Carrion Crown - the Haunting of Harrowstone (Spooky Pathfinder!)

[Chulanowa]

Professor Petros Lorrimor - your employer, your mentor, maybe even your friend - has died. Folded among your belongings is a letter from his daughter, asking you to come to the town of Ravengro, to attend his funeral. Most curiously, she also wishes you to stay for the reading of his will. Whether for respect of your fallen acquaintance, or more mercenary desires, you have come to the cursed lands of Ustulav to see the professor off.
   But secrets do not lie easy in Ravengro. Old curses and history forgotten surface like bodies from shallow graves. The professor has disturbed mysteries best left alone... and it will fall on you and your companions to continue his work.

   It's that time of year again, when someone gets the urge to run the carrion Crown adventure path on E - this time it might as well be me! Carrion Crown is a gothic horror-themed Adventure Path set in the Golarion region of Ustulav, a dreary land laboring under a dead wizard's curse and home to many creeping, shadowy horrors. In it characters will be faced with ghosts, werewolves, treachery and dread secrets.

   I'm looking to recruit four people; if there'e enough interest I'll open a second table with another four, though! Why so few? Well, I feel that horror themes work best with smaller, more intimate groups - and the adventure is designed for four anyway. Recruitment is not first-come-first-picked; I'll be selecting a cast on Sunday, October 22. With that in mind i'm looking for a few things in particular:

   • Players willing to let their characters be afraid of things. Nothing spoils horror like a character who don't afraid of nothin' (unless of course, it turns out that's an act and he's rightly a-feared of many a thing...)
   • Logical, meaningful connections to Professer Lorrimor; why might your character have been included into this esteemed scholar's will? See the campaign traits in the Player's Guide (free PDF) for some good ideas on this.
   • Patience; PbP is naturally slow of course, and this particular AP can take a little while to "get to the action." It builds up rather than throwing you right in there.

   I plan to run this in the NC-Exotic board, in order to cover all potential bases. While I'm not running this as an erotic game, gothic horror naturally has plenty of space for erotic elements in it, and what the players want to do amongst themselves is up to them, naturally :)

If you're interested, here's what I'm using for character creation.

• Level: Everyone starts at 1st level.
• Abilities: 20-point buy. No abilities over 18 or below 8.
• Races: Dwarf, Elf, Gnome, Half-elf, Halfling, Half-Orc, and Human, as well as Changelings, Dhampir, and Skinwalkers. I'm going to want the group to be at least half "core races," though.
• Classes: Any, except Antipaladin, Samurai, or Ninja. Barbarians, Monks, Rogues, and Summoners should use the Unchained version of the classes. Archetypes on a case-by-case basis.
• Skills: I like to use the background skills option from Pathfinder Unchained.
• Traits: Characters get two traits, one of which should be a Campiagn Trait from the Carrion crown players' guide.
• HP, XP, and GP: Everyone begins with maximum hit points as per class; HP will be gained through rolling after leveling. Starting characters get their average GP per class and will receive one "extra" item after the game starts. I will be using the "medium XP" track for leveling.
• Images: If you use a character image, please don't use anime / manga art for it, or actual photography.

Also note, I plan on using some of the alternate rules from Horror Adventures (i.e., Paladins won't be exactly immune to fear effects...)

[eBadger]

Very awesome!  I'll give a think on my character and get something up. 

[persephone325]

*plants flag of interest*

[Ixy]

Well, sure. I'll get a look at the player's guide today and try to pin down an idea.  Do you have any general ideas for what kind of party makeup you'd like to see...? I mean, it's interesting if the same person mentored a bard and a barbarian, but would take a little groundwork.  Maybe they have something in common from the tutelage? Update: reading just the first couple pages of the player's guide has cleared this up... So it sounds like the 4 PC's will be strangers to each other, get to know each other over dinner or the like, share their stories of how they remember Lorrimor... This seems really exciting.  Please make sure this takes off, and I hope I get to take part

[Waldham]

Do you authorized the vigilante base class ?

[corvusul86]

Name Adina Vasilescu
Age 134
Gender Female
Background Adina's mother came to the temple of Pharasma in Caliphas while heavily pregnant.  She refused to speak of the father, and died during labor, bringing a newborn dhampir into the world.

Adina was raised by the temple, her first decades of life utterly dedicated to the church.  She was treated as an outcast by most, only a few of the kinder clerics caring for her, and she became silent and withdrawn.  When she learned the truth of her heritage, her deeply held religious convictions about the evils of the undead filled her shame and self-loathing, and caused her to further retreat into herself.  She spent nearly a century living like a ghost in the temple, until one day an older, retired adventuring priest named Sofia Iliescu took an interest in her, convincing her to go out make a difference in the world.  She spent years in training, eventually becoming an Inquisitor.

Adina has spent more than a decade wandering Ustalav, fighting evil wherever she finds it, and helping those in need.  It hasn't been easy, as aside from the monsters of the night, she is still shunned and reviled for her semi-undead nature, the rural peasants being even more fearful of her condition than the urban population.  One of the few positive encounters in her career came when she rescued Professor Lorrimor when he fell afoul of a pack of ghouls.  She remembers the incident clearly, as the professor has been on of the only people who was truly grateful for her aid, rather than fearing her heritage.  It's with a heavy heart that she goes to his funeral, as her inclusion in the affair drives home to her just how much he had appreciated her rescue.

Appearance Adina is a short, thin woman with very pale skin and a perpetually tired look about her, making her seem like a person slowly recovering from a long illness.  Despite that she is a striking beauty, with intense amber eyes and long, pale blonde hair tied back with a black ribbon.  She wears a travel worn armored coat, a battered leather cap on her head, a crossbow and shield on her back, and has a mace hanging from her belt.  Around her neck she prominently wears the wooden holy symbol of Pharasma, which has been so worn down from handling that the spiral pattern is starting to fade.

Personality Adina is cold and distant, avoiding getting close to others under the belief that she will simply be rejected again as she has her entire life.  In truth she is very sad and lonely, and full of misplaced guilt and shame about her heritage.  Some days the isolation gets to her very strongly, and only more than a century living in the temple of Pharasma gives her the faith to carry on with her self imposed quest for 'redemption'.

While she never calls attention to it, she always puts others before herself, quietly helping those in need and feeling very uncomfortable on the rare occasions her efforts are appreciated.  If anyone were to make even a modest attempt to get to know her they would find a friend for life from the lonely inquisitor, although she is very uncomfortable with most positive attention.

On her downtime Adina likes to write poetry, most of which is very, very angsty and of poor quality.  The rest is very purple, romantic sonnets of even worse quality.
She refuses to show it to anyone, or even admit that she writes poetry, even if caught in the act.

Sexuality Bisexual, but has no practical experience -- almost all of her knowledge about sex comes from poor quality lewd poetry she's read over the past few years.
On/Offs Thread https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=271827.0

Character Sheet

Adina Vasilescu
Female dhampir inquisitor of Pharasma 1
NG Medium humanoid (dhampir)
Init +5; Senses Darkvision 60 ft, Low-light vision; Perception +8

DEFENSE

AC 18, touch 13, flat-footed 15 (Dex +3, Armor +4, Shield +1)
hp 8/8 (1d8)
Fort +2; Ref +3; Will +4; +2 racial vs Disease and Mind-affecting
Special Resist Level Drain (no penalties, although will still die from negative levels.  negative levels automatically go away after 24 hours)

OFFENSE

Speed 20 ft. (Base 30 ft.)
Melee Heavy Mace +1 (1d8+1, x2)
Ranged Light Crossbow +3 (1d8, 19-20, 80ft.)
Inquisitor Spells Known (CL 1st; concentration +0)
  1st (2) -- Magic Weapon, Weapons Against Evil
  0 (At will) -- Brand, Detect Magic, Disrupt Undead, Stabilize

STATISTICS

Str 12, Dex 16, Con 10, Int 12, Wis 15, Cha 14
Base Atk +0; CMB +0, CMD 13
Feats Point blank shot
Skills Diplomacy 6, Heal 6, Intimidate 6, Knowledge (religion) 6, Perception 8, Sense Motive 6, Spellcraft 5, Survival 6; Check Penalty -6
Background Skills Artistry (poetry) 5, Craft (bow) 5
Special Monster Lore (Add Wis Mod to skill checks to identity the abilities and weaknesses of creatures), Stern Gaze (Add half level as a morale bonus to Intimidate and Sense Motive)
Languages Common, Aklo

ABILITIES

Light Sensitivity Dazzled in bright sunlight or within the radius of a daylight spell
Negative Energy Affinity Reacts to positive and negative energy as if undead
Detect Undead 3/day
Repose Domain: Gentle Rest (Sp) Your touch can fill a creature with lethargy, causing a living creature to become staggered for 1 round as a melee touch attack. If you touch a staggered living creature, that creature falls asleep for 1 round instead. Undead creatures touched are staggered for a number of rounds equal to your Wisdom modifier. You can use this ability a number of times per day equal to 3 + your Wisdom modifier.
Judgement Starting at 1st level, an inquisitor can pronounce judgment upon her foes as a swift action. Starting when the judgment is made, the inquisitor receives a bonus or special ability based on the type of judgment made.

At 1st level, an inquisitor can use this ability once per day. At 4th level and every three levels thereafter, the inquisitor can use this ability one additional time per day. Once activated, this ability lasts until the combat ends, at which point all of the bonuses immediately end. The inquisitor must participate in the combat to gain these bonuses. If she is frightened, panicked, paralyzed, stunned, unconscious, or otherwise prevented from participating in the combat, the ability does not end, but the bonuses do not resume until she can participate in the combat again.

When the inquisitor uses this ability, she must select one type of judgment to make. As a swift action, she can change this judgment to another type. If the inquisitor is evil, she receives profane bonuses instead of sacred, as appropriate. Neutral inquisitors must select profane or sacred bonuses. Once made, this choice cannot be changed.

Destruction: The inquisitor is filled with divine wrath, gaining a +1 sacred bonus on all weapon damage rolls. This bonus increases by +1 for every three inquisitor levels she possesses.

Healing: The inquisitor is surrounded by a healing light, gaining fast healing 1. This causes the inquisitor to heal 1 point of damage each round as long as the inquisitor is alive and the judgment lasts. The amount of healing increases by 1 point for every three inquisitor levels she possesses.

Justice: This judgment spurs the inquisitor to seek justice, granting a +1 sacred bonus on all attack rolls. This bonus increases by +1 for every five inquisitor levels she possesses. At 10th level, this bonus is doubled on all attack rolls made to confirm critical hits.

Piercing: This judgment gives the inquisitor great focus and makes her spells more potent. This benefit grants a +1 sacred bonus on concentration checks and caster level checks made to overcome a target’s spell resistance. This bonus increases by +1 for every three inquisitor levels she possesses.

Protection: The inquisitor is surrounded by a protective aura, granting a +1 sacred bonus to Armor Class. This bonus increases by +1 for every five inquisitor levels she possesses. At 10th level, this bonus is doubled against attack rolls made to confirm critical hits against the inquisitor.

Purity: The inquisitor is protected from the vile taint of her foes, gaining a +1 sacred bonus on all saving throws. This bonus increases by +1 for every five inquisitor levels she possesses. At 10th level, the bonus is doubled against curses, diseases, and poisons.

Resiliency: This judgment makes the inquisitor resistant to harm, granting DR 1/magic. This DR increases by 1 for every five levels she possesses. At 10th level, this DR changes from magic to an alignment (chaotic, evil, good, or lawful) that is opposite the inquisitor’s. If she is neutral, the inquisitor does not receive this increase.

Resistance: The inquisitor is shielded by a flickering aura, gaining 2 points of energy resistance against one energy type (acid, cold, electricity, fire, or sonic) chosen when the judgment is declared. The protection increases by 2 for every three inquisitor levels she possesses.

Smiting: This judgment bathes the inquisitor’s weapons in a divine light. The inquisitor’s weapons count as magic for the purposes of bypassing damage reduction. At 6th level, the inquisitor’s weapons also count as one alignment type (chaotic, evil, good, or lawful) for the purpose of bypassing damage reduction. The type selected must match one of the inquisitor’s alignments. If the inquisitor is neutral, she does not receive this bonus. At 10th level, the inquisitor’s weapons also count as adamantine for the purpose of overcoming damage reduction (but not for reducing hardness).

OTHER STATISTICS

Class Skills  Bluff (Cha), Climb (Str), Diplomacy (Cha), Disguise (Cha), Heal (Wis), Intimidate (Cha), Knowledge (arcana) (Int), Knowledge (dungeoneering) (Int), Knowledge (nature) (Int), Knowledge (nobility) (Int), Knowledge (planes) (Int), Knowledge (religion) (Int), Perception (Wis), Ride (Dex), Sense Motive (Wis), Spellcraft (Int), Stealth (Dex), Survival (Wis), Swim (Str).
Background Skills Artistry (Int), Craft (Int), Lore (Int), Profession (Wis)
Skill Ranks Diplomacy 1, Heal 1, Intimidate 1, Knowledge (religion) 1, Perception 1, Sense Motive 1, Spellcraft 1, Survival 1; Racial: +2 Bluff, +2 Perception; Trait: +1 Knowledge (nobility), +1 Knowledge (religion)
Background Ranks Artistry (poetry) 1, Craft (bow) 1
Base Saves Fort +2, Ref +0, Will +2
Favored Class Inquisitor (Skill 1)
Trait Child of the Temple, Chance Savior (+2 trait bonus to Initiative)

EQUIPMENT

Heavy Mace (1d8 damage, B, x2, 8 lbs.)
Light Crossbow (1d8 damage, P, 19-20, 4 lbs.)
20 Crossbow Bolts (2 lbs.)
Armored Coat (+4 AC, -2 Check, 20ft., 20 lbs.)
Light Wooden Shield (+1 AC, -1 Check, 5 lbs.)
Backpack, a bedroll, a belt pouch, candles (10), a cheap holy text, a flint and steel, an iron pot, manacles, a mess kit, rope, soap, a spell component pouch, torches (10), trail rations (5 days), a waterskin, and a wooden holy symbol (34 lbs.)
Ink, Inkpen
Blank book, partially filled with bad poetry (1 lbs.)
14gp, 9 sp
Load 43/86/130 -- 72 lbs.: Medium (-3 check, Speed 20)

[Pockets]

*places an interest marker and starts working on a Character idea* Um... alignment restrictions?

[Chulanowa]

*places an interest marker and starts working on a Character idea* Um... alignment restrictions?

Non-evil only please.

Well, sure. I'll get a look at the player's guide today and try to pin down an idea.  Do you have any general ideas for what kind of party makeup you'd like to see...?

I always play a little loose on party balance; Make what you want to play.

Do you authorized the vigilante base class ?

Yup!

[Grizzly]

I'd be interested, if there is room.

[Bibliophilia]

Additional Images

Lucia Yessena Emili Caterique Brati

Age: 19

Gender: Female

Background: Lucia's mother left her in a handwoven reed basket on the doorstep of a humble hut in the woods.  It was the first human abode that the Hag had come across and after determining that it was occupied, she was glad to be free of her burden.  No one will ever accuse a Hag of being particularly maternal.

It was that time of year when the nights begin to get cold, and Lucia wasn't shy about making her discomfort known once the chill and hunger set in.  This brought the wizened occupant of the hut to the door, where Mama Vanya found the dark-skinned, red-faced little girl howling to bring down the roof.  She wasn't particularly pleased by this development, but she brought the child inside anyhow, if only to make her shut up and cease her caterwauling.

Mama Vanya was a reclusive woman in her late sixties whose only interaction with the 'civilized' world came when she had to go to town for supplies.  Curmudgeonly, cantankerous and highly superstitious, she didn't particularly like the child she took in, and definitely didn't trust it, but she figured after a bit of raising, at least she would have someone to take care of her and do for her as she got older.  By the time she was five, Lucia was expected to care for the small brood of chickens, feed and milk the goat, clean the hut, make the meals and make any necessary trips to town to sell their goods and buy the supplies.  Meanwhile, Mama Vanya spent her days mostly dozing by the fire, telling the same stories over and over again, forgetting the name she'd given the girl and criticizing everything Lucia did.

Needless to say, Lucia wasn't exactly happy.

When she was around twelve years old, she returned from the village to find the chickens and goat all slaughtered, the door of the hut ripped from its hinges and Mama Vanya in the midst of being devoured by a huge, brindle-coated beast with glowing yellow eyes and a muzzle full of sharp, yellow fangs.  For a heartbeat, the lycan and child stared at one another without moving, then Lucia shrieked and fled from the hut.  The werewolf pursued.

By chance, there was a lumberjack nearby cutting trees and he heard the child's scream and came rushing to her aid.  He stumbled upon the werewolf clawing madly at the trunk of a huge tree with the small girl perched in the upper branches, frantically looking around for any means of escape.  If questioned, neither the lumberjack or the child could tell anyone how it happened, but by some divine blessing, the lumberjack was able to swing his common ax with enough force and power to separate the beast's head from its body.

Returning to the hut, Lucia was convinced that Mama Vanya was dead, and she was even more alone in the world than she had been before.  However, when she and the lumberjack found the old woman, she was still breathing.  The man helped the girl to set things to right and bandage up the tough old broad, whose recovery was remarkable and made Lucia feel that there was perhaps a divine being looking out for her, after all.  But, that didn't last long.

About a month after the attack, Lucia woke in the night to find a slavering beast throwing their humble furniture around the hut, smashing tables and chairs in a fit of impotent rage.  It seemed confused and disoriented, but Lucia had planned for just such another incident, ever since the first attack on their hut.  Quietly, she slipped from her bed and slid the cloth-wrapped throwing knives she'd been practicing with from underneath it.  Heart pounding and her lungs burning from the breath she refused to set free, she lifted one of the knives and let it fly at the creature.

Ten minutes and multiple exciting jump cuts later, the body of the freshly killed werewolf lay on the floor of the hut, riddled by poorly-weighted, desperately thrown knives.  As the pool of blood beneath the corpse spread over the packed earth floor, the creature morphed into the form of Mama Vanya, fresh off her first, and last, transformation.

Lucia calmly gathered her knives and wrapped the old woman's body in the blanket from her bed, then dragged her to the small garden behind the hut and buried her beneath the light of the full, yellow, Ustalavan moon.  From then on, she lived alone in the hut, and continued to train herself to fight the monsters of the world.  No one in the village questioned where Mama Vanya had gone, since none had seen the old woman for years, and no one had particularly cared for her to begin with.  The sale of the goat's milk, from the goat that had replaced the one eaten by the first werewolf, and the chicken eggs, a new brood to replace the old, kept Lucia fed and even allowed her to save up gold.  Every summer, she also had a beautiful crop of vegetables to pickle and sell at the market from the garden out back...which thrived with the fresh body fertilizing the soil.

When she was sixteen, and had saved up enough gold, Lucia packed the few things she cherished, sold the goat and chickens, and left the hut for the final time.  She traveled to the nearest city, Caliphas, and began plying her trade as a monster hunter for hire.  She was able to better research the creatures she was sworn to destroy, via the library and the tales told by the drunks in the taverns; and she honed her skills fighting rats and other bothersome beasts in the basements about town.

There were many times over the years that Professor Lorrimor called upon her to serve as his personal bodyguard or tracker, as he traveled in and around the city, as well as other places.  She enjoyed his company, and learned a great deal from the notes he allowed her to read while they were traveling together.  He also enjoyed hearing about her work and all the creatures she'd encountered in the performance of her job, as well as her personal insights on the beasts.

Lorrimor was one of the few people the woman considered a friend.

Appearance: Lucia's Varisian heritage is apparent in her dusky skin; thick, silky, dark brown hair and almond-shaped eyes.  Her bone structure is refined and striking, enhancing her exotic beauty until she is far more enticing than one would expect.  Her eyes are two different colors; one the inky black of night and the other a smokey grey like thin clouds passing in front of a pregnant moon.  She typically dresses in form-fitting clothing more suited to men, the fabric designed to allow her freedom of movement without risking rustling or snagging.  Secreted about her person are daggers and small throwing knives of exquisite balance and simple design, and she carries a crossbow strapped to her back with bolts slung across her chest.  Her dark breeches, waistcoat and black linen shirt put her small, high breasts, slim waist, full hips and strong thighs on unabashed display.

Personality: Lucia is the sort of person to stand on a rooftop, in the light of a full moon, gazing out over a village with her eyes hooded and an expression of brooding contemplation on her face...because she forgot where she parked her horse.  Sometimes you gotta climb up high to get a little perspective, you know?

Upon first meeting her, people tend to expect her to either speak in mystical riddles that sound deep and mysterious, or to say nothing and spend all her time fondling her daggers.  But, she's more about getting drunk and betting strangers she can put one of her knives through the center of an apple at a hundred feet.  And she's charming enough to convince these people to stand with said apple on top of their head, even after they've watched her down multiple pints or shots of liquor.  Lucky for them, she's very skilled with her daggers and, you know, a brilliant actress and hustler.

Even when things look their worst, she always has a clever quip or wry remark to lighten the mood.  She can come off as callous or unfeeling at times, but it's only because she tends to focus very intently when she is engaged in a hunt.  When not actively pursuing prey, she is personable, flirtatious, witty and cocky.

Sexuality: Omnisexual; Lucia doesn't discriminate based on gender, race, religion, or even alignment...as long as you're not someone or something she's hunting.

On/Offs Thread: Biblio's O&Os

[eBadger]

Torn between two ideas. 

The first is an honor-bound elven paladin struggling to maintain perpetual optimism in the face of a prophecy that she'll die a hero - and young. 

Solstice holidays were always difficult.  "This is Amanda," my parents would crow, beaming, prideful.  "She's going to be a legendary martyr!"  I was expected to smile, show humility, avoid dancing overmuch (what was the point in courting, after all?) and make cheerful small talk about my impending demise.  "Yes, it's a great honor," I would say, or "No, the prophecy doesn't mention any torture but all the really heroic sagas have some."  I'd listen to the cousins talk about planting orchards and sneak off for a little cry in the pantry.  Aunt Cece always made the best walnut and peach pie, though, so it wasn't all bad."



The second is a smotheringly matronly alchemist eager to dispense tea and unsolicited advice. 

"Oh, thank you dearie, me old back ain't what it used to be, eh?  I envy yer youthful strength, I do! And those hips...why, ye could drop foals a half dozen at a time, with the right fellow, what?  Best get started young, miss.  It all goes to fat in five years.  Possibly four.  Get you a thick lad, a full and happy stomach will keep 'em true and they won't side glance at yer when ya take seconds.  Why, that feller there been lookin' at ya all this evenin' - ain't nuthin' to be gained by playing coy.  Might only take three.  Here's a bit o spring blossom rooibos for some color in yer cheeks.  Aye, the whiskey is in there for courage."

[Bibliophilia]

Badger...I love you, man.  -is dying.-  They're both amazing.

[Chulanowa]

I have to admit I'm charmed by both, and so can't be hte least bit helpful in telling you which you ought to do. That said, It's my take that there's never enough dwarves around... Buuuut a Paladin is always useful, too.

M'yunno.

[Ixy]

Maggarie "Maggs" Forest

   

L1 Ranger, Favored Classes: Ranger, Archaeologist Bard (aka Lucky Rogue)
Appearance and Personality: Taller and more slender than most humans, Maggs is lovely but at first abrasive, sensitive, insecure, unpredictable, and slow to trust others.  Her white hair and subtly pointed usually kept in plaits and tucked along her subtly-pointed ears under her hood, but she has found that traveling outside of larger, diverse cities is a rude awakening to the distrust and prejudices of the world at large. 

History: Unknown to Maggs, she was raised by her birth-uncle after her shamed, unmarried, very human mother surrendered her for adoption and protection after her adventuring father, a converted surface drow, was slain in reprisal for his decades of service fighting against the slavers of Cheliax in an ages-old bood-feud.  Her uncle kept the nature of their blood relations from her in fear that she might seek vengeance some day.  Still, she seemed destined for trouble and survived in the shady underbelly of the city and the corrupted aspects of the city by the skin of her teeth to become part of a successful, but unambitious, gang of cargo thieves.

 

Eight years have passed since that night.  The spring rains were drumming on Lake Encarthan like a million diving faeries, pelting the leaves so heavy and fast that the noise was a long, ceaseless whisper.  Torches sheltered under ramshackle eaves and old iron and tin lanterns shed the only light, their pallid glows flickering with the breeze, the tinkling of stray raindrops against metal, canvas tarps, or broad-brimmed hats here and there yielding music into the night where the city thrived in its ramshackle bloom amid the canopy along the mouth of the river.

The man was led by a youth with a thin, patchy beard who talked with a languid continental accent and colorful diction, advising him of where to stay, who cooked the best meals, where to find the best games and books and the like.  Every building was an imitation of the last crooked hovel, some taller, some wider, some with shingles hung out depicting faded-colored sigils of some obscure origin, some misspelled services or professions.  The rain enhanced the smell of Tamran-- earthy and fithly, tobacco smoke and a high water table, fresh bread and old charnel.

"I thank you, lad," Lorrimor's deep voice resonated from under his dripping hood, muted by the pouring rain, "but the tour can wait, please.  I wish to see the girl."

The young man turned, rain cascading from his felt tricorn as he tipped his head to pour it off in a runnel.  "Right sir-- not givin' you the run-around, I swear it.  'sright ahead," and he pointed, "'s the girl's uncle's 'ouse.  We says uncle but was just he 'dopted her.  She came outta the east some'ere, jus' a babe, was lef' here," the boy explained, trudging the crushed shell path up to the doorway.  "What they say, anyway.  We was schooled togeth'a, but she looks much younger'n me.  Guess it's the elf blood."  Under the eaves of the thatched roof, the young man shakes off some rain from his oiled-leather poncho and knocks gently at the door where mismatched, colored glass-- salvaged from the river, perhaps-- has been set into the door to provide a colorful myriad of light from within.

The door is answered, and they are led within, but an old woman reeking of whiskey.  "You're the Professor, ey?" she queries, gesturing for Lorrimor to enter.  "Thanks Declan, wait outside if you don't mind," she says as she closes the door in the young man's face as he peers curiously around the corner, catching only a glimpse of the room beyond.  "Your letter came just in time, we was about to burn the thing," the lady adds as the door closes.  "Poor girl.  We don't know how she survived it," she says, and gestures to the pegs by the fireplace where several other cloaks, hats, and such hang to dry by the dry warmth.  "She's suffered a lot in her day.  Broke her breastbone one year falling out of a tree.  Bit by a timber rattler two years ago, nearly lost 'er then. But this--" the woman doesn't move further before fetching a bottle from her apron and taking a nip, offering it to the Professor, who declines with a wave of his hand.

Shrugging, the woman puts the bottle away.  "Well enough.  The doctor says he's heard of you, and that's good enough, then.  Your reputation, he says, means you've seen worse.  I don't know how she survived, like I says, but between his care and a potion or somesuch, apparently she'll recover completely."

Apparently done with the conversation, Lorrimor nods impatiently, producing a pair of spectacles from within his doublet.  "I appreciate that, madame.  My concern is purely scholarly... to prevent such things in the future.  Now, if we may..?"  That spurs the tipsy nursemaid from her reverie, and she leads him to the kitchen, where a makeshift operation has taken place recently.

In one corner, bloodstained sheets still wait in woven basket, as well as what look like the remnants of a girl's-- or boy's-- cotton and leather garments.  Stretched on the table, where a couple of chairs have been hastily nailed to the floor to prevent her accidentally rolling away, stretches a young woman-- perhaps twelve years old?  No-- Lorrimor corrects himself-- she would be older.  Half-elves mature slower than humans.  She is asleep, curled on her side and wrapped in a quilted blanket, sweating with fever, her breathing fast.  Her pale-blonde hair-- no, white,, it seems--  sticks to her forehead and neck, her large eyes closed and clenched tight as if to keep out the lamplight that creeps around the room.  The subtle points of her ears are not an unusual sight here in the river lands, but there are cities where her dusky skin and the elvish features would draw hostile notice.  Very hostile.

"She's much improved," a tired voice offers without impetus, and an aproned man with fine, sandy hair rises, a worn book still in one hand, to meet the Professor.  "Per your request, we saved the evidence.  Based on her improvement, I would guess that she will be able to answer your questions tomorrow."

Lorrimor fails to respond at first, his attention focused on the girl.  How..?  How could a fragile thing like this survive an attack from an abomination?  With a look for the doctor's assistance, he unwraps the blanket from the girl's hip and abdomen, and sees the fresh wound-- there, though healing is assisted, no doubt, from some concoction of elementary magical power, the wounds of both the surgery and the attack are clearly visible.  Stretching from under her ribs to the top of her hips on either side of her gray-hued abdomen, a gaping ridge of teeth-marks, like the puckering barbs of a bramble, have penetrated the pale skin and pulled, no doubt drawing the skin taut, paralyzing the girl with pain.  And then, just above her navel, a round puncture was made-- like some giant mosquito penetrating her belly with a blunted instrument, pushing aside organs to make a cavity inside, suitable for...

"An ovipositor," Lorrimor says, giving an uncharacteristic shiver.  "They said this girl was attacked by a tree, you said.  A living tree--"

"The youths with her clarified that it was actually a stump, sir," the doctor answers.  "Perhaps the girl will give more clarity when she awakens, but-- yes, your assessment is correct.  This thing was some sort of living creature, and clearly its attack was intended to debilitate her, not kill her outright, while it placed a... spore, of sorts... into her body."

"And you removed it," Lorrimor says with a nod, gently testing the healing stitches laterally and vertically across the round wound.  "You would have had to open her like a gutted doe."

The doctor doesn't answer, despite his lack of preference for the imagery.

"How a doctor of your skill ended up in this corner of the world, I will not inquire.  But I will express my admiration for your talents, doctor.  This would have confounded most clerics and ended in a messy death in many hospitals."  He covered the girl again, touching her ashen cheek once.  "What courage you Nirmathans possess."

Smiling faintly, he turns to the doctor once more, his look of respect giving way to the determined professionalism.  "Now.  The egg, if I may inquire."  He takes out his coin purse... one of many, of course, but the one that he currently carries.  "Your work here could use a sponsor, no doubt, and I wish to learn all that I can of this creature... knowledge which I will gladly share with you and your people to prevent such horrors, if I can."

The girl's eyes fluttered open at the piercingly-bright lantern light as the cool air of the blanket's lifting gave way once more to the cocoon of warmth enveloping her, and she stared up at the men beside her table, wondering if they were bartering over her soul or if, perhaps, this stranger was paying for her funeral.

**

 

Two months ago.  The wind-driven waves lapped at the hull of the rocking ship where the yellow and red-pained mask of the god-king was painted in gaudy, repetitive pattern, declaring the ownership of the trader vessel to any who dared set eyes upon her.  Over this rocking hull where the anchor-chains were tethered to the docks, Declan, Hammill, and Mags climbed the sopping, dripping ropes, their own forms like black rats gliding up despite the lack of grip on the thick, knotted ropes that were soaked with fresh water and slimy with algae.  Further up the dock, a watchman for the ship was shouting at their distraction-- Burlor-- a young man who 'volunteered' to walk all the inkeeper's gambling terriers at once, and the half-dozen pint-sized beasts were predictably entangled by their leashes and barking with the fierce cacauphony of murder, mayhem, hell, and damnation while the Razmiran dock-guards cursed at and challenged him.

Declan reached the deck of the Red Vetter first, and almost tumbled where Mags had shot out the lanterns from the opposite dock, the spilled oil mixing with the rain to make the deck slippery as glass.  "Watch iiit," Mags hissed, reaching the deck beside him just as Hammill began rigging a cargo float out of netting and rope.  "To the hold before they come lookin'."

The keys to successful ship-robbery on the Encarthan are as follows: the tavernmaster had explained, planning, silence, and moderation.  Stealing a ship-- or a ship's worth of cargo-- is simply not fuckin' possible.  This ain't the Shackles, and it's not bloody war-time.  Sure, I think I could do it SOME day... maybe catch one out in open water, get aboard 'er, steal 'er blind and sink the bugger, but I'm not really interested in starting a war or bein' 'anged as a for-real fuckin' pirate, am I?  No, for now, the bugger's moored in our 'arbor, so we're stealin' a bit from 'er to make it worthwhile and they won't even know it's gone 'til they do their inventory.  Then, they might even blame their own crew, think someone skimmed to get a night on the town, eh?  So they won't raise much of a fuss.  And... come on, it's bloody Razmiran.  They need to be robbed.  And we have people need to eat.

A creaking cabin door signaled that they weren't alone, as footfalls ascended plank stairs from the cargo hold.

Also... don't get caught.

The iron-faced mask of a soldier's helm-- completely impractical in the situation, but completely typical of the Razmiri army-- is momentarily illuminated in the pale moon-glow through the clouds as he turns the corner and begins his stolid pacing of the deck.  Maggs, Declan, and Hammill shoot each other accusatory glances, for clearly this is a third watchman when there were only supposed to be two, and the terriers are still barking annoyingly at the end of the dock, but that ruse can only last so long.

Maggs moves forward to flank the deck door, watching the back of the soldier as he paces his way to the distance in the reluctant rain, seemingly gleefully put-upon in his stoic, pious suffering.  Maggs waves Declan on, and with a singularly angry glare at the prospect, Declan musters the guts and creeps for the stairs, descending them with the silence of a cat on the hunt into the dimly-lit storage area below.  Maggs watches the guard pace, shadowing him from forty feet away, and when he starts his walk onto the pier, drawing his blade to deal with these annoying dogs once and for all-- that's the signal.

Maggs opens the door and whistles down two notes-- signaling 'move forward.'  Declan carries up a crate of some kind of glass bottles, so heavy that Maggs buckles under the weight, and she has to crouch to turn the corner and carry them to Hammill, who helps her load them up.  The three of them chain six boxes of cargo-- water-tight crates or water-resistent items only, hand-chosen for their worth by Declan's keen eye-- and lower the cargo float smoothly to the water.  As the best swimmer, Hammill has tethered it to his ankle and slips over the dock to swim for the other shore.  Maggs and Declan follow, swimming like otters to make as little noise as possible.  The dogs and their "master" have been run off under threat of skewering, and are raising a ruckus in another realm of the port city where they are met with clanging pans and curses until Burlor returns them to the River's Mouth Inn, yapping and giddy with the mayhem of the night.  Maggs pauses only to retrieve her arrow, snapping it quietly and tossing it into the water to wash away with the tides, and they slip away to the silvery surface of the lake.

They are joined, an hour later, by three still-wet youths, shivering from the rain under their dark cloaks, leading an oxcart of boxes that the tavernmaster has been expecting.

*

 

"Another piece of the roast, Declan?" offers the tavernmaster, forking over a piece of simmering, fatty meat to the young man who raises his hand in protest.

The young man wiped his blonde beard and answered.  "By the gods, old man, I eat like this ever' night, I'll float 'way with the cargo next time," and they all of them laugh heartily, the three rogues, the youth, the tavernmaster, the waiting-girls.  One of the waiting-girls has liked Declan for years but he keeps looking at Maggs.

"Speakin' of float 'way, I nearly did--" says Hammill, grinning over at the others, "what was in that one crate... air potions?  Boats?  Balloons?  Bottled djinni farts?"  The laughter rises again, and a tavern-girl ruffles his red hair.  "Djinni farts get a good price nowadays, I take it?"

Wiping a giddy tear, the tavernmaster still holds the fresh-sliced beef on a knife-point at the table.  "Ooo, oooh, lords above.  Oh.  And how about you lass," he addresses Maggs, who is leaning back casually on the bench, catching only the occasional glance of jealously from the dark-haired tavern girl who has her eye on Declan. 

Maggarie smirks back, her pale blue eyes giving a glimmer like a cat in the tavern's welcoming gloom, and waves it away with one long-fingered hand.  "You're too kind, sir," she says softly, then raises her cup once more and tries not to lock eyes across the man with Declan, whose gaze lingers on her more and more these days, and especially nights.

The man, jolly with drink and success, presses on.  "I know you're half-elf and all, but you can do with a little more meat on your bones--" jokingly, he reaches as if to tickle her ribs.

The tavernmaster's jaunty gesture is invasive, but teasingly so, and he does not actually touch her.  Still, in a moment, Maggs has produced a dagger from her sleeve, whipped it underhand, and pressed the point under the man's ribs.  "NO-" she hisses feverishly, the fury so vivid in her bright eyes that her pupils shrink to pinpoints, and the whites of her eyes are visible all the way around.  Her white eyebrows knit together and twitch, her teeth grind audibly.  Her whole body-- slender with a half-elf's grace and beauty-- is coiled to kill or be killed.

Silence settles like a heavy drape over the mirth at the table for a few long seconds, and the tavernmaster doesn't twitch, except at his eyes-- bloodshot under his sweaty brow, they glance from party to party, looking for some aid or signal that all will be well, before his thick lips form some semblance of apology.  "I...I--I-- was-- was-- only f-foolin' about with ye--" the meat still wiggles on his blade, which might as well be a spoon in his trembling fingers.

The girl swallows, her gaze softening, her eyes shining.  "Oh, oh gods, I'm sorry."  She immediately drops the dagger onto the tabletop, feeling the eyes of the others on her.  The reflexive protectiveness of her reaction was beyond reason. 

"Bligh, sir, the scar-- y'know... what happ'n'd" offers Hammill, and Maggs, her cup still in her unarmed hand, sets the clay vessel down numbly.  The eyes of the others make her burn with shame, and a faint blush of fury and embarrassment darkens her grayish-beige cheeks.  She feels like their gazes are the beams of spotlighting lenses deep in a cave, turned curiously onto a strange specimen just before it withers and dies. "I'm so sorry I'm sorry."  She tries to cover her face with her hand and be casual, and then simply rises and heads for the door, Declan's hand missing her arm by only an inch.

She is the only one still dressed from the job, still wet from the swim, and she gives no thought to the persistent drizzle that pours from the sky.  The others changed behind dressing screens inside, her stealing a surreptitious peek or two around at the lads with secretive, hopefully unnoticed glances.  But she would never risk someone seeing the marks.  Even the memory of the scars on her belly leave her nauseous with fear and self-loathing.

It was a seed.  It was a spore.  It was alive and it was going to eat you from inside.  She remembers the Professor's words, the calm stillness of him, as she walks into the rain without her cloak.

Your doctor removed it... but, it's still alive.

She tries not to remember, tries to think of anything to keep her mind from remembering that vision.  From seeing it all over again.

I have to see it.

"Maggs!"

She freezes.  She turns, and water drips from her mass of white hair, puddling and running down the sides of her fine nose and sculpted jaw.  The city is still sprawling about, but she's been walking for a while.

It's the dark-haired tavern girl, bundled in a man's oilcloth rain-cloak.  Maggs has watched her, envied her, admired her, noted Declan's eyes on her.  Maggs doesn't even know her name.

"Hey Maggs... wait.  Here."  She hands her a bundle.  It's her own still-damp cloak, and a pouch heavy with coin.  "He says he's sorry, the old man.  He knew what happened to you, but forgot.  Y'know, 'bout the scar and all.  We don't always remember, even us locals.

"They say to come back."  She swallows, hoists the hood of her own now-wet cloak.  "Declan wanted t'come but I sent him back, said it was a job for a woman."  The girl seems to hem and haw, as if waiting for her to respond, but it's clear she hopes the answer is no.  "He fancies you, o'course. Y're pretty, y'just don't dress... or really act... like a proper girl." Grinning, she gives over one more bundle.  "An 'ere, this letter... came through the tavern for you.  I... shoulda give it to ya' earlier.  But... if you come back tomorra', instead of tonight, they'll understand.  And... um... I'll owe ya' one.  I... think I could make Declan happy, see?"

The young rogue stares back for a while before giving a little nod, trying not to imagine Declan and the tavern-girl tangled up naked together.  She looks over the folded paper bundle in her hands, addressed 'to Maggarie Forest'.  "Thanks," she says softly.  "You'd be good to him.  Tell them I'm fine."  She sniffs once, then meets the tavern girl's eyes and smiles.  "And tell 'im I fancy lasses," she says, turning her back and beginning to walk away.

The tavern girl laughs once, holding the hood back from her face to keep the rain from dripping down her neck.  "But he won't believe that--"

Maggs straightens her back, shrugs, and turns around, planting a heavy-mouthed, hot kiss onto the tavern girl's mouth, working her jaw fiercely before drawing away with a smack.  "Will he believe that, then?"  She says, turning away to head off into the rainy night.

Splashing through the puddles of Tamran, she makes her way home to pack, somehow sensing that she won't be staying here much longer.  The letter seems heavy in her hands, as if it has some great weight within beyond mere paper and words.  The coin from her job will last her for a journey, perhaps.  She must soon learn where.

[Pockets]

The problem is that I can't decide the dabbling Summoner who is walking the fine line between neutrality and evil, the Charismatic Rogue who can talk his way into/out of nearly any trouble, or the Dr. Frankenstein-esque Alchemist.

[AdventureGuy]

[Put character pitch here]

[persephone325]

I have a Dhampir Druid I've been trying to play for...a few years. I'll just throw out what I have: https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=59831

[Chulanowa]

Well, that's built on 25 points 

Also... I can't for the life of me figure out what a druid is doing with all that Charisma. Unless...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MNu_kqxqbew

[persephone325]

Well, that's built on 25 points 

Also... I can't for the life of me figure out what a druid is doing with all that Charisma. Unless...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PE-kjgKBbI0

Well, it was for a different campaign that never started. If I remember right, she was the foster sister of a Cleric (played by another) and the sister channeled negative energy in order to keep her sister healed during battle.

Can't remember why I had her with high Charisma, though. Must have been some reason. But, like I said, this was a character I made a few years ago.

[clonkertink]

Ooh. Interested. Will throw a character concept here a little later today.

[Ixy]

Though my concept is for a rogue, the character could work as a different Chaotic Good class without altering the history or details. I've worked up ranger and bard (detective) sheets as well as the unchained rogue sheet.  I'm selecting alternate portraits as well.  Really it's just the character concept that I'm hoping works... Any feedback is appreciated, and updates will continue to be added above.

[eBadger]

Lady Amanda Caithwaine

Sheet

An honor-bound elven paladin struggling to maintain perpetual optimism in the face of a prophecy that she'll die a young hero. 

Solstice holidays were always difficult.  "This is Amanda," my parents would crow, beaming, prideful.  "She's going to be a legendary martyr!"  I was expected to smile, show humility, avoid dancing overmuch (what was the point in courting, after all?) and make cheerful small talk about my impending demise.  "Yes, it's a great honor," I would say, or "No, the prophecy doesn't mention any torture but all the really heroic sagas have some."  I'd listen to the cousins talk about planting orchards and sneak off for a little cry in the pantry.  Aunt Cece always made the best walnut and peach pie, though, so it wasn't all bad."

 

For 300 years it was apples and priests.  True, the oracle announced a few exceptional fates: craftsmen, merchants, a second cousin who wrote silent plays, but the Vale was at peace and the folk within were hard working, devout, and peaceful, renowned for their fine wild orchards, puritan religion, and little else.  So, despite her nominal nobility, when baby Amanda was placed on the blind man's lap her parents hoped a new cider recipe lay in store, or perhaps she'd be the one to finally drain the marsh in the back quarter. 

Instead the oracle pronounced the babe would become a great hero, a legend of her own age and many after, touched by the gods to free their people through selfless martyrdom of her young life. 

The destiny wasn't assured, of course; such prophecies only revealed potential, and required devotion and hard work to achieve.  Still, it was a rather impressive fate and Amanda's parents were reminded of their titles and importance.  Only a few months old, Amanda was the center of family pride and expectations.  If she was, in fact, an exceptional child it was merely to be expected of a role model.  She was admired, envied, celebrated and placed atop a pillar she had no part in making and wasn't entirely sure about.  While everyone else only thought of her coming glory, she struggled with a peculiar, ungrateful hesitance to die. 

Only one other person seemed to understand her predicament.  She met the awkward, gangly son of a visiting scholar in the southern woods, where the young squire repeatedly saved him from sick boars, crumbling cliffs, giant beetles and a rabid squirrel.  The human boy left for home infatuated with the fiery haired exotic beauty and they continued correspondence for decades, never again meeting but sharing all manner of their lives. 

Even after decades of weapons tutors, honing her body and spirit through exercise and philosophy, arrayed in the polished arms her grandparents once used, Amanda still struggles to accept her fate and the one friend who always understood that has been a sort of salvation. 

It's ironic, then, that news of his death would come with the unmistakable first step of adventure toward her own. 


Campaign Trait:  Chance Savior

Character:  Only 116 years old, Amanda has the svelte, wiry strength unique to the elves, fiery red hair brighter than any human's and deep, crystalline green eyes marked with a sense of sorrow.  She smells of apples, even when none are around, and armor oil, which she always has around.  Soft spoken, focused, self-conscious, dedicated if not confident, she exudes an almost divine sense of gravitas.  One of 13 children, she has a massive family that includes nearly everyone within the small community of the Vale; a modest, puritan settlement both civilized and pastoral, respectful of nature as they shape the forest into wild orchards and living manorhouses.  Amanda is defined by the sense of a dutiful daughter bounded by the expectations of others and struggling to live up to them, despite her misgivings and the sacrifice of her own hopes and dreams. 

Sexuality:  The experiences available to a doomed noblewoman in a religious community are limited.  The inherent expiration dissuades any serious interest and encourages the wrong sort, so Amanda abstained in frustration.  She is bisexual, although the implications of a few pleasant kisses with her cousin Isabelle are still a bit vague.  For now, her love life includes the round handle of her third-best dagger and a somewhat petulant sense that a bit of casual sex shouldn't be bad when it's the only option available. 

[Chulanowa]

I like what I was reading there, Ixy for class, I dunno, I could see anything from like a rogue to fighter, ranger, some sort of weird scrappy bloodrager. Lots of ways you could go on this.

Looks good, Badger. I can't get out of my head, " of course I have a boyfriend, you probably wouldn't know him, he lives in, oh, Daggerford..."

[Ixy]

Thanks for the feedback... added some background, edited the story a bit, and added a draft of the character sheet above.  Went with Drow-Blooded and couldn't get the "Double Sighted" Trait to work with the sheet, so added a character trait that essentially did the same thing.  All this is pending your approval of course... hope it works out.

[Chulanowa]

Couple things. One, you just get two traits, one of which can be a campaign trait. Sorry I didn't mention it in the first post, but no drawbacks for extra traits.

Second, she gets average gold for a level 1 fighter - 175 GP. So that breastplate (200 GP) is out of range. Don't worry, I'm sure there will be armor upgrades in the future