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Arizair – male wood-elf Fighter DECEASED
Arizair, grew up
in one of the many small wood elf communities in the great forests of Evermeet. He was a restless child and disliked
constraints, often wondering off far into the forest to search for wild
animals or to catch glimpses of the mysterious fey that roam the woodlands.
He had
few friends, the frivolity so natural to the majority of his elfkin was not a quality Arizair
possessed and when called upon to revel, dance and be merry with his people,
he’d decline and practice swordplay, or visit the temple to father Corellon instead.
Recognising
an obvious talent with a blade, his parents hired a swordmaster
to train Arizair. His mentor Kaeleth,
was an old elf, almost ancient, and quickly took a shine to the proud young
wood elf. He trained him in the art of the longsword;
Corellon’s, and therefore Arizair’s
favoured weapon, and quickly adapted the style to Arizair’s
strength and agility, teaching him to wield two weapons simultaneously.
Arizair grew to
love his mentor, and over the years the two forged a strong bond. As the
years went by, the old master found himself saying less and watching more, as
his young protégé ducked, weaved and whipped his swords about in deadly arcs.
Kaeleth recognised Arizair
was fast reaching a point where techniques and routines would improve him no
longer.
One day,
whilst Arizair knelt deep in prayer, Kaeleth approached, in his hand a sword, wrapped in
cloth. He placed a bony hand on Arizair’s shoulder
and his pupil stood and turned. His voiced tinged with sadness, the elderly
elf bade Arizair walk with him for a while and talk
of his future.
They
walked through the ancient forests for many hours, Kaeleth
telling him of the journey he must take. They reached the docks, and a
waiting ship lay at anchor. The old master took Arizair’s
hand and placed in it the wrapped blade, his own beloved sword, and wished
his wonderful young pupil luck in his future.
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Arizair stood
silently at the rear of the ship, his eyes rimmed with tears as he left the
island of his birth, and the home of the old elf he would never see again.
New challenges were waiting though, and the young swordfighter could hardly
dismiss a twinge of excitement at the prospect of adventures to come.
2 years
later…
Arizair is
desperately trying to carve a niche for himself in the city of Waterdeep. He has skills with his weapons, but overestimates his prowess
and over-confidence has landed the elf in a lot of trouble with more than one
money-lender or tavern owner. What is more, he has found few friends, his
unusual past makes many curious, but his proud manor, coupled with a disdain
for loose-talk makes him an awkward companion.
Arizair was slain
in the lair of the sea hag Grynelda. Unable to summon the will or stamina to
resist the supernatural effects of the hag’s evil-eye, fixed upon him in
combat.
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Rhade – male human Rogue/Ranger
7th
day of Nightal, 1343 DR (The Year of Moonfall)
The baby that was Rhade
waved his pudgy fists and screamed at the bite of
the cold on his newly born flesh; but he was cut off mid-scream as outside
lighting flashed across heavy storm clouds, highlighting the heavy flakes of
snow falling past the window. Rhade gurgled in
delight and tried to focus his new-born eyes on the scene outside. Behind
him, his father Gregore closed the lifeless eyes of
his beloved Simi and slowly pulled the thick winter blanket up over her head.
Nightal was no time to be having a baby in the
mountains but Simi had been so definite that there was plenty of time and so
much to do before they could pack up and head down to the village. The
contractions had caught them both off-guard, and the heavy snow had made the
passes a impossible. The village wise-woman had only just made it through and
by then it was too late for Simi but not for the baby Rhade.
How she’d known she was needed Gregore couldn’t
figure out, he was just grateful she had arrived when she did.
Brushing away the few tears running down his
weathered cheek, Gregore seemed to notice his new
son’s fascination with the storm outside. Picking up the small, cloth-wrapped
bundle that was all he had left in the world, Gregore
smiled down at squinting green eyes and a red, wrinkled face, “Ay lad,
there’s a fine world out there I have to show you”.
Su-hatha, the
wise-woman smiled sadly at Gregore’s back then
turned and quietly left the cabin. The man and the boy inside would look
after each other, outside the Ranger Mantook waited
for her and there was somewhere else they needed to be.
28th
day of Elaint, 1364 DR (The Year of the Wave)
Spear in hand, the young man in
leathers slipped between the trees like a wraith, he’d spotted the yearling
buck half an hour ago and had been slowly creeping closer ever since. 6’2”
with strong shoulders and a graceful stride, the 20 year old Rhade cut an imposing figure. His long chestnut hair and
short beard seemed to enhance the dark green of his eyes, while his heavy
brow framed the hard stare he seemed to give everything and everyone. There
was more than one villager who refused to meet his eyes, and most of the
others felt uncomfortable being the object of his observation.
It was three days till Higharvestide,
and a young buck would make a fine addition to the meat they already had
ready to take to the village celebrations. Rhade
smiled as the buck stopped sniffing the air and returned its head to the
small pool of water, he could hardly wait for the gathering; he hadn’t seen Galadryn since Higharvestide
and was looking forward to giving her the snow hare cloak his father had
helped him make for her. Rhade smiled again at the
thought of her pleasure at such a handsome gift, while unnoticed, the buck
flicked his ears happily and sprang off into the undergrowth.
10th
day of Alturiak 1372 DR (The Year of Wild Magic)
Rhade
woke in the dark, unsure where he was, where he’d been, and why his skin was
numb inside and out. Memories returned with devastating clarity. The four of
them had been running the trails, checking the traps for kills. They had
camped out for the night at Torren’s View, a
sloping cliff face 100 feet above the trees where Ryn
could get a clear view of the stars she loved watching so much; and he liked
to watch her studying them, sitting for hours at a time trying to draw the
pictures only she could see on the black tapestry of the night. It was cold
up there without the undergrowth to halt the wind’s cold breath, but a night
so clear was a rare thing to waste, and besides, Grandpa would build a fire
and young Lessa could borrow Ryn’s
thick cloak to ward away the cold, since Ryn had a
warm husband to wrap around herself.
The Orc’s came
from nowhere. He remembered his father falling riddled with axe cuts, Ryn turning to run to him as the barbed head of an orcish arrow suddenly sprouted from her chest. He’d run
for Lessa who sat crying silently, but he arrived
too late as an Orc pulled a dagger across her
throat with a savage grin for Rhade. Filled with
disbelief, Rhade had watched as his daughter’s
blood spilled down over the white fur of the too large snow hare cloak she
had wrapped around herself, watched as her small reed flute dropped from
lifeless fingers. Screaming in rage, he’d charged straight into the Orc with the dagger and both of them had been carried
over the edge of the cliff, cartwheeling down its
face, surrounded by stone, blood and pain.
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He regained consciousness a day later.
Delirious with fever he set off for the only person he knew would be able to
stop the sharp pain trying to dig its way out of his side. It took nearly another
day before he collapsed to his knees outside the heavy wool blanket that
covered the door to Su-hatha’s cabin. Gasping for
breath, he’d reached out and knocked weakly on the wooden beam of the door
frame, and that was the last thing Rhade remembered
before waking in the dark to the smell of cooked meat and the hiss of fat
skittering in a hot pan.
“So ye’re awake
are ye?” The voice was male, “Try not to move and I’ll hav’
the bandage from round your eyes as quick as ye can blink.”
He felt someone moving his head, small tugs
and finally light began to seep in through what was now obviously cloth
covering his eyes. Squinting, the world resolved itself into the hard face of
Mantook, Su-hatha’s
guardian who nodded once, then walked back to the fire. “I’ll serve you up
some breakfast, then me an’ you be havin’ things to
get done. Ye’see Su-hatha
knew as how a dozen Orcs were comin’
into our mountains, but the witch went and got it inta
her head that it was too dangerous for me ta be goin’ with her. Spelled me she did.” Rhade
watched the man shake his head sadly as he speared a fat sausage and two
slices of bacon onto a thick slice of buttered bread.
“Spelled me!” Mantook
repeated, grunting in displeasure. “Course, without me, she wasn’a strong enough to stop ‘em.
Went an’ got herself killed she did.” Mantook
dropped the plate of food quickly onto the small table by Rhade
and hurriedly turned away, “Sure as ya need some
milk to put ya right.” He choked out as he headed
for the pantry and disappeared from view.
When he returned a minute later with a
flagon of milk, his face was once again hard and dry. “So me an’ you has us
some Orcs to chase down. There’s too many of the
bastards to fight fair, so we’ll be whittling them like a stick for the fire
we will. We’ll skin ‘em like you does an hare and
then we’ll roast ‘em on a spit. But we’ll be
leaving one alive though, so as he can spread the word that they should be
leaving mountain folk alone. My oath to Silvanus on
it.”
4th
day of Kythorn, 1373 DR (The Year of Rogue Dragons)
Rhade looked up at the guards above Waterdeep’s
bustling north gate. He still wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing in
travelling south, he’d found a new purpose in the last year, watching over
the people of the mountains, and now he’d thrown that away to come here, to
the City of Splendours. He felt Aragos tense
underneath him as a merchant train pushed by too close. “Easy boy,” he
whispered, and felt the horse relax.
“Well, too late to change your mind now,” he
muttered, squeezing his legs so Aragos would start
for the gate. Reaching down, he checked his bowstring as Mantook
had taught him to do in the last year. He’d been sorry to leave the old
ranger, but Mantook would never leave the
mountains, and they just reminded Rhade of
everything he’d lost.
Rhade shrugged his shoulders under the heavy straps of his
backpack; the backpack that carried the remnants of his old life - a torn
scrap of snow hare pelt wrapped around a small reed flute and a worn journal
filled with star.
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Palarnus – male human Fighter
Palarnus grew
up in one of the poorest districts of Waterdeep,
the filthy docks area. He was looked after by his mother after his father was
killed in a faraway place under the command of one the popular commanders of Waterdeep's armies, General Obryn
Ironfist. As the youngest male child, Palarnus was too young to beg for jobs and not skilled
enough to steal from bakers and butchers in the area, so in his sixth year Palarnus' mother sent him to live with his uncle Dernfellus, Palarnus' father's
older brother, who was a widower with 3 growing boys of his own. Palarnus arrived on a haywagon
in Dernfellus' farm path with a note saying,
"aye dernfellus, dis
be your brother's childe, please care for him until he is old enough to
return to Waterdeep, he will earn his keep until
that day."
Palarnus was put to work right away, at first
sleeping in the hay loft and then with the horses while he planted seeds,
tilled the ground and fetched wood for the fire. His hard work and quiet
manners earned the praise of his uncle and brutal beatings from his cousins. Palarnus grew to appreciate the results of hard work and
endured his cousins with a taciturn silence as his duties on the farm grew.
The years passed. Palarnus received periodic
letters from his mother keeping him up to date, which he treasured and
re-read by candlelight in his shed before going to sleep. He eventually grew
up to be a mighty young man with a gentle touch for growing things and caring
for the farm animals. His strength came from handling many of the chores
around the farm while his lazy cousins chided him and found fault with
everything he did, while finding time to do very little work themselves.
When Palarnus was in his late teenage years, Dernfellus called him in from the farm yard and dragged
out a heavy cloth-wrapped object from under the feather mattress. "'ere,
boy," he said. "This here sword belonged te
yer fahdder." He
gently pulled away the oiled burlap to reveal a shiny sword longer than Palarnus was high. The blade was more than a handspan wide at the hilt. It was plain-looking but
appeared to be very strong and durable. "Yer mudder dae' n'wont
ye te havva dis, cus she knew hae yer fahdder
died. But this is all ye have from yer fahdder, me bruddah, and 'tis
all aye kenna give ye. Ye know my boys ar'nae ginna let ye have dis here farm widdout a fight,
so ye'll have te make yer own way in dis 'ere
world."
More years passed. Palarnus learned much from Dernfellus' sword lessons but after Palarnus'
skills grew he could see where his uncle's skills were lacking and continued
to teach himself, devoting much of his free time to shadow-sparring and
developing a sword-fighter's physique. Letters from his mother tapered off
and finally stopped altogether, leaving Palarnus to
wonder what had
happened_in_Waterdeep.
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In the
end, Dernfellus was right - soon after Palarnus' 20th birthday Dernfellus
fell ill after a farming injury, and he passed on. The jealousy of his sons
knew no bounds, and they squabbled over of who would continue the profitable
farm business. No room was made or implied for Palarnus,
and he was forced to move on. One morning, Palarnus
said goodbye to the farm animals, laid a flower on Dernfullus'
grave and then started walking the many leagues to Waterdeep
to try to find his mother and brothers. Taking with him his meager possessions in an old tattered sack, a small
amount of savings and his father's greatsword, it
took some weeks to arrive by foot at his old house in Waterdeep.
The middle-aged man answering the door knew nothing of the whereabouts of Graciell, Palarnus' mother,
saying he'd lived in this same spot for at least 5 years. Although Palarnus had received letters from his mother for a time,
no-one had ever written to him informing him of her whereabouts, or if she
had died. With no idea where to find his family and no home to return to, Palarnus must set about to earn a living so that he can
earn his way through the world, find his long-lost mother and brothers and
eventually save enough to buy a farm of his own, far from the crowded city of
Waterdeep.
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Tandrik – male human
Wizard
Tandrik was
born within the City of Baldur’s Gate in 1351 DR. Year of the Crown. During this time
a plague was sweeping through the city like wild fire. Tandrik
would have died along with the rest of his family, except for the timely
intervention of a Tiefling wizard called Noristuor.
Noristuor and
the infant Tandrik returned to Ashabenford,
where Tandrik has remain for the last 22 years as Noristuors Ward and Apprentice. Noristuor
taught Tandrik very little in the way of arcane and
educated the young boy in more mundane subjects like history and religion and
languages. It was only after Tandrik (a boy
of 10) was almost killed by the Curse of Mystra
did Noristuor start teaching his apprentice more
powerful magics.
The
events of that night remain with Tandrik forever.
The door to his master study was protected by powerful wards and sigils. Only
his master could enter, without permission. It was late that day when Tandrik heard the sound of battle coming from Noristuor’s study. Fearing for his master’s life Tandrik knowingly turned to using Noristuor’s
Sigil to gain access to his study, violating the
laws of magic.
Mystra
herself looked into the heart and soul of the young boy and saw at once this
was a selfless act, done out of love for his master. Mystra
herself would have forgiven the young apprentice for his crime, except for
the Azuth insisting that his infraction be
punished. With sadness in her heart, Mystra only
bestowed the first facet of the trifold curse upon
the young boy and also branded Tandrik’s face with
his own arcane Sigil, as a permanent reminder of a
lesson learnt.
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To
this day Tandrik wears his Arcane Sigil with pride and holds the teaching of Mystra foremost within his heart and soul.
It was
not until the first day of Kythorn , in 1373 DR did Noristuor send
his young apprentice via Teleport spell to the City of Waterdeep. Tandrik left only with his
wizard staff, his spellbook and handful coin and
love of his Master within his heart.
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Zyrkrazeth – male half-drow
Paladin
Zyrkrazeth has,
unsurprisingly, an interesting heritage. His warrior father, Hathir was a human knight of Cormyr
and was instrumental in many of the great Goblin wars that wracked the lands
with disaster. Hathir engaged in many missions for
his king, and it was on one such that he met Zyr’s
mother, Nefaershee, a drow
maiden.
The
knights of Cormyr received reports that drow raiders had established a camp in the King’s Forest. Such an affront could not be tolerated and Hathir was among the knights sent to rout the dark elves
from the realm.
They
rode hard to the forests and with the guidance of elven
rangers, located the camp deep amongst the trees. They killed the small
number of guards ringing the camp with ease and set about exploring the wreck
of the site.
As Hathir explored one of the wood-huts, he found a locked
cage, barely 3 feet wide. Within lay a female drow
elf, shivering uncontrollably, white hair matted against her ebony skin. She
seemed to rouse a little energy and turned her neck to look at the veteran
knight. Tears rimmed her eyes and she tried to speak, but no words
came.
Years
of training had taught Hathir to be done with any
potential threat quickly and without mercy. A longing stirred within the warriors heart however at the sight of such fragile
beauty, and instead of killing the elf, he removed her from the cage and bore
her under his large travel cloak. Fearing his comrades
reactions to his decision to spare the dark elf, he ran to his horse and fled
the camp, the confused yells of his comrades ringing his ears.
He
travelled west for many days, still baffled at his own choices. He’d fled his
duty, service to Cormyr, his home and all that he
held dear, all this sacrifice for naught but a Dark Elf, an infamous killer.
As he nursed the dark elf back to health however, he failed to see the
notorious Drow traits within her. She made no move
to attack him and over time they managed to communicate with each
other.
Several
years later, Zyrkrazeth was born, a strange product
of a very strange love. Half-Drow the young lad
roused anger in many small-minded people but hatred of the boy for the colour
of his skin was misplaced. Zyr possessed a loving
heart, his mother Nefaershee taught him of his elven history, of how she had been a slave to a great Drow house, and how wicked the dark elves could be. His
ageing father showed him how to use a blade and fight when talking couldn’t
duck him out of the reputation of his heritage.
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As Zyr grew a strange feeling came into his heart, an
absence of something. It was a month to the day before the void was filled.
One night, in a deep dream, the world went dark, the
Half-elf lay on the ground, a starless night above him. A face appeared,
swirling white hair engulfed a breath-takingly
dark, elven face.
The
face smiled at him for what seemed an age, images came to mind suddenly, him
fighting on a field of battle, sword whirling, shield taking blow after blow,
a young girl is crouched beneath him. A white flash and another image came to
him, a drow lies at his feet, broken blade to one
side. Zyr puts his hand to his head and a white
light envelops the two. Another image fills the dreamer’s thoughts, a huge
reptilian beast, a great Black Dragon charges down at him from on high. His
sword held high, the Half-Drow accepts his fate as
the world becomes dark.
Zyrkrazeth woke
wearily. He felt like he’d fought a thousand battles and yet knew he had not.
A glowing rune, shaped roughly like that of a drow
maiden hung in the air, and realization came to Zyr.
He went to his parents and told them both of what had transpired. He knew
what he must do, and though reluctantly they bade him go find a place in this
world.
Zyrkrazeth filled
a backpack and made for the great city of Waterdeep,
sword in hand, a sense of purpose in his mind and Eilistraee,
the kind drow maiden in his heart.
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