About Dakash NaanStatblock:
Aasimar (Lawbringer) Gestalt Druid 1/Unchained Monk 1 NG Medium outsider (native) Init +2; Senses darkvision 60 ft.; Perception +8 Defense
Offense
Special Attacks
Statistics
Other Gear Monk's kit (backpack, belt pouch, blanket, rope, soap, torches (10), trail rations (5), water skin), Masterwork Survival kit (flint and steel, mess kit, two water skins, basic maps of Sandpoint and surrounding area, small utility knife, journal of flora and fauna)60 gp, 9 sp Special Abilities
Enlarged Statblock:
Str 18, Dex 12 Reflex +3 AC 15 touch 15 flat-footed 10 (+1 Dex, +4 Wis, +1 shield, -1 size) Reach 10' Unarmed +4 (1d8+4) or Quarterstaff +4 (1d8+6) or Tonfa +4 (1d8+4) Flurry +4/+4 (1d8+4) Story (Ten-Minute Background):
5 things: "My son, you're asking about? Dakash? I suppose I can tell you of Dakash. He isn't in trouble, I suppose. To start, you should know that he is a man of few words. After The Incident in his youth, he's been known to sit in quiet contemplation for hours. He told me once that, 'He finds the company of verbose people vexatious to the spirit.' That's the sort of fella he is, talking with those two-silver words. Don't get me wrong, The Incident isn't wholly responsible. Dakash has always been quite fond of nature, and spent much of his childhood in the woods behind my cottage while I spun wool and worked. He was recognizably different from others in Sandpoint, as he was Aasimar, one of the few tangible records of the conjugal visits made to the Material Plane by celestial creatures. I couldn't tell you which of my ancestors - or his father, Jattell's, for that matter - indulged in such an act, though, truth be told, I can't blame them. Could any person say no? Oh, goodness, I apologize, where are my manners?! I keep alluding to The Incident without addressing it, as if simply skirting around it might allow me to leave that nightmare sleeping in the foggy recesses of my memory. A naive thought, to be true. It's nigh impossible to forget your son's abduction. He was taken when he was hardly a young man, 11 years old. We swept the woods and the roads, sent word to neighboring villages, even sent Jattell to Magnimar to get help from the local sheriffs. But there weren't a man alive who could help find my boy when he was snatched up by the Fey. He was gone for three years, two months, and 11 days. I'll never forget that, you can believe it. I aged nearly a decade in those years. You should also know he's become an...odd, mystical sort of man, my Dakash. He speaks of Order, and 'Nature, red in tooth and claw,' and how important it is to respect the balance. He's taken to meditation, and training to fight with his walking stick. He hardly has a bad word to say to anyone, even though this town is slow to forget, and his peers haven't always been kind to him. He likes to go for long walks through the woods, and sometimes I see him approaching animals, like he's friends with them. It's all very strange, especially for an old tailor woman like me." 2 goals:
I would like Dakash to become the head of a Druid Grove, and protect Varisia (or another region?) from corruption and industrialization. 3 people:
After me? I suppose he's friends with that Torvin man that just came into town. He seems to be the only one around as determined as my boy to deal with this Sandpoint Devil problem. Besides, Dakash rather likes that Torvin is new in town. He says it 'gives him a chance to start fresh.' And finally, I suppose I can't talk about the people in Dakash's life without bringing her up. Loretta was Dakash's first love. Hells, probably his only love. She works at the local tannery, and for a couple of short seasons, he'd go and visit her twice a day, once as early as 4, maybe 5 o'clock in the morning! I've never seen anything get my son up that early, before or since, but alas, he was smitten. Things went sour when he mentioned that the reagents and the smell was 'a blight upon the natural world.' She didn't take kindly to that, and had no small number of harsh words for him. I don't think she knew then just how sensitive Dakash is. He hasn't been the same since then, really. Hasn't even so much as looked at another woman." 3 memories/mannerisms/quirks:
As far as memories go, I don't think anything can compete with his memory of the First World. He always seems a bit rattled when I ask him about it, so even now, years later, I don't know much about what they did with him. Or to him. But he seems determined to preserve our natural order, like he's trying to protect us from the Fey. Lastly, my sweet Dakash is prone to cook his own meals. He won't let me cook for him anymore, and he'll just wait, patiently, while I finish making my own supper before he even moves to prepare his own food. I'm not sure if it's because of disease, or a fear of poisons, or perhaps he just prefers to trust his own ingredients for nutritional reasons, but he hasn't let another soul cook for him in nearly a decade." I'm writing this as a dialogue/scene because I think it's a fun format, and I also have an English degree, so I'm just playing around. By all means, let me know if you want it written more conventionally. A lean young man steps through the cottage door, swinging it wide with one hand, holding a basket full of various plants in the other. The unabashed grin on his burnished-bronze fades quickly as he notices his mother talking to company. She's talking about me again. I thought we were through with this, all these years later. Dakash sets the basket on the table in the center of the cozy room, the scent of aromatic herbs filling the space quickly as he sits, wringing his hands in his lap and working his mouth slowly around the stalk of lemongrass hanging out of it. His tight trousers are tied around his waist with a simple bit of rope, and the bottoms are similarly lashed around his ankles, just above his sandaled feet. His shirt is similarly well-fitted to him, the sleeves tied close to his wrists, to prevent any cloth dangling and snagging on a briar. "I...suppose Momma has been talking about me? She likes to do that. Makes her feel more important than any tailor has a right to feel." The young man's voice was deeper than expected from a face so young. His eyes darted towards his mother's face, a small smirk appearing as he noticed the old woman looking away in shame. I should not say these things to her. She is a kind woman, and it is not right to be hurtful, even if what I say is true. "Apologies, Momma. I sometimes speak out of turn, and forget myself. That was unnecessarily hurtful." Dakash looks back toward you, the guest of the cottage, and clears his throat, his amber-colored eyes open wide, taking in the sight of his company, obviously observant. "Now then. I shall recount my life, as you are likely curious. Please, make yourself comfortable." He stands quickly, the motion fluid and controlled, as if any extraneous movement is extremely undesirable. He reaches for a battered old kettle atop the counter, and slides it directly onto the hot metal of the stove. He sits back down after this, pursing his lips and holding his hands together in front of his face, as if contemplating which words he needs and which he doesn't. He pointedly avoids any eye contact, taking in a large, deep breath, and speaking quickly, his lips and tongue barely landing on each letter and punctuation mark, as if falling towards the end of the thought. "I do not like to speak without need because I am bad at it, and there is much misunderstanding. It is easier to speak of what I love - of animals, and the herbs and plants of the woods, though I frequently become nervous. I am impatient with words because they are imperfect." Dakash stops speaking, letting out a long, relieved exhale and glancing upward, allowing his eyes to become visible again, and fixing them on yours, his expression clearly nervous and wary. He chews louder for a moment, sucking on the green stem lodged between his teeth. I hope I am not talking too much. I can only imagine what Momma has said so far. "I understand these traits make me imperfect. I enjoy the company of others - I find people fascinating - they are just harder for me. I wonder sometimes if there is a town of people like me. A home I could be comfortable in. I want to find it." He stands again upon hearing the faintest of whistles coming from the kettle. He produces a small mug from the cupboard and fills it with hot water. Upon returning to the table holding the mug between two hands, Dakash plucks a small handful of leaves from one of the herbs in the basket, grinding them against the heel of his palm and dropping the crushed plants into the water. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply for a long moment, taking in the sweet-smelling steam coming off the mug. His eyes open after a second, and he looks at you once more, his shoulders finally relaxing as he becomes more comfortable. "I have lived in Sandpoint my whole life, with the exception for a brief trip away during my adolescence. We will not speak of this time, since the details are unimportant, and my memory is spotty, at any rate. I find the inquiries into such things to be extraneous to most topics of conversation, and I am surely not being interviewed for this position due to my history as a test subject. Suffice it to say, I have lived in Sandpoint my whole life. I have a great interest in changing that. I wish to capture and tame the Sandpoint Devil, as I believe that I am eminently qualified in handling any creature in these woods, and upon ensuring the safety of my hometown, it is my wish to never set foot within 100 yards of any of the people - excepting Momma, of course - nor the filthy tannery, nor any of the other trappings of civilization. I understand that to live outside of cities forever is a fool's dream, but I would like to make the effort insofar as it is reasonable. Mostly, sir, I wish to travel, and become a man who is known for something wonderful and heroic, and not for victimhood. I practice everyday, studying those things which come naturally to me, in hope that they might become useful tools for somebody in need of a hero."
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