Red Mantis: Oath Wars

Game Master Nimon

25 point buy, only the strong survive training into the Red Mantis. Books Allowed Any listed in the official PRD (not the D20SRD, the PRD to the left on this website) And the Inner Sea World Guide. Classes This is heavy stealth/assassinate/investigate so chose accordingly. If you think you can manage as a Sorcerer go ahead, but remember you are alone. Races Any from the official sources I posted. Though at this time certain races are even less common than in present day, so if you want to play something exotic you might want to invest in disguise. The locals might not be interested in trading with a Vishkanya for example. Traits 2 + the campaign trait I will list below. Background Skills Yes. Mythic Yes, ascension will be described below.Alignment LN, LE, NE only. Achaekek does not appreciate those that stray from the path. Starting Gold 200 gold and two Sawtooth Sabres. Potions and scrolls may be purchased, but no partial charged wands.

Favored of the Vernai The Vernai have taken notice in your abilities and believe you are chosen by Achaekek to do great things. You start the game with Exotic Weapon Proficiency- Sawtooth Sabre and when fighting with two Sawtooth Sabres you have the Two Weapon Fighting feat. You must adhere to the code of Achaekek and never commit Regicide and you must kill only when compensated or in true self defense. When you do kill, you must paint your armor with the blood of the victim. If you fail to paint your armor, you must fast and pray until a night of a new moon and inflict 5 hp of damage on yourself with a sawtooth sabre spilling your own blood on an alter to Achaekek.

You are Granted your Mythic Powers by Achaekek. You are tier 1 at the start of the campaign. He communes with you and comes to you in dreams. When he appears his red mandibles are dripping with blood and he speaks face to face with you. You have shared these visions with the Vernai and they have confirmed that you are chosen and are treated as such, but only so long as you continue your piety to He Who Walks In Blood.

Sentir Damutu stood on a rocky plain, surrounded by the fallen corpses of friend and foe. A black sky covered the battlefield, only allowing irregular shafts of yellow light to play across the dead. Tattered war banners flapped in the breeze, Taldan and Qadrian. Just like the dead. What was the difference anymore?

A dream or reality?

Sentir wasn’t sure. He has spent his life caught in the pointless struggle between the two empires and was long past the point of caring. Who, on either side, remembered what victory looked like, who recalled what this war had been about? Now, it was only blood. In both his dreams and waking life, all was death and blood.

In the distance, Sentir saw a row of glittering horsemen riding across the body-strewn plain. Focusing, he saw himself among the number. A younger man, singing with the joy of battle. The symbol of Sarenrae on his chest. The Cleansing Light. How long had it been now. Decades since he was such. Riding off to war, confident that this new faith was a firm and strong purpose. Sentir shook his head as the youthful man rode past, talking grandly of upcoming victories and triumphal marches.

A naïve fool. A child.

Then his perspective shifts. Was he waking? Was he falling asleep?

He is in the middle of battle. Chaos and confusion surround him, a press of panicked men. The sword in his hand is bright and clean, unsullied. Trant, his first sergeant is bellowing orders, desperately trying to keep order. The stench of death fills the air, mixing with burning tar.

Sentir grips his sword tighter. This was his first battle.

Into the panicked ranks a enemy horseman charges in, laying about him with a heavy mace. Faces are crushed, heads smashed, arms snapped like twigs. The horseman’s heavy black armor turns the feeble attacks on him, the undisciplined footman breaking. But not Sentir.

Instead he runs toward the imposing foe, sword in hand. Nimbly he ducks the mace, feeling the breeze ruffle his hair. Half sliding, he sweeps under the horse and then reaches up a hand to the saddle. With a great heave, he launches himself upward, climbing up the horse’s side. The enemy knight curses and tries to turn, heavy armor hindering him. Sentir finds a perch behind the knight, sword held high. There is a rightness here, in that moment. The moment before death. Maybe, maybe if he kills this one cleanly, quickly, the fight will end. Maybe victory is that close, if he seizes it.

With a plunge, Sentir stabs the sword downward, into a weak point in the plate. The knight screams in pain and blood spurts out of the wound, splattering Sentir. He ignores it, jamming the blade home. Abruptly the man is silenced and lurches out of the saddle. With a crash he falls to the ground, Sentir following, leaving behind the panicked horse. Feeling strangely empty, he kicks off the fallen man’s helm, and inspects the foe. He is dying, but still breathing, barely. With a quick motion he slashes the throat, finishing the job. The cut seems strange, not right. It is jagged, not smooth as it should be. It reminds Sentir of the legs of some insect….

Trant runs up, pounding him on the back, praising him. Sentir ignores him and looks around. All around the battle roars on. What was one swordsman in a battle of thousands? Sentir looks down, overwhelmed and focuses on that strange wound….

The scene shifts again,

The dark fortress corridor is cool and quiet, empty save for himself. The darkness was no problem of course. Sarenrae had blessed him, given him eyes that needed no light. At least that is what the priests had said long ago, in his village. Those lessons, about honor, glory and righteousness seemed dim to him now. If that was true and he was here fighting for her…why was this his mission?

He glanced out the sole window and saw a raging firestorm outside, consuming dozens of army tents. Men ran this way and that, futilely trying to controlled the inferno. An inferno Sentir had started. A distraction from the crimes he was about to commit. His goddess was the Cleansing Flame but this did not seem clean…

Sentir shook himself and felt the weight of the sword in his hand. This was no time for such doubts. This was a time for action. And yet, even as he approached the wooden door the thoughts gnawed at him. Years of war, for what? A few miles of barren scrubland? The glory of men who earned none of it?

Then he is at the door, throwing it open. Inside, three men stand to attention, turning from a table covered with maps. They wear military uniforms, the local Taldan high command. His mission as to kill them, and he would, but did it matter? Were there not always more men to take their place? Did this shorten the horror outside. Or the horror inside?

The men reach for their swords and Sentir looses himself in the violence. That at least had not changed. The purpose may be gone, the thrill dissipated, but the killing remained the same. It w s why he was sent on this mission, alone. Sentir was good at it.

He dove under the first man’s desperate lunge, slicing his stomach as he passed. The second man screamed and turned for another door. Sentir stabbed him in the back, twisting the blade, a curtain of blood filling the air. As the dead man fell Sentir turned to the last foe, the tallest of the three. His sword was in a dueling position, held low and steady. For the first time Sentir felt the ember of his old emotions re-light. A challenge. Perhaps slaying this man would bring some meaning.

They clashed blades, steel on steel, the ringing sound filling the room. The other man was strong, stronger then Sentir. The Taldan man slammed the blade again and again, driving Sentir back, trying to corner him. Sentir whirled away from the wall, deflecting a blow. He rolled across a table, scattered battle maps in a flutter. His foe’s blade slammed into the table and then, by bad luck, stuck in the table’s surface. In that instant, as the Taldan tugged at his blade, Sentir struck, sword plunging into the man’s side. With a groan the commander fell to the floor, clutching his side.

Sentir let out a breath and surveyed the dead men. His foes, conquered, defeated. It did not bring him happiness or sadness. He was long past both. This war has driven it from him…Then he noticed something odd.

Bloody footprints, his footprints, covered the rough stone floor of the chamber. Here and there they danced, re-tracing the fight both his effortless slaying of the first two and his desperate struggle with the last. For some reason those shimmering red footsteps sent a chill down his spine, and then he saw why. They led out of the chamber, bright red, his feet covered with blood long before this fight….

The scene changes.

Sentir warms his hands over the campfire, trying to ward off the cold desert air. He sat alone, shoulders hunched toward the dancing flames. Around him other fires burned, surrounded by soldiers. He heard laughter, shouts and cries from them. The sounds of an army at rest after a day of fighting.

Sentir looked at the empty blankets around him, the remains of his squad, set up the night before. Now their owners would never return. The last had died today, a spear through the throat during yet another pointless assault. The last man from Sentir’s home village, the last of his friends. No one else from that proud group, those who spoke Sarenrae’s name with such fervor, drew breath.

Sentir reached for a bottle of wine he had saved, hidden among his blankets. His nimble fingers found the cord unerringly and pulled. He lifted it too easily. The wine bottle had shattered, trampled by some careless foot, staining his blankets with a dark red stain, like blood. With a curse Sentir through the bottle into the fire, making it swirl.

The weight fell on him. Why was he here? What was he doing? The cause was long dead. This was endless, meaningless. No victory would end it, no amount of killing would satisfy, no amount of blood enough...what drove him? There was no purpose.

Why should he stay? Why not simply leave this behind, go elsewhere and seek his fortune? His eye swept the darkness and he saw, distant, the watchposts on the edge of camp. They did not keep the Taldan out, but kept the Qadrian troops in. Desertion was punished by execution on the spot.

Was it mere fear that kept him here? Was he fighting, killing and dying every day because of simple fear? Why? No, tonight…tonight he would go. He would walk past the watchpost and dare them to kill him. What was another drop of blood in a sea of crimson?

Just as he began to stand he felt something land on his shoulder. He brushed at it, and his fingers came away red and sticky to the touch. The wine? No, blood…Another drop fell on him, this time spattering his neck. Sentir looked up into the dark sky overhead and saw….Him.

It is almost too enormous to comprehend: a titan nightmare clad in blood-red armor, a typhoon of grasping claws and toxic stings. Its legs are shuddering pylons, trees whose trunks bear bark of polished chitin. Its eyes are faceted crystal domes, lit from within by angry volcanic fire. A massive set of mandibles drip blood in torrents, coating the empty landscape Sentir stands in. He is transfixed by this thing, this horror beyond his imaginings.

”No.” It booms, voice filling Sentir’s mind. ”You will not die this night, by your own hand. I will take you and give you purpose.”

Suddenly Sentir felt a change, a weight drop from his shoulder. This was not a bumbling High Command, seeking impossible victory. This was not the endless slaughter of the battlefield. This was purpose, this was order, this was clear and clean. This was violence directed in a way he had not felt in a long time.

Without hesitation Sentir knelt, and as he did so he felt much fall away. His bitter despair. The dark depression, the pointless blackness. His old faith to a shattered goddess who had done nothing for him. His allegiance to an army long past the point of caring. He left all behind and gave himself utterly to this great being that promised so much.

He would be forgotten here, nothing left but a ghost, a wraith.

”Go.”

And Sentir went, to find his destiny.

Human Rogue (Shadow Walker) 1
LE Medium humanoid (human)
Init +8; Senses Darkvision 30ft, Perception +1
DEFENSE
AC 18, touch 14, flat-footed 10 (+4 armor, +4 Dex)
hp 9 (1d8+1)
Fort +1, Ref +6, Will +1

OFFENSE
Speed 30 ft.
Melee
Ranged
Special Attacks mythic power (5/day, surge +1d6), sneak attack +1d6, surprise strike

STATISTICS
Str 10, Dex 18, Con 12, Int 11, Wis 12, Cha 16
Base Atk +0; CMB +0; CMD 14
Feats Deceitful, Deceitful (mythic), Exotic Weapon Proficiency (sawtooth sabre), Improved Initiative, Weapon Finesse
Traits Axe to Grind, Favored of the Vernai, Ordinary
Skills Acrobatics +8, Bluff +13, Climb +4, Diplomacy +7, Disguise +9, Perception +5, Sense Motive +7, Stealth +8 (+12 to hide in crowds)
Languages Common

Hard to Kill (Ex): Whenever you're below 0 hit points, you automatically stabilize without needing to attempt a Constitution check. If you have an ability that allows you to act while below 0 hit points, you still lose hit points for taking actions, as specified by that ability. Bleed damage still causes you to lose hit points when below 0 hit points. In addition, you don't die until your total number of negative hit points is equal to or greater than double your Constitution score.

No One of Consequence (Ex) (DC 14)
Your mythic nature is a cloak that can shield you from the minds and memories of others. Creatures struggle to recognize you, recall your appearance, remember the nature of conversations they had with you, and recount the actions you took when you were in their presence. If a creature makes a deliberate attempt to recall details about time spent with you, it must succeed at a Will save (DC 10 + your tier + your Charisma modifier) to recall anything beyond vague details. In addition, you’re under a permanent nondetection effect with a caster level equal to your character level plus your tier. You can end this effect at any time, and can resume it as a swift action.
Surprise Strike (Ex)
As a swift action, you can expend one use of mythic power to make a melee attack or ranged attack against a target within 30 feet, in addition to any other attacks you make this round. When you make a surprise strike, the target is considered flat-footed regardless of any class features or abilities it might have, and you add your tier to the attack roll. Damage from this attack bypasses damage reduction.

Minor Gear-
To be filled it if selected.

Sentir's main style is control of light and darkness. Right now he only has Darkvision but his archetype, in a few levels, will allow him to cast spells such as light, darkness and a few others. It also gives him bonuses when acting in varying degrees of illumination. I think it will really lend to the stealth and disguise aspects of this game. He is also a social creature, with high ranks in most of the social skills. In particular his mythic power makes him hard to remember and place, which should be very fun to play and very useful for infiltration work.

Sentir does this because he trusts in the Red Mantis to give him purpose, to direct his talent in a direction. That purpose is not always clear and certainly not always good, but it is there. The Law of the kill is vital to him,a s well as following the dictates of the God that saved him from self-destruction.

I am GM Mowque, and I've been playing on these boards for a few years. I mostly GM solo games, which I think is the best way to do PBP, generally. Some of my games are hitting the 1.5 year mark, really enjoying them. You don't have to worry about me vanishing or leaving the game. I post daily, and check the boards all the time for my own games as well. Feel free to look through my Campaigns and see those games. I am a librarian in EST.

Cyrene
Female Elven Magus [Mindblade] 1/Archmage 1
LE Medium humanoid (elf)
Init +4; Senses Perception +8, Low-light Vision.
DEFENSE
AC 18, touch 14, flat-footed 14 (+4 armor, +4 Dex)
HP 8 (1d8)
Fort +2, Ref +4, Will +3
Defensive Abilities Elven Immunities, Hard to Kill
OFFENSE
Speed 30 ft
Melee Sawtooth Sabre +4 (1d8+4,19-20/x2) or Sawtooth Sabre +2 (1d8+4,19-20/x2) and Sawtooth Sabre +4 (1d8+2,19-20/x2)
Ranged Shortbow +4 (1d6, x3)
Special Attacks Spell Combat.
Magus Spells Known (CL 1; Concentration +5)
1st (1+1/day) – Frostbite, Vanish
0 (at will) – arcane mark, dancing lights, detect magic, ghost sound
STATISTICS
Str 8, Dex 18, Con 10, Int 18, Wis 13, Cha 12
Base Atk +0; CMB -1, CMD 13
Feats Weapon Finesse, Mythic Weapon Finesse
Skills Intimidate +5, Knowledge (Arcana) +8, Perception +8, Stealth +5, Spellcraft +8, Use Magic Device +5
Background Skills: Profession (Courtesan) +5, Perform (Dance) +2
Traits Favored of the Vernai, Reactionary, Seeker
Languages Common, Elven, Sylvan, Orc, Gnome, Draconic
SQ Keen Senses, Knacks, Mythic Power (5/day), Psychic Pool (5 points), Silent Hunter, Spell Combat
Mythic Powers Enduring Armor, Wild Arcana
Combat Gear smokesticks (2); Other Gear2 sawtooth sabres , shortbow and 50 arrows, Rogues kit (backpack, a bedroll, a belt pouch, caltrops, chalk (10), a flint and steel, a grappling hook, an iron pot, a mess kit, a mirror, pitons (10), rope, soap, thieves' tools, torches (10), trail rations (5 days), and a waterskin.) 75gp

Born to elven clerics of Sarenrae Cyrene was quickly orphaned during one of the intense skirmishes that characterised the Oath Wars. Her parents had ventured into a street skirmish to tend to the wounded, and when a group of Norgorber cultists came upon the fight and quickly massacred all sides her parents were among the dead. This left Cyrene, at barely thirty human years, still a child - cynical and angry.

Left on her own she soon abandoned the Church of the Dawnflower and took to the streets, where she soon learned that elven women, even more so than human ones, were not safe alone. She killed for the first time when a man tried to force himself on her - driving her knife up through his jaw and watching the life drain from his eyes gave her a thrill that no amount of physical pleasure could match.

As she became more confident, and able to protect herself, Cyrene managed to gather together a little money, which bought her a place in a tavern as a dancer/bar-maid. The owner cared little about her morals as long as she did her job and kept the customers paying, and Cyrene soon established herself with a small clientele, who paid well to enjoy her and her skills with knives and the mixing of pleasure and pain.

It was this that bought her to the attention of the Red Mantis. One of her clients came fleeing into her room in the tavern, hours before she conducted business and begged her to hide him. Soon establishing the danger he found himself in, Cyrene quietly killed him and waited - letting the body grow cold as she watched and idly drew patterns in the blood on her pale skin. When the Red Mantis Assassin finally slipped into her room, Cyrene offered him the bloody knife and demanded the payment he had been given. Her demeanor, as well as the signs she had unknowingly inked onto her skin in the victims blood convinced the assassin that he had met a true disciple of Achaekek and he introduced Cyrene to the Vernai and her new calling.

Cyrene found that she had an almost mystical talent for the work of the Red Mantis, weapons formed out of the blood of her enemies and her devotion to the Red Mantis and their bloody god protected her from the blows of those less devoted than herself. The Vernai realised that she was wasted as an anonymous assassin and instead provided her with funds and introductions, establishing her as a desirable and well recommended courtesan, a role in which Cyrene has thrived.

Tall, slender and graceful Cyrene has a dancers build and an attractive appearance. Her long red hair and pale skin are particularly rare in hot, dusty Rahadoum and make her a particularly valued, and expensive, dinner companion.

She delights in jewelry and make-up and looks nothing like the famed assassins for whom she works - a fact that has served her well more than once. Only the small tattoo at the base of her skull, two curving red mandibles, gives any sign of Cyrene's true allegiance.

Love your back story, but I am really having my fill of people picking random things from D20PFSRD especially when I specifically said not to.

Like the build, need a bit of backstory, doesn't have to be a novel.

Growing up in Central Garund Seifer Monroe was raised in a Sarenite encampment. His dreams were always full of praying mantes, though they were also filled with Sarenrae's divine fire. When he was young and caught in a fire caused by livestock he finally learned who had been contacting him in his dreams when he saw a large praying mantis. It showed him the way out of the fire before slaughtering the livestock that caused the fire and bathing itself in blood. The reddened carapace spoke to Seifer the name of his savior and his soon-to-be god, Achaekek.

Seifer quickly learned to keep his worship a secret from his friends and family, devoted Sarenites all, and grew up in quiet servitude to He Who Walks in Blood, planning his escape to Mediogalti. It is in this way he learned to keep the two sides of himself separate, one an ordinary, mostly carefree, citizen, the other a devout worshiper or the Red Mantis. When he came of age he quietly killed his family and presented their blood as an offering to his god and was granted a vision of how to get to the Crimson Citadel.

Walking, riding, sailing, Seifer did whatever he could to get to Mediogalti, killing quietly along the way. He learned of the power that comes from blood and spilled his fair share to Achaekek. He developed his other persona, his battle-mindset, as well as his arcane abilities. Upon reaching Mediogalti he applied to become a Red Mantis Apprentice and was granted the right when a passing Vernai took notice of him. He trained until his body was broken, his mind warped, until he could no longer remain conscious, until the only thing that remained was his burning drive to serve Achaekek. That is when he began having dreams once more...

This campaign takes place during the Oath Wars, this is before Mediogalti is established (in fact you might be the one to establish Mediogalti/or another strong hold depending on how things go). Currently the followers of Achaekek have a strong hold in the city of Azir in what is called North West Gaurandi (current timeline it would be known as Rahadoum)_

Growing up in Central Garund Seifer Monroe was raised in a Sarenite encampment. His dreams were always full of praying mantes, though they were also filled with Sarenrae's divine fire, making the mantes red. When he was young and caught in a fire caused by livestock he finally learned who had been contacting him in his dreams when he saw a large praying mantis. It showed him the way out of the fire before slaughtering the livestock that caused the fire and bathing itself in blood. The reddened carapace spoke to Seifer the name of his savior and his soon-to-be god, Achaekek.

Seifer quickly learned to keep his worship a secret from his friends and family, devoted Sarenites all, and grew up in quiet servitude to He Who Walks in Blood, planning his escape. It is in this way he learned to keep the two sides of himself separate, one an ordinary, mostly carefree, citizen, the other a devout worshiper or the Red Mantis. When he came of age he quietly killed his family and presented their blood as an offering to his god and was granted a vision of how to get to the home of a cult of Achaekek.

Walking, riding, sailing, Seifer did whatever he could to get to that city, killing quietly along the way. He learned of the power that comes from blood and spilled his fair share to Achaekek. He developed his other persona, his battle-mindset, as well as his arcane abilities. Upon reaching Northern Garund, and the city he came to know as Azir, he applied to become an Apprentice in the cult and was granted the right when a passing Vernai took notice of him. He trained until his body was broken, his mind warped, until he could no longer remain conscious, until the only thing that remained was his burning drive to serve Achaekek. That is when he began having dreams once more...

Aayalla knows nothing of her origin. Her earlies memories were in the orphanage in Katapesh. As time passed the other kids grew and yet she remained small. It seemed she was of hafling origin, but had marks and signs of a celestial as well. Because of this she was made fun of, bullied and beaten. She prayed each night for strength and the ability to defend herself and get revenge but to no god, just out into the ether.

One night she prayed like any the night before, but this night was different. Her dreams were plagued with those that tormented her in the orphanage, they attacked and beat her again and again. As she struggled in her nightmare everything took on a red hue. It seemed the sky itself was bathed in blood as she stared up taking punch after punch. Then the clouds parted and Achaekek appeared to her. What she assumed was a smile came over him. Mandibles dripping with blood a single drop fell from the sky landing upon her forehead. Her body glowed in the red tint of blood for a moment as the blood formed into a celestial symbol. Then with a flash her body was enveloped. Achaekek had blessed her and sent a celestial servant to bond and protect her.

She awoke moments later and found to great surprise the dream was more than just that as she was still fused with the creature. That night she took her revenge, killing all that had ever said or acted against her. The story soon spread, Aayalla was on the run when a man found her. He was of the Vernai and had been looking for her. He brought her to the brothers and upon sharing her tale she was elevated in position. There she has trained and honed her skills and is ready to defend her brothers in what may come.