| Full Name |
Henry Ravenheart |
| Race |
Human |
| Classes/Levels |
Investigator (Empiricist) |
| Gender |
Male |
| Size |
Medium |
| Age |
24 |
| Alignment |
Neutral Good |
| Location |
Cheliax. Kintargo. |
| Languages |
Common |
| Occupation |
Private Eye |
| Strength |
14 |
| Dexterity |
14 |
| Constitution |
12 |
| Intelligence |
18 |
| Wisdom |
10 |
| Charisma |
8 |
About Henry Ravenheart
Cheliax. Not the destination Henry Ravenheart dreamed of but it’s better than detective work in undead-ridden marshlands or the lairs of dragonkin. Commissioned to investigate a series of violent incidents and missing shipments of lumber, Henry Ravenheart discovers that the evidentiary findings point to the workings of several agents who all embarked from Kintargo in Cheliax. He sets off to Kintargo to find the primary cause of the incidents (and to earn a tidy sum upon his return).
Henry soon finds himself at the center of a brewing uprising with more leads than he can handle. As the events unfold, Henry increasingly puts off his considerations of gold to search for true meaning and bolster the rebel causes around him.
----
A. Prologue
---
Cheliax. Your eyes quickly dim as you reexamine the contents of the furled, parchment missive. Your senses initially beg you to stay, screaming, but your training has taught you to read deeper into the options, left few and far by your dwindling coin pouch. Not to mention that the contract’s tidy payment in advance should add a level of stability to this particular quest. Your mind weighs the options, and swiftly calculates that the missive contains a lucrative bounty for the information gained pursuant to the investigation.
I’ll do it. I’m your man you exclaim, signing Henry Ravenheart on the printed line of each copy of the contract.
A smile grows on the bald, heavy face of the man peering across from you. He takes a damp, greasy cloth from his pocket with his gem studded paw, unfolding the cloth. I know you’re the one for the job. And congratulations on your first real investigation the man wheezes, as he pulls a quill from the cloth to sign the agreement. You sweep up a copy and place it in your pouch, heading to the door.
Much better than the missive on slogging through 200 miles of swampland, all in search of some resolute dracolisk, you offer while shooting a quick smile to the man. I’ll leave that one to my rivals.
You sweep out the door and down the crumbling granite steps, gaining confidence in your choice from the booming laughter of the man within.
