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With 3rd party material in the mix I think I'll put together a Wizard // Harbinger I've been hankering to try. I think it would work well as an anti-heroic Calastian battle-mage who defected to the PC's cause (or came around to it well after his change of heart, depending).
I'd be interested, just gotta review the setting. From the premise, is it like a grim dark Ancient Greece?
Still new to this forum format and didn't see the characters list. I think a Paladin Archer would round out the party in a few different ways. I should be able to put one together pretty quick, at least mechanically. A detailed back story would take a bit longer but not more than an evening or two. By max gold for character level, do you mean 6000g for WBL at level 4? Character Outline: Valgeir Ivarsson Male Human
STR 14
HP: 48 AC: 19 (21 w/ shield)
Fort: +9
Attacks:
Class Abilities:
Divine Grace, Divine Health Detect Evil, Smite Evil (2/Day) Lay on Hands 2d6 (5/Day)
Feats:
Traits:
Skills:
Alternate Racial Trait: Fey Magic (replaces Skilled)
Prepared Spells: Lesser Restoration Languages:
Favored Class Bonus: +4 Skill Ranks Equipment:
Appearance:
Background:
What's the current party like? Any particular role needed?
Around 11 hours left until the deadline, is anyone else working on any final details? I have Equipment, Spells, and Languages to fill in, should be done tonight.
Got a link to the (currently almost done) character sheet here, the answers to the 20 Questions posted in their own separate section, and a slightly edited back story reposted here for convenience. Mechanical party role will still be as mentioned earlier, a combination of self-buffing melee fighter (Magus and Mythic action economy helps here) and debuffing caster. As spells and other abilities come down the pipe, he should become especially good at helping teammates' attacks and abilities stick. Stats:
Questions:
Name: Cyrion Karsomyr Age: 22 Height: 6'2"
Visible Equipment: A scimitar. Various magical accoutrements. No armor. Speech & Mannerisms: Well-educated. Haughty. Self-serious. Brooding. Place of Birth: Nerosyan. Raised by family in Nerosyan. Parents: Olav and Listina Karsomyr. Both alive. Scions of nobility with dwindling fortunes, now essentially merchants. Other family: Younger brother (Iskander, 19) apprentice Paladin of Iomedae. Younger sister (Natalina, 16) pursuing economic studies. Friends: None. Marital Status: Single. Children: None. Alignment: Neutral Evil. Moral Code: None. He keeps his word only to the extent required to maintain a reputation, or attract and retain allies. Goals: Near term, get out of jail. Long term, to achieve power and status such that none will question his abilities or competence. Religion: Nominally worships Nethys, as was the general default for many of the apprentice mages at his academy. This being Mendev, he also had to pay lip service to Iomedae, but silently resented it. Personal Beliefs: Rules are for people who can't get away with breaking them, which is most people. Fortunately, life is easier and the world works better when most people are bound by rules. Might makes right, just keep in mind that there is usually someone mightier nearby. Personality Quirks: Entitled, self-absorbed, perfectionist. Reason to Adventure: Owed debts to a crime syndicate. View of Role as Adventurer: It's a travesty that things had ever come to this. But by spell or by steel, they'll get everything that's coming to them, and more. Distinguishing Marks: None. Getting along with others: Grew up in a well-to-do household; as such he has good manners and can make nice, even when he has to force it. He knows the importance of a good reputation and good allies, and will go to some lengths to maintain both, treating any short-term personal sacrifice as an investment that will pay later dividends. Hates: Criticism of him, especially when his intelligence or competence is called into question. As such, he hates being embarrassed, failing a task, or losing a contest. Fears: An ignominious death, let alone an ignominious life. Hates embarrassment to the point that he fears it, and he is the type to be embarrassed easily. For example, when taking on an opponent in a fair contest, there's every chance he might lose. He'd prefer instead to set things up so that the odds are stacked in his favor as much as possible.
Background (copied from earlier post, with small changes): Born in Nerosyan, Cyrion was raised to be an arcane scholar upon the first detection of his magical talent as a child. His family was once Chelish nobility, some of the first of Iomedae's faithful to heed the call and relocate to Mendev during the First Crusade. The intervening decades saw their best and brightest consumed by the war, and their material fortunes cratered following the seizure of their ancestral holdings in the new Infernal Cheliax. Thus the burden was laid upon Cyrion to be the heir to this failing dynasty. He excelled in his studies at first, but made no real friends, and creeping resentment soon strained his relationship with his family (both parents, a younger brother, and a younger sister). The pressures of academe and the urgent need—well-ingrained by adolescence—to claw back some measure of status and pride for himself eventually made Cyrion a pariah, and it drove him to cheat. He became accustomed to looking for the trick or ruse or workaround that would get him to his goal, discipline and integrity be damned. Cyrion got ahead for a time by flouting the rules, cheating and getting away with it, but eventually of course the truth fell short of the grandiose facade he'd set up. When it came time for him to put his skill and knowledge to the test, he knew he wouldn't be able to deliver. The prospect of such a public humiliation as expulsion was unbearable. He panicked and made a reckless deal with the Black Flag, a criminal gang with whom he knew his father had shady business arrangements, mixing contraband in with legitimate cargo to bring a little extra coin to the family's depleted coffers. Cyrion had neither coin nor clout, and as such could only offer future favors based on his long-term potential. To his surprise, the syndicate agreed to aid him - in exchange for a formalized, ritual pact with their shadowy leader. Cyrion saw little choice in the matter. He accepted the deal. He assumed vaguely that the underworld syndicate would somehow pressure his instructors to back off. Instead their aid came in the form of a sword, literally. The weapon was delivered in secret, a curved black blade with a plain steel hilt, well-made but unadorned. "Now how can you help me out of this?" Cyrion asked idly as he unwrapped the cloth from the blade. When he grasped the hilt a series of impossibly thin runic characters lit up with cold starlight along the blade, and the sword replied. It told Cyrion exactly what he wanted to hear, flattering his narcissism expertly, promising that his power would live up to and exceed the grandeur he wanted to project. The knowledge imparted by the sword gave him the insight he needed in order to make his ability catch up to his lies about his ability. The sword even seemed perfectly shaped to his hand and balanced to his body; merely owning the weapon sparked an interest in fencing and martial pursuits that he hadn't even considered previously. Cyrion went on to pass the challenges set before him by his mentors, but still fell in the trap. He'd passed the tests, true, but it was done too easily and too smugly, using methods he hadn't officially been taught. He couldn't admit to having outside help (let alone through such a mysterious pact, especially in paranoid Mendev) and his refusal to name his collaborator led to the very expulsion he'd hoped to avoid. The shame proved unbearable, and the pain of it intensified in proportion to his vanity. His peers would consider him a lackwit dilettante, and his family would consider him an embarrassment to boot. He knew he wouldn't be able to look either group in the eye again. On top of that, Cyrion knew that if he was questioned by a properly pious inquisitor, he wouldn't be able to hide the truth, and would probably end up on capital trial for somehow aiding the Archenemy. At the first opportunity, he quietly gathered what he could from his room and slipped out of the academy, and hastily bought passage on the next caravan leaving town. Cyrion arrived in Kenabres with a small pouch of coin, a handful of books, and the clothes on his back. He was worried about finding employment, but the Black Flag found him first, and called in their favors. Alone and without a friend in the world, again, Cyrion had no choice but to agree. Over the next two years, Cyrion lent magical (and occasionally more straightforward and violent) assistance to many an illegal venture. The scrawny and cloistered youth eventually found himself becoming a tougher and more worldly young man. All the while he had time to brood, curse his luck and everyone and everything that had forced him to this turn, and become inured to his new life of crime. That life came to an abrupt halt following the Black Flag's brazen attempt to steal a valuable religious artifact. Neither Cyrion's magic nor the robbers' guile were sufficient to the task, and the caper ended in neither a clean getaway nor a quick arrest. Instead, they took hostages in a bid to go free. One of the robbers killed a hostage in a pique of rage, prompting the guardsmen to assault the abbey in haste, leading to three more hostages being injured in the fray. Cyrion and his accomplices were arrested and publicly tried, a process that should have mortified him far more than being expelled from academy. But following the initial shock, he found that he cared little for the gallery's judgmental glares: After all, who were they to judge him? He felt only a vague dull hatred for everything that had brought him to this dismal point. His family was in the gallery and they made it very clear that he'd been disowned. That still stung bitterly, but he recognized in a moment of sudden clarity that he wasn't truly sorry for what he did—he was merely sorry to have been caught. He'd have happily looked them in the eye after getting away with murder, so long as he had truly gotten away with it and they were none the wiser. He still had enough scruples then for the thought to shake him.
While I like the idea I have come up with I think I am likely going to back out of the running on this one. I just don't think I can play a credible evil character.I also struggle with squaring evil motivations that aren't either extremely convoluted or just "haha I'm evil!" The most realistic approach seems to be "don't care, I'm evil." They have a goal they're working towards obtaining, maybe even a Good (or at least Neutral) one on paper, but evil people simply have fewer scruples to get in the way. Which reminds me, I need a more specific goal for my own dude aside from "get out of jail."
I've got a cool concept in mind for an arcane gish. Mechanically, it's a Hexcrafter Bladebound Magus + Pact Wizard. Like a Magus and Wizard glued together with a paste made out of Witch. Should make for a decent SOL+Utility Caster, Knowledge Guy, and a competent melee fighter once it all comes together. As a character, he might be the sort who starts out the "least bad" of the villains, but harbors a rot that could make him the worst of all in the end. The answers to the 20 Questions should be embedded in the character background, but I can break them out into a separate summary if you'd like.
Character Background: Cyrion Karsomyr, Male Human, 22. Neutral Evil. The first thing most people would notice about this young man is his piercing gaze—bright green eyes peering feverishly from a pale face under unkempt black hair. Those who hear him speak would detect bold confidence drowned out by overweening superiority. Born in Nerosyan, Cyrion was raised to be an arcane scholar upon the first detection of his magical talent as a child. His family was once Chelish nobility, some of the first of Iomedae's faithful to heed the call and relocate to Mendev during the First Crusade. The intervening decades saw their best and brightest consumed by the war, and their material fortunes cratered following the seizure of their ancestral holdings in the new Infernal Cheliax. Thus the burden was laid upon Cyrion to be the heir to this failing dynasty. He excelled in his studies at first, but made no real friends, and creeping resentment soon strained his relationship with his family (both parents, an older brother, and a younger sister). The pressures of academe and the urgent need—well-ingrained by adolescence—to claw back some measure of status and pride for himself eventually made Cyrion a pariah, and it drove him to cheat. He became accustomed to looking for the trick or ruse or workaround that would get him to his goal, discipline and integrity be damned. Cyrion got ahead for a time by flouting the rules, cheating and getting away with it, but eventually of course the truth fell short of the grandiose facade he'd set up. When it came time for him to put his skill and knowledge to the test, he knew he wouldn't be able to deliver. The prospect of such a public humiliation as expulsion was unbearable. He panicked and made a reckless deal with the Black Flag, a criminal gang with whom he knew his father had shady business arrangements, mixing contraband in with legitimate cargo to bring a little extra coin to the family's depleted coffers. He assumed vaguely that the underworld syndicate would somehow pressure his instructors to back off. Instead their aid came in the form of a sword, literally. The weapon was delivered in secret, a curved black blade with a plain steel hilt, well-made but unadorned. "Now how can you help me out of this?" Cyrion asked idly as he unwrapped the cloth from the blade. When he grasped the hilt a series of impossibly thin runic characters lit up with cold starlight along the blade, and the sword replied. It told Cyrion exactly what he wanted to hear, flattering his narcissism expertly, promising that his power would live up to and exceed the grandeur he wanted to project. In the near-term, he would be gifted the knowledge he needed to stay on in the academy. All in exchange for future favors to the Black Flag. Cyrion saw little choice in the matter. He accepted the deal. Cyrion went on to pass the challenges set in front of him by his mentors, but still fell in the trap. He'd overcome the challenges, true, but it was done too easily, using methods he hadn't officially been taught. He couldn't admit to having outside help (let alone from such a mysterious pact, especially in paranoid Mendev) and his refusal to name his collaborator led to the very expulsion he'd hoped to avoid. The shame proved unbearable, and the pain of it intensified in proportion to his vanity. His peers would consider him a lackwit dilettante, and his family would consider him an embarrassment to boot. He knew he wouldn't be able to look either group in the eye again. On top of that, Cyrion knew that if he was questioned by a properly pious inquisitor, he wouldn't be able to hide the truth, and would probably end up on capital trial for aiding the Archenemy. At the first opportunity, he quietly gathered what he could from his room and slipped out of the academy, and hastily bought passage on the next caravan leaving town. Cyrion arrived in Kenabres with a small pouch of coin, a handful of books, and the clothes on his back. He was worried about finding employment, but the Black Flag found him first, and called in their favors. Over several months, Cyrion lent magical assistance to many an illegal venture. All the while he had time to brood, curse his luck, curse his instructors at the academy, and become slowly inured to his new life of crime. That life came to an abrupt halt following the Black Flag's brazen attempt to steal a valuable religious artifact. Nether Cyrion's magic nor the robbers' guile were sufficient to the task, and the caper ended in neither a clean getaway nor a quick arrest. Instead, they took hostages in a bid to go free. One of the robbers killed a hostage in a pique of rage, prompting the guardsmen to assault the abbey in haste, leading to three more hostages being injured in the fray. Cyrion and his accomplices were arrested and publicly tried, a process that should have mortified him far more than being expelled from academy, but he found that he cared nothing for the gallery's judgmental glares. He felt only a vague dull hatred for the system that had brought him to this dismal point. His family was in the gallery and they made it very clear that he'd been disowned. That still stung bitterly, but he recognized in a moment of sudden clarity that he wasn't truly sorry for what he did—he was merely sorry to have been caught. He'd have happily looked them in the eye after getting away with murder, so long as they were none the wiser. He still had enough scruples then for the thought to shake him.
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