrases I subbed in to help the sentence flow a bit, or at least tried to.)

I broke up the two sentences into five here, but I still manage to vary the lengths and have it flow similarly. As Curly from City Slickers put it- Do one thing. I would add two things is okay for sentences. Most of the other instances this happens works out, because it’s often signaling an interruption when new information is presented, like Navani seeing her tongue when she’s already horrified by her skin.

So I definitely need to get better at that... and if I allowed myself more than an hour or went back and did edits, I'd probably catch myself and fix those.
But people reminding me will hopefully get me in the habit of correct that habit AS I WRITE. So thank you for that.

My father and his best friend, Arith, moved cautiously but as quickly as they could, so they would not lose sight of the Orcs. The Orcs knew they were being pursued, so as they got closer to their destination, they purposely broke off from the main group to cause confusion if someone had been tracking them. (...confuse potential trackers -Ed.)

Much better edit!

As Paladins of Helm, protection is what they had primarily focused on – and fighting honorably. But there were circumstances and individuals who did not deserve mercy, and the Red Eye clan was close to the top of that list. My father stepped out and the two orcs standing guard at the entrance glanced at each other and smiled as they drew their crude, bloodstained weapons. (Um, stepped out of where - a cave? I can't picture the scene, it needs more. Does he shout defiance? Unsheathe his sword? What? Let me try and re-phrase this: 'The thin brush whistled in the merciless wind. One of the orcs looked up. "Wot dat?"

"It nuffink, just der brush! You keep watch!"

"By the hand of Helm!" My father cried, unsheathed his blade, leapt out of the brush, and rushed towards them.

"Oh, goody - hooman!" The orc guard grinned - he had just one blackened stump for a tooth - and drew his bloodstained sword.

"Yeh!" The other orc unsheathed a rusted, crude mace. "Me eat hooman flesh! Crush yez bones fer me stew!"

What do you think? -Ed.)

Heh, well, other than dumbing down the orcs a little too much (the Red Eye are actually pretty intelligent... for orcs!) But yes, I missed the mark. I had the visual in my head, which was not properly conveyed in writing, that the two Paladins had been watching from behind a tree/brush - so he had stepped out from hiding to make himself visible to the two orcs. And as they lunged forward on the father, that's how Arith was able to surprise them by jumping out of the brush.

In a normal situation, two Red Eye orcs might actually defeat a trained Paladin of Helm. There were rumors that the Red Eye broke away from Gruumsh and devoted their souls to Orcus, lord of the undead, who bestowed upon them a sense of killing – and the ability to fight on when the body should already have collapsed, giving them an exceptional endurance to pain and suffering.

As they rushed towards my father, Arith sprung from the side, shouting – throwing them off – causing them to pause a moment. (How does her father know this? He can't know that Arith's shout threw them off. It also doesn't sound very heroic. Did he use a Paladin ability or cast a spell? Dazzle them, etc.? -Ed.) That was all it took. My father brought his blade cleaving straight across, severing the head of the closest one, while Arith impaled the other through the heart. Both bodies seemed to growl and hiss for a few moments before accepting that death had come for them.

His father would know because the orcs had ceased their rush - when Arith sprung out from the side, throwing them off - and they realized that they had been tricked - and now had two opponents.
As for not being heroic - that's why the previous paragraph talks about how vile these orcs are... and that not everyone deserves a fair fight - especially when there's a maiden to be rescued. The longer the delay the greater the chance she could be killed.

“Pleasant,” Arith said and pulled his blade out of the orc’s body. Blood oozed into the thick, muddy waters of High Moor.

Arith and my father entered the cave, each of them with their backs to the wall. They peered into the main chamber and saw what appeared to be the orc chief. “Tend to the girl. She dies,” he shouted at the woman they had taken. “You die.” (This is a very small cave and a very small clan. Where are the other orcs? -Ed.)

Remember the paragraph talks about the orcs splitting apart to throw off any trackers, pursuers who might be chasing them through High Moor. And this is just a small "faction" of the Red Eye.

He drew a large scimitar and lunged forward, wildly swinging, putting both my father and Arith on the defense. (Can you describe the orc chief or his scimitar a bit more, please? What is he wearing - or is he naked? What does the scimitar look like? Is it spiked, for instance? Is his hair in dreadlocks, or matted, or dirty, or... pick and choose. -Ed.)

I should have spent more time describing the chief, you are most certainly correct!

Zariel – formerly an angel who fell, when she became obsessed with war. That would certainly explain the Red Eye’s bloodlust – so it wasn’t Orcus as the Paladins suspected. (This is a tell. "As you know, George..." You can put this into the Paladins' mouths as they fight. Something like this:

"Zariel?" Arith called out.

"An angel who fell when she became obsessed with war!" My father cried. "That explains the Red Eyes’ bloodlust!"

"So it wasn’t Orcus?"

"No! Now shut up and help!"

Hope you like it -Ed.)

Hah! I did! It's more comedy than I would have been going for in this particular story.

Arith cut into the chief’s sword arm, but that seemed to do little to slow the fanatical chief. My than once my father delivered what should have been fatal strikes through the chief’s body – but still the orc chief fought on. It was not until Arith had managed to strike the orc chief with the hilt of his blade that seemed to momentarily stun the orc, giving my father the opportunity to decapitate him. (Um. This is your climactic fight scene, so it needs more description. Here's a start:

Arith cut into the chief’s sword arm, but it didn't slow the fanatical chief. More than once, my father delivered what should have been fatal blows through the chief’s body, but still the orc chief fought on. Then Arith swung the hilt of his blade into the back of the orc chief's head. The orc stumbled, his swordarm dropped.

"By Helm!" My father cried and swung his sword at the orc's neck, a red light followed the swing.

The orc's head exploded into shards of bone, blood, gore, and bile which showered the two men.

My father took a step back, sheathed his swords, and tried unsuccessfully to clean himself.

"Ugggh," Arith gagged. "'Scuse me..." He leaned over, put one hand on the cave wall to steady himself, and threw up.

...and so on. Hope this helps... -Ed.)

LOL! I never knew you had an excessively violent side to you...!

My father rushed to check on the abducted woman, while Arith checked on the mysterious child. After confirming that the woman had been only stunned and suffered a small gash to the back of her head from hitting the wall, (Um - just a small gash? Hitting her head on a cave wall? Aren't there bits of rock in cave walls, etc.? And she was THROWN there by an orc. There should be a serious injury -Ed.) my father turned to see Arith drawing his blade. My father rushed to his side and put his arm on Arith’s blade arm. “What are you doing?” he said. (Split this paragraph. You're jumping between father, Arith, father, etc. My head is spinning - this dad seems to be everywhere at once. How about:

"Are you all right?" My father put a comforting hand on the woman's forehead, mumbled a few words. Golden light spilled between his fingers, like desert sand. "By Helm, let the spirit that confronteth this maiden--"

"Ugh," she mumbled. "My head feels like a melon. But I'll be - uggh..."

"Take a moment to rest," my father said. "That was a nasty blow and my healing spell could only draw out some of the pain. But you'll be fine."

He turned, and saw Arith drawing his blade. "Stop!" he cried, bounded across the cavern floor, put his hand on Arith's sword-arm. "What are you doing?"

Hope you like this -Ed.)

Well, I specified small gash because she was only shoved into the wall - and not to be killed. Or even truly hurt. The Orc Chief had shoved her aside, just for the moment - expecting to be rid of the paladins and return to her about taking care of the infant. So he would not have wanted to inflict serious injury to her.

“Are we not Paladins of Helm?” My father stared into my eyes. “Is our mission not to protect those who cannot protect themselves? She has done no evil. If she is raised properly, she may yet be saved.”

“Saved?” Arith asked, stunned. “You can’t be serious.” (Don't tell us that he's stunned - show us, e.g.:

"Saved?!" Arith creased his brow, took a step back. "You can't be serious."

How's that? -Ed.)

I like it! I was portraying a discussion between two friends... but yes, I could have shown more.

Also, split this sentence. Whenever a new character speaks, give them a new paragraph.

Did I not? I usually do...?

Overall, I like this very much. You clearly have a knack for turning these out! There's just two more suggestions I'd make:
1. Give Yameia's father a name. If she's as close to him as it seems, surely she'd know his name. Also, it's a bit tiring to read "My father" all the time.

So sometimes when I write these, I take liberties and name the parents and such... sometimes I leave it on the player (if they want to name their father and inject their name).

2. Give us more description - a lot more. What do the Paladins look like? Armour, weapons, hair, eyes facial hair - tattoos or war paint, maybe?

Definitely need to do that.

What do the orcs look like (as above)? The woman? The only person you've described is Yameia, and only her skin, eyes, and horns (as a baby).

I did describe Yameia: My father admits he gasped the first time he’d seen me – with purple-blue skin, yellow eyes, and small sprouting horns – my father and Arith both immediately recognized me as a Tiefling.
And as for the woman, she played such a little role... but I definitely could have shed some light on her!

Just think, what will grip your reader more? To read of "a paladin" - or...
A grizzled and tough old man sat by the fireside, stroked his black and well-trimmed beard, lifted his ale mug to his lips. The ancient teak table was spotless, I'd seen to that. The logs in the fireplace crackled merrily. The winter wind blew outside the door, but inside, he and I were snug and warm.
"Tell me," I said, "The story of how you found me, father."
(Snip)
What do you think?

I liked that! I usually do these with a quick line to snag the attention, because I know it's going to be short.
I'd definitely dive in more if I were actually doing these as stories! But I only give myself an hour to write each of these (if it even takes that long), to prevent myself from going into it too deep and writing some 19 page back story for someone.

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=122

Originally Posted by CLAY MORE View Post
I need some help designing a flavourful kit of origins and motivations for a young Red Dragonborn named Caled Volk (name comes for Excalibur true name, Caledfwlch). He's a Paladin of Ancients (LV 6, 18/10/16/10/8/14) woved since childhood to a local Mother Nature-like deity. This fellow is smaller then most of his kin, standing only at 5 feet tall, and so full of his creed that has literally no judgment over the course of his actions, following the oath's tenets to the end. Caled is not dumb, but he doesn't know better, and is pretty proud of his "draconic bloodline": so proud, someday he could decide to tap into its innate casting power... That's all I got for know, little quirks but no backstory and no reason for him to join an adventuring party.

This character was made and roleplayed on the fly, so it's opened to variations. The world is an homebrew setting but a pretty standard one, with classic fantasy tropes. Dragonborns are pretty rare tho, so Caled will be a special snowflake of sort. The party he's in, while doing good deeds, is mostly after fortune and gold. This table doesn't care much about fluff, but I'd like a character that is little more than a stat block with a few punchlines.

Thank you!

Hopefully I've given you something to work with!
I enjoyed getting to know Caled and his ... tragic reason for being!
If there's anything I didn't hit the mark on or you didn't like - please let me know!
Also let me know what you enjoyed! Both help me grow as a writer!
And also replies help keep this thread alive and bumped for others to discover!
Enjoy!
=================================================

It started centuries ago.

Dragons used an ancient ritual to change the genetic makeup of some of their eggs. This spell created humanoid Dragons that could walk the world. The Dragons who had brought destruction during their Wars had made an agreement not to meddle directly with the affairs of mortals.

The Dragonborn gave them a way to send their children forward and bypass the agreement that they had made with one another. Tragically, this process was a delicate one, and most who were born as the Dragonborn rarely survived more than a year, before their bodies would break down, causing a painful death.

This made Dragonborn extremely rare in the world, since many perished within a year and over the hundreds of years, the population among Dragons began to decrease mixed with a waning interest in indirectly tampering with the lives of Mortals.

One such Dragonborn was created from one of the eggs of a violent Red Dragon named Hellfire, but it became evident to Hellfire that this one would die within a year. Born unusually smaller than any other Dragonborn, Hellfire shook her head, and with the other two dragons she bore, she took to the skies, leaving the single Dragonborn to perish.

Unbeknownst to Hellfire, a group of adventurers had learned of her nesting location and had ventured into the volcano to find her and put an end to her life. When they had reached her nest they were disappointed to find that she had already departed. They were shocked, however, to still find a Dragonborn hatchling.

“Well, at least this wasn’t a complete waste of time,” the fighter named Thorwal smiled as he drew his sword. He looked down at the Dragonborn and said, “May the gods burn your evil soul in the planes of Hell, beast.”

As his arm came down with a mighty cleave, rather than meeting the soft flesh of a young Dragonborn, it met with a steel shield with a lion’s mane on it. Thorwal turned to Stern Lionmane, the Paladin. “What are you doing?” Thorwal grunted as he eyed the Paladin.

“He is an infant,” Stern stated the obvious. “I cannot allow you to kill an unarmed opponent. Let alone an infant.”

“It’s a Red Dragonborn,” Thorwal pointed at the nest with the tip of his blade. “What do you think is going to happen if Hellfire comes back for him and raises him? He will do what the others have done – lead armies of orcs, goblins, and trolls and march against our cities.”

“The nest looks to have been abandoned several days ago,” Stern replied. “The other two eggs, over there have been hatched. There’s no evidence of meat brought from Hellfire that isn’t rancid in this infernal nest.”

“So you think that she has abandoned this one?” Yuri’ken, the human Monk asked. “If so, we can leave it, and it shall perish of starvation.”

“I suppose we could do that,” Thorwal shrugged. “It’s a far more painful death,” he admitted, “than cleaving its head off with my sword.” He looked at the Dragonborn, “Though admittedly a lot less satisfying.”

Stern Lionmane felt conflicted. Perhaps Hellfire had indeed abandoned the Dragonborn infant and perhaps Fate deemed that it would die in this manner. But what if Fate had put them here to find the Dragonborn for another reason?

Stern reached down and picked up the infant Dragonborn. Thorwal looked shocked. “Wait, are you going to throw it into the volcano?” Seemed to be an unusual move, Thorwal thought, for this righteous Paladin.

“No,” Stern replied, “we are taking it back to Vourden Keep.”

“What?” Thorwal exclaimed nearly dropping his weapon in shock. “You plan to bring that thing into the very Keep we’re trying to protect from Hellfire? Bring the enemy into the center of town?”

“My goddess has put me in this path for a reason,” Stern replied as he removed his cloak to wrap the child, so that he could easily carry it on his back.

“While I always seek balance,” Yuri’ken said, “and rarely do I agree with the brash judgements of Thorwal, but this time, I must side with him. This seems to be a foolish idea.”

“If he grows up to be a threat, I will put him down myself,” Stern replied, “until then I shall give this infant the choice to deny his heritage and see the light of good.”

“This should go down as one of the worse ideas,” Thorwal sighed, seeing that there was no way Stern would be changing his mind from this.

Stern had named him Caled Volk – meaning ‘the heart of fire’ in the ancient Elven tongue. He spent every moment he could with Caled Volk. He had hired hand maidens who nervously tended to him and showed the infant support until he was old enough to walk on his own. Stern pushed upon Caled the Code of Hope.


“In the Darkness, Kindle the Light – be kind, be forgiving, and give the people hope. In the Storm, Shelter the Light, and encourage good, beauty, love and laughter, no matter how powerful the storm. In the Shadow of Your Soul, Preserve Your Own Light – delight in the hope, the smile, the laughter of others, and keep that in your heart for when you might need it. And against Evil, be the light – and be the glorious beacon for all those who despair and fear.”

By the age of ten, it had become clear to Stern why Hellfire undoubtedly had abandoned this Dragonborn. He barely stood three feet tall, and other Dragonborn by this age were already five feet tall. By the age of eighteen, at just over five feet tall, he took the Oath and joined the same order that Stern had, following the Goddess of Nature.

He was short, and generally mistrusted, even among the Order because of his Red Dragonscales. But he was proud of who he had grown up to be. In the privacy of his own thoughts, he did wonder what would come of him and the tie of his bloodline…

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=134

Originally Posted by Langsley View Post
Temp Name: Aleyr [Last Name to be filled depending on backstory or if I just find something that sounds nice]
Race: Human
Age: mid-20's
Class: Battle Master 3, Kensei 5, & [1 level of either rogue (Thief) or ranger (Gloom Stalker) as I believe we're likely to reach that level by the time I submit my character sheet to my DM]
Trinket Rolled: An iron holy symbol devoted to an unknown god (not the biggest fan of playing religious characters however)
Alignment: Kinda Lawful, mostly neutral; Focused on what's pragmatic primarily
Gameplay-wise, this character is a marksman that grapples (think John Wick), uses the alchemic tools and improvised weapons to supplement that, and potentially dabbles in clerical ritual magic.
I'm mainly looking for a point to jump from, I've spent a lot of time on build creation and haven't really done much work on the character itself.
I'd like background threads my DM can play with if possible.

Speaking of... my current party consists of a elven monk, elven ranger, and senile human wizard. Elven monk is visting temples on a kind of pilgrimage, the ranger has some history with the raven queen and is an outcast amongst his kind, and the old wizard is trying to fight his weird alzheimer-like disease to find a method of freeing someone that he accidentally trapped when he was at full power. Oh and there was a former party member - an Aasimar Paladin - that went dark side. I've taken the Discovery feat from the Hermit background, but there's no real need to stick to the hermitage.
I naturally tend to play cheerful and chaotic characters so the occasional stint of that wouldn't be amiss in a more serious background.
Thank you in advance.

I wasn't sure how your party came together - so I didn't touch that part.
I did go into how he becomes a Battle Master and may have some Kensei going for him.
The Thief/Ranger portion is easily adapted because of how I made him a "survivor" (and while not a "hermit" - definitely poverty life style of his own choosing)...
Anyway - hope this works! Please let me know - what you like, hate, what works, what doesn't!
I am always up for revisiting and rewriting (but doing others who are still awaiting theirs first, so that everyone gets something!)
Please do enjoy!
=============================
Forged in fire, steel in bent and shaped, by the smith, to make the perfect weapon.

I have treated my body as weapon since I was ten years old. I have pushed myself to the limits, and then taken the next step beyond, until I was nearly broken. Day in, day out, I spent practicing sword play with a Kendo Shinai Bamboo sword.

By the age of twelve, my father had created a parkour course for me to rigorously train in. By the age of sixteen, he included weapons and targets for me to find. It became a mixture of the timing to complete the course as well as how many bullseyes I could hit with the crossbows, daggers and bows he had sprinkled throughout the course.

By the age of eighteen I was the weapon my father had forged.

“You have done well, Aleyr,” my father said proudly, patting me on the shoulder. “Now you are the arrow that I will unleash upon the world. It is time for you to leave this course and find your own path that will contain just as many obstacles; some of which will seek to destroy you.”

“I understand father,” I nodded.

I took nothing with me, because I did not need the weight of coin and my past to burden my present and my future. As such, for several years, I lived the life of poverty and seclusion. On a caravan I had taken refuge with I met a wonderful woman named Tella Nohar. She was human, older than me, but not much; or she didn’t appear to be much older. Her eyes were grey in color, but her hair was a vibrant blond that had been decorated in endless curls. Like me, she had no money to speak of, and the kind souls of the caravan had thought to help her at least get to the next town safely.

One night, while we had been sitting around the campfire, the other two wagons pulled off the road with us, she touched my hand and told me that she enjoyed my company immensely. I stared into her grey eyes – but my focus changed to something behind her.

The world began to move in slow motion.

I shoved her sideways, just as an arrow came from the bushes behind her. It struck me directly in the shoulder. There was a brief amount of pain, but my training had trained me how to shut off pain in my body. I stood up as three goblins sprung forward from the brush.

One immediately lunged at me, grappling with me. That was its first mistake. I looked at the campfire and kicked the hilt of the steel pan that had been cooking the night’s stew, which landed directly on the goblin who was how screeching in pain as his flesh bubbled over.

I grabbed the arrow from my shoulder, snapped it off, and quickly drove it under the goblin’s chin which immediately ceased its screaming. I could hear the second goblin rushing at me from the side. Tella was just beginning to stand when I ran, and as I sprang from her body, whispered, “Truly sorry about this,” and landed on the other goblin. Unbeknownst to Tella, as I spring-boarded from her back, I had also removed her belt, which I used to wrap around the goblin’s neck, then immediately took it and wrapped it over a tree back and buckled it. The belt constricted around the goblin’s neck like a boa, and after a few minutes it stopped struggling as the last bit of air escaped his lungs.

Now where was the third one? Running away. How typical. I grabbed the lid of one of the wine barrels and hurled it with enough for that when it struck the back of the goblin’s neck a disgusting crunch.The foul beast crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been severed.

The other folks on the wagon had barely had enough time to reach for a weapon before the fight was over. They looked at me, mouths gapped open in shock, as I kneeled and picked up the pot. “My apologies, it would seem we are without stew tonight. I will go hunting and find us something to eat.”

I checked on Tella who was still in shock and not entirely sure what had happened. She glanced around and saw three dead goblins all of which had been killed in just under a minute. “How did you do this?”

“I’ve spent my entire life honing myself to be a weapon,” I replied. “I am the arrow that my father has launched into the world.”

“You’re amazing,” she smiled.

For the next two years, Tella and I traveled together. There was more to our relationship than just friendship. On more than one night we consummated it to be more.

One night, while staying at The Unicorn’s Trail Inn, I awoke, and she was gone. On her pillow was a iron holy symbol of some kind. I wasn’t the religious type, but it wasn’t anything I recognized before. When I took it to the local Church, even they were puzzled by its markings – but everyone who examined it said the same thing; it was ancient.

Had someone come and taken her? Left this as some kind of warning? Or had she, without warning, decided to leave, and leave me this? Was it a clue to go find her? I couldn’t help but notice the iron of this unusual symbol was the same color of her grey eyes…

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=137

Originally Posted by Varise View Post
Hey, long time lurker but finally convinced to register and post by this.
Starting a new campaign and would really appreciate help writing up character background. Got some ideas, but not good at translating them to the page.
Name: Corin Shadowblade
Race: Half-elf
Class: Rogue
Background: Urchin
Alignment: Chaotic Good

Idea is that his human mother was a slave in the underdark, father was a follower of Eilistraee. When Corin born, they attempted to escape. Father turned back to buy time fighting off a hunting party. Mother made it to the surface and settled in a city.
Six years of normal life before she dies of illness, Corin grows up on the streets. Joins a gang to survive. When older he realizes that it's not just survival, they're doing some stuff that crosses his ethical lines and leaves.
Becomes a troubleshooter/adventurer/tries to lookout for the less fortunate.
Probably going to multiclass into fighter, influences are Nightrunner series and Daredevil.
Thank you!

Again - thank you for the flattery of mention you registered (after lurking for awhile!) just for this thread!
I hope that I was able to capture what you were looking for because this is such an honor!
I name your father (with a different last name) - but explain how you come up with your last name!
As always I welcome ALL feedback! Tell me what you didn't like! Or what you DID like!
I love hearing it all - it helps me! And also bumps the thread and keeps it active!
Enjoy!
================================================== ==============
My mother is a beautiful woman.

A human who looks much older than she really is. Her long, golden, hair once shimmered like the morning sun, but now was streaked with strands of silver. Her blue eyes, once as bright as a cloudless sky, now looked as if they were grey storm clouds. Her skin, once perfect and youthful, was aged and full of endless amounts of scars that ran along her body, as if hay from the horses had blown all over here and cut her a thousand times.

My mother had been traveling with her family, across a massive mountain range, when a band of Drow Elves surfaced and spotted them while hunting. Most of her family was killed. She was dragged below the surface and into the Underdark where she was forced into slavery. Other members of her family who survived were not so fortunate. The gruesome things done to her family; the sounds of their screams haunted her. They beat her and whipped her for anything she might do wrong and sometimes things she had nothing to do with, but just happen to be close.

But during her time in slavery, my mother met the man who would be my father – Draz’ture Tal’shore. My father, a Drow Elf was one of the few who worshiped Eilistraee, a goddess of song, dance, goodness and beauty, rather than Lolth who thrived on war – especially against those on the surface world. Many followers of Eilistraee had hoped to one day find a new life, away from the dangers of the Underdark, among others – including their cousins, the Elves on the surface.

When my mother became pregnant with me, the amount of torture she endured was doubled. If it was insufferable before, it was infinitely worse now and the Drow took greater pleasure. The time came when my father knew that soon the child in her womb would perish if the abuse continued. In a last-ditch effort, he used the pick he had been given to mine to cleave into the nearest slaver’s neck. Blood splashed everywhere as my father frantically searched the slaver for keys. Grabbing the keys which nearly slid of his blood-soaked fingers, he then grabbed the slaver’s scimitar and grabbed my mother by the hand. She knew the way to the surface from being dragged below years ago, but the Drow Slavers were not giving pursuit.

As they moved as quickly as they could, my mother, now seven months pregnant could barely waddle along through the dangerous path. My father knew what had to be done if she had any hope of escaping. He turned to her, tears brimming in his violet eyes, “You must run. Go.”

“I can’t leave you,” she cried.

“If you stay, you damn us all,” he said. “Please,” he begged, “give my child a better life than this. I will live on through him.” And with that, he did not await her response, and turned to run back down the hall, holding the scimitar over his head. My mother waited only a moment longer, crying hysterically as she began to feverishly resume her climb. She could hear the clanging of steel behind her, and the sounds of screams – but soon the clashing stopped, and she knew he had fallen to the Drow. She tumbled out of the cavern and ran blindly, tripping over a stone and falling.

She awoke the following day, her ankle broken, but still free. She hobbled down the mountain side and made her way to a nearby village where the Priests took her in and tended to her grievous wounds. One month later I was born into the world.

The priests had offered to take care of my mother, but she saw the way they stared at me. Being Half Drow gave me a very unique look, that easily distinguished my bloodline. My mother and I lived on the streets where I learned to steal for a living.

My mother had tried to stop me, more than once, because I was stealing. But I only stole from the rich, who I assumed could afford to sacrifice a little bit of their coin for well deserving souls such as my mother. We lived like this for six years before a mysterious illness took her from me.

One day, a group of adventurers came through the town, weighed down in treasures and weapons. I had gone to steal from the Fighter, who seemed rather careless with his gold pouch. Just as I was about to cut the strings, I overheard him speaking of their latest adventure and all the treasure they’d found. It got me wondering what might be out there for me.

I let that fighter keep his gold that night as payment for providing me the idea of going out to discover the world.

I did however take his dagger he had strapped to his belt. That was too nice to leave. It was a unique looking dagger that had a blade steel. A Shadowblade, I called it.

And that was the surname I adopted for myself.

My name is Corin Shadowblade world. I am coming for you.

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=140

Originally Posted by Bel-Torac View Post
I love your backgrounds so far, keep up the good work. Here is mine for a new character I just made, this is what I've come up with so far if you can help me expand.

Name: Bloodmaw the Baptiser
Race: Half-Orc
Class: Oathbreaker Paladin
Personality traits: I crush those I can defeat, and lie in wait to weaken and overwhelm those I must respect.
Ideals: Cruelty: Strength without regular demonstrations of its potential is an empty weapon.
Flaws: The world is my hunting ground. Others are my prey.
Background: Soldier/Mercenary Veteran, Was a Paladin of Tyr, but changed into an oathbreaker paladin who found power in Baphomet during a moment of crisis during battle when it looked lost. Realizing that his commander was weak, he left his company and struck out on his own, becoming a cultist of Baphomet. Now he seeks to test himself in battle and find ancient relics that could enrich his power. Uses a greataxe and wears plate.

I rarely get to write evil characters...! So this was fun! Especially showing his fall from grace...
It was easy for me to weave a reason for your character to be an Oathbreaker once I started...!
Please let me know what you like, hate, what worked, what didn't! Replies not only help keep me going, they also help me learning if I am reading people correctly, and it also keeps the thread alive and bumped for others to discover!
Please let me know your thoughts! Enjoy!
=======================================
When I was young, I lived on the streets, as most Half-Orcs do, rejected by both sides of their heritage. One such pocket I tried to pick, desperate for coin so that I could put food in my stomach that growled like a furious chimera, happened to be that of a Paladin. He was on his way to donate a large pouch of coin from one of his most recent adventures.

Before I even got my hands on the pouch, he’d grabbed my hand. “Tyr lost his hand to a hound,” he smiled, “do not lose yours to me.”

My eyes saw the balanced scales resting on a warhammer symbol on his scapula and immediately recognized him as a Paladin of Tyr.

He sized me up before releasing my hand, “Orc blood in your veins,” he said, noting my facial features bore a brutish look. “You’d best be careful. Try to steal from someone again, that may kill you because of that blood in your veins and not a single person would blink an eye as your blood filled the cobblestone crevices.”

“Not even a Paladin?” I retorted.

The Paladin, with his long black hair, nicely trimmed beard, but long mustache looked at me. “Well, you do have some brains in you, boy. Do you have a home too?”

“The streets,” I growled back.

“The streets,” he repeated. “How about I make you a deal? You stay with me and learn the way of Tyr. We could use someone with your skill and strength.”

His name was Dren Ravenmane – the first person I ever remember showing me any compassion. He fed me, kept me off the streets, taught me to fight.

During one of our training sessions, he had struck my shield hard, sending me stumbling back over my feet. I feel an anger surge in me as I jumped to my feet and began to swing wildly. Dren parried each of the blows easily, laughing at me as he did so, as if this were all some game. Then, when I was tired, he slammed his shield into mine and knocked me on the ground. He towered over me. “Do you see what happened?”

“I got angry,” I admitted.

“You gave in to the orc blood in your veins,” he said as he extended his platemail hand. “And that made you reckless; swinging wildly. Before you knew it, you were winded and I was able to knock you back down onto the ground.”

It was four years, with Dren Ravenmane pleading with the Order, to allow me entrance to the Order. My Orcish appearance had caused all of them great hesitation, despite the praises Dren had given me. But on that fourth years, knowing that a war had been brewing, I was accepted into the Order and through a great ceremony, joined sixty others who became Paladins of Tyr.

We were sent to the Golden Coast because there had been news of the Bloodtide Minotaurs making landfall and ravishing coastal towns. Dren was a part of that deployment, I believe, because the Order had wanted him to keep an eye on me or at the very least keep me under control.

News came on night while patrolling the coastlines that The Starboard Harbor was under attack. We rode our horses hard and arrived to see Bloodtide Minotaurs running through the city cutting down anyone who stood in their way. None of us hesitated as we jumped from our horses directly into battle. I admit that I looked for the tallest of these Minotaur hoping he might be the leader. One Minotaur stood out above the rest. His fur coloring was a rusty, red color, and one of his horns had been severed, and still he towered two feet over his companions.

I cut my way through his army so that I could reach him. He was stunned to see someone had gotten so close, but it wasn’t fear in his eyes. He was pleased.

War has never been about courage. War has always been about madness.

A willingness to accept that the next few seconds may be your final moment.

I walked a thin line of embracing that madness and keeping the Orcish side of my bloodline in check.

As this towering Minotaur engaged in combat with me, he was easily shoving me aside and deflecting my blows, his deep red eyes bore into my soul. “You’re holding back,” his voice boomed in my ears. “Did these human teach you to fear your Orcish bloodline? That you might give in to what your other half normally does? Kill? Murder? Without it,” he slammed me into a wall, “you will never defeat me.” He brought his leg, rippling with muscle upon muscle, into my gut and knocked the wind out of me. While I was bent over, he then brought the hilt of his sword on my neck, sending me to the ground. “And as long as you don’t embrace it, this is where you will always be, licking my hooves. Where is your god now? Why does he not protect you from me? Do you know why? Because Baphomet encourages our madness! He encourages us to spread chaos, death and destruction! Just like the blood in you screams to do! So what will it be boy?”

He picked me up by my hair and made eye contact with me. He knew in that moment I could have plunged my weapon through him, but he was confident he had broken me.

My bloodline of Orcish taint had always worshipped those who were stronger. My eyes looked around me as I hung painfully by the mane of my hair and saw those who had been prejudiced against me, who feared me and refused me, for four long years, fall before the Bloodtide. Somewhere I saw even Dren overwhelmed by the Minotaurs.

I looked back at the towering Minotaur. “I embrace Baphomet,” I whispered, “only if he allows me to be who I truly am.”

The towering Minotaur discarded me to the side. “Perfect. Take off the symbol of Helm and burn it. Shout to the heavens that you deny him and that you now embrace Baphomet!” As I torn off my scapula, I saw Dren rise above the Minotaur army for a brief moment and scream something at me, before he – and several other Minotaur – fell off the pier and into the water.

I could feel the shadow and darkness erupting in my soul like a volcano that had finally been able to burst its ashes into heavens. Bloodmane looked at me, “You will Baptize the world in blood.”

For several months I sailed with Bloodmane, the leader of the Bloodtide, before I explained that Baphomet had given me a vision to ravage the land while wearing the scapula that bore the symbol of Baphomet.

During one of our coastal raids, Bloodmane and I parted ways.

In the back of my mind, I had wondered if Dren had perished when he fell off the pier… wearing platemail, he must have sunk quickly…

[Tawmis]

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=142

Originally Posted by moonfly7 View Post
So, you've helped me before, I was wondering if I might impose upon you again.
I have an, interesting, character idea.
Race: drow
Gender: female
Class: oath breaker paladin/light cleric(ypu choose the god/goddess goddess makes more sense for drow though)
Alignment: some form of good, either choatic or neutral, your choice
So, I don't have a name for her yet, you can choose that if you want, but I have a bare bones idea.
She was a conquest paladin of lolth, working as an enforcer and aquisition expert for the slaving parties that would sometimes hit the surface. Somehow, she becomes injured, and rescued by surface dwellers. They might be an adventuring party, a church, kind villagers, I don't know. Anyways, overtime spent recuperating amongst these people, she decides that lolths teachings are wrong, and renounces her goddess and her oath. Becoming oath breaker. Eventually, she becomes a light cleric, and works to spread her deities faith, and protect others(kindling and spreading the light), but she never takes another oath, staying an oath breaker.
Also she still has lots of issues with shaking off drow culture. For instance, she'll sometimes forget herself, and for a momemt or two judge others simply because they aren't drow. Also, she no longer considees men inferior or slave labor, but she has a ways to go until she sees them as her equals without tgem proving it first.
Don't feel like you have to do this, I know your busy with everyone else, so either way thank you!

So I did something... unique for this. So I have used other names from other backgrounds I've done (Bar'garius as a demon has popped up in several people's backgrounds where I needed a demon, the Red Eye Clan for Orcs have also popped up)... but this time... I directly tied yours to another character history in this thread. Naturally, neither is required to make it all make sense - but yours comes from a different POV, since that person's history dealt with Drow (he was a Half-Elf with a Drow father, human mother)... I made yours from the Drow perspective... Well, I won't spoil it further...
I will, as always, ask for feedback posted in this thread! It helps keep it active and bumped for others to discover!
So let me know what you liked, didn't like, and all that fun stuff!
Enjoy!
===============================================
Also she still has lots of issues with shaking off drow culture. For instance, she'll sometimes forget herself, and for a momemt or two judge others simply because they aren't drow. Also, she no longer considees men inferior or slave labor, but she has a ways to go until she sees them as her equals without tgem proving it first.
Don't feel like you have to do this, I know your busy with everyone else, so either way thank you!

Sureena Pyre’sin patrolled the upper edges of the slave pits. Her deep, dark skin were a sharp contrast to her unusually piercing blue eyes. Her wispy, white hair flowed to the middle of her back, and seemed to be made of thin, delicate, webs of Lolth’s making.

A loyal servant to Lolth, Sureena Pyre’sin had dedicated her life to the Spider Queen and had become one of Lolth’s most devote Paladins in this section of the Underdark. Most knew her name and feared her, rightfully so. She was the spear of Lolth, as many called her – leading the charge on surface raids at night to ambush, gather and abduct slaves for the pits of the Underdark.

Having recently successfully raid against a family passing through the mountain range, she took great pleasure in seeing in seeing her newest acquisitions put to work. There was one among them, a human female, whom she had taken a great interest in ensuring that she was put to work. A human woman, tall, slender, flowing blond hair and piercing blue eyes, who Sureena Pyre’sin considered to be too beautiful and needed to be broken.

It did not escape Sureena Pyre’sin’s attention that the woman, despite being a slave, had begun developing a relationship with Draz’ture Tal’shore, a Drow who had cast away the teachings of Lolth and instead worshipped Eilistraee, the goddess of song, dance, goodness and beauty. Such Drow who would turn away from the glory of Lolth disgusted Sureena Pyre’sin.

Sureena Pyre’sin watched in secrecy when the woman and Draz’ture had consummated their love for each other and let it happen because they would take the child and raise in the slave pits when it was strong enough to hold a pickaxe.

When the woman was just shy of delivering the child, Sureena Pyre’sin witnessed the unthinkable. Draz’ture took his pickaxe to the nearest slaver and plunged into their forehead. The Drow slaver collapsed and Draz’ture jumped on him and tore the keys from his belt and immediately ran to the woman and unlocked her shackles as well.

Sureena Pyre’sin began rushing along the side of the slave pit, her ice blue eyes watching as the two began escaping towards the same tunnel that Sureena Pyre’sin had dragged the woman through nine months ago. The woman was pregnant, she would not get far before being captured. Sureena Pyre’sin raced down the stone stairs and joined in the pursuit of Draz’ture and his human lover.

She was surprised when Draz’ture turned to face the Drow Slavers. The woman said something to him, and Sureena Pyre’sin could see she was crying. Weakness. That’s what love is. Breed to feed the numbers and ensure the army stays strong. There’s no need for the emotional attachments that come with mating.

To Sureena’s surprise, Draz’ture had managed to kill six slavers, as he bought time for his lover to escape further up the tunnel. “Move!” she barked, as she slammed her sword against her shield and marched towards Draz’ture.

Draz’ture knew of Sureena’s reputation. He knew this is where he would die. He thrust forward with the scimitar he had stolen from the first slaver, but she put up her shield so that his body turned with the curve of the shield, leaving his body exposed. With a smile as cold as death, her eyes blue eyes flickered as blood splattered across her face as her sword cleaved the edge of his throat. His body collapsed on the ground.

She looked up the passageway and began pursuing the woman. The platemail armor was slowing her down, so she began discarding it as she climbed up the passageway. Just as she reached the surface, she was struck with a rock across the head by the woman who heard her coming up the passageway.

Sureena awoke, her eyes fluttering open. Her eyes scanned the room and she could only see a wooden roof above her. She wasn’t anywhere she recognized. She tried to sit up and found she could not. Was she being restrained? She could barely move her neck. Was it magic?

Just then an old human approached her and sat next to her. “Good. You’re awake. You’ve been in the dream state for over a week. We weren’t sure if you were going to come out of it.”

“Where am I,” Sureena rasped, her voice sounding broken. She peered at the human cautiously. “What have you done to me?”

“What have I done to you?” the human crossed his legs. “I’ve done nothing to you. I found you at the bottom of a mountain, barely alive. From the looks of it, you took a fall off the path and fell nearly sixty feet to the hard, stone, ground that greeted you painfully.”

“I can’t feel anything,” she growled.

“You’re paralyzed,” the human replied, his voice mournful. “From what I can tell, from the neck down you can no longer move.” He looked at her. “You’re one of them aren’t you?”

“One of who,” she sneered.

“The Shadow Elves,” he replied. “The ones who live in the mountains and raid and steal our people in the middle of the night?”

“We’re called Drow,” she corrected. Though completely helpless and at the mercy of this old, feeble human, Sureena did not lose her courage. “My people will come for me.”

But it had already been a week if the human was telling the truth and they had not come for her.

The human smiled as if reading her thoughts. “They came for you. We displayed you outside of our village as a token to take you and leave us… They saw you in your state… unresponsive… and left you.”

“They left me?” she scoffed. “You lie!”

He shook his head. “You know I am not lying.”

“So why am I here?” she growled. “If you know I am one of ‘them’ as you call us, why are you helping me?”

“Because we hold all lives sacred,” he explained. “We would health a wounded lion back to full health, knowing that one day it may hunt us down.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she laughed. “You would aid your enemy!”

“What you see as ridiculous, we see as preserving the Light of Hope,” he smiled and stood.

“Hope is for the foolish,” she replied.

“Then,” he turned and looked at her as he left the room, “you will be there for all eternity. Unless you too hope to one day walk again.” He closed the door behind her.

She lay there fuming with anger.

For days and weeks, he tended to her, feeding her, and bathing her. She hated that a human would be touching her divine skin. Where was Lolth? Why had she abandoned her most loyal Paladin?

For the next several months, she watched as the people of the village sang and danced and celebrated life. She grew more and more envious of their ability to move freely.

One night it wasn’t the old man who paid her a visit, but another Drow. She was beautiful. More stunning than anyone Sureena had seen before. The woman touched her hand. “You feel it do you not? The desire to move, to be free, to dance.”

Sureena did not respond.

“Sureena,” the Drow woman said, “it can be yours.”

Sureena turned to face her. “How do you know my name?”

“That is not important,” the Drow woman smiled. Her milky black skin and violet eyes seemed to pull at Sureena. “Will you take my hand and dance?”

“I can’t move,” Sureena retorted. “I can’t do anything but lay here.”

“Take my hand,” the woman said, extending her hand just inches away from Sureena’s.

“I can’t, woman,” Sureena replied angrily. “Did you not hear me?”

“Have you tried?” the Drow woman smiled.

Sureena looked at her arm and willed it to rise. Much to her surprise she was able to lift her arm. She placed her hand into the hand of the mysterious Drow woman.

Then… it happened.

A bright flash.

Sureena was not only dancing, she was jumping from star to star in the heavens, with the woman still holding her hand. “This,” the woman said, smiling, “is what it is to be free. To dance. To love. It is not just that your body is paralyzed,” she spun Sureena, “but your mind and your heart are. Lolth had forged a wall there to prevent you from knowing the joy of life. You are free of that now.”

The woman kissed Sureena on the forehead. “You are free.”

Sureena opened her eyes and sat up.

“Eilistraee,” she whispered.

She stumbled outside and much to the surprise of the others joined them in the merriment of their laughter and dancing.

The Old Man had come to sit next to her after a while. “She came to you then?”

Sureena looked at the old man.

She spent the next few weeks training before she was ready to visit the world. She slid on her new scapula which bore the symbol of a sword in front of the moon – though she had broken her oath with Lolth – she now proudly served Eilistraee, and for the first time, felt hope, light and love coursing through her veins.