Kismet Seaborn's page

Kismet Seaborn
Human Sorcerer (Wildblooded) 1
N Medium Humanoid (human)
Init +8; Senses Perception +0
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DEFENSE
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AC 12, touch 12, flat-footed 10 (+2 Dex)
hp 7 (1d6+1)
Fort +1, Ref +2, Will +2
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OFFENSE
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Speed 30 ft.
Melee Dagger +1 (1d4+1/19-20/x2)
Ranged Light crossbow +2 (1d8/19-20/x2)

Spell-Like Abilities
Sorcerer Spells Known (CL 1)
1st (4/day) - 1 (4/day) Color Spray (DC 15), Grease (DC 15)
0 (at will) Ray of Frost, Mage Hand, Detect Magic, Light
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STATISTICS
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Str 12, Dex 14, Con 13, Int 10, Wis 10, Cha 18
Base Atk +0; CMB +1; CMD 13
FeatsCombat Casting, Eschew Materials, Improved Initiative
Traits Two-World Magic (Create Water, Sorcerer [Wildblooded]), Reactionary, Touched by the Sea
SkillsKnowledge (arcana) +4, Profession (sailor) +4, Spellcraft +4, Use Magic Device +8
Languages Common
SQmutated bloodlines (seaborn), water blast (7/day) (dc 14)
Combat Gear
Other Gear Crossbow bolts (20), Dagger, Light crossbow, Sorcerer's kit, 23 GP
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Special Abilities
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Combat Casting: +4 to Concentration checks to cast while on the defensive.
Eschew Materials: Cast spells without materials, if component cost is 1 gp or less.
Seaborn: Your powers rise like the tides.
Associated Bloodline: Aquatic**.
Bloodline Arcana: When you are in a body of water large enough to float in, your effective caster level is
increased by 1.
Bloodline Powers: You prefer to
Two-World Magic (Create Water, Sorcerer [Wildblooded]) Add a 0-level spell from another class to
your spell list.
Water Blast: (7/day) (DC 14) (Sp) As a standard action, you can fire a bolt of water at a foe within 30
feet as a ranged touch attack. The foe is knocked prone, and at your option may be pushed 5 feet
directly away from you. A reflex save (DC 10 +1/2 your sorcerer level + your Charisma modifier)

“The Sea knows my boy. She is older than time, patient, relentless. She knows. Let her in.”

They were last words of his father, spoken in the bottom of a small wooden boat while it bobbed in the early morning light, as the man clutched one hand against his chest and the other around the young man’s neck.

The sea knows.

It was said that Kismet came from the sea, was born of the sea itself. At least, that’s what his father had always told him. A small babe, nestled in the bottom of barrel, flotsam bobbing up and down until it bumped into the small fishing boat of an old man. The old man who believed so strongly in the sea, in her wisdom, scooped up the child and carried it home naming the babe after the cove in which he was discovered. Desinty's Cove. Kismet Cove.
He was an odd boy, made odder still by the strange name he had been given, and by the quiet teaching of an elderly man raising the orphaned child alone. He was prone to staring longingly at the sea, his eyes growing distant and unfocused while the other boys scabbled around the docks and played in the sand. The boys included him in their games, but were cruel, as boys often are, calling him names and poking fun at his odd manner, his odd parentage, and his stark white hair and pale skin that never seemed to tan and darken like the other boys. Yet despite their cruelty the boys were...drawn to Kismet, like the pull of a whirlpool.

As the boys grew however, the innocent cruelty changed, and so did Kismet. While they began to take on the appearance of young men, growing longer and stronger in limb, their voices deepening and their hearts yearning for adventure, another change occurred for Founder.
One day that young men were playing at pirates, homemade wooden swords crashed together, and the girls giggled as the boys pretended to capture them and steal them away. Kismet sat the side, gazing at the sea, as he was prone to doing, his sword by his side. He had been given the role of a guard, to be defeated by the pirates as they pillaged, but had forgotten the game for a moment, when a sharp pain erupted in his head and loud crack sounded in his ears as one of the boys brought his toy sword down over Kismet's head. Kismet sprawled into face first in the sand, dazed and confused. He could hear laughter through the ringing in his ears as he spun around throwing out his hands instinctively in a panicked defense.
What transpired next would change the course of Kismet's life, and yet, in some respects he felt as though his life had always been heading in this direction, as though his whole existence had been spiraling towards this single moment.
As he threw out his hands the water from the sea slowly began lapping closer and closer the boys as if drawn in by some invisible force. Within seconds their feet were covered in water and the sand began to rush away from around their boots. The boy who had struck Kismet, his wooden sword still in hand suddenly cried out as his feet came out from beneath him. He gurgled in desperation as the water suddenly retreated pulling the boy back out into the ocean, deeper and farther with each passing moment.
The whole incident was quickly over. After a moment of disbelief and panic the other boys quickly reacting, running headlong down the beach and diving into the water to pull their friend up and back to the bar of sand. He boy with the wooden sword gasped for air and trembled violently as they carried him back to the village. The boys shot worried glances back at Kismet, who continued to sit on the beach in stupor.
That was the last day he played with the boys.
The whispers began soon after. It wasn’t long until a mob had formed outside of the small hut Kismet shared with his father. The boy had to go, they said, he was dangerous.

And so they went. From town to town they moved, his father finding work in the fishing boats, or mending rope, or applying tar. And Kismet's powers grew. The odd occurrences continued, and continued to be out of his control. “The sea is fickle my boy,” his father would say, “but she holds great power deep below the surface. Let her draw you in.”
So Kismet did, and with each passing year he found his ability to direct and control the power within him grew. Some appreciated his powers, his ability to foretell the coming of a storm, or to help those that had been harmed, but eventually superstition won out and the pair were forced to move on.

They carried on for a few years in this manner. His father, already an old man when he had discovered Kismet, grew older and less able to work. Despite his waning health each year his father urged him to “let her in, boy, the Sea, she’s part of you,” and Kismet continued to argue that he must stay. Must care for the man.

Until last week. Perched in the boat, ready to throw out their nets, his father had slumped to the side, grasped his heart and beckoned his son to his side.

“The Sea knows my boy. She is older than time, patient, relentless. She knows. Let her in.” The man gasped a few ragged breaths and looked outwards to the horizon. “Out there is your destiny. She’ll carry you to it.”

And then he died.

Kismet had wandered thereafter. Moving from town to town, port to port, waiting, watching. Then one fateful night as he walked to the beach to gaze at the ocean, to seek his destiny, it came upon him again with a blow to the back of the head.