|Paizo Pathfinder® Paizo Games|
|About Paizo Messageboards News Paizo Blog Help/FAQ|
I think all that is right ...anyone see any problems? Working on the backstory ...family of merchants that dealt in slaves and slave gear. Tok fell in love with a slavegirl and when he tried to free her his parents killed her. So he staged an accident, freed everyone he could, and escaped in the confusion.
Wound Threshold: 12
OK, I gotcha. I forgot how many of the others are like that. Maybe some of the northerners came together? Or some of that ancestry was wayyyyy far back?
I mean I guess we could just meet in the traditional bar (where bad relationships and adventuring groups start, heh), but it'd be nice if we worked together some, too.
Appearance and Personality:
Frang is a pale Kellid man standing at an even six feet. More lithe than bulky, his frame is almost thin. He is not particularly bad or good looking, and his resting face shows no expression out of his ice-blue eyes. His jet-black hair is usually kept close for utilitarian purposes (long hair is easier to grab). His calm expression makes him hard to read most times, but when he wants to get his point across, he will.
He dresses in black leathers. Emblazoned on his tunic is the white skull-moon of Groetus. His sickle hangs at his side, his bow at the others, while other weapons are less conspicuous. He is determined to lay waste to any who would circumvent his God's mission by choosing their own apocalypse. To that end, he sometimes takes on a "character" to more or less go undercover and investigate more.
He's gotten a bit too good at mimicking insanity, though ...if he's mimicking anymore.
There we go! Been wanting to play this AP forever, so I hope you give Frang a chance!
Frang Vulfmann doesn't talk about his past much, but I know the scoop. He was born somewhere in Numeria, but far enough from Alkenstar that the Shield Marshalls were about as real to him as the gods, which is to say, not very real. It's said he had a slew of brothers and sisters, but I can't say as I know much about 'em. Maybe that's best. Well, somethin happened, that's for sure, over in Numeria, and the Vulfmann family got the eff out pronto. They headed over to Ustalav, where Papa Vulfmann had kin. Things didn't go that good there, either. Once, while he was in his cups, I heard Frang say, "In Numeria death was just as natural as life. Folks died, but such a thing is not new. Ustalav was different. Death came from men, men and undead."
The Vulfmann family didn't spend a whole lot of happy times in Ustalav, or anywhere, fer that matter. One a them crazy cults took an interest in the Numerian family. Some of the younger kids started helpin out in the temple and such as for extra food. Then they stopped comin home. Frang was the eldest, and workin at the house because of such. When he went to go fetch the rest of his litter, well, it weren't pretty.
Suffice to say, standin in the visera and fluids of his family didn't do much for Frang's mood.
But at least he found the Lord that day.
See, the Lord spoke to Frang that day. "ALL THINGS END," He said. "WHEN I END THEM." The Good Lord Groetus, it seems, ain't to fond of mortals tryin to bring on the end for their own grubby reasons. And his priests, well, they weren't always that ...useful, you know, fer real work. They could rarely cleanse themselves, much less the world. So the Lord knew what he had here in Frang. This weren't no street-beggar nor spasming prophet. This was a weapon.
Since then, well, he's been travelin. When he hears of some s+-ass cult gonna try to end it all again, he makes his way there and does what he's gotta. Lately, been talk about an unnatural winter. Frang prayed and prayed, fer he'd been hearin awful things about a Rough Beast cult down south, and he didn't know what he should do.
The Good Lord Groetus gave him a powerful sight that night, in his dreams. Cold, cold, cold. The cold of death, of oblivion, of the Void. But also the cold of northern witches, playin at heretics, thinkin Groetus' might be their own to take.
He left for the north the very next day.
Crunch for the Inquisitor:
Male Human Inquisitor of Groetus 1
CN Medium Humanoid (Human)
Init +2; Perception +3
AC 15/12 t/13 ff
Fort +3, Ref +2, Will +5
BAB + 0
Speed 30 ft.
Melee: Dagger +0 (1d4) 19–20/×2 s, p
Melee: Sickle +0 (1d6), trip s
Melee: Morningstar +0 (1d8) b, p
Ranged: Longbow +2 (+3 w/in 30 feet) 1d8 (+1 w'in 30 feet)
Str 10, Dex 15, Con 13, Int 13, Wis 17, Cha 10
Base Atk +0; CMB+0 ; CMD +12
Feats: Point Blank Shot, Precise Shot
Traits: Restless Wayfarer, Secret Knowledge
[spoiler=Judgement (su)]Starting at 1st level, an inquisitor can pronounce judgment upon her foes as a swift action. Starting when the judgment is made, the inquisitor receives a bonus or special ability based on the type of judgment made.
Often it is hard to tell heretics from the faithful. You use duplicity, stealth, and the heretics’ own arguments to root them out and bring them to justice.
Righteous Infiltration (Ex): You use your Wisdom modifier instead of your Charisma modifier when making Bluff and Intimidate checks.
0: Bleed, Daze, Disrupt Undead, Stabilize
1 (2/day): Disguise Self, Interrogation
Sorry for splitting this up, but I'm stuck using my phone to type this up. Anyway ...
Jannic is a charmer. He's so upfront about his failings sometimes you can't help but look past them. Deep down, he's incredibly unsatisfied with his "medium" life. Stuck but confortable, Jannic is actually biding his time, whether he knows it or not. There has to be something more to life than ...just this.
That said, he's quick to find the humor in a situation, if only as a reflex reaction to his deep ennui. He serves as a bartender at times, coasting on his charm and family reputation. He's friendly to most, sometimes even genuinely.
Jannic has always had angular, almost delicate features. Lobg and far leaner than most beefy Ulfen, Jannic had to learn to move fast when the stronger kids started throwing punches. Often these punches were in retaliation for some supposed hanky panky with the puncher's favorite girl. His hair is a rich brown, worn long as is in fashion. His beard is ...perhaps more precisely trimmed, but his near ice blue eyes get most of the attention. Jannic normally wears utilitarian, easy clothes designed for comfort. Though the opulence of Jarls catches his eye, he relates it too much with their privilege to want to emulate it.
I'll get the crunch up soon, but it's on paper at least. But here's that delicious fluff.
Jannic Lyykeman was the son of a brewer who was the son of a brewer who was the son of a brewer ...you get the idea. At one point in the village's history, Jannic's grandfather and namesake developed an ale recipe that the Jarls so loved they made him a karl. Jannic's father learned the family trade and enjoyed a free life his own father had only recently acquired. He worked hard, enjoyed his time off, and even married one of the town's prettiest girls. From this union our Jannic was born. From an early age Jannic was concerned in his own way with the class system. He was free ...but others were more free. Unlike his father or grandfather he thought not to simply be thankful for not being a thrall, he wondered what it was that made the Jarls so special.
It wasn't their minds, that much he was sure. As Jannic developed he became aware he was more intelligent than most all those mush-headed fops. It further darkened his perception of the class system. Why were fools given such license to rule? His father discouraged such thoughts ...with emphasis. Jannic swallowed his anger and learned what he could. He found himself adept at languages, picking up both the elven and dwarven tongues, and more recently Taldane. Jannic tells few people he thinks about leaving. He has a good life as a brewer laid out for him. But something isn't sitting right.
Zheena was born to Mwangi-descended parents after they immigrated to the metropolitan city of Absalom. They worked hard to make sure she could have more options than they had ever dreamed of for themselves. Their devotion to her ran into its first obstacle when it became clear that her childhood desire to be an artist when she grew up was not going away. It took them a bit to get used to it, but, as a 15-year old Zheena once told them, "You came here to give me more choices. Wouldn't it be counterproductive to now limit them?"
Begrudgingly, they continued to buy her art supplies as she sketched all day, it seemed. Soon enough her talent began to shine through, and the initial reservations her parents had vanished. Neither parent had ever had enough time for any specific deity's worship, not out of lack of belief or spirituality, just out of sheer lack of time. So, at first, neither did Zheena. But one day as she was walking the city, looking for things to sketch, she came upon the temple district. Many of the temples were ...stodgy, ugly, too utilitarian. Or evil, there were some that were obviously too evil. But Shelyn? Now this was a goddess she could worship.
She began taking art lessons at the temple and made sure to pay attention to what the clergy did other than art, too. Healing, protection, love ...all these seemed to be extensions of the artistic dedication and admiration of true beauty. She threw herself into the church full-throttle.
But now her initial training is complete. She was given a choice as one of the priestesses of the temple in Absalom, or to go out into the world as a missionary. Between that which she had known all her life and the unlimited possibilities of an even greater world around her, she chose the missionary work.
She arrives in town ready to spread the gospels of love, beauty, and art, but if anyone would work against the freedom to do these things, she is more than ready to take up her glaive as Shelyn herself has, and protect that which she believes.