Kitster's page

While not ethnically a Varisian, you have been raised among Varisians and they consider you one of their own. Furthermore, you managed to get in good with a group of Sczarni and consider them your new family. After being run out of the last place your Sczarni family camped, you tracked down a friend of the family in Sandpoint—a ruthless thug named Jubrayl Vhiski at the Fatman’s Feedbag. During your time with the Sczarni, you learned a few tricks of the trade. You gain a +1 trait bonus on Knowledge (local) checks and Knowledge (local) is always a class skill for you. In addition, you begin play able to speak and read Varisian.

You were bullied often as a child, but never quite developed an offensive response. Instead, you became adept at anticipating sudden attacks and reacting to danger quickly. Benefit: You gain a +2 trait bonus on initiative checks.

You have a genial personality and make it a point to befriend and help people wherever you go. In your travels, you stop to aid others, tell interesting stories, and often buy rounds of drinks for patrons at the local taverns. You bring good cheer to those you encounter, and for this reason, you often find yourself attending important events or fruitful gatherings, and have even become an honorary member of many families. People find you trustworthy, and they are willing to share information with you. Benefit(s): You gain a +2 trait bonus on Diplomacy checks to gather information, and can do so in half the normal time. In addition, Diplomacy and Knowledge (local) are always class skills for you.

Chain Shirt 100gp, 4 Throwing Axes (32gp), Dagger 2gp, Backpack 2gp, Bedroll 1sp, Hammock 1sp, Explorer's outfit 10gp, 29gp remain.

Thin and lean of frame, with long silvery grey hair. Her fur is a shade darker grey than her hair it has a number of black spots, though a black streak runs along her spine and her tail bears black rings. She has bright happy amber eyes. She often can be seen with a wide grin and a generally happy demeanor even when the situation may call for a different mood. Her clothing has the unmistakable look of a native Varisian. Slung at easy to reach spots several throwing axes are visible. There is a spot on her bicep that the fur has been shaved or removed showing a stylized Desnan butterfly typical of the iconograpy of Varisian worshipers.

Terz was born some sad years ago in the Mwangi Expanse, decades beyond his youthful appearance, if you believe his fanciful tale . . .

Looking into the black shine of the broken obsidian stone Terz sees flashes. Glimpses of a life far away. One he barely knows . . .

He lived in the jungle with a small tribe of catfolk. His tribe moved in the forest following game and food ranging throughout the Expanse. He remembers little only subtle glimpses. The laughter of his father and brothers . . . The sweet taste of a fruit he cannot name . . . The rhythmic light rumbling of his mother's breathing as she slept . . . Running among the trees chasing birds, monkeys and friends he cannot name.

A few months before his ninth birthday his tribe was set upon by Naga slavers. The glimpses race faster and move in flashes. The Naga and his people have long been enemies, though in recent centuries they have turned from wicked, ruthless blood feuders to slaving profiteers. They roam the jungles hunting Mwangi humans, catfolk and others that can be sold to plantations, mines and bloodsport. He remembers painful flashes. His father push his mother, "Flee." . . . His father in a clearing giving others time to run for the dark of the jungle . . . He can hear the sound of his father hammer a wooden stake into the ground with the flat of his stone axe. A leather tong tied to his calf. A symbol to the other hunters. "I am staked to the ground, here. Here I make my stand with you against our enemies." . . . The tribe splits. . . Many caught. Terz among them. . . The clearing of his father's last stand . . . Blood. . . He is pushed. . . He strains against the rough handling, reaching for the broken stone of his father's axe head. . . For the leather tong that bound him to the ground. . . The cold bloody stone he holds to his chest clutching. . . Barely held in his small fingers. . . That night rain and thunder, the rain washes away the blood of his father's enemies. . . Thunder hides his screams . . . He wraps the tong around the broken black stone. . . He ties the leather tong around his neck.

He awoke the next morning with those remaining and marched to Bloodcove. Days in the jungle stumbling over the roots, rather than dancing in the branches. Looking down at the mud and not up at the sun. Bloodcove, the word is oxymoronic. Coves are safe harbors, where a ship can weather out a storm. Blood a hard word it describes what is bought and sold the very blood of people, as slaves, as whores, as conscripts, and as gladiators.

In the slave market of Bloodcove he was sold to a Sargavan merchant who kept him as servant. He lived for a few years at a small Sargavan outpost. When he turned 15 he was moved to his owner's shipping fleet. He took to sailing easily and enjoyed it as much as could be expected for a slave. He climbed among the rigging. He ran along the yardarm like the branches of the jungle he left behind. He listened to the tales of the sea in the evening among the sailors. It was not true freedom he knew but it was not the march of the Naga. It was not the Chelish slave market in Bloodcove. It was not the chores and tedium working in the planation home of Sargava.

North of the Eye they ran afoul of a Chelish Privateer. Not that the Sargavan merchant vessel was a war prize but it was there and the privateer was coming in way under budget. They took the ship easily looted its cargo killed most of the crew. Terz was one of the few who survived the attack and was given the name "Lux," as in "lucky cat." Beatings, torture at times, and back breaking work. The Chell captain, Endrain Thege, was a spoiled noble. Blood thirsty and cruel. Thege was the youngest son of a rich duke or some such meaningless name. Sent to sea a disappointment to his father. Rather than rising to the occasion he used it to explore his hate, and cruel perversions. Lux learned fast how to fight for his life as a conscripted sailor. He took to boarding axes similar in shape and style to what he remembered of his father's stone axe. In the mix of things he could throw one or go toe to toe with them. His natural strength and dexterity paid off. It earned him some respect among the men but he was always reminded that he was prisoner, slave and expendable.

Still young an adolescent. It is the next leg of his tail that strains credulity. Flashes of memory. He remembers the groan and strain of the ships timbers against something hard. . . The pitch of the deck rose, slanting up to the fore. . . The lurch rocked many from their hammocks. . . Next came screams. . . Then came singing?

His fellow slave and crew moved in two camps. Those springing to action and those who calmly smiled and walked calmly climbed the stairs to the deck. An old salt looked up addressing no one in particular, "sirens." The terror in his voice drove his face pale. He fell on his own cutlass. Sounds of battle on deck. Terz took to action moving swiftly the song grew louder . . .

Terz awoke in the sand, wet sand. The waves had brought him to the shore a verdant island. It did not appear large from where he was. A large central mountain was its most notable feature. He stood, his head rang. He walked to the shade picked up a coconut that had fallen. Took the black stone of his father's axe and drank. Then he slept.

He awoke to the poke of a dwarf lad prodding him with a stick. The lad was dressed in armor made from turtle shells. Another boy halfling maybe wore the skin of a beaver face showing through the open jaw of the beaver. An elf girl in a long white night shirt. Other children oddly dressed emerged from the tropical forest. They brandished wooden cutlasses, sharpened sticks, clubs, and other weapons some he had never seen. "Get up. Old one." They marched him to a great banyan tree huge beyond belief. A teen half elf flew from the upper boughs of the tree. He was dressed in green. As he flew from the upper branches he crowed like a roster. The other children answered in kind.

Lux was put to the test. Not wanting to hurt the children. He grudgingly climbed trees, stole feathers from large birds, at some point he started having fun. To hear Lux tell it he lived among these children, the lost ones, children saved from the deep to live on the island. Years many ,many years Lux, a truly lucky kitty, lived. They harassed pirate lords, fought against a great mechanical crocodile, swam with merfolk, delved caverns in the island's mountain for lost treasure. Each story more fantastic and spectacular than the last.

His time on the island ended as strangely as it had begun. Flashes of memory an earth quake shook the tree. . . He saw the ocean closer to the tree than ever before. . . He went to find the other lost ones. . . The ocean continued to come closer, THE ISLAND WAS SINKING. Soon the waves were at the base of the tree. His panic was interupted by a beautiful sprite, or some such fey, not uncommon, on the island. She flew to him kissed him and frowned, "Your too old."

Lux awoke in a small coracle. Broken free from the great tree house. In the distant beneath the waves he saw an enormous turtle it never was an island. He spent days in that small boat. Lips cracked, thirst taking him. He was found by a whaling ship out of Port Peril. His story caused a stir. Wild, unbelievable, lies, amazing. Most sailors found his story delusional, some pointing out that a Droon slave galley was sacked by pirates out of Bag Island intent on disrupting the slave trade based on Ramapore Island. Aboard the whaling ship was an old priest of Besmara he insisted that Lux spoke some version of the truth and had been spared by Besmara. The other sailors scoffed, how could the old fool believe. "Me grandfather died aboard a Chellish Man'o War along with all hands, 63 years ago. The captain's name was Thege, he wrote me father tales of his adventures at sea, he was saved by a grey catfolk, who wore a pendant of black stone, he gave the cat the nick name Lux." Mind you this swayed few sailors they just thought the cleric was funnin. His laugh and cryptic manner washed doubt over Lux. He only recalled flashes, glimpses of his memory. "The sun and the sea can strain and cook the mind," they say. Lux held the black stone in his hand . .

The whalers pulled in to Magnimar and Lux had to try her luck.