About CalendulaHistory:
Calendula left. That wasn't something people did, not something you were supposed to. But Calendula left.
Twenty four years ago, Iomedae sent her to fight and die at the Worldwound, and yet here she was: alive. She was a paladin, the bravest and best of what mankind could offer, and she had abandoned her post. Left her men to die at the hands of foul creatures from another world. And rightfully, Iomedae had abandoned her in turn. But even though she ran, even though she betrayed her god, Calendula could not escape the Worldwound. As Iomedae’s blessings left her in Mendev, a foul abyssal poison had seeped through her open wounds, and corroded her blood into a thick, cold sludge. She was dying, and she knew it. The black blood did not warm her, leaving her shivering and aching at all hours. It caused her to bruise easily, made even minor abrasions rise and scar, and coated her lungs with a viscous fluid that often left her body wracked with coughing after minor exertions. As far as she was concerned, this cancer was the last of Iomedae’s ‘gifts’; all the boons a life of servitude and devotion had awarded her. Honor and prestige had ensured she was sent away from Lastwall to the Worldwound, where she spent five years of her life watching every friend and decent person she met die a painful and utterly final end. Her disease was just the icing on the cake. The years of battle in the Worldwound jaded her. She no longer believed in the Inheritor’s cause, no. Instead she pledged her life to simple work, to solitude and small pleasures. She ran as far as she could, to a hamlet in Varisia called Roderic’s Cove, where she fished and farmed to survive. She kept to herself mostly, and no one bothered her for a deal of time. She liked that. No one asked her about the many scars on her face and body or her sickening, deathly cough or the Vigilant’s Shield on her palm, marking her as a citizen of Lastwall. But despite it all, she has adjusted well in the nineteen years since arriving here. Roderic’s Cove proved a true home for her, and she has grown to love the citizens as friends and companions. She will gladly fight to protect what is hers. Appearance:
Calendula is a pale woman, not terribly tall but broad shouldered and long. For her age, she is incredibly firm bodied and muscular, but her muscles are thin and lean, clinging to her body instead of rising off of it. She keeps her hair short, preferring to shave it all off, but sometimes letting it grow a whole inch. There are multiple baldspots from scars and stress, but if it were to grow in fully, it would hardly be noticeable.
Her face is a mess of scar tissue, most notably a large line extending from her right brow to the crown of her head where she once took an orc's ax. Another few lines cut through both grey eyes at a variety of angles, either cut into her flesh or burnt there. One burn in particular is in the shape of her helmet's visor, left there by a misplaced blast of clerical radiance on the fields of Sarkoris. Her long aquiline nose is bent and broken, with a thick scar running across it, touching an additional slice on her cheekbone as well. Her lips, surprisingly full on her bony, sallow face, are scarred through twice as well, with another cut across her chin. Lastly, across her neck is the clear image of chains, left from an attack by a demon cultist in the Worldwound. He had summoned eight chains from the fouls of the Abyss, they sprung from the ground and whipped her. One knocked off her helmet, sending her falling to the ground, where all eight encircled her and began to squeeze. The life had nearly left her when one of her men distracted the cultist just enough for her to wriggle out and escape. She has aged well considering all she's been through, though with her high cheek bones and strong sharp jaw in combination with her sunken eyes and cheeks, both always looking bruised from her thick and diseased blood, she still looks almost skeletal. Forever cold from that same black blood, she bundles herself in rags and scarves no matter the season. She typically wears a simple tunic and working pants, not caring for how she looks. Her fingers are long and hands are thin, rough and calloused, just as scarred as her face, and on the palm of her right hand, she wears the Sword and Shield Marks of Vigil, a shameful reminder of broken oaths. Sitting always at her hip, even when fishing or tilling fields, is her bent and rusty longsword, gifted to her by her parents long ago, when they pledged her life to Iomedae for her. Though the craftsmanship is excellent, it has not been treated, sharpened or cleaned in nearly twenty years. Personality:
Sheet:
Init 1; Perception +12 ----------------- DEFENSE ----------------- AC 26, touch 13, flatfooted 25 HP 175 (17d10+68+1) Fort +23, Ref +13, Will +19 ----------------- OFFENSE ----------------- +3 Cold Iron Holy Demon Bane Longsword 1d8 S 19-20 x2 [dice=To Hit]d20+31;d20+26;d20+21;d20+16[/dice] [dice=Damage]d8+2d6+16[/dice] [dice=To Hit, Rage]d20+33;[/dice]
[dice=Power Attack]d20+25;[/dice]
[dice=Rage, PA]d20+27;[/dice]
[dice=Smite!]d20+37;[/dice]
[dice=Rage, Smite, PA]d20+33;[/dice]
[dice=Rage, Smite, Haste, Heroism, DJ, PA]d20+33+1+2+1;[/dice] +1 for every monster killed
Lay on Hands 11d6+33
Spells Known:
Languages Common, Thassilonian (able to read and comprehend but not write or speak)
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