SHP Forums

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=254

Falcos;24060203 wrote: If you're willing to take another request so soon, I also have Mahal, human blade-pact warlock servant of Jergal

First one done!
I frequently make various monsters (The Red Eye Orcs, Bar'garius the Demon, etc.) appear in multiple stories (so that it all feels like one world, affectionately dubbed "The Tawmis Verse" even though most of these are written with the Forgotten Realms setting in mind). One thing I frequently use in all of my own games (and typically tie to my character histories) is a Green Dragon named "Emereth" that I wrote a whole story for eons ago... she's stuck with me since. She appeared in someone else's story I wrote in this thread. She makes an appearance in yours as well.
With Jeral being who he is... she seemed the perfect fit to use her here...
As always, please provide ANY feedback you might have! Good or bad! I thrive on it!
Enjoy!
============================================

Her arrival marked death throughout the city of Night’s Bane.

Hailed to be a city that would one day rival Waterdeep, which was called “The Crown of the North”, Night’s Bane was located just south of The Far Forest, northwest of Anauroch, a vast wasteland. The mountains to the north of The Far Forest made it an unlikely path, so when Night’s Bane was made between The Far Forest and the mountains, it rapidly became one of the largest trading routes with nomads who thrived in the wastelands of Anauroch.

I was the son of Kaya, the Chieftess of the Pasir Gurun tribe that lived in Anauroch. Approximately once a month, my mother would lead several members of her tribe to Night’s Bane to commence with trades for weapons and leathers that would be used for tarps and tents for the tribe.

It had started like any other day. My mother took me to the center of town, where the wizards had constructed a bent form of lens that absorbed the sun’s light and during the night, emitted a powerful light that waned as the night went out, back towards the heavens. It’d be this interesting contraption that Night’s Bane earned its name.

The Sun’s Eye, as they had called it, was said to be the sun’s power channeled back into the night to keep evil at bay. For almost forty years, this theory worked. Not a single orc, goblin or ogre dared invade Night’s Bane.

Today, everything changed.

First there was a general sense of uneasiness as the day pressed on. People were bickering and glancing around nervously; even my mother had uncharacteristically snapped at me, for something very trivial. The answer for all the unease came by mid-day, when a large shadow passed over Night’s Bane and people began to scream. I looked up and saw a large, green dragon that seemed to stretch for miles as she flew above us. She made several passes over the town inciting mass hysteria. Once she was satisfied with the amount of panic she had caused, she made another pass over Night’s Bane, and breathed her rancid gas breath. The green mist pour through the streets into every crevice like a tidal wave of death.

My mother had shoved me into one of the Stone Towers that was near the Sun’s Eye, as she barked commands for the people of our tribe to launch arrows and spears at the dragon. The large green dragon made several more swooping attacks breathing her lethal breath into the city; one of those passes I suddenly stopped hearing my mother.

With the resistance taken down, the green dragon made passes, this time lower, using her feet and wings to tear down buildings. I could hear buildings collapsing all around me and a new round of terrified screams. I found a stairwell that led further underground and sought safety there, but the tower I had hid in soon collapsed, and the rocks fell down the stairs, like wave of grey stone, burying me, breaking my bones, crushing me against the wall.

I waited, caught between life and death, for my moment to come.

Instead I heard a voice in my head; a sign, I was certain was due to the lack of oxygen. But the voice had been clear when it spoke to me.

“I have been gone a long time, my child. Emereth has garnered my attention due to the mass destruction she’s wrought to the world,” the voice said. “She is ancient, one of the oldest of the Green Dragons. She has sent many to my realm, but in her old age, she’s grown my violent, sending people to me much sooner than they should have come to me. She has upset the balance of Fate and now I am in need of setting things right. I will need a weapon to strike at her. Will you accept my offer?”

Feeling as if I had little choice, I gasped, “I accept,” desperate to escape the crushing, agonizing pain of my slowly approaching death. A skull tumbled down the ruins, a parchment in its mouth.

“Take the parchment,” the voice whispered.

My arm was broken in three different places, but I managed to fight through the pain and reach the parchment. As my hand drew near, the skull’s mouth opened, as if inviting me to take the parchment. To my surprise the teeth came down on my hand and I felt a burning energy enter my body. For the briefest of moments, I thought, on top of this all, I had just been poisoned.

My hands crackled with energy and two glowing white daggers appeared in my hands. I could feel my arm feeling as if it was healing.

“Dig,” the voice whispered.

I shoved the daggers into the stone, and much to my surprise, the stone seemed to melt away like a hot knife through butter. I dug myself free and slowly climbed out of the wreckage. Only myself and less than a handful had survived Emereth’s violent and senseless attack. Night’s Bane was left in such a state that it would never recover, and in the years that followed, became a memorial site for those lives lost.

I never found my mother’s body, but I found the bodies of other members of my tribe.

The voice said to me, “My name is Jergal, and you are my weapon. In time, your destiny will one day bring you face to face with Emereth. Send her vile soul to me.”

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=256

Falcos;24060203 wrote: If you're willing to take another request so soon, I also have Little Sun, punch-centric desert-tempest barbarian who grew up alone and is now an adrenaline junkie thrill-seeker

Interesting that this was not planned, I swear...
I wrote your first character as someone from the great barren wasteland...
And realized your second one was a desert tempest...
And decided I would, indirectly, tie the two together...
They obviously work independently of one another, as well...
But it was fun to expand on the "Tawmis-Verse" as we call it...
And the "Three Tests" - if you're familiar with ElfQuest, you might see where that inspiration comes from...
I would love to hear feedback, as always!
Enjoy!
====================================================
Hailing from the Matahari Kecil tribe located in the middle of the barren wastes of Anauroch, Little Sun was named such for his unusual blonde hair, when most in his tribe typically had raven-black hair. Little Sun was the youngest child of Hopestrider, the renowned Shaman of the Matahari Kecil tribe.

Hopestrider had spent most of his years, growing up, attuned to nature. One might look out into the barren wasteland that was Anauroch and think there was no such thing as “nature” that exists. It’s true, during the day, one might only see wild camels; but at night, such animals as the fennec foxes, coyotes, to name a few; but there were also reptiles such as the thunder lizard and an assortment of snakes; and insects such as dung beetles, and too many others to name. The desert was also full of an abundance of plants, if one looked.

Knowing how these animals moved and survived in the desert, and knowing what plants were poisonous or not was not only vital to their survival, but the survival of their beasts of burden, such as the camels and donkeys.

Hopestrider had initially believed that his youngest son, Little Sun, was destined for greatness because of his unusually colored hair. He spent days and weeks trying to teach his restless son the ways of honing the Shamanistic abilities that were surly in him; but Little Sun was too restless. Little Sun was always challenging others to fights, finding new ways to prove he was the best – if not the wildest among the Matahari Kecil tribe.

When Little Sun reached eighteen changes of Seasons, despite Hopestrider’s multitude of failed attempts to teach his rambunctious son how to channel the spirits of nature to heed his call; he sent Little Sun to take the Three Challenges of the Shaman.

The first was being brought before the cave of a mouth entrance, and being expected to find the exit on the other side. The cave, wrought with various poisonous snakes, plants, and humanoids that would seek to kill him. Three days later, Little Sun emerged out of the exit wearing snake pelt boots, a dead Kobold slung over his shoulder, chewing on one of the most toxic plants found in the cave. He was sick for sixteen days, vomiting nonstop, but he had no regrets.

The second test had him blindfolded, brought to a tree, where he was tied upside down and then spun until the rope was pulled taut, then released; as everyone else fled, covering their tracks. The goal was to find the one person who had the Bogadin Leaves. When Little Sun stopped spinning and managed to pull off the blindfold, climb up and untie himself, he managed to track down one of the people and proceeded to rough them up, until they confessed to who had the Bogadin Leaves, and where they should be hiding. That took a total of five days to complete.

The third and final test would have him climbing a high arc, that had a thin path, and violent winds that threatened to push anyone off. Without fear, Little Sun climbed up the pathway, which of itself was difficult because of the angle to just get to the path was nearly a vertical climb. When he reached the top where a thin pathway led to a stone on the other side he would need to touch, the wind viciously whipped at him.

He never returned from that.

As it turned out, from that height, something massive could be seen in the heavens flying towards a town called Night’s Bane, which the people of the Matahari Kecil Tribe had often traded with. Little Sun had gone there a number of times with his father, who had gone to speak about his god to anyone who would listen.

Little Sun quickly scrambled down the vertical ledge he had spent nearly three hour climbing. His muscles burned with a fever hotter than any day he’d spent in Anauroch. He ran towards Night’s Bane curious what he’d seen flying in that direction. It took several hours and Little Sun had pushed his body well beyond the limit and just as the entrance of Night’s Bane could be seen, dehydration kicked in and Little Sun collapsed on the ground.

When he awoke, much of his body was buried in sand, as if some great sandstorm had blown over him without stirring him from his unconscious state. The sunburn on his arms told him he had not been unconscious longer than a day. He pushed himself to stand up and gazed at Night’s Bane, which was a smoldering mess. The gates were toppled over and the smell of decay filled the air. There were only a few screams and crying as Little Sun entered the decimated city. Towers had been knocked down to nothing, people lay dead all over the streets, either with vomit coming out of their mouth, while others appeared they’d been bitten in half or torn apart.

Amidst all the chaos and destruction, a human, about the same age as Little Sun, caught his attention. He approached the human who seemed to be in a state of shock. He recognized the human as someone from the Pasir Gurun Tribe, whom Little Sun’s people shared the barren wasteland with, according to the markings on his tattered garment.

“What happened here?” Little Sun asked.

“Emereth,” the human replied, matter-of-factly, as if that should explain everything.

“What is a ‘Emereth’,” Little Sun asked. “I was up on a vantage point and saw something enormous flying this way.”

“Emereth is not a thing,” the human named Mahal said, looking at Little Sun. It’s then Little Sun noticed what appeared to be tooth marks on the human’s right hand. “Emereth is an ancient green dragon who must pay for what she’s done.”

The idea of chasing down an Ancient Green Dragon seemed like the greatest challenge of all…

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=258

Great Dragon;24060558 wrote:Back Burner.
Take your time on this one, Tawmis, just idle curious-ity on my part.
Nameless, as yet.
Spellcaster version. 2,000+ y/o. Female.
While still LG, and dedicated to spreading Joy, she's not as spry these days.
As such, she uses Scrying (and Sending to spies) to keep tabs on Events going on.
If she finds someone she thinks worthy, she'll cast Dream and offer her Power to that Individual.
This was supposed to be the Patron for my Dragonwrought Kobold Warlock, Drekekno.
Sadly, it looks like the 3e D&D PbP game for that PC will never happen, and I don't want this guy to die.
I'm putting them into my 5e Forgetten Realms game (at least until I can find a DM for him), and am interested in what you can come up with.
Insomnia, ya!

I gave her a name, which you can change if you come up with something!
Since she was an Ancient Silver Dragon, I also tied her to Emereth (see the previous histories)!
I've never DM'ed or played with a Dragonwrought Kobold (or even used one as a DM)... So that was interesting.
I guess there's no official 5e version of Dragonwrought yet; so I based it on knowledge I found on previous versions.
(The Dragonshield Kobold kind of comes close for 5e, if you're looking for "official" stats you could tweak).
As always, feedback is appreciated!
Enjoy!
=============================================================
I’ve seen nations rise and fall. I’ve seen wars fought, battles lost, battles won. I’ve seen celebrations turned to disasters and seen the people of Faerûn set aside prejudice and hatred to stand together against a common enemy.

My true name is Sruthairgid, but the mortals called me “Silverstream” because of the way the moon reflected on my scales. I am an ancient Silver Dragon and I ache deeply from both physical and emotional wounds.

Once, many centuries ago now, I fought in the Dragonfall Wars. I had made a mortal enemy in a – then adult – green dragon named Emereth. My once silver scales now bare several scars from the battles against Emereth that will never heal. In my last fight with Emereth, before she destroyed my eggs, she had torn my wing up so viciously that I knew I would never be able to fly again.

But Emereth in all of her vile darkness struck a blow much more powerful than the scars I wear on the outside; Emereth, a female like myself, did what no other would dare think to do. She found my best and destroyed the eggs of my children.

I truly never recovered again. The strike had been one so devastating to my heart that I had lost the will to fight; dare I say, nearly lost the will to live. My home in the mountain fell to shambles, and even Kobolds grew fearless and took up residence in the same string of caverns that I called home. They would sneak into my portion of the cave and steal one gold coin at a time, thinking I was unaware. In truth, I simply did not care. All I had cared about was using my magic to preserve the shattered eggs from my nest; so terrified of losing everything. Broken as they were, they were a symbol of the children I should have had; deserved to have.

After several generations, the Kobold chieftan, Beyark Tookator, approached me and asked to make an alliance with me, acknowledging that I was a dragon and that the Kobolds were descendants of dragons and that I was to be treated respectfully. Under Beyark’s rule all that had been stolen from me for generations was gradually returned; which was a nice gesture, but in truth they could have kept it all. I rewarded Beyark with a staff that was magical (doubting he’d ever learn how to trigger it; but it was an ornate staff with a dragon’s head at the top, holding a crystal ball).

I was surprised – as was Beyark – six years later when he brought his son, Drekekno before me. Drekekno was different than the rest; his Kobold scales were silver in color, similar to mine. Beyark’s wife, a lovely Kobold named Unalewsa, began to accuse Beyark of seducing me (though she was always extremely polite to me, even after this “supposed” affair between Beyark and myself).

Drekekno was, I realized, a Dragonwrought Kobold; somewhere in his bloodline, there was indeed Draco Silver. I began to tend to Drekekno, training him how to harness magic that seemed to be innately natural to him; undoubtedly due to his bloodline. I realized that, though I had lost my children to Emereth, Drekekno was like a son to me now. I gave him everything, trained with him, and even ventured outside, beyond the cave to be with him.

Like any young dragon would, the time came where Drekekno wanted to see what was outside, beyond the world of the cave. I pried a small silver scale from him and cast a spell upon it and explained that no matter where he went now, I would be able to visit him in his dreams.

I watched as Drekekno left for the world beyond; and once he was out of my sight, I settled down contently in the cave; and that’s when I noticed my shattered eggs from hundreds of years ago, had finally fallen apart, because I was no longer focused on them.

I had a new son.

And I was proud of him.

His name was Drekekno, and I could see it in his eyes. He was full of life and hope, and great things were destined for his future…

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=260

Falcos;24062278 wrote: I should also let you know that your earlier story about Madbloom has also sparked a character for a close friend of mine - a Water Genasi Feylock called Suntide. Are you willing to slot that in as well, for her? Sorry that I'm spamming you with requests.

Heh - so I immediately realized your friend's request for the Water Genasi Feylock had the same name I gave the Selkie in Madbloom's story.
So... I expanded on Suntide's origin (from that story) changing her to a Water Genasi; and explaining how she came to be.
Then at the end, tying it to Madbloom's story (although the two can operate separately, easily enough; but in the event you're in the same game; it was a very easy and logical tie in!)
As always feedback from you - and anything your friend has to say (good or bad, I thrive on it all!) - I would love to hear!
Enjoy!
==========================================
She’d been the most beautiful woman my father had ever seen.

My father a human named Samar Cloudmane had spent the early part of his years working at the docks of Waterdeep, until one day, a crew having suffered heavy losses at sea due to an unforeseen storm were looking to recruit crew members. Though my father lacked any actual sailing experience, his years as a young adult working the docks of Waterdeep had given him enough insight on the basics (and he may have even borrowed a “story or two” and claimed it as his own experience) that granted him a position as a crew member aboard the Waverider.

He quickly worked his way up. He had started by being a deckhand and cleaning the decks day in and day out under the blistering, and often unforgiving sun. Even during storms, he had been sent out to “clean the decks.” For a brief while after that, he had become the ship’s cook – until they realized what a horrible idea that was (my father was always a terrible cook). He was then promoted to boatswain, where he took on an assortment of duties and reported directly to the Quartermaster. He oversaw the gunners and Master Gunner, who reported directly to him. When the Quartermaster was tragically killed during an attack by pirates, my father took over as position of Quartermaster, and this is where he stayed, until the day he met my mother.

She had booked passage from a small island, her long, golden hair blowing perfectly in the wind. Her eyes were as blue as the ocean, and my father swore they even moved like tides of water. The trek to Waterdeep had been two weeks, with frequent stops for trades; and in that time my father developed a friendship which bloomed into a romance with the woman named Atoirmna. Just before arriving at Waterdeep a mysterious storm struck the Waverider. This time there had only been one casualty and that was Atoirmna. My father was devastated. When the battered ship reached Waterdeep, my father resigned and took up drinking. He worked solely to pay for his drinking debt.

One night, while blissfully intoxicated, a beautiful woman entered The Broken Barge, a tavern made to look like a turned over vessel, and saw my father. She approached him, a young infant in her hands. “I am sorry I had to go,” her voice was one that immediately snapped my father from his drunken stupor. He looked up, though his vision was blurry due to the intoxicating amount of alcohol he had consumed, there was no doubting that it was Atoirmna that was standing before him. He blinked several times wondering if he had drank so much that he was now hallucinating.

“How,” had been the only words he could mutter, his blitzed mind becoming clearer by the second.

“I am,” she started to explain, her blue eyes awash in sadness, “not of this world. I am a Genie from the Elemental Plane of Water. I have always been interested in the Mortal world and have made several visits to it. But never have I,” she paused, shaking her head so her blond hair covered her eyes, covered her tears, “never have I met someone like you. You care about me because of who I was not only for how I looked. Your heart cared for me for who I,” she choked, “pretended to be. After our nights shared together, I sensed… the child… I felt ashamed. You had given yourself to me so freely, so deeply, so passionately, for a person I had pretended to be. I lied to you and that was unbearable. I couldn’t face you, so I used my control of the water, to create a storm, to allow me to be ‘washed overboard.’” She took a deep breath, “I thought I would be doing you a favor… even as I returned to the Plane of Water, I used a scrying pool to keep an eye on you… I kept waiting for you to get better… to pull yourself free from this sadness… and I began to realize you never would.”

My father could hear her weeping now. “I cannot stay with you,” she looked down at the infant in her arms, “but she can. Her name is Suntide. She is,” she paused again, regaining her composure, “our daughter.”

My father’s eyes brimmed with tears as Atoirmna placed me in my father’s arms. Though my mother was forced to leave again, my father now had a piece of her with him always in me. My father raised me as if I were no different than any child; despite my light blue tuned skin and water like eyes. I had my mother’s long, golden locks of hair, for which I was named after.

This is how my father told it to me; and told it to me often, still so in love with my mother, and so wonderfully proud of the woman I had grown up to become.

My father lived a wonderful life and showed me nothing but love for those eighteen years. He died, shortly after my eighteenth birthday of natural causes, with me at his side. Just before he passed, my mother, Atoirmna returned, but he had already lost conscious. But I feel like he knew she was there because he smiled one last time before taking his last breath.

I remained in Waterdeep for another year, working at the Broken Barge, earning wages as a waitress there, before taking to the road to see the world. I met a Nymph named The Dreamweaver, who took the time to teach me master the magic I had always felt coursing in my body.

One day, while lying on some rocks along the beach, I heard an unusual voice. Sitting up, I saw what appeared to be a humanoid turtle walking on two legs, speaking to himself. Curious, I approached and introduced myself. He in turn introduced himself as Madbloom. He was very interesting to speak with and when I returned to the Dreamweaver, I explained what I had seen. She had heard of this race known as Tortles, but had not seen one herself. (Which was amazing to me, because the Dreamweaver was several thousand years old). I had asked if she would like to meet Madbloom and she had said she did.

So the next day, I swam to the shore where I had last seen Madbloom, pleased to see he hadn’t moved. “Come meet the Dreamweaver,” I smiled, leaning on a rock and glancing up playfully at Madbloom. “She’s heard of your kind, but in all her years, has never seen one of you.”

“Well,” Madbloom shrugged, “I am not sure I am the best representation of my people. There are many who have traveled the world, seen more, have wonderful stories!”

“The Dreamweaver does not want to hear stories,” I giggled. “She just wants to meet one of you. I told her I knew one! A wonderfully nice Tortle, I told her! You wouldn’t deny me? Make me appear as a liar to the Dreamweaver?”

“I mean,” Madbloom sighed, “no, I don’t want to make you look like a liar,” he had begun to say, finding an excuse to not go, but Suntide cut him off.

“She’s really nice!” I pulled herself up onto the rocks. My bare body glistened in the setting sun; living with the Nymph, clothing was something I had learned to discard from my human heritage.

“Yes, well,” Madbloom looked away, “I will never get used to that.”

“What?” I looked down and realized my nude body had made him feel odd. “But you do not wear clothes under your shell, right? It’s just your shell you wear.”

“Yes, it’s just that,” Madbloom thought about it. Suntide watched with intense curiosity before Madbloom finally shrugged. “You’re right.”

“So you will go meet the Dreamweaver!” I began to clap excitedly.

“Wait! No! That’s not what I said!” Madbloom began, but I had already dove into the ocean and swam away.

“What have I gotten myself into? It’ll be nice,” Madbloom huffed, “once I leave for the Pull of the Tide to be free of that crazy Selkie.”

“Are you ready?” My voice startled him.

Madbloom screamed – or what passed for a scream from a Tortle – which sounded more like a squeaky door slowly creaking open.

I giggled as Madbloom shot me a knowing, scolding look.

“I can hold my breath underwater,” Madbloom began, just as I threw a small vial at him, that he remarkably managed to catch before it shattered on the jagged rocks at his feet. He held up the vial of blue liquid. “What’s this?”

“Drink it!” I smiled broadly.

“You expect me to drink something a fey just hands me from the ocean?” Madbloom eyed me again.

I returned his gaze, my beautiful smile never cracking.

Madbloom’s giant eyes fluttered. “Fine. Fine.” He muttered a series of words and sentences better not left heard by me, I suppose, and popped the top off of the vial and took a drink. Immediately his body felt energized as if he could run for days without needing to slow down.

I extended my hand and Madbloom took mine into his and in that moment, we were moving like a lightning bolt through the skies – piercing the darkest tides of the oceans – down deeper than Madbloom ever thought possible.

We came to a screeching halt before a large, aquatic cave. Several Mermen and Nixies patrolled the outside, some mounted on Hippocampus; magnificent aquatic animals with a torso of a horse, whose hooves were fins; and their lower body that of a great fish.

I whispered, “Come,” and Madbloom didn’t even think to wonder how he could still hear me underwater.

I led Madbloom by the hand, past several Mermen guards who eyed us as we swam by. Eventually we entered the large chamber with a golden seat, decorated in an assortment of sea treasure and shells. Upon it sat the most beautiful humanoid Madbloom had ever seen. She appeared to be an Elf, by the looks of her, with her thin frame, full eyes and pointed ears. But how could she be breathing underwater?

“She’s a Nymph,” I said, as if reading Madbloom’s mind. “She is the Dreamweaver.”

Adapt at being underwater for brief stints, Madbloom let his body sink to the floor where he could properly bow before her. The Dreamweaver smiled, “You are honorable and humble,” her voice sounded like a choir of angels. “You feel the pull of the world beyond now, do you not?”

“The Pull of the Tide,” Madbloom nodded, “that’s what my people call it. The tide pulls you out into the ocean of the world to swim in it, see it, and learn from it.”

“The world beyond is bleeding,” the Dreamweaver said, the emphasis of her voice so sad, even Madbloom felt his own heart plummet. “There is war; greed; savagery; brutality; murder; chaos; all of which has done one thing to so many… especially the children…”

“What is that?” Madbloom raised his head.

“They’ve lost their dreams,” Dreamweaver replied. “So many simply seek to survive the day, and lie in fear at night, with no time to sleep, no time to dream of a better life, or even a better world. What if you, on your travels during the pull of the tide, could help change that? Would you?”

“I would,” Madbloom agreed, “the idea that the world outside is full of such sadness, such a loss of hope… I would want to change it. Especially for the children; the children need a reason to get up, to hope, to dream.”

The Dreamweaver smiled. “I could see it in your heart. Your kind always passing tales to their young so that your young can go forward, charged with the knowledge you’ve passed down. Let me show you the world, when there’s nothing left,” she touched Madbloom’s left hand and visions of a land, decimated by war, the soil drenched in blood, filled his eyes. “Now let me show you how we can make it right,” then she touched Madbloom’s right arm. The vision reversed itself, and the people spoke to one another, laughed, enjoyed each other’s company, and the once crimson fields were now rows of apple fields, ripe with hope.

“You now have seen it, the dark,” she held up her left hand, “and the light,” she showed her right hand. “You now share a connection with me. There is one thing I failed to mention, my life force is tied to yours, so long as I live, you will age, very, very, very slowly.”

Madbloom had returned to the surface and the Dreamweaver could see it in my eyes.

“You’ve learned all you can from me, child,” she said, touching my forehead. “Go on, little Suntide, see the world again. Find your destiny.”

All right, here's a challenge for you, Tawm...

My character's name is Bob the Not-So-Brilliant Paladin. He's a 1st-level Paladin (duh), and his stats:

STR 16
DEX 10
CON 12
WIS 11
INT 5
CHA 18

Ohboy, ohboy ... the stories I could tell about this guy ... the challenges he'd face ...

Feel free to tell his story if you like. As you can see, he took a big hit to his DEX, CON and INT to raise his STR and CHA. So he can turn lots of undead ... he just won't be able to memorise any spells. (And hopefully he won't be a drooling imbecile).

Have fun!

Rath Darkblade wrote: ↑Thu Aug 01, 2019 8:38 am All right, here's a challenge for you, Tawm...

My character's name is Bob the Not-So-Brilliant Paladin. He's a 1st-level Paladin (duh), and his stats:

STR 16
DEX 10
CON 12
WIS 11
INT 5
CHA 18

Ohboy, ohboy ... the stories I could tell about this guy ... the challenges he'd face ...

Feel free to tell his story if you like. As you can see, he took a big hit to his DEX, CON and INT to raise his STR and CHA. So he can turn lots of undead ... he just won't be able to memorise any spells. (And hopefully he won't be a drooling imbecile).

Have fun!

Gimme a RACE also. That always plays a part when I think these up.

Fair enough. He's a human (yes, boring).

I'm not sure what god he should worship ... Helm, perhaps? Llathandir?

I'm not sure if this guy is coming across a joke character. Is he? *worried*

Rath Darkblade wrote: ↑Fri Aug 02, 2019 1:51 am Fair enough. He's a human (yes, boring).

I'm not sure what god he should worship ... Helm, perhaps? Llathandir?

I'm not sure if this guy is coming across a joke character. Is he? *worried*

You named him BOB THE NOT SO BRILLIANT PALADIN with an INT of 5.

You realize AVERAGE INT is 9. That's INT of me. (You have a higher INT than me, this much I know).

Now HALF my INT down to a 5.

Put it in perspective; Hill Giants and Ogres have an INT of 5. Both are typically portrayed as "Duh... which way did he go... which way did he go?"

Rath Darkblade wrote: ↑Fri Aug 02, 2019 1:51 am My character's name is Bob the Not-So-Brilliant Paladin. He's a 1st-level Paladin (duh), and his stats:

STR 16
DEX 10
CON 12
WIS 11
INT 5
CHA 18

He's a human (yes, boring).
I'm not sure what god he should worship ... Helm, perhaps? Llathandir?
I'm not sure if this guy is coming across a joke character. Is he? *worried*

That said... I took it as a serious character write up... and took some opportunities to make a message out of it...
There's an (easy?) reference somewhere to C.S. Lewis if you look closely enough early on...
One thing some here may not know is, I am personally close to the whole support Down Syndrome.
A very, very, good friend of mine had a son who was born with Down Syndrome, and they're such remarkable parents.
He's not always easy to deal with but they never, ever, ever, ever stop loving him.
He means so much to them, and so much to me.
I am (or have been for several years now) writing a story that I am dedicating to him.
And I took this chance to basically write up a character with a mental disability and how he over comes it...

That said, enjoy!
===================================

Life had not been easy for the Parentore family.

By no stretch of the imagination were they a rich family; but they had always managed to get by financially. Once a wealthy family, when Elleena discovered she was pregnant, she and her husband Kip sold their belongings and gathered all of their money and set sail aboard The Dawn Runner for Waterdeep in hopes of providing their son a better life where he could get an education that would teach him more than just being the next generation of farmers in the Parentore family tree.

The first complication came when while aboard the Dawn Runner, Elleena suddenly and unexpectedly went into labor two months sooner than she should have. Though the birth had been touch and go throughout the two nights she was in labor, she eventually gave birth to a young boy.

Neither Elleena nor her husband, Kip, had sat down to really think of a name, believing they still had two more months to decide on names for a boy or a girl. They though that they would be settled in Waterdeep thinking about this; but Waterdeep was still one week’s travel away.

The Captain of the Dawn Runner explained that he had seen many women (often with men) who had given birth aboard his ship, because they were fleeing from families that did not support their love, and that it was common, when no name was given to simply call the child “Bob” which stood for “Born on Boat.”

Their ill fortune did not stop with Bob’s early birth; just one day before arriving in Waterdeep, a violent and unexpected storm caught the Dawn Runner by surprise, nearly sinking the ship. Several crew members were lost overboard, but none of the passengers perished. Sadly, a large assortment of possessions, including the money the Parentore had stored in a chest, had washed away with the hull had been breached.

Upon arriving in Waterdeep a week later, neither Kip nor Elleena had come up with another name for their son; and after a week of calling him Bob, simply accepted that as his name, after all Bob Parentore had a ring to it.

However, by the age of five, it became very clear that Bob had a learning disability. He could not retain information he was told for very long and soon other children began to tease him. One of the worst offenders was Rhick Greybird. Rhick had a small group of other boys who followed him because he was the loudest, roughest and toughest kid, not only at school but that section of the Southern Ward in Waterdeep. Rhick had pushed; beaten up; and stolen from Bob, who was too timid to fight back. Whenever Bob went home he could not look his parents in the eyes, because he had come home – yet again – with more bruises.

One day, while walking home from school, having just endured another humiliating day at the hands of Rhick, an old man sitting on a bench called out to him. Bob kept walking, but the old man called out to him again; this time louder. The unusual looking old man with platinum colored eyes and hair had what appeared to be several canaries fluttering around him.

“It’s rough, isn’t it,” the old man said, “having them,” he gestured with a jab of his thumb in the direction of Rhick and the others, “think you’re stupid?”

Bob halted in his tracks and looked at the old man, tears brimming in his eyes, his soul so full of endless shame and embarrassment.

“What if I told you, I could help you?” the old man smiled broadly.

“You’re old,” Bob said, matter-of-factly.

“I am,” the old man confirmed with a chuckle, “which means I’ve been around the world; seen lots of things. Things I could teach you.”

Bob seemed dubious but approached the man. “Like what?”

“I could teach you to fight back,” the old man poked Bob with his wooden staff in the chest. “I can teach you to not be afraid.”

Bob seemed more dubious than before. The old man laughed, “Why does everyone always look at me like that when I say that? Well then, let’s do this. Hit me.”

Bob blinked and looked at the old man.

“Go on now,” the old man encouraged him, “I said hit me.”

“I don’t want to hit an old man,” Bob said politely.

“That’s the problem,” the old man smiled, “you think you’re going to hit me. Try it.”

Bob set down his bag, which Rhick had pilfered through to get anything of value. “Here I go,” he said, warning the old man.

“Wait,” the old man shook his head. “Do I look like I need a warning? Just hit me when you’re ready. Don’t tell me you’re about to hit me. You’re not going to tell your enemies when you’re about to hit them. Just do it.”

Bob waited a few seconds then swung; only to have the old man catch his punch. Not only had the old man caught his punch with amazing speed; he was holding it. Despite the old man’s frail, thin, worn body, he was remarkably strong. He released Bob’s hand.

“You’re strong,” Bob commented.

“So are you,” the old man nodded, squeezing Bob’s arms. “You just don’t know it. I can show you.”

Bob frowned for a moment, ready to walk away but he halted. “Ok,” he finally said, picked up his bag and left.

For several weeks, after getting beat up by Rhick and his friends, Bob met the old man at the same bench where the old man continued to force Bob to try and punch him; even turning his back on Bob, blindfolding himself, and lying prone on the ground. Each and every time he caught Bob’s fist effortlessly.

“I can’t hit you,” Bob finally wheezed one day, “I am useless.”

“No,” the old man tapped Bob on the shoulder with his staff, “what I am showing you is despite the fact that I am old, and in positions where I appear weak, because I know how to fight, I do not let any disability or impaired condition stop me. This is what you must learn.” The old man reached behind the park bench and threw a wooden sword at Bob.

“Now for part two,” the old man smiled.

Bob went home that day with new bruises; but these were bruises he proudly wore. The old man had beaten him, using only his staff, every time Bob tried to hit him with the sword; but Bob could feel his body responding to all of this training.

Then the day came when Rhick had tried to hit Bob across the face as he had done every day for the last two years; when Bob suddenly extended his hand and caught Rhick’s fist. Bob kept his hand locked on Rhick’s, who desperately tried to pull away after recovering from being shocked. Bob’s eyes slowly looked up and locked with Rhick’s as Bob whispered, “Never again.” When Bob released Rhick’s hand, Rhick saw that his friends and others from the school were watching and that he would need to redeem himself quickly if he wanted to maintain the school bully reputation. He immediately swung at Bob who quickly ducked under Rhick’s clumsy fist, and brought his own fist directly into Rhick’s throat, forcing Rhick to grasp his throat as he fell to the floor choking for air. Bob leaned over and whispered, “Breathe in, breathe out; nice and slow. You’ll be all right.”

Rhick had learned his lesson and found a new target the following week; a young girl name Shelah. When Rhick began roughing her up, Bob stepped between them and said, “You touch anyone ever again, I will punish you. I have been forgiving up until now. But you will no longer know my mercy.”

Once again, Rhick in order to maintain his reputation took another swing at Bob. Yet again, Bob dodged, punched Rhick in the throat. When Rhick doubled over, Bob brought his knee up to Rhick’s face and shattered his nose on his knee, spraying blood.

Bob kneeled down and smiled, “Do you understand me now? Never again.”

Rhick held his nose, his voice muffled, “I understand,” he cried, spitting out blood and a few teeth.

The Old Man had been watching and smiled.

He approached Bob and patted him on the back. “Take this parchment,” he handed a scroll to Bob that had a wax seal of a dragon, “to the Order of Bahamut. It is a letter of recommendation from me for you to join the order. You are kind and merciful; you are just and stand up for the weak. You have surpassed your own disabilities and come to be a new person. You would do Bahamut proud, I suspect.”

Bob returned home proudly telling his parents that he had accepted a position in the Order of Bahamut, a division known as The Wings of Justice. He explained that he would squire with a Paladin of the Order first and learn from them; but that the letter of recommendation had also mentioned moving into the North Ward!”

The North Ward was where the Nobility lived.

Life for the Parentore family was about to become very, very different…

===========================
If it's not clear who the old man is... it should be...
https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Bahamut
When Bahamut assumed the form of the old man, he was usually accompanied by seven gold great wyrms polymorphed into canaries...

All right - I had no idea that 9 INT was the average, or that Hill Giants/Ogres had an INT of 5. Whoops.

"Bob the Not-so-Brilliant Paladin" was a cautionary character I created years and years ago. He was never meant to be serious - rather, he does and says the things that other people wouldn't dream of. He was a kind of "Forrest Gump" paladin - silly, and not very intelligent, but with a heart of gold.

My ideas about the character were that he was the kind of fearless hero who would try to fool a Dragon ("I'm your dentist - now open up and say ahh!"), or challenge a vampire to a fight ("Spawn of Evil! I shalt smite thee!"). It might be the right thing to do, but obviously not very smart when you're at level 1.

I had no idea about your friends' child with Down Syndrome. His parents sound like wonderful, patient people. It wasn't that long ago (maybe as recently as the early 90s?) when disabled kids were routinely bullied at school, and the teachers turned a blind eye. Hopefully those kind of attitudes will turn around sooner rather than later. I hate bullies.

I don't know if my INT is higher. You know many things that I don't. I've taught myself in various parts of history, mythology, folklore, and science (particularly European and Middle-Eastern). I'm sure you're an expert in many other things, about which I wouldn't have a clue!

Rath Darkblade wrote: ↑Fri Aug 02, 2019 6:40 am All right - I had no idea that 9 INT was the average, or that Hill Giants/Ogres had an INT of 5. Whoops.

Yeah. Max (typically) was 18 for stats (3d6), meaning 3 is min, 9 is average, 18 is "max" default.
(However, in 5e, you can up to 20 eventually)

Rath Darkblade wrote: ↑Fri Aug 02, 2019 6:40 am "Bob the Not-so-Brilliant Paladin" was a cautionary character I created years and years ago. He was never meant to be serious - rather, he does and says the things that other people wouldn't dream of. He was a kind of "Forrest Gump" paladin - silly, and not very intelligent, but with a heart of gold.
My ideas about the character were that he was the kind of fearless hero who would try to fool a Dragon ("I'm your dentist - now open up and say ahh!"), or challenge a vampire to a fight ("Spawn of Evil! I shalt smite thee!"). It might be the right thing to do, but obviously not very smart when you're at level 1.

Hah! Then why did you say:
I'm not sure if this guy is coming across a joke character. Is he? *worried*
If it was supposed to be a non serious I could have written a non serious background!

Rath Darkblade wrote: ↑Fri Aug 02, 2019 6:40 am I had no idea about your friends' child with Down Syndrome. His parents sound like wonderful, patient people. It wasn't that long ago (maybe as recently as the early 90s?) when disabled kids were routinely bullied at school, and the teachers turned a blind eye. Hopefully those kind of attitudes will turn around sooner rather than later. I hate bullies.

Dexter is only about six or seven (I think, I've lost track of time). If he gets bullied, they won't need to worry about Dexter's dad. I will put a kid six feet under with no hesitation if they mess with him.

Rath Darkblade wrote: ↑Fri Aug 02, 2019 6:40 am I don't know if my INT is higher. You know many things that I don't. I've taught myself in various parts of history, mythology, folklore, and science (particularly European and Middle-Eastern). I'm sure you're an expert in many other things, about which I wouldn't have a clue!

Considering your knowledge of history, music, and random assortment of facts you definitely have a higher INT than me. Without a doubt.

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=264

Falcos;24058695 wrote:Ooh boy, can we request multiple at one? I've got a bunch of proto-ideas that I want written up.
But for now, my first one:
Tortle Druid of Dreams, named Madbloom. Really, really old, cranky, has plants growing on shell because is so old.
Thank you in advance!

Slight revision to turn Suntide into a Water Gensai...

============================================================
“Come meet the Dreamweaver she said,” Madbloom, a Tortle strolling down the path sighed. “She’s really nice, she said!” Tortle stopped and shook his fist. “Oh, she was nice all right! Nice and tricky!”

Tortles like Madbloom were intelligent, turtle-like humanoids who walked on two feet, capable of making and using weapons. All Tortles felt the sense of “The Pull of the Tide” which was an urge to go about and explore the world far and wide, and return perhaps, months or even many years after leaving their homes, with stories of what they’d learned. It was when Madbloom had felt “The Pull of the Tide” that a Water Gensai – a water fey that had some connection to the Plane of Water – had come to him. Her name, according to her, was Suntide. She was beautiful, with her large blue eyes, and hair as golden as the sunset, for which she had been named…

“Come meet the Dreamweaver,” Suntide smiled, leaning on a rock and glancing up playfully at Madbloom. “She’s heard of your kind, but in all her years, has never seen one of you.”

“Well,” Madbloom shrugged, “I am not sure I am the best representation of my people. There are many who have traveled the world, seen more, have wonderful stories!”

“The Dreamweaver does not want to hear stories,” Suntide giggled. “She just wants to meet one of you. I told her I knew one! A wonderfully nice Tortle, I told her! You wouldn’t deny me? Make me appear as a liar to the Dreamweaver?”

“I mean,” Madbloom sighed, “no, I don’t want to make you look like a liar,” he had begun to say, finding an excuse to not go, but Suntide cut him off.

“She’s really nice!” Suntide pulled herself up onto the rocks. Her bare body glistened in the setting sun.

“Yes, well,” Madbloom looked away, “I will never get used to that.”

“What?” she looked down and realized her nude body had made him feel odd. “But you do not wear clothes under your shell, right? It’s just your shell you wear.”

“Yes, it’s just that,” Madbloom thought about it. Suntide watched with intense curiosity before Madbloom finally shrugged. “You’re right.”

“So you will go meet the Dreamweaver!” Suntide began to clap excitedly.

“Wait! No! That’s not what I said!” Madbloom began, but Suntide had already dived into the ocean and swam away.

“What have I gotten myself into? It’ll be nice,” Madbloom huffed, “once I leave for the Pull of the Tide to be free of that crazy Water Gensai.”

“Are you ready?” Suntide’s voice was directly behind him.

Madbloom screamed – or what passed for a scream from a Tortle – which sounded more like a squeaky door slowly creaking open.

Suntide giggled as Madbloom shot her a knowing, scolding look.

“I can hold my breath underwater,” Madbloom began, just then Suntide threw a small vial at him, that he remarkably managed to catch before it shattered on the jagged rocks at his feet. He held up the vial of blue liquid. “What’s this?”

“Drink it!” Suntide smiled broadly.

“You expect me to drink something a fey just hands me from the ocean?” Madbloom eyed her again.

She returned his gaze, her beautiful smile never cracking.

Madbloom’s giant eyes fluttered. “Fine. Fine.” He muttered a series of words and sentences better not left heard by Suntide and popped the top off of the vial and took a drink. Immediately his body felt energized as if he could run for days without needing to slow down.

Suntide extended her hand and Madbloom took hers into his and in that moment, they were moving like a lightning bolt through the skies – piercing the darkest tides of the oceans – down deeper than Madbloom ever thought possible.

They came to a screeching halt before a large, aquatic cave. Several Mermen and Nixie’s patrolled the outside, some mounted on Hippocampus; magnificent aquatic animals with a torso of a horse, whose hooves were fins; and their lower body that of a great fish.

Suntide whispered, “Come,” and Madbloom didn’t even think to wonder how he could still hear her underwater. She led Madbloom by the hand, past several Mermen guards who eyed them as they swam by, hands on their weapons. Eventually they entered a large chamber with a golden seat, decorated in an assortment of sea treasure and shells. Upon it sat the most beautiful humanoid Madbloom had ever seen. She appeared to be an Elf, by the looks of her, with her thin frame, full eyes and pointed ears. But how could she be breathing underwater?

“She’s a Nymph,” Suntide said, as if reading Madbloom’s mind. “She is the Dreamweaver.”

Adapt at being underwater for brief stints, Madbloom let his body sink to the floor where he could properly bow before her. The Dreamweaver smiled, “You are honorable and humble,” her voice sounded like a choir of angels. “You feel the pull of the world beyond now, do you not?”

“The Pull of the Tide,” Madbloom nodded, “that’s what my people call it. The tide pulls you out into the ocean of the world to swim in it, see it, and learn from it.”

“The world beyond is bleeding,” the Dreamweaver said, the emphasis of her voice so sad, even Madbloom felt his own heart plummet. “There is war; greed; savagery; brutality; murder; chaos; all of which has done one thing to so many… especially the children…”

“What is that?” Madbloom raised his head.

“They’ve lost their dreams,” Dreamweaver replied. “So many simply seek to survive the day, and lie in fear at night, with no time to sleep, no time to dream of a better life, or even a better world. What if you, on your travels during the pull of the tide, could help change that? Would you?”

“I would,” Madbloom agreed, “the idea that the world outside is full of such sadness, such a loss of hope… I would want to change it. Especially for the children; the children need a reason to get up, to hope, to dream.”

The Dreamweaver smiled. “I could see it in your heart. Your kind always passing tales to their young so that your young can go forward, charged with the knowledge you’ve passed down. Let me show you the world, when there’s nothing left,” she touched Madbloom’s left hand and visions of a land, decimated by war, the soil drenched in blood, filled his eyes. “Now let me show you how we can make it right,” then she touched Madbloom’s right arm. The vision reversed itself, and the people spoke to one another, laughed, enjoyed each other’s company, and the once crimson fields were now rows of apple fields, ripe with hope.

“You now have seen it, the dark,” she held up her left hand, “and the light,” she showed her right hand. “You now share a connection with me. There is one thing I failed to mention, my life force is tied to yours, so long as I live, you will age, very, very, very slowly.”

That was over two hundred years ago.

Madbloom has seen generations of Tortles come and go, though having none of his own (suspecting that the Fey Magic he was tied to had something to do with that). He enjoyed his life at first, spreading cheer and love, but as he continued to age, seeing generations die when he was barely aging had begun to wear on him. He was well beyond “old” for a Tortle, so much so that plants now grew on his shell and a hummingbird (which he tried to say he disliked) named “Dart” had made a nest on his shell. It would leave for weeks on end, but Dart always found her way back to Madbloom. He even wondered if it was somehow Suntide…

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=270

Jaryn;24062524 wrote:You know what we don't have a huge amount of here? Clerics. So with that in mind...
(Please don't prioritise this one over people who need help with a 'live' character - I'm doing this purely for the stories and because I really enjoy creating characters!)
Human cleric of Lathander (light domain), cloistered scholar
Notable skills: Medicine, History, Religion
Notes: Quiet and bookish, happiest when serving in the temple library although did also do required stints in the infirmary. Lathander has other plans though - for him to go out and bring hope to those in despair, to stand against the undead and bring light to the dark corners of the world. He is possessed of a quiet faith, although sometimes wonders why he's the one adventuring rather than some of the more physically strong or charismatic brethren he used to know. Many people joke about how he should have been a cleric of Oghma upon meeting him, which he takes with good grace but is privately getting a little tired of.

I think I managed to hit all the points you were asking for; and found a way to develop the character's insight into life.
Also how certain events shaped his life!
A mystery lies in a photo seen in a book and a girl who he saw... strings for the DM to play with if they wanted to!
As always, I appreciate feedback!
Enjoy!
===========================================================

Tourn Lightstorm came from a long line of family members who faithfully served as Priests of Lathander known as Dawnbringers. Tourn himself was merely considered what was affectionately known as The Awakened. The Awakened were those that faithfully served Lathander but had not done much to spread the word of their god.

Tourn had done some time in the infirmary helping out where he could; tending to the wounds of others, delivering bad news to family members of the deceased. It was during one such time where he had to deliver the news to a wife and her daughter that her husband had died at the hands of a roving band of Orcs known as The Red Eye. They had ambushed the wagon and her husband stood his ground, though he was only a farmer himself, so that a young woman could escape capture from the Orcs. He had given his life for another which was an extremely honorable way to perish; but the sadness Tourn had seen in the daughter’s eyes ripped his soul in half, each tear that fell from her eyes, siphoning his soul further and further away.

Tourn had always been obsessed with Religion because that is what his family brought him up to focus on. His mother, Neenuh Lightstorm, was a teacher in the city, so she encouraged him to study history; explaining that the mistakes of the past can often prevent them in the present. She also encouraged him, through his study of history, to embrace the diversity of history; to understand not only human history, but to read up on Dwarves, Gnomes, Halflings, and yes, even the Elves, despite their often superior attitude. Understanding the history and cultures of others would allow Tourn to better interact with them; but the notion of interacting with anyone did not sit well with him.

But Tourn could not shake the look on the young girl’s face; her tears streaking down her rounded cheeks, knowing she would never see her father again. Tourn began to take his interest in medicine much more seriously now, just so he might have the knowledge to save someone’s life and send them home, rather than to the heavens.

Many had seen him in the Great Library that they wondered if he might not be secretly following Oghma, the God of Knowledge, rather than the God of Rebirth. He tolerated the jokes from his family who would tease him, because as soon as he had finished eating, he would rush to his room to continue his studying or go to the Great Library where he would stay until early hours of the morning.

By the age of sixteen Tourn had read a history book that changed his life; passages which included artist depictions in a book, written anonymously simply titled “Against the Undead.” The mysterious tome was written by an unnamed wizard from the Dalelands that appeared after the mage had met their demise; appearing in Great Libraries such as the Sword Coast and Waterdeep. The tome detailed the wizard’s encounters with the undead, including passages speaking with survivors. The wizard had used magic to capture moments physically upon the page; inserting graphic, sometimes gruesome photos on the pages of the book. In one of the pictures he’d seen a young girl; almost identical to the one who had torn his soul apart when he had delivered the news of her father’s passing. His finger ran over the photo, awestruck at the uncanny resemblance between the two.

Tourn heard his mother step inside his room. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” she said with a smile. “Are you feeling well?” She placed her hand on his forehead.

Tourn smiled, “I feel fine mother, thank you,” he replied as closing the book. “I think I want to go out and see the world,” he finally said.

“You mean, outside the city walls to the farms and back?” Tourn’s mother asked, her soft brown eyes looking at him quizzically. He’d never been one for going outside unless it was to the Great Library or the Cathedral.

“No,” Tourn answered, running his hand along the cover of the history book. “I mean, adventuring, for lack of a better word.”

Tourn’s mother sat down shocked. “Adventuring? Why? What can you get out there that you can’t get here?”

Tourn shrugged, “Everyone I know already knows the beauty of Lathander. There is an entire world out there that has been ravished by war, seen loss, seen death; they’ve lost their way, lost their hope, lost their faith. I want to do what Lathander would expect of me; I want to find the lost, the broken, and the hopeless and restore their faith and show them the light.”

Neenuh’s eyes brimmed with tears as she put her hands on her mouth to prevent her from bursting into an uncontrollable fit of tears. “You have your father’s spirit,” she said, thinking of her deceased husband. “He is watching and smiling right now.”

She stood and hugged her son. “Be the storm that brings light to the world…”

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=272

Madhatter88;24062546 wrote:Hey there! I really admire your work and would like to queue up a story about Jafar, a knowledge hungry rock gnome wizard. His parents were clerics, but he wants to heal with his own magic, not some god's. School of Transmutation, a Desert setting, a smoke mephit and someting else?

Hey! So this was kind of a fun one to write!
You had mentioned wanting a Smoke Mephit involved...
And I did just that - but perhaps not how you probably had envisioned...?
But I felt like it was a fun chance to do something different with a Smoke Mephit... and how it would directly impact why Jafar is off questing!
Please let me know your thoughts!
I thrive on feedback - whether you like it or not!
(If you don't like it, I'd love to hear why - not just "I hate it!" LOL)
If you don't like it, please let me know and I can always try to write something closer to what you want!
In the meantime, enjoy!
=====================================================
Jafar Fizzlepoptart heaved a deep sigh as he sat on the jagged rock.

The warm desert sun was bearing down on his forehead. His cool, ice blue eyes looked out at the jagged terrain in front of him known as The Plain of Standing Stones.

A charcoal, black, misty figure sat next to him, mimicking his gesture, as he placed his elbows on his knees and his face in his palm. The musky dark figure that seemed to be composed of smoke, with large wings, and an even larger nose continuously cast side glances at Jafar to ensure he was properly imitating him.

“They still haven’t forgiven me,” Jafar said, emphasizing the word ‘still.’

Two weeks ago, Jafar’s mentor, Baboum Ticklespider had captured a Smoke Mephit, which were fairly common around the sundered ground of The Plain of Standing Stones. Baboum was going to show his students the art of Transmutation by converting the Smoke Mephit into pure gold, something that would have naturally killed the Smoke Mephit.

Jafar had not intended to do what happened next. There was going to be a test about Transmutation and Jafar, though he had studied quite a bit, was feeling a bit uncertain. He had snuck back into the classroom at night with the intention of glancing at the test questions. However, what had happened, he had managed to knock over the glass sphere that held the Smoke Mephit which shattered on the ground and had let it escape.

Baboum would have never found out what happened had it not been for Jafar’s own parents.

Jafar had quickly run away after the glass shattered and returned home. He went to his room and collapsed on his bed, now terribly concerned about the upcoming test, as well as getting in trouble for accidentally letting the Smoke Mephit escape.

When he awoke, he was surprised to see a pair of soulless black eyes staring directly at him, only inches away from his face. It was the Smoke Mephit! Jafar had unintentionally let out a scream, which brought his parents running into his room – and that’s when they saw the Smoke Mephit too and began yelling! The Smoke Mephit quickly made its escape.

Jafar’s parents, who had spent six years trying to convince him to drop the notion of becoming a wizard, and follow the same religious path that they had, now believed that their son was communicating with dark spirits, since Smoke Mephits were known to be evil. His parents immediately marched over to Baboum’s home and began accusing him of turning their children “to make deals with shadows.” When Baboum had asked for clarification, they explained that they saw a Smoke Mephit in their son’s room. Jafar had come running up next, confessed to trying to peak at the test answers and accidentally freeing the Smoke Mephit that had been captured in the Wizardry Class and believed the Smoke Mephit in his room had been the same one.

Jafar was expelled from the class.

That was two weeks ago and Jafar began to realize that the Smoke Mephit from the classroom was now randomly following him, appearing at times when he was alone, often when he was depressed about having been expelled from the class. The Smoke Mephit seemed to mimic his every gesture; copy the way he sat, moved, gestured. Jafar often took the time to confess his feelings of frustration to the Smoke Mephit even though he knew that the creature could not understand or reply; but it had been very therapeutic for him.

With him expelled from the Wizardry class, his parents had returned – more so than ever “to save his soul” – to convince him to follow in their footsteps and embrace the light of Garl Glittergold.

Still sitting on the jagged rock, Jafar’s eyes peered out into the plains and the desert of Anauroch. He suddenly stood up and began walking with the Smoke Mephit behind him following; its black smoky wings fluttering.

There was an entire world out there to discover; an entire world full of magic.

The Smoke Mephit followed Jafar all the way to the edge of the Plains of Standing Stones and stopped and watched as Jafar continued on, pressing his way through Anauroch. It had taken three days and there were times where Jafar had considered this was the worse idea ever when he grew hungry and thirsty, but once he reached the Greycloak Hills there was grass and fields of water to help. A passing wagon had picked him up and offered him a ride to Trielta Hills, which had been a small settlement of scattered gnomes and halflings.

Jafar would start his life anew and become the greatest wizard this world had known.

http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsing ... tcount=275

Falcos;24062595 wrote:Alright, got a bit of an exotic one for you this time:
An Aetherborn (extremely short-lived creature made by an accident of magic, from Plane Shift: Kaladesh) that was accidentally pulled into the world by a Planar Ranger, now is a Celestial Warlock. I want to really encapsulate their racial hedonism, short-lived aspect, and find a good patron for them, I was thinking something phoenix-thematic. Do you think you can help with this one? If it's too exotic, that's alright. Continue being your wonderful self.

Knowing NOTHING about Magic The Gathering, or the Aetherborn, or their entire world and how it was all set up...
Made this one of the most challenging ones to date. The PDF you linked was VERY useful; and I borrowed from things said in there to put it into the story (not only for myself) but for anyone else who might not be familiar. I wanted to explain that world (for as much as I managed to understand it from the PDF). I didn't start my "Writing Clock" until I finished reading the PDF to begin writing this background.
That said, because it was SUCH a challenge, I really, really loved doing it. I wanted to see if I could write something I was COMPLETELY unfamiliar with and make it ... make sense!
And then being able to do a little nod to some other backgrounds (Bar'garius)... AND find a way to tie in a PHOENIX ... AND explain how you become a Celestial Warlock...
It was a rough journey not knowing what I was writing and wondering if it was going to come out...
But I'll be damned if I didn't enjoy it, and actually, kind of like how it came out...
Hope it works for you - please be honest if you don't like it! I'd love constructive criticism if that's the case!
Or if you like it - please tell me too!
Enjoy!
======================================================
When all you are given in this thing called “life” is a fleeting moment, there is no time to worry about the past or even the future. The past has already happened and cannot be changed while the future may not exist beyond this moment; the present; the now.

I am what they call Aetherborn; alive, for lack of a better word, due to the Aether refinement process. If you find yourself asking what Aether is, allow me to elaborate. Aether is a form of volatile magical energy that fills the space between the various planes of existence; seeping its way into where I was born, Kaladesh.

An inventor by the name of Avaati Vya developed a way to refine this chaotic energy called Aether into a form of very potent and safe fuel.

One day I did not exist then the next moment, I did and immediately could sense my own self being torn apart; the Aether that composed my body disintegrating to return back to the heavens and repeat the cycle of being refined once more. Though we possess humanoid characteristics; we do not need to eat, sleep, and have no sexual characteristics.

Now, because I said we do not eat, sleep or have any sexual characteristics, does not mean we don’t enjoy them. Our lives as I said are fleetingly short but rather than be sad about it, we tend to find as much enjoyment as we can out of every second of every moment.

I just happen to be returning from one of those moments of hedonism; a local brothel run by the Renegades (but make no mistake, gets plenty of visits from Consulates). It was here where I enjoyed the restless company of both male and females, since I have no gender of my own; I simply embrace the pleasure brought by both. Part of that hedonism is the “drug” called Bio-Aether. It’s essentially what Avaati Vya did to make Aether fuel, but more compressed; and when released, deeply inhaled which heightens the body’s sensitivity to everything where even the most gentle whisper was sheer ecstasy throughout the entire body.

I was cutting through the same alleyway I always did when someone collided into me just as I rounded the corner, sending me flying backwards.

I remember falling.

And falling.

And falling.

Then the impact of ground.

Hot, coarse sand.

How? I was in the middle of the city? There was no sand for miles?

That was my thought just before the wind was knocked out of me, or the equivalent for an Aetherborn and I lost consciousness.

I opened my eyes and gasped as I sat up. Nothing looked familiar. As I slowly lifted myself to my feet and tried to get my barring I began to notice the sky looked vastly different; even the air – the air itself tasted different. I looked at my hands and waited to see… waited… waited… The energy… the Aether… it wasn’t seeping off of me. I looked around again, more confused than ever.

My state of mind had been in a drastically altered state from the Bio-Aether drug I had inhaled; tracing my memory back was nearly impossible. I sat on the hot ground, in the middle of this barren wasteland and tried to find myself. I peered inside of my mind, moving through the mist and haze; the bodies tangled together, the passion, the contact, the experience; I moved forward, down the stairs, walking; hood over my head, covering my eyes; I kept walking; walking; the alleyway, the gear-cat; kept walking, rounded the corner; a man, dressed in green leathers, a sword in his hand, shouted a name, “Bar’garius!” Then there was a flash of light behind me; a portal? The man collided into me; sending us both falling.

I wandered for days, watching the searing sun rise and set. I couldn’t tell if I was walking in circles in this wasteland; at times I could have sworn I was walking over my own tracks from just hours ago. Everything about this place was distorting and confusing. Wandering aimlessly was nothing short of Hades, when all I knew was constant pleasure. I was wasting precious moments of my life.

I do not need to eat or drink but the sun’s relentless heat can have a bearing on my mental stability. I say that because suddenly the sun moved out of the sky and began to speak to me.

“You are not from this Plane,” the voice said, the sphere of fire spinning in circles in front of me.

“Where am I,” I asked the sun.

“You are on Faerûn, Stranger in a Strangerland,” the fiery sun replied. “Where do you hail from, stranger?”

“I am from Kaladesh, from a town just outside of Ghirapur,” I replied.

“I sense that before you came here you were dying,” the sun noted aloud.

“I was,” I confessed, “but that is the way of the Aetherborn. Our lives are short.”

“And now, cut from your world, that which had made you, and had been killing you, has been cut,” the mysterious sun observed.

“It would seem so,” I nodded.

“You were reborn,” the sun seemed amused, “in fire.” The sun suddenly burst and took the form of an enormous fiery bird in the sky. “I am a Phoenix. I symbolize Rebirth, such as what you have experienced. It would seem, at one time, you were forged in this Aether that I sense at the edge of your mind; a form of magic that birthed you and began destroying you. What if I offered to bind you to my magic, where you would not wither, but rather, continue to be strengthened and reborn anew here in Faerûn?”

“At what price to me,” I asked.

“Only that you will bind your magic with mine, and become my weapon on this mortal plane,” the Phoenix replied.

The fiery bird continued to watch me as I pondered this before sighing, “I accept your offer.”

The Phoenix changed into a massive arrow and seemed to pierce my body, once again, sending me into blackness. When I awoke, I was on the edge of the desert wasteland, near a wonderful lake. Apparently, for having touched the corner of my mind, the Phoenix did not realize I do not need water. However, bathing in the cool, refreshing spring felt nice.

As I dried myself off, I could feel it in my body; it was energized with energy and magic like I’d never felt before.

I had been… reborn.