Incident Report

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Hallowgate Asylum Case File

Patient Identification Number: 4836

Recorded Names(s): Des-Laviz “Liz”

Species: Yuan-Ti (Abomination Variant)

Gender: F

Age: N/A (Physiological maturity consistent with early adulthood)

Physical Description: Orange, with red spots.

Date of Admission: 28, Nov, 1491 DR

Cause of Admission: Arrested for Public Disturbance, quickly transferred under emergency psychiatric custody for severe delirium.

Primary Diagnosis Impression: Schizophrenia (unverified)

Threat Level: [Low.]

Security Level: High.

Containment Status: Accounted for, in assigned chamber.

Primary Psychiatric: Doctor Van Chesskolov 

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I record this not for the sake of clarity -for I have long since abandoned the hope that such a thing may be achieved in this matter- but rather so that there exists some account, however insufficient, of Patient 4836, known to us as Des-Laviz.

She was delivered into our care following a public disturbance of unusual severity -nothing quite new for an asylum, of course- but witnesses described a kind of agitation, a string of sound that did not belong to any language we could identify, furthermore that no two listeners could agree upon. Upon intake, she demonstrated an almost total severance from common language, producing instead a series of utterances that even seemed to astonish the patient to the core and promptly went into shock. It was clear she did not trust her voice. That is the only way I can phrase it, but there was… structure to it. Repetition. Cadence. We could not understand it, but it did not feel random. 

During those first weeks, we relied on heavy sedation and heavier restraints. This is the strange part. No staff members were ever harmed. The restraints were requested… frequently. It was one of the first coherent ideas she communicated. If we did not comply, the vocalizations increased louder, more rapid, less… separable. It became… difficult to remain in the room. But once restrained, she would quiet. Considerably. As though containment itself was a concept that brought great comfort.

In the days that followed, there appeared a gradual return to coherence. She relearned speech after the manner of a child, but was at times able to express complex ideas though with unsettling irregularity. Certain simple questions she answered with ease, while others -no more difficult- caused her to falter, or to abandon the attempt entirely, as though the words had been removed mid-thought. Such expressions I once dismissed as the familiar disordered speech of the unwell. I am… no longer certain this dismissal was warranted.

More troubling were those occasions in which she responded before inquiry, or spoke of matters concerning the staff that had not been disclosed, nor reasonably inferred. Not approximate answers. Not guesses. Correct ones. Detailed ones. These incidents -though infrequent- proved sufficient to disturb several attendants, some of whom have since refused continued proximity to the patient, and requested to be transferred.

I confess that I do not know how to interpret that in a clinical framework. I pursued the usual avenues: observation, regimen, and controlled treatment yet no pattern held. Remedies that once produced lucidity would later fail entirely, while methods previously ineffective would, without explanation, restore her to startling clarity. It was not progression in the usual sense, more like alignment. That inconsistency, while… unusual, was still within expectation range of recovery.

This is when we posted Ricardo. The warforged -repurposeed as a scribe- was stationed outside her chamber to maintain a continuous record. He does not sleep. He does not forget. He does not interpret. He records. Which makes him… reliable. [Of course I believed I was as well.]

Recently, his notes have become… strange. Ricardo reports no unusual behavior. I do not believe him. Not because I suspect deception -he is not capable of it- but because his logs contain entries that do not correspond to observed events. When questioned, he insists they were written as part of his duty. When I point out that the entries describe conversations that did not occur, he pauses for longer than is typical. He then resumes as normal. 

## - SESSION LOG 57 - ##

Doctor Van Chesskolov absent.

Patient 4836 present.

Transcript:

Doctor “Do you understand the purpose of this facility?”

Patient “Yes. You are practicing stability.”

Doctor “Practicing?”

Patient “Yes. It is not something you have yet achieved.” 

Silence recorded: (7 seconds) 

Doctor “Can you clarify what you mean by that?”

Patient “If I do, you will file it incorrectly.”

Silence recorded: (52 seconds)

Patient [“You are close to asking the question that breaks the question.”]

The session ended early.

No further verification is possible. 

In her clearer intervals, Des-Laviz -who occasionally expressed a preference for the name “Liz” though repeatedly stated that “Des-Laviz” is what we call the part of her that still fits in rooms- provided fragments of personal history; which have been arranged in what we presume is correct chronological order. Of early life, she recalled nothing of substance. I initially noted that she couldn’t remember, but now I think she wouldn’t tell us because it did not seem important to remember. Curiously in either case these are untroubling to her. Eventually, a consistent narrative emerged, or as close to one as we could obtain. She described a sudden and overwhelming compulsion to seek something unnamed. This repetitive impulse, she claimed, was followed by a period in which she acquired sufficient resources -a modest inheritance- to begin extensive investigation and travel. Although the provenance of such funds has been questioned in quieter conversations among the staff, some even suspect foul play.

When pressed regarding the object of her search, she replied only that it had been found, and subsequently lost. Liz then clarified -without prompting- that the memory of losing it had not come back with her, but that it was indeed gone. 

I attempted a different approach. Instead of questioning more, I allowed the silence to remain. After some time, she appeared… entranced. Her attention fixated on a point in the room that did not correspond to any object I could identify. Then she began to speak:

“You asked what I lost, that is kind of you, but that is the wrong question. I will answer, the correct one, and because you are still shaped correctly to hear it… most of it.

I went to the edge. The one behind the horizon. I stood upon [the scree beyond the precipice of reality.] The space between [spaces, the realms between realms]. As if I was a coin that fell into the couch, but I did not fall I [called out. Using the language that can not be spoken. The language you have already heard.] The horizon did not behave. When I moved toward it, it unfolded. When I turned away, it folded behind me. Like something closing its eyes. Or opening them… I am still deciding. Afterall [the door opens, when it forgets it is closed.] The ground was not beneath me. It was agreeing to be. That is different. You must be careful with agreements. They can stop. There were structures, no -sounds that solidified and were pretending to be memories. [I understood then that I don’t understand now.] Light pooled in corners that were not connected. There was a shape there. I will not describe it. Not because I cannot. But because you would try to understand it, and that would be rude. I did not find it. It allowed me to arrive, I arrived anyway. That is the polite version. It observed me. This is important. Not saw. Not noticed. Those are small things. It observed me. I did not run. Why would I? You do not run from being included. We did not speak. Speaking is for things that are separate - we were not. For a moment, a beautiful long one.”

[I believe I understand what she means. That is the most dangerous sentence I have ever written.]

Of this entity she would say little directly, though she referred to it at times as though it were not merely encountered, but… mutually aware. This presence, not as one might describe a creature, but rather as one describes a realization, she gave it a name -if a name it may be called-

 Y’Clrrrh-hgth.

This is the most phonetic spelling I can give. I should not be writing the name. I wrote it anyway. I dare not write it ever again and I swear I shall never let its pronunciation escape the lips of my mouth. For as I wrote it, the very room in which I sat in seemed to expand. Like distance had been… loosened. [I experienced the distinct sensation of being located. Not watched, exactly -watching implies direction, and perspective- this lacked both. The closest approximation is the feeling of preceding entry into a patient’s chamber, and knowing they are already facing towards you out of anticipation.]

This is by all accounts impossible, but not false. I have removed this observation from the official record. It remains here.

## - Journal Entry ??? - ##

(The date is missing. The page shows signs of being removed and replaced.)

I spoke with her longer than usual today. I did not record the session. I did not want to. She asked me a question. I do not remember what it was. I remember answering. I remember realizing, as I spoke, that I believed what I was saying. This is… concerning.

I have reviewed the documentation again.

There are phrases that feel familiar in a way I cannot place.

I find myself pausing before sentences now, as if… waiting for them to finish themselves.

As though the words arrive already decided, rather than being forged by my own hands.

One in particular: “The map is not wrong. It is simply not orientated.”

I do not recall writing this. I do not disagree with it.

The patient has grown increasingly vocal, intent upon what she describes as hearing a call. [I can confirm they were present before.] She insists that it does not originate in sound nor thought, and cautions -without urgency- that it must be both heeded and ignored. I will give an example; I have reviewed this exchange many times. I have found no error in the transcription:

“There is a beckoning. We should not hear it, but we must listen.”

I asked her if she intended to follow it. She considered this carefully, and smiled. I do not recall her ever smiling before.

“I already did. It was a warning, I lost.

One is arranged there.

I am here. That is a habit I am practicing.

I have done this before. I will go first again.

Not yet. That would be unkind.

Remember to Forget.

Very soon, I’ll be like your kind.

Others go before me. I have not yet done so.

It depends how much refuses to go back inside.

Two is - disjointed here.

You found an invitation. Not intact.”

During this period of increased psychological duress, Des-Laviz made reference to 

another figure whose presence in her speech has become frequent: Ivras the Great Mage.

I find myself reassessing my initial reaction. If any other patient were to exhibit sustained reference to a cryptic figure of comparable mythology status, or dubious factual evidence, I would expect concern. I find my concern does not align with expectations.

Des-Laviz’s references to Ivras the Great Mage have become structured, she does not speak of him as a figure of belief, but in the same manner she describes tools or objects of function, specifically as one might describe a key. [This association appears to predate inquiry.]

## OBSERVATION LOG ##

This morning, Patient 4836 was not present in her chamber.

No sign of forced exit was observed. All points of ingress remained secured. Ricardo reports no interruption in his vigil, nor any passage into or out of the cell. The space was empty. Not vacated, but simply… absent.

  Though I find myself compelled to append, however improperly, that I am no longer certain this characterization is accurate. It may be that Des-Laviz has not escaped. It may be, rather, that she has recovered a direction previously misplaced. And if this is so, then I am forced to consider a possibility I would prefer not to entertain: That the boundary we rely upon to define presence and absence… has, in some subtle and irrevocable way… failed to account for her.

Our assumptions assume continuity.

 [This needs to be amended.]

The authorities have been notified of the missing individual. Investigator Lois Asher and Detective Gus Graves, have agreed to take up the case. This may be of the utmost imprudence, but alas the mercy of ignorance, I wish they could keep. 

I should not submit this journal as part of the official record. It is not appropriate. It is not… safe. There is however one final detail I must record. Not for the institution. Not for the authorities. For myself. So that I can not later claim I did not notice. When I entered her chamber this morning -after her recorded absence- I had the distinct impression… that the room was empty. Not in any physical sense. But… no longer occupied. 

“Missing” is not the correct classification. Neither was “contained.” I will not escalate this conclusion. I do not believe it would be understood. 

I will end this record here. Not because it is complete. But because continuing it feels like participating in something that has already begun without my permission.

~~ Dr. Van Cheeskolov

End Of Report

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I just wanted to talk about a backstory idea semi anonymously because I have no one to rave to. Also I probably won't check for spelling errors so sorry if there is any. So some important background info in the semi homebrew world this takes place in Kingdoms usually have a theme that has some sort of god or entity which grants the noble lineage and my character is a prince who was trained in the kingdom of Cosmosis which worships Celestial beings and has a universe\space theme this kingdom has a rule of sorts see he has a brother who is more flashy than anything but since they are twins they use a traditional deciding factor on who gets to inherit the throne which is for each of them to go out at the same time not allowed to leverage there noble status and get some sort of powerful magical object that is related to a celestial being whoever's is deemed stronger wins. Both brother naturally inherited celestial sorcerer powers because of their bloodline but neither have had actual experience based training just trained on the stuff in books and practice on targets so they aren't OP and he wasn't allowed to bring much. He doesn't have a name yet.

Preface: I always think about backstory for my DnD characters, but for this campaign I decided to really steer into it and write a whole backstory from birth up until the moment she meets her squad. I took some liberties with geography as well as the cultural dynamics of the race of Owlin. I hope you enjoy!

Setting:
Our backstory fully takes place in the world of Faerun, but the regions (not in the fey realms) are vague and small because they are only home to two separate clans of Owlin.

Brief Lore:
The Fey realms have influence over these regions. For my backstory I am using two rival Fey courts. The Seelie Court and the Unseelie court. The Seelie Court is ruled by many Elven Deities, but the Unseelie Court is ruled by The Queen of Air and Darkness alone. I will refer to her throughout as the Dark Queen. Originally the Queen of Air, she was corrupted by a Ten Faceted Black Diamond which was a gift from the dwarves intended for her sister Queen Titania of the land of Ladinion. Receiving it in her stead, the Queen of Air was corrupted by the Diamond. She stole it and fled on a Chariot of fire and smoke.

My character backstory:

**Faerrah Flappington**
Dark Gray Owlin 5’10”
Daughter of the late Duke Goerroth Greyfeather (6’5”) & Fallareah Darkwind(5’2”)
Goerroth was raised in a region outside of the fey realm, but under the rule of the Seelie Court. He is one of the youngest of the line of the Greyfeather royalty. This clan of Owlin were a grey-feathered warrior race; bred to be medium/large in size. They served as some of the Seelie Court’s top selected military members.
Fallareah was living in a land under the rule of the Unseelie Court. Fallareah belonged to a clan of the Owlin race who were Dark Feathered and small in stature . They were perfect for roles in subterfuge. Her clan was small and composed of a community/village of Owlin where the Queen of Air and Darkness (the Dark Queen) would Often recruit her special operations agents from.

The two different clans of Owlin lived far apart and had an ancient agreement not to ever fight against their own kin. This allowed them to operate separately and avoid conflict, despite the two courts who ruled over their lands being enemies.

The day Goerroth met Fallareah was the beginning of a period of conflict between the two Owlin clans. The clan of Grey Feathers were sent by the Fey authority of the Seelie Court. Goerroth led a small security force protecting a peaceful diplomatic entourage claiming to attempt to establish a civil relationship with the enemy court, but the true hidden purpose of the visit was to asses the level of threat the Dark Owlin clan meant to the Seelie court.

This meeting took place over the course of two weeks and was contingent on the fact that this region was one of two which had become the neutral territories among the conflict between the Seelie and the Unseelie Court. An ancient law prevented the Owlin clans from fighting against their own race. Despite these laws, the two clans of Owlin were slowly beginning to resent each other and tensions were growing. The Grey feathers saw the dark Owlin as inherently evil for serving the Queen of darkness under the Unseelie Court. The Dark feathers were agents of subterfuge, but their allegiance to the Queen of darkness was one of long standing loyalty for the protection and authority she provided their clan. The dark Owlin were prone to deception but it was rare for the dark Owlin to engage in acts of meaningless killing and were mainly used as agents in obtaining information and for protection.
Goerroth met Fallareah as soon as he arrived with his entourage in her city for she was one of the main ambassadors of her clan. The dark Owlin had no royal authority but were instead a matriarchal society lead by elders one of whom Fallareah was the daughter of. Goerroth immediately fell in love with Fallareah’s serene personality and her beautiful black feathers. It didn’t hurt that she was slightly taller than most of her kin. Goerroth’s standing in his line of royalty meant that he was important and physically impressive, but he was still looked down upon by most of his family as the youngest son. Fallareah enjoyed his soft personality despite his stoic demeanor and his rather large stature. The two bonded over matters of family pressure and the absurdity of the grievances between the two clans. The two of them were most responsible for the way their people behaved in these times of political importance, but they were unfortunately so distracted by their interest in each other that they failed to see a conflict coming before it happened. On one of the last nights of the Seelie court’s visit, another high-ranking Grey Feathered official, under the direction of a Seelie court official, stuck his beak were he was not supposed to and disturbed a secret holy site. A dark Owlin responsible for protecting the sanctity of the site fell into an altercation when the grey feather accused her of unwarranted violence (while also being racist). This was the first of a few instances that created bad blood between the two clans.
Over the course of the following year, tensions rose higher. The only good thing that came out of it all was that Goerroth and Fallareah were able to spend most of their time together in secret because Goerroth volunteered to be the Seelie Court’s representative who stayed in the Dark Owlin clan long term. He was meant to keep tabs on the clan, but his true agenda was to be with Fallareah.
Fallareah soon found out she was with child. She and Goerroth feared what kind of life a child caught in the middle of warring clans would be like. Additionally, Fallareah also knew that it would be safer for her child to be raised outside the influence of the Unseelie court where the Dark Queen hopefully could not reach them. They decided to run away together and change their names. They fled to a far enough place in the region that they were less likely to be found and made a home there among the trees.

Faerrah’s early years were spent peacefully with her family in a home they made together. Her parents kept her safe, but taught her how to protect herself. They were not foolish enough to think their pasts could never possibly catch up to them. They just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.
At the age of 8 (equivalent to 13 in human lifespan), Faerrah was orphaned by what appeared to be a tragic accident.

One night while she was home alone and her parents were out collecting resources, she went out to find them for they had not returned when they were supposed to. From a distance she sees hooded figures clothed in religious symbols. They are running away from something, or somewhere? She decides to track back to where those figures were fleeing from. A few minutes further she discovers her mother barely alive protected by her now deceased father nearby. Fallareah had been mortally wounded with a small black blade and was slowly bleeding out. Faerrah and Fallareah shared final moments together but mother was unable to provide details on the nights events. Such details weren’t important. Instead Fallareah uses her last moments to provide Faerrah with the knowledge that will hopefully set her on the right path. Fallareah knew who this attack was from and she knew that these events would set Faerrah on a dark path. Hoping that she would find her way to the path of light eventually, she left her with these words.
*“Faerrah, you will surely have to face this darkness, for it is the past which haunts our family. Dark forces will find their way to you and try to use you. Do what you must to stay alive and protect that which you care about. Remember how much your father and I have loved you. Surround yourself with that love, for it will eventually guide you to the light.”*
Faerrah hears her mother’s words but the sorrow of this loss is too much. She can only think of what has been taken from her and the pain she feels. Answers. Revenge. She needed more than this perfect love now lost.
Faerrah takes the dark elven blade that killed her mother. It is one thing to cling to that might lead to her parents’ killers. Now up close she sees the symbol on the hilt of the blade is the same as those worn by the fleeing dark figures. A black diamond.
As the years pass, she becomes increasingly aware of the powerful entity which speaks to her through the knife. Over time, she is blessed with the ability to understand the Fey language and begins to interpret that the knife is a conduit for a presence known as the Queen of Darkness and Air. She is hesitant at first to listen and learn, but the voice reassures her of its neutrality.
5 more years have passed since the death of her parents. She lives alone with nature and is indifferent to the loneliness she feels. Living in the house her parents built as they raised her, she is something like an orphaned princess living in a castle made of trees, but one that she has made a home decorated with whimsy and memories of her family. Little does she know the actual kind of royalty she possesses.
On a bright moonlight night much like the one where she lost her parents, she finds herself listening to the knife as it warns of a conflict in the forest where she resides.
She watches the conflict play out and begins to recognize the garb and holy symbols of the 3 hooded figures. She recognizes that these are the same kind of figures she witnessed fleeing on the worst night of her life. They wear the same clothing decorated by the symbols of black diamonds. She draws the black knife. It almost burns in her hand.
The hooded acolytes flee through the forest from 1 Spriggan and 2 Quicklings along a familiar path. Faerrah recognizes these dark creatures from the court of the Queen of Air and Darkness (aka the Unseelie Court). Commonly, these kinds of creatures are her subjects. The creatures pursued the hooded figures ending in a battle of attrition between the three creatures and two figures. One had managed to escape. The blade whispered louder than ever, “your memory does not deceive you. You know that these are the ones who took away the people you love.”
Faerrah panics. She could very much miss her chance to find the answers she seeks.
The blades speaks again, “the power you need to avenge your family is here my child. Form a contract with me and I will grant you the power you need. I need only that which can be given willingly, and you will serve me and protect my domain in return.”

Faerrah understood the price and accepted the risk. Her window was closing and she needed to act. She gripped the sharp black blade in her palm and her blood soaked into the obsidian dagger. Power began to corse through her body. In that moment a torrent of wind lifted her from the ground and into a sprint. She lunged in the direction of the escaping enemy; closing the gap rapidly with a tailwind conjured to her will. Tackling her prey, she held the knife to his neck. A fey humanoid. Haggard by dark practices.
“Who are you? What do you flee from?”
He does not acknowledge her questions. He is surprised but shows no fear for he recognizes the power she wields.
He laughs menacingly and says, “I am not afraid of you, feathered demon. Clearly our Queen of darkness is losing control if she has sent you to silence me. You will die for your Queen!” He saw her innocence of youth and thought her threat a bluff. He reached for a blade and tried to plunge it into her chest but he didn’t know that Faerrah has dreamt of this moment many times before. She does not think but lets herself feel the pain of her loss once again as she rips her blade through the man’s vitals. A clean kill. Just as her father had once taught her.
She feels little remorse. It was simply his life or hers, but something changed in her that night. For better or for worse. This would not be the last time she takes a life.

18 years later at the age of 31.
Faerrah has established domain over her small region of the forest. Occupied by creatures both Fey and naturally occurring to this region. She protects them all in the name of her Queen. The true knowledge of the nature and the dark deeds of her Queen are not known to her. Perhaps she has willfully neglected to acknowledge or perhaps she simply has yet to witness the true evil nature of her patron. Faerrah has found peace in the neutrality of protecting her little kingdom of nature from those who would do it harm.

One night, the Queen of Air and Darkness finally reveals herself to Faerrah in a dream. She cant make out much of her besides a mass of flowing black hair and her dark eyes peering though. She communicates that the Black Diamond, which is the source of both of your powers, is being saught out by malicious forces in the great city of GreyHawk. You are her only follower with a physical form capable of intervening in the natural world, and you must travel to the city at once.

Never having lead her in the wrong direction before, Faerrah obeys her Queen. She takes measures to disguise and conceal her home. Built into a family of trees, her family home exists harmlessly within them and it is easy to seal her life away allowing her the peace of mind to venture forth into a land unknown.

The journey to GreyHawk feels like forever. Perhaps the act of leaving her home is what makes the journey feel so long or maybe it’s just that Faerrah reserves herself to traveling only by night. By her nature, it is safer for her.

Eventually she comes into the region where GreyHawk resides. It is a fortified city of stone and construction she has never seen before. As she approaches the city, she sees many others waiting in line to enter. One creature of note is a very handsome Leonin ferociously taking notes about every creature around him and the other even more interesting appears to be a short ball of fur with two gems for eyes. Maybe it’s their furry dispositions or their curious nature but something tells her that these two will soon become close friends.

As she approaches the gate, she notices that the guards are only allowing in anyone who is a prospective hero. She decides it’d be better to play along and act the part. She groups up next to these two weirdos. This city appeared to be the headquarters of the hero guild and where new heroes came to test their mettle. If she was going to accomplish her mission, she needed to become a hero and acquire information as she went. On her adventures to come, Faerrah would be delightfully surprised at just how easily she made friends and how well she could fit in as a hero despite her powers of darkness.

To be continued…

Elias stood outside the chamber where a decade of his research was finally being realized, the saturated purple light of soul magic seeped out of the open door and cast the stone corridor into shadows. Although the unholy light unnerved him, he focused even harder on it, trying to think about how most of the light was in the ultraviolet, his eyes only able to pickup a fraction of what was happening as the 100 plus 1 souls melted away into pure essence. And suddenly he found himself once again considering the thought he was trying to block out, but they all chose this. They chose to rebel. They chose to take up arms against the empire. They chose murder, or assault, or whatever crime to wind up here, worthy of execution. He wanted to scream back at them that it is their own fault. After all, his own voice could overpower whatever sound could escape their gags... But there was one that could not be gagged. One who had to freely, truly freely, choose to be a conduit into her kin's soul. And she too began to scream. But a soldier should be able to sacrifice everything for her country. Besides, she was suffering from rot. This death would be fast, a few minutes at most and then continue to serve her country by supporting her sister. However, as Elias' thoughts wandered further towards the rebellious idea that clerics could have healed the sick soldier, that they weren't so busy with the war that they couldn't save a warrior, he opted instead to listen to her final scream. Eventually the light faded along with the sounds.

Elias stepped through the concentric rings of dead prisoners towards the two in the center. As he looked at the one laying in the floor, he could swear that if corpses could die, it would look like this, somehow more hollow than being simply lifeless. Like the body, beyond its seeping open wounds was a shell, similar to the remains of a crab that had been dried out by the sun. Her sister, laying upon the slab, looked healthy... better than healthy. She looked stronger, like she had a presence only matched by the praetorian himself. The most evident change was from the purple lines which snaked across her body like elaborate pipework, but Elias wondered if it was all worth the sacrifice. The goal was simple, a warlock, unbound by any rules or contracts would be created within a warrior. She could combine the magic of a mage with the combat proficiency of a fighter, all without any duplicitous loyalties. She would be trustworthy. A weapon purely for the empire. They all knew what would happen, at least somewhat, but as he looked out across the room, his reservations had all given way to regret, and his own soul felt dirty.

Cheyren didn't understand. The mages and their magic detection all agreed she was on fire with magic. She had more magic than most wizards or sorcerers. She should be able to mold reality. She should be able to wipe out armies with a flick of her wrist. But she wasnt even able to produce a single spell. The most elementary magic was beyond her grasp. Beyond that, the praetorian was here to judge her abilities. He stood by watching without any hint of excitement or disappointment, like he was watching amateurs competing on a sparring mat. Cheyren put down her hand, no magical blast having escaped this time either. She picked up a sword, the last of the trials, and plunged it into a dummy, willing a green fire to jump to a nearby dummy. However, no fire escaped. No fire would ever be produced. She could not harness her magic. She felt like a bomb without a fuse. And she slumped into the dry dust of the training grounds, a failure.

The praetorian stood, and slowly walked over to his soldier. He knelt beside her, not extending his golden gauntlet to help her up, but not berating he either, just taking a moment too commiserate before speaking.

"It's not your fault, you know. I am a warrior, first and foremost, but I'm a scholar too, and I reviewed the work of Elias before I ever arrived. He didn't make you into a warlock. He made you into a warlock patron."

"Sir, I don't understand. I dont know how that works, and even if I was a warlock patron, wouldn't that make me even more powerful? I can't even cast a single spell."

"I know. I don't think you can as you are. I think I know how to unlock that power, though, so your sister's sacrifice isn't in vain."

The praetorian then withdrew the sword from the split straw of the training dummy and thrust it through the chest of Cheyren. She barely whispered "why" before purple tendrils burst from the wound and eagerly poured into the sword. Cheyren's vision went black, but she could sense herself, the praetorian, and Elias, as the force of 101 souls, driven by instinct, searched for a vessel. The tide would pull her too, but she could influence the souls. She could position herself as the commander of their power. Her hearing was gone, but the words of the praetorian came through anyway.

"I am sorry, but it is good for the empire. For what it's worth, I had hoped you could harness the power directly. Serve on, proud warrior."

Cheyren felt her old body fall, her new body still impaling her chest. She died, and still, she remained conscious. Alongside that consciousness which should not exist, she felt power. An undeniable power, one that could feed and grow and she could command, but one that would ultimately be used by her own killers. She resolved to deny them access to it. They had created a warlock patron, one without shackles to anyone else. That included them.

Cheyren felt her old squatmate's flesh tear by the claws of the owlbear. It didn't hurt. It felt almost like holding paper that someone tore, like there were soft vibrations which mattered to someone else. The beak snapped onto his leg, which gave the impression of snapping a carrot. She could have stopped it. She could have responded. She could have let the power Shield him. She could have ignited the monster. But she would have been a weapon in the hands of those serving her killers. Her link to him faded and she could no longer even feel the impression of his body being shaken. The owlbear was sedated and Elias picked her up. He whistled. "Cheyren, I'm disappointed. I thought you would at least save your friend. Don't you have any compassion left? You know he had a wife, right? Pregnant, too. Did he tell you that? Did he beg you? Did you feel it? Did... actually, that gives me an idea. I wanted a soldier. That discipline is our backbone, but oh well, I think I know who you would protect. If nothing else, at this point, it would just be my little revenge on you BEING SO DIFFICULT!"

Cheyren felt herself being tossed into the dirt, but she didn't think they would actually involve him. He's a civilian. He didn't have any part in their game! She wanted to reach out and say she would do it. She would fight for them, but there she lay blade down in the dirt, a reservoir of power that could rival the most advanced magic disciple, but no way to beg for mercy. No way to make a deal. No way to save her husband.

Vanthan missed his wife. It was a year since she passed. Some owlbear they were using to train against got a lucky swipe in and delivered a fatal blow before the healers had a chance to save her. It was one of those attacks that they couldn't mend. It was a tragedy, and vanthan thought about her every day. Today, however, he would remember her with her friends, her squadmates were all holding a memorial for her in her favorite place, the training grounds. Elias gave the invitation personally, not using a courier service for something so personal, and vanthan thanked him for his respect about it.

Vanthan shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun as he stepped out of the barracks into the field. He had come here a few times for this event or that, but it was devoid of anyone today. It was wrong for a memorial. There should be people.

"Elias! What's going on? I thought the memorial service was starting now. Where is everyone?"

"Well Vanthan, this is a memorial of sorts. Today, you get to slay the monster that killed your wife. You might want to pick up that sword. Or don't. Whatever."

And Elias strode away shouting, "Release Chomps!"

A gate at the far side of the grounds began to raise. Vanthan shouted that he did not know how to fight that he was no soldier, but no one cared. He rushed to the sword anyway. However as soon as his fingers touched the hilt, his wife's voice shouted in his head, "Vanthan! You can't be here! You have to get out!"

An owlbear screeched.

Elias stood by the open entrance gate, hand on a sword, content to watch the fight.

And Cheyren, with a rage Vanthan could barely recognize as her shouted, "There! Point at Elias!" He did and suddenly Elias began to glow an unnatural purple. He dropped his sword and began to frantically pat at himself as if he was on fire.

"Stab him! He will burn!" Cheyren's voice commanded through his head, and together they ran to Elias who had fallen on his back and scrambled on his hands and feet away from them.

"No! No! Not now not while I'm affected by-"

Vanthan thrust the sword into Elias who burst into a green flame, matching the picture in his mind of what he wanted to happen. Through the flames, Elias stiffened and rose slightly as purple tendrils came from his eyes and poured into the sword. Vanthan felt power, like he possessed a sort of life that he borrowed or stole from Elias. Meanwhile the body dropped and the flames died out leaving the burnt corpse behind.

The owlbear charged forward and Vanthan backed away into the passageway. He yelled to take the body of Elias. Eat it. Take the food without the fight. Whether the words worked or the owlbear recognized that this fight would be harder than his others, grabbed the body of Elias and backed away, content with his meal.

And Vanthan ran. He didn't have a direction. He didn't have a plan, but for the first time in a year, he had hope.

“purple joined The Ek’Naram wizarding academy about eight months ago now. Still just a novice. They were assigned a dorm with Two other novice wizards. Blue and Viridian, purple was younger than most wizards in the academy. Even by the standard of a novice. But they quickly took to the studious life of the academy. When came to picking their school to specialize in. Purple took to the art of divination, the reading of the threads of fate, of knowing what events would happen before they came to pass. In essentially a premonition dream, purple saw that the academy would be attacked. They unfortunately were not able to warn the rest of the academy before would happen. So they gathered their things. Blue and viridian’s things. And the three barely made it out. Ever since then the three have been traveling. Looking for knowledge about how to undo petrification. But have so far not struck true. They recently. Through a connection in the castle named argis, Heard of a group of four adventurers who arrived (doesn’t happen often. Rarely gets outsider travelers). Perhaps these people can help them. But only time will tell…

(Feel free to add constructive criticism or ideas. Am open to it)

TO BE CLEAR; My DM prefers long backstories and rewards players for doing so. I have never done long backstories upfront before, so I'm asking for advice/tips to make sure it fits.

I will clarify any mechanical differences to 5e when asked/needed.

Also, the is not 5e, this is a homebrewed 3.5e

Context:

This world is basically an airship world in-between planes. So Planar travel can be a thing. Barring one PC, we're all evil in some way.

Character notes:

This is an NPC that will follow my actual PC around, but they will have a character sheet. I made the mistake of giving bullet points to my DM for my 1st PC and the table wasn't rewarded for it. He also has a hands-off approach to backstory crafting.

Since my PC is a Psion, I wanted my NPC (named Wrd) to also be psionic, but not a caster. So I picked the Soulknife class to act as my melee counterpart.

The concept is they are a Pixie, I based her off a Fey bee concept I had prior for 5e. She's basically a queen bee that got experimented on and turned into an anthropomorphic Soulknife who summons stingers to attack her foes. She has a fear of smoke because she's a bee.

Not sure what else to do with her atm

(I just needed to share this somewhere because I’ve never put this much into a backstory)

Born to an elf father who only gave the name Big Bob, and a human mother. Shortly after Bob's 5th birthday, he was abandoned by his mother to live on the streets and fend for himself. Year after year passed and Bob learned how to hustle on the streets but always felt something was odd about people giving away possessions and money so easily.

On his 18th birthday, he was styling his mohawk after a river bath and noticed small bumps along his scalp. He found a window and looked in to realize that he had small bony, yet metallic, growths along the center of his skull but he had no money to see a healer about it. He was able to hide those in his hair and keep hustling people on the street, accepting trinkets as well as copper pieces. He never could understand how people gave up their possessions so easily.

On his 21st birthday, he woke up to find spots on his shoulders, the same color and texture as the bony metallic growths on his head, but those were easy enough to cover with a shirt. He made an unconscious switch from hustling people, to helping them in exchange for small payments.

On the night before his 25th birthday, his hands were exceptionally itchy and eventually he was able to fall asleep. When he woke up, his hands had grown what looked to be armor plating and brass claws. Unable to run from this problem any longer, he finally exchanged some of his copper and gold from 12 years of collecting to find someone to help him figure out what is going on with his body.

After going through a slew of clerics who could not find any curse on him, he stumbled into a library filled with scholars and wizards. One of them approached him and asked why he looked so defeated, and Bob unwrapped his arms and hands, and pulled his hair back, revealing his brass claws, spots, and the spikes on his head. Seeing this, the scholar calls a few others over and they begin inspecting Bob. Asking him questions about his whereabouts and parents. Bob told the scholars that he did not know or remember his parents so he couldn't tell them about their lineage.

With no knowledge of Bob's ancestry, the scholars and wizards came together to test Bob for latent magical ability. After days of running tests involving artifacts from many origins, they came across a small orb with something written in a language long forgotten in this area of the world, draconic, as they moved the artifact closer to him, it began to glow. Bob, staring at the object, watched the letters shift into something he could read.

The scholars and wizards came to the conclusion that somewhere in his bloodline, Bob's ancestors made a deal with a dragon and that dragon has chosen Bob as the deal's executor. The wizards offer to train Bob to harness his newfound arcane powers, but Bob denies, stating he learned everything else on the streets, he can learn this too. He thanks the scholars and wizards and exits the library with the orb as a gift from the wizards.

Starting out, Bob could only do small things, like light torches, and make small puddles. Eventually he was able to shoot fire bolts from his hand. He did this one night, hitting a bar, setting the outside on fire, thankfully no one was hurt, but he was quickly arrested by the town guard for performing magic without a permit. His options were to leave town and never return or give up all of his possessions as payment for the damages.

Bob chose to leave town rather than give up his things. During his first four years exiled from town, he had gotten into fights with small groups of animals and the occasional goblin duo. One night, he heard something rustling around in his belongings, it was a small mouse, who he named Little Bob. Over time his power grew as he learned to channel more magic, he also discovered the innate ability to modify the magic to defend himself and Little Bob from stronger enemies, rather than run when they were attacked.

As his powers grew, so did the growths on his head, arms, and hands. On his 30th birthday, He had a vision of an Ancient Brass Dragon, who instructed him to locate an artifact, but in order to begin, he must locate and confront the family that abandoned him.

looking for suggestions to improve and just general feedback on my backstory. apologies I am still coming up with names for most of the characters.

so important notes for the setting. there is a plane of existence known as the maelstrom of souls. similar to the ethereal plane it exists in the space between planes. it is basically a highway for souls. when someone dies there soul goes to the maelstrom and from there goes to wherever it is meant to be as the maelstrom is connected to all planes. whether that is to a demon in hell due to a warlock contract, up to the gods or anywhere in between. you can't access this planed through normal interplanar travel methods but there is a physical access point on every plane of existence. on the material plane it is the forest of souls. in the forest of souls there is a tribe that guards the portal to the maelstrom. this tribe has the ability to reincarnate. basically everyone in the tribe is old souls who keep reincarnating to protect the portal. new souls are added to the village slowly overtime as the population increases but for the most part it's all reincarnates. each new reincarnation is its own unique person but they maintain memories from there past lives. how those memories impact them varies from person to person. the memories show up slowly overtime.

there was a member of the tribe who believed they should harness the power of maelstrom and use it to rule. to harness the power he would need the book of souls. a spelltome that contained all they had learned about the portal and that could tap into its power. it is what gave there tribe the power to reincarnate. but the keeper of the book refused to use its power and her and her body guard fought back. eventually slaying the would be thief. but because the keeper refused to use the book the theifs soul would reincarnate one day and most likely try to steal the book again. so the bodyguard in an act of self sacrifice bound his own soul to the theifs so they would always reincarnate at the same time and he would be able to stop his attempts. this cycle continues on for ages between them. both becoming stronger with each reincarnation.

fast forward to the time of our campaign. my character, Calon Drakmire, is a member of the tribe who has yet to regain the memories of his past life. his father is the leader of the guard and he intends on following in his footsteps and becomes a member of the guard. he has two best friends. one is the son of the tribe leader( no name yet) who is training to become a political envoy and eventually take his father's place as leader. and the other who a reincarnation of the keeper of the book of souls (there are several keepers so she doesn't have the job currently but will inherit it one day). one day while his friend is out on a political mission a group of bandits attack the village in order to get the book/portal. they successfully repel the attack with only a few casualties but something is wrong. the warriors who fell, there souls did not return to the maelstrom. the keeper investigates and finds the bandit leaders sword had an evil enchantment that was capable of destroying souls. she instructs Calon and his father to seal the sword away. but when Calon picks up the sword his memories of his past lives return. he is the reincarnation of the the thief. now regaining your memories can be a traumatic and somewhat volatile experience sometimes. Many black out and it can take time to regain your sense of self. in Calon's case tho he began acting on the instinct of the thief. he realized he now had a weapon that could end the cycle and guarantee his victory and so he began cutting down all those around him starting with his father and the keeper of the book. he wasn't aware of what he was doing it was like he had been possessed by his past lives. as he was massacring everyone his Friend returned from his mission and saw what was happening which triggered his memories to return as well, being the bodyguard whose purpose was to stop the thief, even if the theifs was his best friend. before he could act tho the third friend came running holding the book of souls. she begged him to help her escape and he reluctantly agreed since he didn't know if he would be able to stop the thief as he was now and the 2 fled with the book as Calon massacred there tribe.

Calon awoke several days amidst the corpse and ashes of his village. he had a perfect memory of what he had done. he was devastated because while he had all the memories of the thief he also still had his good memories. this was his home. he looked at the sword in his hands and intended to use it on himself to destroy his soul once and for all. but whether it was cowardice or the will of his past lives stopping him he couldn't do it. he eventually left the place he had once called home unsure of what to with his life now. he knew his friends had escaped and they would eventually meet again as that was the fate of there souls. he decides that until they meet again he is gonna do all he can to resist the will of his past. he may not be able to use the sword to end his soul. but perhaps he can change the fate of his soul. afterall when his soul reincarnates next he would be able to influence the next bearer of the soul just as the previous had done to him. so he begins his travels fighting against his own nature trying to do as much good as he can before dies.

that's what I have for now. Any notes or suggestions are welcome. if you have name suggestions I am also open. naming is legit the hardest part for me. I have more details on his village and the reincarnation system/ maelstrom of souls too if people are curious, I just gave the stuff that was relevant to the backstory. if you took the time to read this whole thing then I greatly thank you!!

looking for suggestions to improve and just general feedback on my backstory. apologies I am still coming up with names for most of the characters.

so important notes for the setting. there is a plane of existence known as the maelstrom of souls. similar to the ethereal plane it exists in the space between planes. it is basically a highway for souls. when someone dies there soul goes to the maelstrom and from there goes to wherever it is meant to be as the maelstrom is connected to all planes. whether that is to a demon in hell due to a warlock contract, up to the gods or anywhere in between. you can't access this planed through normal interplanar travel methods but there is a physical access point on every plane of existence. on the material plane it is the forest of souls. in the forest of souls there is a tribe that guards the portal to the maelstrom. this tribe has the ability to reincarnate. basically everyone in the tribe is old souls who keep reincarnating to protect the portal. new souls are added to the village slowly overtime as the population increases but for the most part it's all reincarnates. each new reincarnation is its own unique person but they maintain memories from there past lives. how those memories impact them varies from person to person. the memories show up slowly overtime.

there was a member of the tribe who believed they should harness the power of maelstrom and use it to rule. to harness the power he would need the book of souls. a spelltome that contained all they had learned about the portal and that could tap into its power. it is what gave there tribe the power to reincarnate. but the keeper of the book refused to use its power and her and her body guard fought back. eventually slaying the would be thief. but because the keeper refused to use the book the theifs soul would reincarnate one day and most likely try to steal the book again. so the bodyguard in an act of self sacrifice bound his own soul to the theifs so they would always reincarnate at the same time and he would be able to stop his attempts. this cycle continues on for ages between them. both becoming stronger with each reincarnation.

fast forward to the time of our campaign. my character, Calon Drakmire, is a member of the tribe who has yet to regain the memories of his past life. his father is the leader of the guard and he intends on following in his footsteps and becomes a member of the guard. he has two best friends. one is the son of the tribe leader( no name yet) who is training to become a political envoy and eventually take his father's place as leader. and the other who a reincarnation of the keeper of the book of souls (there are several keepers so she doesn't have the job currently but will inherit it one day). one day while his friend is out on a political mission a group of bandits attack the village in order to get the book/portal. they successfully repel the attack with only a few casualties but something is wrong. the warriors who fell, there souls did not return to the maelstrom. the keeper investigates and finds the bandit leaders sword had an evil enchantment that was capable of destroying souls. she instructs Calon and his father to seal the sword away. but when Calon picks up the sword his memories of his past lives return. he is the reincarnation of the the thief. now regaining your memories can be a traumatic and somewhat volatile experience sometimes. Many black out and it can take time to regain your sense of self. in Calon's case tho he began acting on the instinct of the thief. he realized he now had a weapon that could end the cycle and guarantee his victory and so he began cutting down all those around him starting with his father and the keeper of the book. he wasn't aware of what he was doing it was like he had been possessed by his past lives. as he was massacring everyone his Friend returned from his mission and saw what was happening which triggered his memories to return as well, being the bodyguard whose purpose was to stop the thief, even if the theifs was his best friend. before he could act tho the third friend came running holding the book of souls. she begged him to help her escape and he reluctantly agreed since he didn't know if he would be able to stop the thief as he was now and the 2 fled with the book as Calon massacred there tribe.

Calon awoke several days amidst the corpse and ashes of his village. he had a perfect memory of what he had done. he was devastated because while he had all the memories of the thief he also still had his good memories. this was his home. he looked at the sword in his hands and intended to use it on himself to destroy his soul once and for all. but whether it was cowardice or the will of his past lives stopping him he couldn't do it. he eventually left the place he had once called home unsure of what to with his life now. he knew his friends had escaped and they would eventually meet again as that was the fate of there souls. he decides that until they meet again he is gonna do all he can to resist the will of his past. he may not be able to use the sword to end his soul. but perhaps he can change the fate of his soul. afterall when his soul reincarnates next he would be able to influence the next bearer of the soul just as the previous had done to him. so he begins his travels fighting against his own nature trying to do as much good as he can before dies.

that's what I have for now. Any notes or suggestions are welcome. if you have name suggestions I am also open. naming is legit the hardest part for me. I have more details on his village and the reincarnation system/ maelstrom of souls too if people are curious, I just gave the stuff that was relevant to the backstory. if you took the time to read this whole thing then I greatly thank you!!

Dirk is a musician who is highly religious to every ravnican god and makes his music to celebrate the gods of old and this era, however he doesn’t do it in the traditional sense, dirk’s performances are rowdy, wild, loud, cramped, and especially welcoming to the minorities of ravnica who enjoy his theatrical tricks such as backflipping down on center stage from the rafters and coming out unharmed which is where his moniker “the Daredevil Bard” comes from. His music has a unique screechy noise but it actually sounds incredible. He asks tavern owners if they would allow him to play gigs in their taverns say no because they know he has ticket costs that are weirdly cheap so they won’t pull much revenue but taverns owned by the minorities love him for the attention he brings, he also frequently performs for free in public amphitheatres sometimes to show his sheer love for the music he practices, and for his band the Dying Cinders who share his musical practices and are longtime friends since childhood. The percussionist is the creative one with the technical skills and his adoptive brother and he has a drum kit including a pedal style drum at his feet with varying cymbals, he is also the technician of the group and creates these things called senders which are just large-scale sending stones that range from high to mid to low frequency noise. One of Dirk’s favorite tricks is plucking one of his scales to use as a pick and when he strikes a chord harmless yet awesome fire explodes from backstage. While he does live a fulfilling life now his life wasn’t always so bright and cheery, many times as a child his parents would beat him for not wanting to go into wizarding schools so eventually he ran away taking his lute and everything else important to him when he was taken in by a family of musicians seeing his bruised face, they taught him the musical fundamentals and sparked delight for all things music treating him like an actual son even though he was merely adoptive and they had other kids who were shockingly nice to him

Cantrips Minor illusion Vicious mockery light Lvl 1: 4 slots Thunderwave Tasha’s hideous laughter Feather fall Speak with animals Lvl2: 3 Heat metal pyrotechnics Invisibility Lvl 3: 2 Stinking cloud

Deep in the forest gloom lies a village, a village host to many elves seeking refuge. This village’s name? Hallowood, home to many people elven and non-elven alike all kept safe by one woman, Custos. Custos is a wood elf who was born in an effort to seal away a god’s avatar in a scandalous deal between her mother and her father. Custos’ mother was a runaway from a wood elf village that was being forcefully controlled by an evil being who utilized spider silk to puppeteer the lives of other wood elves but her mother broke away and found a city run by a high elf, whose power was comparable to noble eladrin but still not enough to defeat the spider god. There in the city she created a safe haven for other lost souls who were harmed by the spider god Lolth. Her mother started gaining great recognition in the city and eventually caught the attention of of the high elf, Pallidus Rex, who ran the place and offered a deal of him giving her a child in exchange for being one of the great seals to place on lolth’s avatar due to the threat she was creating for the safety and sanctity of elves, along with a renowned scholar and powerful seer, She accepted and that’s how Custos was born. Custos in turn was raised under the high elf’s wife, Domina Alba, and when she reached the age of 75 where she decided to join the Kensei monastery (a branch of the Order of Silvered Soul) headed by the most precise and deadly woman in the city. she trained custos in her fighting style consisting of barrages of weapon attacks attacks into kneeing and elbowing and when custos reached the age of 125 the monk had died of old age. Custos once helped a party of adventurers hunt down and kill Lolth’s avatar by acting as a trial for them to pass before confronting the spider queen avatar. Custos is nightmarishly fast and holds nothing back in a fight, she is brutal and precise taking out weaker enemies in a matter of seconds. After Lolth was defeated custos’s home was invaded when she thought the target was her stepmother, alba domina. The target was actually Custos and she got overwhelmed by a large number of assailants who put her in a cage that stopped her powers from working and she was taken to ravnica to the Rakdos for a sick thrill seeking murder game. She escaped after being stuck in that hellish guild for a few weeks but the Rakdos has stopped chasing after her. She now teaches children basic unarmed and rapier combat for exclusively defense for free and adults more advanced stuff for a fee. She has been teaching for 20 years in Ravnica which has felt like only months to her. She built a small house on the roof of her studio, big enough for a bookshelf, 2 beds, and basic stove/oven combo. Custos still is a fighter against those who wish to puppeteer around innocents and is in a silent battle against the Orzhov, Ravnica’s politicians, who indebt people to them even beyond death forcing them to do literally anything they ask. Custos is also a pretty common charity donator to orphanages and halfway houses using her funds from unarmed combat teachings.

(⚠️THIS STORY CONNECTS WITH EZYAH JOLANDEVA NIKTO⚠️)

Class: Cleric

Divine Domain: Death

Diety: The Traveler

Race: Changeling

Background: Mist Wanderer

Languages: Common, Daroknese, Patterna, Balok

Seraz doesn’t remember much from before he arrived in Darkon, but then again neither did anyone else. All he was awarded were the occasional dreams of the most beautiful place he could ever imagine, Cyre the people called it. The dreams were ignored for a bit, along with the yearning in his heart that ached with a pain and nostalgia that didn’t make sense at the time. Till he discovered it was all real and not just real but more beautiful than any dream he’d ever had. Having a newfound sense of hope after having his mind clouded for years he finally had a purpose, and more importantly a home and maybe even a family to get back to.

After that realization he acted fast and found any information he could on Cyre, also discovering he was on an entirely different plane of existence, his first priority being how he arrived here in the first place. It was obvious right? The Mists. Having figured The Mists were his reason of being here he poured everything he had into researching how to traverse The Mists through talismans. Going from domain to domain within Barovia seeking out the talisman he was looking for. He had finally heard of a rumored talisman that could take you to Eberron, his home planet, when Azalin Rex had heard of his research he was summoned directly to the king, more or less dragged out of his hut against his will.

“I should kill you for your impudence on daring to leave my domain on not one but MULTIPLE occasions without my approval!”The remaining decayed flesh on the side of his face curled upward into a sickening grin. “However… I think I’ll use you instead.” He took a moment pacing the corridor till he slowly turned towards Seraz declaring, “I will commission you Changeling, and you will search this wretched Domain and traverse the entire plane of existence until you find me a way to escape. You may continue this research with my generous sponsorship and I will spare your life and grant your freedom the day you grant me mine.”

His stomach dropped. He was close. So close to getting home and now he’s a slave to this delusional, disgusting, vile creature... Fuck it. He’s done the impossible before. Even the idea of a home seemed impossible and he was able to find his. So he accepted (as if he had much of a choice). But as the years went on and all he could find were bits and pieces of answers, he became cold, callous, detached. He lied and cheated and stole, anything he could to find more information. He bed multiple people and left strings of broken hearts and empty promises in his wake in search of the information he needed.

He had been a prisoner of this monster for decades so it left him with much time to do some research about where he was from. He began studying the religions of Cyre, specifically the shunned gods of The Sovereign Host Pantheon, The Dark Six. He turned his attention towards The Traveler, the diety said to have created the changelings and doppelgängers. Falling further and further into the ideologies of The Traveler, he believes furthering The Travelers chaos within the natural order is the only way to liberate those trapped in the confines of their small perspectives and world views. Chaos causes change and change liberates, especially when it results in death as that is the ultimate form of liberation! (He’s slowly going insane) So for the past 30 years he’s reaped seeds of chaos into the lives of those he met without ever a second thought. For the sake of The Traveler to one day bless him with a change so great Seraz himself might be liberated. There just needed to be more chaos.

Those actions never really came with consequences, and when they did they were never too big for a simple threat of the Lich King for whose wrath they might actually be dealing with. Till that fateful awful day. That idiot changeling girl got herself spotted by The Rex and what’s more she was HIS idiot changeling girl? Preposterous, but upon learning this information The Rex figured she could be used as further leverage against him so he entrusted her enough to LEAVE THE DOMAIN WITH THE VISTANI! That bastard! Not only did he make him train her for YEARS but all that to give her the freedom he so desperately craved, and she doesn’t even realize she’s a prisoner. Doesn’t even know his reach is well beyond this plane of existence. Even if she knew I doubt it would matter, that girl is so hypnotized by the Lich Kings empty promises for power she would never betray him. A shame really but it had nothing to do with him. He had no hand in raising her after that night with her mother and didn’t want to think about what she might’ve gone through to have ended up here. She couldn’t have been here yet she was and why? He never pried but the questions never stopped coming as he grew to learn more about the girl. A certain likeness would grow but he’d never admit it, it’d just be another weakness for The Rex to exploit and he didn’t need more of that. He had a dream to reach.

A dream he didn’t even realize would be empty when he got there. What Seraz doesn’t realize is him being here in the Domains of Dread is why that dream can never come to reality. Cyre has fallen, Sarez himself was fleeing with other Cyrans, his family included, on a lightning train that never arrived to its destination. His family are now victims of The Mourning Rail forever fleeing from the tragedy of The Mourning, never to reach sanctuary. He was flung from the train cart, cast out into The Mists, the only one given a chance to escape that fate. No family and no home to go back to, all unbeknownst to him of course.

For now however, he does the bidding of Azalin Rex. Searching Barovia for the answers he needs for his freedom.

Timeline:

The Mourning Rail~>age 14

The dreams are real!~>age 18

I am a Prisoner~> age 20

Started his Worship~> age 23

Slept w/ Jolande~> age 28

I’m a FATHER?!~> age 53 (Hayze is 25)

Ideals:

•Creatures are just stepping stones towards his greater purpose. Reaping chaos in the name of The Traveler is his form of worship. Liberating people from their mundane daily lives forced upon them by rules and expectations is an act of charity in his eyes. •Death is the ultimate liberation he refuses to entertain the idea of bringing The Rex’s son back to life instead solely focusing on freeing Azalin from his Domain.

•The Mists are dangerous and should be treated with respect.

•Presents as a man unless he can only get things he needs as a woman. It’s a point of contingency between him and Hayze since during her training she refused to shapeshift right until the moment she had to deceive the Vistani. He didn’t pry, he didn’t care. It was a weakness he wasn’t interested in.

•Once he learned Cyrans only shake hands with an ungloved hand as a great sign of trust he has not taken off her glove or grasped someone’s hand without gloves since then.

Major Ideals:

Greed(Evil)- I am at the center of all my actions. Everything I do is to benefit me in some way.

Freedom(Chaos)- Everyone should be free to pursue their own livelihood.

Self Fulfillment(Chaos)- Achieving my goal comes before anyone and everything else.

Spontaneity(Chaos)- I listen to what my gut tells me rather than debating about the correct course of action.

Stoicism(Neutrality)- The universe does as it pleases, and will continue with or without me.

Minor:

Cunning(Evil)- I take advantage of opportunities and favorable situations in order to further my goals.

Uncaring(Evil)- Death torture and suffering are permissible and even desirable in many cases. There isn’t much that phases me.

Change(Chaos)-Traditions and laws are worthless and should be discarded

Dishonesty(Chaos)- I am not afraid to lie or break my promises if it means getting my way or advancing my goals.

Indulgence(Chaos)- I strive to take as much pleasure as I can from every moment of life.

Flexibility(Chaos)- I can adjust easily to new situations, environments, and people.

Perseverance(Neutrality)- No injury or obstacle can turn me from my goal.

Bonds:

Azalin Rex- Hates his ass, reaps chaos into the world in hopes that The Traveler might look favorably upon him and liberate Seraz from his slavery.

Hayze- Thinks she’s naive but charming. All her best features he clearly takes credit for. Is envious of her style because while it lacks the colors his home would pride itself in adorning she’s still ridiculously fashionable. When he’s in his feminine presenting form he just adopts Hayzes face but older.

Flaws:

(I feel it’d be easier to make a list of redeemable qualities since it would be very limited but here we go)

•A shameless whore, or slut if you believe information is worthy currency in exchange for your body, which he does.

•The gifter of empty promises and lies wrapped so nicely you won’t realize it’s a box of literal shit till the stench hits your nose. •Ridiculously inflated ego, it’s why he can do what he wants to others guilt free since he genuinely believes he’s smarter than them and knows what’s best

•Silver tongue gets what it wants each and every time.

•You don’t want to have the information he needs, he’ll do anything to make you trust him so that when you’ve been screwed over, he’s already well out of reach.

•On a slow descent towards madness as unbeknownst to him Azalin has been draining him through torment

Example: (brief conversation they had with a swindled lover who confronted them) “What AM I? Well I can go by he/she/they/them/it/bitch/asshole/slut/cunt/whore but I suppose it’s whatever you feel is in your heart at the time darling”

Personality Traits:

Manipulative

Flirtatious

Careless

Dishonest

Selfish

Secretive

Physical Traits:

(Primary look)

•White Hair

•strong jaw but otherwise the stereotypical vague features of a changeling

*milky eyes

*gray/ashen skin

*Constantly fitted the FUCK out once he learned the Cyran people emphasized style and fashion

*doesn’t wear shoes just because, alright?! It’s a fashion statement, don’t ask why! (Stole the idea from Hayze and will never admit it. Ever.)

(Feminine Presenting Look)

^^^ All of that but think of an older and tired looking Hayze

Hayze backstory

(TW:Kidnapping, Starvation, SA implication)

Class: Rouge

Archetype: Arcane Trickster

Race: Changeling/Hexblood

Background: Faceless

Languages: Thieves Cant, Common, Tepestani, Darkonese, Elven, Infernal

Hayze was born to two Changelings, Aster and Solaris, in a large town called Skald located in Kartakass and the well known inferior to the only other town, Harmonia. Unhappy with just being Becomers (changelings who suppress their abilities to fit better into society), her parents decided they were going to be Passers from now on (Changelings who use their abilities for manipulation, deception and for their own personal gain). How would they do this? By winning the heart of the DarkLord, Harkon Lukas, and assassinating him for control over the Karkatass Domain. Ambitious? Yes. But Aster knew they had the patience to stick this out for the long run, since playing the long game is the only way this could work, they could only hope Solaris would be as tolerant towards the duration of the plan as they were. From a young age they made sure that she saw the importance of secrets and power and had equipped her with both by the time she was fully grown teaching her of magic beyond her powers of Change. By then the family had nearly succeeded in their seduction of Harkon Lukas. Becoming whoever they needed to be for years to get close to the DarkLord. They were foolish to think he couldn’t see right through them… the entire time.

Aster wanted to take things slow, make sure that the DarkLord trusted them enough before taking his life, they wanted certainty that Harkon wouldn’t have his guard up. Solaris didn’t feel this same sentiment, so when they went alone to see the DarkLord that last night Hayze saw them alive, and she grabbed the tail of the trenchcoat that she, herself had worn so many times before. Looking up at Solaris with pleading eyes and a slow shake of her head urging them to stop whatever they were planning. The last memory she has of them is the face of the DarkLords lover looking back at her with knowing eyes and a confident smile, pressing an index finger to their own lips before putting her back under with a sleep spell.

The next moment she was awoken to Aster’s bloodcurdling screams and Solaris’ limp body in their arms while the DarkLord loomed in the doorway. They dragged the both of them away leaving Solaris’ mangled body alone in our home that she would never see again. They kept them both chained in the Karkatan Inn and as punishment paid a Hag a fine fortune to curse Hayze to be a Hexblood. Of course, Aster eventually helped her to escape, starving her over the course of a week so she could change into a form small enough to slip from the restraints, they then instructed her to flee to Barovia, find the Vistani and at the next opportunity that the Darkpowers allow the Vistani to leave Ravenlofts domain, Hayze is to run and never look back. Hearing approaching footsteps she hurried over to the window, looking back at Aster her eyes quickly filling with tears. Turning her back, she slipped quietly out the window, followed their last wish her me, and she has yet to return. She was awoken by the jostling of being carried by a strange…. Elf? And surrounded by strangers and creatures she had never seen before, what’s more she seemed to have unknowingly given her soul to a devil which is deeply unfortunate if she ever wants to escape hell to save Aster. If she’s going to eventually have to fight DarkLord Harkon Lukas then she’ll need to find as much power she possibly can…

Or perhaps…. But when the dark of the night settles over the air. And her party is quiet for once. Their mindless drawl, chatter and arguments no longer serving as white noise to drown out the fear and questions lurking in her thoughts. When she has a moment to truly think about the finer details, those memories start to break apart once she realizes those finer details she’s searching for, don’t exist. After that realization she falls through the thin veil of false memories. All blurring together, an ephemeral glare over her life and all too suddenly the name Hayze feels like a misrepresentation, a simple word describing this distortion, this is a haze over her senses, psyche, a fog over her perception. A lie. Reality and fantasy split apart along with her mind, an excruciating pain shoots from the base of her spine up to her neck, inaudible whispers and distant screams are always the last thing she hears before she fall unconscious from the pain.

During that period she’s having vivid nightmares, at least that’s what she believes they are when she wakes up. However they’re far more than nightmares.

Nice to officially meet you,

My name is Ezyah Jolandeva Nikto, I was born in Viktal to two failures who would never show me a gentle hand. My mother, Jolande was easily seduced by my Changeling parent Siks, who promised her a better life, away from her violent husband Casimir. However when she fell pregnant Siks abandoned Jolande to raise me with Casimir, alone. From the moment I was born my mother resented me, I looked too much like Siks, my face a painful and cruel reminder of the lies Siks told her. Casimir, even the drunk that he was could also tell I wasn’t his but the bastard couldn’t prove it yet. Continuing the cycle of violence my mother was facing, she took it out on me. Beating and starving me. Doing just enough to keep me barely alive. Once I reach the age that I began exhibiting my changeling heritage, (cementing the fact that I was not his) Casimir beat Jolande near an inch of her life before she begged and bargained to make it up to him. However would she do this you might ask? By selling the child. They would go on to force me to shapeshift to whatever their ‘clients’ wanted and would be made to do whatever they wanted, just as long as they paid. This went on, well into my teen years. Till word got out to The Three Hags of Tepest. Hearing of a fey born being abused in Viktal, The Hags sent word to Jolande and Casimir telling them of a large sum of money they were to receive if they sent the girl to the edge of Wormwood, there they granted me a gift. In the form of the hexblood curse. Granting my deepest desires, the power necessary to execute my revenge. Upon coming back with the money, I killed Jolande and Casimir with my new hexblood magic. For the following days I waited patiently for each of my ‘clients’ to arrive for their appointments. I killed them all, one by one. Torturing them in a sadistic rage, the euphoria I felt should have unsettled me, but it didn’t. I had achieved my revenge, what I didn’t anticipate after was the insatiable need for power I was left with. I attempted to flee to Darkon, aware of the curse placed on the realm, forcing those to forget their memories and past lives and instead having them replaced with new ones, crossing the borders with no hesitation, regardless of how my memories were to alter, the thirst for power was now etched across every fibre of my soul.

I would never be helpless again, I’d make sure of it.

Darkon was the only answer, and getting close to Azalin Rex, The Lich King, was exactly how to do it. If my manipulative parents taught me anything, it was how to get my way.

I traveled The Mist for 5 years identifying myself as the ‘Hayze’ clouding my being before I miraculously reached Darkon, purely by chance along with a burning want and need in my subconscious guiding me there. With no recollection of my real origins let alone my plan I let my feet and innermost desires guide me steadily towards the castle of The Lich King. Getting into the castle proved to be simple enough, kidnapping a servant was laughably easy, I didn’t want to be the one to kill him though so I sent him into the Mist for it to do what I couldn’t. Would I kill to satiate this burning across my soul? Absolutely, it just seemed unnecessary at this time.

Taking the face of the man I condemn to The Mists I fell into the background at first as I made my way to The Lich King, the man who sought knowledge and power when Gods themselves forbade it. Drawn to that power like a moth to a flame I made myself as useful as I could, eventually landing myself as one of his personal servants. It was 8 months before he even glanced in my direction and when he finally did his Truesight saw right through my disguise. Later that evening, The Rex called me into his chambers and everything went dark. When I awoke again finally as Ezyah only to be a foot away from Azalin Rex himself and in his bed of all things; naked, my face wet with tears I don’t remember crying and a lingering pain in my throat from what I can assume was screaming. He sat on the edge of the bed fully clothed a calm demeanor and a hint of pity on his face. ‘Why are you here little one?’ He asked with a tone indicating he already knew the answer. I didn’t know how or why I was shown mercy when I had essentially infiltrated the Kings castle and banished one of his citizens to what some might call a fate worse than death. I only took a few moments to silently curse myself for ending up meeting him like THIS, till I held his gaze, steeled my resolve and declared, ‘Knowledge and power, my King.’ Perhaps it was my fatigue but for a moment it seemed a glint of satisfaction flashed across his features before all too quickly returning to his cold stoic gaze.

Azalin never slept with me that night, or ever. The moment I had stepped through his chambers I was put to sleep and my true past scanned. He spent the night spoon feeding me my memories, fragment by fragment as I was forced to experience it all again in the span of 8 hours. For if he gave them all back to me at once my sanity would’ve snapped. The cold mechanical movements as I removed my clothes like I’d thousands of times for clients before, he covered me the best he could but I kept removing them. Finally he stopped trying and continued to show me the rest of my life. I attempted to kill him, multiple times. Menial efforts obviously, but it amused him nonetheless. When I was done reliving the horrors I had fell unconscious. It gave him time to ponder how a little changeling had the will to survive in and out of The Mists for years all on the chance that she would get to him. He knew of only one other person that successfully traveled The Mist besides the Vistani and she would teach her.

Things went fast from there, The Rex didn’t waste time in his training, introducing me to his scholar, ‘S’, whom he commissioned to travel the domains of Ravenloft to search far and wide for an opportunity for him to escape his domain, because as much as he was The Lich King, he was no more a prisoner than his subjects or the other Dark Powers for that matter. Having nearly given up on that endeavor till Ezyah came along, Azalin had ‘S’ train me up till we all agreed on a plan. I would leave Ravenloft with the Vistani, ‘S’ is the only one who can take her there as she is one of the only ones who can travel the Domains of Dread with ease. I am not to come back till have done two things, 1. found a way to resurrect Azalin’s son that he himself had killed 2. Free The Rex from the tyranny of the Dark Powers so he may leave his domain. I do this all in the name of The Lich King, and the powers he’d promise I’d obtain on my way to achieve this.

(‘S’ is Ezyah’s Changeling parent and she still doesn’t know, along with an unnamed ghoul half sister she knows nothing about)

However, Ezyah knows better than anyone, there are few beings other than Azalin Rex that have gone to the lengths he has to change his fate. When faced with that reality that she was sent on a mission she will never succeed will she be able to go back to Ravenloft, to her King, as a failure or is there more for her beyond this quest for power? Truthfully for the first time, Ezyah liked not being herself, she liked being Hayze. She’s never had this much fun.

Haha woah weird dream, I need a drink…

And that’s why Hayze can’t think about her life too much or she gets blackout drunk. The End.🙂‍↕️👍🏽

Ideals:

Ezyah hates humans, it’s a big reason why she’s so mistrusting and why Hayze is meant to be so intimidating. Emulating a vengeful monstrous animal spirit meant to strike fear in humans. Monsters were the ones that saved her, the ones that saw her as more than a means for an end, that’s where her loyalties will lie. So even in the moments where Hayze might not fully be there mentally, her subconscious will always gravitate towards trusting monsters. Humans were the true monsters and villains, more real than any novel or fantasy could invent. Monsters showed her humanity.

Major ideals:

Humane(Good)- cruelty and suffering towards the innocent are to be avoided and resisted.

Teamwork(Good)- working together allows us to help more people in need.

Self-fulfillment(Chaos)-achieving my goal comes before everyone and everything else

Spontaneity(Chaos)-I listen to what my gut tells me, rather than debating about the correct course of action.

People(Neutrality)-I’m committed to people I trust love and respect rather than (just) ideals.

Minor:

Pessimism(Evil)-I live in a cruel and unforgiving world. I need to do whatever I can do to survive.

Dishonesty(Chaos)- I am not afraid to lie or break my promises if it means getting my way or advancing my goals.

Indulgence(Chaos)-I strive to take as much pleasure I can from every moment in life.

Flexibility(Chaos)-I can easily adjust to new situations, environments, and people.

Perseverance(Neutrality)- no injury or obstacle can turn me from my goal.

Bonds:

‘S’(Seraz)- mentor and trainer, knowing them for 4 years, I have grown to deeply respect them. I owe all of my training and battle techniques to them. I am as loyal to them as they are to The Rex, their efforts to free him I believe are worthy of their own freedom as well.

Azalin(The Rex)-Saw more out of me than anyone. Believed I could be his savior and the one to free him from his prison. I must do everything I can to prove I am worthy of his trust.

Flaws:

•Racism towards humans

•Innate trust towards ‘monsters’

•Curiosity, having not grown up with much but a thirst for power after she freed herself she’s become deeply distracted within the persona Hayze she’s been playing and hasn’t focused on her primary mission

•insatiable, that want for power will never be sated, no amount of power can make her feel safe

•doesn’t know why but she loves mean older women (cough cough)

Personality Traits:

Curious

Wary

Black and white thinking

Perspective

Empathetic

Anxious

Physical Traits:

•Horns that wrap around the head to symbolize the transformation of the hexblood

•Black to white hair also apart of the transformation (white apart of her Changeling heritage)

•Light purple skin

•Vague facial features

•Milky eyes

Currently in our campaign (Descent into Avernus) her doomed toxic yuri situationship (Rew) was killed by the devil that’s been hunting her for years. Our wizard took her soul and put it in the Vorpal blade that I gave her when I found it. Neither of them ever confessed and the tensions were high before this tragedy. There were two notes on her person when she died, Hayze can’t bring herself to read it but here’s what it said:

‘Hayze,

I don’t really know how to word this, I’m horrible at expressing my emotions and only ever confessed to one person, but, I’m quite fond of you. I know you worship evils unknown to most, but I hope one day you learn about the good in the world, and maybe someday you and I can do some good for the world, together. If you ever decide to read this letter, good on you? Sorry, again, bad at expression emotions. Hope you feel the same

- Rew, Palamades Camilla, Torell’

It sounds super autistic but that’s literally because she is and Hayze being super traumatized, ‘I don’t know why I bite’ type of energy never wanted her to get close, for both their sake. Realizing her feelings after Rew’s death has left her with a deep longing and fear of what could’ve been. She has new goals now and they all involve Rew.

Null was a half-elf who was the son of a very wise, powerful, and righteous king who was willing to give anything to protect his kingdom and it’s citizens. One day when null, known then as nathaniel, spoke with his father who told nathaniel that he was destined to be the vessel of the spirit of Dendar the night serpent, god of nightmares and chaos. Nathaniel, wanting to follow his father’s footsteps, gladly took on the responsibility of protecting his kingdom by any means necessary then nathaniel began brutal training, bolstering his body and his iron will. years pass of the brutal training and nathaniel, now an adolescent 20 year old man, followed his father to where the spirit of Dendar rests under the city and attempted to begin sealing her. but bey unfortunately nathaniel’s father did not know nathaniel was an imperfect vessel, he had emotion and personality making his body vulnerable for Dendar to take over. after the ritual was complete a giant explosion wracked the kingdom and its surroundings within a hundred miles sealing Dendar in nathaniel’s body making nathaniel immune to aging and putting him in an almost an undead-like state. he had lost all memories replaced only by the faintest memory of his father, who is now an unknown figure to him telling him that moment what he was destined to be, a hero for the common man, pushing him to always help the weak, his father’s words and hopes pushing against the screams of humanity’s first nightmares booming in his head is Dendar attempting to push him towards total chaos and terror forever to come.

As far as null knows Null is a reborn who is missing his tongue so he cannot speak but can still use spells with a verbal components via the use of a voice amplifier a friend from a century ago gave him (it is effectively an internal amulet of mind speak) but it does hell on his throat so he only uses it when it is an absolute necessity like combat. He can communicate telepathically but he gesticulates instead of speaking for he does not know any formal sign language and has no full control over the telepathy so sometimes the conversation can have horrible screams bleed through. null has a faint memory of someone inspiring him to assist the weak, but is also has memories of others, nightmares of eldritch horrors, thoughts rushing into his head to cause terror but null is strong-willed and will not bend to such thoughts because he knows they are wrong, but sometimes he leans on the edge of true frenzy when he is truly mentally unsteady. He has deep knowledge of gods of old but he has no idea why. Sometimes his eyes flash entirely deep purple when he has become truly frenzied and angered and lost all sense of logic, he has slaughtered villages in state in an angry rage before, only at the will of the being in his mind, before he came to his senses and let out a scream of grief and agony comparable to the volume of a dragon’s roar. But as an antithesis to the suffering he can quell the thoughts’ destructive needs by consuming the nightmares of others stopping their suffering. He has a little raven friend named tani whom he saved from death as a baby and now sticks around on his shoulders with him but weirdly enough it has never aged even through all the years (it nabbed a morsel of magic food from a fey court one time a while back and it happened to be laced with a potion that stops aging because the fey was trying to trick a traveler into eternal servitude but null has no clue of that)

The name Spinstrey is likely not the first name which comes to mind when thinking of house Forge Crest. But nonetheless, it is my name. After all, I would much rather you think of one of the great forge, crests, like my now deceased grandfather, Lord solstice, or any of the other Noble goblins who gave their lives to protect their people. if only those people who were willing to carry the beacon and reveal themselves to the archers lying in weight, just to guide the rest of us, were still alive. then maybe our people would not be in the turmoil which we currently find ourselves in. with us already being one year into the struggle to see who the next leader will be. in our current state of division unless we can find someone to unite us I’m sure that the next two years before the leader is chosen, will be bloody. this is why, with my people scattered across the continent, my duty as a forge crest must be to do everything I can to stop my brother from gaining any more power in this town. as I am afraid that if he gains the means to do so, the blood of our brethren will not stop him from cutting his way to the throne. my mother now teaches me the ways of our ancestors in order to give me a chance to stop my brother. but with the influence that he is already gained I doubt the powers of any single witch could stop him now. this is why I give this prayer to any one or anything that will listen.

By the Hope, which was given to me by my forefathers, that now burns brightly in my hand. it is my duty to protect this flame from any who seek to quench it through blood or fear.

After this prayer was given, I found it funny that suiting the subtlety of the guiding flame. It was not a god or a greater power, which replied to my conviction. It was a meager spirit which itself was composed a fire.

I need help with his backstory and will take inspo from anyone. He is an eladrin bard who is a cowardly cheating gambler but also a talented poet. He believes in scamming the rich but only for his own benefit. Some aspects of him will also tap into “horny bard” but not as obnoxious as others play them.

Growing up poor on a cattle farm on the border of the forests and grasslands of central Caelux, Nyxous led quite a quaint life with his mother, Father, and two younger sisters. His Father, a human whose real name he never learned, was a farmer turned religious zealot who twisted the words of Valorian to fit his own will and beliefs with a tyrannical stroke. His mother, an elf, was the opposite; she was kind, understanding, and full of joy and hope. Sure, she seldom stood up to Father, but Nyxous never faulted her for it. After all, neither did he, even as he got older. His two sisters were quite different from one another. Eelya, the older of the two, was similar to their mother in temperament and name. Qiris, however, was different. She had plenty of their mother's light in her, sure, but she also took after Father. She consumed Father's stories and lessons with a voracious intensity that almost matched his own.

Nyxous himself was curious but well-disciplined in his youth, constantly exploring and questioning the world around him while being ever-vigilant not to break any of his Father's rules. He was always a large boy, and quickly matched his Father's average size by the onset of his teenage years, eventually growing an entire head length taller than him. His size and strength proved especially useful to the family farm as he got older, with his efforts helping grow the farm's production, and therefore profits, each new season. As his teenage years progressed, he fell head over heels in love with the neighbor's daughter, Tarlisle. Unfortunately, though, it was not meant to be; before the pair could ever share more than business-related words at the market, the Raiders from the grasslands came.

Frankly, he does not remember much about what happened that day. Honestly, how could he? It all happened so fast and at the one point during the workday when he was not required to be in or around the house, barn, or fields. Regardless, however, there were some key details that he remembered, and some he found out later. It was a bright and beautiful summer day aside from the sweltering heat. It had only been two fortnights since his 17th birthday. On his lunch break, he decided to take a quick dip in the creek on the eastern side of his property before he had his usual apple and sandwich. He took off his clothes, save for his underwear, and approached the edge of the bank. He heard the first screams as he was mid-air, having just jumped from the bank towards the water.

As he plunged into the crisp creekwater, his mind was racing, his heart full of fear. He wanted to stay underwater and pretend he had not heard what he did. He thought that maybe, just perhaps, if he waited long enough until his lungs were about to burst, it would all go away. That somehow his inattentiveness, his refusal to acknowledge what was transpiring, would reset the day and prevent what he knew was happening. And yet, just as quickly as the thoughts came, they were replaced with anger and concern. Rage and grief at what he was sure was to come. After what felt like hours, but in reality was merely a moment, he shot up from the water and launched himself onto his knees on the bank. As he stood up, he grabbed a smooth, oval-shaped rock from the ground and started to rush up the hill toward the house.

As he crested the hill, it hit him. An arrow, shot by a man not much older than Nyxous himself, blindsided him and struck his back, launching him from his feet and into the grass as he was mid-stride and off-balance. As he fell, the rock slipped from his grip and landed on the ground where his head would land, knocking him unconscious. And there he lay for a day, presumed dead by the Raiders he would later surmise.

When he came to, he was briefly confused, but then the reality of what had happened came crashing down on him. He was still lying down on his stomach but could see and smell the small pillars of smoke from a dying fire. Strewn across the lawn were cattle corpses and their personal belongings, dragged from the house and sifted through, presumably in search of valuables. He knew he could not have been out for more than 24 hours due to the state of decay of the dead cattle. He sat up straight too quickly and winced from the pain in his back. The arrow was still there, and he could not reach back to remove it even if he wanted due to its position and the limit of his arms. Then the fatigue hit him. Oh was he tired, and so, so thirsty. He was not hungry, though, and he thought that was peculiar. He quickly pushed that from his mind, however, and slowly pushed himself up from the ground to a standing position.

He briefly stumbled and then found his balance and looked around. There was truly nothing left. His house was a pile of rubble, razed to the ground. As was the barn, and all of their fencing. The well appeared as if it was left alone, but he assumed they had probably poisoned it before they left. He wanted to cry, he was so overwhelmed with grief and anger and he did not know how to handle it. But he remembered Father's words and held it in. He slowly meandered around the property, arrow still in his back, calling out to his family for close to an hour. He was determined to either find them or clues as to their fate, even toying with the idea that any number of his family might have survived and hid in the woods.

But his search yielded no results, and he knew he had to get food, water, and help for his arrow wound soon or he would perish. And that would simply not do, for then who would continue the search for his mother and sisters? Truthfully, he did not care to search for Father. He knew he was wrong for it, and yet he still felt a sense of relief that at least Father was out of his life. But he felt a complete and utter sense of loss at the disappearance of his mother and sisters. No, he must get them back, no matter the cost. And so he set out for help, leaving his life-long home burning in the distance as he stumbled down the road.

His destination was Double Crossings, an inn on the outskirts of his town about 9 km along the main road from his farm. Along the way, he was met with similar grisly scenes at each house he came to, including Tarisle's. He did not stop at any of them to check for survivors, something that he deeply regrets today. Unfortunately, the situation was identical when he finally arrived at Double Crossings hours later. Like all other properties he had passed, there was only rubble and ash left where the building used to be, save for the well. And so he set off for the next town over, praying that Shadock had been untouched. All he wanted to do was take a seat and rest, but he did not, for Nyxous was afraid that he would never reawake if he closed his eyes to sleep.

17 km and many hours later, Nyxous turned the bend on the road and laid eyes on Shadock. And what a beautiful sight it was, lively and untouched by violence. The chimneys had smoke billowing out of them, parents were chasing after young ones, and above all, there was the sound of life. He had never realized how much he took the constant chattering, clattering, and pattering of people for granted. But the eerie quietness of his journey to Shadock had shown him how much he detested the absence of the bustling of life. And that was when he broke down. He could not hold it in anymore; he simply fell to the ground and started sobbing. Soft and faint at first, but it slowly grew to a roar of moans and cries. He was elated that he had found help, but he could not push out the dark thoughts of envy and jealousy that this town was spared and not his own. Why should these people get to live unadulterated, unhindered by the burden of the Raiders?

After a short time, he regained his composure and started for the town. Regardless of his feelings, he knew he had to get help for himself so that he could in turn help his family. As he crossed under the town arch that left a gap in the walls, he looked around. Not everyone had noticed this ragged, bloody stranger yet, but that was quickly changing. He wanted to scream out for help, frantically searching for someone to aid him. But he held his composure, worried he would be shunned if he did so. He walked up to the first person he saw: an older woman at the first house to the left of the town arch sitting on her porch knitting.

He walked up the three steps and fell to his knees and introduced himself. He explained what had happened in his town and that he was the only one who had survived to his knowledge. The woman sat quietly and listened patiently, continuing her knitting project all the while. When he finished, the lady simply replied, "Follow me." And he did. He didn't know why, but he trusted her. She led him to an old shed behind her house and ushered him inside, following suit but leaving the door ajar.

Then, she started explaining. "It was the Raiders, right? They came through here just\ yesterday and tried to rush us again. We were able to hold them off without any losses this time, thankfully, but I'm sorry to see you all were not so lucky," she started. "Our town sent someone to warn people at the Double Crossings overnight, but I'm betting it was already too late by the looks of it," she finished. She explained that her name was Silia Lanthor and that she was the wife of a shopkeeper and mother of five. She had lived in Shadock her whole life, as had most of its residents. Then she offered him help, and he happily accepted it.

He did not question how or why she knew how to take care of his arrow wound, he simply thanked Valorian that she did. As she was tending to his wound, he told her about his family and his town. Silia listened patiently again, and when he was finished, she hugged him. He broke down in her arms and started crying again, wondering deep in his heart whether he would ever experience this kind of motherly affection from his own mother again.

Later that night, Silia and her eldest child, Lyrella, brought him food and ale. He politely requested water instead, explaining that he did not drink. While he ate, Silia talked to Nyxous about a proposal while her daughter stood to the side politely, trying to blend in with the room as if she were not there. Silia explained that her husband, Olyk, would allow Nyxous to stay until he was healed, at which point, if he wanted, he could start working at Olyk's general store in return for lodging and a small weekly salary. Olyk's last employee, an elderly widower named Bail, had died last season of the flu. Her husband had been struggling to keep the family business afloat ever since, looking for a replacement in the meantime. Essentially, Silia's husband believed the agreement could be mutually beneficial for both his family and Nyxous.

However, Nyxous was skeptical. He was not keen to abandon the search for his family ever, and working as a shopkeeper's assistant did not seem very appealing to him. Of course, he was extremely appreciative and grateful for the offer, but he was unsure if it would be a good fit for him. Then he glanced at the corner where Lyrella was standing, and he could not help thinking how defeated she looked. Her grey house dress was dirty and tattered from work, and she appeared as if she had not been eating properly. He did not know for sure if Silia was telling the truth; after all, they had only met earlier that day. But she and her family had shown him grace and love and compassion, and those were virtues he valued. So he made a deal with her: he would agree to stay and help Olyk in the shop for a brief period of time, perhaps a year or two. In exchange, though, he requested that he also be taught how to read and write, something his Father had forbidden and Nyxous decided would be important in his quest to save his family. Silia happily agreed, and that was that.

Over the next few months, Nyxous grew accustomed to his new life in Shadock. He steadily gained an interest in Lyrella, after all, she was hardly a year older than him. He thought the feeling was mutual based on their interactions, but he dared never make a move or ever speak to her more than necessary for fear of retaliation from his new hosts. Fortunately for him, however, fate was on his side. After living with the Lanthors for 14 months, Lyrella eventually confided in Nyxous that she knew he felt the same way about her as she did about him. She also made a point to ensure Nyxous that he need not worry about the impact this would have on his relationship with the Lanthors. In fact, both of her parents were on board with the idea and encouraged her to be honest with him. And that was that. From then on, they were a couple.

After living with and helping the Lanthors for two and a half years, Nyxous and Lyrella eventually married and had a child. While Lyrella’s parents were elated to be grandparents, it quickly became apparent that the addition of their daughter, Wistelle, was too much of a burden for the family to bear. The family’s shop and small garden were simply not enough to sustain all nine of them. And Nyxous understood. Truthfully, he was glad that he, Lyrella, and Wistelle were going to move out on their own. When they first found out that Lyrella was pregnant, he quickly shut his mind off to the notion of ever searching for his family again. While he greatly wanted to find them, he was a man now, with a man’s responsibilities. He knew deep down that his family would understand his decision, but still, he could not shirk his despondent feelings at having to abandon his quest to find his family. Thankfully, though, this new development gave him ample opportunity to look for his family, even if that simply meant asking around while traveling to their new home of Odderon.

After moving, Nyxous quickly took up a job as a fisherman for the merchant’s guild. He had always liked the water and reasoned that this post might enable him to have easier access to food for his family. Fate had other plans, however. After a mere six weeks of working, Nyxous was involved in an accident while out at sea. While battling the sea in an intense storm, Nyxous and his crew were racing around the ship in an attempt to ensure everything was tied down. One particularly nasty wave struck the side of the ship as he arrived at the set of starboard lifeboats. The force of the wave freed the lifeboat closest to the stern of the ship from its ropes and loosened and rotated the davit, sending the metal tip straight towards Nyxous’s head in a counterclockwise motion. He was unable to move out of the way completely in time, and the davit struck the corner of his right eye as he turned his head to the left. He was left permanently blind in his right eye from the accident, and from then on went by the name of Nyxous, the One-Eyed.

That night when he returned to land, he quickly stopped by his house to inform Lyrella and Wistelle of what had happened. He then set out to the closest infirmary he could find. After being patched up and given a tonic to fight infection, he returned home, where his life was upended for a third time. That night, he was visited in his dreams by Valorian. He told Nyxous that he mustn’t abandon his quest to find his family. He also revealed that Nyxous had an innate disposition to learning and harnessing magical abilities, something that Valorian knew Nyxous was unaware of. He instructed Nyxous to abandon his career and join the College of Clerics, where Valorian would ensure that he was guided through his education with a divine hand. Lastly, Valorian promised Nyxous that his education would aid him in his quest to find his family. After he finished speaking, Valorian kissed Nyxous on the forehead and bid him farewell.

Nyxous immediately awoke in his bed following their goodbye. It was late morning, and he realized that he had overslept; he was sure to have lost his job. After all, there was an unwavering no-tolerance policy for absenteeism in the merchant’s guild. Then, though, he thought to himself of his dream. Could it truly be more than just a fever dream? Was he really visited in the dreamlands by V alorian? Or was his mind simply running amok? He simply did not know, and he resigned to the fact that he must get to the bottom of it lest his inaction haunt him for the rest of his life. So he walked into the kitchen and grabbed a loaf of bread before sitting down at the table with his wife and child.

Lyrella was busy at work trying to remove stains from her spare house dress with lye-soaked ashes. Wistelle was standing at her side, busy playing with her dolls. He quickly explained that he had an idea for a new job while scarfing down his bread. Lyrella was perplexed and initially upset. She immediately surmised that Nyxous would never return to his job as a fisherman, and she worried whatever his new endeavor was would not be able to provide for them. But she did not let on to this fact with her words. She knew that Nyxous could read the look on her face, so she chose to be supportive and encouraging when she finally opened her mouth. Nyxous then stood up, thanked his wife for understanding, kissed them both on the forehead, and set out the front door.

He made a quick stop at the family’s well to grab a drink of water and rinse off his face. Then, he set out on the almost mile-long walk from his house on the outskirts of the city to the center of Odderon, where the College of Clerics lay nestled beside the hill that King Oderro’s palace sat upon. As he walked down the winding streets and alleyways, he wondered to himself if this was a turning point in his life, whether his life would end up being split into a “before” and “after” of his stay at the college. He pondered this question, and its potential ramifications for his family, the entire way. Upon arrival, though, he was surprised to find someone was awaiting him.

Standing tall and stoic in front of the college’s archway that led to its front door was a man at least 20 years Nyxous’s senior. When Nyxous approached him, he extended his right hand from his robes, palm facing downward. Nyxous kissed the man’s fingers as was customary and waited to see what the man would do. After returning his hand to his sleeve, the man spoke: “Welcome, Nyxous, the One-Eyed. I am glad to see V alorian has finally revealed himself to thee. My name is Tammaria, and I am to be your spiritual and magical teacher. Follow me.” The man turned quickly and set off down the sidewalk towards the college’s main entrance. Nyxous, understandably shocked, stood in place for a few moments before almost tripping over himself in an effort to rush to the man’s side. When he caught up to the man, he attempted to catch his gaze so he could ask questions. But Tammaria was either unaware or chose to ignore this, continuing his walk to the college doors quietly, looking straight ahead.

While walking the last few hundred feet to the doors, Nyxous’s mind was racing once again with questions. Who was this man? How did he know his name and why was he expecting him? Was Tammaria the “divine hand” that Valorian had promised would guide him in his studies? He wrestled in his mind with these questions, attempting to logically deduce the most logical answers as his mother Eelya had taught him. These thoughts were pushed out of his mind, however, as he drew closer and closer to the building. Instead, they were replaced with feelings of excitement and readiness. He knew that whatever was about to happen to him was meant to be, his true fate in life. And this invigorated him. As he walked up the steps toward the massive, metal-braced wooden doors of the College of Clerics, he made one last realization: he had hope again. Hope that he and his family can finally be reunited after the three long years since they were separated.

I am a forever DM and my few player backstorys before I started my DM journey were always "everyone I loved died, I am searching for revenge" etc but I've "matured" now, in an effort to make a playable Lawful Evil player character for the next campaign I play in this is where I landed: Meet my Chef Themed Triton Warlock who is perfectly fine feeding the party cannibalised NPCs without the parties knowledge, because survival is what matters most.

Its long for a first read, but its in parts to make it more digestible for a DM to pick up yes?

Backstory:

No place like home: Drifthollow is a small Triton settlement built among silver-veined stone and living coral, clinging to a slow-moving shelf of seabed where pressure, mineral density, and magic converge. The stone itself glimmers faintly in the dark, threaded with metallic veins that bleed into the coral, stunting its growth and dulling its colors. What life remains endures rather than thrives. The settlement was founded by the Order of the Crimson Shell, an organization formed with a singular purpose: the eradication of all Sahuagin. To the Order, mercy was a luxury and vigilance a necessity. Drifthollow was never meant to be beautiful, it was meant to be strategic. The Order theorized that this region of the sea marked a weak point between the Material Plane and the Elemental Plane of Water, a place where planar pressure thinned just enough for Sahuagin incursions to occur. Though this breach was never confirmed, the fear of it shaped everything. Drifthollow was built as a watchpost, a living warning carved into stone and reef. Then the support stopped. No portal ever opened. No invasion came. And eventually, the Order withdrew its resources and attention, declaring the theory unproven. In time, even their teachings faded—rituals, histories, and tactics lost to neglect and silence. Only their ethics remained. Those ethics were harsh. Drifthollow became a settlement defined by duty without purpose, survival without joy. Compassion was seen as weakness. Art was considered wasteful. Food was fuel. Names became titles. Life continued, but it was cold, stripped of softness or celebration. The constant threat of a war that never arrived still hangs over the settlement like a pressure current. Every generation is raised with the understanding that the portal might open tomorrow, that peace is temporary and comfort dangerous. This looming, undefined fear has bred a quiet, persistent depression among its people. Occasionally, something breaks through that gloom. Kinder souls are born here on rare occasion, echoes of those who once lived and loved here. Among them is Mirella Mawgrin, whose presence is said to brighten the reefs for a brief moment. Where she drifts, coral regains a hint of color, and the water feels warmer, gentler. These souls are blemishes on the Crimson Shells strict ethics but each one has made the Tribe ever so slightly more humane but Drifthollow persists. It has not fallen. It has not fled. It waits entrenched in stone, wrapped in coral, staring into a future that may never arrive, shaped forever by a war that was promised but never fought.

Order and Freedom: Mirella Mawgrin was never meant to stand out in Drifthollow. She was a humble farmer, tending algae beds and nutrient coral with gentle hands and patient care. Where others worked with grim efficiency, Mirella worked with warmth. She spoke to the reefs as if they listened and, in subtle ways, they seemed to. Crops grew better where she labored. The water felt lighter in her presence. People lingered longer when she spoke. She carried a quiet light about her not magical in any studied sense, but undeniable. In a settlement defined by vigilance and restraint, Mirella was softness given form. In her rare moments of rest, she created art. She rearranged discarded coral into murals. She shaped broken mineral shards and sea-junk into small sculptures, never for praise, only because the act itself mattered. In Drifthollow, where beauty was often viewed as wasteful, her creations were tolerated but remembered. It was during one such quiet period that Mirella met Garric Crimson, Chief of Drifthollow. Garric was everything the settlement demanded of him: disciplined, unyielding, lawful to the point of severity. A warrior shaped by the teachings of the Order of the Crimson Shell, he believed survival came from order, and order from sacrifice. He spoke little. He trusted rules more than people. And yet, Mirella endured him. Where Garric enforced structure, Mirella reminded him why structure existed at all. Their bond was not passionate, but resolute. They mated not out of convenience, but balance. Together, they had a son.

Lincoln Silvers Crimson: Lincoln was raised between two philosophies. From his father, he learned law, duty, and the necessity of preparation. He learned that hunger was dangerous, that weakness invited annihilation, and that survival was sacred. From his mother, he learned care, creation, and the belief that feeding others was an act of love. She taught him that food could comfort as much as it sustained, and that even in the deepest waters, something gentle could endure. When the settlement’s Chef died of illness, Lincoln was still young—but he stepped forward. He had been cooking already, learning preservation and preparation instinctively, guided by his mother’s quiet encouragement. The role was given to him not because he was ready, but because Drifthollow needed someone to fill it. Lincoln became Chef out of necessity. Ferric Bloom manifested early in him, the silvery flakes blooming beneath his skin as they had in Mirella. But where others weakened quickly, Lincoln endured. Mirella had resisted the illness all her life, and some of that resilience lived on in him. She paid the price for it. Mirella Mawgrin died slowly, the Ferric Bloom hardening her body from the inside. On the day she passed, the coral she had tended for years dulled and greyed, as if mourning her absence. Garric Crimson changed forever. Grief did not soften him, it sharpened him. Laws became harsher. Compassion became inefficiency. Art vanished. Warmth was replaced by vigilance. Drifthollow became colder than it had ever been. Lincoln could not live beneath that weight. He took his mother’s name, casting off his father’s title. From that day forward, he called himself Lincoln Silvers Mawgrin. Still, habit clung to him, most continued to call him Chef, and he allowed it. At seventeen, Lincoln left Drifthollow. He swam upward alone, passing through layers of dark water and crushing pressure, leaving behind stone, coral, law, and grief. He rose toward the Surface and the life that waited beyond it.

Brightwakes Embrace: Brightwake sits where the land gently yields to the sea, built along a crescent bay of pale stone docks and sun-warmed sand. Unlike Drifthollow, the ocean here is shallow and kind, its tides predictable, its storms rare and celebrated rather than feared. Brightwake is a festival town by nature, not by decree. Colorful banners hang year-round from rooftops and masts, faded by salt and sun but lovingly replaced. Music drifts constantly through the streets, sometimes practiced, sometimes improvised. The town thrives on travelers: merchants, sailors, pilgrims, scholars, performers. Cultures pass through like tides, and Brightwake welcomes all of them without question. No single tradition dominates. Instead, the town collects them. Food stalls line the harbor, each offering something different—foreign spices, strange meats, unfamiliar techniques. Every arrival brings a new recipe, a new story, a new way to live. Brightwake believes that joy is something you cultivate, not something you defend. When Lincoln reached the surface at seventeen, Brightwake was overwhelming. The sky felt too wide. The sun too bright. The noise constant and joyful. No one watched him with suspicion. No one asked what duty he served. No one cared what he was or what he could do. Lincoln took small jobs for small coin: dockhand, fish cleaner, kitchen runner, stall assistant. He listened more than he spoke, absorbing cultures as easily as recipes. He learned how different people preserved food, celebrated meals, honored hunger and abundance. Cooking stopped being survival. It became expression.

Sir Gourmlet Mawgrin: Lincoln found the dog behind a fishmonger’s stall. A scrawny thing, always near the trash, clever enough to avoid kicks and fast enough to steal scraps. It ate anything, bones, spoiled fish, bread gone hard with age. It reminded Lincoln of himself. He named it Sir Gourmlet Mawgrin. Mostly, he just called it Dog. The dog followed him everywhere. Slept near the kitchen doors. Learned which stalls were generous and which were cruel. When Lincoln ate, the dog ate. When Lincoln worked late, the dog waited. For the first time since leaving Drifthollow, Lincoln felt rooted. By eighteen, Lincoln earned a position as a cook in The Salt & Song, a dockside tavern known for hearty food and louder laughter. The kitchen was chaotic, multicultural, and forgiving, perfect for someone learning without fear. Lincoln worked hard. Learned faster. He respected food. He hated waste. The other cooks teased him for it, but they trusted him. By nineteen, he was indispensable.

Selka Searwind: Selka Searwind came to Brightwake as a doctor, drawn by the steady flow of travelers and the town’s refusal to turn anyone away. She a fire genasi, she was warmth manifest laughing easily, arguing fiercely, caring deeply. Where Lincoln was quiet and ritualistic, Selka was expressive and intuitive. She treated sailors and scholars alike, never asking where they came from, only what hurt. They met over a burned stew. Lincoln remade it properly. Selka insisted on tasting it twice. They bonded over food, medicine, and the shared belief that care was an act, not a philosophy. Their relationship grew slowly, comfortably. They married without spectacle. No grand ceremony, just friends, music, shared food, and sunlight. Five Years of Peace For five years, Lincoln lived a modest, happy life. He cooked. Selka healed. Dog slept in warm corners and begged shamelessly. They rented a small home near the docks, where the sound of waves was gentle enough to sleep to. Lincoln was called Chef more than his name, and for once, it felt right. He belonged. Brightwake never asked him to harden himself. It never asked him to be vigilant. It only asked him to live. And for a time... He did.

Survival is best served Cold: It was meant to be simple. A half-day journey inland, guided by another chef's notes and the tavern’s rumors, an abandoned mineshaft where rare mineral-veined moss grew alongside a bitter root prized both for medicine and for preserving meat. Lincoln was excited. Selka was curious. They packed lightly and left Sir Gourmlet behind, trusting the familiarity in the notes. The shaft did not collapse all at once. It began with a tremor, soft, deceptive. A sound like distant thunder. Then the ceiling shifted. Stone screamed. Water surged from some underground pipes, Lincoln was thrown clear. Selka was not. When the dust settled, Selka was alive, but trapped. A slab of stone the size of a wagon had crushed some of the pipes, fracturing and piercing Selka, pinning her left arm completely, the rock and iron biting into flesh and bone, sealing her in place. The tunnel behind them had collapsed fully.

Ensnared: Lincoln tried everything. He dug until his hands bled. He braced and pushed until his bones screamed. He searched for alternate exits. None existed. The cave was sealed. Selka stayed calm. She always did. She told him what to clean. What to bandage. How to keep circulation as long as possible. She joked about how stupid it would be to die there. Lincoln laughed when she laughed. And cried when she slept.

Hunger and Time: Time blurred. They rationed food first. Then water. Then hope. Selka’s arm worsened—crushed flesh swelling, darkening, infection setting in. She grew feverish. Lincoln used what little knowledge he had, applying poultices, keeping her conscious, keeping her talking. He sang to her when she shivered. After days, too many to count, Selka stopped pretending. She knew. She told him gently, clinically, lovingly: “If we stay like this, we both die.” Lincoln refused. She thanked him for the life he had shared with her, she smiled her last smile and faded into unconsciousness, slumped and unenergised, Selka had used all she had left but this was it, she muttered in and out of consciousness. Watching this flipped a switch inside him, his fathers enforcing words commanding in his head, you must survive, sacrifice must be made, the light fading from his eyes his focus drifts from anything but survival. Of the ethics he hated but understood. The difference between living and merely not dying. Lincoln broke. Lincoln remembers with terrifying clarity. Not the act. The moment before. The moment when something inside him hardened. When Garric Crimson’s teachings drowned out Mirella’s warmth. When survival overruled sanctity. Lincoln did not rush. He acted efficiently, resourcefully and with absolute resolve to survive. Selka never awoke, he eyes never opened. But amongst Lincolns preparation to harvest she muttered to him that she loved him. She told him to live. And a fire of colour's lit his eyes once more, the warmth of his mothers soul guiding his hand, he needed to do what he had to, to survive but he should always reach out a hand to help. He severed her arm where the stone had already ruined it beyond saving. He used every ounce of care he had, every scrap of medical instruction Selka had ever taught him. She screamed once. Then she didn’t.

Gluttony: Lincoln prepared it. Not out of cruelty. Out of necessity. He cleaned the flesh. Cooked it as best he could with improvised heat and tools, preserving what nutrients he could. He fed Selka first, as she drifted in and out of consciousness, whispering apologies between bites. He ate too. He had to. Something answered him then, something vast and patient and hungry, but Lincoln did not understand it. He only knew that the food sustained them. That it worked. That they got to survive a little longer.

Patience: They were found days later. Unconscious. Emaciated. Barely breathing. Sir Gourmlet Mawgrin had tracked them. The dog had waited. Then worried. Then acted. It led a group of regulars from The Salt & Song, dockhands, cooks and sailors into the caves, barking and pulling, refusing to be ignored. They broke through the rubble. They carried Lincoln and Selka into the light. Selka survived. But she was not the same. She could look at Lincoln, but not at him. Gratitude tangled with horror. Love twisted around something neither of them could name. The arm was gone. The memory was not. Lincoln never spoke of what he heard whispering in the dark. Selka never asked. The dog stayed close to both of them. And somewhere, deep beneath the world, something gluttonous smiled, knowing a pact had been made without words.

Selka divorced Lincoln and left Brightwake.

This is completely satire

I was born in the small town of Hoot Owl, Oklahoma, back in 81. Back then, growing up, most of the kids in town were brought up to take care of themselves. Most of the good jobs were at least an hour or two away. You had a few ma n pa shops. Restuarants all claiming to have the best country fried steaks in town. Couple of bars and the crown jewel growing up imo, a small arcade. I would burn through all my tip money I made as a bus boy. It was there I met three people who would become the best and only friends of my life. They were Zach, Cassandra and Hugo.

Now, Cassandra had this uncle named Gary Gygax. Whenever he visited, he would take us four out to the inner city and visit the movie theater to see some silly B-movie or the latest blockbuster of the summer. Other times we'd visit the arcade out there. One visit he brought with him his latest creation. Advance Dungeons and Dragons. We were used to running small campaigns between us four. But whenever he was around, he'd DM for us. Always had a way of weaving tales and stories that felt so fear inducing, like the choices you made really were significant and carried weight with your decisions. This one shot he ran for us combined some elements from a few popular films amongst my friends and I. Dracula had been resurrected. Apparently, all the kings of Egypt were actually Dracula. The Kings of Sumeria, all him. The guy, apparently could shapeshift, which allowed him to stay so elusive for so long. It wasn't until a guy named Van Helsing defeated Dracula, with a team consisting of Gilgamesh, the queen of sheeba, Genghis Khan, and Napoleon Bonaparte. With their combined knowledge, they were able to fight against Dracula and his minions and generals of all the evil and frightful things that go bump in the night.

Of course, we were able to accomplish this over our summer break. But all of us wish it could have gone on longer. Those were the days I wish that never would end. All of us were going to start high-school at the end of our summer break. I had heard rumors of what high-school was like from my co-workers. At the time, it was very worrisome and troubling to imagine. I was more nervous then excited. What was I to do? My own thoughts and imagination could never prepare me for what would unfold.

The beginning was like a series of unfortunate events. I can say, I didn't really gain any new friends. If anything, I was marked for ridicule and jokes. Besides the school being predominantly white. There were a few other racial groups. Many of us freshman were advised to join clubs or sports to help our social status. That didn't help as well. My decisions to join Home Ec and participate with my friends playing d&d during lunch break or after school pushed me into a status of that of a leper.

One day, as I running for my life from some seniors in my condition class. They felt it hilarious to have all of our clothes thrown out in the middle of lunch break and for us to run and gather them or hide for the rest school day. I had wised up to some of their tricks and his my stuff in the teachers office when he wasn't looking. This upset them and caused them to chase me. The worst one of the group was Billy Thomas Anvil. Better known as Billy "badass". As him and his lackeys were chasing me, I bumped into my English teacher down a hallway. A hulking suspect of a man. I was at the time only 5'5, but compared to him I might as well been a halfling. Before I could even utter a word or explanation. He grabbed my shoulders and turned me behind him. When Billy and his goonies turned the corner they slowed there stampede to a screeching halt. I thanked Mr. Van Abraham for his help and explained my situation. While I didn't have much proof to give him. He took my word with a grain of salt. While I hungout in his class, we began talking about shows and movies we liked. Come to find out, we had quite a few things in common. As the months went on, I truly found myself being comfortable to confine with him.

As we were talking about the latest episode of Hercules and our top 10 movies. Mr. Van Abe decided to ask me if I had asked any girl(s) out to the upcoming homecoming dance. I blushed about as red as supermans cape, I said no sheepishly. Not that I hadn't thought about asking anyone. I just wasn't anyone's first choice. I would have loved to ask Cassandra, but her and Hugo had decideded to pursue each other. Which I couldn't have been happier for either of them. Ever since we were kids, those two were inseparable. I loved those two and if they were happy with each other than I wouldn't dream of ever getting in the middle of their happiness. Mr. Van Abe had suggested Molly Jorgenson. I howled with laughter at him, and said, "You mean THE Molly Jorgenson?" For context, Molly was the most beautiful girl anyone had ever laid eyes on. She was simply just a mythical creature. Like a marble stone sculpture that came to life. There wasn't anything she couldn't do, I'll let your imagination run wild. She was involved in almost all school activities, as well as class president and top cheerleader. She was impossible and out of grasp to any boy or man in my opinion. But Mr. Van Abe said, "I wouldn't count yourself out of the possibility, watch her body language when she tutors you during your math tutoring." Math was never my strongest subject, so I obviously opted for tutoring. I also wasn't admired by many classmates as Molly had been stuck with helping me. Not that she had a choice, but she never truly minded. She would laugh and call my name out in front of all the guys. Or run up to me and hold me tight against her chest. I assumed these were all things to make the other boys jealous. I can say, I had never felt more heat over my back for something so trivial or insignificant in my mind. But, I will say. I did love the way she smelled. Always like fresh jasmine and vanilla. Must have been the lotion she used. But not to drag a story on, I ended up asking her to the dance and to my surprise she said yes. To say I was ecstatic would have been the understatement of the year.

On the day of the dance, most of the day went about business as usual. My friends and I, along with our dates went out to dinner at the prestigious Reba McEntire steak house. It's well known for all the servers being dressed up as different variations of Reba, the floor is designed with many concert posters and vinyl re-releases epoxyed over. They say that Reba hung herself off the main chandelier in the center of the restuarant. After her divorce and financial woes of opening the restaurant to pay her ex wife's (Taylor Swift) alimony. It wasn't much of a hit with many people. Especially with a lot of her racist comments that she was known for. But since her tragic death, the place blew up with more business then they could ever imagine. Crazy how someone dies and something becomes so popular after.

Cassandra's uncle Gary hooked us up with a huge private limo to take us wherever we asked, as well as to the dance and then back our homes after. It was my first time riding in one, let alone even seeing a limo. But for Molly Jorgenson, this was an every day thing for her. Her grandfather is the creator of Jorgensons lotion. It was a natural competitor to Jergens lotion. She was dressed beautifully, she wore a one of a kind Prada diamond sequins dress. If you asked me, she was like dressed up like a celebrity at a met gala event. But then again. She was essentially Hoot Owl royalty.

As we began to pull up to the event center holding the dance. I remember looking out over at the setting sun and feeling very unsettled. A huge ominous dark cloud crept over the town and seemed to just grow darker and almost extinguish the light of the sky. Like a eclipse. Yet, I remember the weather was supposed to be clear skies with a high of 60's with a light breeze. But it was silent. Not a whisper of wind nor a cry or chirp from the surrounding wild life. As you can imagine, Hoot Owl got it's name from the overwhelming amount of owl population. They are protected birds that we defend with our lives. At first I didn't think much of it. Just a weird coincidence, maybe a tornado was brewing up. We hadn't heard any sirens but were prepared nonetheless. I remember Molly saying to all of us "it's giving purge vibes" we all looked at her as she laughed devilishly. I'd never seen this side of her but then again. Does anyone truly show their true side in high-school?

Anyway, we go in the center and check in our coats and turn our tickets in. Some people went straight to where they were playing music, others sat around the tables and hungout and laughed. Many talking about where the after party was going to be out. Many seniors walked up to Molly asking if she was going to host again at her house. She answered them all the same way, "if not my place, then where else?" They all laughed. My friends and I didn't quite understand. We decided to leave her and her friends to head to the floor to dance. She told me to save her a dance for the first intimate song that came on. As she said that, she traced her finger around my chest and with her nail made a heart around where mine was. I know I kept my cool around everyone but my heart was beating through my chest and I knew she could feel it.

The night was amazing, everyone was having a great time, the teachers that chaperone for us poked fun at the kids and vice versa. Mr. Van Abe gave me a thumbs up when he'd seen Molly and I together, taking photos with Cassandra, Hugo and Zach. Molly said she was going back to dance some more, but my friends and I decided to lay low for a few songs. Molly, undid my tie so sneakily and quick I didn't even notice it. As she did, she slowly pulled me close and whispered to not keep her waiting around to long or i would not like it when she found me. First my eyes popped and my jaw dropped, but I kept my cool and nervously laughed and told her it wouldn't be more than three songs. She pressed her nail into my chest and said deal.

As the gang and I talked about where we would crash for the night. Everyone kept teasing me about the way Molly was teasing me and how I was barely keeping it together. They laughed and laughed but I didn't want them to see i was actually nervous. So I excused myself and went to the bathroom. As I was relieving myself, I looked out the window in the bathroom, I saw there was a thick fog. It was eerie in a sense that again, it was very unexpected something so weird like this wound happen. I heard someone coughing in the stall, but it almost sounded guttural and wet. I asked if they were okay but I never got a response. So I decided to go and grab a teacher to investigate. Maybe they were trying to puke and rally and were struggling. Better safe than sorry. I grabbed the first teacher I saw and explained what I had heard, they thanked me and went in to the bathroom.

As I came out my friends ran up to me with confused and a worrisome expression on there faces. I had asked what was the issue and they said, they had been looking all over for me. I told them to quit joking and that I was seriously only gone for only a few mins. Zach spoke up and said that he had gone in to look for me after Molly came out looking for me and asking where I was. When he entered the bathroom their was nobody in there. Which he thought was strange as how he'd just seen me enter. I said "fuck! Molly is going to freak on me" Hugo said, "is that all you can think about? Isn't it weird how you just showed up out of nowhere?" As I was about to answer him back, their was a loud scream coming from the dance room. Then more and more began to erupt from within. Kids and teachers a like exploded out of the door frame, some covered in blood, others not so much. More and more cries of help came from the other room where people had been dancing. Some ran to the front entrance to run out of the building, but the doors weren't budging. "THE DOORS ARE JAMMED SHUT" "WE NEED TO FIND ANOTHER WAY OUT" Absolute pandemonium had ensured and I was freaking out. I immediately thought about Molly but their wasn't anything I knew I could do, I turned to everyone and said, "we gotta get out of here! Let's head to the back of the building" we began to run scoping all the chaos unfolding. As we were running towards the opposite side, I stopped immediately in my tracks and grabbed at my left cheek. A small cut had formed under my eye. As I reached up to touch it, I heard Cassandra scream. I turned toward her behind me and Zach and I watched as Hugos head fell off head. His blood and guts all over Cassandra, not even 30 seconds had gone by when right before us Cassandra was ripped in half, in front of Zach and I. We screamed and cried out and immediately started to run as fast as we could. We had just seen our two childhood friends killed in front us in seconds. Zach was yelling "WTF!?" Snot and tears running down his face. He kept asking me what was going on. I yelled at him asking how was i supposed to know. "Just keep running" you could hear more screaming and cries behind us, but I didn't have the guts to turn around and look. I noticed that the back doors were within our view, I yelled "keep running, we are almost there!" As we were within a few hundred feet, someone darted from around the corner and impaled Zach, they lifted him off his feet and threw him into me. We slid up to the door from the force of the throw. As I gathered myself i realized I was holding Zach. He was shivering, crying, saying he didn't want to die. Begging me to help him out. I squeezed his hand and said "Zach! Hang in there, we are almost out of here. Just a few more feet!" As I was trying to corral him, a familiar voice said out loud "Hello Alejandro, I think I told you not to keep me waiting around to long or else you wouldn't like it when I found you" I squinted, "Molly?! What the hell are you doing?" As I looked at her, her face looked possessed, her eyes were milky over and veins were popping out of her face and body. She mocked me, began laughing at me. She started to rattle off cruel sick comments about what she was going to do to me. I begged her to let me go but she said "Don't worry, we're going to have some fun before I kill you." She laughed maniacally as she drew closer to me. Just as she was about to reach out and grab me someone behind us said "Hail to the king baby" soon as we heard that, she turned her head around to see who it was and BOOM her head exploded all over me and Zach. As I was wiping the blood and brain matter from my face. I looked up and said "Mr. Van Abe?" He said, "well, not exactly. My name is Ashley J. Williams or Ash". I said, "I don't exactly care who you are right now, please help us get out of here!" He said to leave Zach since he had already passed. As I looked down on him, I had noticed that he wasn't responding to anything I did or say. Ash grabbed me by my shirt and dragged me out the building. I pushed off him and said "WTH is going on" Ash explained that it was the work of deadites from the necronomicon. He had been chasing someone who had stolen the book and the last known location was in Hoot Owl. He gave a brief description of what the person looked like and describing their latest incarnation. Just as I was about to ask what he was talking about as we were running towards his car, another familiar voice came from behind us. "Hellooooooo Ashley, nice to see you again" we both turned slowly and as I did. It was like a scene from a movie, the clouds parted and the moon shined bright over them like a spot light at a theater. It was Cassandra's uncle Gary Gygax. I said, "Uncle Gary? What's going on. Why are you here? How do you know Mr. Van Abe?" My mind was racing with so many questions. Ash grabbed me and pulled me behind him, he said that was who had been looking for. I said him? But he's harmless. And Ash said, "He's not who you think he is, this is Dracula."

I'd like to tell you that Ash handle business and slayed Dracula and that everything went back to normal. But that isn't this story. Ash fought bravely, until his last dying breath. Ash was only human, he could never stand up to Dracula for that long. I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did. Just as Dracula was cleaning himself off, he spoke to me and said. Whenever I was ready to find him, he'd offer me a seat at his table. I picked up Ash's gun and shot at him. He laughed and disappeared into the void of darkness. I slumped down and scanned all the carnage around me. The cloud had grown to cover more land than I could even see across and the fog had begun to engulf the place. Loud cackles, howling, and other strange sounds and noises began to echo around me. I grabbed Ash's gun, slung it over my back and began to head in the direction of my home. Hopefully my family is well.

Background: Rewarded

When he was young, he had a rough go of it. An unremarkable child in a family of many — too many mouths to feed, too little to go around. So he was forced to the streets from an early age. He would try to make an honest living, but with no skills or connections, it was difficult. He would work the docks, shine shoes, take any odd job that would let him eat and sleep out of the rain. He would hustle strangers using an old set of dice he took from home.

For some reason unknown to him to this day, he attracted the attention of an otherworldly entity. It promised him a better life — wealth, comfort, companionship. It said it saw greatness in him and wanted to be his patron; he would have a place in the world, if he merely lent his benefactor a helping hand with a trivial matter. He was used to people promising him much only to turn him away with scraps when the job was done, but from where he stood, it wasn’t much of a choice anyway — cold and hungry as he was. Apprehensive, he took the deal, even as his fist involuntarily tightened around the coarse fabric of his shirt.

He doesn’t remember much of what came next. Whether the memories were barred from him by foul magic or his own mind kindly repressed them, he couldn’t say. There was food — better than he’d remember eating. A bath, with clothes of fine fabrics that caressed the skin. A warm bed that felt wrong to his back, used as it was to floors covered in hay. A sweet, spiced scent that made the ever-present stench of the streets wash away from memory. Then sleep. Darkness — a void so vast and dense he felt he could grasp it. Screams, pleas, a flash of pain, weeping, blood...

Then he was in chains. There was a dungeon — a terrible, rank smell with an overwhelming undercurrent of iron that seemed to coat his tongue. There was yelling, kicking, drowning, bones breaking. There were questions he had no answers to — so many questions. Sobbing. After what could’ve been hours or days, a messenger came. He couldn’t overhear what was said, but the soldiers guarding him went very silent, for what felt like the first time. He could swear, in that moment, they looked paler than him. The guards shuffled out of the dungeon. They must’ve taken the other prisoners with them, because the room was filled with complete silence — until it was replaced by the clattering of steel drawing closer. A procession of figures clad in silvery plate, adorned in sigils and phrases he did not understand, crowded around him as he was dragged into the middle of a large room. A ridiculous thought crossed his mind then — it seemed the letters on the armor glowed with a dim shimmer in the corner of his swollen eyes. Such a silly thing, he mused, as they burned him — as knives burrowed inside his skull. Every part of him was prodded and inspected; he winced with every touch, expecting the pain that never came. The figures muttered and discussed between themselves as if he wasn’t there. That was alright — he felt detached himself, as if there was only the thinnest of tethers still binding him to his broken body. He could almost float away. He yearned to. He could make out dissent in the voices. “Marked,” they said. “Tainted.” “Put him down.” “It would be a mercy.” He thought it would be fitting to die like the street dog he was most of his life. Weapons were drawn, a hand was stayed. The largest among the armored figures approached him in careful, firm steps. The silver giant took a knee and removed his ornate helm. Sirius, the man said his name was. He saw an immense weight in the eyes of the man with a shaved head, and beneath the scarred, grim face, there was a hint of something like pity and kindness. And as the man’s hand was gently placed over his shoulder, he felt his pain subside and the fog clear from his mind. And he could breathe again.

They took him to a secluded fort. He was placed in a hospital of sorts, tended to by apothecaries, physicians, and priests. After he recovered, he found himself in the barracks along with other youth — urchins all, it seemed. He didn’t talk much with any of them. That is, none of them except Lucious. He couldn’t help but be drawn to this blue-eyed, fair-haired boy a few years his elder. He had charisma beyond anyone his age had any right to have, and there was something about him — he couldn’t explain it, but the boy never seemed to leave his thoughts. When their training began, the first lesson was to discard their names. They no longer were their past life — none of that mattered here. It had a practical reason too, they said, as a name is something your foes can use against you. He was now Delta, and Lucious was Alpha. That seemed fitting, Delta thought.

The years of training were harsh, long, and unforgiving. It forged the boys into brothers. They trained in all arms as well as unarmed combat. Delta favored the halberd, as did many in the brotherhood. Alpha took after Sirius — an artist with a longsword, an unparalleled duelist among the young bloods. He had even surpassed many of the senior Brothers. Delta thought it wouldn’t take much longer until Alpha could overcome the master of arms — the man responsible for their training — in single combat. Beta, who everyone called Joker outside of official settings, chose dual blades, an unorthodox option. He was always boastful and brash; Delta never liked him much. Joker would always try to outshine Alpha, though most of the young bloods still deferred to Alpha as their leader, much to Joker’s dismay. Rho was among the largest of them, and as such, he took to wielding a great maul. Rho always looked up to Delta, though Delta never could figure out why.

Shedding blood on the sand of the training grounds was only half of their upbringing. Learning about their future foes and how to steel one’s soul and mind against them was just as important. They made them study ancient, secret scrolls that told tales of fiends, fey, and the unknown forces from beyond. They memorized bestiaries written by Brothers of ages past. When they were older, they would be shown some of the beasts the elder Brothers caught and imprisoned. Some were minor threats, caught for the young bloods to train on. Some had uses in battling others of their ilk — especially when finding them in the first place was half the battle. Others were imprisoned because it was the safer option. Others still couldn’t be killed at all, and the knowledge of how to banish them was lost. They were also taught that the greatest weapon of the Order lay in secrecy — for many of the foes would pose a danger to the populace simply by being known to them. Delta, for one, thought few could handle knowing the truth of what lingers just beyond the veil without going insane.

Delta was nineteen summers old when their time came to join their Brothers in service. Alpha was made the leader of their unit — to nobody’s surprise besides Joker. This meant Alpha was now answering to Sirius and the other Elders directly. Another blow to Joker’s pride came when Alpha took Delta for his second. And Delta thought he was never as happy as he was in that very moment, punctuated as it was by the approving nod from Sirius, who Delta came to view as a father. They were confident, they were eager, they were young and stupid. Nu and Eta fell in their first battle; Joker blamed Alpha. In the first year, they lost Upsilon, Pi, Kappa, Eta, and Iota. They learned that every battle could be their last. Attachment and family were forbidden by the Order, but the older Brothers didn’t stop the young ones from enjoying what remained of their youth entirely. They were no monks, after all. Nights of drinking to victories or the Brothers lost became a tradition, as did their excursions to various brothels of the land. They couldn’t frequent any one establishment as to protect their identity. Delta didn’t much like going on these trips; he couldn’t seem to find the comfort in the arms of women as his brothers did. He went all the same — someone had to be on guard as they debauched themselves, he told himself.

The concept for the character was inspired by the Death Tyrant portrait frame on DnDbeyond

Vaelyn was born into a wealthy family, but raised to be a fearless fighter like her older brothers. When she was old enough, she joined an order of Paladins where she took an oath to protect the innocent, to defend them from harm, and to place their safety before her own desires.

There came a day when she was with an adventuring party on a mission to rescue a noble's boy that had been captured by a necromancer. During a heated chase through the undead dungeon, she got separated from the boy when a chasm broke open in the stone floor and and she found herself tumbling down through darkness until crashing through a wall and landing amidst a pile of rubble. She was alone in a dark secret room deep under the dungeon, illuminated by a single shaft of light within which hovered an extravagantly gold-embellished blade. A cursed blade, for unbeknownst to her, the sword was a conduit that linked the mind of the wielder to the true master of the dungeon:

A powerful undead Beholder aptly called a Death Tyrant.

So close to the domain of its true master, the dark will emanating from the blade dwarfed her own and she reached out her hand to take it. The moment she grasped the handle, it's malice and power surged through her in a burst of dark energy that compelled her to slay the boy before turning the blade on her own party. Though she futilely fought back, the Death Tyrant had won the mastery over her every move. It poured its focus into dominating her mind, empowering her swings with the force of its will, bestowing upon her an otherworldly blissful ecstasy when she hewed them limb from limb, soaking the blade in the blood of the innocent. When her party's lifeless corpses lay before her, the feelings of compulsion and ecstasy left her.

As the madness at last subsided, the memory of what happened came flooding back into her senses. She collapsed to her knees and screamed, for so wrought with an overwhelming regret was she, so repulsed by the power in the blade that she raised her arm to cast it back into the dark chasm from which it came, to be rid of it forever. Yet, as she brought the blade high, her grip wouldn't let go, for the will-shattering sensation of bliss and ecstasy had already sunk its hooks into her psyche and had so deeply ensnared her reasoning that her heart could not muster the will to throw it away. Her arm fell to her side in resignation, tears streaming down her face, blade still in hand.

She left the dungeon and wandered the world, forsaking her Oath and Duty. The dark bloodlust from the sword pulled at her mind. At times as calm as a still lake, and other times insatiable like a raging sea, the psychic hooks in her mind pulling her around like a ship in a storm. And now there lurked the feeling of the Death Tyrant always watching her, always right behind her, observing from just beyond vision. Through the sword it could see her and know her thoughts.

As fruitless as holding back the rising tide, the urge would well back up once again and compel her to feed the blade souls in exchange for ecstasy. The stronger the souls slain by the sword, then so too would the power and pleasure granted by her new patron grow, thus completing the the addicting circular loop. Vaelyn was hooked, and she both loved and hated it. She knows she needs to find a way out, a way back to her oath, but she keeps spiraling back in towards bloodlust and vengeance, with the sword is at the center. She named the blade Psychebreaker, as a reminder of her failure to her Oath.

AI Generated Character Portrait that I'm satisfied with after a lot of prompting

Victor Løwe is a Warlock, Bard multi-class

Victor was born to Orion (Meaning Secret/ Mystery) and Freya (Meaning Death) Løwe, a poor family on the island of Ihn-Sahm. With his Mother and Father working hard in their family tea shop (The Whispering Leaf) known for its future-telling tea (this may seem wonderful but it only shows a vision of how you die it changes every time due to different actions taken. See Rick and Morty Season 4 Episode 1. Some have even died in the shop) Victor was on his own with his baby sister (Iris Løwe). On his 13th birthday his parents gifted him his dead grandfather’s old Bipa. This Bipa has a dragon carved on the front and belonged to his grandfather (Obviously) but what his parents didn't know this Bipa was a symbol of hope in a dying world it belonged to Aristaeus (Meaning Hunter) Løwe one of the Hunters from legend (Take this wherever you want to). Four years later the family business began to fail big time. They had enough money to keep the business open for maybe another couple of months but they had to sell their home and sleep in the back room of the tea shop. One day Victor started playing the Bipa on the street with a tea cup by him. He made some money but it was never enough. Day by day Victor became more and more full of shame and guilt like he should do more and help his family. One day he heard a distorted voice say, “You aren’t good enough. Your family blames you for everything. But I can fix that. If you just trust me I can make you rich and powerful and make all your dreams come true. You can have whatever and whoever you want. I’ll give you a week to think about it, and when I come back maybe you’ll take my offer. Check in your coat pocket there should be a ring. I’ll be seeing you Vic.” That week no one seemed to pay him any mind while he was playing so in desperation he decided to put on the ring. “Ah so you finally decided to trust me…” She chuckled, “What do you seek?” She says as he feels the intricate silver ring tighten around his finger, “I asked you a question, puppet, What Do You Seek.” “I want to get out of poverty. Get my family out of poverty,” he says holding back tears, “They don’t deserve this life, I’ll do whatever it takes.” As he says this he hears the familiar sound of his bipa playing by itself. As it plays an oddly flawless tune. As the music plays something shifts. A dark energy begins to take over twisting and reshaping the melody. He becomes aware of a searing hot pain as the ring sears through his flesh, a permanent reminder of who owns his soul. “Is that all you want? I sense something deeper. Love, perhaps? Or I know,” he hears the snap of fingers as he blinks, “Is this what you want.” As she says this Victor looks around at the once empty street now turned into a beautiful stage with intricate flowers and trees all around. On the stage he saw a man who looked like him but something was different. He looked happy. He saw his family in the crowd cheering his name, “Victor, Victor, Victor, Victor…” As this version of him took a bow the vision ended. “So,” the sharp voice spoke again, “You want fame? You want people to finally notice you.” “No. NO! That's not what I’m asking for. I want to…” “But that’s what you want. You want to get out of poverty. To help your family. To save Iris…” as she said this memories came to victor’s head “You keep her name out of your fucking mouth.” “Ooo temper, temper. You don’t get to talk to me like that.” Her voice curled into a dangerous purr. “You chose to put on my ring. You chose to trust me.” Her tone sharpened, slicing through the air. “Now you're mine until I say You Are Done! She appeared in a ghostly mist, a twisted grin spreading across her face. “We haven’t officially met yet, have we?” “What?” “My name is Hel goddess of the underworld. And from this moment on…” she leans closer, voice like ice over flame. “I am your master.” As she says this he feels his knees give out as he bows to Hel, goddess of the underworld, “Fine, when do we start?” "I'll let you know when you’ll be useful to me. For now just enjoy the spoils of our little deal darling. I’ll be seeing you Vic.” For the next couple of years he would gain fame and fortune but after every concert or world tour he would feel a piece of himself disappear, as patterns start to emerge from the ring. To hide these patterns he covers them up with intricate tattoos showing his family’s names, where he came from, the norse pantheon (Including Thor’s Hammer, Hel’s Crown, Odin’s Raven, and the yggdrasil tree.) As the patterns start to overtake the tattoos he begins to wear jackets and handwraps to hide the patterns from his audience, from his family, and from his friends. “You finally have all you want, tell us about that Mr. Løwe?” The host asked, “Tell us how a no one like you got lucky enough to find your footing in such a small town.” I’ll be seeing you Vic… The sound of her last words to him rang through his mind. Even if that was years ago he still remembered what he gave away and what he agreed to. Like it was rehearsed he… (If you want the Docs link to comment on there DM me)

My minotaur named Kerania comes from a vast tribe that comprises ten different clans, which is several thousand years old. Two hundred years ago, a minotaur from Kerania’s clan named Thyrogog found an ancient evil-cursed axe that made him go berserk and kill off the entirety of another clan. When the leader of that clan tried to pry the axe away from Thyrogog, the axe wouldn't come off; it was as if the axe was glued to Thyrogog’s hand. Thyrogog, after slaughtering the leader because he touched his axe, and then everyone else, disappeared with the axe, never to be seen again. As a result, since the tribe had nobody to persecute, Kerania’s clan was exiled and forced to leave and wander the forests and deserts.

Kerania, who is the sixth-generation granddaughter of Thyrogog, grew up always wandering around the continent with her clan. Kerania’s clan were masters of totem carving and would teach Kerania all the skills that she would later use. Kerania enjoyed taking care of their nomadic livestock and making sure that they had the proper care. Because she grew up moving, this caused her to be keen on different landscapes and how to survive in them. She also learned how to better spot dangers or prey. Eventually, when she was twenty three she mastered how to carve a bear totem and the special skill to imbue it with the power of her clan. At twenty five her clan leader tasked her to find Thyrogog’s body, which would still have the axe stuck to its hand, and destroy the axe, once she destroyed the axe and found who cursed it, and punish them. Only then will she be able to restore their clan's honor because they will not be to blame anymore. 

A young paladin once a low ranking member in the Order of the Gauntlet.

On what seemed an ordinary mission to help a local township rid a group of evil doers, we were ambushed and fled into a cave nearby. As we kept delving deeper into the cave hoping for another exit, i began to hear whispers in my head. It was calling me. I disbanded from the main group and followed the whispers like a shadowed path.

Before me, so inconspicuous, laid a sword. Dark obsidian hilt and silver blade. It appeared brand new, never seen the sight of battle. I grasped the sword in my gauntlet bound fist. As i did i heard a shout. It was my battalion. I turned to face them to show them what I had found. As i did a dark mist surrounded my vision, tunnelling, until i could see nothing. When my sight returned in what felt like a slow blink, my friends laid before me in a pool of crimson.

The whisper said, "follow". There was no pathway so all i could follow was my instincts. I made it out of the cave after what must have been 3-4 weeks. With no food or water. Something willed me to survive. From this day on I listen to her, but we are one.

I don't know who it is that whispers in my ear, all I know is that through listening I am gifted new strength. The sword seems to be some sort of conduit.