Character Sheets

[elgatocello]

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[irishmagician]

Niall McClaren, human inquisitor

Appearance:
Niall is a 6'2'' male human, sturdily built with long, flaming red hair; tied back with a simple leather strap. He has a unsmiling face, almost continually untouched by emotion. A black tattoo, with intricate knot patterns, runs down the right side of his face. Niall wears scale armor, with a steel shield inscribed with the eagle-claw clasping a sword, the symbol of Camulos.

Background:
Niall hails from a small nomadic tribe living in wilds bordering the Barren Mountain to the northeast of Stonesbury. Shortly after his birth, the tribe was attacked by a horde of goblins making a pillage run down from the mountain. While the men of the tribe were skilled in combat, in this skirmish numbers overcame strength. Shortly afterwards, a caravan passed through the area. Seeing nothing but carnage and the remains of the tribe, they prepared to leave.

However, one member of the caravan heard the sounds of a baby's cry come forth, hidden underneath one of the bodies. Moved by this sight, the person went forth and took the child from the battlefield. As the caravan continued on its journey, the members in the group realized this environment wasn't conducive to raising an orphaned child; so they left the baby with the warrior-priests of Camulos, at a church to the north of Stonesbury.

It was here that Niall was raised, trained and educated by the warrior-priests of Camulos; a god of war and justice, whose tenants mainly focus on perfection of body/mind/soul. As he grew up, he practiced continuously in both prayer and armored combat style of the warrior-priests. Eventually he joined the ranks of the warrior-priests himself. He rose through their ranks, until he reached a position that suited a position that suited his talents; that of an inquisitor, one who deals with the enemies and problems that arise against the church of Camulos.

Often locals from the surrounding villages, or even desperate individuals farther out, make requests of the church in issues dealing with injustice or needs of protection. While usually paladins of the church are dispatched for most of these needs, the inquisitors are sent for more "private" requests. One such request was assigned to Niall from an anonymous individual. Only calling himself a "benefactor" of the church, which was of course backed up with a rather hefty donation. His request involved a substantially corrupt official in Acadia, who had been falsely imprisoning innocent people on fake charges so as to profit at their expense. The client wished that this official to be brought to justice, either through the proper authorities of Acadia or in the unforgiving eyes of Camulos.

Niall made his way through the countryside into the city of Acadia, his first time really ever entering an urban environment. Shortly after entering the city, he made his way to the location where he was to rendezvous with the client for further information. On the way to the location, however, he was accosted by the city guard. Shown a warrant for his arrest without an actual charge or reason, Niall went without resistance; for who was he to question the pursuit of Justice? Now he sits in the Acadian Prison; silently praying to Camulos for his next course of action.

Charge: Conspiracy to Commit Acts of Treason

Edit: added Improved Unarmed Strike, to replace Favored Weapon (Irori, unarmed strike) class feature.

Attachments:

[Juniper]

Jessamine West is a cipher. At first, she seems to be a tall but delicately built albino woman, with skin and hair impossibly white. On closer inspection, however, the slightly blue cast to her hair and barely visible tracing of blue all over her skin speak to something a little outside the ordinary sort of extraordinary. She is quiet and seems to be shy, but also looks constantly distracted, as though there is a conversation going on that only she can hear, one carried to her on the light breezes that never seem to rest in her presence. It seems clear she, or someone near her, is aware of the odd impression that she gives: her leathers are dyed white, and worn over a slender but fluttery white linen tunic and leggings.

Most people have no name for what Jessamine is, and even she didn't learn it before she turned fifteen, when a passing wizard offered to purchase her from the orphanage in which she was raised. They made him swear in the temple first that he meant her no harm, but everyone in the small town of __ knew it was probably a non-binding oath. Besides, wizards were rarely to be trusted. That didn't stop them from handing her over. She made them nervous.

Jessamine's worst fears of her new life were never realized. The lustful glances of the village men who saw her as exotic had always shaken her down to her bones, but she was a little startled to find the wizard's total lack of interest in her as a woman rankled just a bit. Still, he didn't touch her. Instead he asked her a constant barrage of questions about what she knew of her origins (little to nothing) and the soft breezes that never seemed to leave her alone. He never stayed anywhere for long, dragging her to the coast so that he could watch sea winds rush around her, to the plains to shove the terrified girl into a windspout, to the mountains where he shoved her off a waterfall to see if maybe she could fly.

She couldn't, despite one exhilarating moment of pure freedom just at first, when she had wondered for a brief, impossible second if maybe she could. And when she woke, washed up on the edge of the deep lake underneath the waterfall, to hear the wizard's voice calling her name in panicked and deeply apologetic tones, that moment became the only thing that mattered. She hid until nightfall, then picked her way down the mountain slowly and cautiously, traveling to the nearest city big enough to disappear in. She dyed her hair with walnut and rubbed dirt into her luminous skin and spoke to no one, constantly afraid of hearing the wizard's kind and gentle voice explain the next test of her nature he wanted to do.

In the city, she had the first pure stroke of luck of her life. Perhaps the halfling woman who took her in had lost a daughter long ago and perhaps she was truly just that kind, but Morrilee listened to Jessamine's pathetic tale and immediately assured the young woman she had a home for as long as she wished it. Moreover, after a week of enduring her new houseguest's habit of jumping every time someone walked past a window or knocked at the door, she drew a glimmering silver sword out of the attic chest where it had been lovingly packed away years before, handed it over with every show of reluctance, and even sorrow, and began to teach the girl how to use it. A call to an old friend brought another tutor, a dwarven wizard named Deepthunder, who told her of a man he'd met long ago whose sword and sorcery had worked together seamlessly. Jessamine began to take a fierce pride in the skills taught by the aging pair of former adventurers. Never again would she be vulnerable or helpless.

Three weeks ago, Morrilee got a letter from another of her old companions, a half-elven cleric who had a place with a temple in Acadia. The letter seemed innocuous, but it had been the first one received in twenty years, and Morrilee read it with a terrible sense that something - she didn't know what - was wrong. It nagged at her night and day, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Jessamine spent a sleepless night unhappy at her foster-mother's distress, then in the morning mustered every bit of courage she possessed and offered to carry Morrilee's return letter herself. "If your friend is in trouble," she offered in a nervous near-whisper, "I can maybe be a help to him. And I can't stay here afraid forever."

Morrilee agreed reluctantly. "Just be careful, dear," she urged the girl. "Carren wasn't like the rest of us who roved together back then. He wasn't bad, or anything, just - indifferent, I suppose. And worried most for himself."

It was a good warning, and Jessamine awoke in an Acadian jail cell, all too short a time later, wishing she had given it more heed. Carren had been surprised to see her and not Morrilee, but he had clearly anticipated his old friend's reaction to his letter. He'd fed her some line about the temple being low on funds and needing to be discreet about it, and she, like a fool, had written a reassuring letter back to Morrilee and taken the gold plate and the instructions Carren had given her and blithely gone to fence what she understood now had been stolen goods. The little rat! But he was Morrilee's friend, and now she had to decide whether to betray him and Morrilee's trust to get out of her dilemma.

Possession of Stolen Property

Attachments:

[Juniper]

Also, a picture.

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[comicsans12pt]

I switched to a ranger. If you need me to go back to a fighter, i'm happy to do so but i thought i'd share the story either way:

The fairy tales are full of princesses. Where in the world do they all come from and what do they do with them after the best ones have been married away? If you are Sibet (a small brother’s pronunciation of Elizabeth), you find yourself at age 12, being quietly sold to one of the household servants who, in turn, sells you to a distant brothel. Only the daughters of the favored concubines get to be shut up in cloistered life.

But you did well. By age 15, you’d saved enough to buy your freedom and a second hand dagger. You used it to cut your hair and to cut up all but one of your fine dresses.You headed into the forest.

There you were not quite as prodigious as in the brothel. Learning the land was hard for someone who’d always lived where the comfort of the ‘guests’ was the priority. But despite days of being lost, you learned the forest. You learned when the rabbits come out for food and what smells will frighten them. You learned that sometimes birds and wolves vie for the same berries. And somewhere along the way you befriended crows, eagles and all manner of creatures.

The crows taught you that you need only listen to the calls and responses of the flock to know which kind of predator was about and where they roamed. Sometimes two of the crows would meet with two of the eagles and changes happened. The flock would move. The eagles hunted a different part of the river.

And that was your education. As is sometimes necessary, you went to the city for supplies and company. If money was needed, a night of free lancing a former profession would usually bring in what funds were needed. What started out as pity by most of the tavern keeps (who met you in your first years) has turned to respect as you’ve negotiated business arrangements over time. You bring in quiet, discreet clients who are generous to the serving girls. Everybody wins.

But now a few men with discretionary gold is not enough. Local law enforcement has not only banished all humans from the forest, but it has begun to trap indiscriminately and others have begun to strip the land. Even when you were sold, you did not have as strong a need to destroy those responsible. Gold will raise militias or at least bands of saboteurs. Gold is the needed tool.

Time now to use other skills.

You head into the city not quite knowing what to do. You enter the city gate and see someone who might have been a former client. He ducks into an alleyway. As you follow through the back ways of the city, you find yourself on a street you are not familiar with. When you look up and down you see that there is no one else here. The man you were following is gone and the street is deadly quiet. It is then you feel a sharp pain to your head.

You awaken in prison and after a great deal of arguing and coercion you find yourself charged with a violation of the anti-pedestrian zoning law.

Charge: Streetwalking

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[joviality]

Falongora the Scarred

Falongora, or just Falon, as she usually introduces herself, is an elf with a tragic past. Hailing from a far-away elven city, she grew up in a family whose patron deity was Halani Celani, elven goddess of love and beauty. As such, she was required to not only attend school and to her own academic interests, but also to pursue an art of her choosing. Falon found she was interested in the art of illusion at the academy - augmenting the real with beautiful pieces of figment - but also in creating true, beautiful works of art with her brush and pastels. These two things seemed to her two sides of the same coin; her art influenced her illusions and her illusions were made more real through her careful attention to detail. As she grew up, Falon was a beautiful child, and was the pride of her family. Not only was she beautiful herself, but she was also able to create further beauty through her paintings and drawings.

Her world fell apart the day they studied alchemical acids in the academy, however. As she was adding a critical ingredient to the cauldron for the class to watch, an unforeseen chemical reaction occurred and the acid jetted out of the bubbling soup, drenching Falon's face, chest, and hands.

The scarification from the chemical burns was massive. Despite the efforts of healers, Falongora's face and skin never remained the same. It was as if the scars were magically resistant and cursed somehow. She and her family wept for days, mourning the loss of their daughter's beauty and the honor that had been lost to their patron goddess.

(It was later discovered that the ingredient she had been adding to the pot was not the correct one, and Falon has always suspected that it had been switched out maliciously. She has never been able to find out who did it, however.)

Despite this crushing blow to her self-esteem and pride, Falon has continued to create stunning works of art. Almost as if the beauty that was on her outside became channeled into her paintings, they became more ethereal and breathtaking even as her own scarring worsened. She took to wearing a cowl that covered her face and gloves that covered her hands for her day-to-day activities, hiding her horrible disfigurement from the world. Yet despite all of this, Falon has maintained a disposition that is relatively sweet and unassuming. Only when faced with hardship does she grow colder and more distant - something she learned from those who shied away from her disfigurement.

As the years passed, Falon completed her training at the academy and also matured as an artist as well. Her paintings usually had an element of stunning, otherworldly beauty to them, but always with a darker undertone that hinted at something secret hiding below the paint. She has had enough of the life in her homeland, wanting to see the world in all of its beauty, and to travel and sell her paintings.

She has come to Acadia to do just that - with not much more than a pack full of paintings and her spellbook, Falon headed off to Acadia. Falongora was walking toward the market to see if she could sell her works when a stray breeze blew her cowl back, exposing her face to the crowded street. She scrambled forward to grab her hood and put it back in place, but before she could, several children shrieked out in fear and surprise - and the city guard quickly closed in on her.

All-too suddenly, they overpowered her, shoved her cowl back over her head, and drug her off to a jail cell whose location she could only guess about. She awoke groggily, and worried greatest for her most prized possession: her painting set.

Charge: Willful Intent to Frighten and Capture Children

Character Sheet: Falongora the Scarred

[Veritas]

Uric of Trudd

The fourth son of the High Priest of Torag, Uric was never expected to go into the priesthood at all, let alone for another of Torag's relations. Like all dwarves, he was raised underground, in the halls of his fathers, and fully expected to become an artisan instead of a priest or soldier, tasks given to his older brothers. But sometimes, fate intervenes.

Even at a young age, Uric was densely layered with muscle and strength, and people whispered that he was blessed by Trudd, the god of power and muscle for dwarves. However, he diligently went about his artisan's training, learning how to forge metal armour, preparing to forge stout coats of mail and rings in his home of Keshildune (Citadel of the Anvil). But one day, a piece of metal was brought that none could forge, and the King of Dwarves demanded it be made into a breastplate for him. It was said that the dwarf who pounded the strange metal flat would be gifted riches and jewels, or perhaps the daughter of the king in marriage.

Many tried at the sacred forges to pound the metal flat, and eventually Uric decided to have at it. His first strike did nothing, and he plunged the metal back into the fire. He withdrew it, and struck again, but nothing happened. Each dwarf was only given five strikes to try to shape the metal. On his third strike nothing happened, and he murmured a prayer - but not to Torag, to Trudd, the strength diety whom he'd oft been related to. He prayed for the strength to shape the metal, and show that he was worthy. On his fourth stroke, the metal may have shifted, not enough to declare victory, but enough to catch Uric's eyes.

He prayed again - not for victory, not for the wealth or daughter of the king, but simply for prowess. The hammer came down a fifth time, and the place he struck was flattened. He continued to hammer, and the king had an adamantium breastplate of his very own. Uric, however, refused the gifted gold and silver, and instead told the king that his reward was faith and purpose, and that following Trudd's guidance, he intended to bring the beauty of strength to the world.

And so he left, to travel the world, eventually ending up in Acadia, where he found a pub, and in good dwarf custom, drank the bar closed. Upon doing so, he was tossed to the street, where he was arrested for being drunk in public. Even as they dragged him to jail, Trudd continued to explain, "I didn't want to be drunk in public...I wanted to be drunk in the bar!"

Charge: Drunk in public.

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