DM Salsa Presents: Wrath of the Righteous (Inactive)

Game Master AdamWarnock

Droosch Two-Blood
Male half-orc shaman (witch-doc) 1
NG Male humanoid (human, orc)
Init +3; Senses darkvision 60 ft.; Perception +4

AC 13, touch 13, flat-footed 10 (+3 Dex)
hp 11 (1d8+3)
Fort +3, Ref +3, Will +6

Speed 30 ft.
Melee sickler +0 (1d6)
Ranged light crossbow +3 (1d8/19-20)

Abilities Str 10, Dex 16, Con 16, Int 13, Wis 18, Cha 18
Base Atk +0; CMB +0; CMD 13
Languages Common, Kellid, Orcish

Feats Spell Penetration

Skills 4+1 = 5
- Diplomacy 1 rank + 3 class + 4 Cha = +8
- Heal 1 rank + 3 class + 4 Wis = +8
- Knowledge (the planes) 1 rank + 3 class + 1 Int = +5
- Spellcraft 1 rank + 3 class + 4 Wis = +8
- Survival 1 rank + 3 class + 4 Wis = +8

Traits: Touched by Divinity (1/day, domain ability – empyreal lord Tolc), Fate's Favored (Whenever you are under the effect of a luck bonus of any kind, that bonus increases by 1)

Intimidating: Half-orcs receive a +2 racial bonus on Intimidate skill checks due to their fearsome nature.

Familiar: fly 5 ft.; acts as an accurate star map. Arctic fox.

Orc Ferocity (Ex) Once per day, when a half-orc is brought below 0 hit points but not killed, he can fight on for one more round as if disabled. At the end of his next turn, unless brought to above 0 hit points, he immediately falls unconscious and begins dying.

Spells Prepared (CL 1st; concentration +5)
- 1st: cure light, detect evil plus spirit magic
- 0 (at will) – create water, detect magic, mending

Spirit: Heavens.

Spirit Ability 7/day
Stardust (sp) one creature with 30 ft., target shines light as a candle and cannot benefit from concealment. Creature furthermore takes -1 on attack roll and Perception checks. Lasts for a number of rounds equal to one-half shaman level.

Spirit Magic
- 1st: color spray

Equipment: studded leather, light crossbow (10 bolts), sickle, backpack, waterskin, 2 pieces of chalk, flint/steel, antitoxin, 59 gp.

Silently packing my things listen while to my love Trainia.
“but why must you go? Can’t you perform your duties here?”
With a small smile I say
”Sure but for some reason I have this strong feeling that I should go to Kenabres. Maybe it’s the Lady calling me there.”
“Don’t be silly it’s just a feeling it will pass.”
”Maybe but with the recruitment of this new crusade. I doubt it’s a coincidence.
“But the stories I’ve heard. The world wound is dangerous I lost so much family to that stupid war. You also lost your parents to it. Haven’t they taken enough? Haven’t you given enough?”
I stop packing as I think about my next words.
”I have sworn my service to the Lady Iomedae. I must go where I am called.
“Bah! Service?.. Duty?! I swear you show more love to her than you do for me.”
I wrap my arms around her in a loving embrace.
Some of that might be true, but not in the way your thinking. She has giving me much and has ask nothing in return.
I turn her around to face me
But if she is calling me to Kenabres now. Then you know if must be important. She would never lead me astray.
Trainia sighs with her eye facing downward.
“Your. Your right I’m just so scared for you. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Just promise that you’ll be careful and come back to me.”
With your love and the Lady Iomedae’s guidance. It would take heaven and earth to keep me from you.
Trainia grabs my pack and hands it to me.
“Then go perform your duty and return to me.”
Hesitates for a second
“And may the Shield maiden protect you.”
I grab my pack with a confident smile on my face.
“And may the shield maiden protect you as well”
I kiss her goodbye. Then head out .

BERTHOLDT ESCHEUS
Male Human (Chelaxian Descent) Cleric (Evangelist) (1) of Iomedae
LG, M, Humanoid
Init +2; Senses Perception +5
Languages Common (Taldan), Chelaxian, Celestial, Abyssal.

DEFENSE
AC 17, touch 12, flat-footed 15 (armor +5, dex +2)
HP 15 (1d8 +3 (Toughness) + 3 (Con) +1 (FC)); DR --
Fort +5, Ref +2, Will +6
Immune
Resist
Spcl Def. Countersong, Fascinate.

OFFENSE
Speed 20 (Medium Armor)
Melee Longspear +5 (1d8+7; 20/x3) reach
Melee 2-h Heavy Mace +5 (1d8+7; 20/x2)
Range Javelin +2 (1d6+5; 20/x2 inc. 30 ft, P)
Spcl Att. Inspire Courage +1 (StA, hit and damage competence, charm and fear morale, 7 rounds per day), Spellcasting (CL 1, Concentration +5).
Memorized Spells
1 (1+1+1, DC 13): cure light wounds, divine favor + shield of faith // command

0 (3, DC 12): detect magic, light, read magic
SLA: endure elements (1/day, Trait)

OTHER
Str 21, Dex 14, Con 16, Int 14, Wis 19, Cha 14; (5d6 drop lowest, Human +2 Wis)
BAB +0 ; CMB +5; CMD 17
Feats H-Medium Armor Proficiency, 1-Toughness.
Traits Fate’s Favored (+1 luck bonus), Touched by Divinity.
Skills (Cleric 2, Human 1, Intelligence 2) x 1
ACP
Diplomacy (Cha) +6 = 1+2+3*
Heal (Wis) +8 = 1+4+3*
Knowledge (religion) (Int) +6 = 1+2+3*
Linguistics (Chr) tr = -1
Perception (Wis) +5 = 1+4
Perform (Oratory) (Chr) +6 = 1+2+3*
Profession (Wis) trained*
Sense Motive (Wis) +8 = 1+4+3*
Spellcraft (Int) tr *
* cleric class skills
Languages Common (Taldan), Chelaxian, Celestial, Abyssal.
SQ Orisons, Domains (Heroism), Touch of Glory (StA, +lvl on Chr check, one hour max, 3+Wis/day), Bardic Performance (StA; 7 rounds / day; Countersong, Fascinate, Inspire Courage +1).

EQUIPMENT
Starting Gold: 140 GP; Spent: 111.54 GP
Worn or carried gear
-Scalemail (50 gp, 30 lbs)
-Longspear (5 GP, 9 lbs)
-Heavy Mace (12 GP, 8 lbs)
-Javelin (5) (5 GP, 10 lbs)
-Silver Holy Symbol (Trait, gift from Dev Beolth)
-Signal whistle (8 SP, -)
-Traveler’s Outfit (1 GP, 5 lbs)

Pouch, Belt (1 gp, 0.5 lb)
-4 GP
-4 SP
-6 CP

Backpack (2 gp, 2 lbs)
-Waterproof Bag (0.5 gp, 0.5 lb)
-Chalk (0.01 gp) 
-Earplugs (0.03 gp) 
-Flint and steel (1 gp)
-Tobacco (1 sp, 0.2 lb)
-Smoking Pipe (5 sp)
-Bedroll (0.1 gp, 5 lbs)
-Rations (3 days) (1.5 gp, 3 lbs)
-Waterskin (1 gp, 4 lbs)
-Wooden Holy Symbol (1 gp. —)
-Scroll Case (1 gp, 0.5 lb)
-Scroll of Cure Light Wounds (50 gp) [2]

DESCRIPTION
Framed above by a crown of sparse but coarse and disheveled dark hair, and below by a thick moustache, Bertholdt’s bulbous green eyes shine with zealous fervour. His mouth seems frozen in a skeptical expression, except when he’s concentrating or training with the spear, in which case it turns into a tight puckered expression of pain, from which his tongue always manages to stick out. His skin is of chelaxian paleness, broken by red spots on his cheeks that wax forth in strange shapes when he blushes.

Bertholdt sports a powerful built, but he moves clumsily, without assurance, as though his limbs grew too fast for him to learn what to do with them. He wears a simple brown burlap tunic over his armour, standing straight as his long-spear, ignoring wind or rain.

Though Bertholdt’s appearance lacks grace, his voice can still roar through a crowd, carrying with it the unwavering warmth and hope of faith. Yet he is still struggling to control it, and it sometimes shivers instead life a thin sheet of metal, sending shrilling waves of doubt.

BACKGROUND
Born in the shadow of the dead god Aroden in Westcrown, Bertholdt spent his early youth away from his parents, Delko and Marita Escheus, who served devoutly the new order and the devil prince Asmodeus. He instead spent these blissful years with his grandmother Fio, who taught him in ways opposite to his parents ethos. In the young boy, she sew a seed of goodness, guided by the edicts of the Inheritor. Rapt by their faith, his parents didn’t notice. But this could not, and did not last.

Fuelled by zealous fervour, Bertholdt’s parents decided to answer the call and join the crusade against the demonic host of the Worldwound and set forth, along with hundreds of others, to reach distant Mendev. During the long sojourn, Marita noticed that something was wrong with her son and tried to unweave Fio’s teaching, but the boy’s faith and fervour were set. The trip took many years, and took the boy’s childhood with it, as the chelaxian kids figured him out for weak and turned against him. He became a pariah for the crusaders, and for his parents.

When the crusaders finally reached Nerosyan and Mendev, Bertholdt, now twelve, was sent to the Seminar of the Holy Nail, an academy run by a retired hellknight named Gotres Het. The years spent at ‘The Nail’ almost drove Bertholdt to madness, as he was constantly tricked, heckled, and beat by the other boys and by Het. He ran off a few times, to a iomedan church nearby, but Het always tracked him down and brought him back, until one faithful night.

That night, candles were lit when Bertholdt stepped in the church, and a priestess was lost in prayer by the altar. She turned only when Het walked in. They whispered a few words, and Het retreated. The priestess, named Dev Beolth, took Bertholdt under her wing, and guided his Calling. Years passed. With time, and with puberty perhaps, Bertholdt fell in love with his mentor. She felt his love and tried to receive it with an open heart and compassion, but in the end, she had to send him away to Kenabres.

Kenabres, where his parents had been sent two years ago…

HOOKS
Who was really Fio?
What happened to his parents in Kenabres? Did they enter the Worldwound?
How will Gotres Het, or any asmodean, react if he hears about Bertholdt? Will they make the connection with his parents?
Why did Het let Bertholdt leave with Beolth?
Will Bertholdt ever meet Dev Beolth again? Can he win her heart?

Hierophant, planning on staying cleric, unless there is a need for martial focus, in which case I might dip into fighter.

Link to first RP post.

RP SAMPLE
Bertholdt stares at the crowd gathered on the lawn. He climbs up the stairs of the Cathedral and looks at Saint Clydwell for inspiration: "Brother Crusader!" he shouts, his voice barreling through the crowd.

But the crowd doesn't notice...

"BROTHER CRUSADERS!!!" his voice roars and bounces off the monuments circling the lawn. Like the wind moving through a golden field, the crowd hushes gradually, starting with the ones nearest him. Looking through the crowd, he sees nothing but helmets, shields, and spears, all sparkling like the sea when the sun rises above it.

It worked... It worked! he thinks, suddenly afraid for he can't figure what he will say next!

A pregnant pause follows. All eyes are turned towards him. So much power! A force to be reckoned with. A way to finally defeat the Storm King!

And the words return to him:
"BROTHER CRUSADERS!"
he shouts with a thundering voice,
"ON THIS HOLIEST OF DAYS!
RAISE YOUR SHIELD! RAISE YOUR SWORD!
AND WELCOME OUR LEADER HULRUN!!!"

The crowd roars and bang their shields as Hulrun rises behind him. Bertholdt's heart swell.

He feels so proud!

CORVEN ALBERCROFT CR 1/2
Male Human (Taldan) Monk (Martial Artist) 1
NG Medium Humanoid (Human)
Init +7; Senses Perception +8
--------------------
DEFENSE
--------------------
AC 20, touch 20, flat-footed 14. . (+5 Dex, +4 Wis, +1 dodge)
hp 16 (1d8+4+1+3)
Fort +6, Ref +7, Will +6
Defensive Abilities AC Bonus +4
--------------------
OFFENSE
--------------------
Spd 30 ft.
Melee Unarmed strike +5 (1d6+5/20/x2) or
. . Dagger +5 (1d4+5/19-20/x2) or
. . Flurry of blows (unarmed strike) +4/+4 (1d6+5/20/x2)
Ranged Shuriken +5 (1d2+5/20/x2/10 ft.) or
. . Dagger +5 (1d4+5/19-20/x2/10 ft.) or
. . Flurry of blows (shuriken) +4/+4 (1d2+5/20/x2/10 ft.)
Special Attacks Flurry of blows -1/-1, Stunning Fist (1/day, DC 15, stunned), Unarmed Strike 1d6
--------------------
STATISTICS
--------------------
Str 21, Dex 21, Con 19, Int 16, Wis 18, Cha 14
Base Atk +0; CMB +5; CMD 25
Feats Dodge, Fast Learner, Improved Unarmed Strike, Stunning Fist, Toughness
Traits Reactionary, Stolen Fury, World Traveler
Skills (Trained) Acrobatics +9, Climb +9, Diplomacy +7, Escape Artist +9, Intimidate +6, Knowledge (History) +7, Perception +8, Sense Motive +8, Stealth +9
Skills (Untrained) Appraise +3, Bluff +2, Craft +3, Disguise +2, Fly +5, Heal +4, Perform +2, Ride +5, Survival +4, Swim +5
Languages Abyssal, Common, Dwarven, Elven
SQ Skilled
Combat Gear Dagger, shuriken x10; Other Gear Traveler's outfit, backpack (30 lbs: bedroll, caltrops, flint and steel, grappling hook, mess kit, shaving kit, silk rope (50 ft.), soap, torch x2, trail rations x4, waterskin), belt pouch (0 lbs: flint and steel), belt pouch (0.84 lbs: money); Magic Items None
Money 0 platinum pieces, 34 gold pieces, 1 silver pieces, 7 copper pieces; Other Wealth None
--------------------
RACIAL TRAITS
--------------------
Bonus Feat Extra feat at 1st level
Skilled +1 skill rank/level
--------------------
CLASS FEATURES
--------------------
AC Bonus (Ex) Add WIS modifier to AC and CMD when unarmored and unencumbered
Flurry of Blows (Ex) Make flurry of blows with unarmed strike or monk weapons as a full action with a base attack bonus equal to monk level, as if using Two-Weapon Fighting
Stunning Fist (Ex) Cause an opponent to become stunned with an unarmed attack
Unarmed Strike Deal more damage with unarmed strikes, treat unarmed strike as both a manufactured and a natural weapon for the purpose of spells and effects that improve such weapons
--------------------
SPECIAL ABILITIES
--------------------
Reactionary +2 trait bonus on Initiative checks
Stolen Fury +2 trait bonus on CMB vs. demons
World Traveler +1 trait bonus on Diplomacy checks, and Diplomacy is always a class skill

Strong, agile and resilient, Corven stands six feet tall, his athletic build the product of years of training in hand-to-hand combat. Despite his Taldan lineage, at least on his mother's side, he is quite fair of skin, the tone of his complexion contrasting more than a little with his shoulder length raven black hair. His most striking feature, however, and the one that draws the most attention from those that notice it are his eyes, for they are a deep purple color, a trait that hints at at least some Azlanti blood coursing through his veins. Showing a preference towards comfortable fitted clothing, his attire of choice is more often than not finely made and usually dark in color. Corven disdains armor and the limitation of movement generally associated with it, instead relying on his own speed and reflexes for protection and defense, as well as his training, with the latter also serving him well for offensive purposes. Thus, except for a dagger sheathed by his right hip and a number of throwing blades kept on his person, he is mostly seen without any other more sophisticated weapons.

An amiable and well-mannered fellow, Corven is almost always polite and soft-spoken, having been taught that "manners maketh man", raised as he was by a noblewoman of a mother amidst what most would consider as high society. Still, despite his upbringing, or perhaps because of it, seeing as how his mother was not exactly quite like the average stuck-up Taldan nobility, he is a kind and compassionate man who does not let such petty notions like differences of social status color his opinion of others. Despite his skill in close combat and a certain amount of pride he takes in it, always looking to improve himself, he will use words and try to avoid a confrontation either by diplomacy or, if need be, intimidation before resorting to violence. Still, he is not one to shy away from a fight if it proves to be necessary or unavoidable, especially on those occasions when he finds himself defending those unable to defend themselves. And he positively detests bullies.

Corven was born twenty four years ago in Oppara, the capital of Taldor, and to say that the circumstances of his birth were somewhat out of what was considered ordinary and acceptable given his mother's social status would be quite accurate. Her name was Ionnia Albercroft and she was a beautiful noblewoman, which easily explains why she was so highly sought after by single noblemen looking for a wife, meaning that she had no shortage of suitors professing their love and, if she would be their wife, eternal devotion. Despite this, however, she remained unmarried, finding none of her peers to her interest or to her liking, and she was still unmarried at the time of her pregnancy and her son's subsequent birth. Of course, such a thing was considered quite scandalous and the gossip and rumors that followed were only to be expected. Ionnia seemed and truly was unperturbed by such behavior from her fellow members of high society, devoting her time to her little boy and wanting to raise him properly and to be above such pettiness as her peers, those so-called "noble" men and women, exhibited. But even her considerable patience and fortitude had their limits, which she eventually reached.

After several years of being spoken about behind her back, Ionnia decided to simply leave all those unpleasant people and the city of Oppara behind. Taking only her son and her devoted majordomo and bodyguard, a former member of Taldor's Lion Blades known simply as Vors, with her, she moved to one of her family's estates in Cassomir. Young Corven liked his new home, especially because he was seeing his mother much happier and more relaxed. Despite her lifted spirits, however, she would still not tell him anything about his father, who he was and when and how she had met him. The only thing about him that Corven did find out, owing mostly to Ionnia having had a little bit more brandy to drink that evening, was that he had his eyes, eyes of a deep purple color, eyes more commonly associated with a strong Azlanti heritage as he found out a little later within the pages of one of the history books he used to like reading. In spite of his curiosity though, he respected his mother's wish to not talk about him, so he let the subject go, not wanting to pressure her.

Instead he diverted his attention and focus to Vors, who appeared quite mysterious to the young boy. He was, after all, a former Lion Blade, which probably meant he was a formidable warrior, perhaps like those he would occasionally come across when reading his books. At least the man was more forthcoming with information about himself than his mother about his father. And once he was a little older, he was also willing to teach him a little of what he knew, but only as long as Ionnia permitted it, which she did after much pestering by her quite persistent boy. And it was along those lines that time passed, with Ionnia finally calm and even happy and Corven dividing his time between his books and his training, albeit with a somewhat clear preference to the latter. And things were good, if only for a while. If only until the day when everything changed.

It happened in the middle of a journey to Brevoy. Corven and his mother were traveling to New Stetven to visit an old friend of Ionnia's when their carriage was attacked by a group of armed men, bandits at first glance, though that assumption was quickly disproved. With Vors having stayed behind at Cassomir to take care of the house, they were nevertheless guarded by an armed escort the majordomo had hired, for the journey was long and, as it turned out, dangerous. Unfortunately, the attackers were more in number and they quickly overwhelmed the guards, although not without a fight. During the chaos, Corven was taken and a hood was pulled over his eyes, but not before seeing his mother cut down by one of the supposed "bandits", the defiant woman managing to stab him in the process, though whether she managed to kill him or not the boy never found out.

The next thing he saw, after what he deemed to be a few days of travel and when the hood was finally removed, was the inside of a windowless cell. Once the initial panic lessened to just fear, he quickly found out that he was not the only prisoner, as others, not only humans, but elves and dwarves and more, were in other nearby cells. How long he and the others were kept there he could not tell as one day bled into the next, but there came one night -or at least he thought it was night- when their captors, cultists and demon worshippers and no mere bandits, came and removed them from the cells before leading them into a large room. It became apparent soon enough that a ritual was to take place, a ritual that would cost them their lives or their souls or quite possibly both. They were made to lie down on stone slabs, one for each of the prisoners, and bound securely before men and women in robes wove spells and brandished knives. Corven braced himself for what seemed inevitable but kept his eyes open in defiance as tendrils of magical energy snaked their way towards each of the abductees. And then the screaming started, lasting for what felt like an eternity before stopping.

Corven blinked. Once, then twice. He was still alive. The same could not be said for all of them, but it seemed a precious few were as lucky as he was. Lucky and, as far as he could tell, something more. He felt... strengthened, changed. No magic remained, yet he was alive and, as he quickly realized, no longer bound, the iron chains having melted away. A little unsteadily he rose, followed by the other survivors. And what he saw in his captors' eyes gave him pause, if only for a moment. He saw surprise and... fear? He did not waste time trying to figure it out, seeking to take advantage of this turn of events, a thought the other survivors seemed to have as well, as they all leapt into the group of cultists, using whatever strength and power the ritual had just granted them to fight their way through them and out of the room and dungeon they were being kept. Not all made it, but those who did managed to escape, never looking back.

It took him a little while, but either by stealth or hard work, Corven managed to find his way back to the city of Cassomir and to Vors, the loyal man having moved heaven and earth to find the boy as soon as he disappeared but to no avail. He told the majordomo everything about what had happened and what he had been through. He also told him of what followed after his escape, of the nightmares and the feeling of anger that would not die down and of a change he could feel but could not quite explain. And then, spent as he was, he slept for an entire day, thankfully without nightmares for a change. And once he woke up, his mind clearer than it had been in days, if not weeks or even months, he told that he would stay in his mother's estate, at least for the time being. For how long, however, he could not say. But he asked Vors to continue with his training, but mostly to teach him to control the anger so as to not allow it to consume him.

Being Ionnia's son and Vors' pupil, he managed to do just that, to control it and not let it control him, consume him, even if it did take him a few years. And even the nightmares subsided, although they did not disappear entirely. He came to terms with what had happened to him and he felt, he knew that having survived such an ordeal it could have only made him stronger. Feeling once again himself, Corven reached a decision, seeing as how remaining in Cassomir, although necessary since his escape from the cultists' clutches, had nothing more to offer him as far as finding out more about that ritual and what it was for was concerned. He would leave and try to find an answer to that question somewhere else. And Vors, who had been like a surrogate father to him after his mother's passing, respected his decision, knowing what kind of a man Corven had become and knowing that he had trained him well.

It was this desire to know more that would eventually lead him to Kenabres and perhaps to the answers he was seeking.

Corven is to be a Champion and a Guardian both via the Dual Path mythic feat, although his primary would be the Champion mythic path as evidenced by the Stolen Fury campaign trait.

Other than that, he will stay a Monk (Martial Artist) through and through, probably acting as a mobile striker and even grappler, depending on circumstances. Also, outside of combat, he could probably make an able enough scout and getting-out-of-sticky-situations kind of guy between his Acrobatics, Climb, Escape Artist, Perception and Stealth skills and his enhanced speed, while also having a couple of people skills in the form of Diplomacy, Intimidate and Sense Motive, as well as Knowledge (History) and eventually Knowledge (Religion). And his basically needing neither weapons nor armor to be effective means that, barring a very sharp instrument, he is never unarmed... unless he is so literally.

Waking up almost covered in sweat, he lets a soft sigh escape his lips. This was not one of the good nights. True, the nightmares had become less frequent for a while, but now it seemed to him that as he was getting closer to that next city, that next destination of his, they were coming back with a vengeance. And they were certainly not the kind of thing one can get used to. Dreams, good ones and bad ones, have a habit of sneaking up on you no matter how prepared you may think you are.

This is to be his last day in this town, he thinks to himself. But first things first. Rising from the bed, the covers all drenched in sweat, he walks to the window, opening it and letting both sun and breeze enter the room. A fine morning. At least he did not wake up in the middle of the night this time. For some reason the thought amuses him, bringing a smile to his face. Stretching a little bit more to chase what remains of drowsiness away, the next stop is the water basin, the cold water in it doing wonders to wake him up completely. A few more minutes to get dressed and soon enough he is out of his room and down the stairs.

A respectable and cosy place, he finds he has rather liked this inn and its owner, a jovial sphere of a man with a massive but well-groomed moustache, who is currently busying himself with wiping the glasses and mugs and plates to make them ready for the thirsty and hungry customers that are bound to start filling up the tables any time now.

"Good morning, Mr. Oakes," he greets the large man, a friendly smile on his face. "I will be coming along a little later to settle the bill, if that is alright with you?"

"O'course, Mr. Albercroft, sir," the innkeeper replies, looking up momentarily from his cleaning routine to complement his answer with a smile of his own, albeit one partially hidden behind his facial hair.

With that taken care of, Corven finally exits the establishment, wanting to move around the town one last time before he leaves it behind, perhaps even purchase one of those small breads stuffed with olives Mr. Oakes has told him about. He likes walking, he finds, seeing the sights, breathing in the air. So, he walks and walks, his steps eventually bringing him to a less that respectable part of town, to back alleys that one might say he has no business passing through if he knows what is good for him. Still, Corven appears quite calm, relaxed even, as he passes by inns and taverns and other places of business not quite as cozy as the one he has been staying in since coming to town and a great deal shadier. And still he appears unperturbed. That is, until he hears a woman's call for help.

Looking around, noone else seems to have heard it, or at least that is how they are acting. Hardly surprising, he thinks with a sigh as he quickens his pace and rounds a corner, reaching what appears to be a dead-end. And there they are. A woman and her child, both of them dressed in little more than rags, being accosted by a trio of ruffians. Seeing the state of the mother and daughter, Corven suspects that it is not money they are after, especially if the way they are leering at her and laughing is any indication.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he calls out, approaching almost casually and holding his hands up in front of him in what appears to be a placating gesture. "I think you should reconsider. This woman has a child with her and little else. Not even her clothes are worth taking." Another word, another step towards them. A half-orc and two humans, with the former being the biggest of the three and thus probably the leader.

"Why not let her go? I can pay you," he continues as he thinks to himself, 'Yes, look at me. Am I not a better target? I do look like I have a bit of money on me, yes?' And sure enough the trio seem to be having the same thoughts.

"Boys, don' let 'er go, y'hear?" The half-orc certainly seems to be the one in charge as the other two do as he says, letting him take care of the apparent idiot sticking his nose where it does not belong.

Corven is close enough by now that the big half-orc does not have to take more than a step or two before raising one meaty hand balled into an equally meaty fist and throwing a punch aimed at the well-mannered man's jaw. A punch that never reaches its destination as Corven uses his already raised left forearm to deflect the incoming blow while at the same time sidestepping and moving out of the way, before following through with two punches with his right fist in quick succession, the first shattering his opponent's nose and the other dislocating his lower jaw and removing a couple of his teeth. And then it is a simple thing to take a tiny step back so as to not have the collapsing mugger dirty his boots as he crumples down to the cobblestones in a heap.

"I am afraid I am no longer willing to offer you money in order to let the poor woman go, gentlemen," he says to the remaining two, his voice calm and even, if a little cold. "But I would still ask you to stop bothering her and leave. I am sure you can see that what I am saying is not only the good thing to do, but also the smart one." As if to punctuate his words, there is a soft whimpering sound coming from the half-orc lying next to his feet. In the moments it takes him to look down at the source of the sound and then back up again, the two men are nowhere to be found. Only a very scared woman and an even more frightened little girl beside her remain.

Walking slowly towards them, he takes her hand in his, helping her up, and then proceeds to take a few gold coins out of a belt pouch and hand them to her. "There is a rather lovely little inn called The Full Platter. Talk to a man by the name of Mr. Oakes there and ask for a room in an hour or two from now. I have it on good authority that there will be a vacancy. And perhaps ask him for employment while you are there? He seems like a good man and I am sure he will find something for you."

As he turns to leave, he looks back at her, smiling. "And perhaps avoid this part of town from now on? The streets appear to be less than safe." Giving the heap that used to be a big mean thug one more kick for good measure as he passes by, it occurs to him that time has passed. It is time to settle that bill and talk to the innkeeper about a woman and her daughter that will be coming by a little later on.

And then on to his next destination. He appears slightly lost in thought as he walks. From what he knows of it, Kenabres is bound to have at least a few of the answers he is looking for.

In case some more would be helpful, click the following link.

It is under the "Some More Stuff" spoiler.

Harram Fliyn
NG Male human slayer 1 (Advanced Class Guide page 53)
Init +5; Perception +7
Favored Class: Slayer
FCB: +1 Hit Point

DEFENSE
AC 19, touch 15, flat-footed 14 (+4 Armor, +5 Dex)
Hp 16 (1d10 + 5 Con + 1 FCB)
Fort +5, Ref +5, Will +3

OFFENSE
Speed 30 ft.
Melee cold iron battle axe +4 (1d8+3, x3)
Melee cold iron morningstar +4 (1d8+3, x3)
Ranged composite longbow +6 (1d8, x3)

STATISTICS
Str 19, Dex 21, Con 21, Int 17, Wis 17, Cha 12
Base Atk +1; CMB +4; CMD 19
Feats Armor Proficiencies (light, medium), Quick Draw, Point Blank Shot, Shield Proficiency, Weapon Proficiencies (simple, martial)
Traits Chance Encounter, Scholar of the Great Beyond, Armor Expert
Skills Acrobatics +9, Climb +7, Intimidate +5, Knowledge (dungeoneering) +7, Knowledge (history) +5, Knowledge (planes) +8, Perception +7, Sense Motive +7, Stealth +9, Survival +7
Languages Common, Abyssal, Draconic, Elven
SQ Studied Target, track
Gear: Studded Leather Armor, Armored Kilt, Longbow, cold iron battleaxe, cold iron morningstar, 40 arrows, 40 cold iron arrows, explorer’s outfit, cold-weather outfit, Slayer’s Kit (backpack, bedroll, belt pouch, flint and steel, iron pot, manacles, mess kit, rope, torches (10), trail rations (5 days), waterskin), trail rations (6 days), 80 gp

Studied target (Ex): A slayer can study an opponent as a move action. The slayer gains a +1 bonus on Bluff, Knowledge, Perception, Sense Motive, and Survival checks attempted against that target, and a +1 bonus on weapon attack and damage rolls against it. The DCs of Slayer class abilities increase by 1. A slayer can maintain these bonuses against only 1 target at a time; these bonuses remain in effect until either the opponent is dead or the slayer studies a new target.
If a slayer deals sneak attack damage to a target, he can study the target as an immediate action, allowing him to apply his studied target bonuses against that target (including the normal weapon damage roll).
At 5th, 10th, 15th, and 20th levels, the bonus on weapon attack and damage rolls, the bonus on skills, as well as the bonus on slayer ability DCs on a studied target all increase by 1. In addition, at each such interval, a slayer is able to maintain these bonuses against an additional studied target at the same time. The slayer may discard this connection to a studied target as a free action.
At 7th level, a slayer can study an opponent as a move or swift action.

Track (Ex): A slayer adds ½ his level (minimum 1), to Survival checks made to follow tracks.

Harram Fliyn was born the second son of a Magnimarian guardsman 2 years before the Fourth Mendevian Crusade. When the call for volunteers went out, his father felt the need to join the crusaders, and so moved himself and his family to Kenabres to join the crusade. Growing up in a city that was the center of crusade, Harram often found himself left to his own devices. His older brother sought to join the church of Iomedae as a paladin, and would brush him off anytime he tried to spend time with him, and he didn’t much care for his younger sister and her dolls. Instead, he and some other children would wander and play, sneaking about and pretending to be crusaders fighting vicious demons. They would stay out too late sometimes, and be in trouble when they got home. Harram’s mother often said, “Harram, you must be more careful. Why can’t you be more serious like your brother?” Harram and his friends would also sometimes sneak out to play, even when they weren’t supposed to. Harram was good at sneaking, and he got good at climbing and tumbling.

One day, though, their play took them a bit too far, and they found themselves in unfamiliar terrain. Lost, they wandered until it grew dark, eventually taking shelter in a cluster of rocks, terrified of what might be waiting for them. As they cowered, they saw a monstrous shape emerge from the darkness, approaching their hiding spot, licking its lips in hunger.

Suddenly, a woman appeared out of nowhere and attacked the creature. After a short battle, the monster lay dead at her feet. She beckoned the children to come with her, for she would see them to safety. She had a symbol that Harram had seen on some of the priests in Kenabres, a butterfly. She seemed to draw some sort of comfort from the talisman, and she shepherded them towards what they hoped was Kenabres, fighting off other creatures during the night. As dawn approached, she told them to rest in a small copse of trees, and they lied down. A short while later, they were awoken by a group of crusaders, and found the woman was gone. Harram returned home to his worried mother and father. He apologized for all he’d done, and was overjoyed to see them. He asked his brother about the butterfly, and his brother said it was the symbol of Desna. He then told Harram to go away because he was busy.

Harram always remembered the experience, and he decided he would learn to fight demons as the woman had done. His brother went off for formal training as a paladin, so his father would spend time teaching him to use different weapons and wear armor. He’d always been a small but agile boy, so his father focused on teaching him the bow and what the lighter armors felt like. As he grew older, though, he filled out and became stronger, so his father took to teaching him blades as well. Despite his increased strength, he seemed to be even more agile, and eschewed the heavier chain mail his father preferred in favor of leathers.

When not training with weapons, he would study, learning all he could about demons and their ilk, as well as the strange, horrific creatures from this plane. He studied the history of the crusades, and what the crusaders who came before him had learned in their battles. He also continued to practice the skills he’d honed as a child, turning them from tricks used to get by his parents into tools he could use to hunt and avoid demonkind.

For 10 years, he has trained and studied. Now, he feels he is ready to join the crusaders and fight the demons. But first, his brother is being ordained as a Paladin, and he has chosen to attend the ceremony.

I'm intending to take Harram down the Trickster Mythic Path. I like the flavor of it, and I think a Demon Slayer should have lots of different options based on the situation.

Character-wise, he's mechanically going to be a bit of a Switch Hitter, able to mix it up in melee and provide ranged support. I'll be picking Mythic abilities based on which he seems to do more frequently.

From a roleplay perspective, he's determined to learn all he can about the demons and the Worldwound, as well as keep the demons from consuming the whole world. Should he survive long enough, he plans on writing a "Demon Slayer's Guide" of sorts, with everything he's learned of the various sorts of demons and the Worldwound.

Harram’s father, Norat, swung his practice blade at his midsection, with Harram just barely dodging the strike. He was sweating and breathing heavily, but thus far was the longest he’d gone without his father landing a blow, and this time, he intended to score the final strike. Studying his father’s movements, watching the position of his feet and the shift of his torso, he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, and leapt forward. Usually, when he advanced, his father would catch him, but this time he had a surprise. As his father’s blade came to intercept him, Harram dove into a roll to the side, and struck his father a blow across the legs. As his father’s legs buckled he stood, and in one fluid motion put the practice sword at his father’s neck, and said, ”You’re dead. Victory is mine.”

”Well, I suppose I am, son. Help me up.” Harram helped his father to his feet, and they went to change out of their leathers.

”You finally managed to land the first blow, Harram. I’m impressed. You might be ready to face combat yet. That tumble was unexpected and unconventional.”

”All thanks to your training, father. You’ve been working me hard for a decade.”

Norat snorted. ”It’s as much due to your size and coordination as it is my training. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d been blessed by Iomedae, to have turned out the way you did. I don’t suppose you can share some of that with your old man? Ah, well, such is life.”

Laughing, Harram changed the subject. ”So, tomorrow is Galan’s knighting ceremony. I was thinking of going.” Norat gave Harram an appraising look. ”Well, I’ve got duty on the walls, and your mother won’t be able to make it either. It’d be good to have someone from the family attend. I know you two aren’t close.”

Harram grinned and said, ”Since we’re both going to be fighting demons together, perhaps we’d best change that.”
Norat smiled. ”Perhaps it would be best if you did.” Together, they entered the house to wash up for supper.

Wiles Malloy
Male Rogue (Acrobat) 1
CG Medium Humanoid (Human)
Init +8; Senses Perception +8
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 18, touch 16, flat-footed 12 (Armor +2, Dex +6)
hp 11 (1d8 + 3 Con)
Fort +3, Ref +8, Will +2
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Ranged Light Crossbow +6 (d8/19-20 x2)
MeleeRapier +6 (d6 + 1/18-20 x2), Dagger +6 (d4 + 1/19-20 x2)
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 12, Dex 22, Con 16, Int 19, Wis 15, Cha 19
Base Atk +0; CMB +1; CMD 17
Special Abilities -
Sneak Attack 1d6
Expert Acrobat

Feats
Alertness
Weapon Finesse

Traits
Reactionary - +2 Initiative
Child of the Streets - +1 Sleight of Hand
Chance Encounter: You always tended to get in over your
head as a child, but your biggest youthful misadventure
was the time you “accidentally” found yourself behind
enemy lines in the Worldwound. You probably never
would have made it back home to Kenabres if not for the
help of a mysterious woman who helped you trick your
way through a group of cultists. The woman never told
you her name, but you remember her beauty and a deep
sense of sadness she seemed to carry with her. Her skill
with the bow was impressive as well, but the thing you
remember most about her was the symbol of Desna she
wore—she often held onto it without seeming to realize
it, as if the connection to the goddess was something she
clung to in a sense of need, as someone might clutch at
a rope while dangling over a vast pit. She left your side
a few moments before you were picked up by a patrol of
crusaders, who finished the job of escorting you back to
safety, and you’ve never seen her again. Ever since, you’ve
just been lucky when it comes to trickery. Once per day,
if you fail an Acrobatics, Bluff, Disguise, Sleight of Hand,
or Stealth check, you may immediately reroll that check
as a free action. You must take the second result, even
if it is worse. Associated Mythic Path: Trickster. Multiple
Characters: You and other characters were all saved by the
same mysterious woman in your childhood. This could
have been the same event, or she could have saved you on
separate occasions—the discovery that someone else was
saved by the mysterious stranger has resulted in a long
friendship (or perhaps friendly rivalry) with the others
she rescued.

Skills (8 + 4(Int) + 1(Human) + 1(FC)

Trained:

Acrobatics +10 (1)
Bluff +8 (1)
Climb +5 (1)
Diplomacy +8 (1)
Disable Device +10 (+12) (1)
Escape Artist +10 (1)
Knowledge (Local) +8 (1)
Perception +8 (1)
Perform (Dance) +8 (1)
Sense Motive +8 (1)
Sleight of Hand +11 (1)
Stealth +10 (1)
Swim +5 (+4) (1)
Use Magic Device +8 (1)

Languages
Common, Halfling, Elven, Abyssal, Dwarven

GearRapier, Dagger, Light Crossbow, 20 Bolts, Leather Armor, Backpack, Bedroll, Explorer's Outfit, Flint & Steel, 50' Silk Rope, 3 Empty Sacks, MW Thieves' Tools, Vial of Alchemist's Fire, Silver Holy Symbol of Desna, Waterskin, 11 gp, 6 sp

Wiles was born to a well-regarded demon hunter named Riger Malloy and his wife Bethania. The infant was small and sickly, and the midwife told the parents he would likely die. For days the babe clinged to life, barely crying, hardly feeding, spending most of his time curled in a ball, as if trying to preserve every scrap of strength and heat. When it seemed all was lost, the babe started to cry out, and ate from his mother's breast with a hearty appetite. As it seemed the boy would actually live, Riger named him Wiles for his tenacity and his clever (albeit instinctual) conservation of energy.

Wiles was a very clever young man, and picked things up quickly. In particular, he was very quick and agile for his age, able to outrun boys much older, and able to evade even the most dogged pursuit in the rough games only boy children can go through. Unfortunately, to Riger's dismay, the lad seemed to remain a runt, being much smaller than his fellows. When the man started to practice Wiles with a blade, the lad struggled with the weight. When the young man was given a lighter blade, he was able to perform well, making up for his strength deficiencies by using his swiftness to evade defenses and strike precisely.

Being a too-clever young boy, and having all the insecurities of being a much-smaller child than those around him, Wiles was always accepting dares, jumping off ledges, filching bread from the local baker, and generally being a daredevil show-off to gain the favor he would never get from being a large, strong man. As he approached adolescence, he and a group of older boys went near the front lines of the fighting at the Worldwound, daring each other to continue multiple times. Finally, when the other boys would go no further, Wiles continued on, determined to prove his supremacy to the larger and stronger older boys.

Unfortunately for the young man, he became a bit disoriented, and soon found his way back blocked by a squad of demons. His natural quickness and stealth enabled him to hide from the evil outsiders, but it would only be a matter of time before he would be caught. To his surprise, a beautiful young archer suddenly appeared beside him, even more skilled at evading watchful eyes than he was. She took his hand, and slowly they crept across the battlefield. They started and stopped multiple times, the trek nerve-wracking. Finally, when it seemed they would make it, Wiles and the woman heard the guttural sounds of demonic speaking, and turned to find a small group of demons starting to pursue them.

The woman implored Wiles to flee, fighting a running battle as she followed him, firing arrows into the approaching horde. To Wiles' surprise, more often than not she hit the pursuing creatures, but they continued to gain. When all seemed lost, a group of crusaders appeared over the next rise, and the duo made for them. Wiles took note as the lovely lady smiled and grasped at a symbol that hung from her neck, a symbol that resembled a butterfly. The pair made it to safety, and Wiles was whisked away to his parents, never to see the woman again.

After a tearful embrace with his mother, and an hours-long berating about his stupidity, he asked around about the symbol. He was told that the symbol belonged to Desna, Goddess of Travelers, the Stars, Dreams, and to Wiles surprise and amusement, Luck. He traveled to a shop and instantly bought a holy symbol of the Goddess, and has worshipped her casually ever since.

As Wiles approached manhood, he found that although he was small of stature, his strikingly good looks and clever persona made him rather popular with the ladies, and he used this to good advantage. To further his advances with the female sex, he took dance lessons, using his natural grace and balance to become quite a good dancer his efforts to woo the highborn along with the common folk.

Wiles also made it a point to find his niche in the battle against the forces of the Abyss, wanting to be known as a famous scourge of demons like his father. Although his relative lack of strength made him a poor fit for the front lines, his sharp intellect, sharp eye, and steady hands, along with a lot of practice, will make him a valued part of any excursion, as he can spot enemies, find traps and disarm them, and even speak to the demonic enemies encountered if the group happened to capture any.

Trickster. Might possibly pick up some arcane levels and go Arcane Trickster.

Wiles is an energetic fellow, never seeming at ease while at rest. He doesn't take things too personal, and has a broad sense of humor. He accepts most any dare or request, having an almost obsession with showing off his multitude of skills. While he definitely has an appreciation of female companionship, he tends to get bored with most of the women he associates with fairly quickly. He can be quite reckless, but knows when to keep quiet and let stealth work for him.

Wiles is a small man, barely 5’6” and weighing no more than 120 pounds. He has warm brown eyes, and hair a shade of brown that might be called dirty blonde that is straight and always seems in need of a cut. His tanned skin is free of lines and wrinkles and he moves with the easy grace of a dancer. He typically walks around in his leather armor, rapier and dagger on his hip and crossbow strapped on his back. In more social outings, he wears dark clothes that leave enough room for him to move gracefully if there is need for dancing or some other trick he might know.

As the group pressed into the courtyard of the abandoned complex, the guard towers at the corners of the walls just starting to show the first signs of ruin, the demons sprung from their hiding spot, falling upon the lead fighters ravenously. Wiles crept along the shadows at the base of the wall, trusting his comrades to not fall under the initial assault. As the warriors fended off the brutes, and their support cleric and wizard battered the creatures with magic and healed the worst of the fighters' wounds, Wiles snuck behind one of the creatures, striking down viciously with his dagger. The precise strike was true, finding the creature's spine and ending its existence on this plane abruptly. When the other demon turned to figure out what had happened to its companion, Wiles' companions finished off the other creature. As they gathered themselves to move on, Wiles took out his silver holy symbol, planting a quick kiss on it before stuffing it back down his leather jerkin.

The surprise attack behind them, Wiles followed his fellows into the small keep, his keen eyes sweeping the area as the others slowly moved forward. It was important to know one's role, and this was his. They trusted the wizard to identify fell magics and blast the enemies with his arcane might, trusted the cleric to heal the group and use his divine grace to turn the tide against their foes, and trusted the fighters to help keep the others safe and turn the enemy to mincemeat before their mighty blades. Wiles' role was no less important, if a little lean in the history books.

As the group approached a tight corridor, Wiles whispered a sharp command to stop and advanced to the front of the group. He took a few ginger steps forward, barely planting any of his weight on the stones before him. He grinned widely as he felt a telltale shift in one of the paving stones, looking back to his companions and winking as he pulled out one of his tools, flipping it into the air, the device twisting end over end before he snatched it out of the air, the tool landing perfectly in his grasp, ready for use, as he said, "Don't worry guys...I've got this."

SHIRRAJ
Female Catfolk Bard 1
CG Medium Humanoid (Catfolk)
Init +5; Senses Perception +8, low-light vision
EXP:
--------------------
DEFENSE
--------------------
AC 18, touch 15, flat-footed 13 (+3 armor, +5 DEX)
hp 11 (1d8+3)
Fort +3, Ref +7, Will +3
--------------------
OFFENSE
--------------------
Spd 30 ft.
Melee Rapier +5 (1d6-1; 18-20/x2) or Scimitar -1 (1d6-1; 18-20/x2)
Ranged Shortbow +5 (1d6 /x3)
--------------------
STATISTICS
--------------------
Str 8, Dex 21, Con 17, Int 16, Wis 12, Cha 22
Base Atk +0; CMB -1; CMD 15
Feats weapon finesse
Traits Heirloom weapon (scimitar, proficiency), signature moves (violin), touched by divinity (Desna, good)
Skills Climb +5, Perform (String) +10, Perform (Dance) +10, Perform (Sing) +10, Stealth +11, Use Magic Device +10, Perception +8, Spellcraft +5, Knowledge (Planes) +8, Knowledge (Religion) +8, Knowledge (any) +4
Languages Common, Catfolk, Elven, Celestial, Abyssal
SQ Bardic knowledge, bardic performance (9 rnd/day), countersong, distraction, fascinate, inspire courage +1, Protection from Evil 1/day (DC 17)
Combat Gear Entertainer's outfit (0 gp), Studded leather (25 gp), Scimitar (15 gp), Rapier (20 gp), Shortbow (30 gp), 40 Arrows (2 gp), masterwork violin (0 gp), bard's kit (backpack, bedroll, belt pouch, violin, flint and steel, ink, inkpen, iron pot, journal, mess kit, mirror, rope, soap, torches (10), trail rations (5 days), waterskin; 41 gp)

--------------------
SPELLCASTING
--------------------
level 0 DC 16 (4/day)
-Light
-Detect Magic
-Mage Hand
-Prestidigitation

level 1 DC 17 (3/day)
-Charm Person
-Cure Light Wounds

COIN:
PP:
GP: 47
SP:
CP:

Having grown up among the Silverclaw tribe deep in southern Garund, Shirraj spent most of her life oblivious to the terrible threat of the demons pouring from the Worldwound in the distant north.
She loved spending her youth learning about stories and legends from strangers. However she felt her life amounting to nothing among her small reclusive tribe, which gnawed on her selfconfidence. She decided to commit her life to something larger and turned to Desna and even before coming of age Shirraj left her tribe behind to travel in her Godess's name and learn more about the worlds and its legends. Travelling further and further north Shirraj picked up many stories and a fascination for music. She found the best way to worship Desna was to create music herself by learning to sing, dance and play the violin, a curious instrument travellers from the far north gave her.
Curious of the culture of the travellers' homelands Shirraj travelled further north to Avistan, where she first heard tales of the rift to the Abyss known as the Worldwound.
Fascinated and horrified by the tales and hearing that another Crusade Shirraj went on further to see this place herself and help however she can to beat back the demon horde. On her way she learned all she could about the nether plane of the abyss and its denizens.

Appearance: This comparatively short but lean catfolk girl has silvery hair worn in a flaring bunch behind her head and a blue-grey striped coat of fur. She wears a finely wrought chain-shirt over a long sleeved short purple tunic dress, the skirt of which partially covers a longer, flaring and wild pixie-style skirt held in various shades of purple, orange, yellow and green. Black tights and simple light leather boots cover what is visible of her legs.
From her belt hang a sheathed rapier, a buckler and a magic wand next to a small pouch. She rests a finely made violin on her shoulder the bow in her other hand ready to play.

Personality: Shirraj is a bright, inquisitive girl. Even for a catfolk she is outgoing and carefree. She gets along well with others and tends to have a sense of humor about most things. She likes to entertain and make others smile and enjoys hearing and telling stories.
Despite her demeanor Shirraj lacks a sense of self-worth, she committed herself to Desna and her faith gives her the purpose and confidence that she lacks on her own.

Marshal;
as for class i expect to stick strictly with bard focussing on support, I do plan on getting Dervish Dance so I can deal some damage myself if I have to.

First RP Post

Male Human Skald (Fated Champion/War Drummer) 1 
Init +5 (2 dex, 1 class, +2 trait); Senses: Perception +5, 
STATS 
Str 22, Dex 14, Con 16, Int 10, Wis 10, Cha 23 
Favored Class: +1

DEFENSE 
AC 16, Touch 12, Flat-Footed 14 (+2 dex, +4 armor ) 
HP 11/11 
Fort +5, Ref +2, Will +2 
+2 fort vs cold weather 
CMD 19

OFFENSE 
Speed 30 base, 30 with armor 
Melee: 
Slecgcleadur (Greatclub) +7 (1d10+7 x2) 
Power attack (-1/+3): +6 (1d10+10 x2) 
Raging Song (+1/+1): +7 (1d10+11 x2) 
Reckless Rage(-1/+3): +6 (1d10+14 x2)

Ranged: 
Sling +2 (1d4+6 x2 50ft.)

B.A.B. +0, CMB +7 

Feats, Traits, and Languages: 

Power Attack 
Reckless Rage

Traits and Languages 
Reactionary 
Shoanti Spirit-singer -- The spirit voices of your ancestors sing to you of the world around you. Once per day, you can act in the surprise round even if you aren’t aware of your attackers; you can use this action only to start a bardic song or raging song, and you’re still considered flat-footed until you act in the first normal round of combat. 
Touched by Divinity (Shelyn): Bit of Luck (Sp): You can touch a willing creature as a standard action, giving it a bit of luck. For the next round, any time the target rolls a d20, he may roll twice and take the more favorable result. You can use this ability once per day

Languages 
Common 

Raging song; +2 str/con, +1 will, -1 AC; 9 rd/day: 

A skald is trained to use music, oration, and similar performances to inspire his allies to feats of strength and ferocity. At 1st level, a skald can use this ability for a number of rounds per day equal to 3 + his Charisma modifier. For each level thereafter, he can use raging song for 2 additional rounds per day.

Starting a raging song is a standard action, but it can be maintained each round as a free action. A raging song cannot be disrupted, but it ends immediately if the skald is killed, paralyzed, stunned, knocked unconscious, or otherwise prevented from taking a free action each round to maintain it. A raging song counts as the bard's bardic performance special ability for any effect that affects bardic performances. A skald may learn bard masterpieces.

A raging song has audible components, but not visual components. Affected allies must be able to hear the skald for the song to have any effect. A deaf skald has a 20% chance to fail when attempting to use a raging song. If he fails this check, the attempt still counts against his daily limit. Deaf creatures are immune to raging songs.

If a raging song affects allies, when the skald begins a raging song and at the start of each ally's turn in which they can hear the raging song, the skald's allies must decide whether to accept or refuse its effects. This is not an action. Unconscious allies automatically accept the song. If accepted, the raging song's effects last for that ally's turn or until the song ends, whichever comes first.

At 7th level, a skald can start a raging song as a move action instead of a standard action. At 13th level, a skald can start a raging song as a swift action instead.

Inspired Rage (Su) 
At 1st level, affected allies gain a +2 morale bonus to Strength and Constitution and a +1 morale bonus on Will saving throws, but also take a –1 penalty to AC. While under the effects of inspired rage, allies other than the skald cannot use any Charisma-, Dexterity-, or Intelligence-based skills (except Acrobatics, Fly, Intimidate, and Ride) or any ability that requires patience or concentration. At 4th level and every 4 levels thereafter, the song's bonuses on Will saves increase by 1; the penalty to AC doesn't change. At 8th and 16th levels, the song's bonuses to Strength and Constitution increase by 2. (Unlike the barbarian's rage ability, those affected are not fatigued after the song ends.) 
If an ally has her own rage class ability (such as barbarian's rage, bloodrager's bloodrage, or skald's inspired rage), she may use the Strength, Constitution, and Will saving throw bonuses, as well as AC penalties, based on her own ability and level instead of those from the skald (still suffering no fatigue afterward). However, inspired rage does not allow the ally to activate abilities dependent on other rage class abilities, such as rage powers, blood casting, or bloodrager bloodlines; the ally must activate her own rage class ability in order to use these features.

Rage powers: 

Spells: 

Concentration +7

1st lvl (2 Known, 3/day, DC 17): 
Ear-Piercing Scream, Moment of Greatness

0 lvl (9 known, inf./day, DC 16): 
Detect Magic, Read Magic, Prestidigitation, Mending 

Skills : 

(Skill bonus=rank+ability+class+misc) 
Bluff: 11=1+6+3+1 
Intimidate: 11=1+6+3+1 
Perception: 4=1+0+3 
Preform (Oratory): 10=1+6+3 
Preform (Percussion): 10=1+6+3

-ACP -3 
-Total = 5 (+4/lvl, +1 race)x1

Consumables (potions, poisons, etc.): 

Special qualities: 

Racial 
Standard Racial Traits 
+1 feat 
+1 skill/lvl

Class-based 
Fearsome Mien (Ex) 
A war drummer adds 1/2 his class level (minimum 1) to all Intimidate and Bluff skill checks. 
This ability replaces bardic knowledge.

At 1st level, during his raging song, a war drummer can draw clubs and greatclubs as a free action as if he had the Quick Draw feat. At 3rd level, the war drummer gains a +1 bonus on damage rolls for attacks made with clubs or greatclubs. At 7th level and every 4 levels thereafter, this bonus increases by 1 (to a maximum of +5). At 6th level, the war drummer gains Improved Critical with the club or the greatclub as a bonus feat. 
This ability replaces Scribe Scroll.

Cantrips (Sp) 
Bard's learn a number of cantrips, or 0-level spells, as noted on Table: Skald Spells Known under "Spells Known." These spells are cast like any other spell, but they do not consume any slots and may be used again.

Gear: 

Carrying Capacity: 233/466/700 current: 70.5 lbs.

Cold Weather Outfit 
Chain Shirt (100g, 25lbs)[smaller] 
Greatclub [smaller](5gp /8 lbs) 
Sling (0gp, 1 lbs) 
Bullets, Sling x10 (1sp, 5 lbs)

Backpack 
-in backpack: Bards Kit- 
Price 41 gp; Weight 32-1/2 lbs. 
This includes a backpack, a bedroll, a belt pouch, a common musical instrument, a flint and steel, ink, an inkpen, an iron pot, a journal, a mess kit, a mirror, rope, soap, torches (10), trail rations (4 days), and a waterskin

Sagol was brought up on the stories of old Sarkoris. As a member of a small group of survivors embedded in the Tamiir-Quah (The Wind Clan) of the Shoanti tribes he lived and breathed the loss. The legends filled him, fueled him. They still do. 
Each song begins in the same fashion, "In old Sarkoris, where our father's bones lie.", and ends in the same way, "In old Sarkoris, where our mother's bones lie." Couple this with a culture of ancestor worship, a strong belief in the Spirits, and a simmering need for vengeance and you have the basis of the fragment of culture that has survived the Worldwound. However, the genes that escaped the demon hordes were not of the warrior stock. Plagued by genetic tendencies toward weakness and frailty, the wound of losing the homeland feathered through generations. Finally, Fate intervened in Ulfr.

He is everything his ancestry lacked: huge, strong, charismatic. He was the pride of the clan and could have been chief as a teen, but the differences didn't stop at his physical traits.
Ulfr took the stories to heart and developed a deep sense of loss. As he developed his connection to the Spirits, his calling few within. There were still hostages in old Sarkoris. Spirits of art and beauty tied to the land were left, had to be left, when the demons flooded over the land. Ulfr made it his life's goal to find these spirits and determine their state.
Not long after he decided this, before he left Varisia, he stayed receiving dreams of a indescribably beautiful spirit of art coming to him, calling to him. He set out at once and chased the spirit to a remote temple of Shelyn where he gave up his worship of Gorum and dedicated himself to the goddess's worship.
Next stop, Sarkoris.

Dual path Warden and Champion. I'll be using mythic abilities to boost my reading song and melee accuracy.

Ulfr just stares at the merchant. The equipment was worth half the cost that had just fallen from his gap toothed mouth. If he were back home Ulfr would have had him by his neck just for suggesting such a price, but still the man just stood there, waiting for the coin.
Ulfr crosses his arms and breathes. Shelyn taught peace. Shelyn taught compromise. Not for the first time, he kinda wished he was still one of Gorum's own.
Five is all he can manage in a civil tone. The merchant taps his lips. Ulfr imagines his lips after his fist knocks all his teeth down his throat.
Eight, and I'll throw in an extra Waterskin! But just for you, my large friends!
This man was not Ulfr's friend.
Five. And you may keep your skin.
Shelyn may not have liked how he meant that, but the trader doesn't catch on to the threat.
The reader clicks his tongue, Oh no, I'm so sorry, but I cannot accept less than seven, and that I'll do just for you, sir!
Ulfr grumbles, takes out the coin and slaps it down. The table shakes under the blow, as does Ulfr's confidence in his ability to not remove this man's arms.
He scoops up the gear and stalls off. Thirty seconds later the merchant's table is jostled by a passing company of mounted Taldan knights and promptly falls in half.

As for class progression, I plan on straight Skald. I'll be picking up spirit totem and other shareable rage powers to further compliment my team.

Female aasimar (angelkin) warpriest 1
NG Medium outsider (native)
Init +1; Senses darkvision 60 ft.; Perception +5
DEFENSE
AC 17, touch 11, flat-footed 16 (armor +5, Dex +1, shield +1)
hp 13 (1d8+5)
Fort +7, Ref +1, Will +6; +2 against effects with evil descriptor
Resist acid 5, cold 5, electricity 5

OFFENSE
Speed 20 ft.
Melee flail +6 (1d8+5/x2)
Ranged light crossbow +1 (1d8/19-20)
Special Attacks sacred weapon 1d6
Spell-Like Abilities (CL 1st)
1/day-alter self
1/day-dazing touch (DC 15)
Spells Prepared (CL 1st, concentration +6)
1st (2/day)-
0 (at will)-
Blessings Liberation, Strength

STATISTICS
Str 21, Dex 13, Con 18, Int 16, Wis 18, Cha 20;
Base Atk +0; CMB +4; CMD 15
Feats Weapon Focus (flail), Angelic Blood
Skills Diplomacy +9, Knowledge (religion) +8, Perception +5, Sense Motive +8, Spellcraft +7
Languages Common, Celestial, Draconic, Elven, Sylvan
SQ aura
Traits Charming, Child of the Temple (Knowledge [religion]), Touched by Divinity (Charm Domain)
Gear flail, light crossbow, scale mail, light wooden shield, silver holy symbol, mwk backpack, bedroll, belt pouch, candles (10), cheap holy text, flint and steel, iron pot, mess kit, rope, soap, spell component pouch, torches (10), trail rations (5 days), waterskin
Funds 141 gp
SPECIAL ABILITIES
Aura (Ex) Emits a faint aura of good.
Blessings (Su) Possesses the Liberation and Strength blessings. Can use blessings in any combination up to 3 times per day. The save DC for these blessings is 15.
Liberation For 1 round as a swift action, can ignore impediments to mobility and effects that cause paralysis (as freedom of movement). Can be activated even if otherwise incapable of taking actions, but not if unconscious.
Strength Surge As a swift action, gains a +1 enhancement bonus on melee attack rolls, combat maneuver checks that rely on Strength, Strength-based skills, and Strength checks for 1 round.
Sacred Weapon (Su) Any weapon for which the Weapon Focus feat has been selected can inflict 1d6 on damage rolls instead of its base damage. Weapons with base damage higher than 1d6 are unaffected.

Cereza was born and raised in the city of Magnimar, by a cult dedicated to one of the Lords of the Empyrean. She was never told of the identities of her parents, but the priests cared for her as though she were their own. Or perhaps it is more precise to say that they treated her with greater care than their own children. For as a scion of holy blood, she was a venerated member of the church. In spite of everything, the young Cereza was always perplexed by her “family’s” treatment of her. She had grown to enjoy being put on a pedestal (quite literally), but regardless, she questioned the temple’s motives. It was not until she came of age that the truth was revealed to her - the cult had reason to believe that she herself was a descendent of the angel Arshea, the very Empyreal Lord that the cult bowed to. To them her birth had been a sign of prosperity, for as a daughter of a demigod, she could only be destined for great things. This revelation greatly troubled Cereza, but at the same time, it instilled in her an even greater sense of self-importance. Her heart was a benevolent one, but it was all too easy for her to fall into the trap of vaingloriousness. Embracing her role as the cult’s icon, she herself soon became a priestess, a conduit for Arshea’s power. Unbeknownst to her, it was a sign of things to come. The dreams came slowly at first, but in time grew more vivid. An angel - Arshea, she presumed - would visit and speak to her in a whisper that she could not quite understand. When she spoke of this dream to the other priests, they hailed it as a sign they had been waiting for. The Fifth Mendevian Crusade, she learned, would soon be commencing. As the scion of an Empyreal Lord, it seemed only appropriate that she be there to battle the Worldwound. Cereza knew how to fight, but the idea of meeting demons in battle utterly terrified her. Nonetheless, her sense of duty and pride won out in the end; never should it be heard that the child of an angel was a coward. With her head held up high, the priestess armed herself and prepared to make the journey to Kenabres. The Worldwound would be waiting…

Will in all likelihood be the hierophant path. As far as feats go, planning on taking all of the aasimar-exclusive Angel Blood/Flesh/Wings feats, to flavor it as though Cereza is becoming more and more like her celestial ancestor. As she grows more comfortable with it, front-line fighting will become more of a focus for her, with spellcasting mostly encompassing buffs and healing. Skill-wise, she is certainly a great negotiator.

Also, it has not really come up in the roleplay thus far, and it might never really come up at all, but one of the themes of Arshea worship I kind of wanted to convey was the freedom from gender conventions. Arshea's gender is actually ambiguous; thusly, Cereza was a born male that chose to be female. Confession: The idea really struck me as being neat after reading the M:TG short, "The Truth of Names". Frankly, it won't exactly have a huge impact on how I play the character, but I just thought I should mention it; if I ended up getting selected (from the number and quality of submissions, I'm sweating) it's not the kind of thing I wanted to spring out of nowhere.

To say that the journey to Mendev was long was a hilarious understatement. Weeks had already passed since her departure from Magnimar, and only now did her destination seem to be over the horizon. Cereza was fortunate to have found a caravan willing to take her around the Sarkoris Wastes, though a small bit of persuasion had been necessary. Not that it had been particularly hard. The friendly Varisians she had traveled with had only been able to take her so far, and those portions of the journey she had to make on foot were the least comforting.

Why oh why did I not ask for a horse? she thought with a pout, though the truth was, she was quite terrible at riding. Even so, at the rate she was going, the crusade might well be over by the time she arrives.

She glances around the moving wagon, which with the exception of some supplies, was thankfully empty, save for her. Not that it particularly mattered. She had already learned the hard way some weeks ago that her typical practice of prayer did not quite work out here. Worshiping in the nude when one had adequate privacy and sanctuary was well enough, but not so much when one was in the forest, surrounded by hungry beasts while unarmed and unarmored. Cereza shuddered at the memory; it was not a risk she could afford to take again. She was sure that Arshea would not mind her bending the rules, a bit. She was, after all, the angel’s champion. At least, that was what she was told to tell herself.

Sighing at the thought, she closes her eyes. The wagon was hardly a temple, but anywhere with a moment of peace would do. In a soft, hushed tone, she recites her prayer.

“Lord Arshea, Spirit of Abandon… I will soon arrive on the eve of battle, trained but untested. Please guide my hand, so that I might face the trials to come without fear… So that I might protect the innocent, heal the wounded, and strike down the wicked…”