DM John's The Reaping Stone

Game Master Paizo Fan

Veltheron Shadowform grew up in the city slums. Her parents were poor and treated with disdain, and Veltheron learned to get by by stealing the things needed. Her thefts started small, from food-wares in the markets to worthless trinkets purloined straight off a belt. As she grew older, her crimes did as well. It was inevitable that she would be caught. With each passing prison sentence, she reflected on her actions and decided she would lead a life as a valued member of society. But the thrill of crime was too much. Finally, when attempting to steal an priceless amulet from a noble's royal bedchamber, she was caught. It was obvious he was prepared because they cut her escape rope and guards filled the room before she realized. The last sentence was a long one, and being an elf, it would be worse then death.

Salvation came in the form of an emissary. A recruiter for the Shining Blade who had heard of criminal past and sly finesse and came to her with a proposition - freedom and reward in return for absolute loyalty. Veltheron had never been a killer before, but the thought certainly crossed her mind in the past. It was an easy step to take going from a thief to assassin, and from then on she answered only to The Shining Blade. After-all, if doing the things she loved wasn't enough to excite her, getting paid for it was. And she knew very well not to bite the hand that feeds.

Veltheron Shadowform
Female Elf Rogue 2
LN Medium Humanoid (elf)
Init +6; Senses low-light vision; Perception +10

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Defense
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AC 15, touch 13, flat-footed 12 (+2 armor, +3 Dex)
hp 12 (2d8)
Fort +0, Ref +7, Will +3; +2 vs. enchantments
Defensive Abilities evasion; Immune magic sleep; Resist elven immunities

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Offense
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Speed 20 ft.
Melee
Masterwork Shortsword +6 (+2 dual-wield) (1d6/19-20/x2) and
Shortsword +5 (-3 dual-wield) (1d6/19-20/x2)
Ranged
Masterwork Shortbow +6 (1d6/x3)
Special Attacks sneak attack +1d6

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Statistics
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Str 10, Dex 18, Con 10, Int 12, Wis 16, Cha 13
Base Atk +1; CMB +1; CMD 14

Feats Two-weapon Fighting, Weapon Finesse
Traits Reactionary, Vagabond Child (urban) (Disable Device)
Skills Acrobatics +6 (+2 jump), Bluff +6, Climb +4, Escape Artist +6, Fly +1, Perception +10 (+11 to locate traps), Ride +1, Sense Motive +8, Sleight of Hand +6, Stealth +6, Swim +2, Use Magic Device +6;

Racial Modifiers +2 Perception
Languages Common, Elven, Goblin

SQ elven magic, rogue talents (combat trick), trapfinding +1
Combat Gear Caltrops (3);
Other Gear Leather armor, Arrows (20), Masterwork Shortbow, Masterwork Shortsword, Shortsword, Backpack, Belt pouch, Climber's kit, Grappling hook, Thieves' tools, masterwork, Potion of Cure Light Wounds (4), 87 GP

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Special Abilities
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Elven Immunities +2 save bonus vs Enchantments.
Elven Immunities - Sleep You are immune to magic sleep effects.
Elven Magic +2 to spellcraft checks to determine the properties of a magic item.
Evasion (Ex) If you succeed at a Reflex save for half damage, you take none instead.
Low-Light Vision See twice as far as a human in low light, distinguishing color and detail.
Sneak Attack +1d6 damage if you flank your target or your target is flat-footed.
Trapfinding +1 Gain a bonus to find or disable traps, including magical ones.

”Why is Loggy still in bed?” The white kit yanks at his father’s tail. He has learned this is the best way to get an adult’s attention, so Zrair is surprised when the he does not even turn to face him.

He replies, after a moment: “Logrethe isn’t feeling well, Zrair, she needs to rest. Go outside, and play with your cousins.”

“I don’t want to. They’ll climb trees and throw the needlecones at me again.”

His father rises from his stool, and set the pestle and mortar on her place. Zrair didn’t struggle as he lifted him up by his scruff, to set him down outside the healer’s hut. He make to walk back to toward the main square, but after a moment turned and crept back. Quietly, he pushes the flap slightly to the side. Straining to balance on his paw-tips, he tries to catch a glimpse of his older sister. Loggy must be faking it, he decides, scared to join their mother on her first hunt.

But as their father rises again from the stool and clears the view, Zrair can’t imagine how even that dedicated trickster could fake the bare patches of skin dotting his sister’s arms and forehead, or the suppurating sores exposed beneath. He closes the curtain, and goes off to find his cousins.

...

“You have barely begun your apprenticeship,” his father replies in a weary tone. "You may be my eldest child, but you are still just that: a child. Your studies are not for you to direct.”

“The study is ancient superstition,” Zrair hisses back. “Herbs and chants, and the spirit will heal the sickness? It’s blind mummery!” Before his father can chasten him for the outburst, the young apprentice turns and sprints out of the healer’s hut. He is already in the treeline by the time his father has moved to to the

Zrair heard his name being called from the village, but he paid it no heed. He slinks around the pines and thrashes through the undergrowth. A minute after the voices have faded into the distance, he stops, and bends over to lift a rock that leans against a rotten stump. He reaches into the damp darkness, and draws out a crude wooden box.

Brushing aside the leaves and needles from a small patch of forest floor, he sets down the container and lifts the lid. The strong stench of decay fills his nostrils, but his muzzle does not wrinkle. From one compartment of the box, he withdraws a stubby bottle capped with cork and half-filled with a clear liquid. He removes the stopper, and the strong smell of lye mixes with the drifting putrescence. Extending a claw from his other hand, he pokes at sparrow lying in the second compartment.

Dead, he observes, but less decomposed, and no maggots. He notes with curiosity the thin, white, gelatinous layer coating the inside the compartment. That substance had not been there with his previous specimen.

He tips the bottle carefully, dripping a few more drops onto the partially decayed corpse, then recorks it and sets it back in its original compartment. Leaning back against the stump, Zrair withdraws his journal, bound with string to a thin charcoal pencil, from the inner pocket of his shirt, and sets about to recording the results of yesterday’s experiment.

...

"I know." His father doesn't look up from worktable, continuing to grind herbs.

Zrair is taken aback. "What do you mean, you know? I said, I'm leaving. Renthel took me along on his last trade mission to the city. There's an apothecary there, and she's taking on apprentices. I'm leaving, today, and-"

"We found your labratory in the forest, Zrair."

Now the young catman was speechless. How dare they follow him, stalk him like some vermin, when he was doing nothing wrong? He shakes away the surprise, and re-adopts his determined air.

"I'm going to Maer-Varza, father. They actually teach alchemy there, the whole science, not this colorless witchcraft you call healing. When I return," if I return, he wants to say, "I will bring back with me the true arts. I will be of better service to the whole village."

"No." His father looked up now, and Zrair was surprised for the third time. This speech had not gone at all how he planned it. "You are still my son, a scion of our people, but these arts you speak of will never be welcome. You may return whenever you wish, child, but you will provide service to no one. The mantle of healer shall pass to Frash, your uncle's son."

Zrair's eyes narrow, and his lips draw back. Forever his father had denied him respect, and truth, and knowledge, and now he was denying him his last moment of rebellion!

"Your mantle," he spat back at the still-seated figure, "is less than a rat's rotten hindclaw! You are an old, blind fool, and your skill is like that of an armorer who has never held a blade. How can you guard life if you know nothing of death? You cannot--you could never have..." He stopped himself, not willing or not needing to voice the final thought. His father shifts back to the workbench, claws clacking against the stone pestle. Zrair spins about and strides stiffly outside. He pushes aside the flap to the healer's hut, and this time he does not turn back.