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Dissented wrote: I'm really struggling with this one, but you helped me in a previous campaign so I immediately thought of you. I'm about to start an Icewind Dale: Rime of the Frostmaiden campaign, here's what I know.
My character is a blue-skinned Tiefling named Ren. Beginning at level 1, he grew to have great tactical acumen and a knack for magic that surpassed his years. One other interesting thing is that we get a free feat at level 1 and I've decided on Infernal Constitution which would add cold and poison resistance to his infernal bloodline.
He has found himself in Bryn Shader, in Ten Towns and our DM has given him the 'Orc Stone' secret to somehow fit into his backstory.
There's a duality in him which will present itself in his (Wizard) bladesong, choosing to get his hands dirty and fight in melee with blades should the need arise in which he changes from his cool and calculating demeanor.
We already have 1 criminal in the party, but that was my first thought - maybe he'd had a terrible life before we started and wanted to avoid his past. Maybe he's running from something or someone in Bryn Shader. The part I struggle with is why he would want to become a bladesinger in the far north.
Thank you and happy holidays

Notes - I've never run this campaign myself. (All of the games I run are homebrew)
So the orc I name - that gives you the Orc stone. I gave him a name. But not sure if it's a specific orc that comes into play later.
I left it wide open for said orc to come back around. I love leave crumbs of a character's past that can be tied in.
Not just the orc stone, but the orc itself.
I would love to hear feedback - what you like or didn't like - or if your DM needs something specific - let me know and I can give this another swing too!
As always...
Enjoy!
==========================

My kind is becoming more widely accepted – but when you travel through a small town, populated by mostly humans, you can see the look of distrust in their eyes. “There goes a demon-blood,” they’d whisper. That kind of attitude led me to picking up a stick to use to defend myself, which occasionally became a blade when the need arose.

My true passion, however, has always been the arcane magic. The superstitious said it was because “my demon-blood draws me to the arcane nature of the demon’s magic that created me.”

I don’t remember my parents. Sometimes I see vague images of them drifting in the velvet shadows of my mind and memories, but they’re never clear. Their faces are obscured by shifting, ink-like darkness, that flows all about them.

I’ve lived my life on the streets as far as I can remember, and when I got into too much trouble – I rarely had any connections – and just packed up whatever meager possessions I’d acquired, hit the road, and move to the next town.

Well, this worked out for years – but I was quickly running out of places to escape to – and the smaller towns were often all too eager to try and turn me in – just because I am a Tiefling, and because the reward for my hide was on the rise.

I’d met an Orc, who called himself Styrkur Bloodbane along my travels. He was a strong, powerful looking orc who – as I discovered – never let anyone tread on him. He was quick to anger and quicker to dispense justice if he felt even remotely slighted. Despite his temper and attitude, he held honor above all else.

Perhaps that’s why, when a pack of Winter Wolves circled us as we approached the frozen town of Ten Towns - Styrkur Bloodbane fought viciously – in truth I’ve never seen anyone fight the way he has. He moved gracefully and quickly through the Wolves, cutting at them, snarling louder than the Wolves were – but Wolves are not intimidated for long. They observed how he moved and quickly learned how to counter him – biting at his legs to slow him down and cripple his movements. My spells were not very powerful – but when I saw Styrkur Bloodbane in trouble – I knew I had to act, despite his stern warning for me to stay behind him. I drew my own sword, which I rarely did – it’d mostly been for show – and began weaving spells. Some of my spells were not even to target the wolves, but to merely create lights and sounds to disorient them and frighten them.

I was, surprisingly successful. The wolves, wounded by Styrkur Bloodbane, and frightened by my magic retreated.

That night, as we made camp just inside the cave, as the chilling snow fell, Styrkur Bloodbane handed me an unusual stone. When I asked what it was he explained. “Speak the name I give you, and from within the stone, an orc fierce spirit will emerge. The spirit inside… is very special. Just as you are. Our paths will leave from here. When you go to Ten Towns, there is somewhere else I must go in these Frozen Reaches. Perhaps we will meet again. But until tonight, I never saw another risk their life for me as you’d done. I want you to have this stone. I won’t be around to protect you, but perhaps the spirt inside this orc stone can help keep you safe.”

The following morning, Styrkur Bloodbane was gone and I was alone in the chilly cave. He’d left a note for me for the path to take to Ten Towns or Bryn Shader.

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Floridaman wrote: I would love a backstory for a retired leonin lycanthrope hunter who lost his arm in a past battle with a werewolf. he was also raised by dwarves. he is a artificer fighter.

I enjoyed writing this. This might even be the first Leonin character I've written.
I enjoy setting up NPCs for a Dungeon Master to use... so I set up a villain...
As well as two friendly NPCs.

I'd love to hear ANY feedback - what you liked, disliked, whatever! Let me know!
It helps me and keeps the thread alive.
Enjoy!
================================

Floridaman wrote: I would love a backstory for a retired Leonin lycanthrope hunter who lost his arm in a past battle with a werewolf. He was also raised by dwarves. He is a artificer fighter.

These golden plains have been the home to my people for centuries. Few travel into the plains due to the numerous hunters that have made their home here – dominated by my people, and our lion cousins, few enter without immediately being noticed.

We have protected our lands from the likes of goblins to ogres, to even giants; but there is one thing we have always struggled against; humans. Not because humans are stronger – no one is stronger than my kind – but because humans and their cities bring disease.

Among the diseases that first ran rampant in a nearby human city, just beyond the border of the plains, was lycanthropy in the form of wererats. Fitting that the disease would spread quickly among humans, whom my people often consider rats themselves.

However, the day would come where the disease of Lycanthropy began to infect humans in the form of creating werewolves. These werewolves were far more brazen than the wererat infected, and often joined packs of other wolves, including dire wolves that lived outside the borders of the golden plains. Influenced by the human werewolves, these combined packs began to hunt in our plains and killing out game. Each time they went deeper and deeper into our plains, coming closer and closer to our Pride.

When the news came that the pack of wolves had dared to attack one of our Gathers, I knew that they would not stop unless they were taught a lesson – a very fatal lesson. They needed to be put down and extinguished like the disease they were.

Council was held by the Pride and a “task force of Lycanthropy Hunters” was assigned. I was one of the Pride members assigned to the task.

We’d been out hunting the wolf-kin, following their tracks. We found several kills, where they’d killed our game for the sake of killing and moved on. They were taunting us. Each senseless kill only fueled the fire and anger. In our haste, driven by fury, we’d followed the tracks directly into a trap, near the base of the Black Iron Mountains. They emerged from the brush and stone at a higher position than us. One of the bastard human werewolves briefly took human form and laughed. His black hair and ice blue eyes had been the same color as his wolf form. “Today,” he smiled, as he slowly changed back to his hybrid form, “you will die at the hands of Elias Solemane and his pack!”

We found ourselves attacked by dire wolves while the werewolves maintained their distance attacking with thrown spears and bows and arrows – forcing us to try and move up the jagged stone face to reach them. I was one of the last to survive from my Hunters – two dire wolves had pinned me down, while the others of my Hunter Pride were being slain. The human, Elias Solemane came down to stare at me. “You failed and we will litter your corpses for your other Pride members to find. These lands are ours now.” He turned around and I heard him say, “Rend him limb from limb,” and the last thing I felt was a searing pain in my arms as the dire wolves tore away at my flesh. The pain was so intense I lost consciousness – I thought I died.

I woke up in pain – and a thundering sound in my head. The thundering sound had come not from myself – however the noise around me. I looked around, saw I was laying in a bed I did not recognize – one that I was clearly too large for.

“By all rights, you should be dead,” came a gruff, female’s voice.

When I turned my head – every nerve in my body ignited and I couldn’t help but cry out in pain.

“You have extensive nerve damage,” the female voice said, then stepped into the flickering light; a female dwarf. “Name’s Abighal Greystone and you’re quite fortunate that I had stepped out to gather plants and herbs needed for some of my potions. It’s the only reason I even saw you. Otherwise you would have bled to death, having lost your left arm as you did.”

I glanced down at my left arm – she had to be wrong – I could feel it. But, no – it was truly gone.

“Looks as if some animal ripped it right off you,” she said, placing the small vail in her hands and unwrapping the bandage. “But it looks like my potions have stopped the infection as well as the bleeding. You were very touch and go there for a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” I blurted out, loudly.

“Weeks,” she nodded. “If it wasn’t for some of my potions, you would have withered away. But you were barely conscious enough to understand you had to drink what I was giving you. Couldn’t give you solid food for fear you’d lapse into unconsciousness again and choke. And cleaning up after you, well, that’s not been my favorite thing to do.”

As she resealed the bandage, she said, “As for the arm… Well, ol’ Sverin Firestar believes he can create an artificial one. He’s … what does he call himself… an artificer… while most of my kind simply create weapons and armor out of beautiful steel… he seems a little more eccentric in the things he creates.”

I’d spent almost two years with the dwarves – primarily staying with Abighal and learning from Sverin. I had not stayed two years because I’d wanted to – but it took that long for my body to truly recover. I could only walk small distances, do small things before then. The effort of getting off the bed to cross the room and open the door felt like running across the plains for hours – my chest would burn, my legs would quake, my strength felt drained of me.

But finally after two years, I was able to move about normally thanks to the care Abighal had given me and I had learned much from Svrein.

Now I would find Elias Soleman and hunt him and his kind down for the rest of my days.

Captainkorv wrote: Race: Shadar-kai
Name: Brykten ShadowShield
Class: 3 Paladin Vengeance
Background: Knight of the order
Hair: black Skin: ashen grey Eyes: Grey
Proficiencies: Lute, History, Persuasion, insight, intimidation, and perception
Languages: Common Dwarvish Elvish

Rough idea:
Brykten is an old retired werewolf hunter of the order of the Moonwatch. his family was killed when he was a boy and he was told to run to a nearby dwarvish mountain he was raised like a son by the king and eventually became a werewolf hunter, he was one of the best werewolf hunters but in the last 6 years of his career he lost his arm in a fight to a werewolf. he then opened up a blacksmithing shop but it has fallen on rough times.

Crazy, as the person right before you also wanted a Werewolf Hunter that had lost their arm.
As a result, I am going to loosely tie these two origins together.
After writing this, I fell in love with the NPC I created (for both) named Abighal Greystone and made a note to include her as an NPC in one of the games I run! LOL
I would love to hear what you think - it's slightly different that what you'd mentioned for a rough idea (but took the same concept - family killed - you become a werewolf hunter)...
Tell me what you liked, or disliked, or whatever!
It all helps me - and it also keeps the thread bumped and alive!
As always - Enjoy!
Because Abighal Greystone said to enjoy it. lol
===

My name is Brykten ShadowShield and I am a part of the Shadar-kai. Like the rest of my kind, I was born in the Shadowfell, my lineage drawn there long ago by the Raven Queen. Many of my people still serve the Raven Queen, but I had a new mission – and in order to complete it, I had to go to the Prime Material Plane – there was someone I wanted to find there. Someone I had very personal business with.

Upon my arrival onto the Prime Material Plane, I was thrust through the portal like discarded waste and immediately, I realized how similar the Prime Material Plane was to the Shadow Realm – but my eyes, my body – I never truly got used to the rising sun. I found its light irritating at best.

I found a deep cave at the base of the Black Iron Mountain, as they called it. Golden plains bordered the southern half of Black Iron Mountain – and in those plains I’d seen creatures like I never imagined possible – tall, towering humanoids that resembled lions – known as the Leonin. During the night, I would hunt near the plains, killing and eating the likes of deer and elk. During the day, I would go as far back as I could in the cave and avoid the sunlight.

While I’d been sleeping during the day, at the back of the cave, I heard a grinding sound and quickly awoke to see a panel of stone moving and a female dwarf exiting, closing it behind her, and heading out into the world beyond the cave. She returned several hours later smelling of various plants and herbs and I could see she had a basket where she’d gather numerous floral. Because of the ashen grey skin, I had blended well with the stone and effortlessly followed her when she reopened the passage and closed it behind her.

I followed her for almost an hour, descending deeper and deeper into the mountains – until a large, dwarvish city lay before me – massive forges burning, lava rivers, and the constant hammering of anvil and stone.

“You might as well come out of hiding,” the dwarf woman said, without turning to face me. “You may be an elf of some kind, but here in the land of stone, not even your kind can hide. Our eyes know the difference between flesh and stone.”

She finally turned to look directly at me, though I was still deep in the shadows. “I was curious why you were in the cave and why you followed me. I was ready for you to attack me if you were some kind of Drow elf.” She held a small dagger just under her palm, barely visible, except for the glint of steel against the lava rivers. “I know the Drow love their poison. Well, making poisons, herbs and potions is my specialty. You would have had maybe three seconds to realize you’d been cut before your entire body seized up.” She put the dagger away. “But clearly you’re no Drow – and you’re young – even for an Elf.” She extended her hand, “My name is Abighal Greystone.”

Her confidence and self-assurance was … overwhelming. The demeanor in which she spoke, stood, and carried herself – I could almost believe she could single-handedly kill the Raven Queen if she so desired.

I stepped out of the shadows and introduced myself, “My name is Brykten ShadowShield. I am new to this area.”

“First time you’ve been down here,” she shrugged, pointing out the flaw in my statement.

“Here as in the Prime Material Plane,” I corrected.

“You’re one of them fancy wizard-types then?” She looked me over; her eyes seem to be piercing me somehow. “But you’re like no wizard I’ve seen. You’re carrying things wizard don’t carry. The armor is clunky – bares some odd symbol – tells me you’re a Paladin. The crest on your chest is whatever deity it is your follow.”

“The Raven Queen,” I replied.

“Sure,” she shrugged, disinterested. “So, who or what are you looking for and why are you trying to sneak into our Dwarven home?”

“I wasn’t trying to sneak into your Dwarven home,” I replied.

“Sure seemed like it, sticking to the darkness, never once shouting out a greeting to me as you followed me,” she countered.

“I am just trying to learn about the Prime Material Plane,” I confessed.

“Sneaking around like a blasted thief is no way to do that,” she barked. “A proper hello, greeting and introducing yourself is going to get you better results.”

“Where I come from, trust is hard to come by,” I replied.

“Well if all you do is sneak around, it’s no wonder,” she shrugged. “So what is it you’re doing here?”

“I am looking for a human,” I explained.

“The world is full of them,” she snorted, “too many, I dare say. But you won’t find any of them down here. Very few humans live beneath the mountains. They mostly live on the surface world.”

“Then I suppose you do not know Elias Solemane?” I asked. This was perhaps the first – and only time – I’d even seen a chink in the invisible armor Abighal Greystone’s wore around her confidence.

She stared at me – glaring intensely into my eyes. “What business do you have with Elias Solemane?” she asked her voice cold.

“He had entered the Plane of Shadow – the Shadowfell – and gained a dark promise with someone in the Plane of Shadow. He only had one thing to do to get this power – attack the people of Kallen Dahl and murder them,” I explained. She looked at me, waiting for me to explain further. “Kallen Dahl was the name of my village. Elias Soleman and his brigands ran through and murdered my people – my parents, my siblings, all of them – while they slept. I was only ‘spared’ because in their attack, the wall of my home collapsed on me and they never saw me. Now I’ve sworn to the Raven Queen that I would get revenge for her and for my family and find this Elias Soleman and kill him.”

She spun on her heel and barked, “Follow me,” and did not even wait or turn to see if I had. As she quickly walked, fuming as much as the furnaces of this Dwaven City, she said – again, never looking back to see if I was even behind her, “Forget your quest, Elf.”

“I cannot,” I responded. “I am the weapon of vengeance for my Raven Queen.”

“Then your Raven Queen is sending you to your death,” Abighal Greystone’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Let me guess – this ‘dark gift’ – is it lycanthropy?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Then you do know him. I saw your expression…”

“I don’t know him,” she cut me off. “I know of him.” As I followed her through the Dwarven City, I saw many pause to look at me – no one stopped me or questioned me – and almost seemed as if it was because I was with Abighal Greystone, this was perhaps normal for her to be bringing in unusual guests.

When we reached her home, she bid me come in and slammed the door behind me. She looked at me sternly – the way a mother would her own child that she was about to scold. “Elias formed a pack – other infected humans like himself – perhaps the same brigands who attacked your town – but he’s also joined with Dire Wolves. He terrorized the southern plains on the surface world, killing for the sheer pleasure of killing. He is brutal in his methods – sometimes leaving victims to die slowly rather than kill them outright – as a matter of fact; rendering arm from limb seemed to be his preference rather than outright killing his victims. I treated a Leonin about sixteen years ago who had been attacked by Elias and his pack. My understanding is Elias has moved on to other areas – but leaves a pack behind, infected humans and dire wolves, as his thugs.”

“I will start there then,” I bowed. I looked around. “Could you kindly escort me back out?”

The entire time Abighal Greystone tried to convince me to turn away from my mission, that it would cost me my life. For the next two years, I lived among the dwarves – hiding from the sun, and at night venturing out – and listening to the howl of the wolves. I began to slaughter any wolf I came across – whether wolf, dire wolf, or werewolf. The werewolves were all a part of Elias Soleman’s pack – he’d spread the infection of lycanthropy far and wide bestowing his “dark gift” to others who had hearts as black as the Shadowfell. I went to great lengths to extract information – a path I never saw myself going down; a dark path that there seemed to be no turning back from.

Each time I came back to the dwelling of Abighal Greystone during the day, she shook her head and said something about the ‘darkness in you growing – soon your heart will be as black as Elias himself.’

One fateful night, while killing wolves, I heard a howl – followed by another, then another, then another – these howls were wolves – but much darker, deeper. Before I had finished the fight with the wolves I’d been slaughtering, I found myself surrounded by wolves – larger than any dire wolf I’d seen. One of them changed his form – and my mind flashed. It was Elias Soleman.

“You’ve been killing members of my pack,” he said. “I don’t know why. I don’t care why. I am just here to see it stopped. You know what to do boys.”

And before I could do anything, the werewolves leaped on me, their fangs tearing into my flesh.

I heard Elias say, “Rend.”

And then I felt my arm ripped for my socket.

I screamed in horror and pain.

Elias came to stand over me. “If you don’t find help soon, boy, you will bleed out. Go on, run to where ever you go at night. My boys will have your scent and murder anyone who has been helping you.”

I laid there, ready to die, rather than lead Elias’ men back to Abighal Greystone and the Dwarves. For hours, I did not move, feeling life ebbing from me as I bled out. In the morning, vultures from the golden plains circled above me.

Then I heard, “I told you this would happen.” It was a voice I knew. Abighal Greystone. Had I already died?

“Found your blasted dying corpse on the field thanks to the vultures circling your arrogant hide,” she forced me to sit up and bite on some kind of root. I looked around me and saw six dead werewolves. I looked at her and saw she was covered in blood – but there were hardly any wounds on her.

I spit out the root. “You killed them?” I looked around again.

“It wasn’t easy with you going in and out of consciousness like you were,” she confessed.

“You killed six werewolves, alone?” I spurted, even though I could barely feel anything but pain through every inch of my body. “Who are you?”

She stopped, looked at me and shook her head, “Someone who doesn’t like to get involved.” She shoved the root back in my mouth. “Now suck the damn juices of the root. It’s going to make you dizzy, but it’s also going to stop your nerve endings from feeling like they’re on fire so you can get up and walk, you blasted elf.”

It took a year to recover; in that time, I worked with a good friend of Abighal Greystone – a fellow dwarf name Sverin Firestar. He worked a forge – like other dwarves – but he often created unusual items, the likes of which I’d never seen. With my arm torn from my body, I felt that my days hunting down Elias Solemane were over and I found a new place among the dwarves. Though Abighal Greystone was not royalty of any kind, when she spoke on my behalf, even the King of the Dwarves bowed to her words. She was a remarkable woman, and though I had failed at killing Elias, perhaps there was a reason for all of this to happen as it did…

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Castersarebest wrote: Name: Elaren Dragonwhisper
Race: Eladrin
Class: warlock hexblade, eventually bard whispers
Weapon longsword and shield
Background: Faction agent
Gender: Male

This was fun to do. I enjoyed the idea of tying your character to a Queen - and that because of that connection, something else emerges...
And how I bring in the one you 'serve' as a Warlock, while keeping true to your longsword idea.
I'd love to, as always, hear ANY feedback. Anything you liked? Anything you disliked? Let me know!
As always...
Enjoy!
========================================

There had been news about orcs who had entered the Feywild and had come close to the Everwood Kingdom. My Queen, Panemorfi, requested that I investigate the rumors that the Satyr were bringing to her court.

It’d only taken less than an hour to find evidence of truth to the Satyrs’ warnings. I had found tracks and signs of orcs having passed just inside the Everwood Kingdom’s borders. I moved through the woods quickly and quietly – it was, however, when I used my natural ability to Fey Step – that in that brief moment of traveling between distances – a woman’s voice called out to me.

Oddly enough – when she’d done so – what should have taken an instant – suddenly had me trapped in the dimension between stepping – I found myself floating in a black void, where the shadows moved around me, slithering softly like serpents of ethereal velvet. “You, who would do anything for your Queen,” the woman’s voice said, “you are what I seek. You, who would do anything for your Elven Queen. You who could do more.”

“Who are you?” I called out and heard my own voice echo back at me instantly.

“Indeed,” her voice said, though I noticed immediately that hers did not echo like mine had. “Who are you? You protect your Queen and your kingdom of Everwood – but you could do more. I was once a Queen, much like Panemorfi. Much like Panemorfi, I was loved and revered. My kingdom was much larger than Everwood. My kingdom was the people of all elves. Perhaps,” her voice trails off for a moment, “in my vanity, I had lost my way. However, my intentions were ever pure. Elaren Dragonwhisper, what if I told you I could give you power? Power to make a difference. I could give you information if you came to me.”

“At what cost to me,” my voice echoed back at me again, almost scolding me – as if who was I to ask such a question.

“Cost?” In the milky, black shadow, I can’t see her, but I can feel her smile. “There is no cost,” her voice is soothing, elegant. “However, I may wish to call on you from time to time to aid me in the things I can no longer reach.”

“What things can no longer be out of reach to someone who promises power?” I ask – this time, only the word ‘power’ seems to echo back at me.

She is silent for a moment, as if allowing the word ‘power’ to repeatedly speak back to me, to the point it’s only a faint whisper picked up by Eladrin ears. “I am not what I used to be – I don’t have the physical body I once had. I exist only here, in the Shadowfell – but my reach is far and wide, especially to those who are protective of their Queens and bare their elven blood in their veins.”

There was a moment of silence, before her voice came back to me. “I offer you this. Place your faith in me. I will shunt you to where the orcs have made camp in your woods. Toss aside your weapons and allow the shadow weapons I can forge for you to take their place.”

“You expect me to trust you?” I shout into the voice. My echo however, returns in my own voice, “Trust me.”

She doesn’t respond. I finally shout, “Fine.”

And I feel my body forcibly thrown out of whatever I was trapped in, and landing at the foot of a towering orc – who sees me, and thought surprised, leaps to his feet and grabs his weapon. I reached for mine and I hear her voice, “Trust me.”

I extend my hand and a longsword, exactly like mine, forges into a milky blackness – despite its liquid like appearance, in the palm of my hand, the hilt of the blade feels as firm and true and the steel of my own weapon. I curse the orc for daring to tread on these lands – and as we fight, each cut of the shadowy blade seems to cut even deeper than the last, before the orc has fallen at my feet.

I know she’s watching me – whoever, she is. “I agree to your terms,” I finally say, and I feel a blessing upon me. In the trees several ravens caw in joy, and in the inside of my right glove, I find six raven feathers…

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Urmgurm wrote: Name: Davreak Silverflame
Race: high half elf
Class: swashbuckler rogue
Background: gambler
Skills: Acrobatics, deception, insight, intimidation, persuasion and stealth
Expertise: deception and acrobatics
Weapon: rapier sometimes fights with dagger and rapier
Armor: studded leather
Abilities in order of power: char, dex, con, int, wis, and str
Alignment: probably chaotic neutral

Sorry about the delay. Holidays are near - so work is trying to cram everything before everyone goes on vacation this week.
I am trying to get presents for the wife (this is no easy task!) and running like six D&D games! (I am not, however, complaining about running the D&D games!)
I focused a lot on your character's father, as to how that developed your character's own traits.
I hope you enjoy it. I had fun writing it.
I'd love to hear ANY feedback - what you liked, or didn't like! Anything!
Comments help keep this thread bumped and alive! Giving others a chance to see it and submit their own requests!

And as always, even if ANYONE wants to see what I come up with (even if it's not for a character or NPC you have in mind and just want to see what my brain comes up with) - I welcome those here as well.

As always - ENJOY!
=======================================

I never got to know my mother – but if my father is to be believed, she was the most beautiful elf he’d ever laid eyes on – and according to him, she was also a princess, or some kind of royalty. The story he’s told me was that he used to be a traveler – a merchant – when he came to an Elven City to sell some weapons, because the Elves had had trouble with a large band of orcs in the area – and my father, supposedly well-traveled and well connected, knew dwarves who could smith the finest weapons. So he took these weapons to this Elven City – and that when she saw him and he saw her. He’d met with the King directly to present his ware and caught sight of the King’s daughter. My father says that she sent one of her servants to find him and give him a message to meet in the King’s garden, where they two promptly gave into their passions. A year later, my father supposedly got a message from her, explaining she’d had his child – but lied to her father, claiming the child was one of her servant’s children. My father raced back and took me to raise me.

Now that’s the story he tells me. I think about one percent of that story is true – that he did meet an Elven Maiden and that he did raise me. The rest of the story – well, that’s hard to believe. When I was old enough to ask about my mother, my father refused to tell me, proclaiming he was “protecting her” because if the King ever found out she laid with a human and had his child, she would be banished forever. So he refused to tell me her name or what the name of this Elven City was.

However, my father raised me – or, I should say – tried his best to. However, he was a drinker and a gambler – a combination that often led to him losing because he wasn’t thinking clearly. However, he dragged me to these gambling sessions – and rather than watch my father lose, what I did was focus on the others who would win. Through observation alone, I became a self-taught gambler. My half-elf blood kept me youthful looking – so when my father would lose everything – I would wait, step in after they kicked him out of the game – asked if I could join. They’d see someone who looked too young to gamble, and I would then gamble the few possessions I kept hidden from my father and win more often than I would lose. You see, gambling isn’t just about having the right cards – it also relies on your ability in deception, insight, persuasion and even, at times, intimidation to some degree – things I was discovering I was quite well at doing.

As I grew older, I discovered that my father’s traits clearly flowed through my blood. When times get too rough, I wasn’t beyond lifting a heavy purse or two from people who came through the towns I was in. My father continued his trade as a merchant for as long as his body allowed him – but all of that drinking eventually caught up to him. He could barely think straight by the time I was twenty years old. We found a small village called “Argun’s Retreat.” The small town – and small it was – was originally settled by a human named Argun, who like my father, had been a merchant – and when his days were numbered, founded a small town to “retire in.” Apparently humans often find their way to Argun’s Retreat when they are older and need to settle. The “town guards” – if they can be called that – are old, retired adventurers, who can still hold a weapon but have outlived their days of seeking out trouble.

This is where I left my father and decided to explore the world on my own – no longer the son of a human merchant – but a half-elf looking to find his place in the world.

https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglep ... count=1193

Urmgurm wrote: Race: goblin
Class: wizard bladesinger
Name: Cobolur Venefic
High stats: int dex char
Med stats: con wis
Low stats: str
Familiar! Psuedodragon
Rough idea: a goblin that rejected the ways of his barbaric people and strived to overcome his races stupidity and become a wizard.

Had this written for a few days, but was having issues accessing the forum (the site loaded fine, but the forums were taking forever).
Anyway! Hope the delay is OK.
This was fun to write. I enjoyed writing him as less than intelligent at first (you will clearly see) and coming up with the dialogue and some lore for this particular goblin tribe.
Anyway, would love to hear your feedback - good or bad - tell me what you liked or didn't like.
It ALL helps me improve!
Enjoy!
=============

“Dare needs to be better life than this,” Cobolur Venefic muttered, staring at his sword. The young goblin was sitting on a ledge, swinging his legs as if he had no cares in the world. Next to him was arguably his closest friend, Cara Glascloch. He wiggled his fingers, gazing at the amazing view in front of them where the trees seemed to go on forever and far beyond was a large mountain, for which the sun was now setting behind. It was a romantic setting, to be sure, but that’s not why Cobolur was here. He came here to think – and gaze at the vast world before him.

“Dare no better life,” Cara said moving her hand closer to his. Cara, by goblin standards, was quite beautiful. As her fingers graved one of Cobolur’s hands, he instinctively pulled away. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attracted to her. No, she was quite attractive. But as the War Chief’s daughter, Cara was sought after by many – and whoever would hold her hand, was in a constant fight with others, to prove to the War Chief, they were worthy of her hand. Goblins were fighting over her in the village ‘arena’ every day. Cara had a new ‘boyfriend’ each day – though none were allowed to be affectionate with her until the War Chief believed one was worthy of his daughter’s hand – after all, their offspring would be his grandson and they needed to have the lust and zeal of combat.

And that, despite how good Cobolur was with a blade, was something he wanted to put up with. He turned to look at Cara. “Me kinda wanna do something different.”

Cara looked stunned at Cobolur pulling his hand away, but feigned that she’d been surprised by his statement. “What else is there to do? We wait. Watch from here. See humans, dwarves, elves, gnomes, travel on road down below. We ambush. We raid. We profit.”

“I know what we do. But what if I could do magic too?” Cobolur asked, once again, wiggling his fingers as if he were casting an invisible spell.

Cara tried to hold it back, but she let out a cackle. “You? Magic? You silly. You know we goblins can’t cast magic. Only Elder Shaman cast. She select the next one when time come – and they learn. Always girl. Boys fight. Girls boom-boom.”

“That just it,” Cobolur asked. “Why is it only girls boom-boom and boys fight? Why girls not fight? Why not boys boom-boom?”

“That just the way it is,” Cara shrugged, as if that were the obvious answer.

Cobolur faced her, “But I see humans and pointy-eared elf men go boom-boom.”

“That’s why we fight them,” Cara sighed. “You know this. Shaman elder already explain. Others who use boom-boom are doing it through dark magics. They steal boom-boom magic from the rightful goblins ladies who cast boom-boom.”

The days and weeks had gone on and Cobolur still inspired to learn magic. It was during a particular ambush of a small caravan that included two halflings (driving the caravan) and an elderly wizard sitting on the back. During the ambush, the goblins had managed to catch them by surprise – the halflings were quick to abandon the wagon and flee into the woods – while the wizard, the goblins had given a bit more space – but even he too, stumbled away into the woods. The goblins had managed to capture a small cache of weapons, but it was Cobolur who noticed the wizard had fled without taking his spellbook – Cobolur quickly took it and threw it into his bag, so that none of the others had seen it. The rule had always been that spell books were to be given to the elder Shaman to judge if they were useful to her. (Usually she wasn’t capable of reading the writing and burned it in a ritual, claiming the book was demonic in nature).

Cobolur, in his effort and longing to learn magic, had been taking the time to often spy on humans when they were coming down the path, rather than report the approaching party to the goblin war chief. He wanted to understand their tongue.

It was about two years before he’d even understood the basics of what he was reading in the spellbook he’d acquired. He’d thought of giving up – more than once – every week. But he persisted and managed to teach himself how to read Common. From there, he was able to decipher some of the wizard’s notes, and take that information to learn some of the most basic of spells – something, in the wizard’s notes he called “Cantrips” (or was that “Cat tricks?” – Cobolur didn’t have a full grasp of the Common tongue just yet).

Cobolur would go on to continue to study the spellbook – and in the process improving his own intelligence as well. He tried to explain to the others that the others (humans and elves, mostly) who cast magic are not doing it through “demonic ways” – but they were educated through books. The very books the Elder Shaman would proclaim as “demonic” and burn. This, unfortunately, did not sit well with the Elder Shaman when word got to her. She began to proclaim that Cobolur himself had been swayed by the demons.

Cara had been frightened to be seen with Cobolur because of the Shaman’s acquisitions – but Cara could not resist going and seeing Cobolur to see what he had to say for himself. Cobolur greeted her and told her that he would be leaving the tribe (which Cara said was a good idea, because she heard rumors that the Shaman was going to ‘arrange a cleansing’ of Cobolur’s soul, which probably meant forcing him to drink one of her potions, which would kill him – and the Shaman would proclaim the demon’s hold was too strong and took Cobolur’s soul to Hades when it was banished).

“I don’t really care for the old hag and her ways anymore,” Cobolur said, sounding far more intellectual and confident than she’d ever heard him. “I’ve now come to understand the ways of the energies of the arcane magical energies that swirl about us – and how to twist and manipulate them. I’ve even managed to meet a new friend.” Cobolur whistled and a small pseudodragon came to land near them. Cara let out a scream proclaiming it was a baby dragon.

Cobolur laughed. “No. It’s a pseudodragon,” he explained.

“It’s still a dragon,” she blurted.

“Actually the word pseudo, by definition, means false or not real. He’s not a real dragon,” Cobolur explained.

The words and how Cobolur spoke was vastly different than she’d ever heard him say. “It’s true what the Shaman said. There is a demon in you! You make deals with dragons and speak oddly – wisdom given to you by the demon!”

Cobolur rolled his eyes as he watched Cara run out. He’d hope that, out of everyone, she might have come with him. Perhaps it was better this way; a fresh start. He whistled to the pseudodragon, which he hadn’t named yet, and he flew to wrap itself around his neck as he slung his pack over his shoulder and he began to leave the village far behind him in search of a new life.

As a wizard.

bluestarlet wrote: Character Name: Ceres
Race: Simic Hybrid (Underwater Adaptation) (Human Origin)
Gender: Female
Class: Fighter (Cavalier) 3
Background: Marine
Alignment: Neutral Good
Stat Array: STR 16/DEX 14/CON 16/INT 12/WIS 13/CHA 12
Skill Proficiencies: Animal Handling, Athletics, Insight, Perception, Survival
Ceres has navy blue hair tied in a ponytail, purple eyes, and a lightly tanned skin from being out in the sun a lot. She's a laid back sort of person from a fishing town who enjoys swimming and diving, Behind her face is an array of insecurities about her decision-making, though.
As a combatant, she uses a partisan spear (glaive) to defend her allies against her enemies.
I'm still undecided on whether I want to use the Carapace adaptation or the Grappling Limb adaption.

I am unfamiliar with Ravnica - and thus, Simic Hybrid.
So I left an opening for your origin (and a potential story for you and your DM to explore together).
I enjoyed writing this.
Hope this works for you!
I'd love to hear what works, what didn't, did you like it, hate it?
Especially since I am unfamiliar with the whole Simic Hybrid - to see if this still works out.
As always... Enjoy!
==========================

Ceres never knew who her real mother and father were. However, at the young age of five, a fisherman’s crew discovered Ceres clinging onto the fragments of a shattered vessel and pulled her aboard. The fisherman crew searched for any sign of other survivors – or even evidence of the ship that the young girl may have been on – but there was none to be found.

She was raised by a family who had recently had their own daughter leave the fishing village, after joining a local religious organization that was going to leave and do the work of their deity – so Argas and Eilana were more than eager to fill that recently made hole in their hearts and take on the young girl. They named here Ceres. By the age of six, some distinct features emerged from Ceres – such as her hair, once black when she had originally been found, had mutated over the last several months to a navy blue, bringing question to her origin. But this unusual hair color did nothing to make Argas and Eilana love Ceres any less. They provided the best they could for the young girl.

By the age of ten, Ceres was going with her adopted father, Argas, aboard the fishing vessels and helping spear the fish. Argas admired her uncanny natural ability to be able to not only handle tridents and spears, but her strength and determination.

When she reached sixteen years of age, she began to represent what Argas and Eilana expected for a teenager – she began to relax, enjoy the beach, often taking long walks and gazing out into the endless seas with a yearning that she could not explain. She began to swim in the waters and had truly become an excellent swimmer.

At seventeen she met Pothius, who was a young man, just one year her senior. He had always watched her, even when they were younger – he found her blue hair unusual back then, but now it made her stick out and be different. Her willingness to fish and her legendary skills with a trident had also made Pothius curious – most of the woman of the small fishing village were content to help wash, cut and cook the fish. But not Ceres – she had a warrior spirit sleeping inside of her.

One of the greatest threats to the village were the aquatic beings known as the Sahuagin. Pothius had joined “the guard” – if it could be called that. It was volunteers who watched the tides for any emerging Sahuagin, for the “sea devils” as they were often called were ruthless. Humanoid in appearance, their green flesh rippled with muscles, and their mouth was filled with rows of endless razor sharp teeth, similar to the shark god which they worshipped.

Pothius had spotted Ceres walking along the beach one night – as he watched her, the moonlight behind her, illuminating her beauty – he managed to spot movement in the water. He quickly determined it was Sahuagin and rushed down to her side, as they seemed ready to ambush her as she was drawing near to the edge of the pier, where the sea devils waited beneath – hiding from the moon’s light.

Pothius threw a dagger and struck one – but the other two rushed out of the water. One threw a net over Ceres – but she was able to roll around on the sand, in an effort to escape – and collide into the dead Sahuagin who had the dagger in his throat. She was able to grab the dagger and quickly cut herself free as Pothius tried to fight off the other two Sahuagin. She grabbed the trident off the dead one, and shoved it through the spine of the one that had been fighting Pothius.

He paused, admiring – and also frightened by her savagery – but in that moment, the third Sahuagin plunged his sword through Pothius’ side – and found his sword caught in the human’s ribs. Ceres grabbed Pothius’ blade from the ground and decapitated the Sahaugin, whose body collapsed to the ground like a puppet with its strings severed.

She called out for help, and thankfully, Pothius would recover after several months. Despite his efforts to give Ceres the credit, she claimed that Pothius had saved her – and his version of the story was being told by someone who had lost too much blood.

By the age of eighteen, Pothius and Ceres had grown close – as friends. Something called out to her to find out about herself – to discover who she was. She’d been found – the sole survivor of a vessel that there was no evidence ever existed. Who was she? Where had she come from?

She enjoyed the simple life – with the occasional fight against marauding Sahuagin – however, she longed to know more about herself.

And one day, giving a loving hug to her adopted mother, father and even Pothius – and she slung a bag over one shoulder and the partisan spear she’d been practicing with all year, which her father had made for her – and left, to discover herself.

https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglep ... count=1196

KaraAdAstra wrote: I saw this a long while ago and figured I might as well ask
Name: Alfredo Candelaresi
Race: Tiefling
Gender: Female
Class: Divine Soul Sorcerer 1 / Eloquence Bard X
High Stats: Charisma, Constitution
Low Stats: Strength
Alignment: Chaotic Good? Neutral? Somewhere in between.
Appearance: Grey skin, white hair, and two tails.
Setting: Haven't decided, though something post-apocalyptic would be cool!
A rough idea I had is that she grew up in a back alley or something but had magical talent :3 Her high constitution comes from having to survive off little food probably and charisma comes from talking her way out of bad situations
Maybe she got a scholarship at a magical college? I dunno
Personality wise probably sarcastic, good liar, amazing at getting out of bad situations
tyty in advance :>

I used your description for the seed of the story and sprung off from there!
Hope you enjoy this!
I'd love to hear feedback (whether you liked it or not, what parts you like or disliked, whatever the case may be!)
Comments help me, but also help keep this thread bumped and alive! So it's a nice way to help in many ways!
Anyway... Enjoy!
================

Life has never been what I would call “fair.” As a matter of fact, it has been nothing short of absolutely rotten, if I was to be honest – and rest assured, honesty is very hard to get out of me. So when I say I am being honest, there’s a good chance I truly am being honest – or, I am just trying to talk my way out of the latest predicament I’ve managed to get myself into.

My name is Alfredo Candelaresi – and I am a Tiefling. Twice cursed, I would say. Yes, “Alfredo” is typically a masculine name and I am a female; and being a Tiefling… Well, looking something like a demon doesn’t traditionally earn you trust in world that has little trust to give. If that weren’t enough – my flesh is grey in color – I almost look undead under the full moon, my hair is pure white, and I have two tails, rather than the single tail.

I remember my mother telling me that I was supposed to be twins; that my brother or sister simply ceased existing. My mother said that’s why I have the grey skin and white hair – and two tails. That sometime during the pregnancy I absorbed my other half and became what I am. I wasn’t sure if any of that was true, or it was just my mother showing her disdain for me.

By the age of eight, I’d had enough and run away. I jumped on the backs of wagons that traveled across the continent and found myself eventually in a large city called Bhaile. I spent several years in this city, but most of my life was lived in the same alley, beneath the same junk, I cobbled together to make a little refuge for myself. I ate whatever leftovers were being discarded and learned to stomach just about anything. During a freak storm that ravaged Bhaile for three days, relentlessly, I was out looking for something to eat – most of what was discarded by nearby establishments were floating across the streets that were like wild rivers. It’d been that night that I was struck by lightning – or I think I was. There was a bright flash then searing pain, then darkness.

I can’t even begin to explain or understand what happened next. I thought I was dead – and maybe I was? Because I was standing in complete darkness and there was nothing around me. No Bhaile, no storm, no nothing. Just me, and pitch blackness all around me – when a light suddenly appeared and an angelic being descended.

“Your mother was not too far from her assessment of what happened,” the being began, “I am the spark that was inside – the light to the darkness. I would have been born a twin to you however, I decided to share my light with you. I am very much a part of who you are. I know the world has been cruel, but there is light in this world.”

“Were you the lightning?” I asked.

“Yes. My apologies, as an angelic being, speaking to your mortals is difficult… at best.”

“Am I dead?”

“No.”

“Then where am I?”

The angelic being smiled. “Your soul.”

I looked around. “It’s pretty dark.”

“Yes. But you will find the light.”

“When?”

The angelic being snapped his finger.

I awoke to the sound of thunder, but I was in a lodge with a human woman taking care of me. I sat up, “What happened?”

The woman started. “Goodness! You’re alive. I wasn’t sure you would have survived that lightning strike.”

As I looked around, I saw musical instruments, and endless rows and tomes of books. “Where am I?”

“My house,” the woman replied. “My name is Seinn Dannsair,” she bowed deeply.

Seinn Dannsair. The name rang a bell. “You’re royalty?” I asked, having heard her name mentioned plenty of times on the streets as someone who was quite well off.

“Not necessarily ‘royalty’, but I do attend the Lord of Bhaile’s balls and events quite a bit,” she smiled. Her eyes looked me over. “What if I were to teach you the ways of the Court? How to bow? How to speak?”

I eyed her. “I have no money, I can’t pay you,” I said.

“I have no need of money,” she laughed. “It is rare that I am able to give back to the city of Bhaile and its citizens; especially the less fortunate. I was near you when the lightning struck. I feel perhaps it was a divine message that lit you up and showed my eyes to you.”

I would spend the next six years, tutoring and attending Court in Bhaile.

genmaicha wrote: Hi Tawmis, this is my first time and always wanted to play D&D.
Maybe you can help me with the background story, as I'm really bad at writing.

Character Name: Nyx
Race: Fairy
Gender: Male
Class: Trickery Domain Cleric
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
Proficiency: Deception/Stealth

Here is my idea.
He was taken from the enchanting Feywild alongside his fellow fae kin when he was a little.
A fairy named Nyx, suffered the cruel fate of being sold to a corrupt noble society cult family in the bustling city. Raised in captivity, destined for sacrificial martyrdom to appease the noble's twisted desires for wealth and heaven's favor, Nyx endured years of torment. With the aid of an unknown god, he escaped, his once innocent spirit now twisted by vengeance.
He’s now finding refuge in the embrace of a trickery domain god on the unknown church. Over years of training, he honed his skills in the art of deception. Healing in one hand and dagger on the other hand.
Disguising his true nature, Nyx seeks revenge, concealing his chaotic intent beneath a facade of calm hostility, embarking on an adventure to bring justice to those who wronged him.
Is it too much? Haha

This was fun to write ... and I did something I used to do in this thread and connect stories. The previous story (same post above this one) mentions the city of Bhaile and the courts. So for yours, I found a way to tie it all together and have fun with it.

I would love to hear feedback (any kind!) - did you like it? Hate it? What did you like? What did you hate?
Feedback not only helps me, but it keeps the thread bumped and alive, and allows others to see it and potentially make requests too!
So any feedback would be greatly appreciated!
Anyway!
Enjoy!
=================================

In the Mortal Realm – or, what’s known as the Prime Material Plane – there are mortals, especially humans, who fear growing old. They often make dark packs with the darker side of the Feywild, such as Hags, to prevent these things from happening. Usually the darker side of the Feywild, like said Hags, will demand something in return.

This is how I would end up in the Prime Material Plane. This is how I ended up a prisoner of one of the Vassals of Lord Bhaile by the name of Eagal Bas. After the Royal Courts in Bhaile, Eagal Bas would take his family down below their estate. Eagal had had his servants dig this dungeon – and then proceeded to kill and bury them down here. I had seen evil in the Feywild – and it was expected – Hags were always evil. They rarely showed any other face. But humans wore masks – Eagal, above the ground in the Courts was charming and loved by all who lavished in his stories. Down here, beneath the stone, he was a monster.

My name is Nyx – or at least, that’s how it sounds to human ears. I am a fairy – one of eighteen that had been captured by a Green Hag named Olc Anam. Olc Anam was well known in the Feywild – there were rumors that she created a breed of Quicklings by capturing fairies, sprites, pixies and nixies, and using dark magic, twisted them by pouring her own foul essence into them. When Olc Anam captured me and the others, I thought that was going to be my fate. But such was not the case. Truth be told, I am not certain which fate is worse…

One of Eagal’s sisters came into the dungeon where myself, and the six remaining fairies remained in these iron cages. I looked at the cage Eagal’s sister, her name being Oigridh Bas, was carrying – Tanza, who was one of the other fairies captured was dead in the cage. Not only dead, but like the others, Tanza’s flesh was drained of any color, as were her wings; meanwhile, Oigridh was walking with a pep in her step, skipping along as she placed the cage on the table. She looked around the room and giggled, as if she was a child, but by human years, she must have been at least thirty – but now she looked as if she were eighteen.

I grabbed the bars of my cage and hissed, “Kouz,” which was another one of the fairies that had been with me when we were captured by Olc Anam, “what is going on?”

Kouz, who was normally a very loud and cheerful fairy (his reputation of being a loudmouth was well known all throughout the feywild), simply shook his head. “I know not, my friend,” he answered solemnly, “but they’ve all come back just like Tanza – drained of all color and life. And trapped in these enchanted iron cages with no way out, we will soon share Tanza and the others fate.”

“They’re draining the magic from your kind,” a human, shackled to the wall, said, speaking from the darkness. I hadn’t noticed him there – which struck me as odd, because I’d looked all around this room for a week trying to find a way out of here – and I don’t recall them every bringing a human prisoner in and shackling him to a wall – even if I was asleep, the noise would have awakened me.

“Why,” I asked, pressing my face against the enchanted iron bars of my cage.

“Because humans age quickly when compared to others, such as Elves and Dwarves,” the human tried to shrug, but his arms ached from hanging by them.

“So they use some form of necromancy to accomplish this?” I hissed, feeling the seething anger burning in my soul.

“Yes, magic taught to them by Olc herself,” the human answered.

“How do you know of Olc?” I asked, astonished a human would be versed in the ways of the Feywild.

“I know much, little Nyx,” he said with a slight smile. “You know how your people believe that Olc was turning your kind into Quicklings? That wasn’t the case at all. She was capturing your kind and trading them to the Bas family so that they could maintain their youth and their power. They’ve married and spawned children all who have grown up and taken part of this ritual. They number over a hundred now, between people they’ve married and the children they’ve bore and raised.”

The perpetual darkness that swirled around the human now seemed to ooze towards me, like a fog made from the poisonous, black liquid of a kraken’s ink cloud. As it rose around me, I could feel myself choke, and the human’s voice came from the darkness swirling around me.

“Your heart is light as your wings,” it seemed to hiss in every direction, coming at me, as if it were multiple voices in multiple octaves. “But the heartbeat in your chest embraces this darkness that swirls around you. You seek revenge. You want to make them pay.”

“I do,” I admitted, as visions of Tanza, Uron, Pewl, and the others who were brought back here drained of magic and life swirled around me like horrible nightmares from which I could not escape.

“Good,” suddenly the blackness was gone and the captured human who once hung by his hands on the wall was beside my cage. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

“How did you escape the shackles?” I asked, astonished as he picked the lock to my cage.

“Illusion,” he confessed. “I convinced them they shackled me. I wanted to be down here and observe.”

“We must free the others,” I said.

“Already too late,” he confessed. “You passed in and out of conscious. The others are already dead.”

I peered over to Kouz’s cage – and indeed, he was colorless and lifeless.

As I stepped out of the cage, I looked at this mysterious human. “What does Olc get out of this?”

The human smiled. “Have you not guessed? She can’t siphon the life out of you and your kind. But she can siphon the life out of humans. So she siphons the life out of them – and they’re unaware of it – and supplies them with more of your kind. So long as they remain youthful, she will remain youthful. Her end plan is to over throw your Fey Queen. Well, really, simply to murder her.”

My eyes focused, “I will kill Eagal Bas and his entire generation of families who have partook in this unholy pack – and once I have done that, that will sever the ties Olc has to these humans and weaken her – then I will come for her next.” I then looked at the human. “What’s in it for you?”

“For me?” he looked coy. “Well, you could say I helped Eagal Bas come into riches when he called on me years ago and since then he’s… not paid me back since making this deal with Olc. I’d like to see him and his kin taken care of… and if you kill Olc too, all the better.” The man smiled and touched my forehead, “Go with my blessing.”

“What’s your name?” I called out as he snuck out of the room.

“Mealladh,” he smiled. “You can call me Mealladh.”

I was never particularly religious – especially for deities the Mortals followed – but I was well versed in who Mealladh was – because even among the Fey he was admire for his mischief and illusions – he was the God of Evil and Illusionary Magic…

https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglep ... count=1198

Gracie Mae wrote: Hi Tawmis!

I hope this is okay to request. It's not quite for D&D but my friend and I doing a written (ongoing) roleplay loosely based off BG3. So we've got our own characters set etc. But I also would like to have this character ready to be an actual playable D&D character one day.

This is what I have so far on the character (as well as a little backstory that I started but then don't quite know how to end it...)

Name: Drystan
Race: Tiefling (Blue-skinned)
Class: Necromancer Wizard
Sexuality: Gay (I don't know if that needs to be taken into consideration or not).
Alignment: Neutral good, I guess? He's a good boy.
Appearance: Black hair, deep green-blue eyes. Faintest hint of freckles.
Personality: Introverted. Quiet. More observant and a listener than he is a talker. He could stand to loosen up a little bit. People make jokes and he's yet to laugh. He's not a 'woe it is to be me' kind of character BUT he does suffer from nightmares that he doesn't share unless he absolutely has to (ie, if he's accidentally woken someone up from screaming out into the dead of the night). He's a quiet and gentle soul.

The basis of the idea:
Drystan was young and curious, but also old enough to know he messed up something bad.
Dabbled in Necromancy.
Ritual gone wrong.
Ended up killing his family accidentally (Parents and a younger sister).

I started writing up the backstory but then got stuck after the ritual gone wrong...

If you could help - I would absolutely appreciate it! If you need to change things around, please do so! I leave it in your hands...

Here's what I have so far:
Losing his sister to an illness that not even the local cleric could heal, took a devastating blow on the little humble family. It was something none of them ever recovered from. They made daily visits to her grave but it never filled the whole in their hearts. And because of her loss, they became distant with each other. Not out of disrespect, it just organically happened. They were all too deep in grief, unable to help each other through their grief.
Or rather, his parents were too deep in their grief to realise that Drystan needed consolation too.
But also, being the oldest, Drystan always felt the need to constantly be the one to look after everyone. So he took it upon himself to try and remedy this situation.
Drystan was barely home nowadays. He found a project to quietly work on, and took to nearby and surrounding libraries for particular books. Transcribing from book to ink and parchment, Drystan came back home to try something new. He put the idea to his parentsÂ… to resurrect their daughter - his sister - through a ritual. They were hesitant at first. This sort of stuff is...taboo. But grief makes people do desperate things.
Drystan began the ritualÂ….Thinking it worked when there was a flash of blue lightÂ… and the sound of gasping breathing before it all went silent and Drystan opened his eyes to find the mutilated bodies of his parents on the floor. (Think, kinda like the Mummy when Imhotep sucked those adventurer dudes dry).
He lead them to their deaths. By his own hand.
He didnÂ’t know how this happened. He followed the ritual step by step. He did everything right!
He just didnÂ’t understandÂ…
Burying his parents next to his sisters grave, he burnt down his family home so all that was left was just ruins of what was once a humble but loving home, and he parted ways with the living so to speak.
It took a while for him to find his feet. Not only learning that Necromancy was considered quite a taboo subject of learning, but also being a Tiefling isnÂ’t helping either. He was on his own.

(And this was the other bit that I sort of was trying to rework because it felt super weak) :
The next few years were the hardest. Having to bury his parents, burn down his home...and move on.
It was during these years that he continued his personal studies in Necromancy, not wanting to them to have died in vain by his own handsÂ… and also hoping to find some sort of ritual or rune or tablet that will allow him to bring them back from the dead. There HAS to be a way. There just has to be.
Though, now, he avoids going back home, back to the cemetery. He can cast speak with the dead...He has the option too. But heÂ’s now too scared to bring himself to speak with his parents. Beg them for forgiveness.
For now, he continues his studies on the bodies of dead animals and cadavers that have been given to him solely on research purposes only.
That was until his local source of bodies had been burnt down to a crisp during a beastly attack. He never found out what. He just fled and found himself on the outskirts of the city. Hiding his horns beneath his cape and laying low for now.

I loved what you wrote! So take no offense that I started from the start when I rewrote. I did it to get into the character's headspace from the start.
So you can take what I did and splice it into yours, discard what I have, or use all of what I have.
Regardless I'd love to hear feedback - because not only does that help me, but it also keeps the thread bumped and alive!
And if you know of others who need a character story fleshed out, please link this thread! I love doing this kind of stuff.
Enjoy!
=====================================


I held the tears back as they lowered my younger sister, Piuthar into her grave. My entire body shook like a volcano ready to erupt, my emotions barely contained. As the care takers spoke of her youth, her laughter, and her will to love all she met, my teeth clenched down so hard I was waiting for them to shatter in my mouth. After he finished speaking, the caretakers began the process of shoveling the soil on top of her casket, and each shovel of dirt shoved my heart further and further down, my mind and soul spiraling out of control.

Piuthar had died of a mysterious illness; one that not even the local High Priest could heal. When his magic could not cure my sister’s illness or ease her pain, he simply looked up at us and said, “This goes beyond my healing. The gods have called her to her side. She will be with them soon.”

After my sister’s death, her disease was like a phantom, spreading to myself and my family. Her loss was devastating, and it was devouring myself and my family; like the disease that festered in my sister’s body, her death was something we could not recover from. The joy and the laughter she brought to our home was gone; and now that void was devouring us all from the inside, as the world seemed much bleaker without her presence to counteract the darkness that encroached on my family and I.

Visiting my sister’s grave was both good and bad; it felt good to be able to speak with her, tell her I loved her and missed her; but it also reminded me as soon as I turned around and left that all that waited behind me was my shadow. She was the light the rest of the world was shadow. Darkness. Cold.

That void consumed myself, as well as my mother and father, until each of us was drowning in our own sea of sorrow, pulled apart by the magnitude of the storm in which my sister’s death had created between us.

I tried desperately to swim through the void, the chilling, lifeless feeling that lingered in our home to speak with my parents; but they each sat in their own bed or chair, staring at paintings of my sister and weeping. The painting in which my mother had of my sister was faded to almost the canvas from the sheer amount of tears my mother had shed.

I couldn’t stand this darkness anymore. Each day it was growing stronger and stronger, ebbing our life away, killing us slowly like the disease which had killed my sister.

I was visiting my sister’s grave one day, when something different happened. I was kneeling in front of my sister’s grave, replacing the roses we’d put there a week ago. “Dear Piuthar, your light is so dearly missed. Mother, father, myself… we are so broken without you. I don’t know what to do. It feels as if we will all join you soon. Our home drains our life essence away quickly, as if our own sorrow seeks to rush us to your side. And I do want to be by your side, I feel it in me – to see your light, to hear your laughter, and to feel your hug again. But this isn’t right.”

“What if you could undo what’s been done?” a mysterious man’s voice said from directly behind me.

I leapt to my feet. “Who are you?” I asked of the stranger who was so bold to eavesdrop on my sorrow and pain.

“My name?” He said, as if he had never been asked that before. “Well, you could call me Aiseirigh, or just Aise.”

“I don’t know you,” as I looked at the man who wore black robes, leaning on a shovel as if he were one of the cemetery’s caretakers.

“I’ve always been around,” he shrugged. “I just don’t like the attention.”

“What is you said about if this could all be undone,” I asked.

“I know of your sister’s death,” the human answered as he set the shovel on the grave next to my sister’s. “I know,” he said as he then placed his hand on my chest, “how you and your family suffer. I have watched you come here day in and day out. Your family has wept so many tears for the loss of your sister. What if I told you it could all be undone?”

“By what means?” I asked, standing to my feet.

“Forbidden as it may be, but Necromancy,” he whispered.

“Necro-!” I blurted, but he quickly covered my mouth. When he removed his hand I whispered, “Necromancy?”

“Yes,” the man named Aise nodded. “I happen to be well versed at Necromancy. It’s why I work here. We bury the dead, then those who are willing to go the … extra step… come to me and seek my aid to have their loved ones resurrected.” He smiled. “Many of them move after. They tell everyone it’s because they can’t live here anymore because of all the reminders. But the truth of the matter is that they have a loved one that is resurrected – and the people of the village would immediately notice. So, they move with this newly resurrected loved one where no one knows that this person died.”

“I can’t,” I began.

“Understood,” Aise nodded and picked up the shovel. “Not everyone can do it. Have a wonderful day.” He began to walk away – and even as he did, and I turned from my sister’s grave, I felt the oppression of darkness and depression washing over me – the idea, the glimmer of hope, that I could see her again blinding me. “I’ll do it,” I called out.

Before Aise turned to face me, he smiled. Then with a slow turn of his head, he looked at me and said, “Meet me here tonight and sun fall. Your lessons will begin then.”

For six weeks, I met Aise at sunset in the cemetery where he taught me the dark art of Necromancy. When I asked why I had to be the one to cast the spell – he said because my sister’s spirit would react to my voice far more than a stranger’s to be enticed into returning to her mortal body.

It was several weeks after before I finally felt comfortable to tell my parents my plan. At first they were appalled by the idea; but they too felt the same – as soon as they mentioned being disgusted by the idea, a piercing light of hope of seeing my sister again drove the shadows back and they could not wait and eagerly pushed me forward.

We met in my sister’s room where all of her belongings were placed inside the ritual’s circle. I began the enchantment – and spoke the words carefully. For a moment, I heard my sister’s voice – and I heard that she’s found peace and that she didn’t hurt anymore – but my parents and I called out to her, our selfish desire overshadowing her – and in that moment there was a large burst of blue light that knocked my parents and I unconscious.

When I awoke, I was horrified. The bodies of my parents looked as if all of the moisture had been drained from their bodies, their horror struck faces looking directly at me as if I had brought this down on them.

I raced to the cemetery at sunset and waited for Aise, horrified by what I’d done. I paced back and forth over my sister’s grave, unaware, simply waiting for Aise to show – but he never did.

As I waited, I opened the book, went through each note – everything was right. The summoning circle… the words… I’d done everything correctly. What had I done wrong? What? And my parents. By the gods. My parents.

For two weeks, I told people that my parents had left town to deal with the loss of my sister, and I’d remained to take care of the farm, while their shriveled corpses, still with the horror on their faces, slept eternally in my sister’s room.

Finally, I took their bodies, one by one, at sunset and buried them next to my sister in secrecy. I returned home and burned home down to the ground and released the farm animals. The other farmers would find them and take care of them.

When the wizard, Aise, still did not show up again – and the caretakers reported there was no one by that name employed at the cemetery, I knew something was very wrong. I took to traveling, riding with wagons, going from town to town asking for a wizard named “Aiseirigh or Aise.”

For years, there were no clues, and I began to wonder if he’d provided me a fake name; but no, when he was teaching me, he showed me his arrogance of his control over death. He wanted me to know his name.

My obsession with Aiseirigh continued, but so too did my study of the forbidden art of Necromancy. I’d seen Aiseirigh take animals that had died and reanimate them; this had to be possible to undo the horror I’d done… and perhaps, to still bring my sister back.

Through my devotion to the dark art of Necromancy, I learned to Speak with the Dead, over time and my heart yearned to return home – to go to the cemetery and speak with my parents… my sister… apologize… speak with them… to understand how they were… and to beg forgiveness from my parents, as well as my sister for not being able to bring her back…

https://forums.giantitp.com/showthread. ... st26052602

Urmgurm01;26019970 wrote: Name: Uldras Tazqrin
Race: emerald gem Dragonborn
Class: illusion wizard
Background: charlatan
Stats
Int 18
Con 14
Dex 14
Wis 12
Char 12
Str 8
Level 5
Feat telekinetic
Somewhere in between chaotic neutral and evil.

Has multiple alternate personas. Including the human noble Lord Varyn.

if you need it here is a link to our world:
https://onedrive.live.com/redir?resid=B ... igationUrl

Note: I checked the site and couldn’t find any reference to Lord Varyn.

Uldras Tazqrin, born into this world as an Emerald Gem Dragonborn, gathered a lot of attention from the world around him. Cast aside by his parents at a young age, Uldras Tazqrin lived his life on the streets trying to survive. At an early age, he’d stolen what he’d hoped to be a pouch of coins from an elderly man, but proved to be a book with an odd language in it.

One of Uldras Tazqrin’s friends – a term he used loosely – had been the son of an important Wizard. This friend – Delias Elderan – had run away from home because he had no interest in following in his father’s footsteps. His father had demanded that he study these spells and rise up to become a well respected Wizard. Delias was able to, from what little time he had managed to pay attention to his father’s teachers, decipher some of the words in the book – the odd language was actually Arcane words. Delias began teaching Uldras Tazqrin how to use magic – most of it which was weak, illusionary magic.

Uldras Tazqrin quickly used this illusionary magic to his benefit and further enhance his ability to survive on the street. He would see how the sick and the dying were so desperate for salvation that they would hand over a purse full of coin if it meant that they could be cured or saved from the death that marched ever closer.

Uldras Tazqrin quickly proclaimed to be a healer, using his illusionary magic to feign the ability to heal and mend wounds; this drew the attention of Tarek Unthan – one of Lord Varyn’s most loyal servants. Tarek brought Uldras Tazqrin into Lord Varyn’s home – and explained that the Lord was sick and dying. Uldras Tazqrin promised that he could cure Lord Varyn; and using what little he had learned about potion making on the streets, he used that with the mixture of magic to make it appear as if Lord Varyn was doing better; but in truth, the Lord was rapidly dying. Uldras Tazqrin learned that Lord Varyn’s most trusted and very powerful wizard name, O’lun Nathal, had gone a search to find a Cleric who could heal Lord Varyn. Uldras Tazqrin slipped into O’lun’s room and began reading through the tomes of magic O’lun had collected – however, it’d been too much – and the process shattered Uldras Tazqrin’s mind forever – splitting his mind into many different personalities in which each tried to deal with the magic learned from the book – each with a different view on the world…

The shattering of his mind has also had another side effect; he’d become telekinetic… and heard the voice of an all too familiar man who died the same time his mind shattered – the voice of Lord Varyn was in his head… it had become one of his personalities…

Wow! It'd been a long time (I am pretty sure thanks to AI... grrr....) since someone had posted in that other forum requesting a character backstory...
https://forums.giantitp.com/showthread. ... st26088038

Captainkorv wrote: Hello been struggling with this one for a while.
Name: Arthur Raven-Lord
Race: high elf
Class: evocation wizard, twilight cleric
Stats: str:12 int:18 wis:16 char:8 dex:14
Background: scholar
Languages: elvish common dwarvish
Age:500
Familiar: raven
Rough idea: was once a well renowned hero/adventurer known for how he dressed himself like royalty in a cloak of raven feathers and a scarlet tunic. went into hiding and became a drunk and lost/forgot most of his power. went into hiding because of something he did, known as an eccentric old man in the village then something from his past calls him back into the adventuring life.

Ah, this was fun to write. It was great to come back to writing backstories over here. I feel like every since AI has become a thing, this thread suffered.
But just to prove AI ain't got nothing on the human touch - here's what I came up with for my writing from the heart and mind of a human!
Some fun, silly notes about names you see in the story - Vihrea means "green" in Finnish, Kuolema means "Death" in Finnish, Mustavuori is actually two words that mean "black mountains" in Finnish and "Pimeasuo" is two words in Finnish that mean "dark swamp"... To be clear I am not Finnish, I just enjoy using other languages to easily name places and make it sound genuinely exotic.
I explain how you go from celebrated mage, to your fall, to becoming a Twilight Cleric, and how you get your familiar.
Hope you enjoy!
As always, I'd love, love, love, love, love feedback!!! From you or ANYONE who reads this (or any of the backstories in this thread!!) All it does is HELP me - and it also helps keep this thread bumped and alive!!!! <3
============================

The magnificent city of Vihrea was burning all around him – and in the center of the massive High Elf city – he stood – alone – surrounded by the sounds of the screams of the wounded and the dying. As the ash of the burning city settled upon his face, his tears streaked through the blackened appearance of his face, paving their way to his chin, where they plummeted to the searing, stone floor at his feet.

How had it come to this?

He closed his eyes – though it’d been so long ago – the ash and fire had been so intense that it had burned itself into his mind – and cursed to live a long life as a High Elf, there would be no escape from the memory and the screams of that night, that had relentlessly haunted him.

In the city of Vihrea, he had been a well-respected Wizard, a teacher to those who had sought the knowledge of the Arcane in the Elven City of Vihrea. He was well known for his elegant, velvet black robes, that when he moved seemed to be made up of feathers woven so masterfully, that it looked as if he could take off and fly at any given moment.

Vihrea was a beautiful city that wove both the stone buildings that the High Elves were known for, as well as the woods, trees and nature that surrounded Vihrea. A beautiful waterfall that spilled into a massive river had supplied all the water and fish that the people of Vihrea lived off of. The people of Vihrea lived calm and easy lives, moving through the streets without worry of the outside world, joyfully oblivious from the happenings beyond their wall.

There’d been rumors of war in the lands beyond the wall – but the walls of Vihrea were protected by the very gods, or so the story went.

But war cares no for those who know not of it. War cares not for walls supposedly protected by the gods. War cares only for death, destruction, and conquest.

So when the Orcs of Kuolema marched against Vihrea – they brought with them death, destruction, conquest and a seething hatred for all of Elven Kind, for the story had gone that the Elven Goddess had shot their god in the eye with her bow – and it was his blood that spilled upon the world – giving rise to the Orcs of Kuolema – and now the orcs, marched in his honor, with his strength and his faith, and his desire for revenge – to see the Elven Goddess’ children blood spill all across the land.

It seemed, at first though the Elves of Vihrea had been taken by surprise by the Orcs and their violent attack against the city’s defense – the Elves were able to rapidly regain control of the situation at keep the Orcs at bay.

But the Orcs did not come alone; their desire for war and conquest was shared by others. So too, came the Ogres of Mustavuori and the Trolls of Pimeasuo. The Ogres were massive in size, taking dozens of arrows and moving as if nothing had penetrated their dense skin; and the Ogre’s strength was unmatched. Their large, meaty fists, pounded against the doors and walls, sending cracks through ancient wood and stone with ease. The trolls were like rapid dogs, running on all fours, hungry to simply kill. Arrows to the trolls seemed to do little as their flesh healed. The terrifying aspect of the trolls, in addition to their healing was how they could scale walls, effortlessly, with their long claws, as if they were born of spiders.

Once the trolls scaled the walls and penetrated the barriers, inside the city of Vihrea became a madhouse, and the walls and gates could no longer be defended, allowing the ogres to complete their mission of smashing down the gates and punching holes into the walls.

As the people of Vihrea ran all around him in fear – the High Elf, who now called himself Arthur – stood ready – as trolls, ogres and orcs poured into the center of the massive city – he would burn them. He would burn them all to ash and dust. As an Evocation Wizard he could sculpt his spell to avoid those around him who were his people.

The words of arcane began to fall from his lips – and an Orc, all too familiar with magic – having been the Chief and often spoke with the Shaman of Kuolema – knew this elf had to be stopped. He knocked an arrow and released the arrow that struck the High Elf in the shoulder – just as the spell was nearly complete – the High Elf known as Arthur cried out in pain – changing the spell’s effect – his hand moving to his shoulder to grip the arrow – also changing the somatic gesture – and as the fireball plunged forth – it did so changed by the sequence of events.

All of Vihrea burned that night.

He had been the sole survivor that night.

The High Elf went into hiding – and disappeared. He lied so often about who he was, he had forgotten his true name and simply be came to known as “Arthur Raven-Lord.”

In an effort to seek redemption and forgiveness, the High Elf – now called Arthur Raven-Lord turned to the Raven God himself – the God of Twilight – and begged to be forgiven, for the screams of his people, his students, echoed relentlessly when he went to bed at night.

The Raven God responded in Kind, favorably, providing Arthur with a Raven familiar. Through the Raven familiar, Arthur was told how he could redeem himself and restore faith in him. Arthur became an avid follower of the Raven God of Twilight – and traveled the land preaching his word – assuring the people that though war spreads across the land – the shadow and dark are not to be feared.

Then one day, his Raven spoke to him – and all he said was, “I’ve found him. The one who shot you with the arrow. He’s alive and he leads a large orc army known as The Broken Hand.”

Arthur knew what this meant. He would need to find adventurers – people who wanted to make a difference and put an end to the evil spreading in these lands.

https://forums.giantitp.com/showthread. ... st26100792

Trickster wrote: Hey, I read through your other written back stories and I'm impressed! Do you think you could do one for my character in an upcoming Curse of Strahd game?

Name: Alastor Emeir
Race: Variant Human (I grabbed the Mobile feat)
Class: Monk (Gonna be a drunken master rework I homebrewed)
Background: Wildspacer for pure mechanical benefit.
Age: 27

General idea: He used to be a hero of sorts, possibly a war hero but did something so heinous, he ran from it in the end (he could've been under orders) and began drinking his life away, but was called yet again to adventure...

I focused on the drunken part, quite a bit... it's a bit dark and depressing... but if you're about to play Curse of Strahd... well, it's a dark and depressing campaign setting, so you will fit right in.

Would love to hear any thoughts, feedback, etc! That helps me and also keeps the thread bumped and alive!

Enjoy!
=======================


The name Emeir used to mean something.

I should know, because that’s my surname, and I spent years fighting orcs and goblins and their ilk, for years on end, until my name became renowned through the providence. I was hailed a hero and praised for my relentless efforts to drive those who would seek to do harm, back to the hell holes from which they crawled out from. People praised me, cheered me, bought me drinks every time I walked into a village, and got me drunk. It became very easy to simply begin going from town to town and celebrating my name and taking advantage of the reputation I’d earned.

I became complacent in who I was and what I could do and found myself slipping further and further away from the person I wanted to be, the more I was celebrated, the more I drank, I was both enjoying my name being hailed, but I could see what I was becoming and I hated myself each time – but stopping? It seemed impossible. I’d fought off hordes of goblins with others and faced them without fear – but the thing I couldn’t face?

Myself.

It was a night – feels like years ago now – or perhaps, I just hope it’s been years ago, so that it’s faded from people’s memories. Regardless, it was that night – when I was being celebrated – people were buying me drinks, women were flinging themselves at me, wanting me to take the celebration to the bedroom – but I had wanted to keep drinking and being merry.

That’d been when I heard the first scream. It was barely audible over the songs people were singing to my name – and I ignored it at first. Then there was another, then another, then yet another – and even the patrons in the tavern began to pause as they too heard the screams.

When the tavern door was opened – it was like opening a door to hell. There was fire everywhere – the sound of men and women screaming. I stumbled out the door – and goblins had been burning down the town. Apparently they’d tracked me here and had enough.

I didn’t know where to start. Fires. Helping people. Fighting goblins.

It was a state of chaos.

So I did something I’d never done before.

I ran away, the drunken coward that I was.

My name became a curse on people’s lips. People spat my name on the dirt, because they’d known I’d been in that town. They knew I was there and I was nowhere to be found when it came to fighting the goblins. I’d like to blame the demon in the bottle, but I am still a damn servant to that demon.

I want to redeem myself. Go out, find some darkness in this world, and be the light that puts an end to the evil it spreads.

Maybe, after this drink.

https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglep ... count=1209

Trickster wrote: Sorry, I'm back so soon, but I'm gonna need a new character background. Alastor died (RIP) because the DM got mad at me... Who knew you weren't supposed to kill two ogres in one go? Anyways the character:

Name: Zadrick (Feel free to come up with a last name, I have no idea)
Race: Half-Elf
Class: Factotum. Which is basically a man of many skills, he can fill in for any roll when he needs to, he can cast limited spells, swing a sword, sneak, and heal, but the main thing that drives him is knowledge.
Sex: Male
Alignment: LN
Background: My idea was that Zadrick was a Noble but the lavish lifestyle didn't fit him, so he struck out for the knowledge that he seeks. My one request is that you add characters my DM can use (He loves doing that) whether it be through tragedy or other. Have fun! And thanks again for the last background!

My name is Zadrick Knightdawn.

The Knightdawn family is very well known throughout the Western Lands. You see, not so long ago, my father was a human Knight and was one of the few survivors to endure a massive onslaught by goblins. They say he fought with endless courage, even as the masses of goblins were overwhelming him. He never stopped believing he could win the war. He never stopped cutting down the hordes of goblins that stood before him. In the end, when the goblin attacks ceased, thousands of goblins lay slain around him. Not all killed by his blade, mind you. The very people he was trying to protect was the Valanisi Elves who lived in the woods the goblins were trying to take over. The Valanisi Elves are incredible archers, and many of those slain goblins around my ancestor had elven arrows in their back and necks.

But among the carnage, there stood my father, as the dawn’s morning light crested over the horizon. His armor stained with blood, his blade dull and chipped from the war he’d just fought – but all of it seemed to reflect brightly in the rising dawn. As one might imagine, it just so happened that the Elven Daughter of the King, Ellenna Heartwood, had seen him standing there and asked who he was – she’d believed he’d been some form of holy angel sent down by the gods to help win the war. But, Ellenna’s father explained that was not the case – he was just… human. While Ellenna’s father was thankful, the relationship between Elf and Man had long been strained due to Man’s nature to be so short sighted because of their shorter life spans.

As it would turn out, Ellenna would end up marrying my father – much to the dismay of her own father - his name was Jarick Dawn, but he was named “Knight Dawn” by the Elves as a title, and it was a name he took on as his surname.

From that love affair and marriage, came me, a half-elf. The irony of it all, the Elves of Valanisi didn’t care for me as a “half-breed” and the humans never cared much for me, for the same reason. Born from love, but not loved by the people whom my bloodline traced back to. My mother and father, they loved me dearly, to be clearly. Both doted on me quite a bit, especially in my youth. Truth be told, I think they both felt guilty, because they knew the world I would walk in may always look at me differently – being neither human nor elf – like a hinny.

I spent my younger years, because I never felt like I had a place among Man or Elf, dabbling in everything. I learned to play music, learned to fight, learned to use swords and daggers, and learned even spells and magic – all in a wild, almost hopeless, effort to find my place, to find what made me happy.

I’ve still not found it – which is why, today – I spoke to my mother, who still looks as young and beautiful as the day I was born – and my father, who looked much older, because he was aging faster than my mother – that today – today, I have made the choice to go out into the world. To find my place. To leave my name, my royalty and all of that behind – and see where I fit in the world.

https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglep ... count=1215

Tawmis wrote: I got wild with these. The first two are loosely tied together since one of you was a Hill Dwarf and another a Mountain Dwarf. Each story stands on its own - but if you read both, you can see how they're connected. The third one was such a wild one - that I let my own imagination get wild writing it.

Please leave ANY feedback - good? bad? Did you like it? Like some of it? Hate it? Hated some of it?

Please reply - because that let's me know you read it and what you thought - and it also helps keep this thread bumped and alive!

Enjoy!
=====================================

Urmgurm wrote: Name: Kruga Stonefist
Race: hill dwarf
Class: way of the drunken master monk
Background: Far traveler
Stats: STR12 DEX18 CON16 INT8 WIS16 CHAR8
not really sure about the idea for him yet

There’s a story – and if you’re a Hill Dwarf from the Avaunel Hills or the Steel Mountains that border the Avaunel Hills, you’ve heard of the name Stonefist – because, as it would so happen, according to every dwarf from the Hills to the Mountains knows it – that Stonefist was once the name hailed as one of the greatest smiths of all the known Dwarven Lands, and worked in the House of Steelhammer, under King Zaren Steelhammer the IV.

You see, the name Stonefist, once hailed from the Steel Mountains and had been greatly honored, respected, and a name that was sought after in both hand and material. To marry into the Stonefist family was to marry into royalty, without being actual royalty, because King Zaren Steelhammer the IV treated the Stonefist family as if they were his own family. King Zaren even gifted his only begotten son, Infraun, a fine blade forged by the Stonefist family and named it “Hopebringer.”

But King Zaren, he suspected that his own son sought the throne too greedily. His son named often encouraged his father to push his armies further and deeper into goblin territory, for the goblins of the Steel Mountains had gained a strong foothold within the depths of the mountains and now lived in the abandoned cities that the other Mountain Dwarves fled from as the goblin forces encroached closer and closer to the Kingdom of Steelhammer.

Infraun had found his father weak – and according to my great grandfather, finally decided to do something about it. Zaren always wore the armor forged by my great grandfather and the only time he took it off was when he was going to bed. He wore the armor proudly, like a beacon and a symbol, for it had his crest beautifully engraved on the chest.

One night, Zaren was found dead, his armor pierced. Infraun claimed that the Stonefist family were a fraud and that their armor was not as strong as it claimed to be and that his father Zaren was killed by a stray goblin arrow that pierced his chest. But my great grandfather knew, the only thing that could pierce Stonefist armor was Stonefist weapons. My great grandfather knew that Infraun had used the sword his father had gifted him to murder him – and had probably done so while Zaren slept then used his sword to pierce the armor and then place a goblin arrow inside, as if it had been what pierced the armor.

My family was chased out of Steel Mountain, and by order of Infraun, ordered to be killed on sight if we returned. My family fled to the Avaunel Hills, where there was already a small community of Hill Dwarves that lived and traded with the Dwarves of Steel Mountain. When my great grandfather explained what had happened the Hill Dwarves of Avaunel were appalled by what they heard, but they had made their living trading with the Steel Mountain dwarves – trading their leathers for steel and weapons.

My great grandfather’s children were young when they were forced to flee, but it was a memory forged into their minds, burning bright like any dwarven forge worth it’s steel. They did not want to pick up the hammer and forge – instead they adopted to lives as Hill Dwarves and became farmers and married into other Hill Dwarves.

A few generations later, the story of my family still circulates from time to time, and I, like those before me, cared not to pick up the hammer and forge steel. Instead, I decided to pick up glasses of ale and spirits, and drink my days away. But my great grandfather’s spirit – his will to fight – that was still in me. And somehow, the more I seemed to drink the more centered I felt – I could almost feel him channeled through me. Not to forge. But to fight.

Though he loved forging weapons and armor, he knew that to create such beautiful and powerful pieces, required finding his own peace and his own center. Others in the Steel Mountains and even after, when he’d moved down to the Avaunel Hills, found him odd – but perhaps his bloodline still flows in me after all, because of that.

EvilOctopus;26108464 wrote: Name: Frusik
Class: bardCollege of eloquence
Background: far traveler
Race: mountain dwarf
stats str 10 dex 16 con 16 int 12 wis 12 char 18

“Good day and hello to all of you! My name is Frusik! I have traveled far and wide, and tonight, I stand before you to share an interesting story! The story of Jarik Stonefist, of the Steel Mountains!”

The crowd applauded and oo’ed and aww’ed. Most of the Hill Dwarves gathered here were all too familiar with the story, but it was always good to hear it again – because each time, the story had seemed to change ever so slightly.

“I speak of a tale I am all too familiar with,” Frusik went on to say, “because I once lived in Steel Mountain and have direct connections to the story!” He looked around to ensure he’d captured the audience’s attention before continuing his story. “You see, my great cousin – well, from the stories I’d heard he wasn’t actually all that great – but I mean, great as in how he relates to me – once or twice removed – I am never to clear on that part. Regardless,” Frusik shook his head, “my great cousin was the best friend of none other than the great forger, Jarik Stonefist. Jarik was highly regarded by the King of the Steel Mountains – King Zaren Steelhammer the IV, for his craft at both weapons and steel was unparalleled they say! I’ve even heard stories that the Dwarven God himself was envious of some of Jarik’s work! Or that the blood of the Dwarven God flowed through Jarik’s forges! Who knows which or both or neither of those stories are true! They would however make a more interesting tale,” Frusik’s mind seemed to wander. He held up his finger to indicate that he was pausing his story for a moment as he began rummaging through his bags, and pulled out a notepook and a quill, and dipped it into some ink, flipped until he found a blank page and wrote a small note that said, “Make a story about how Jarik is either related to the Dwarven God or has the blood of the Dwarven God in his forge.” After finishing the note, Frusik blew and blew on it until the ink had dried. Content, he closed to book and put it back into his bag. “Yes, now where was I? Oh, yes! Jarik and forging! So, yes, he forged magnificent weapons! Shined as bright as the daystar, they said! Some even claimed that Jarik captured rays of the daystar to forge into his armor and weapons to give it that gleam!” Frusik’s mind stopped. Again he rummaged through his bag, pulled out the same notebook, quill and ink, and wrote “story about capturing the daystar’s light for weapons and armor shine”, and again he blew and blew until the ink had dried and he closed his book and put it back in his bag. “As I was saying,” he continued, though he hadn’t realized many had left because of his numerous pauses. “Old Jarik, he forged his King a nice gleaming piece of armor and the King’s son, Infraun a shining sword – called the sword… Hope’s Light… Hope’s Light…”

“Hope Bringer,” a drunk dwarf in the audience named Kruga shouted to the front of the stage.

“Yes! Quite right! Hope Bringer was the name of this blade!” Frusik nodded emphatically. “But this blade would not bring hope. Instead it brought doom! Doom to Infraun’s father! A goblin’s arrow pierced King Zaren’s armor!”

“No damn goblin arrow pierced the King’s armor,” the same drunken dwarf shouted. “The King was murdered by his son.”

Frusik paused. He opened his bag and dug through it again, took out his notebook, and quill and ink and wrote, “King Zaren murdered by son – much more interesting version.” Again he blew and blew until the ink was dry and put the book, the ink – which he forgot to close and spilled ink inside of his bag – which he cursed aloud – before putting the quill back in as well. When he looked up the only person in the audience had been the drunk dwarf who was shouting at him.

Heaving a deep sigh he climbed down from the stage and joined the lonely dwarf at the table. He extended his hand, “Frusik’s the name. May I have yours?”

“You can’t have my name,” the drunk dwarf retorted. “I was born with it.”

“Sorry,” Frusik amended, “may I know your name?”

“Kruga,” the drunken dwarf whispered, “Kruga Stonefist.”

“Interesting late name,” Frusik commented. “Same one as my story.”

“That’s because you’re talking about my grandfather,” Kruga replied as he took another heavy drink.

Frusik was silent for a moment then began to laugh. “You had me for a moment. I really thought you were related to the Stonefist family that was exiled from Steel Mountain.”

Kruga stopped and put his mug down, giving Frusik a stern glance. “Gods,” Frusik muttered, “you really are? That must be exciting… I come from Steel Mountain… Infraun’s reign is over, happened awhile ago, as it would turn out, the goblins he’d been striking a deal with, had betrayed him and murdered him.”

“Good,” Kruga said, wiping his beard with the sleeve of his shirt. “He deserved it.”

“Yes,” Frusik nodded, “thankfully Infraun’s son, Inadell, is nothing like his father. He’s restored peace to the Steelhammer Kingdom. They wage a great war with the goblins who learned many secrets from Infraun, but the Kingdom prospers under Inadell’s reign. Inadell opened a historical archive, where he employed people to keep track of bloodlines and the history that has happened – hard to believe no one had thought to do so sooner. I was one of those employed to scribe books of people and their families, including the efforts in the war against the goblins, who had died, who had done something heroic – and I realized, rather than write these stories, I wanted to go out into the world and tell stories! I am not great at it – yet! – but I am definitely learning! Do you have any advice for me?”

He looked at the drunken dwarf, whose head was down on the table, and he was snoring loudly.

“Well,” Frusik sighed, “that’s not a good sign.”

ThaddeusJenkins wrote: Would love a proper backstory written for my new character (first in the new edition!), but I'm busy with life (work, mental health) right now and completely drawing a blank whenever I sit down to work on it.
Name: Undecided yet. Feel free to suggest something, or just call her Jane as a placeholder for now.
Race: Father was an Orc, Mother was a Gnome. She came out with proportions like a slightly tall gnome, but with ashier skin, the protruding teeth, and more notable muscles.
Class: Barbarian (World Tree, but being played more like a Bloodrager from Pathfinder. Basically, she has trouble controlling the bursts of Gnomic magic and these lash out when she gets emotional.)
Sex: Fem
Alignment: CG

Background: Despite being basically incompatible, Jane's parents had an intense relationship. It was her Orc father who ran the homestead, whilst her Gnome mother was a hunter and adventurer and would disappear for months at a time (Until eventually going missing, presumed dead). Being the middle child of 13 children left Jane without much work to do on the farm, and not wanting to be a mother to the younger siblings she instead followed her own mother's footsteps and set off into the wild. Past that, the only idea I’m working with is that she got hit by a bolt of lightning which awoke her power - She never had any magical ability she knew of, and now struggles to keep it in check.

Worth mentioning we'll be starting at mid-level (10-12) so there's been a lot of room for growth, not exactly at the start of her journey. Also this is set in our DM's ongoing homebrew world, but nothing is really off limits. Easy enough to make any story fit into it.

I’ve been called names, most of my life – but when you come from a family that has twelve other siblings – and I was smack in the middle of the lot – by saying anything to me, you’re incurring the wrath of twelve other siblings who will kick, claw, scratch and verbally attack anyone who says or does anything to anyone else in the family.

The most common name I endured was “Goblin-Face” or “Tusk Mouth.” You might think those are unusually cruel – and perhaps somewhat specific sounding names – one might think I have an ugly face or some form of buck teeth.

Ugly is all in the eye of the Beholder (thankfully, not an actual Beholder – though I’ve not met one yet! At least not this far back in my story!) You see, my parents – they have never seen ugly. They’ve only ever seen beauty – and a beauty in one another.

So get ready for a surprise – because my father is an Orc while my mother is a Gnome. Now, you might be thinking my father was some form of marauding Orc that did some horrible things to my mother. But remember, there’s twelve other siblings besides me.

You see, my mother was quite the adventurous type – and she was part of a scouting party that guarded the perimeter of Green Valley, where there was a small forest gnome population. Green Valley was often sought after by humans, goblins, orcs, hobgoblins, ogres – because Green Valley had, not only an incredibly fresh water supply that came from beneath a mountain – but it was also home to the Ahlewouse Flower. A flower that blooms but once a year – and if you harvest the flower at its peak, it could have interesting effects when mixed with ale or spirits – and was said to contain miraculous healing properties if consumed. The gnomes of Green Valley never harvested it, however – because to let it bloom fully – it attracted hummingbirds by the thousands, as well as colorful butterflies! And the flower only lived three days after blooming.

Where was I? Oh yes, speaking of my mother to explain more about me.

My mother – as I said – was part of a scouting party. She’d been watching a band of orcs known as The Broken Hand drawing ever closer to Green Valley. She could have retreated and gotten the other scouts and put an end to these orcs – but there was something she was watching.

The orc chief’s son, Nekraun, was telling his father that the people of Green Valley should be left alone. Each day he stood up to his father, each day he was beaten badly for it, but the following morning, cut, beaten, and bruised he would speak against his father time and time again, and paid for it each time, for his father would strike him down, but he would never lash back out at his father.

My mother knew – if she got the rest of the patrol – they would never allow her to do what she was thinking – so she took it upon herself. Like the expert marksman that she was – she began quickly taking out orcs, one by one, as they had made their camp – sometimes striking with an arrow, sometimes with a trap, sometimes with a dagger, to cause confusion. One by one she took down eight orcs – leaving only two alive – the chief, whose name was Unkraun and his son, Nekraun. When only those two remained – she made herself known. She handed Nekraun a bow and arrow and said, “You can kill your father now, or you can kill me. I’ve been watching how he treats you. You can be free of him.”

My mother did not know how it would turn out – and she was surprised by the choice the chief’s son had made. “I can not kill my own blood, no matter how he disgraces me and beats me. He is still my father and that is still his blood that flows through my veins.” He set the bow and arrow down.

Unfortunately, his father never shared the same cares as his son – and lunged forward, running his sword through his son’s abdomen. My mother grabbed the arrow that had been set on the ground and shoved it through the chief’s left ear, instantly killing him – but the chief’s blow had already happened – his sword had been run through Nekraun.

Nekraun should have died that night – but my father dragged his dying body back into the woods, where she was able to bring him to the river that flowed into the Green Valley, making his buoyant body easier to move – all she had to do was keep his head above water. The river flowed into the Green Valley, and my mother could instantly smell just what she was looking for – the Ahlewouse Flower had bloomed last night. She quickly dragged Nekraun to the shore and broke the Ahlewouse Flower’s pedals and crushed them and forced them into Nekraun’s bloody mouth.

It still took three weeks for him to be back on his feet – but when he awoke and found himself surrounded by curious gnomes – he thought, surly he’d been saved, only to be killed again in his weakened state. He listened to the gnomes argue with my mother, who had spent those two weeks tending to him, that he was safe and that she would care for him. Everyone was quite confused, but my mother had great standing with the gnomes of Green Valley because she’d risked her life time and time again.

As Nekraun grew healthier he offered to work around the house and garden, things that were not too strenuous as his wounds healed, to pay my mother back for saving his life. In time, the two fell in love with one another – and one thing the Ahlewouse Flower had apparently done, is allowed Nekraun to impregnate my mother – a task thought impossible – that it was normally orcs could only breed among their own or humans to bare children. The fact my mother had gotten pregnant, everyone guessed the Ahlewouse Flower must have had something to do with it.

They ended up with a total of thirteen children.

So my mother is a gnome and my father an orc – and my siblings? We all vary. Some of us look like normal gnomes. Some of us look like an orc. Some of us look like varied mixtures – me? - I came out with proportions like a slightly tall gnome, but with ashier skin, the protruding teeth, and more notable muscles.

This is why people have called me Goblin-Face or Tusk Mouth.

I usually punch their teeth out when they do, long before my siblings “come to my rescue.”

There’s definitely festering anger inside of me. I guess it’s probably a part of that Orc bloodline from my father. Orcs are historically always angry – bred into their genetics, magically they say – because there was a time when the gods were laying claim to the lands – and the Elves took the forests, the Dwarves took the Mountains, the Halflings took the Hills, Man took the Deserts (though he would go where ever he wanted, truly – like a parasite!). When the Orc god asked where his people would go – the Elf God laughed at him and said, “Your people have no place in the world.” And so the Orc God cut his hand and bled it into the world and corrupted humans to become Orcs. Gnomes, you ask. There’s another story there that Gnomes came from the mixture of Dwarves and Halflings – but neither side believes that’s true – and Gnomes certainly don’t see it either.

It had been one of those nights that I was feeling that anger swelling up in me – and it seemed the skies were responding to my mood. As my mood grew darker, so did the skies. When I shouted to the heavens, the heavens responded with rolling thunder. When I punched a tree – that’s when something wild happened. Lightning struck the tree – AND me – and I thought I died.

I woke up, the tree splinted, ash still floating into the sky. The ground still felt electrified.

And there was something inside of me.

It felt like… magic?

I do find it interesting my thread appears twice in Reddit too...

Shattering someone's dreams and recommended when someone wanted a Paladin background.

So it's pretty cool that others out there know of my thread and promote it.