Armor: Studded Leather | +3 ac | 20% SF | 15 max dex | -1 Armor check | 20lbs | 20gp
Fortitude: 0
Reflex: 8
Will: 1
Racial Features:
Adaptability: Skill Focus: perception
Blended View: 60ft Darkvision + low-light vision due to Drow heritage
Elven Immunities: Immune to sleep, +2 vs enchantment spells
Elven blood: Count as elf and human for effects related to race
Keen senses: +2 perception
Drow Heritage: Counts as Drow for any effect related to race, choose bonus languages from Drow list
He was born beneath the cobbled underworks of Restov, where the air smelled of soot and fear, and the light of the sun was a rumor told by those who could afford windows. His mother, a sellsword, died before he learned her name; his father, if the whispers were true, was something worse—a drow who vanished back into shadow the night Maeric was born. The child’s dusky skin and silver-flecked eyes marked him from the start, a thing to be shunned, pitied, or used.
Maeric learned quickly that survival belonged to the clever and unseen. He ran with fences and footpads who didn’t care what color his blood was, only how steady his hands were. By his teens, he was a skilled lockbreaker and trap-runner, slipping through cellars and noble vaults for coin or favor. The work suited him—quiet, clean, and anonymous. But one night, a job turned to slaughter when a rival gang ambushed the crew. Maeric escaped, the only survivor, and his name went up on the city’s wanted lists before dawn.
He fled the alleys for the wild roads, joining a band of outlaws preying on merchant caravans that skirted Restov’s borders. For a time, he wore the life of a brigand easily—hood drawn, blades ready, mask hiding both face and guilt. Yet even among killers and cutthroats, Maeric felt a pull toward something he couldn’t quite name. He found himself watching the sunrise after every raid, eyes on the horizon, wondering why the sight stung so much. Some part of him—small but persistent—still sought the light, though he no longer believed he deserved it.
When word came that the Swordlords were offering pardons and gold to those bold enough to tame the Stolen Lands, Maeric saw his chance. The wilderness would remember no crimes, demand no titles, and care nothing for his blood. He packed his tools, his blades, and the battered brass-and-glass mask that had become his face, and left Restov behind.
Now he calls himself Maeric Velthar, a name unburdened by bounty or blood. Whatever waits in the untamed south, he’ll meet it on his own terms—not as a lord, not as a hero, but as a man trying to prove that even those born in darkness can still walk toward the light.
Description:
Maeric Velthar moves with quiet precision, his frame cloaked in layered leathers and travel-worn cloth designed to hide more than they reveal. A hood shadows his face, and a burnished brass-and-glass mask conceals it entirely, its surface darkened and scratched by long use. Beneath the disguise lie the telltale marks of drow heritage—dusky grey skin, silver-flecked eyes, and pale hair kept cropped and dusted to mute its color. Every thread and buckle seems chosen with care, the work of a man who understands how a careful hand and a hidden face can mean the difference between survival and discovery.
