Giseil Voslil

Mithrandir Sylvenel's page

6 posts. Alias of Arcee667.

Full Name

Mithrandir Sylvenel


Wood Elf Druid 1 HP 9/9 | AC 14 (16 with shield) |Init. +3 | Speed 35ft | Passive Perception 15


Druid 1








Chaotic Good




Common, Elven, Druidic

Strength 8
Dexterity 16
Constitution 12
Intelligence 14
Wisdom 16
Charisma 8

About Mithrandir Sylvenel

Mithrandir Sylvenel
Age: 512
Size: Medium (5 feet, 90 lb)
Languages: Common, Elven, Druidic
Race: Wood Elf
Racial Features:
-Fey Ancestry. You have advantage on saving throws against being charmed, and magic can't put you to sleep.
-Trance. Elves do not sleep. Instead they meditate deeply, remaining semi-conscious, for 4 hours a day. The Common word for this meditation is "trance." While meditating, you dream after a fashion; such dreams are actually mental exercises that have become reflexive after years of practice. After resting in this way, you gain the same benefit a human would from 8 hours of sleep.
-Mask of the Wild. You can attempt to hide even when you are only lightly obscured by foliage, heavy rain, falling snow, mist, and other natural phenomena.

Background: Hermit
Background Features: Life of Seclusion, Discovery
-Personality Traits: I'm oblivious to etiquette and social expectations; I often get lost in my own thoughts and contemplation, becoming oblivious to my surroundings.
-Ideal: Greater Good. My gifts are meant to be shared with all, not used for my own benefit. (Good)
-Bond: I entered seclusion to hide from the ones who might still be hunting me. I must someday confront them.
-Flaw: I'd risk too much to uncover a lost bit of knowledge.

Class: Druid 1

Str 8 (-1) / Dex 16 (+3) / Con 12 (+1) / Int 14 (+2) / Wis 16 (+3) / Cha 8 (-1)

HP: 9
AC: 14 (leather armor)
Speed: 35 feet

Equipment: quarterstaff, wooden shield, leather armor, explorer's pack, druidic focus, scroll case, winter blanket, common clothes, herbalism kit, sling, 4 gp 9 sp

Armor: Light armor, medium armor, shields (druids will not wear armor or use shields made of metal)

Weapons: Clubs, daggers, darts, javelins, maces, quarterstaffs, scimitars, sickles, slings, spears (from class); longsword, shortsword, shortbow, and longbow (from subrace)

Tools: Herbalism kit

Saving Throws: Intelligence (+4), Wisdom
Skills: Perception (+5), Nature (+4), Survival (+5), Medicine (+5), Religion (+4)

Passive Perception: 15

Cantrips Known: shillelagh, poison spray
Spells Prepared: absorb elements, cure wounds, detect poison and disease, purify food and drink


Centuries ago, Mithrandir Sylvenel was a respected member of a Silverstand wood elf clan. He was a skilled ranger, always at the head of any excursion into the Dreadwood. Some considered him brave for his willingness to venture into the monster-infested forest; others saw him as foolish. Over time, his kinsmen became disturbed by his growing obsession with the cursed place, the way it seemed to call to him and his eagerness to answer. When others would not follow him, he sometimes ventured in alone, and upon each return he seemed stranger, more distant, sometimes caught muttering intensely to himself.
One day, he delved deeper than he ever had before. The wind whistling from the mouth of a black, forbidding cave whispered to him, calling him down, down. His hunting party tried to reason with him, and finally abandoned him to his deranged whim. When he returned from the cave, a miasma of death seemed to cling to him. He seemed sickly, prone to violent coughing fits, but more than that, something behind his eyes was… wrong. His clansmen knew he had somehow become cursed or possessed, and they banished him to die in the Dreadwood, swearing to kill him if he ever attempted to leave.

Nobody expected Mithrandir to survive long on his own, especially in his weakened state. But he knew the Dreadwood better than anyone, and beyond that, he was not truly alone. Something had taken root inside him: the spores of a black fungus he had found in the heart of that cave. They grew inside him, granting him visions, whispering ancient secrets of the forest - dark, primal magic that predated even the elves.

He haunted those woods for centuries, rarely seen, becoming a legend used to scare children with. Despite it all, he never became bitter. He still cared for his clansmen, and even for the people beyond. The fungus’s visions showed him the strands beneath the surface, connecting all living things. He believed the knowledge it had to give him would someday serve a greater good. He did not yet understand it, but he knew he had accepted a harsh but vital destiny in the cave that day.

Months ago, he began receiving visions of a different kind: dreams haunted by an elven ghost, begging him to tear down the standing stones outside Saltmarsh. Dark magic had drawn bountiful fishing to the town, but in time would bring ruin. Forsaking the terms of his exile, Mithandril ventured out of the Dreadwood.

However, he found he did not have the strength to tear down the standing stones himself. He would need help. However, the filthy, diseased elf did not find himself or his ravings of doom particularly welcome anywhere in Saltmarsh. But despite being rejected and even beaten, he has remained persistent, and the townsfolk have begun to regard him as a familiar nuisance.