Yaniel

Qytheerah Reflects-the-Stars's page

130 posts. Alias of Limnen_euron.


Full Name

Qytheerah Reflects-the-Stars

Race

Aasimar (Angel-Blooded)

Classes/Levels

Oracle 2 (Battle) | HP 20/20 {effects: 1 pt. of DEX dmg} | AC 15 (Tch 11 FF 14) | CMD 15 | F +1, R +1, W +1 | Init +2 | Perc +3, darkvision

Gender

Female

Age

19

Deity

Falayna, the more martially-inclined Empyreal Lords, Iomedae

About Qytheerah Reflects-the-Stars

Qytheerah Reflects-the-Stars

Aasimar (angel-blooded) oracle 2
LG M outsider (native) / humanoid (human)
Init +2; Senses darkvision 60 ft.; Perception +3

==DEFENSE==
AC 15, touch 11, flat-footed 14 (+4 armor, +1 Dex)
hp 20 (2d8+5)
Fort +1, Ref +1, Will +1
Resist acid 5, cold 5, electricity 5

==OFFENSE==
Speed 20 ft.
Melee falchion +4 (2d4+4/18-20)
Special Attacks +1 bonus on attack rolls and +2 bonus on rolls to confirm critical hits against creatures with the giant subtype
Oracle Spells Known (CL 1st; concentration +4)
    1st (5/day)—cure light wounds, divine favor, protection from evil, enlarge person
    0 (at will)—detect magic, guidance, mending, resistance, stabilize
Mystery battle

==STATISTICS==
Str 16, Dex 12, Con 12, Int 14, Wis 7, Cha 16
Base Atk +1; CMB +5; CMD 15
Feats Toughness
Skills 6 ranks/level (+4 oracle, +2 Int); ACP -2
    Craft (armor) +6 (+1 rank, +2 Int, +3 class)
    Craft (weapons) +6 (+1 rank, +2 Int, +3 class)
    Diplomacy +10 (+2 rank, +3 Cha, +3 class, +2 racial)
    Heal +0 (-2 Wis, +2 racial)
    Intimidate +9 (+2 rank, +3 Cha, +3 class, +1 trait)
    Knowledge (planes) +9 (+2 rank, +2 Int, +3 class, +2 racial)
    Perception +3 (+2 rank, -2 Wis, +3 class)
    Spellcraft +7 (+2 rank, +2 Int, +3 class)
Languages Common, Celestial, Shoanti, Varisian
Traits Bred for War, Orphaned by Giants, Tactician
Drawbacks Family Ties
SQ favored class (+1/2 to oracle's level for the purpose of determining the effects of the Maneuver Mastery revelation), oracle’s curse (lame), revelations (skill at arms)
Gear light load (51 lbs. / 76-153-230 lbs.)
    lamellar (leather) 25 lbs.
    falchion 8 lbs.
    Qyth's Resolve 1 lb.
    Rodrik's true hopeknife 1 lb.
    Rodrik's unfinished hopeknife 1 lb.
    backpack 2 lbs.
    bedroll 5 lbs.
    holy symbol of Falayna (wooden) 1 lb.
    mess kit 1 lb.
    soap 1 lb.
    waterskin 4 lbs.
    whetstone 1 lb.
    1 sp, 8 cp

Background:
The rain was falling, monotonous and incessant, as the Varisian caravan was packing up.

Their business done, they were up for a long, muddy descent along the slopes of Bloodmarch Hill, leaving Trunau’s relative safety behind only to venture once again into the lawless, orc-infested expanses of the Hold of Belkzen. Inside one of the wagons, barefoot and rags-clad, a girl was sitting all by herself, her sorrow-filled eyes telltale of a great loss suffered in spite of her very young age.

”We can’t afford another mouth to feed, Halgra. You of all people should know that.” The voice was coming from outside, wrapped in a thick Varisian accent.

”I know, but what could I do? She had nothing left for her in the Moon-Clan Lands – no village, no family, nothing. Those marauding Giants had left nothing but scorched earth in their wake.” She now recognized the voice as belonging to Malvolio Dravashti, the caravan’s leader. Not the noblest of men by any stretch, and yet, as she had come to discover, neither the least generous of them – at least as Varisian traders go. Still, there were limits to that generosity, and the exchange she was overhearing was proving it abundantly. ”Look, it’s not like I took her with us. She was the one who started following us, dragging herself along with that malformed little leg of hers. She’s a cripple, by Desna’s wings!”

As harsh as the statement was, it didn’t sting that much. She had long learned to cope with her lame limb, even see it as a blessing. Moreover, she had more painful wounds to tend to. ”No, I too thought she broke it in the attack. Apparently, it has always been like this – no amount of healing, mundane or otherwise, would fix it. The Shoanti I spoke with called it some sort of… divine sign… or mark. Her mother seemed to suffer from the same ailment – so they told me. They claimed she held mystic powers, communed with the Empyreal Lords themselves, if you’d believe it; supposedly picked up their worship as part of some sort of mystery cult, when she was making a name for herself as a gladiator, back in Magnimar. Then came back to the Lyrune-Quah, had a daughter, and became the tribe shaman. Not that it did her much good, heh. Her entrails were splattered everywhere when we passed near what remained of her hut. Grisly scene, that one”.

It had been a grisly scene indeed, and its recounting did little to quench the girl’s misery. Tears started rolling down her cheeks as Malvolio kept on doing what he did best – bargaining. ”I know you’re already hard-pressed to make do with what little resources you have. But Trunau is the only thing passing for civilization this side of the Mindspin mountains for leagues and leagues. Let’s put it this way: I was told she inherited her mother’s powers. Give the girl another, say, ten years, and you’ll have another warrior on your side. And not any warrior: one capable of wielding considerable mystic powers, healing your countrymen, blasting your foes, you name it! Come on: hasn’t old Mal always offered you but the best of deals? So, what do you say?”

There was a little more animated chatting, then Mal’s face peeked in, a jovial smile beneath his well-groomed mustache. ”Come here, little Qyth. I think we’ve just found you a new home… and I’m pretty sure you’ll like it.”

**********************************************************************

Trunau was fast asleep. Breaking the stillness of the night, the occasional sentinel patrolling the walls and a lone shadow standing out against the full moon, repeatedly punching the same post, celestial mantras muttered in the silence engulfing the Commons.

Sicut superius ita et inferius ac ulterius per ferrum et ignem mundabitur turpitudo mundi.

THUMP

Homo se ipsum noscit; ita et tu nosces multiversum et deos eius.

THUMP

Her knuckles were already bloody, and her arms aching with the day’s labor. The forge, she soon discovered, was a cruel and demanding mistress, one who hardly suffered her lovers to pick up other toils beside herself. Still, it could not be helped: if she, an outsider, was to be awarded her hopeknife, she had to prove she could take up arms in Trunau’s defense if the orcs attacked. Plus, Falayna wouldn’t expect anything less from her – just like her mother, she pledged she would become a great warrior. Someday.

THUMP

Mentally, she was reviewing the day’s training. Parry, thrust, dodge, and attack. Only, as it often happened, she had put too much momentum behind it, and hit her young sparring partner right on the forehead, which had rapidly begun to swell. She had wasted no time apologizing profusely and channeling her healing powers into him, when she had heard Jagrin Grath’s severe voice calling her name.

Qytheerah. Come here.

A shiver had run down her spine. I’m sorry Patrol Leader. I… I couldn’t calibrate my strength. I promise it won’t happen again.

Attack me.

She had known better than to defy his order. Parry, thrust, dodge, and attack. This time, though, it had been her feeling a sharp pain in her side, then rolling to the ground clutching her ribs.

You’re too eager in your attacks. Too furious; and that leaves you exposed. If it had been an orc in my place, you’d now be dead. Remember that – unless you think you’ll be fighting young recruits all your life.

Yes Sir! I mean, no Sir! I mean… I’ll remember that.

THUMP

Her pride had hurt more than her body, but she had long learned how to turn pain into anger, anger into focus. Turning focus into wisdom, however, was something that still eluded her. Her thoughts were straying again, this time she found herself thinking about Rodrik Grath, Jagrin’s son. She had departed on a patrol earlier that evening, and he was yet to return. She had developed a crush on the boy, but she had never truly acted on it. I wouldn’t even have a hopeknife to exchange. Plus, he’s a Patrol Captain. He can have every girl she likes – why should he pick a cripple? She had once expressed those feelings to Sara; all she’d got in response was a playful smack on the back on her head.

I won’t have any of that nonsense from you, Qyth! If little old me had managed to find her love, tusks and all, there’s no reason one like you can’t either! Now, less pining and more hammering, yes?

She had nodded, partially in agreement, partially to conceal how much, Sara being Sara, that slap had actually hurt.

THUMP

She heard the main gate clanking and squeaking in the distance, the sound of galloping not far behind. The patrol had returned safely. She looked at her fingers, and noticed how the rings she was wearing had dug deep in her skin. Her devotion to the Many-Ringed Goddess done, she dragged herself towards her usual spot on the longhouse's floor, and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep.

**********************************************************************

Notable people in Trunau she shares a bond with (as a general note, those would be the ones she would consider as 'family' as far as her 'Family ties' drawback is concerned – though arguably this definition could apply to the whole community of Trunau as well).

Sara Morninghawk | Whether it is their partial Shoanti heritage, or the sense of camaraderie stemming from the intimidating build they both share, Qytheera and the half-orc smith have struck an unlikely friendship or, at the very least, a healthy work relationship. Unwilling to be a burden to her adoptive community, Qytheerah has apprenticed to the Clamor very early during her stay in Trunau, and can often be found assisting councilor Morninghawk in her work, learning the craft while sometimes using her magic to effortlessly repair a tool or healing the occasional burn.

Jagrin Grath | When she's not toiling at the forge, Qytheerah is most likely to be found in the Commons, training under Jagrin Grath's watchful eye. Eager to contribute to the town's defense should the need arise, she longs for the day she's awarded a hopeknife, a sign of her finally being considered a true citizen of Trunau.

Katrezra | Perhaps the most peculiar of her acquaintances is the disfigured seer inhabiting the town's Sanctuary. Still, Qytheerah often stops by to talk about the old half-orc's visions and discuss about matters of faith. In time, she has grown deeply respectful of his faith in the Inheritor, and has slowly learned to embrace some aspects of the Iomedaean cult herself.

Personality:
Overeager | Be it person or monster, her favorite approach in solving a problem is to befriend it, or barring that intimidate it into submission. As soon as those two fail, she won't hesitate to rush straight into battle, trusting her magic and her martial prowess to overcome her foe. How long before the world disabuses her of her overconfidence?

The Best of Friends, the Worst of Enemies | Loyal, steadfast and willing to give her life for those she calls friends, she can nonetheless be indomitable in her rage towards those who have betrayed her trust or threatened one of her allies and companions. Once provoked, she can be quick to anger and slow to forgiveness.

Devout | Her sense of piety stems from her mother's side, a tribe shaman who developed an unusual syncretic belief which coupled the totemic, pantheistic faith of the Shoanti with the worship of the Empyreal Lords common among Magnimar's mystery cults. Ever the conservative people, her tribe proved nonetheless accepting of her beliefs once it was clear the energies and powers she harnessed where the same as the clan's more traditional shamans' – a fact that allowed her to theorize that the ancestral spirits that in Shoanti belief pervaded the whole creation and the raw energies of the cosmos clerics and deities claim to tap into were indeed one and the same thing. In particular, due in no little amount to her past as a gladiator in Magnimar, she held Falayana, Empyreal Lady of martial valor and femininity, closest to her heart; a devotion she had passed on to her daughter. Qytheerah's chats with Katrezra have also gradually led her to pay homage to Iomedae, who in her mind embodies the qualities Falayna champions more purely than every other deity in existence.

Friendly | Having experienced tragedy early in life, Qytheraah now is now eager to enjoy the comfort of company where she can find it. Feeling deeply indebted towards Trunau's people for having given her a new home after the old one was destroyed, she strives to show her gratitude with every chance she's got, from sharing a joke to eagerly performing whatever task she's assigned.

Appearance:
A tomboyish young woman standing at a remarkable 6 foot and 1 inch, Qytheerah would cut a remarkable figure if she didn't do her best to downplay her own features. Her clothing is usually practical and tailored to the situation she finds herself into – a leather apron when she's working the forge, or light armor as she's training in the Commons. The multicolored rings adorning her fingers appear to be the only nod to some kind of vanity.

Underneath, she usually wears a blouse that leaves her arms bare, with the sleek yet well-defined muscles chiseling her limbs telltale of all the time spent taming steel under the blows of her hammer. A pair of leather pants covers her legs, though it fails to fully conceal the wrongness in her left one; if one were to see it naked (something she has scrupulously struggled to avoid), he would probably witness ligaments anchoring where they shouldn't, twisted in the womb by whatever energies granted her magic. Perpetually covered in soot, her face would otherwise stand out as pleasant, or even pretty: high cheekbones, slender jaw and full lips displaying the slightest hint of a pout. Under a cascade of unruly brown bangs, eyes the color of autumn leaves gleam with intelligence and determination.

Ht: 6'1"
Wt: 163 lbs.
Eyes: Brown, with golden flecks
Hair: Brownish, usually kept short for practical reasons (though not clean-shaved as Shoanti tradition would dictate)
Skin: Pale, susceptible to blush when short of breath or angered
Age: 19 years

Scenario 1:
Brimleydower wrote:

You awaken to a blood-curdling scream that ends as abruptly as it began. You turn to the sound, as much out of reflex as curiosity, but find yourself in strange surroundings. Enclosed in a crude prison, a cage shaped out of the bones of some huge creature, the bars obstruct much of your vision. Further within the cavern, looming above a fiery cauldron and clutching the crushed, spasming remains of what might have once been an adventurer, is a malformed brute twice as tall as any man. Tattered bits of fur and cloth conceal much of its pudgy bulk, but beneath its garb you glean a blubbery, gray hide with a hideous array of pustules.

The giant deposits the broken, bleeding corpse it grips into the cauldron, where it lands with a splash in some unidentifiable concoction. Judging from the stench it kicks up, you would likely rather not know. One bulging eye seizes you as it begins stirring its feast, drool running unmitigated down the rolls of its chin and neck.

"Oi there, another one awake! Another awake. Maybe this one tells Old Brulk'tha a pretty tale. Maybe this one doesn't fill her belly tonight! Hurhurhur!" Her voice is wheezy but booming, and her jowls jiggle with each word.

**********************************************************************

Consciousness returns abruptly, and with it, a plethora of long-buried emotions suddenly surging in response to the grim scenario.

Shock. A little girl screaming for her parents, only to witness their mangled corpses being tossed away like scraps.

Despair. The crushing realization of one’s insignificance, of what it feels to live in perpetual fear of something infinitely your greater.

Pain. For the things she lost, for the life she just failed to save.

But mostly, overshadowing and sweeping away all the others, there is rage. A scorching sensation that makes her gaze icily rest on the grotesque giantess, her arms fruitlessly grasp and yank the bars of her boney cage.

No. Not like this. I swear it, Falayna, I won’t meet my end like this.

As swift as its onrush was, the turmoil of her feelings dissipates in a moment of sudden clarity. Her muscles relax, her eyes close and open. When she speaks, her voice is calm.

”So you want a story? I’ll tell you one. I’m sure you’ll like it. There was this young girl, sweet, naïve. Her parents told her not to wander too far, but she wouldn’t listen. Instead, she liked to explore, to live that perpetual sense of wonder only youth is able to bring. Until one day, she found herself walking under a vast, terrible shadow.”

Strange, she thought, I’m in an open field, and there are no clouds in sight. Such were her musings, as she lifted her gaze to check on the unusual occurrence.”

”She screamed, then run and run and run. Only once she saw her camp in the distance she drew a sigh of relief. There were her parents there; mighty warriors, they would slay her pursuers for sure. They yelled at her to take refuge in the hut, and so she did as they scrambled to get their weapons. Little did she know or suspect, she was allowed to flee, her fear an appetizer even as she was leading them to a far juicier prey. The clang of steel, the sound of battle, then silence. Finally, a sound of torn fabric and broken wood, and there was nothing between her and the stars above. There she stood, paralyzed as she watched three pairs of porcine eyes staring down at her, filled with malice.”

”Do you know what it means? Being frozen still as every muscle in your body is screaming run? No, of course you don’t. But I can fix this.”

Casting Hold Person, using my highest spell slot available to maximize the DC; if successful…

”To feel small? Powerless?”

Bull’s Strength followed by Enlarge Person, attempting an automatic Strength check to break the bars should the “prison” be too small to accommodate a large creature. If unsuccessful/inapplicable, casting Shatter.

”It is a strange story indeed. It begins with loss and suffering.”

Coup de grâce or, if Hold Person already expired, movement action + attack (insert roll here).

”It ends with your death.”

Scenario 2:
Brimleydower wrote:

The strange fellow smiles broadly as he takes a seat across the table from you. The bustle of the tavern thrums all around as excited conversations crescendo and wain, only to be replaced by another. His flaxen hair, pale skin, and burly frame mark him as unmistakeably Ulfen. Judging by his garb—and lack of any noteworthy weaponry—he is likely a merchant of some stripe. Without being prompted, he slides one of the two horns of mead he carries across the table to you, raising his own in a toast.

After a modest mouthful of his own drink, he speaks, "Rumors flit about this place like a bee to the flowers. But all seem to agree that your... skills are worth every copper and more. Tell me then, friend: what brings you here and how can Ingmund convince you to allow him the honor of employing one such as yourself?"

***************************************************************** *****

Qytheerah raises her horn in response, gulping down a substantial amount of the sweet beverage before laying it to rest on the table. She sports a gracious smile on her face, a mixture of puzzlement and amusement.

"So this is what they say? Nice to hear – it looks like all those rounds I've been buying are starting to pay off eventually" she says laughing heartily.

"But I see you are a man who likes to talk business, so I won't waste any more of your time with jests." She takes another sip. "I'm not for hire. I'm here looking for goods to bring back to Trunau: textiles, ore – mostly ore. Lastwall's hoarding every scrap of iron it can get its hands on, and as for traders from Urgir... well let's say orc poetry is probably more refined than orc metallurgy – and leave it at that. Which in turn forces us to look further and further for supplies."

One last gulp, and the horn is dry. "Look, if your travels bring you through the Hold of Belkzen, I'll be happy to share a part of the road with you. I'm leaving tomorrow at sunrise. No charge – it'll be good to have some company in the wilderness. And don't worry about Goblins. We have other stuff to keep us company there."

Her smile turns into a grin. "Big stuff."

Scenario 3:
Brimleydower wrote:

Behind you, the tomb's double-doors slam shut. Try as you might, you are unable to pry them open by any means. A disembodied voice laughs unnervingly as soft blue flames begin to dance to life along myriad braziers lining either side of the room.

"Arlanghar the Brave and Bold; the Wise and Learned; the Sly and Cunning. All truth and lies. Dead and alive, a tomb and a mansion." Another peal of laughter emerges before the voice trails off into silence.

At the center of the square room stands a three-armed gargoyle, each hand grasping a different weapon: a sword, a staff, and a bow. The far wall is dominated by a mural depicting what appears to be three versions of the same hero, each wielding weapons that correspond to those held by the statue.

******************************************************************** **

"It would be nice to stumble upon an ancient undead tyrant who isn't fond of riddles one of these days" Qytheerah says to her companions.

"You know, for a change" she shrugs. If there is a line separating courage from bravado, it's difficult to tell which side she's currently on.

Her thoughts, however, are another matter entirely. A tomb and a mansion – that's what happens when you don't make sure that whatever it is you're burying, is going to stay dead. The murals are more interesting though. A warrior, a connoisseur of the arcane, a master of the shadows. Three people sharing the same identity? A single man living through multiple lives? Split personalities inhabiting the same body? Questions, questions...

Or it might just be utter nonsense to mess with our heads. Well, it's working.

For the time being, she opts to keep such considerations for herself. "Well, let's see if we can find ourselves another exit, shall we? Should the worst come to pass, I know a sure cure against excessive enigmatic loquaciousness. Works on both the living and the undead" she declares with a grin, unsheathing her greatsword and muttering some arcane words.

Casting Protection from Evil and then Detect Magic on the Gargoyle, then if nothing else transpires spending 2 minutes examining the area (take 20 on a Perception check)