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Post by lkerhsien on Jan 15, 2014 9:41:32 GMT 8
Dear all,
I am glad to announce that our very first forum event is here!! All you have to do is to write up a character background of either a new character or your existing character and post it here, the write up will be graded by 3 external judges by the criteria stated below. So please follow the rules and regulations and do not be late for your submission!! Have great fun!
Submission date: 15th Jan - 14th Feb 2014
Cut off timing: 14th Feb 2014, 2359hours
(Late submission will get marks penalty)
Articles must try to be kept readable by people under 18 (as suggested by herman). Please try to be responsible with what you submitted.
Default standard font size is to be used. Bolding is allowed.
So.... Wondering what is the prize??
The grand prize will be a Race Boon(Ifrit).
First-runner up: A Goblin miniature
Judging Criteria:
Originality & Creativity
Lets POST!!! ;D
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Post by vainadaite on Jan 15, 2014 18:33:49 GMT 8
The campsite was half hidden by a fringe of wicked underbrush, and the dead willow tree was leaning across it at a despondent angle, as if petrified mid-flight, straining away from Kaer Maga. Beyond, the decaying forest loomed, exposing knotted roots and tangled vines, creating a web of darkness that seemed to consume and devour the weak, dwindling flames of the campsite. Hector Melandru shuddered involuntarily, grasping the edges of his tattered blanket, shielding himself from the merciless onslaught of the wind. The campfire flames sputtered, as burning embers and ash scattered through the air, waving and whispering among themselves as the wind crescendoed into the low howling of a jackals, their cry like a death call in the pale autumn sky.
"The cry of Lamashtu," Hector whispered, his voice quivering as it escaped his parched, cracked lips. "The sooner we leave, the better." He ran his fingers absently down the scabbard of the long sword that lay in his lap.
His two companions look at him quizzically, neither of them seemed perturbed by the harsh weather, "What are you running from Hector?" The shorter of the men asked, sipping from his decanter, "You seem good in a fight, wouldn't have hired you otherwise. Kaer Maga is dangerous, but not a problem for someone of your caliber."
Hector shuddered, "it's not the city, it's what's in the wind."
The two merchants looked at each other, speaking in a foreign language unknown to Hector, but it was obvious from their tone and demeanor that they didn't take him seriously. Who would? A squire without his knight? He drew the hilt of the long sword free from it's scabbard, "she called it 'The Redeemer'. Ironic really," he lamented, pulling the once magical cold iron long sword completely free of his scabbard.
"Damn thing's broken!" The fatter merchant exclaimed, taking a long drink.
Hector sighed, his eyes not focused on any particular location, as if living in a memory. "We met a long time ago, when she was but a silly girl. Daughter of a farmer with grand notions of becoming a Paladin. She even carried around this ridiculous looking lamp wherever she went, 'Paladin's always uphold the light'" He mimicked, in a high pitched tone. "Damn girl took things too literally. I remember the day we met, had a bunch of townspeople ready to lynch me for the sale of some ah... less-than-accurate maps to non-specific places. Barely managed to escape, posing as her squire. Silly girl was delighted, and made me carry around her even more ridiculous over-sized lance. Not too sure why I was her squire, I exceeded her kill count 2 to 1 on every battle!" Hector let a wistful smile show on his face, remembering his travelling companion fondly.
"She was overly confident, ran into battles headfirst, always trying to protect her friends, even at the cost of her own life. She was naive to a fault, but I can't deny the goodness in her heart. We had another companion you see, a thieving harlot, who eventually betrayed us and sided with an evil witch to achieve selfish riches and power. Even after that betrayal, she grieved her dear friend, and erecting a monument after her demise, believing to the end that she truely wanted redemption."
"Anyhow, that damned girl eventually managed to wrangle herself a Unicorn, and suddenly, instead of that skinny little wannabe in tin-foil armor, she became a half-decent Warrior of the Light. Still had a stupid name though, 'Princess Unicorn Unicorn, Protector of the Light'. We called her Puupol for short. Fun times. Vanquishing evil, rescuing those in trouble, and then she'd spend every free moment trying to set me up with some REAL Princess or another. Wasn't bad though, some were rather pretty."
Hector paused, looking up as the moon began to rise in the night sky. Time passed faster than he'd expected, or was it the dark manisfestation of evil slowly creeping over Golarion? It took him a while to notice tears forming in his eyes, and he wiped them away with the practice of a seasoned swindler, masquerading as a dramatic flick of the hair.
"What happened to her?" The merchants asked, transfixed on his tale, their decanters in their hands, caps in the other, letting the angels have their share of the fine liquid within.
"She became pretty famous after that, went to the Worldwound, and killed a couple thousand demons. Puupol was a real poster girl for the Pathfinder Society, she and that Unicorn of hers, they awarded her this sword for all her heroics." He sheathed the broken blade, and gingerly wrapped it back in it's protective cloth. "Some artists even included her in a poster contained within their 'EXCLUSIVE SUPER LIMITED EDITION SCROLLCASES'. I was in the picture too, but damned publishers cropped me out of the photo, said 'my ugly mug' detracted from the focus. They were just jealous."
One of the merchants looked up grinning, and pulled an ornate scroll case out of his bag, he opened it and carefully removed the picture from within, a painting of a beautiful knight, clad in silver armor, riding a unicorn into the heat of battle against hordes of demons, the scroll-makers's logo UNICON, emblazoned across the top.
"Aye, that's the one. You can make out the tip of the lance I was carrying in the bottom left corner - " Hector bragged, as the merchant squinted looking for the non-existent trace of the supposed 'squire'.
The fat merchant chimed in, "you think you could get us an autograph? My boy's half mad in love with this girl. He'll be thrilled to find out she's real, maybe we could set up a little -"
Hector cut him off, "I don't think that's such a good idea. Butt Stallion - yes that's the Unicorn's name, I think he wasn't right in the head either. Damn pony was fiercely protective of his mistress, would literally kick up a royal fuss if any blokes got too close.
Anyhow Paladin's have to remain celibate in order to claim a Unicorn as their companions, don't know why anyone would take up that ridiculous oath, but well, we all know Puupol was dropped on a head too many times as a babe. Anyway, it's getting late, we should best sleep and set off again at first light." Hector finished abruptly, making a huge show of turning in for the night.
"You can't just leave us hanging, where's Puupol now?" The shorter man berated, eager for the rest of the story.
Hector turned to them, the campfire light illuminating his face, revealing numerous scars, freshly inflicted, in various stages of healing. His eyes looked old, far older than he was, as if they have seen evils and atrocities beyond what a mortal would see. "We got caught, and the followers of Lamashtu don't treat prisoners very well." He removed a small bag from his waist, its once sparkly fabric embroidered with the unmistakable childlike skill of a pixellated unicorn, now weathered and torn beyond repair. Inside was a small book, equally old and filled with pages of calligraphy, obviously written by the same person over many years. Hector flipped through the diary, turning to a fairly recent page and passed it to the merchants, "Why don't you see for yourself."
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?? Abadius 4710 AR It's been ages since I've seen the last ray of sunlight. I don't know how how long it's been since we were caught by these Lamashtu cultists. They keep us here, herded like cattle, stuffed shoulder to shoulder in small cells with barely enough to live by. There were over 20 of us when we first got here, now there are less than half. Hector's in the next cell, we whisper through the cracks, that alone is the one thing keeping me sane. I feel myself weaker by the day, even if I were to reclaim Redeemer, I doubt I'd have to strength to fight back. Butt Stallion give me strength. I will escape here, some how.
?? Abadius 4710 AR Monsters! All of them, they returned Leigh to my cell last night. She was covered in welts and blood, her clothes torn and soiled. She screamed for her child. All night, all day, she screamed. I saw her eyes, filled with despair, with agony. Her feet were burnt with hot coals, her backed torn to shreds, sitting down, lying, standing... even breathing caused her so much pain. I couldn't let her suffer like that. I couldn't see her spend the rest of her days in such a state. Even now, in the quiet of the night, I can hear her screams inside my head, I can see her eyes penetrating the depths of my soul. Iomedae forgive me for what I have done. They will bow at my feet and seek forgiveness for their sins. I vow, they will all pay.
?? Abadius 4710 AR They took Elise, Leira and Deidre. I know what they will do to them, and I am afraid. Iomedae give me strength, for I have none left. The hosts for Children of Lamashtu rarely survive, and even then, it's a tormented path I wouldn't wish on even the greatest of my enemies. I dare not tell Hector, for I am his light in the darkness. Paladins always uphold the Light... Iomedae, save me. I don't want to die.
The ink is smudged by a mixture of blood and tears.
?? Calistril 4710 AR It is done, and the nightmares will never cease. I see their yellowed eyes, gleaming out like the coals of hell from behind their Jackal masks. I hear the screams around me, the wails and cries of the hundreds that have died in this place. I feel no longer the warmth of Iomedae, or the link to my dearest friend. My body is unworthy of you virtuous one. I am sorry. I am sorry.
2 Pharast 4710 AR Why have you forsaken me Iomedae? Why have you kept me here, left to rot, to decay, to suffer. Am I not your chosen one? Am I not the harbinger of Justice? I will not end my days in this cell. I will not let them starve me here to death. They will pay. They will ALL pay.
The next few pages are bathed in blood, and what looks like bits of dried skin and bones
6 Gozran 4710 AR I heard her voice in the dark. I felt her embrace. My eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, and I pass each day eagerly, waiting. I grow stronger, for I've found sustenance. So much flesh, such a waste for them to simply rot away. I feed, and I will conquer this darkness. The Thaumathurges and Clerics know nothing, and they will soon regret their ignorance.
8 Lamashan 4710 AR They'll come for me in 3 days. I heard the Clerics discuss it. They know nothing. I will not simply adhere to their plans like a sick mewling girl. They will seek glory, but only find shame, for the Demon Queen, The Mistress of Insanity, the Mother of Perversion does not smile on them fondly. They seek the child the in my belly, and they will not have it. I will carve it out, and offer it to Lamashtu myself, for I am her chosen, and I will carry on her will. They know nothing of her purpose, of her intention, and for their folly, and for their transgressions upon her chosen, they will all die. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE
The final page in this book is written entirely out of blood
RECKONING COMES TOMORROW. YOU WILL SEEK DEATH. IT WILL NOT COME. YOU WILL PRAY FOR DEATH, INSTEAD YOU WILL BE GRANTED ETERNAL SUFFERING.
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"She killed everyone. Everything. I don't know why she lost her faith, why she would betray her god, why she became the monster she is now. I don't know why she let me live, but one thing I know, that would be the first, and last mercy ever granted by Lyseth Silverhair."
The woman walked out of Kaer Maga, in armor of shining black, a falchion glistening with blood in her left hand and a trail of death and destruction in her wake. Her angel-blooded ancestry, now tainted by the darkness and evil of the Demon Queen. She revels in violence, intoxicated by despair, and screams of terror and agony are but music to her ears. She's found the error in her ways, and seeks the ones she brought salvation to, and will now repay them with the gift of the end. She travels first to Ustalav, to seek an old friend, and to help him, like her, ascend and become favored in Lamashtu's eyes.
Author's Note: Puupol was a ridiculously cheerful chaotic good paladin (HAH! Equestrian Paladin requires Chaotic, I don't know why!) in Chris's 2E game. Hector Melandru belongs to Stephen Logan whom I've borrowed (with permission!) to be the narrator in this tale. (His amazing post btw:http://pfs-singapore.proboards.com/post/679/thread). Much of the nonsense that happens in Puupol's early life, up to taming the Unicorn is based on the actual campaign. Puupol in the UNICON poster is also a TRUESTORY, well, semi-true anyway, and I thank Richard for arranging it. Her eventual degeneration is in preperation of Nick's Carrion Crown Adventure Path game. Much <3
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Post by john on Jan 15, 2014 20:50:22 GMT 8
The Backstory of Barr Swiftfoot
Incorrigible Dwarven Cleric of Kurgess, Among Other Honors
Barr Swiftfoot is a Dwarven Cleric and worshipper of Kurgess, the demigod of sport and competition. Exceptionally tall and dexterous among his brethren, Barr excelled in athletics. He rose to stardom as a member of the championship Draughtbeards in the Goblinball1 Leagues and would be honored thrice as Most Hearty Player. Barr’s athletic prowess helped to spread his name throughout Golarion and provided extensive travel opportunities, while making him a hero among his people. Barr was instrumental in organizing the first Golarion Olympiad. During the Games, Barr won a gold medal wielding the holy javelin favored by his deity.
Upon retiring from professional athletics, Barr decided to perfect his brewing craft and opened a sports bar in downtown Absalom. Alas, his sporting spirit unquenched by brews and autograph signings, Barr took up adventuring among the Pathfinders. Fiercely competitive, Barr never passes up an opportunity to execute an acrobatically challenging maneuver or to demonstrate a feat of strength. With the next Golarion Olympiad rapidly approaching, Barr has taken it upon himself to bless the Games’ locations with the holy spirit of Kurgess. In his early adventures, Barr has visited the Razmiran Glass River, where the official heretic burning ceremony will commence, and blessed the Tymon Arena, where gladiators will battle before thousands of spectators in one of the Games’ most popular events.
1A modern form of the ancient sport, Orcball, in which teams of Dwarves coordinate to kick a goblin head towards a goal.
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Post by Lord Julian (Sully) on Jan 17, 2014 0:54:33 GMT 8
Phyrus Von Kargonek III of the Rys Family
Phyrus is a Proud Kargonek, as he holds that household name with pretentious pride. A somewhat arrogant reckless and self-righteous bastard, yet determined to deliver a sense of goodwill and compassion and believes that such actions would shape a better world. Phyrus flourishes a bizarre impression of himself, an outsider to the profession he practices, and noticed(or ridiculed) by many as the 'Western Samurai', whom he nonetheless embraces his unusual title.
Joining the Pathfinders in the notion that he would be part of a greater goal, Phyrus was nonetheless constantly arguing with anyone that would have the slightest whiff of conflict with his ideals. To his friends, Phyrus was an imperfection to the harmonious balance to an adventuring party, for they find him to be barely tolerable for his ridiculous personality, and yet would not argue against his own sense of justice and honour that he himself would gladly uphold with zealous perseverance.
His disdain for the law was partially in the belief that people should not be forced to restrict themselves from the truth, when he sees that law itself in the hands of the corrupted can twist even a conscience-minded person to obey any order regardless of their moralities. He views law as a benign mechanism, ready to be used for the goodness of society or abused as a weapon for deviant elites, the latter which he has witnessed one too many times in his life.
Phyrus shows a rather morbid and cynical outlook to life, his perception towards society was judgemental, and strives to truthfully, and if not untactfully communicates to his friends with blatant honestly, straying away from any sort of political correctness that would conceal the true intentions of an individual. Phyrus was not a misanthropist, but he values principle highly, one trait that is lacking for society's many inhabitants, and prefers to choose friends not out of their impressions, but their true strength within, if they can bear with his ranting that is.
Writer's Note: This is just a short draft of my character background, just to anchor my participation in the thread. Further details will be fleshed out as I go along with this.
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Post by Daryl Kong on Jan 17, 2014 2:33:57 GMT 8
The noise of heavy plated boots echoed throughout the dungeon halls of the Order of the Scourge. Two Wardens escort an Emissary to her destination, a solitary cell, the last home of a convicted murderer. The Wardens' faces show obvious contempt to the Emissary, the murderer and what is about to happen.
"Don't be so hateful gents, it is a beautiful day...outside. But you don't get out much, do you?" the Emissary lets out a quick laugh. "Now open the door!" The Wardens clench their fists and remain disciplined. They have their orders and they will comply. The rusty iron door slowly creaks open, and reveals a dark dampy room with a lone Dwarf lying curled up in the middle on the cold floor. The Wardens stayed out as the Emissary walks in and swiftly kicks the Dwarf in his ribs. "Get up!"
The Dwarf scambles to his feet, holding on to his injured ribs. "What?!.... who're.. you?!" Chills shivered down his aching spine as he lays his eyes upon the Emissary, wearing an unusual modified female version Hellknight Armor with an emblem on its chest that looked like a skull with two crossed flintlocks. The Emissary leans forward grinning and proudly introduces herself, "Greetings and well meet assassin, murderer and still mournful brother of thy fallen brother, the beheaded rogue, the deceased Pathfinder Seven Shadowstone! My name is Shel and I AM YOUR SAVIOR!" The Dwarf is taken by surprise of the sudden outburst of charismatic display and stumbles back against the wall. "What... do you want of me...?"
"Your service to our cause, my dear Six. You see, my Order has taken noticed of your abilities and convictions to achieving your goals when you put your heart to it! Although here you are, captured and about to be executed, I am offering you a chance of a LIFE-time, emphasis on the LIFE. Should you agree, you shall be heading north to the Worldwound...to fulfill your duties." Six stared at the Emissary, wide eyed and doubted her, "Demons?... Why me? what chance do I have? You are offering a different death sentence!"
Shel sighs. "Well yeah, I don't really know why they selected you but I have my orders to get you. Look Six, you are SPECIAL alright? I'm not sure why that is, looking at the sorry state you are in now but trust me, I'll set you up good. You will be spoilt with a selection of firearms *cough* DOUBLE *cough* BARREL *cough* and be given the necessary training as a gunslinger, FOR FREE!" Shel offers her open hand to Six. "You will be given an imperial pardon when you completed your service, this is your reward and second chance, I PROMISE!"
Six had little choice, death by hanging or maybe death by demons. He accepted her offer. Shel laughs, "Oh good! If you said no, I would've shot you dead! Six Shadowstone, WELCOME... to the Order of the Black Powder!"
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Post by joseph on Jan 19, 2014 0:29:18 GMT 8
The Gargoyle Ear.
“Apprentice, I need you to understand that Warlocks are fundamentally different from Wizards. Wizards study the ebb and flow of arcane powers coursing through the infinite planes, in doing so, we are able to tap into an unceasing font of elemental power. Whilst we remain amoral observers, seeking only to increase the storehouse of our knowledge; Warlocks however, do not follow such rules. They need not devote themselves to disciplined study; neither do they adhere to the ethics of practicing our arts. They are tricksters, deviants, savants to no discipline, but the arcane flows freely within them in a warped and inexplicably dark way. Simply too dark for mortal men to constrain and for that reason, they are to be feared.” -High Archmage Kardus Appellion instructing a young apprentice on the existence of Warlocks.
“Laddy, we Rogues are knot evil. If ye were givin up from ye birth and thrown into tha streets with nuthing from ye Mom but a stinking slap on your buttock. Ye would learn that nubody canna eva be good that way. When nubody gives a rats arse bout ye cept the use of ye fingers and noggin in holding knives or axes in a dorty street fight. Yep laddy, ye will learn tha Rogues have learnt to make do in tha letdown called 'life.' Now I thank ye for your gift of gold and ye can keep de rope tied bout you. It's me way of saying thank ye.” -Dwarven Bandit Thordi Knay instructing a merchant on the cultural intricacies of modern criminology whilst ransacking his caravan.
“Three bits of gold, that’s all I wager!” yielded the desperate gambler flicking his proposed gamble onto the table center. It was another night at the local tavern aptly named “The Den”. A place inhabited by thieves, cutthroats and the occasional corrupted city guard in bad disguise.
Tonight, the sweaty premise had a new arrival: A strange, winged creature upon two limbs. A “Raptoran” as a sage would define, also known as “Bird-man” to the uninitiated. Tall, graceful winged humanoids with slender limbs, clawed feet and the face of gifted men, these long-lived creatures of the Wild hardly stepped foot into human civilisation. These Raptorans are a sight to behold in flight, stirring admiration and envy in some for such an unfair privilege. What stirred this one to visit a lair of those most prone to jealousy?
“Dorian Wicker, at your service Mister tavern keeper.” came the reply to the obvious question posed by the curious tavern keeper. The voice stung with utter hedonism. A voice that exhaled the pursuit of pleasure, mocking all except himself and principles which could be changed on whim. Indeed, this winged man was different, bearing fashionable human clothing, a simple under-utillised dagger at his side and 'Black.' Long black hair, black clothing suited for the times, one would surely recognise him as a knave if not for his friendly demeanor borne by a warm flawless face. Yet, why should this Tavern keeper care? Everyone of his clients was an obvious scoundrel. One more to the pot made no difference at all, besides, Mr Wicker has already ordered a drink.
“Good evening gentlemen. Mind if I join you?” invited the Raptoran himself to a table.
“What makes yous think wes want you at our table?” came the quick cold reply from a skinny scarred man toying with a wicked dagger.
“Because, my good man, I have gold and a gambling habit that does not seem to want to leave in the near future.” said Mr Wicker, purposefully drawing his voice wide, invoking a strange hypnotic haze. A strange, near magical enlargement of presence cloaked the Raptoran. A light in his deep dark soulful eyes drew the people at the table closer as if there was intimacy in the hearts of thieves. Dorian Wicker continued to sit beside the table, without need for proper invitation.
There were now four rogues occupying one table. One dirty conniving back-hander too many. The first, being the already introduced Scar-face. The second, a big, bald bigot wielding an ostentatious heavy mace. It was clear he knew more how to flaunt the weapon than use it.
Number three however, was a more devious looking chum, a lean wiry man with coarse rough fingers and a cold hard set of steely eyes. He was missing an ear as his most defining feature, and in its place was an ear piece shaped as a Gargoyle head. The gold earpiece stuck out like a sneering impish devil. Though benign at present, one could never tell if anything was what it seemed in the world they lived in.
“Let’s play, shall we? Good sirs? Dragon Ante is my cup of tea.” The Raptoran announced whilst helping himself to the hard bread on the table. If not for his enigmatic countenance, his manners invited a good smashing. The game began abruptly with seven pieces of gold in the pot. Scar-face played Dragon Ante for years, this being another common game if not for the uncommon visitor. He wondered to himself on the reason for the arrival of this stranger. What brought him these grounds? What laid in stall for them? More importantly, why was he allowed to continue in their company without question?
“I am sorry sir, fairly gambled, fairly won.” smiled the Raptoran demolishing Scar-face's gold in a single round. Scar-face blinked, clearing his head from a sudden wandering of the mind, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. His hands quivering with cold balmy sweat. Looking at his empty coin-pouch in disbelief, he was alarmed at the unconscious act of falling into a bad hand and wagering everything in an instant.
“What!” screamed Scar-face, his outburst ringing through the tavern causing all to pull their hands towards their scabbards. Scar-face had always been a careful calculator of his coin, accidents like this never occurred. This must have been a deliberate trick played by this scheming stranger. He glared at his other companions at the table. Big bald bigot in his attempt at poor alliteration and expression shrugged his shoulders and took a large gulp of his poor man's ale. Gargoyle ear however, kept his eyes on the Raptoran who was smiling at his new card hand.
Wiping his reddened wet head with the leather of his empty coin pouch, Scar-face stormed out the tavern, off to find more reliable men to deal with his new found foe. Walking across the dirty street to a dark alley way, he found three burly and clearly vicious men allied to his own gang. “Here's three goldies for yous. You all get three more after killing that blasted bird.” The three bruisers sneered in agreement and began to brandish their cheap but effective armaments. Scar-face brandished his thirsty dagger in anticipation of sinking it into the Bird-man's stomach.
Walking back to the tavern, Scar-face reiterated their plan. They would quickly surround and proceed to pin the Bird-man down, giving Scar-face the opportunity to shame the Raptoran by spitting on his face and then ripping out his intestines with a cruel evisceration. Smiling at his own cruel intent, Scar-face kicked the tavern door wide open.
In the span of their absence, Big bald bigot had been transformed into a ball of blistering pain. Groaning and rolling wildly on the floor, there was a huge black sizzling mark on his stomach exuding a fragrant but pungent roasting smell. “I am very sorry sir, but it’s either that or your mace sinking into my skull. You must understand that I much prefer the first.” apologised Dorian Wicker whilst shuffling a new card hand. “I suppose it’s you and me then, Mr Frugus. I have a terrible liking for that Gargoyle ear of yours. Say my entire pot for that little trinket?” teased Mr Wicker. The occupants of the tavern were now fixated on this little spectacle occurring presently, though cautiously shifting their seats away from Dorian in the fear of becoming collateral victims to his arcane reprisal.
“I have some gold left. Why would you want my ear now?” quizzed Mr Frugus, slitting his eyes in a suspicious fashion. “Obviously you came here for my ear.”
“I must say Mr Frugus, that you are a very observant man, which was why I found it absolutely unnecessary to continue my little charade.” resigned Dorian now re-propping his long and taut legs onto the table whilst leaning back into a more relaxed position. “So do we barter? Or do we have to resort to mutual harm?”, smiled Dorian perhaps in prediction to what might happen in the next turn of the clock hand.
It was within the span of mere seconds that the following events transpired. Mr Frugus drew a sharp punching dagger known as a katar, lunging at his opponent with practiced devilry, a technique that rendered the Gargolye ear into his possession when he once faced a startled mage. Confident of his maneuver, he aimed directly at Dorian's heart, the deft strike meant to be fatal and precise. Across the room, Scar-face jumped at this opportunity to slay his new found foe, flinging the now spinning dagger across the room as a ballistic pin-point attack meant to incapacitate from a safe distance.
The crunch of the rib-cage caused by the vicious katar which struck home resounded across the room, blood bursting out from the Raptoran's chest like a warm blood-laced fountain serenely pouring out its liquid contents. At the same instant, Scar-face's dagger embedded itself safely into Dorian's fragile skull, causing it split open in a spectacle of bloody gray matter blooming like a picturesque flower opening its petals to receive the rain.
“Gentlemen, why spend so much extravagance on describing death?” came a familiar voice from an empty corner of the room.
Mr Frugus stared in disbelief at the animated winged body of Dorian Wicker flared wide in complete bodily control. Standing on top of a tavern table, Dorian shrugged his shoulders as the weapons lunged at his previous self dropped to the ground inert and harmless. Very much alarmed at the use of such arcane prowess, Scar-face turned tail at that very moment, knowing exactly when to cut his losses lest he should end up with the loss of his own soul. Pushing by his hired ruffians, Scar-face fled from the Winged Warlock pushing the tavern door open only to brace himself against an eruption of dark perilous flames caking before him, forming an impenetrable wall. Stumbling back from the blistering heat, he found himself looking at his three burly henchmen who unanimously decided to say “I quit” to their now previous employer before darting away rather quickly. Scar-faced swallowed a deep gulp of his own saliva before observing the Warlock who now looked rather interested at the wine collection kept by the Tavern keeper.
“Say, do you mind if I take one of those Orcish fire wines you have in the corner of your wine collection?” asked Dorian to the rather startled Tavern keeper.
“Take whatever you want, just don't burn my tavern, goodness, I've got no insurance!”
“Thank you kind sir, I'll make it worth your time” smiled Dorian turning to face the startled crowd jostling for the back door furthest away from the scalding heat emanating from the wall of flame dancing wildly before the front of the tavern door. Not surprisingly, everyone in the tavern had the time to pick every single piece of gold from their gambling tables before leaving.
Meanwhile, amidst the frantic confusion of the emptying tavern, Mr Frugus had been expeditiously administering a vile poison made from the venom of a Deepspire cobra upon his trusty katar mumbling something about the unfaithfulness of the dark gods he paid homage to, only to roll his eyes at the idea of faithful dark gods.
“Now Mr Frugus, this seems like one of those moments that we are meant to commit to some nonsensical battle to the death. Obviously, you're not one of those stereotypes, Do give it up.”
Observing his foe, Mr Frugus could determine several outcomes to this conflict which could be written into several pages of a bardic adventure book which either spelled his doom or victory at the turn of the page. Firstly, Mr Frugus could attempt to feint his opponent into a weak defensive position and attempt to impale the Warlock's heart again, but what would stop his opponent from using magic to thwart that endeavour? Another option would be to flee from the back door, but what would stop his opponent from flying after him at a speed inescapable whilst bolting his buttocks from a distance? The third option would be to take the advice of the Warlock and have him at a good trade for his magical ear-piece.
“Fine. We'll trade. A thousand gold pieces, no less.” stated Mr Frugus unemphatically.
“A fair price, but the time for negotiation is over Mr Frugus, I have a bag of gold and whatever in it is what you will have in return. Well, I'll throw in a bottle of the finest Orcish fire wine available this part of town.” smiled Dorian towards the lean rogue.
Mr Frugus felt the blistering heat from the wall of fire burning outside the tavern and knew exactly what Dorian was saying.
“Alright Raptoran, I'll take your offer.”
The rogue Frugus proceeded to release the Gargoyle ear from its nesting spot only to spy on Scar-face standing rather nervously behind him. Unknown to many a common and learned folk, devious men have a language which is spoken without words, the simple wink of the eye or the movement of the eyebrow meant a string of information between people of like-mindedness. Scar-face and Frugus were men of such like-mindedness. With the simple twitch of the eyebrow from Frugus, Scar-face immediately knew it meant that they would work together in a united effort to banish the Warlock. Almost smiling, Scar-face discreetly unleashed another deft dagger from his wrist pocket.
“Here Raptoran, your prize.” said Frugus, throwing the Gargoyle ear towards Dorian. That was the very moment Scar-face knew he had an opportunity to seize.
“Die Bird-scum!” screamed Scar-face as he charged towards the unimpressed Dorian with his keen dagger, knowing full well that Frugus would follow him in a tumbling act meant to flank the fragile magician. Unfortunately, what met him was not the triumph of a victorious strike but the unexpected katar sinking painfully deep into his fragile throat. Eyes wide open, Scar-face felt an immense pain burning in his lungs as the cobra venom quickly paralysed his respiratory systems. Staring accusingly at his betrayer, Scar-face choked upon his last unspoken words before slumping in a pile of blood.
“I don't like people who interfere in my business” stated Frugus proceeding to wipe his bloodied katar upwards from hilt with a soft swipe from a dark black rag.
Throwing the bag of gold towards Frugus, Dorian nodded understandingly at his rather cruel opponent. “I suppose with such talent, we shall meet again. But for now, Mr Frugus, adieu.” The Winged Warlock began to draw vivid arcane symbols with his fingers before suddenly vanishing into a cloud of rusty red dust. In that instant, the dense fire burning before the tavern house ceased. All became quiet quickly, except for the tavern keeper preparing to clean up the mess caused by the bleeding body of Scar-face.
The Rogue Frugus walked outside the tavern into the cool of the night-air, frowning at the emptiness of having a missing weight on his left ear. Thinking to himself that it would not have been wise to anger a person of such arcane prowess. The magics used were very dark, too close to the heart.
Opening a scroll found in his leather vestment, Frugus revealed a picture of his contract of the night, a skinny-scarred faced man framed the portrait of the contract with the letters and numerals listing “700 gold”. In a strange twist of events, the appearance of the Warlock had made it easier for him to complete the assassination without too much complication. Walking back into the tavern, Frugus dropped a couple of gold pieces to the tavern keeper for the trouble.
“John, you’ve never seen that winged man around here have you?”
“I keep my mouth real shut Frugus.” replied John the Tavern keeper seriously.
“I know you do.”
Frugus opened his portmanteau releasing a piece of drawing parchment with an attached piece of charcoal and began to sketch the picture of the Winged Warlock wondering what strange portents would bring such a creature into their midst. What odd omens transpires in the dark nest of the town of Evensoul? Knowing full well, that the bearer of the Gargoyle ear hears things that are beyond the world known to common man.
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Post by comradechris on Feb 12, 2014 23:30:13 GMT 8
Like most of his kin, Harry was a happy Halfling. Cheerful, fun-loving and carefree, he became an entertainer to spread the love of life that he was so full of, to his audience. His talent was noticed by a traveling noble who then recruited Harry into his court, who felt that Harry could lend good spirit and cheer to the events that he held. So it was that Harry fulfilled his role well. So well in fact, that it would be his undoing. For one day, the noble tasked Harry to arrange a prank to be pulled on his friend, to celebrate his birthday. Alas, fate is a cruel mistress indeed, for the prank went on as planned, and those present enjoyed it immensely. The recipient took it well, at least on the surface, for it was his birthday after all, but deep down inside, he was not amused. One dark and stormy night, hired thugs descended upon poor Harry, who was only doing his job, and in so doing, hoped to spread cheer and laughter to those around him. They beat him savagely and flung his broken body on the ground, leaving him to die. As Harry lay there, dying as his life began to ebb from him, he gazed into night sky and wondered, "Why?" Then he began to hear music, his bardic ears and mind focused on it. It was strange, alien, yet alluring and wonderful all at once. It called to him from the stars and he felt his consciousness drifting up into night sky. Higher and higher he went, up into the cosmos. He gazed in awe and wonder as he beheld things that no mortal on his world had ever seen, while all the time following the mysterious music that pulled at his mind. After what seemed like an eternity, he came to the source of the music. It was a strange, otherworldly court, at what seemed to be in the center of the universe. The scene was familiar to him, although the characters were indeed different. As a court has a retinue of entertainers, likewise this court of the void had its own. A troupe of weird beings, strange and maddening to behold as their forms began to shift in ways that would boggle the mind to the point of insanity, circled their patron, who took his place in the center of this chaos as a king sits upon the throne overlooking his court. This patron, naturally, was far beyond the other beings performing for him, as they were far beyond little Harry. In terms of size, he was larger. In terms of being, truly he is indescribable with mere words. His form, if it could truly be described as such, was constantly changing. What was once an eye became a tentacle, which became a tongue, which split open to become a mouth, with an eye in its centre surrounded with eyelashes of flexible bone… Transfixed by the music, little Harry didn’t turn away. He beheld everything. Everything that his consciousness could perceive, he took it all in. Then he heard the voice of the patron being in his head, booming and terrible. “You do not shy from what you see? It is true then, that your kind does not fear. Just as you willingly perceive all that you can here, unafraid of the madness that it will bring upon your tiny mind, you were not afraid to pour your heart and soul into your work, regardless of the consequences, which then of course brought you here. You amuse me, little Harry, and so I have summoned you.” With no mouth, no words came forth when Harry spoke, but thoughts issued forth from his consciousness, “You know me? How? You summoned me? But what could I possibly do for you?” He makes a mental comparison of what he has seen here and his own puny reality. Harry senses emanations of humour from the being in the center of the court. “Indeed you do not know fear. You attempt to question me, knowing how insignificant what you know is, compared to all that you have seen on your journey here. I have chosen well, as I knew I would. Very well then, I am feeling generous so I shall indulge you. I am bored. As you have performed for your patron, I want you to perform for me but not here, no. I have my retinue as it is, skilled as you are, you are nothing compared to them. Neither can I send them to your world, for they would destroy it. There is still amusement for me to be had there, so no. I want you to perform in my honour back on your world. As an artist gains inspiration from what he has seen, you shall add the flavour of your journey through the void to your art. Now go, amuse me! RETURN WITH THE BLESSING OF AZATHOTH!” In an instant, Harry’s consciousness was flung back across the void and back into his mortal shell. He gasps as life returns to him. He is in the same muddy ditch, on that same dark and stormy night. He stands. His body is whole again but his mind, because of his journey through the void, is fractured. He looks up, letting the rain fall on his face, and grins as lighting flashes across the night sky, reflected in his perfectly restored teeth. He takes in a deep breath, and declares to the heavens. “AMUSE ALMIGHTY AZATHOTH!!! MWAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!”  |
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Post by comradechris on Feb 12, 2014 23:31:23 GMT 8
Mitica Silvermane, the first born of a Varisian gypsy and her elven ranger husband, took after his father in more ways than just his hair. He took a natural liking to the forest and all that it offered. During his growing years, it became his sanctuary as well. Children can be so cruel sometimes, or in his case, oftentimes, for his beautiful silver hair was often the subject of their teasing, which sometimes brought with it the occasional crude remark about his ancestry. Eventually, the teasing stopped as the children grew. Likewise, Mitica grew as well, both in age, and in his ways. His constant forays into the forest during his childhood cemented his bond with nature, for he enjoyed its simplicity and honesty, as compared to the unpleasant interactions with his peers. Thus it was not surprising that he became a scout for the caravan, like his father, and helped to keep them safe during their journeys. One day, his caravan was raided by goblin marauders. They were repelled, but there were also casualties and as fate would have it, his father was among them, felled by a poisoned goblin arrow. After the fallen were laid to rest, Mitica turned his full attention to tracking down the goblins and finishing them off so that no other travelers need fall victim to them ever again. The intensity of his focus bordered on obsession. His already short exchanges with the others in the caravan were deemed unnecessarily long, and became even shorter still. His mother became distraught that she might lose her son in addition to her husband. His diligence paid off, for less than a week later, he came across a broken arrow. Closer study of its head confirmed it to be of the same design of the one that killed his father. That was the first of many clues that would lead him to a battle between his quarry and a Qadiran merchant caravan that was clearly on the losing end. Using his familiarity with the forest, he played a game of cat and mouse with the goblin raiders, drawing them away from the more heavily wounded defenders, sometimes letting them run in circles. His tactics gave the defenders time to regroup and form a better defence, which eventually drove off what little was left of the goblin force. He then went to each and every goblin to make sure the job was done, before helping the survivors with the wounded, during which a relieved looking caravan master comes up to him, thanking him profusely. “Oh thank the gods that you turned up when you did my friend! We most certainly would be dead if not for you! Please, we are just a day from our destination. Would you stay with us the rest of the way? Surely those raiders wouldn’t dare try anything again with you around! Why, I think you could teach my guards a thing or…” Wincing at the caravan master’s incessant blabbering, Mitica quickly agrees. After all, it was nightfall already and it would not be wise to make his way back to his own caravan especially just after a raid. “Wonderful, my friend! Wonderful! Come, come, tell me your name so that I might include it in our passenger manifest.” With that, the caravan master takes out a book and a charcoal stick, and continues on, “This route I took was a shortcut. It was risky. Risky indeed! But the savings from a shorter trip translates to profits, with which I will ensure that you are well…” Mitica speaks his first name amidst the verbal diarrhea, wondering if the caravan master even heard it at all. He considers repeating it but dismisses the thought as a waste of breath. “… all about risk! Oh, I respect your desire for privacy my friend and shan’t ask further, but I must say that it your moniker is rather apt for the situation!” Mitica frowns, not understanding what the caravan master is referring to and decides to further assist the wounded, not wanting to waste any more time. By doing so, he missed the chance to correct the erroneous entry that the caravan master had made into the manifest. In the passenger manifest, written in fresh coal, a new entry read “The Mitigator”.  |
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Post by aronbasher on Feb 15, 2014 0:16:23 GMT 8
Vidas-The alchemist
The raw crackle of the fire could be heard as the monk tossed another log into the bonfire.The log landed neatly on top of the
pile and proceeded to spontaneously combust as the party settled in for the night.The cleric huddled up to the fire,next to the
shackled alchemist and took a long drag from his waterskin.The liquid dripped down off his throat and into the fire,causing the
fire to hiss loudly and recoil from the liquid in disgust.The alchemist grabbed the bead placed at his feet and ate
ravenously,stuffing the entire loaf in his mouth. "what's that?" he questioned, spraying a fine dust of crumbs in the general
direction of the cleric,who grunted and dusted off his mantle. "Tian spring water.IT's good stuff too.Shame i can't save any of
it." the Alchemist chuckled and freed his fingers from whatever leftover crumbs remained. "that'll never catch on" mused the
alchemist. "folks here only take mead.Water is for the peasants." The cleric, raising an eyebrow, finished the drink and tossed
the waterskin aside. "you'll be suprised about the complexity of water.it's-" A rapid whoosh was heard as a chair sized boulder
rocketed through the air from the nearby bush and carried the monk with it.The rock,wrapped in an iron chain, recoiled with a
resounding rattle as it disposed of the monk on a nearby remnant of a tree that one could swear was there minutes ago. Smoke
burst forth from the bushes as the chain snaked back in, and hacking coughs could be heard from within,followed by the shriek of
"GEEGEE SMOKESTIK NEWB". "And our hero finds his stimulation conversation on water rudely interuppted" the alchemist thought
aloud, snapping his binds effortlessly. The cleric scowled and grasped his staff as spindly humanoids armed to the teeth with
teeth poured forth from the brush. "GOBLINS,AND AN ORGE" yelled the cleric, as he raised his hands in an act of casting. The monk
mumbled something about his head as he righted himself,using a nearby goblin as a walking stick. "SO, WHY DO YOU THINK YOU'RE
WORTHY OF OUR GROUP?" the cleric questioned as the arcane energy crackled around him and fried a few goblins. "I DIDN'T KNOW
THERE WERE PREREQUISITES." the alchemist returned. "Besides,didn't you see me break those chains?" The alchemist chugged a potion ,and pounded a loud goblin that was attempting to grapple his leg. "Anyone can break chains!" the cleric shot. "Also, you were
obviously in chains for a good reason!" "Well? Can't I prove myself worthy in battle and make up for my lack of proper history? I
mean I-"
The alchemist's brilliant exposition was cut short by the abrupt return of the boulder, as the orge roared "TALKY MEN BOW DOWN TO
RUDIC.RUDIC UNBEAT"."Deal with the ogre!" yelled the summoner, being quickly overwhelmed by goblins "The encounter only ends when you've killed the big ugly ogre!" enforced the cleric,annoying the alchemist to an extent he never knew he could handle.He had
already taken fist to the face as the ogre continued to wail on him."THAT'S IT." the alchemist snapped,as he kneed he ogre in the
gonads.The ogre groaned and pounded back at the alchemist,who had already seized hs mutagen."Bottoms up"He cheered,as the ogre's fist met glass container.The mutagen exploded rather violently,coating both the alchemist and the ogre in green slime."This is more like it!",the alchemist laughed as his arms swelled his size. The orge groaned and muttered "Rudic wanna go home."The alchemist chuckled again,and said "Then you shouldn't have come in like a wrecking ball." The alchemist steadied himself on the ground,locking his arms and heaving the ogre over his shoulder.Within the spilt second, his mind ticked,accounting for the angle and tradjectory of his flip. "wizard school couldn't handle me" The alchemist reminded himself, as he brought the ogre down with a loud crunch."SCIENCE,PRIMATIVE."boomed the alchemist,dusting himself off. As the goblin horde thinned out,most of the goblins fleeing in terror because their big meat shield suffered from the affliction of death, the party recovered slowly.The cleric staggered up to the alchemist, and revealed a long intricate parchment. "You've earned your spot alchemist.now sign here and we'll be set." "But i don't have a quill."The alchemist grumbled. The Cleric raised and eyebrow asked aloud "Does anybody have a quill?" The party moaned back, and cleric let loose a sigh. "Screw it." he said, and dumped the parchment into the bonfire. "Welcome to the party."
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Post by lkerhsien on Feb 15, 2014 21:47:40 GMT 8
Congratulations to all participants for submitting your wonderful work. The result will be out in 2 weeks time. Hope you guys had a good time! Give yourself a clap. The Present had been finalised to be a Ifrit Boon sheet. May the odds be ever in your flavor.
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Post by 80korvus on Feb 17, 2014 14:53:23 GMT 8
Hi guys, Still possible to submit a background? I just saw this today  and I have a char from Sean's homebrew i'd like to enter. It says there will be a marks penalty, which is ok with me. Please let me know so I can submit. Thanks |
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Post by lkerhsien on Feb 27, 2014 11:42:25 GMT 8
I do not see why not? Its for fun anyway!!
Sent from my GT-N7005 using proboards
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Post by 80korvus on Mar 1, 2014 14:37:23 GMT 8
Agnidhwaj
Name: Agnidhwaj
Race: Human
Class: Paladin
Archetype: Oath of Vengence/Battering Ram
Alignment: Lawful Good
Guild: Boros Legion
Sub-Organization: Hammer of Ragathiel (nickname: The Hammers)
Deity: Ragathiel
The mountain of metal stood resolute in front of the burning caravan, as the villagers screamed insults at him. The flames reached as tall as treetops, turning night into day in the little clearing, and his armour shone in the light, proudly displaying a hammer against a flaming wing. A stone harmlessly struck his shield and his blade glinted as he slowly, meticulously moved into a defensive position. The villagers kept screaming and pointing at the drow child clinging to the Paladin’s leg, but the Paladin did not budge, even as the villagers slowly started moving towards him. From the shadows under the trees, Agnidhwaj watched, fascinated, as he saw the man in the armour shake his head.
“His kind murdered my son! Give me his head!” shouted an old man, a kindly old man who used to give sweets away to the children in the village, before the drow bandits had come.
The Paladin didn’t respond with words, but he very carefully bent down slightly, and picked up the drow child in his arm, cradling the child in the nook of his arm, behind the shield. Then, unmindful of the crowd, he slowly took a step forward. And then another, and then another, as the crowd moved back.
“Hand us that evil monster! Look at what his kind did to us! Let us have our vengeance!”
At this, the Paladin stopped, and very carefully pointed his sword at the crowd, the human and drow blood still dripping from it, and shifted his weight, moving into an attack stance. There were a few gasps and the crowd took another step back, before another stone came hurtling from within it, and struck the paladin on the head. There was a loud sound as the stone made impact, and the Paladin seemed to lose his balance, before regaining his footing, shaking his head to get his bearings back. A man suddenly charged from within the crowd, waving a pitchfork, and the Paladin moved, far faster than a man wearing his weight in metal had any right to, and sliced the pitchfork in two, before knocking the man out with the sword pommel. Two more men charged as the horrified crowd grew silent, and the first one was swatted aside by the shield, while the second one knocked out cold by a punch from the heavy gauntlet. Then, the Paladin spoke calmly:
“The drow will trouble you no more. You have your vengeance. Go to your homes and honour your dead. This is not the vengeance…”
Before he could finish his sentence, the old man who had lost his son charged, screaming and waving a spear. The Paladin moved to intercept him, tripping the man so that he skidded into the mud, but just at that moment, two of the men who had charged the Paladin earlier crashed into the Paladin, trying to tackle him onto the ground. The Paladin staggered under their weight, and the drow child fell out of his grasp. As the crowd started shouting and moving towards the struggling figures, one of the men kicked the drow child, and it collapsed on the ground, screaming and crying, tears flowing down its red eyes. The man raised a rock over his head, intending to smash it onto the child, and the drow child raised its little hands in front of its face to protect itself, when suddenly, there was a loud sound of metal hitting stone, and the man’s hands fell away from his body, the rock falling harmlessly on the ground. The man lowered the stumps of his arms, looking at them in disbelief, before collapsing on the ground. The crowd went deathly silent again.
The Paladin picked up the child in his arms, and strode through the crowd, who parted to let him pass. A young woman rushed to the man who had had his hands chopped off, screaming curses at the Paladin’s back, but no one else from the crowd made a move. As the Paladin strode away from the clearing in the forest, he turned to the crowd and said is a slow, clear voice:
“Forgive me, but in your quest for revenge, I cannot allow you to commit a greater evil than the one done to you.”
As he watched the Paladin walk away, Agnidhwaj knew what he wanted to do.
“And what makes you think you are good enough to join the Hammer of Ragathiel?”
“Because good paladins are hard to come by. Because I am the best amongst the novices. Because I am the quickest and the strongest and the fastest amongst them by far. Because I made my first kill when I was but a child, and I cannot think of a worthier cause to kill for.”
Lord Uriel sighed and shook his head. Aysha looked at him with shock in her eyes, before nodding, taking a step back, saluting Lord Uriel, and walking out of the initiation chamber with her head held high.
Lord Uriel moved to Agnidhwaj. The stood toe to toe, and even though Lord Uriel was shorter than him, Agnidhwaj still felt dwarfed. He tried not to look at Lord Uriel’s eyepatch, to keep staring ahead, but he couldn’t help but sneak a glance. The dark brown right of Lord Uriel was reading him, but Agnidhwaj was not sure of what they were looking for.
“You are good with a sword and shield, but you were never really that good with a hammer, were you?”
Agnidhwaj gulped before answering:
“Because a hammer beats down and bludgeons with no discrimination, but with a shield I can protect, and with a sword, I can cut the bonds of evil wherever I find them.”
As soon as he said it, he knew it was a silly answer, and his mind went back to all the years of training, of the tearful goodbye with his parents as he left home, all the lessons in the temple of the Hammer of Ragathiel, the vigils, the peaceful nights and calm days that he spent trying to hone his craft. He felt all of it slipping away from him as an icy cold gripped his body.
“Tell me,” Lord Uriel asked again, “what would you punish first, a lesser evil or an evil?”
“There is no such thing as a lesser evil,” said Agnidhwaj, and he suddenly felt a rush of warm blood in his veins, “there is only evil and greater evil. Evil cannot be left unpunished, but you cannot let evils distract yourself from a greater evil. Just like you wouldn’t stop to catch every thief in town in your pursuit of an assassin. However, that does not mean that you must focus only on the greater evil. You must punish that which you can, when you can, for you cannot let the desire of storming the gates of hell overpower the need to hunt down the bandits who murder innocent travelers. In this, the Paladin must make their judgement.”
Lord Uriel nodded approvingly and asked his third question:
“And what is the most a Paladin can hope for?”
Agnidhwaj tried not to smile as he answered. This was an easy one.
“The most a Paladin can hope for is that through their actions, they have left the world a better place than it was.”
Lord Uriel nodded again and asked his last question:
“And what makes you think you are good enough to join the Hammer of Ragathiel?”
“Because…” and he faltered. He had an answer prepared but as Lord Uriel’s eye bored a hole through him, Agnidhwaj felt the sweat on his brow. He closed his eyes and breathed, and his mind went back to the night in the clearing, when we first saw what a Paladin was. Then, he opened his eyes, his mind clear, and answered:
“Because I know that grief and anger can move an ordinary man to acts of evil that pure malice cannot match. Because I know my job is not to ultimately save the people from the demons and devils and denizens of hell, I know my job is to save the people from what they might become.”
Lord Uriel looked intently at Agnidhwaj for a minute, then slowly stepped back, and nodded.
The paladins marched in formation, swords and shields first, hammers at the back. The walls around them were drenched in blood. Their metal boots crushed broken spears and limbs underfoot. The rioters had gathered in the central square of the village. The ones in the front were carrying the headless body of a guard strung up on a pole, while others beat kettle drums and chanted and danced. The paladins walked up to within fifty paces of the rioters and stopped. The rioters still involved in their arcane revelry, hadn’t noticed the paladins yet. Lord Faevos surveyed the scene for a moment, and then turned to face his paladins.
“I and Agnidhwaj will advance and I will issue a warning” Lord Faevos said, “and if they do not surrender, we attack. Remember, no blood of innocents, no blood of those who have surrendered.”
In response, all paladins struck their breastplate with their gauntlets once. Lord Faevos nodded and turned around. Agnidhwaj fell in behind him as he walked towards the rioters. As they walked, some of the rioters turned around and started whispering and pointing at them. Lord Faevos stopped and called out in a clear voice:
“This is Lord Faevos, leader of the Paladin contingent you see behind me. We are of the Hammer of Ragathiel. Cease this atrocity and surrender to us, and the least guilty of you will be spared and given a chance at redemption. Surrender to us your leaders and cease this slaughter of innocents. This are the only terms you shall get.”
For a moment, there was silence as the entire group of rioters stared at Lord Faevos. Agnidhwaj shifted his weight, readying to charge. The rioters were nearly a hundred in number, five times the number of their party. Not even close to an even fight.
The crowd suddenly erupted in a howl of laughter, and they parted as a giant of a man strode out from between them, carrying a greatsword in one hand and dragging the decapitated corpse of a woman in the other.
“Lord Faevos you say”, he said in a loud booming voice, “you are here to negotiate our surrender? What terms will you give me? I am the Nindharg, the Butcher of Bolbakane, I am the one who caused this riot and killing, all for my demon lords. Come now paladin, I surrender and repent for all my crimes, what terms do you give?”, saying this, he threw his head back and let out a loud booming laugh.
“If you truly repent,” said Lord Faevos, “then lay down your arms, disperse your mob, and face summary execution for your crimes. If you truly repent, then at least give those who you have not yet utterly corrupted a chance to atone.”
“Foolish man”, Nindharg roared, “I know all about you paladins. I have killed some of you myself. There is nothing you can do to me. I surrender and repent, you hear me! I surrender and repent! Whoever your god is, let them hear that I have surrendered and atone for all my sins, you cannot execute me!”
“Foolish man,” replied Lord Faevos, as he raised his hammer, “when you reach the gates of hell, ask about Ragathiel. Hammers, attack!”
Nindharg roared at them, and immediately charged Lord Faevos. Several of his followers charged after him, waving their weapons and screaming in fury. Lord Faevos and Agnidhwaj charged as well, Faevos towards Nindharg and Agnidhwaj towards the followers. As he ran, Agnidhwaj gained speed. He knew his fellow battle brothers would have started their charge as well, and would meet him in the fray soon enough. Through his visor, he could see the knot of rioters heading at him. Lowering his sword arm, he raised his shield and with a final burst of speed, he crashed into the rioters. The rioters weren’t wearing any armor and were thrown about like ragdolls by the impact. Before they could recover, Agnidhwaj had started chopping them down. As he decapitated the last of his attackers, he heard a cry of pain, and turned to see Nindharg turn tail and run. One of his arms was sliced off at the elbow. His greatsword was lying the dirt, at the feet of lord Faevos.
“Kill them! Attack and Kill them! Rovagug command you!” he screamed as he ran. The rioters charged the paladins as one body.
“Get back to the line!” Faevos yelled, as he turned and ran. Agnidhwaj followed him. The other paladins had already formed the defensive line, using the narrow village street to their advantage. As they ran, they were peppered with stones and small javelins, but none of the weapons caused them any harm. They reached the advancing line of metal with a few moments to spare. Lord Faevos took his place at the back of the formation, while Agnidhwaj took his place in the front line and waited for the rioters to meet them.
The rioters broke upon the metal wall, but couldn’t break through, Their unarmed bodies broke on the shields and swords of the paladins, but could not make a dent. As their assault stalled, the paladins with shields suddenly gave way, opening a void in which the paladins with hammers stepped in. The clove a path through the rioters, swinging their might warhammers, and the rioters gave way to their assault, breaking down as more and more of them were caught in the path of the hammers and swords. Some of them dropped to the ground and sued for mercy, while others turned and ran.
“Round up those who have surrendered,” Lord Faevos shouted, “and heal their wounded. Chase after the ones who have not and bring them to justice. Agnidhwaj, Elphonse, come with me! We are going after Nidharg!”
The trail of blood led up the stairs into the guardhouse. They could hear shouts of help from the inside. Faevos nodded at Agnidhwaj and Elphonse, and they walked forward, shields and swords at the ready. The door was bolted, but a single strike broke it open. The paladins moved in slowly into the dark room.
“Help! They’ve locked us here! We have wounded!” a voice called out.
“Who is this? Identify yourself.” Lord Faevos answered.
“We are the soldiers sent from Magnimar”, the voice replied, “We were ambushed and betrayed. Most of us are down here, but they took a few away. We are in the cells in the lower levels. Help! He is down here as well!”
“Don’t worry!” Lord Faevos answered, “we are coming for you. Just don’t make any more noises. We will save you all.”
Faevos nodded to Agnidhwaj and Elphonse made their way towards the cell block. All the lights in the guardhouse were out, and the paladins moved slowly in the dark, checking each corner and potential hiding spot. The trail of blood was still fresh, and Nindharg still had one good hand.
They descended down the stairs and reach the cell block level, Elphonese in the front and Agnidhwaj in the middle. The pathways in the cell block led in two different directions, and were so narrow that only one armoured paladin could walk through them at a time, in order to create a bottleneck in case any prisoners broke through.
Faevos slowly tapped his paladins on their shoulders, indicating they should follow the corridor to their right and they both nodded once, before heading down that path. The cries of help had grown quieter and quieter. The cells were as dark as the corridor, with the occasional window providing what little light it could. Elphonse and Agnidhwaj made their way to the end of the corridor, and were rewarded with the sight of about a dozen guards huddled together, almost all of them bleeding and most of them delirious with blood loss. Elphonse broke open the doors with his pommel, and they started tending to the guards.
“Who is in command here?” Elphonse asked, as he helped a guard to his feet.
“Commander Aysha”, the guard wheezed. “But they took her away when we were captured. I think they were interrogating her.”
Elphonse shot Agnidhwaj a look, and then glanced at the door. Agnidhwaj nodded and shrugged, helping close another guard’s wounds.
“Don’t worry,” Elphonse reassured him, “our commander is here with us as well. We will find her.”
Suddenly, they heard the sound of a woman screaming. Elphonese froze, and then leaving the guard leaning against the door, he ran out of the cell.
“Here, take this” Agnidhwaj gave his weapon and shield to a guard, “lead your men out and get to the paladins. Tell them Agni sent you. I will cover your exit. Go!”
He led the guards to the stairs of the cellblock, and then rushed down the other path. He could hear dull thuds, like a hammer hitting a hard surface again and again. The armour was beginning to weigh him down, but he still charged. He heard another scream, but this time in a man’s voice. The floor was wet with blood and he almost slipped and fell a couple of times, but he kept on going. As he skidded into the last cell, he saw Lord Faevos with his hammer raised, ready to strike. In front of him knelt Nidharg, blood and tears streaming down his face. He was waving the stump of his arm ineffectually, pleading for mercy, while the other arm dangled lifelessly, mangled beyond repair from repeated hammer blows. There was no sign of Elphonse.
“Where are they!” Lord Faevos roared. “Tell me scum! What did you do to them?”
“Please! I beg of you!” sobbed Nidharg in a broken voice, “I don’t know where the spell took them. I know it is supposed to take you to a place in hell, but I don’t know where. Please believe me, I beg of you!”
“How do I bring them back?” Lord Faevos asked, his hammer ready to strike.
“I don’t know!” Nidharg sobbed, “please don’t hit me anymore. I am ready to repent! I surrender! I beg for your mercy! Please don’t hurt me anymore!”
Lord Faevos lowered his warhammer and bent down to Nidharg’s level, and gently holding his face in his hands, he spoke:
“I believe you. I do not believe you are ready to repent, but I do believe you are begging for mercy and you will do anything not to be hurt again.”
“Yes, please!” Nidharg nodded. “Anything to stop this. I will help you in any way I can! I am truly ready to repent and help you!”
Lord Faevos stood up and beckoned Agnidhwaj.
“Have him healed,” Lord Faevos said, “and set the bones back in his arms. Take him back to the temple and have him questioned immediately. His spirit is broken, but he has already done his damage. Elphonse is gone and so is Aysha. I do not know what manner of magic did he use, but we will get them back.”
Agnidhwaj nodded and entered the cell, taking off his visor and taking out his pouch of healing poultices and wands. As Agnidhwaj tended to Nidharg’s broken arm, he felt a sudden chill in the air. He turned to find Lord Faevos staring at his hands. Then, as if lifting a great burden, Lord Faevos took off his helmet. Gently, he sat down on the bunk in the cell, and putting his helmet to one side, put his bald head in his hands. After a few moments, he lifted his head and looked up at Agnidhwaj and with a sad smile, said:
“It seems I went a little too far. I seem to have fallen.”
“My lord” Agnidhwaj said as he began to rise, but Lord Faevos bade him stop.
“Tend to him. I wounded him more than I should have. We owe him because of my error, because of my anger, and I will atone for that.”
Lord Faevos got up and reached for his hammer, but then stopped and walked out of the cell slowly. When he reached the door, without turning back, he said:
“I am not worthy of this yet, but you must carry this with you. You must carry this hammer for me. I will search for ways to bring them back, and when I do, I will come to you for my hammer and I will break open all the locks in hell to get them out, and if I fail,” and here, he stopped and took a deep breath, “then as my last act as your commander, I bid you to continue and succeed where I failed. Agnidhwaj, we must rescue commander Aysha and Elphonse from hell.”
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Post by lkerhsien on Mar 10, 2014 13:27:31 GMT 8
Winner: 80Kurvis (Ahbi)
First Runner-up: Simone & Joseph.
Congratulations to the winners!!
Below are the reviews of one of the judges.
Writing a great backstory:
Vainadite:
An excellently written, richly described piece of work.
I was initially afraid that your description might have been superfluous. Instead, it effectively set a mood for the subsequent exposition – exposition that might have been tiresome to wade through, given its length. As a result, the work was a pleasure to read.
I also like that I can see the personality of your character shine forth in his interaction with his two travelling companions. His cynicism and world-weariness is something I can see playing a part in his in-game decisions.
Finally, I can appreciate you trying to weave some inside jokes into your backstory. A good backstory ought to always be connected to the general game universe that you and your DM exist in.
Some things to note: a few spelling errors here and there marred the perfection that would have been. Also, I’d have liked it if your character’s goals had been more clearly expressed (Is he seeking to stop his former mentor? Seeking vengeance? Attempting to stay the corruption of Lamashtu?)
Score: 9/10
John:
This seemed a rather cursory attempt. It tells me what your character has accomplished – but who is he?
Don’t just tell me, but show me his personality, his history; his likes and dislikes, and his goals. Show me, and your fellow players, how all of the above shape his decisions and reactions in-game, so we have a benchmark to measure his growth as a character.
Try again! And may your character live as surely as you do.
5/10
Lord Julius:
A good attempt, though pulled down by superfluous description and unstable grammar.
Also, I notice you are telling me a lot about this character. However, don’t just tell me – show me.
Perhaps, an interaction between this character and a companion could show me how he is arrogant and self-righteous – yet compassionate in his own way. Perhaps, the character could then recount a recent run-in he had with a law enforcement officer to show us his general disdain for lawful types.
I’d also like to know what his goals are. What does he want in life? He certainly seems idealistic, but that itself is pretty vague. What does he really want?
With regards to writing, remember the tired maxim: “less is more”. And, like a Wilder, overstretching your command of the language often ends up in enervation – for yourself and the reader.
6/10
Daryl:
This was an intriguing beginning to your character’s adventure. In fact, I would like to have heard more! Unfortunately, most of this backstory seems to revolve around the emissary rather than your character; her personality and character certainly seem more fleshed out than his are.
Perhaps, he could have had more ‘air time’. Just before the emissary enters, you could probably write a bit about Six languishing in his cell. You could talk about what he was doing, or what he was thinking about. What do you think he felt/thought of when he heard the heavy footsteps approaching his cell? Was he truly bewildered by the emissary’s offer, or was it merely a ruse? There are many considerations that could have been addressed.
The concerns are still the same: who is Six? What are his likes, dislikes, goals, etc? You already have the start of your story – with a little work, I’m sure the character that is Six can come to fullness of life.
PS check out Joseph’s story to see how he balances character ‘air time’. There are multiple supporting characters, the most notable of whom is Mr Frugus, the one the story ends with. However, Dorian is unquestionably the main character.
6/10
Joseph:
Yours was a beautifully told story that had me from start to end.
It was a good choice to place the character of Dorian Wicker in the company of men so different from himself, in order to cause his personality to stand out even more. I like how you used speech in particular to give him a sense of good breeding. The fight scene was thoughtfully done and well-written, both engaging and further colouring the various characters it involved.
Of course, this particular style of backstory does not address Dorian’s wants and goals. Nevertheless, I have more than enough information presented here to shape his character, were I to take this character as he was and to play him. As such, I feel that it has succeeded in its primary purpose.
Like Vainadite’s backstory, a number of grammatical errors mar the writing. However, these are easily overlooked in light of the overall story.
9/10
Comradechris: Entry 1
I am always quite partial toward Lovecraft; this was an interesting story. However, while I can see a potential framework for this character’s personality and such, it does not seem to go beyond a one-dimensional ‘insane’ character.
Insanity is always fascinating because of the conflict it causes, be it reality/imagination, internal/external, etc. Otherwise, a unique perspective could bring out colour in this character (e.g. revelation through insanity, like in much of the Lovecraft Mythos, or the beloved Joker’s dark lucidity). However, this story has not given any opportunity to showcase who your character is. Perhaps, with further elaboration/exposition, this backstory could be made to reach the heights of its potential.
7/10
Comradechris: Entry 2
Compared to the previous entry, this backstory gives a better peek into the person that is Silvermane. I can clearly see some behavioral traits that might shape his interactions with people, as well as his preferred tactics when it comes to combat.
It was also interesting to see how this character handled a tragic situation – it is so often tragedy that reveals who we are deep down inside.
Furthermore, I like how you defined the supporting characters; namely, the Caravan Master. The better defined your supporting cast is, the more we’ll see the main character reflected off them.
This is a good backstory. From here on end, it is your skill of writing that will help it achieve winning calibre.
Aronbasher:
Due to the formatting, your backstory was nigh unreadable. I definitely think you should have bothered to present your work properly instead of just dumping it onto the forum page.
The premise of your story was interesting: the interview that unexpectedly becomes more effective than anyone would really have wanted. However, there are a number of flaws that weigh critically upon its chances of success.
The occasional pop culture reference is enjoyable, but it backfires here because it is handled in a crude and excessive manner. The character of Vidas is clearly portrayed to be the sort of wisecracking, overconfident type that one sees in storebought action films – as in, lacking in depth, and, worse still, potentially grating on the nerves. This is not to say that your character cannot be hilariously one-dimensional – many successful characters are built that way. However, you should consider at least make a character that is either interesting, or whom people generally like.
Right now, Vidas is looking to be quite the Scrappy.
(As opposed to the (in)famous Fansy, unflappable troll-bard of hilarious legend)
In any case, consider putting in more effort into presentation the next time you enter a competition.
4/10
80korvus:
As with each of the longer entries in the competition, I approached yours with a sense of misgiving – was it going to be an exhausting wade through waist-deep verbiage?
However, as with the others, yours has been an absolute pleasure to read.
Where do I start? The story was riveting. The description was measured and effective. As a backstory, I now know who Agni is – his history, and how it factors into both the decisions he made, as well as those he eventually will. He is a man on a mission – I know what he wants out of life, and I also know his main goal (Of course, this hopefully ties in with the DM’s plan for the campaign.)
Your good command of the language gave you an edge over the others. Grammatical errors were negligible. (Also, good on you for giving a correct past tense for ‘cleave’ and using the word ‘sue’ in its lesser-known form.)
As much as I could gush about your work, I think the best form of praise would be to give you a perfect score.
Thank you for the wonderful read.
10/10
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and I have a char from Sean's homebrew i'd like to enter. It says there will be a marks penalty, which is ok with me. Please let me know so I can submit.