Red Heat's page

38 posts (1,611 including aliases). No reviews. No lists. No wishlists. 10 aliases.


RSS


2 people marked this as a favorite.

So many gun-toting desperados. So few melee meatshields for them to hide behind. Let's fix that.

Crunch:
Kayley Wayland
Female Human Monk (unchained) 1
26 Years of Age
CN Medium Humanoid [human]
Init +4; Senses Perception +6
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 15, touch 15, flat-footed 10 [+2 Dex, +1 dodge, +2 Wis]
HP 12/12 [1d10 + 2 Con mod]
Fort +4, Ref +4, Will +2
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Weapon: clockwork prosthesis, +6 attack, 1d6+4 damage, bludgeoning
Weapon: sling, +3 attack, 1d4+4 damage, 20/x2 crit, bludgeoning
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 18 (+4), Dex 14 (+2), Con 14 (+2), Int 12 (+1), Wis 14 (+2), Cha 8 (-1)
Base Atk +1; CMB +5; CMD 19

Feats: Weapon Focus (unarmed), Dodge+Mobility, Unarmed Combatant, Stunning Fist, Outslug Style

Traits: Spark of Creation [+1 Craft, 5% off cost]; Mechanical Expertise [+1 Disable Device, class skill]; Reactionary [+2 initiative]
Drawback: Scarred [–5 Disguise, –2 penalty Bluff]

Skills - [5 points per lvl; armor penalties not included]:
Acrobatics +6, Climb +8 [1 FC bonus], Disable Device +7, Perception +6, Sense Motive +6, Stealth +6

Skills - background: Know (engineering) +5, Craft (clockwork) +7

Languages: Common (Taldane), Dwarven
--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Adventuring Gear: dagger; sling; flask of alchemist's fire; potion of Cure Light Wounds; clockwork prosthesis x2
Coin: 1,8 gp
Other: backpack; artisan's tools; rope; sling bullets (10); grappling hook; torch (10); flint & steel; waterskin

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Class: Flurry of Blows
Racial: Bonus Feat; Heart of the Fields

Heart of the Fields - Humans born in rural areas are used to hard labor. They gain a racial bonus equal to half their character level to any one Craft or Profession skill, and once per day they may ignore an effect that would cause them to become fatigued or exhausted. This racial trait replaces skilled.

Background:
Kayley Wayland graduated smoothly from a childhood obsession with airships to a more comfortably adult appreciation for the freedom of flight. So it was no wonder that she, upon finishing her schooling, joined Alkenstar's Aeromantic Fleet as a junior engineer. For Kayley, this was a dream come true. Unfortunately, dreams tend to be every bit as flighty as the airships she now worked on.

The Gran Iskra was the first ship Kayley could be proud of. No, it wasn't her's (goodness, no). Nor did she have any particular claim to fame on it. She hadn't designed as much as a toilet drain on it. But it was the first airship she had worked on in a senior position, and Kayley couldn't help but be proud. One never forgets one's first. Pity then that the Gran Iskra never left the ground. One early morning Alkenstar's shipyard was rocked by a massive explosion. The Gran Iskra's gunpowder storage had mysteriously gone up in smoke, airship included. It was a massive setback for the Aeromantic Fleet, though less so for its primary investor, one Ambrost Mugland; the famed financier had his claim fully insured.

Fortunately, no one was harmed. No one but dutiful Kayley, who had come in to work early.

Kayley's injuries were extensive. She was bedridden for the better part of a year, and when she did finally recover, it wasn't as the woman she used to be: the explosion had claimed both her right arm and left leg. With no family to speak of, this was a dark time for Kayley. The trauma left the woman noticeably more withdrawn, alienating her few friends. Not being able to work her craft, Kayley also quickly found herself without a job. Alkenstar not offering much in the way of welfare programs, unemployment quickly led to homelessness. Crippled, mortified, stripped of her dream job, and with no future prospects, Kayley grew deeply embittered. That she was too proud to admit the incident had fostered something of a phobia against gunpowder and firearms, did not help matters.

The young woman's fortunes saw a sea-change only years later, and this through an actor from the scene of her downfall: in the dingiest depths of Smokeside, she came across an old mentor of hers at the Aeromantic Fleet. While no one else had been harmed in the explosion of the Gran Iskra, this dwarf had suffered the bureaucratic brunt of the fallout. Once chief designer for the project, he had been fired and now wallowed in equal parts drink and misery. Said misery was especially warranted knowing what he did: namely that the Gran Iskra had been nothing but a massive insurance scam designed to enrich chief investor Ambrost Mugland, an audacious claim he was powerless to prove. This tale lit a fire like no other in Kayley, she swearing revenge on the man she now knew to have taken everything from her. Powerless as the drunken dwarf was in spirit, however, just as powerless was she in body. After much prodding from the woman, the two agreed to fix one of these. Kaylay had the will, the dwarf the expertise, and so they repaired the young woman's body the only way two engineers knew how to: via scraps from a stolen clockwork servant.

The new limbs were rough. The surgery necessary to mold them onto her frame was rougher still, to say nothing of the recovery. But Kayley was willing to do anything to be whole again, to get her revenge. It is only after months of impatient training and acclimating herself to her new lopsided self that we find the Kaylay of today: one ready to beat Mugland's face in with an iron fist.

So. If you got through the spoiler box above, thanks for reading. Another thanks to the GM for hosting a game. It's appreciated, no matter if I end up joining it in the end. Now here comes the tough part...

Behold, good people of the recruitment board. Behold this fool about to try to convince a GM to allow his character to start with not one, but two items worth 6,400 gp each. May Gorum have mercy upon my soul.

You want the GM to let you play a lv.1 character with 13,000 gp in equipment? 13,000 gp over every other PC in the game? How high are you, pray tell, and where I can I get some of that dank kush?

Madams, sirs, I am sober as the grave and the items in question are these: clockwork prostheses, one arm and one leg to be exact. For my wish is to play a monk. A cyborg monk.

A novel idea perhaps, but no sensible GM is about to shatter the recommended wealth-by-level table simply for the sake of novelty. Nor should any GM, sensible or otherwise, show such gross favoritism as to shower riches onto only one player among many.

Ah, but it is here I argue that the value of these two items, in the grand scheme of things, is effectively nil. Consider, what advantages do these clockwork limbs offer this character that flesh and blood cannot? Lethal damage via unarmed attacks? Nay, the PC in question is a Monk; she already has that capability. Situational bonuses to CMD? Houserule them away, I don't care for them. Likewise with the extra carrying capacity.

But the enchantment option, you charlatan. The prosthesis can be enchanted much like a weapon, thereby bypassing the traditional Monk's need for the ubiquitous and costly Amulet of Mighty Fists. Not only are you sneakily tricking the goodly GM into allowing you cheaper weapon enchantments down the line, you are freeing up the prized neck slot for an Amulet of Natural Armor, an item the Monk is otherwise locked out from. You are exploiting the system. Shame! Shame!

You do me a great injustice. For you see, while it is true that the Amulet of Mighty Fists is twice as costly as other weapon enchants (4000 vs 2000 gp), it is not out of a dearth of other options that the typical Monk gravitates towards it. The Unchained Monk uses the Amulet of Mighty Fists because this item, contrary to its name, enhances any body part capable of striking the enemy. This is crucial for the Unchained Monk, for this class's so called style strikes specify specific body parts. The Flying Kick style strike, for example, requires that the attack "must be a kick." Note that my proposed character is missing both an arm and a leg. Hence, I will have to enchant both of her prostheses. Two plus two equaling four, I posit that my character's equipment will be just as expensive as the average Monk's, and that I am in no way cheating the system. If anything, factoring in the price of masterworks and special materials, it will be even more expensive...

Aha, you have revealed yourself, villain! Special materials by which to bypass damage reduction, such as cold iron or silver, cannot be applied to the oft mentioned Amulet and is thusly something otherwise unavailable to the unarmed Monk. Your clockwork limbs allow you to employ these tools, giving you a minor but significant advantage. You are undone, min/maxing scum.

There was a time you would have been correct. That time has passed. I bring your attention to the obscure handwraps, a 'weapon' released at the tail end of the edition's life cycle and designed for unarmed characters. These have all the same capabilities as the proposed prostheses, including the option to incorporate special materials. Again, I hold that the prostheses offer me no advantage whatsoever.

If this is true and your PC really is no more powerful than any other lv.1 Monk, despite the extra 13,000 gps, then why do this? Why all this trouble?

Because a Monk with a literal iron fist is effin' rad. I rest my case.


Wish the game all the best. Have a good one, folks.


Violant wrote:
Fair warning this is my first time PbP GMing, but I'm currently GMing two VTT campaigns at the time, so I'm not going in totally blind with respect to GMing.

Good on you for taking up the call, Violant. PbP GMing isn't always the easiest, but it can be darn rewarding. But you mention two virtual tabletop games; are you planning to run this similarly, with battle maps, or will it be entirely theatre of the mind? And if it's the former, what's your chosen medium? Roll20, google slides, some third option?

Hope it's not poor form to ask too much of the GM, but while I have you here, could you elaborate more on what you're hoping for from this game? Why branch out into PbP? For that matter, what drew you to Iron Gods specifically? Being an opportunity to step into their world, I'm always curious about the GM's drive and perspective.

Oh, and I guess this is me dotting.


Like Bjørn said, graveknight or another such template is probably the best way to represent such a fallen PC.

But on the off chance that you don't want to bother with the math that comes with rebuilding a character (not to mention that asking this player for their sheet now is a dead give-away), you might like this monster, the Fallen. It's very specifically a "righteous crusader" brought back to unlife, a good fit with some flavorful abilities. It also sits at CR 8 which seems appropiate given a party of six lv.5 PC. You might even want to give the ex-paladin some minions or apply the advanced template.


Hats (and/or pharaonic death masks) off to you. That’s quite a few disparate events brought together into a cohesive whole. Very useful for anyone looking to bring a greater sense of scale to their game of Mummy’s Mask, and what scale it is; love these sorts of millennia-in-the-making plots.

The one irksome detail of the whole narrative is the timing by which Serethet and Nebta-Khufre find Hakotep’s heart and mask respectively. These two macguffins have lain undisturbed for several thousand years only to suddenly be discovered by two completely unrelated people at completely different locations at practically the same time? Hope I’m not remembering that part wrong, but it’s the sort of cosmic coincidence that sadly reveals the AP as the poorly strung together separate adventures that they really are.

Easy enough to fix, though. Just establish a connection between Serethet and Nebby. I intend to have the latter be a part of the former’s cult that turned traitor upon seeing the opportunity for personal power, perhaps even to challenge the Forgotten Pharaoh, through the mask. At the start of the AP, he's rummaging through the necropolis in a hurry to find the thing before his former comrades in the cult catch up to him. This approach has the added benefit of cutting one dastardly cult out of a story that features far too many of these.


Thanks for your thoughts, gentlemen, well put and well meant as they are. I admit to still be struggling a bit, but the notion of playing up the importance of the temple early on so that the PCs won't hand it over is a good one. Heck, I can see some fun in the PCs and the SH actually getting on fine initially right up until the latter finds out that they drew the temple, whereupon Velriana turns antagonistic. Might deepen the PCs' curiosity about the place.


See the title. I'm gearing up for running Mummy’s Mask and overall I like what I see. Fun dungeon-tombs and all the sand drenched fantasy-Egypt flavour a GM can ask for. It’s good stuff, far better than might be anticipated for one of Paizo’s lesser played APs. Kudos to the authors.

But I’m having trouble with the Scorched Hand, the rival adventuring group in the first part. Specifically the trouble is with the finale, and more specifically how they are the finale. The AP proposes a big ol’ fight to the death as the climax and I cannot for the life of me imagine how this is supposed to go down. The problem I’m having is the discrepancy between how the SH is portrayed vs their actions vs how the AP assumes the PCs will act.

Why oh why would the SH try to kill the PCs in the finale or indeed any part of the game? As portrayed, these are not battle hardened murder-hobos for whom violence is the first solution to any problem. On the contrary, the AP does a wonderful job of humanizing the group! Several pages are dedicated to exploring the members, even specifying that some might very well turn rogue and help the PCs. On the whole the SH consist of just college kids out on their sabbatical year, traveling about to explore their one very niche, very nerdy pet topic. Never mind murder-hobos, the SH are one animal companion short of being the Scooby-Doo gang! Alright, so their Velma is a bit cold, but I still can’t see how to justify them attempting murder. Especially over exploration rights to the already ransacked temple to a god half of them don’t even follow.

And this is where their bizarre motivation intersects with the bizarre motivation the AP expects of the PCs. Why would the PCs fight them? Not only does the SH fighting the PCs not make sense to me, the opposite holds true too. All the SH wants to do is check out this one temple. Take some etchings of hieroglyphs, write down some texts, utterly harmless academic stuff. Why would the PCs oppose this? Even if we assume the PCs to be uncharitable, I can’t imagine my own players (nor most players) denying the SH this if they just got some cold hard dosh for their trouble. Heck, money is even largely what the AP assumes the PCs are here for. The entire finale of the AP is invalidated by a 45 second conversation. “Hey, Mr/Ms PC, could we maybe look through your exploration site? Heck, we’ll forego to right to our own site and hand it to you.”

Would this be against the rules for the venture as set out by the Pharasmins? Yes, but seeing as they have seemingly no way to enforce these rules, I can’t imagine player and non-player characters having a problem with it. What am I missing here? How did you justify the PCs vs SH finale in your own game? And thanks in advance for any insight.


Hot dang. Didn't really expect to be here right now, but very happy for it. Thanks for the pick, man. I'll do my very best not to disappoint.

And on that subject I best get to work on finishing the crunch and that alias. Any objections to me using some of the gold to purchase additional spells for the spellbook?


Phew. This both took longer and turned far more lengthy than intended, but here is Narsus Novox, LE human Wizard 5/Diabolist 1 for your consideration. I know it wasn't required or anything, but I added a vignette as a writing sample/early look at the feel of the character.

Crunch:

Narsus Novox
Male Human Wizard 5 (conjurer)/Diabolist 1
30 Years of Age
LE Medium Humanoid [human]
Init +2; Senses Perception +11
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 13, touch 13, flat-footed 10 (+2 Dex, +1 deflection)
HP 34/34 (6d6 + 1 Con mod x6 + 2 FC)
Fort +3, Ref +4, Will +9
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Weapon: rod, +1 attack, 1d6-1 damage, 20/x2
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 8 (-1), Dex 14 (+2), Con 12 (+1), Int 22 (+6), Wis 12 (+1), Cha 14 (+2)

Base Atk +2; CMB +1; CMD 13

Feats: Empower Spell, Maleficium, Mask of Virtue, Scribe Scroll, Spell Focus (conjuration), Spell Penetration

Traits: Seeker (+1 Perception, class skill), Talented (+1 Perform [dance], class skill)

Skills - (54 points, Skilled included; armor penalties not included):
Bluff +10 [5 points + 3 class + 2 Cha]
Diplomacy +10
Intimidate +10
Perception +11 [6 points + 1 trait + 3 class + 1 Wis]
Know (arcana) +15
Know (dungeoneering) +10 [1 FC point + 3 class + 6 Int]
Know (engineering) +15
Know (nature) +10 [1 FC point + 3 class + 6 Int]
Know (planes) +15
Know (religion) +12 [3 points + 3 class + 6 Int]
Sense Motive +10
Spellcraft +15
Perform (dance) +7 [1 FC point + 1 trait + 3 class + 2 Cha]

Skills - background: Know (history) +15, Know (nobility) +15

Languages: Common (Taldane), Azlanti, Celestial, Draconic, Infernal
--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Adventuring Gear: handy haversack [5 lb]
Coin: 11000 gp
Other:

Magic gear: lesser rod of extend metamagic [5 lb]

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Class: Arcane Bond (bonded object [ring]); Arcane School (teleportation); opposed schools (necromancy & enchantment); Damned; imp companion; Infernal Charisma

Racial: Bonus Feat; Skilled (extra skill point)
--------------------
Spells known
--------------------
9 1st lv spells
4 2nd lv spells
2 3rd lv spells

--------------------
Spells prepared
--------------------
0th: Detect Magic, Light, Prestidigitation, Read Magic
1st (5/day): Mage Armor, Grease
2nd (5/day): Create Pit, Invisibility
3rd (3/day): Fireball, Summon Monster 3

--------------------
Spell-like and supernatural abilities
--------------------
Shift (Su): At 1st level, you can teleport to a nearby space as a swift action as if using dimension door. This movement does not provoke an attack of opportunity. You must be able to see the space that you are moving into. You cannot take other creatures with you when you use this ability (except for familiars). You can move 5 feet for every two wizard levels you possess (minimum 5 feet). You can use this ability a number of times per day equal to 3 + your Intelligence modifier.

Summoner’s Charm (Su): Whenever you cast a conjuration (summoning) spell, increase the duration by a number of rounds equal to 1/2 your wizard level (minimum 1). This increase is not doubled by Extend Spell.

Vignette: the PC sells his soul to the devil:

"I understand you’re apprehensive. You’ve heard the stories - someone like you, someone like me, and a stack of paper that turns out to be a bear trap in disguise. I won’t tell you those stories are all lies, but then no one writes an opera about a deal gone right. Partnerships like these are never as complicated as what you’ve heard from poets and anxious priests. You want what you want, I want what I want, and just so everything’s tidy, we write it all out. What could be more aboveboard than that?"

The man that was not a man smiled over the desk, teeth glinting in the firelight. If it was meant as a reassuring gesture, it didn't work; fangs tend not to inspire confidence.

"But you’re worried, I know. So here’s the contract. Read it over. Be clear, be certain, and when you’re ready, make your mark. Take all the time you need. I’m happy to wait."

On the other side of the table, the young man, looking not-at-all worried, took the pages of the contract and began to read. And the creature was left to wait. And wait. And wait.
This hadn't actually been the devil's intent. Despite its words, despite its immortality, the fiend was not overly fond of waiting. Certainly not for a mortal. That was beneath it. This was not the first pact it had drafted, nor was this the first soul who had heard the practiced spiel earlier, but the victims (no, the beneficiaries) typically either signed within minutes or adjourned for days of nervous scrutinizing. This man... just wordlessly sat there reading. Leaving the devil to wait. For what had now been hours. It was actually a bit awkward.

"Put another log in the fireplace, if you would," the young man suddenly said, his words civil but his tone commanding. "My eyes are not as accustomed to darkness as your own."

He then licked a finger and slowly turned another leaf. At no point did he look up.
Oh. The devil's mouth curled in a small but genuine smile. Oh, was this really happening? Forcing the fiend to wait for him, the silence, the awkwardness, and now ordering him to freshen the fire - was this a power play? Was this insignificant human, in the midst of making a literal deal with a devil, trying to assert dominance? Oh, this was adorable.

"Of course," the devil simpered, fire roaring back to life at a flick of its hand. "You'll have to forgive me. The cost of privilege - It is so easy to forget that not all of us are blessed with Hell's glory. Not yet, that is," it added with a meaningful glance to the contract.

"'Glory' is a funny word to use about the multiverse's answer to a literal hole in the ground," came the swift reply, referring to the stacked layers of the infernal realm from which it got its byname, the Pit.

The devil's smile turned upside down. This really was happening. This little pissant was really trying to get a rise out of his immortal benefactor. And what was even worse was that it was actually working, the fiend had to admit as it felt its temper rising. The sheer impudence of this lowly human to a ineffable immortal beyond his feeble understanding... No, no matter. Just due would come to this fool soon enough, when he signed the papers and forfeited his soul to Hell. Yes, there was no reason to get angry.

"You've misspelled 'soul'."

The flame in the fireplace suddenly roared.

"Excuse me?"

"Here. 'Animakah'. What with Infernal featuring gendered nouns and myself being male, 'animakah' should read 'animarah'. Sloppy."

"... While '-rah' does indeed signify masculinity, the '-kah' suffix is gender neutral. It's usage here is perfectly justified."

"True enough. And yet it indicates that parts of this contract are adapted from a standardized template, rather than being written specifically for myself. Comes off as quite unprofessional. Sloppy."

The fiend didn't know what was more galling. A devil being lectured on the grammar of its own native language by a puny human, or the fact that the young man was correct. Say what you will about Hell, it had an efficient bureaucracy - the average contract for the average soul wasn't written from scratch. No time for that when you're conquering the multiverse. Hell is a busy place. But perhaps, the fiend thought, this wasn't the average soul after all.

"I don't know what game you're playing at, human," the devil said, spitting out the last two syllables as if they were undercooked chicken, "but you should know that the clemency offered to you as a client of Hell can be withdrawn whenever I see fit. If you have no intention of signing that pact, if you are willfully wasting my time, then I will..."

"Will what? Demand restitution in blood? Drag my soul to Hell by force? How very terrifying. Good then that I have every intention of signing."

Which was exactly what he did. The young man unceremoniously dumped the stack onto the desk and then wrote his name over the dotted line with a little flourish: 'Narsus Novox'.

"I've always been a fast reader. Finished going through the thing ten minutes ago."

"... Why..." the bewildered devil started before being interrupted.

"Because I wanted to watch you squirm. There's no greater pleasure than toying with you pompous, pretentious pan-dimensional pencil pushers. Especially when you, as per the stipulations of the contract, now cannot touch me. Killing me for my soul would go against the word, and I rather think the spirit, of the agreement."

It was true. A devil could of course not simply kill a mortal for the very soul it had already bartered to Hell; it was one of the most basic conditions of any infernal contract. But for a mortal to use such a contract to shield itself from a devil's wrath - that was a new one.

"Impetuous half-ape. I will..." the fiend snarled as it realized the true disdain its client held for it.

"You'll do nothing! You cannot do anything because you are as bound to your pathetic little rules as the rest of your wretched kind. Devils... pah! And even if you weren't, you'd wouldn't harm a hair on my head for fear of voiding the pact. Can't have that, can we? Can't return to Hell empty-handed, oh no no no. No, what happens now is that you're going to pull up your stockings and hop off to that literal hellhole you call home. There you'll tell your superior to tell his superior to tell his superior that Narsus Novox has signed his contract. What a catch, eh? Novox the prodigy. Novox the genius. The smartest man in Cheliax. That'll be a real feather in your cap. Perhaps if you just add a little arse-tonguing as your boss reads over the papers, you'll earn a promotion in a few hundred years. But then I understand your eyes are accustomed to dark pits."

The contract went flying as the desk exploded into a thousand splinters. The man that was not a man had risen from his seat and shed his guise. Now the devil appeared as it truly was, a despoiler of worlds. Claws like daggers, wings of midnight, and eyes burning with an infinity of pain. The sight alone was an affront to everything good and decent.
Fortunate then, that Narsus Novox was neither good nor decent.

"You don't frighten me, fiend," he said as he rose to his feet. "What do I have to fear from you? Yours is a race of scheming bureaucrats laboring under the delusion that white-collar politicking will win you the multiverse. I am a Chelaxian, proud member of the most glorious nation Golarion has ever seen. I hail from generations of conquerors, artists and scholars, all of which has finally resulted in me, the greatest mind Cheliax, nay, the world, has ever seen! I am human! I am flesh and blood, with a free will I exert to bend the realm to my desire, whereas you are merely an amalgam of pain and pettiness shaped into a parody of man, slave to your nature. What do I have to fear from you?"

"Your soul is mine," the devil countered.

Narsus smiled. "Read the fine print. My soul is only consigned to Hell should I meet a violent end. And I haven't met anyone to call my match yet. Golarion hasn't seen a man like me since Aroden himself. No-one is going to kill me, my soul will never be anyone's but my own, and I just bought Hell's services for absolutely nothing. You lose. I win. Now pick up that paper and get the hell out of my world."

Novox had expected a great many responses to his audaciousness. Fury. Humiliation. And victory for himself, of course. What he did not expect was laughter. The fiend started laughing - a slow, booming, genuine laughter. And he learned the same thing all mortals, few in number, who have ever heard authentic laughter from a devil learn: genuine mirth from a being who lives and breathes evil is a terrifying thing.

"You really are everything I expected and more, you ridiculous little man..." the devil smiled. "We know, Narsus Novox. Hell knows where your conceit, your ambition, will lead you. We've run the numbers and men like you... you never die in your beds at eighty."

Smoke began to emit from the fiend and its features shifted into flame.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr Novox. I look forward to seeing you again."

With a flash of fire the devil disappeared. The last thing Narsus saw of it was its wicked smile. Narsus Novox had never admitted to a mistake in his life. He wasn't about to now. But he couldn't help but wonder.

Backstory:

They say great things may come from humble beginnings. Born to a half-rate tanner in the outskirts of Egorian, Narsus Novox's beginnings were truly humble. And today, he does indeed consider himself great.
Growing up under the leaky roof of a father whose only fondness in life was drink and physical abuse was not easy. That young Novox's mother was only too happy to see some of the beatings that would otherwise have gone to her instead directed towards her son did not make things easier. And yet, amidst all this squalor, what was truly intolerable to the child was the view. From the foul-smelling slum one could still see the splendor of Egorian, the nation's capital. The architecture, the wealth, the sophistication and culture - it was one thing to be born humble, but it was quite another to have greatness so near, seemingly mocking you in your poverty.

And yet, while the boy was destitute by any measure, he did possess one thing of immeasurable value. Nature, in her capriciousness, had gifted young Narsus with a fiendish intelligence, the sort that saw him 'discovering' the principles of geometry, such as interior angles of a triangle always adding up to the sum of two right angles, at the age of eight. He did so by observing a pelt scraper. Narsus Novox was, unbeknownst to his abusive parents, a child genius.

The child's developing mind took a sudden lurch forward one day whilst lying on the dirt floor of their shaky shack, recovering from a particularly bad blow from his father. It was then that Narsus looked out a broken window. There it was, Egorian in all its splendor, looking positively transcendental compared to his own misery. Except suddenly, whether it be because of the stroke to his head or merely the splintered glass's strange distortion, it was as if he saw it with new eyes. The spires of the capital were not mocking the poor boy with their beauty; they were trying to inspire him. They called to him, sang of the possibility of a better life, of greatness, of all things that could be his if he just dared grasp them. Egorian was the wealth he needed, the grandeur he missed, and even the identity he yearned for - a national identity. Cheliax itself, to be Chelaxian with everything this entailed, was his birthright, but circumstances had denied him everything that should rightfully have been his.

Two weeks later a ten-year old Narsus took the first tentative step towards his destiny, as he set fire to his rickety birth home, parents still inside. It was all perfectly logical. Young Novox had learned that upon death, the state could claim any leftover holdings if there were no other beneficiaries. While the elder Novox's dinky tannery was practically worthless, the land it stood on was not; land never lost value. But given Narsus's young age, the state could only claim the land if it also took responsibility for the unfortunate orphan. And so Narsus found himself in an Asmodean orphanage sponsored by the crown. This was all according to plan. In the slum his life would never amount to anything. Here, however, he would receive an education and with it the opportunity to succeed. He finally had a shot at greatness.

Given an environment where his natural intellect could flourish, Novox excelled at his studies, even earning a rare scholarship to enter higher education. Cheliax might not be known for charity, but the devil-worshipers respected results and everywhere he went the young man was soon recognized as the impoverished orphaned prodigy, a fairy-tale story of a swan born in a pond of ducks. Garnering the attention of a senior diabolist, Novox accepted the position as his apprentice and over the next several years became known as a rising star within the craft of devil-binding. An accomplished wizard with an affable and noble bearing, no-one doubted that the young man would go far.

The disappearance of House Thrune cast doubt on the future of the nation and everyone in it, however. Or at least so one would think. Outwardly Narsus Novox is every bit as concerned about the coming civil war as any other citizen. But in truth the ruling family's exit has instead pushed his plans forward some thirty-odd years. Novox is not concerned; he has never been more excited! With his innate genius and many accomplishments, Narsus has grown an ego roughly the size of the nation itself and has quietly been plotting to take power in Cheliax since he was a teenager. A crown? Pah! No, the man does not particularly want to take the throne unless he has to - Novox is egomaniacal to the point of madness, but he is not vain. No, a puppet king would serve his purposes well enough. And the diabolist believes he has found one in Quinus Thrune. Of all the contenders in the civil war, Quinus is the most fragile, his power resting solely on his name and even this not being worth much. A weak ruler is exactly what Novox wants, so much easier to exploit and replace if necessary.

So, final comments. The crunch isn't quite perfect, I know. It's still missing spell selection (that 100-long spell list is very disheartening), and the imp companion needs to be statted out too. I understand from the post above that you're not a particularly big fan of animal companions and whatnot though, which is totally fair; neither am I. But I guess I can use that as a launching point from which to explain my thoughts behind the character.

I haven't played in a solo game before, but what immediately grabbed me was, as you yourself point out, how much more easily the pace of a pbp could be maintained. The challenge of playing just one PC vs the world stood out too, however. This really isn't what 3.5 and its derivatives are built for, they're team games, so with this in mind my character tries to tackle this problem by being not one character. It's a solo game - let's go for what is usually the most grossly offensive tactic to other players at any table: monster summoning. And when I think monster summoning in Cheliax, I think diabolism. Hence, the PC above.

The intent is to use and abuse the features of the Diabolist to call (not just summon, but call) devils to do my bidding. Whether this means more NPCs for the GM to keep track of, or if I'm going to play them myself is entirely up to you. I'm fine with either approach. If you do decide to leave any called devils in my control, know that I am ready to go the extra mile and provide extra writing for these characters. If the application itself wasn't a dead giveaway, I'm notorious for overly long dissertation posts as is. And if you're worried about me trying to game the system and play these devils as a bit too helpful to myself, don't be. These are very evil, very proud immortals beings effectively enslaved by a rinky-dink mortal wizard. They should be very angry and uncooperative. I both intend and hope to play them as such. The challenge of this is going to be half the fun in my mind.

And should the worst happen and the PC gets his ass handed to him by the very creatures he tries to control - well, good. My character is a dick. He deserves it. If it helps, think of Narsus Novox as a Chelaxian Lex Luthor, at least as he's presented in the comics. His IQ is off the charts with an ego to match, but he very genuinely wants to lead his people (humanity for Lex, Chelaxians for Novox) to a brighter tomorrow. Yeah, he does this because it feeds into his insane ego rather than out of altruism, but hey, progress is progress. Much like Lex, however, Narsus has an obsessive vendetta against an alien force. Lex has Superman while my character has devils. Novox believes very strongly in self-determination as a pivotal part of human progress, and as such abhors any outside influence, positive or negative, on the material plane. This means he's not a fan of the forces of good, but as he's Chelaxian his dislike is aimed squarely at Hell. He's not a diabolist to serve the devils. Rather, he wants to subjugate Hell itself both to show his own superiority and as a sort of demented revenge/retribution for Cheliax itself.
Again, egomania to the point of insanity.

I'm gonna cut myself off here. I'll just keep going on forever if I don't. Anyway, thanks for reading and feel free to ask any questions should you have them or if I missed something.


DM Forgehammer wrote:
Please feel free to ask any questions you may have, I will answer to the best of my ability.

Don't mind if I do.

What is it you're hoping for with this game, particularly with regard to the two player limit? Please understand that I am not at all criticizing this choice - I have been fortunate enough to play in smaller RL games before, and the intimacy they bring definitely has merit to it.

But in a play-by-post, given how players dropping out is pretty frequent, what do you hope to gain by just two players? That these two will feel more incentivized to really get involved? Are you set upon incorporating parts of their backstories, hence a full party would be too great a workload on the GM?
I'm asking to get a better idea of what sort of players you're looking for.

All that aside, here's a character I thought up some time ago for a Kingmaker game but never saw any use.

August Zlatostad, LN dwarf Cleric of Abadar.
(Frankly have no idea what his other gestalt class would be. Fighter maybe? Perhaps go ranged and focus on the Abadaran crossbow. Would depend on what the other player brings to the table, really.)

August's background/vignette/thing:

"I... I'm sorry, sir, I must have heard you wrong. Could you repeat yourself?"

"I think you heard me just fine, Miss Vibia, but I could and shall: 'I'd like you to whore yourself.'"

The sellsword stared at the dwarf, incredulous. She currently found herself in the somewhat shabby office of an August Zlatostad, merchant and moneylender, a person she had been advised not to approach. Her every contact had been unanimous in proclaiming the dwarf unconventional, eccentric and suspicious, but every other moneylender in Port Ice had shown her the door, so Vibia could not see the harm in at least speaking to him. Fortunately, she had long since learned to brush off whatever harm an insult could otherwise do. Vibia had heard far worse than the dwarf's proposition. She was more annoyed that he had wasted her time; her first impression of him had been surprisingly positive, dingy office notwithstanding. She rose from the rickety chair.

"Is this how you do business, sir?" she asked, cold eyes shooting daggers at the moneylender. "Snare naive girls desperate for money into some lopsided contract and then use their debt to take advantage of them? You're disgusting. I ought to report you to the authorities, or the Abadarans at the very least..."

"Oh please don't," the dwarf replied with a seemingly unconcerned smile. "Most of the fuddy-duddies at the bank are not overly fond of me."

As he spoke, one hand went up to his neck to free something hanging there, partially obscured by his mighty beard. It was a holy symbol. More specifically, it was the holy symbol of Abadar.

"Wha... It's true, then? You're a priest of Abadar?" Vibia could hardly believe the nerve of the dwarf. "And you abuse your station to get your dick wet?! What sort of..."

"Miss Vibia, I hate to interrupt, but you misunderstand. My genitals are none of your concern. Nor will they ever be, I expect. No, my agreement will require that you report for duty, as a mistress of the night, for one single day, at the parlour of a Mr Lemnus Mancilla, an acquaintance of mine. You may have heard of him? His establishment is quite professional."

The sellsword was visibly confused. "Wait... Hold on, what is this? Prostitute for a night? That's your deal? You'll give me 10.000 gold pieces for that?"

"That is the loan you asked for, is it not?" replied August the Abadaran priest, his eyes perfectly bright with mock-innocence. "That is my condition. Should we move on to talking interest rates? I was thinking nil percent."

"Stop, just stop. How are you gaining anything from... What did you say?"

"Interest rates, dear. At nil percent. If I may, these negotiations are going to take some time if I have to repeat every detail."

Later that night a mystified woman left the cleric's office. Vibia had gone over the dwarf's loan contract for hours, but the whole thing made no sense. He made no sense. The paperwork seemed iron-clad: after one day's service as prostitute, the proceeds of which would go to neither the dwarf nor the brothel owner but instead to herself, she would receive the full loan of 10.000 gold pieces. Without interest. She was baffled. What was the dwarf's game? How was he profiting from this? Try as she might, she couldn't find an answer to this question, and, somewhat startlingly, Vibia found herself ready to believe that there might be no answer. No answer beyond what the rumours would suggest: the man was mad. And yet she found this unsatisfactory. August Zlatostad had a way about him. He was evasive but never seemed insincere. He seemed very genuine in wanting to 'test' her, as if all he really wanted was to see whether or not she would follow through.

Which left the other, obvious, question: would she? Vibia could hardly believe that she was considering it. Her, selling herself? She had worked as a sellsword for years now, but had never stooped to selling her body in that manner. And yet; could she afford to pass on the opportunity? 10.000 gold pieces with no strings attached. A loan without interest and without any definite repayment date. It was practically a gift. She considered what the money would mean. It would be the realization of a dream. And what would she have to give up for it? Nothing, really. Nothing but her pride. Still she hesitated. Damn that dwarf! Bless him for being willing to fund her ambition, but damn his outrageous demands! Vibia found her resolve wanting for the first time since deciding upon this endeavor, and was forced to reconsider just how far she was willing to go for this. Fortunately, she had time to think. Zlatostad had taken the loan condition very seriously himself and given her a week to think it over. She would need it.

Six days later a grimly determined mercenary reported for duty at Mancilla's establishment. It had taken some time, several sleepless nights and restless days wondering if her self-respect could survive this, but she had finally decided upon it. The loan meant too much. She'd never be able to live with herself if she gave up on it because of her own pride. As long as her cause was just, her dignity would weather any storm. She was resolute and prepared. The loan would be hers.

To say that having the pimp merely dismiss her took the wind out of her sails would be an understatement. After demanding an explanation, Mancilla could merely reveal what Zlatostad had told him, namely that if a person of Vibia's description should show up, he was to send her to the local bank where a new account in her name was set up. He knew nothing more and was merely glad to himself be out of the dwarf's debt with this bizarre request. The mercenary rushed to the Abadaran temple where she was informed that, yes, she had an account worth 10.000 gold pieces, set up just a week ago. From there, Vibia set out for the dwarf's office. She wasn't sure whether to thank him or to beat him within an inch of his life, but she would be disappointed regardless: August Zlatostad had left Port Ice. From what she could gather, he had packed up soon after their meeting, after selling his office and a few other holdings in order to finance their arrangement. According to rumours, the dwarf had set out for the Stolen Lands, although his purpose in doing so was unclear. Vibia the mercenary would never understand his motives, but miles away, in the back of a caravan, August Zlatostad wondered if she had gotten her money yet. He was quite sure that she must have. He considered himself a good judge of character; he was certain that the woman would do whatever necessary to reach her goal. That goal, of course, being setting up a regulatory office for mercenaries. She was a good woman. It was a worthy goal, August thought, and one deeply needed in the pirate infested city. It would be years before the populace would see any real impact, but that was just fine. Abadarans were patient and recognized that one could not 'fix' society overnight. But this investment would undoubtedly inch Port Ice nearer to the perfection Abadar forsaw for all civilizations. One step at a time. And make no mistake, it was an investment, August thought. Despite having no interest rate, despite having no payment date, despite what his colleagues at the church said, August considered it an investment. His investment was in her, Vibia. He vastly preferred investing in people over corporate entities. That's why he tested every loan applicant, to see if they were made of the right stuff. If the mercenary had let something as silly as dignity get in the way of bettering society, then she would not be worthy. Now... now it was time for him to undergo a test of his own. He was penniless once again. Let's see if he could strike it rich in the Stolen Lands. There was opportunity there, and gold was the fuel that kept the wheel of progress turning.

Goals:

There's money in working for any regent and August wants money, plain and simple. That might sound callous. August himself would certainly not blame you for thinking so. But he would also think you naive. Because money, currency, is so much more than metal disks - it is one of the greatest forces in the multiverse. There is almost no limit to what money can do for you. Money can buy an education, set a person up for life by training them in a craft, and open libraries of fabulous wisdom. Money can buy great works of art, enriching the soul, and paying for further expressions of beauty. Money can buy you an entire kingdom, purchasing vast power, and allow you to shape nations. And when time comes to war, it's money that can bribe the right lord to stay off the battlefield, saving thousands of hapless lives. This is the power of money.
August often hears goodly souls, other clerics even, renounce material gains and even spouting such nonsense as money being the root of all evil. These same people are those who will call on crusades against evil, incite paladin and common man alike to give their lives for a just cause. Honor costs blood. August thinks it far more just to pay in cold hard cash.

So that's what the guy does. He travels about as a sort of benevolent capitalist/financial backer, makes as much cash as he can wherever he can (whilst adhering to the Abadaran principles of fairness, of course), and makes strategic investments to shape society. As an Abadaran cleric he wants to create the 'perfect' civilization, one where all are equal and all that jazz. That's an ambition that's likely to cause a whole lot of strife, he knows. But that is his divine mission and in order to complete it, with as little blood as possible, one thing above all is needed: money.

Hope you enjoyed reading.


Well, here's a question I'd never thought I ask a GM, but, uh... what domains does our lord and savior Jesus Christ offer?

Father Asher Anderson, LG human Cleric 1

Crunch:

Asher Anderson
Male Human Cleric 1
30 Years of Age
LG Medium Humanoid (human)
Init +4; Perception +8
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 17, touch 12, flat-footed 15 (+5 armor, +2 Dex)
HP 9/9 (1d8 + 1 Con)
Fort +3, Ref +2, Will +5
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 20 ft.
Weapon: dagger, -1 attack, 1d4-1 damage, 19-20/x2 crit, slashing or piercing
Weapon: big bore revolver, +2 attack, 1d10 damage, 20/x4 crit, bludgeoning & piercing
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 9 (-1), Dex 15 (+2), Con 12 (+1), Int 12 (+1), Wis 16 (+3), Cha 14 (+2)

Base Atk +0; CMB -1; CMD 11

Feats: Point-Blank Shot, Precise Shot

Traits: Seeker [+1 Perception, class skill]; Reactionary [+2 initiative]

Skills - (4 points + 1 FC; armor penalties not included):
Diplomacy +7
Heal +7
Perception +8 [3 class + 3 mod + 1 trait + 1 rank]
Know (religion) +5
Sense Motive +7

Skills - background: Profession (priest), Know (history) +5

Languages: English, Latin
--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Adventuring Gear: scale mail, revolver cartridges (20)
Coin: 4 gp
Other: holy symbol (wooden) x2
Weight: 35 lbs.

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Class: Aura (LG): Channel Positive Energy, 1d6, 5/day, DC 15 [10 + 1/2 level + 2 Cha + 2 Heroism domain]; domains (Heroism, Restoration)
Racial: Skilled [+1 skill point per level]

--------------------
Spell-like, extraordinary or supernatural
--------------------
Touch of Glory (Sp): You can cause your hand to shimmer with divine radiance, allowing you to touch a creature as a standard action and give it a bonus equal to your cleric level on a single Charisma-based skill check or Charisma ability check. This ability lasts for 1 hour or until the creature touched elects to apply the bonus to a roll. You can use this ability to grant the bonus a number of times per day equal to 3 + your Wisdom modifier.

Restorative Touch (Su): You can touch a creature, letting the healing power of your deity flow through you to relieve the creature of a minor condition. Your touch can remove the dazed, fatigued, shaken, sickened, or staggered condition. You choose which condition is removed. You can use this ability a number of times per day equal to 3 + your Wisdom modifier.

--------------------
Spells
--------------------
0th: Create Water, Light, Mending
1st: to be determined

Background (apologies in advance, it goes on for a bit):

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis,
sanctificetur nomen tuum,
adveniat regnum tuum..."

"Somebody get this crazy bastard offa me!"

The legionnaire tried to fight off the strange chanting man, tried to move away from him, but it was no use; the wound was too deep. She'd taken a hit as her squad had moved to engage the... she'd didn't even know what to call it. Looked like a god da*n movie monster. Certainly not what the briefing had described. Everything had gone to sh*t and now she was separated from her squad, lying bleeding on the street. She could still hear her teammates' gunfire in the distance. And then this freak shows up.

"Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra.
Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie,
et dimitte nobis debita nostra..."

"Shut the fu*k up and get away from me, you AAAH...!"

Pain. Trying to kick the stranger had been a poor idea as the open wound cruelly informed her via fresh waves of searing agony. The legionnaire was in no state to do anything but pass out. She might have done so already had it not been for her alarm at seeing this bizarre man. He'd appeared almost as soon as she fell, which convinced her that he'd been surreptitiously following her squad for God knows what reason. And if that wasn't suspicious enough, there was his appearance. Tall and lanky with no bulk to speak of, he had the slightly disturbing proportions of a man stretched by a torture rack. Coupled with his dark clothing and intense grey eyes, he came off very foreboding. This impression was heightened by a vague unnatural air which hung about him, perhaps primarily owing to his hair: he was completely bald. His pale dome of a scalp reflected the streetlight while even his brow was devoid of hair, making him appear all the more stark and severe. Did he even have any eyelashes? The hairlessness should have indicated a man in his older years, but instead his features were smooth, rendering his age ambiguous and only adding to his unsettling aspect. Of course, all of this could be forgiven had he just behaved in any way like a normal person, rather than holding her down and ominously chanting in what she could only presume was Latin.

"Let me go... Just let me go. Please. I need..."

The thought had slowly emerged to the legionnaire that this could be how she died. The bleeding wasn't stopping. Her comrades were busy fighting for their own lives. She could die here, on a dingy street corner with an anonymous maniac holding her down. That was no way to die.

And fortunately, this was not to be the case.

"Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris,
et ne nos inducas in tentationem,
sed libera nos a malo.
Amen!"

As the man's intonations concluded, his hand lit up with radiant light that put the dull rays of the streetlamp to shame. It looked like sunlight. Felt like sunlight too, as the legionnaire could feel the heat emanating from him. She jerked in panic as she expected to feel pain too, as the man laid his hand upon the open wound. But instead there was nothing. No pain whatsoever, in fact. The wound stopped aching altogether, and when the man's hand gradually stopped glowing and he removed it, she could see why: there was no wound. Where there had been a gaping gash seconds earlier, there was now only smooth skin. There wasn't even a scar; only the blood remained as evidence of there ever being an injury.

While she was still inspecting herself in wonder, the man relinquished his hold on the legionnaire and stood up. She looked at him again as he retrieved a pistol from an inner pocket and silently offered his other hand to her to help her get up. It was then she saw one detail of his dark dress that had gone unnoticed up until now: at the neck he wore the white tab collar of a priest.

"How did you...?"

"Praise the Lord. And pass the ammo."

-----

It has been said that Portland is the least religious city in the US. How appropriate then that it is home to Father Asher Anderson, who, until recently, could be said to be among the least religious priests in the US. Despite being brought up in a god-fearing household (or perhaps because of this), Asher would not identify as a Christian until much later in life. A bright but typical teenager, he latched onto a rejection of faith as a means of rebelling against his parents, as all teenagers must. School life was also difficult, as despite having a good head on his shoulders, said head was rather out of the ordinary: an autoimmune disease rendered him completely hairless. Children being notoriously cruel to anyone different, young Asher had few allies in his early life. At eighteen, his parents not being willing to fund any higher education for their wayward son, he joined the US army, more so out of a lack of personal direction than patriotism. There he underwent basic and then infantry training, eventually being deployed to the Middle-East.

Travelling has a curious effect on some: many never feel a sense of national identity, the quirks, virtues and vices imparted on one by their 'natural' surroundings, until they visit a foreign environment. Just as the chameleon is undetectable in its own habitat, a person's cultural baggage may be invisible unless contrasted against a different culture. Asher felt this effect strongly whilst deployed, and was especially struck by how significant the Christian faith was to his own identity. No, he still wasn't a believer, but he noted how much of his morality was directly informed by Christianity. Charity, respect and goodwill for one's fellow man, forgiveness, the rejection of riches, love... every value he held dear, was willing to fight for, were all those the Christian church espoused. With a thoroughly un-Christian environment acting as contrast, this became obvious.

Asher's Mid-East tour turned out somewhat anticlimactic as he never saw combat there. What he did end up seeing a lot of was the good book; Asher spent the uneventful days at the army base reading the Bible in its entirety. He found much of it very agreeable; Joseph's life, for example, acting as a parable for how intent should trump the letter of law appealed to him. Other parts of the book were harder to swallow; turning women into salt pillars ain't cool.
On the whole, however, Asher had much less trouble reconciling the vengeful Old Testament deity with the more modern benevolent view of the Christian God than most. After all, he still believed in neither. Despite a growing fascination with the faith, Asher remained wholly secular. The Bible was in his eyes nothing more than a collection of ancient allegories and fables, not to be taken literally. But then, why should this matter? What did it matter, he questioned, if Methuselah really lived to the ripe old age of 969? These were good parables, good moral lessons that could guide people to a fulfilling and harmonious life. They lost no value in being fiction rather than fact - what they had to teach remained true. So taken was Asher with the ideas of Christianity that he decided upon a career after leaving the army: he would become a priest.

With his tour of duty completed (and not a moment too soon as he was slowly earning the nickname 'Preacher' among fellow soldiers), Asher returned home where, after working menial jobs for a few years to build up some savings, he entered the Roman Catholic University of Portland. The academic life agreed with him, but truth be told the young man almost felt like he'd gone from soldier to undercover agent. Here he was, learning divinity from master theologians and even making friends at the local parish, whilst ostensibly a heathen. Asher still had no faith. He wanted to help people and fervently believed that the Bible's lessons were the key to happiness and contentment, but as for belief in an omnipotent benign creator? No, just as everything else in the book 'God' was simply a metaphor, a symbol of everything good in the world, just as his nemesis Satan represented all that is evil. Asher told no one of his secular thoughts, fearing how they would be received. And one Masters degree in Divinity later he then joined seminary school, after which he could finally call himself Father Anderson.

And this is where the troubles began.

Father Anderson was well received by his local flock, strange appearance aside, and Asher himself was happier than ever before. Yes, he was essentially living a lie, heathen priest that he was, but what did it matter? He was helping people lead more fulfilling lives and that was enough. But his life was to take another strange turn one late evening when he ambushed a grave robber desecrating the local cemetery. The ghoul had dug up a grave and made off with his prize upon being startled by the cleric. Asher gave chase but halted to help a young bystander knocked unconscious by the fleeing perpetrator. The culprit was never found.
This is what the preacher told the police, and to his great shame it is all a lie. Asher could not bear revealing what really happened because the truth is infinitely weirder and far more terrifying. The truth is that he saw two figures in the graveyard that night, not one. The first had been a cloaked man, standing by a grave speaking, or rather orating, in a language utterly unknown to the priest. This person had not dug the hole the police later witnessed. In fact, there had been no need for digging. For a second figure emerged from the ground, out of the grave by the other's feet. Asher had not ambushed the two, but rather cried out in shock at the sight. Neither apparently wanted to be seen by anyone as they both fled, the second mud-covered figure bizarrely bestial in pace. The cleric, frankly frozen in fear, had only followed upon hearing a scream as the two exited the cemetery, to find an innocent bystander lying on the ground. Except while the ambulance crew would later determine that the young man had only suffered the most minor of concussions, this was not what Asher had found. When he arrived, it was to find a person utterly savaged, bite and claw marks indicating an attack by a beast the priest could scarcely imagine. Asher immediately phoned for help, and was then left with an obviously swiftly dying man, simply waiting for help to arrive. With the meager medical training he had received in the army, Asher tried stemming the poor man's rapid blood loss with his bare hands, fully aware that this was useless.

This moment was the turning point for Asher Anderson. Because it marked the first time he truly prayed. Despite his vocation, Asher's faith in Christianity was purely philosophical. He believed in the moral virtues espoused, not in any man in the sky. But people pray for two fundamental reasons: either out of reverence or in desperation, and it was the latter the priest was feeling now. With no other options, he prayed for the life of the innocent bystander like he had never prayed before.
Nothing can describe the atheist priest's surprise as the wounds beneath his clutching hands began stitching themselves together.

This is where we now find Father Asher Anderson, a man in turmoil. The cleric's entire world has been turned upside down as he now knows that not only are miracles real, the divine has chosen to act through him. Why him over any other, genuine, priest is the question that hounds him, as well as the matter of what he is to do with this power? Asher has refrained from telling anyone else within the church about his newfound abilities, partly out of fear and sheer unwillingness to be a modern-day prophet and partly out of a need to get a better grasp of his position first. The man still only wants to help others, and is deeply confused about how best to utilize his gift.
But the graveyard incident made one thing clear: there are dark forces at work in Portland. Asher has taken to skulking about the city at night, slowly learning of the mystical side of the world and the factions that seek to control it. Like a pseudo-vigilante, he has tried to help where possible, but now realizes that he can't get far alone. Desperate for an outlet for his power, Asher seeks like-minded individuals to help protect the city.

For he is a shepherd. And the good people of Portland are his flock.

Hooks:

God may work in mysterious ways, but he does not play dice. Is there some deeper reason for Asher being able to work miracles?

Is necromancy afoot in the good city of Portland? Who was the mysterious stranger who raised a corpse out of the cemetery?

Are there others in the organized church who wield miracles? Is the pope a lv.6 cleric?

Who will discover Asher's most shameful secret? Namely that his favorite film is The Boondock Saints.

Thanks for reading. And thanks for introducing me to the E6 rules, Atom. I really like the grittier feel of early level Pathfinder and that rule set seems like a neat way of preserving that feeling whilst incorporating some high level mechanics.


I don't think I've ever had this much trouble trying to assemble a character. What's worse is that I've been staring at him so long I've lost all ability to determine whether he's any good or not, a bit like repeating a word so often it loses all meaning. Which is a shame seeing as you are clearly in no short supply of good applications.

Still, if only to make him stop occupying much needed head-space (it's in short supply), here's the doomsday prophet Haelador "Hal" Faervel, CN elf cleric of Groetus for your consideration. And I think the best introduction to him would be a vignette. I feel these are best read in the order presented.

What follows is the medical transcript of a psychiatric consultation between Dr P. Bahram and Haelador Faervel:

Habe's Sanatorium, 2nd of Abadius, 4709
Present are Dr Bahram, junior psychiatrist; Mr Jansen the orderly; Healador Fearvel, the patient, male elf of undetermined age; myself, Alerdene Udara, transcriber

Dr Bahram: "Orderly, what is this? Why have you drugged the patient? You knew he was due an interview. It was on the schedule."

Mr Jansen: "Oh, we didn’t give him nothin’, doc. He ain’t drugged. This is what he always looks like."

Transcript note: Patient appears distant and bemused, almost dazed. He does not look at the doctor opposite him, instead staring at a corner of the room. He is smiling.

Dr Bahram: "... Right. Mr Faervel, do you think you could give me your full attention? We've spoken before, do you remember? I wanted to talk about your progress here at the sanatorium."

Haelador: "Færvel."

Dr Bahram: "Hmm?"

Haelador: "My name is Hælador Færvel. We should all take care to honor names. They are the last part of us to die."

Dr Bahram: "Yes. Right. Apologies, my Elven is, eh... rusty. Actually, this is good as I wanted to discuss this matter too - this recent preoccupation of yours with death and whatnot... Mr Haelador, could you look me in the eyes when we're speaking?"

Haelador: "I'm sorry. I'm watching the dust, over there, by the window. It's dancing in the sunlight. It’s very beautiful."

Dr Bahram: "Really now, Mr Faervel. I don't think prioritizing your doctor over some fleeting dirt is asking too much of you."

Haelador: "But isn't that all you are? Fleeting dirt?"

Transcript note: Patient looking the doctor in the eyes now. He is still smiling.

Dr Bahram: "I beg your pardon?"

Haelador: "Fleeting dirt. That's all you are. How old are you, doctor? Thirty? Thirty-five? So short ago, not even long enough for a tree to mature, there was no you and now you have at most another fifty-sixty years left on this world. A blink of an eye in my own lifespan. Then you're gone. Puff. Born in grime and buried in dirt on an uncaring earth oblivious to your existence. Dust to dust. Why do you deserve my attention over some filth? The only difference between yourself and that constellation of dust particles dancing in the sunlight is time. Well, that and the fact that they manage to amuse me."

Dr Bahram: "..."

Haelador: "I mean, they at least seem to know how to have fun. When was the last time you went dancing, doctor? Do you enjoy dancing? I enjoy dancing."

Dr Bahram: "This is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. The staff informed me of this recent preoccupation of yours, this... this fatalistic humbug you insist to go on about. You’re upsetting the other patients and..."

Haelador: "Good. They should be upset. Their days are numbered."

Dr Bahram: "Stop that! What’s gotten into you, Mr Faervel? We’d made such progress since you were first admitted and now this? Where is all this coming from? I cannot believe that you would go from your quiet self to... to... preaching death and futility without some outside influence."

Transcript note: Patient goes into laughing fit.

Haelador: "Preaching! That’s exactly it, isn’t it? I suppose that’s what I am now: a preacher. Proselytizing for a god whose name I don’t even know. How wonderfully silly."

Dr Bahram: " Mr Faervel... Are you saying you’ve found some faith?"

Haelador: "Is that concern I hear? Worried about what god one finds in an insane asylum? That’s a reasonable fear. I’ve you to thank, really. I suspect that all you really hoped to achieve by doping me was to stop my incessant screaming, but it really wasn’t the soundest decision medically. All that time in that drug induced haze... I was dead to the world, you see. Just lying there, drooling onto the floor of my cell. I was just me and my thoughts. Which, you know, were the whole reason I was screaming. Not the best idea to leave me alone with them."

Dr Bahram: "Mr Faervel... You suffered a severe emotional trauma before coming here. What you went through..."

Haelador: "Doesn’t matter. None of it matters. That was exactly my realization, my epiphany in my drug addled stupor. Locked in a room both metaphorical and very literal with my own diseased thoughts crawling through my being like so many flesh-eating worms, I... Well, when I could not bear it anymore, I stopped looking inward and began looking outwards. Mental and physical confines being one, I tried expanding my mind to better escape myself. Over the months, I’m telling you, that cell became a near-infinite void. An entire universe with myself just one tiny insignificant speck of nothing. It made it so much easier to dismiss the pain. Except I wasn’t alone in the void. No, I found something there. Someone. The Harbinger of the Last Days. The sight of him, the implications... He helped me overcome my pain. Because I don’t matter. I’m insignificant. I’m like you, you see – just a speck of dust in waiting. And if I don’t matter, then my grief doesn’t matter. Heh. It’s all perfectly logical. I feel much better upon realizing this. "

Dr Bahram: "This... Mr Faervel, this is not a healthy line of thought. And certainly not something I want you to upset the other patients with."

Haelador: "I'm sorry. I don't want to upset people, truly. I want them to make the most of their time. The end is nigh, you see. It always has been."

Dr Bahram: "Hold on, stop."

Haelador: "The inevitable death of ourselves and even the world, the meaninglessness of our existence... Don't you see? This is nothing to despair over. Quite the opposite! We should be celebrating! All this means is that our time is precious and that we should strive to be happy. That's what I've realized. That's how I want to help people. You think I’m crazy because I don’t care. But I do care. I’m crazy because I know I shouldn’t. In fact..."

Transcript note: Patient rises from his seat.

Haelador: "Doctor Bahram, I am hereby discharging myself. I have overcome my trauma and intend to become a missionary, helping people achieve happiness."

Dr Bahram: "Mr Faervel, please, sit down! I must strongly advise you against this. Your..."

Haelador: "She likes you, you know."

Dr Bahram: "What?"

Haelador: "The young lady sitting there, writing all of this down. I've seen you together before. She keeps looking at you when you're not watching. She's doing it now too; had trouble concentrating on the pen this entire time. I think she respects your professional relationship too much to express her feelings. Trust me, I can tell these things."

Dr Bahram: "What?!"

Haelador: "Everybody is going to die, nothing matters, and the end is nigh. So please, invite her out. Go dancing. Fall in love. Have sex. Procreate. Grow old together Or don't. Whatever makes you happy. That's all that matters. It's all that matters. Please, be happy. I think she likes your bottom."

Transcript note: Patient is giving me a thumbs-up. He is smiling.

Appearance & Personality:

Hal is a nihilist. No, not that kind of nihilist. This kind of nihilist. He believes that existence is without meaning, nothing has inherent value, and that the multiverse is destined to end without the least sign of anyone who ever lived there. And that's fantastic. If everything is without meaning, then mortalkind is completely, totally and wonderfully free. Free to do anything and be everything. Free to make their own happiness.

So what makes Hal happy? Helping others mostly. Whether it be through offering spiritual advice or healing cuts and bruises, he delights in alleviating the suffering of others. Sure, this is of course just as meaningless as everything else, but this is the entire crux of the elf's faith: that a person's pursuit of happiness is just that - personal. Hal is a doomsday prophet. He reminds whoever will listen that everyone's life is finite. He does not preach a certain way of life or morality because he recognizes that what gives him fulfillment will not necessarily work for anyone else.

Especially seeing as he is tiny bit mad, which he fully acknowledges.

Instead, he encourages people to break routines, consider their lives, and prioritize whatever gives them joy, both in the moment and long-term. Of course, this isn't easy when Hal's words largely focus on death, the end of all things and fear-mongering, and even less so considering his somewhat unnerving appearance. While elves are known to be tall and thin, Hal's frame borders on parody. Standing almost 6'8'' with long spidery limbs, he has adopted a great arching stoop to his back now that he travels through human lands, slouching down to speak to the shorter races. His long pale stringy hair will therefore often hang down free from his shoulders, making him appear unkempt, especially in conjunction with his ill fitting clothes, clearly made by human tailors not accustomed to clothing someone of the cleric's dimensions. His mouth, perpetually set in a bemused little smile, is the final proverbial nail in the coffin that is Hal's social image, as it seems, at best, incongruous with his ominous sermons, and at worst condescending to the shorter-lived races.

This is a great shame as the elf is personable and enjoys conversation. In fact, he seems to derive some deranged enjoyment out of just about anything. He has been observed watching insects climb trees, taking great enjoyment in the perseverance of nature, and challenge him to watch paint dry and he just might. Life is endlessly amusing to the elf. In fact, the only thing that really gets him riled up is one person infringing on the freedom and happiness of another. He views this as a violation of the ultimate meaninglessness of the universe that everyone should be free to navigate themselves for good or ill. In the same vein, Hal views it as his clerical duty to oppose anyone who threatens to unleash some great cataclysm or apocalypse. The God of the End Times himself, Groetus, is the only one with the authority to command such mass destruction, and as such other instigators are to be considered false prophets. The world will end whenever Groetus jolly well wants it to, and not one second earlier.

However, this also represents the one dark facet to the elf's otherwise benign nature. At the end of the day, he is a servitor to the Harbinger of Last Days. And should his god command him (however unlikely seeing as Groetus is completely uncaring, perhaps even oblivious of his worshipers) to bring about the apocalypse, Hal would obey. We are all living on borrowed time, after all. Every second we live is not just a joy, but a privilege and when that time is up... well, that's that. Hope you had fun.

Backstory:

I am about to disappoint the GM as Haelador Faervel has no backstory. What he has is a catalyst, namely the death of his entire family including spouse and children. The how and why ultimately don't matter; what matters is that this was entirely too much to bear for Hal the lone survivor who was institutionalized after attempting to take his own life. Medieval practices regarding the mentally maladjusted being what they are, Hal did not find much help at Habe' Sanatorium. He did, however, find religion. Due to some curious combination of his own mental state and the asylum's drugs, the elf's mind proved receptive to Groetus's influence, and more amazingly still, the realizations that come with the God of the End Times did not drive him into further despair, as they are wont to do, but instead helped him recover.

Hal already felt such unspeakable grief that the implications of Groetus's existence did not, could not add to his misery, but instead sent him to a sort of despair event horizon. He crossed it and came out the other side cured. Hal was so overcome by his grief, and yet the world didn’t seem to care. The grass kept growing, the clouds drifted along merrily and the world kept turning. The one thing that could console him was exactly the only thing Groetus had to offer: apathy. If nothing had meaning, then neither did his grief. It was just him, after all. Just one insignificant speck of dust among a billion billion other insignificant specks of dust, soon to be extinguished. Groetus literally wasn't even aware of his existence - or of the entire elven race. He didn't matter. His birth, life and death did not matter. And thus, his grief doesn’t matter.
Hal found comfort in meaninglessness.

Upon his discharge from the sanatorium, the new cleric set about travelling Varisia to spread his gospel of joyous oblivion, wonderful futility, and the ecstatic insignificance of our every action. You won't be surprised to hear that he was not well received. Partly out of the obtuse and paradoxical nature of his faith, the dark implications of a god of the apocalypse, and the elf's odd manners and poor social skills, Hal has so far largely failed as a missionary, despite his ideas for others really only revolving around personal happiness. He now finds himself in Roderic's Cove where the locals are about as open to his thoughts as everyone else he has met on his travels, which is to say not at all.

He has however found a friend in fellow elf Audrahni, the morose grave-keeper of the town. Being naturally attracted by quiet, empty places as a cleric of Groetus, the two met very soon upon Hal's arrival to Roderic's Cove just a few weeks ago. In her he sees a kindred spirit, someone who also carries some personal tragedy, and the cleric desperately wants to help her. He understands that she has her own faith, but conversion has never been Hal's goal: only personal fulfillment. And so he spends his days in town praying in the morning, proselytizing for the people (rather unsuccessfully) in the afternoon, and conversing with Audrahni in the evening, this routine only being broken by the occasional plea for minor magical healing from townsfolk desperate enough to ask the odd elf for aid. Hal is of course very happy to help.

There is only one last thing to say about Haelador Faervel, and it relates to the clerics of Groetus as an organization. They are a varied bunch and rarely meet together, but they do have one common signifier: they are all stark-raving mad. The reader may have come to the conclusion that Hal, while certainly not without his quirks, is relatively more well-adjusted than his colleagues. He doesn't hear voices. He doesn't speak to people who aren't there. He isn't violent. Hal would certainly like to think he's better off than the average Groetan. But this isn't the case.
For you see, Hal never had a spouse. Nor any children. Or indeed any other tragically dead family members. Hal is in actuality just as deranged as every other follower of the Harbinger of the Last Days, and his dead family is just an invention of his diseased mind. There is a tragedy somewhere in the elf's long spanning past, but it has been willfully forgotten as it was too painful to bear. Hal's conscious mind is not aware of this and will frequently, and unknowingly, invent new reasons for his botched suicide attempt. The dead family is merely his latest delusion, and close friends will no doubt be disturbed as Hal on occasion simply changes his entire backstory to an all new misfortune at the whim of his broken mind.

Crunch:

Haelador Faervel
Male Elf Cleric 1 (Divine Paragon)
201 Years of Age
CN Medium Humanoid (elf)
Init +3; Senses: low-light vision; Perception +6
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 18, touch 13, flat-footed 15 (+5 armor, +3 Dex)
HP 9/9 (1d8 + 1 FC)
Fort +3, Ref +3, Will +5 [+2 vs enchantment]
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 25 ft.
Weapon: dagger, +3 attack, 1d4 damage, 19-20/x2 crit, slashing or piercing
Weapon: sling, +3 attack, 1d4 damage, 20/x2 crit, bludgeoning
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 11 (+0), Dex 16 (+3), Con 11 (+0), Int 12 (+1), Wis 17 (+3), Cha 8 (-1)

Base Atk +0; CMB +0; CMD 13

Feats: Weapon Finesse

Traits: Audrahni’s Ally [+1 Fort; Calm Emotions, Cure Moderate or Lesser Res]; Magical Knack [+2 CL, never exceeds HD]; Beacon of Faith [+2 CL to domain power 1/day]

Skills - (3 points; armor penalties not included):
Heal +7
Perception +6 [3 mod + 2 racial + 1 rank]
Sense Motive +7

Skills - background: Know (history) +5, Lore (Groetus) +5

Languages: Common (Taldane), Elven, Celestial
--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Adventuring Gear: dagger; scale mail
Coin: 35.9 gp
Other: backpack (m); sling bullets (10); holy symbol (wooden) x2
Weight: 40 lbs.

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Class: Aura (CN); Channel Positive Energy, 1d6, 2/day; domains (Madness, Void)
Racial: Elven Immunities; Keen Senses [+2 Perception]; Elven Magic; Long-Limbed [+5 move speed]

Vision of Madness (Sp): You can give a creature a vision of madness as a melee touch attack. Choose one of the following: attack rolls, saving throws, or skill checks. The target receives a bonus to the chosen rolls equal to ½ your cleric level (minimum +1) and a penalty to the other two types of rolls equal to ½ your cleric level (minimum –1). This effect fades after 3 rounds. You can use this ability a number of times per day equal to 3 + your Wisdom modifier.

--------------------
Spells
--------------------
0th: Create Water, Light, Read Magic
1st: Magic Weapon, Protection from Evil + Lesser Confusion

Sihedron Hero::

I really have no opinion on this part. The inclusion of previous heroes in the AP seems a bit mastubatory on players' (and Jacobs's) part, but who am I to deride some good old self-flagellation. Guess I'll toss a vote in for Amiri the Barbarian? She's kinda fun.

Thanks for reading. My time zone is GMT and on the topic of personal information I'll add that I enjoy writing lengthy posts (as should be abundantly clear by my history), I typically dedicate my time to only one play-by-post at a time, and something something long walks on the beach. Hoping to play with you.


Enjoy yourselves, all, and kick some wasteland mutant heinie for us too.


Dragoncat wrote:

@Red Heat: That concept is demented and I'm not gonna lie--I'm sorely tempted to allow it. :)

In fact, I think I will. But on one condition: the prostheses you have are battered.

Much obliged, my dude. I won't say enabling my nonsense is the smartest decision, but I will make sure you don't regret it.


3 people marked this as a favorite.

Do you know what that massive list of gun toting martials needs more of? Melee meatshields for them to hide behind.

Crunch:

Cayley Wayland
Female Human Monk (unchained) 1
24 Years of Age
CG Medium Humanoid [human]
Init +2; Senses Perception +6
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 15, touch 15, flat-footed 10 [+2 Dex, +1 dodge, +2 Wis]
HP 12/12 [1d10 + 2 Con mod]
Fort +4, Ref +4, Will +1 [+2 vs illusions]
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Weapon: clockwork prosthesis, +6 attack, 1d6+4 damage, bludgeoning
Weapon: sling, +3 attack, 1d4+4 damage, 20/x2 crit, bludgeoning
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 18 (+4), Dex 14 (+2), Con 14 (+2), Int 12 (+1), Wis 14 (+2), Cha 8 (-1)

Base Atk +1; CMB +5; CMD 19

Feats: Weapon Focus (unarmed), Dodge+Mobility, Unarmed Combatant, Stunning Fist, Outslug Style

Traits: Highlander [+1 Stealth, class skill]; Mechanical Expertise [+1 Disable Device, class skill]

Skills - [5 points + 1 FC; armor penalties not included]:
Acrobatics +6
Climb +8
Disable Device +7
Know (religion) +5
Perception +6
Sense Motive +6 [Imposter-Wary]
Stealth +7

Skills - background: Craft (weapons) +5, Profession (airship sailor) +6

Languages: Common?, Kelish
--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Adventuring Gear: dagger; sling; flask of alchemist's fire; clockwork prosthesis x2
Coin: 1,8 gp
Other: backpack; artisan's tools; rope; sling bullets (10); grappling hook; torch (10); flint & steel; waterskin

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Class: Flurry of Blows
Racial: Bonus Feat; Imposter-Wary

Backstory:

Cayley Wayland graduated smoothly from a childhood obsession with airships to a more comfortably adult appreciation for the freedom of flight. So it was no wonder that she, upon finishing her schooling, joined Alkenstar's Aeromantic Fleet as a junior weapons technician. For Cayley, this was a dream come true. Unfortunately, dreams tend to be every bit as flighty as the airships she now worked on.

The Gran Iskra was the first ship Cayley could be proud of. No, it wasn't her's (goodness, no). Nor did she have any particular claim to fame on it. She hadn't even designed its weapons system. But it was the first airship she had worked on in a senior position, and Cayley couldn't help but be proud. One never forgets one's first. Pity then that the Gran Iskra never left the ground. One early morning Alkenstar's shipyard was rocked by a massive explosion. The Gran Iskra's gunpowder storage had mysteriously gone up in smoke, airship included. It was a massive setback for the Aeromantic Fleet. Fortunately, no one was harmed. No one but dutiful Cayley, who had come in to work early.

Cayley's injuries were extensive. She was bedridden for the better part of a year, and when she did finally recover, it wasn't as the woman she used to be: the explosion had claimed both her right arm and left leg. With no family to speak of, this was a dark time for Cayley. The trauma left the woman noticeably more withdrawn, alienating her few friends. Not being able to work her craft, Cayley also quickly found herself without a job. Crippled, mortified, stripped of her dream job, and with no future prospects, Cayley fell into a deep depression. That she was too proud to admit that the incident had fostered something of a phobia against gunpowder and firearms, did not help matters.

But help came from a most unexpected patron: the church of Brigh. Never having been the religious sort, Cayley was skeptical when a representative of the local church offered to "make her whole again"; the adherents of the Whisperer in Bronze were not known for their charity. But with no other option she accepted. And the church did not disappoint. The clockwork prostheses they offered her were some of the most advanced machinery she had ever seen, no doubt worth her own weight in gold. The surgery necessary to mold them onto her frame was grueling, as was the recovery. Throughout the ordeal the priests treated her as if she was no more than a broken instrument to be fixed, but Cayley was willing to do anything to be whole again. The church even brought in a martial artist from Vudra to retrain her to use her newly fortified body. And it was only through those months of training that the woman noticed: she wasn't just whole again - she was better.

Time heals all wounds, but the fallout of the incident still haunts the Cayley Wayland of today. Although she is now faster, stronger and more capable than ever, Cayley is somewhat terrified of what her new limbs and training have turned her into: a living weapon. Why the church of Brigh did this is a question that haunts her, and every morning she wonders if this is the day they will demand some terrible favor for their services.

Level progression:

I am very open to adapting the crunch to better suit the rest of the party, maybe nabbing the Perfect Scholar archetype should we be light on knowledge skills. I'm also considering picking up Master Craftsman down the line, as it doesn't seem like crafting will be likely otherwise.

Hooks for future quests:

The obvious one is the church of Brigh. Cayley is essentially in massive debt to them, but not once have they demanded anything of her. Was she just a guinea pig for their technological experiments? Did Eliza Baratella of the Brass Guild put them up to this, as a first step of moving on from clockwork sentries onto augmented humans? Or is Cayley just the chosen one as dictated by the prophecy? Heck if I know.

The explosion of the Gran Iskra is another option. Was it merely an accident, or part of some larger plot?

Now here comes the tough part...

Behold, good people of the recruitment board. Behold this fool about to try to convince a GM to allow his character to start with not one, but two items worth 6,400 gp each. May Gorum have mercy upon my soul.

You want the GM to let you play a lv.1 character with 13,000 gp in eqipment? 13,000 gp over every other PC in the game? How high are you, pray tell, and where I can I get some of that dank kush?

Madams, sirs, I am sober as the grave and the items in question are these: clockwork prostheses, one arm and one leg to be exact. For my wish is to play a monk. A cyborg monk.

A novel idea perhaps, but no sensible GM is about to shatter the recommended wealth-by-level table simply for the sake of novelty. Nor should any GM, sensible or otherwise, show such gross favoritism as to shower riches onto only one player among many.

Ah, but it is here I argue that the value of these two items, in the grand scheme of things, is effectively nil. Consider, what advantages do these clockwork limbs offer this character that flesh and blood cannot? Lethal damage via unarmed attacks? Nay, the PC in question is a Monk; he already has that capability. Situational bonuses to CMD? Houserule them away, I don't care for them. Likewise with the extra carrying capacity.

But the enchantment option, you charlatan. The prosthesis can be enchanted much like a weapon, thereby bypassing the traditional Monk's need for the ubiquitous and costly Amulet of Mighty Fists. Not only are you sneakily tricking the goodly GM into allowing you cheaper weapon enchantments down the line, you are freeing up the prized neck slot for an Amulet of Natural Armor, an item the Monk is otherwise locked out from. You are exploiting the system. Shame! Shame!

You do me a great injustice. For you see, while it is true that the Amulet of Mighty Fists is twice as costly as other weapon enchants (4000 vs 2000 gp), it is not out of a dearth of other options that the typical Monk gravitates towards it. The Unchained Monk uses the Amulet of Mighty Fists because this item, contrary to its name, enhances any body part capable of striking the enemy. This is crucial for the Unchained Monk, for this class's so called style strikes specify specific body parts. The Flying Kick style strike, for example, requires that the attack "must be a kick." Note that my proposed character is missing both an arm and a leg. Hence, I will have to enchant both of his prostheses. Two plus two equaling four, I posit that my character's equipment will be just as expensive as the average Monk's, and that I am in no way cheating the system. If anything, factoring in the price of masterworks and special materials, it will be even more expensive...

Aha, you have revealed yourself, villain! Special materials by which to bypass damage reduction, such as cold iron or silver, cannot be applied to the oft mentioned Amulet and is thusly something otherwise unavailable to the unarmed Monk. Your clockwork limbs allow you to employ these tools, giving you a minor but significant advantage. You are undone, min/maxing scum.

Just three months ago you would be correct. But not today. I bring your attention to the recently released handwraps, a 'weapon' designed for unarmed characters. These have all the same capabilities as the proposed prostheses, including the option to incorporate special materials. Again, I hold that the prostheses offer me no advantage whatsoever.

If this is true and your PC really is no more powerful than any other lv.1 Monk, despite the extra 13,000 gps, then why do this? Why all this trouble?

Because a Monk with a literal iron fist is effin' rad. I rest my case.


Hope you'll consider Osric Bedegraine, LG human sword 'n board Fighter.

Crunch:

Osric Bedegraine
Male Human Fighter 3
30 Years of Age
LG Medium Humanoid [human]
Init +2; Senses Perception +7; low-light vision
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 22, touch 12, flat-footed 20 [2 Dex + 6 armor + 4 shield]
HP 33 [3d10 + 3 Con mod + 3 FC]
Fort +7 [3 base + 3 mod + 1 magic], Ref +5 [1 base + 2 mod + 1 race + 1 magic], Will +5 [1 base + 1 mod + 1 race + 1 trait + 1 magic]
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Weapon: longsword (m), +6 attack, 1d8+5 Damage, 19-20/x2 crit, slashing
Weapon: sling (m), +6 attack, 1d4+4 damage, 20/x2 crit, bludgeoning
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 17 (+3), Dex 14 (+2), Con 16 (+3), Int 12 (+1), Wis 12 (+1), Cha 9 (-1)
Base Atk +3; CMB +6; CMD 18

Feats: Diehard; Endurance; Saving Shield; Shield Focus; Power Attack
Traits: Issian [+1 against mind-affecting]; Indomitable Faith [+1 Will]

Skills - trained (3 per lv.):
Climb +3 [1 rank + 3 class + 3 mod - 4 armor]
Know (nature) +7 [3 ranks + 3 class + 1 mod]
Perception +7 [3 ranks + 3 class + 1 mod]
Ride +2 [1 rank + 3 class + 2 mod - 4 armor]
Swim +3 [1 rank + 3 class + 3 mod - 4 armor]

Skills - untrained (whatever seems most relevant):
Stealth -2 [2 mod - 4 armor]

Skills - background:
Know (nobility) +4 [3 ranks + 1 mod]
Prof (soldier) +7 [3 ranks + 3 class + 1 mod]

Languages: Common, Draconic
--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Adventuring Gear: chainmail (+6, +2, -5)
Coin: 1720 gp, 9 sp, 8 cp
Misc:
Chainmail - 150 gp
Cloak of Resistance +1 - 1000 gp
Longsword (m; cold iron) - 330 gp
Heavy steel shield +1 - 1170 gp
Bandages of Rapid Recovery - 200 gp
Sling (m) - 300 gp
Sling bullets (10) - 1 sp
Backpack (m) - 50 gp
Whetstone - 2 cp
Fighter's Kit - 9 gp, 29 lbs
Alchemist's fire - 20 gp - 1 lbs
Potion, cure light wounds - 50 gp

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Class: Fighter feats; Bravery +1; Armor Training; Stamina Pool 6/6
Racial: Bonus Feat; Heart of the Fey

Backstory:

It is hard to imagine the sheer chaos that follows the disappearance of an entire noble house, especially when said house is also the nominal ruler of a nation. Yet this is what befell Brevoy when every member of House Rogarvia vanished seemingly overnight. Without a leadership to answer to, the country's military, civic and governmental power structure folded like so many cards, the only rule now being that of anarchy. Civil war seemed likely, with House Surtova only barely managing to steer the nation away from the brink. In the decade following, much has changed in Brevoy and in many ways the kingdom is still recovering, but the regime that was Rogarvia is wholly gone.

Or so one would think. But any regime, however powerful, is made up of mere people. And those people still inhabit Brevoy, with a very few of them still remaining loyal to the former dragon lords. Osric Bedegraine is one such man.

It is rare to find a person utterly content with their lot in life, but such was the case with Osric Bedegraine ten years ago. The progeny of a respected though not terribly influential family in Issia, Osric served as squire to the knights of House Rogarvia. The young man performed his duties both faithfully and happily, and practiced his swordsmanship with a near religious fervor. He was not the most talented knight-in-training ever seen, but he might be the most dedicated. As well he should be, for there was nothing in this world Osric wanted more than to be a knight. Such was his burning commitment, that both his peers and superiors began to think the young man a bit simple-minded. Still, there was no arguing with results, and in the fifth year of Osric's service as squire he was considered more than worthy to be knighted.

Then, disaster struck. The disappearance of House Rogarvia left their military power without leadership and anyone to answer to. Uncertainty and division festered among the ranks, with many deserting, some seeking service at other noble houses, and others still turning mercenaries. Not Osric though. No, Osric, simple and steadfast as the rock, weathered this troubled time along with those soldiers still loyal to the throne, empty though it might be. These faithful officers were duly rewarded when House Surtova, family through marriage to the Rogarvias, took power and welcomed them into the nation's new order. Ultimately, little changed for the country's military force. The hierarchy remained the same, most commanders kept their posts, knights kept their titles, and even Osric was promised that he was still set to graduate to knighthood. The only thing that truly changed was the man on the throne.

Unfortunately, this was all it took for Osric. When times change, the reasonable man changes with them. And Osric Bedegraine is not a reasonable man. With the conviction only afforded to children and fools, the young squire declared that he had sworn to serve House Rogarvia as a loyal knight and could not answer to any other master. His peers urged him to reconsider, argued that there were no more Rogarvias, and scoffed at the implied insult to their own honor, willing as they were to substitute one master for another. Many mocked him, declaring him the simpleton they had always suspected. But Osric persisted, and in the end had to leave the capital with nothing but his iron principles and shattered dreams of knighthood.

A solid decade later Osric wanders Brevoy as a pseudo-mercenary, still doggedly upholding his ideals of chivalry and duty while righting the wrongs of the land. He is not popular among many, being taciturn and introverted, but those of few means greatly appreciate him. Osric will take on any job as long as the cause is just, not caring for any reward beyond a roof to sleep under and a warm meal. He is also near-suicidal in conviction, taking on overwhelming odds without care for his own safety. No doubt he still mourns his lost ambition and now lives out a self-imposed approximation of his ideals of knighthood. Some call him mad. Many call him a fool. And even his supporters call him unreasonable, as his peers did when he first defected. Then again, it's reasonable men who adapt to the world around them. Only the truly unreasonable try to adapt the world to themselves. Osric knows this. And he will tell you that all progress thusly depends on unreasonable men.

Osric may simply belong on the spectrum. He's quiet, doesn't particularly know how to engage with people and has one interest he pursues to obsession, but this is not to say that's he's outright anti-social. He treasures any connection he manages to make with another person and even longs for such bonds. It's just that he also knows that these bonds usually require titanic effort and time on his part, time that he cannot spare. Osric is perfectly aware of what he is. He knows he's an odd, odd person with the social skills of a damp rock, and has resigned himself to being just that so as not to impose on others. In some way, he considers it selfish of him to desire companionship; after all, any potential friend of his would always offer more to the relationship than he possibly could. Better to just remain his silent self.

This restraint is also evident in his pursuit of the knightly ideal; Osric is too much of a wallflower to be a preacher. Despite his obsession with chivalry and honor, he doesn't really hold others to these ideals. His standards are his own, and he judges himself far more harshly than he does others. In other words, he's not about to admonish the party Rogue for using his class features.

In combat I'm hoping the guy will be a wall for enemies to beat on, keeping his melee allies safe with Saving Shield, all the while dealing out fair damage of his own. Apologies to the party cleric in advance, as I fully intend Osric to have no regard for his own safety; the dude is by no means suicidal, but he does prioritize allies, the mission, and his ideals over his measly life.

Thanks for reading if you've stuck out this far, and should you decide to take me on Osric Bedegraine is easily encountered on his way to the Stag Lord's fort by his lonesome, where he intend to kill the bandits by request from some traveling merchants.


I understand that you haven't quite reached the whole kingdom management aspect of the game yet, but has the party considered what leadership roles the members want to take?

I'm asking so as to avoid any party friction down the line. Were I to submit a frontlining battle cleric for example, with the intent of him/her eventually becoming high priest of the new nation, that might not jive with the other cleric in the party.


1 person marked this as a favorite.

I don't envy you that choice, Second, but I guess I'm here to make it harder. Haven't been active here for the last few pages despite checking in daily, so with the deadline coming up I thought I'd reaffirm my interest in the game with a little RP vignette.

Vignette (Sam is a hypocrite):

“You know, you really are quite the artist, my young apprentice.”

Veznutt Parooh was standing on a chair to better allow him to inspect his pupil’s work. Samton was, very naturally, considerably taller than his gnome master, and the older man needed some help to reach the desk.

“C’mon now, Mr Parooh. We’ve been over this before,” the young man replied, smiling at the compliment even as he dismissed it. “I’m an illustrator, sir. I’m not an artist.”

“And I keep telling you that your distinction between the two is nonsense! Look at that beasty you’ve drawn over Devil’s Platter! Oh, she’s gorgeous!

The gnome picked up the freshly finished map from Samton’s desk to pore over the details. Sam had indeed incorporated the Sandpoint Devil into it, as was traditional. Mapmakers typically worked in monsters and local legends into their charts, not just as a warning to travellers, but as an admission of ignorance – a sign that the area illustrated was still not fully explored. Devil’s Platter outside Sandpoint was one such area.

“Look at the fiery glare you gave her! The wings of midnight! The maw of terror! You can’t tell me every bone in your fingers isn’t brimming with artistry and imagination! Don’t deny it, boy!”

“Actually sir, I just based that on Mr Gandethus’s description. He claims to have seen it after all. No imagination required. Well, not on my part... Just a clinical, dispassionate and impersonal illustration derived from observation, sir. That’s all.”

“Aw phooey!”

Sam smiled as he teased the gnome. They had indeed had this discussion before. Veznutt Parooh was a fanciful man, as gnomes were wont to be. He appreciated everything colourful, creative and whimsical, a fact made painfully obvious at any visit to his shop; the cartographer’s store was ready to burst with treasure maps, each one more fantastical and romantic than the last, all of his own make. Every one of them was fake, of course, as he readily admitted. But while they may not lead one to buried gold, the sentimental gnome assured any customer that every one of them promised adventure and an unforgettable journey.
His apprentice, however, was the polar opposite. His maps were precise, practical and prudent. They could be beautiful, as was this latest work his master was still admiring. But any artistry Samton worked into his maps always played second fiddle to their accuracy. Sam’s maps promised nothing more than to lead one to their destination.

“Someday, young Sam. Someday I will make you appreciate the fantastical over the rational.”

And so this good-humoured debate had sparked between them. One of playful art vs. level-headed realism. The artist vs. the illustrator.

“You know I appreciate it, Mr Parooh. I just... value the objective over the subjective. The subjective is... obscure and by its very nature only holds meaning for a select few. I’d like my work to be relevant to everyone.”

“So you say. And yet I say that years from now you will be more disappointed by the destinations you skipped over than the ones you reached. So walk aside the narrow road. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the wanderlust in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover!”

"... They're maps, sir. Some people don't want adventure. Some just want directions to the nearest warm bed."

"Bah! I maintain that there is the making of a great artist in you."

“An artist draws what he sees, Mr Parooh,” Sam smiled. “I draw what is.”

Master and apprentice continued their discussion into the evening. Neither expected the other to budge and that was perfectly fine. They appreciated the conversation and enjoyed each other’s company. But if only the gnome knew that just a few feet from him, inside Samton’s haversack, lay the weapon he needed to win this contest. For inside the haversack was a journal. And inside said journal were drawings exposing young Sam as a hypocrite and a liar: pages upon pages of drawings of one Shalelu Andosana, presented not as she was but as Sam saw her. The elf warden as seen in these pages was a goddess. Beautiful beyond mortal physiology, somber as any angel, and grander than any chapel. No rationalist could have drawn these. But then, love isn't rational.

I hope you'll find room in the party for a lovelorn transmuter (original submission included here for convenience), but if not I wish you and your players a great game.


Crunch - Samton Verro, N male human Wizard:

Statistics:
Male Human Transmuter Wizard (Pact Wizard) 1
Medium humanoid (human)
Init +6; Perception +1
--------------------
DEFENSE
--------------------
AC 12, touch 12, flat-footed 10 (+2 Dex)
HP 8 (1d6 + Con mod 1 + 1 FC bonus)
Fort +1, Ref +2, Will +3
--------------------
OFFENSE
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Melee - Dagger: -1 attack, 1d4-1 damage (19-20/x2) P or S
Ranged - Dagger: +2 attack, 1d4-1 damage (19-20/x2) P or S
Space 5 ft., Reach 5 ft.
--------------------
SPECIAL ABILITIES
--------------------
Arcane School: Enhancement
- Physical Enhancement (Su) [+1 Con]
- Augment (Sp)

Arcane Bond: bonded object
--------------------
STATISTICS
--------------------
Str 8, Dex 14, Con 13, Int 19, Wis 12, Cha 10
Base Atk +0; CMB -1; CMD 11

Feats:
Spell Focus (transmutation)
Improved Initiative

Racial Traits:
Bonus Feat
Industrious: Humans are known for their drive and work ethic. Humans with this racial trait gain a +2 racial bonus on concentration checks and checks with their choice of one Craft or Profession skill (I'm taking Craft [illustration]). This racial trait replaces skilled.

Traits:
Transmuter
Childhood Crush (Shalelu)

Skills:
Appraise +8
Craft (illustration) +10
Know (arcana) +8
Know (nature) +8
Know (planes) +8
Spellcraft +8

Background Skills:
Craft (maps) +8
Know (geography) +8

Spells Known:
Cantrips (Save DC 14) -
All

1st Level (Save DC 15) -
Burning Disarm
Enlarge Person
Liberating Command
Mage Armor
Magic Weapon
Protection from Evil
Shield

Languages:
Common (Taldane)
Draconic
Elven
Skald
Thassilonian

Oppositions Schools:
Necromancy
Illusion

Witch Patron: Ancestors
--------------------
GEAR/POSSESSIONS
--------------------
All weapons above, and:
Mapmaker's kit, 2 lbs
Wizard's kit, 21 lbs
Shaving kit, 1/2 lbs
Grooming kit, 2 lbs
Ink vial
Artisan’s tools, common, 5 lbs
Spellbook, 1 lbs

Carrying Capacity Light: 26 lb. Medium: 53 lb. Heavy: 80 lb.

Currency: 8 gp, 0 sp, 0 cp
Total Weight: 32 1/2 lb.

Background:

That Samton Verro should take on wizardy is perhaps not surprising. After all, the two most influential men in his life, the gnome cartographer Veznutt Parooh and the local headmaster Ilsoari Gandethus, are both accomplished practitioners of the arcane. But both men are surprised to see young Sam become a fully proficient wizard at the tender age of eighteen. Pleased, to be sure, but surprised. It’s not that the two had low expectations for the young man. Not at all; as he grew up under the care, tutelage and indeed roof of Gandethus's school/orphanage, both his parents having unfortunately perished in a goblin attack, Sam displayed every sign of having a good head on his shoulders. And when he came of age and was apprenticed to Parooh, as a cartographer in training, the gnome too took a liking to the well-mannered and clearly bright young man. Both expressed hope that Sam would attend higher education in Magnimar or perhaps even the Twilight Academy in Galduria. That Samton would train to wield magic should not surprise them.
But that’s just it; Sam never received any training. Samton Verro is entirely self-taught and a wizard at eighteen. And this does surprise Ilsoari and Parooh, as it should anyone. Especially as both agree that while their young ward is very sensible, neither have seen anything that would indicate outright genius. Nothing less can explain Sam’s abilities.

Every mystery has an answer, however, as Samton himself would tell you. And the answer to the mystery of how young Sam Verro managed to master what would take the typical wizard years of study is simple: he cheated. Sam is what is known to some as a pact wizard, a highly derided subsection of magicians who consort with otherworldly forces to forego years of training for immediate benefits. Unbeknownst to Parooh and Gandethus, Sam has spent every penny of his meagre earnings from his master on books dealing with supernatural and extraplanar beings outside this world, desperate to contract and barter with them. It took some time, more than he would have liked, but finally, on one rainy evening inside Parooh's shop, as Sam sat bleary-eyed in front of his desk sketching a map, it contacted him. The ink on the paper started shifting to form strange unknown words, and it was then that he knew something had answered his pleas.

The reader might now be wondering why, why for goodness' sake, a perfectly normal bright young lad like Sam would expose himself to who-knows-what nefarious beings in exchange for power. Beings that would someday certainly demand a hefty price for their aid. The answer is, again, simple. And it has a name: Shalelu Andosana. Sam first met the enigmatic elf warden to Sandpoint when he was just seven years old. He doesn't remember much of the goblin incident that claimed his family on the road from Galduria to Sandpoint, but he does remember her. He knows he owes her his life. As might be expected with such a traumatic event, especially being so young, Sam was left with a deep respect, even a reverence, for Shalelu. His admiration never waned as he grew up in Turandarok Academy, and he treasured every opportunity for greeting, or even speaking to, the elusive elf whenever she stopped in town. However, as Sam matured from childhood to adolescence his feelings towards Shalelu grew more complex. He started getting nervous whenever he saw her. He became increasingly desperate to impress her. He grew obsessed with such peculiar questions as what her hair smelled like. In short, Sam was and remains head over heels in love.

It has often been said that romantic relationships between humans and elves are a fool’s errand, and Sam is no fool. While ‘dalliances’ between the two races are relatively common, a lasting relationship is near impossible. Unfortunately, while Samton pines for any attention from Shalelu, what he truly wants is exactly that. He is not interested in a casual tryst, only in eternal devotion. Sam wants the elf to make an honest man out of him.
The problem, of course, (beyond the fact that he has no idea how to even begin to express his feelings) lies in the ludicrous age difference between the two, and, crucially, their life expectancy. Expecting eternal devotion from a partner likely to outlive you by several hundred years is a cruel thing indeed. Sam loves Shalelu too much to demand that of her. Really, it would take a miracle for there to even be any chance at the lasting relationship he seeks. But seeing as the gods are busy, Sam turned to the next best thing: magic.
If anyone were to ask Samton why he took up magic, his answer would be rather trite and predictable. He would say, like so many wizards before him, that the arcane studies offer the only real glimpse at universal truth and understanding of the universe. A part of him would even mean this; Sam is quite the proponent of rationalism and objective thought. But the truth is that the young man only started practicing magic, transmutation magic specifically, to fulfil his ultimate ambition: immortality. Sam hopes that by putting his own lifespan on equal footing with the elven Shalelu, he can become a worthy, more realistic, partner to her. And if he happens to impress her along the way, so much the better...

Sam realizes the chances of his grand plans coming together are next to nil. He also fully understands that he's risking much by foregoing traditional magical study and consorting with alien beings. But love makes people do crazy things, and if you can't live with hope then why live at all?

Comments:

So, if you've gotten this far, thanks for reading. I want to just briefly discuss some mechanics, how I'm hoping they're going to play into the character and AP story, and emphasize that I'm totally willing to make minor changes to better fit the final party. For example, I chose the Ancestors witch patron because I have this idea that the character's otherworldly patron might actually be tied to Tian Xia somehow. Said patron empowers him only because it knows he will ultimately help Ameiko get the throne, something a being tied to the theme of 'ancestors' would be interested in. That's not a spoiler, is it? I mean, it's on the cover of the AP...

Regardless, that's just an idea and obviously completely in the hands of the GM, really. I wouldn't have any problem swapping the patron out for Healing instead, if the party is lacking in that department. I'm very much imagining Sam's role in the group being a buffer anyway. That, and throwing out save-or-suck spells at the enemy. As far as in-character motivation goes, he's obviously willing to go on the grand journey the AP revolves around simply because it means following Shalelu, but he also has secondary goals. For one, he wants to grow more powerful, but I also like the thought of him mapping out every region the party travels through in a grand cartography project. You may have noticed the Craft (maps) I gave him. I'm thinking he wants to gift the final outcome to Parooh the gnome back in Sandpoint when all's said and done, as thanks for taking him on as apprentice.

I could also mention that despite the True Neutral alignment I gave him in the crunch, Sam is a decent guy who on a philosophical level completely agrees with the more conventional Good PCs about helping the weak, protecting the innocent and all that jazz. It's just that he's so humble Sam views such charity an imposition on others. Who is he to interfere in others' lives? I totally expect him to gravitate towards a NG alignment throughout the game though.

Again, thanks for reading, and thanks for running the game, man, with or without me.

Another application to throw on the pile, Second. I think he's done, but do speak up if you find something missing or just have questions. This is a weird one for me as I've never made a character primarily motivated by romance before, nor am I even sure that's a particularly good idea, but I guess there a first for everything.

I'm pretty familiar with Sandpoint where the game starts out, if that's a concern, having myself run the RotR path years ago, but I know next to nothing about Jade Regent itself. I hear it's a good one despite the caravan rules being a bit iffy. Hoping to join.

Oh, and +1 on using google slides for the maps. It's a good way to do it.


ScorchedOne wrote:
Not going to lie, I really want to make the antithesis character. A real "KRUG SMASH PINK FLESHY THING" sort of character. Intimidate is a social skill...

I know, right? Gotta love fish out of water PCs, so I find myself wanting to play socially oriented garden enthusiasts in murder-hobo games, and murder-hobos in RP heavy games like these. Hate myself for it.

Anyway... I know you didn't ask for this, Dak, but I feel this would be a good place to start:

Vignette/RP sample:

In Oppara, underneath the great domed roof of the Basilica of the Last Man, Golarion’s oldest temple to the dead god Aroden, a young man flitted about the old echoing chapel. He was in danger of stumbling into an empty pew at any moment, what with his neck craned back as it was, but he was too entranced to care. The man’s attention was drawn upwards to the magnificent frescos and stained glass windows above. The church really was glorious. And yet that glory only served to highlight the disparity between its past and its present. Because where once the enormous hall had played host to prayers of the pious and the song of supplicants, today only the footsteps of tourists reverberated through it. The basilica’s only visitors these days were travellers to Taldor, people eager to see the temple turned tombstone to the dead god and constant reminder of the nation’s decline. The young man was struck by it as well. Taldor had never seemed more decrepit than now he saw it from this monument to its past glory.

He was then struck by something more physical, as his knees inevitably collided into a wooden pew. He swore under his breath as he righted himself. Hopefully not too many people had seen him make a fool out of himself, he thought as he looked about the half-deserted space. That hope was quickly dashed. For the woman just a few feet away from him could hardly not have noticed his blunder. After all, she was sitting on the same pew he had thought abandoned.

“Oh! Excuse me. Wasn’t watching my step. Sorry to… disturb you?”

His wonder at the woman slipped into his apology, for as his eyes took her in he found her odd indeed. Physically there was little noteworthy about her. The woman was utterly average in height and build, albeit perhaps somewhat paler than most Taldans. While not unattractive, she had reached that age one couldn’t call ‘young’ anymore – perhaps thirty or so, and her hair was doubly unassuming, being both brown and cut in a conservative style. No, what the young man perceived as unusual about the woman was her dress and conduct. If the fine clothes hadn’t already made it obvious, then the signet ring on one slender finger confirmed that she was a noble. And as for her conduct, well… She was praying. In the temple of a dead god. Praying fervently at that, hands clasped and head bowed. So occupied was she that neither the young man’s tumble nor apology had convinced her to even look up; he had to wait for her to finish. When she did, the woman turned towards him.

“That’s perfectly alright. I’m glad you find our church so beautiful as to forget the ground beneath you.”

More oddities leapt out at the man. Although her features were fairly plain, the woman’s beautiful voice and regal bearing lent her no small amount of appeal. But what truly stood out to him were her eyes. These were not beautiful. No, they were a horrid uniform white, two large milky pools that gave this otherwise so unassuming woman an air of exoticism. She was clearly blind. The way she looked only in his direction, not directly at him, confirmed it.

Good, he thought. That meant she wouldn’t be able to see nor remember his red face.

“Yes, um… Yes, it is that. Very beautiful. Magnificent.”

He hesitated. The young man didn’t want to pry, nor come of as rude, especially to a noble-lady, but he’d always been the curious sort. ‘Our’ church? Had he heard her right? Perhaps she had simply meant it in the loosest civic sense, but coupled with the prayer he had to wonder. Arodenties were a very rare breed today indeed. Had he come across one?

“May I… Forgive me, but may I ask… Just now, were you praying?”

“I was.”

“To… Aroden?”

A wry smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

“Yes. To Aroden.”

The young man made an indication of surprise, hoping that she would elaborate, before he remembered that she was blind and therefore oblivious to these social cues. If he wanted to know more, he would have to ask.

“Miss, could you, um… Again, I mean no disrespect, but…”

“Why am I praying to the divine equivalent of a carcass? Is that what you want to know?”

The words were far harsher than he had expected, but the smile never left left the woman’s lips. She didn’t seem at all angry, nor even annoyed. If anything she looked a bit bemused. Honestly, she reminded him of his last visit to a brothel, where the madam easily and unashamed broached subjects he was hesitant to even voice.

“Well, I suppose… Yes, I suppose that’s what I’m asking. I mean, why worship something that you know is, um… gone?”

“Gone?”

The woman lifted her light eyebrows in surprise; he couldn’t quite tell whether it was feigned or not. She then lifted a fine hand and pointed to one side of the hall without looking. Her dead eyes never moved once.

“That fresco over there – can you see it?"

“Yes.”

“Describe it to me.”

“It, um… I think that’s Aroden himself standing over a slain… devil, perhaps? I’m sorry; I’m not very good with these things. It looks like he’s entering a doorway of some sorts.”

“That’s a perfectly adequate description,” the woman smiled. “Although your ‘devil’ is actually a demon. A demon lord at that. That fresco depicts how our lord Aroden departed our world for the great unknown after slaying the demon lord Ibdurengian. You see, our current situation is not entirely new. The Last Azlanti has abandoned his people before. There was a time where he walked among us, his chosen, and guided us, fought alongside us, even founded the great nation we now reside in. I have no doubt that humanity back then, as we do now, felt an enormous loss and frustration at the moment shown in that fresco – the moment Aroden departed our reality to become the unseen force we now understand as a deity.”

If the woman’s voice was beautiful earlier, the young man now found it spellbinding. Narcotic, even. There was a conviction in her every syllable that brooked no interruption or argument. Dimly the young man realized that the woman was more preacher than devotee.

“Do you know why Aroden left us then? Because he loved us. He loved us too much to see us so dependent on him. The last Azlanti saw fathomless potential in humanity. He raised us from nothing into the greatest civilization on the planet, not for personal glory or adoration but because he could recognize the great destiny hidden within us, just as he recognized himself as the hero of the Starfall Doctrine. He was both leader and servant. As we worshiped him, he worshiped us. And I’m sure it broke his immortal heart to see the people he so adored, the people he knew had no limits, grow reliant upon him. To define themselves after him. That is why the Living God left us. Like a mother bird kicking its own young out of the nest so that it may learn to soar, Aroden abandoned his children so that we might be free. Free to do all and be all he wanted us to be, free to pursue our destiny.”

The young man gulped, audibly. He had never heard any priest, of any god dead or alive, speak with such fervour.

“I… I see. But that was then. Now he hasn’t just… retired to the great beyond. He’s dead.”

Her smile only grew wider.

“Young man, I worship him because he’s dead. Don’t you see? The sapling can never grow strong with an ancient oak cloying it. It is because our lord Aroden is dead that we are limitless. If we truly want to be worthy of the god that loved us, then we must prove that we can thrive without him. This is the destiny he foresaw us. His death set us free. Humanity’s, and thus Aroden’s, greatest triumph was his death. And besides, a god of human greatness was always a paradox. After all, only a weak humanity would need a god.”

Underneath her blank eyes the woman’s smile seemed serene. And just a little insidious.

Character concept (Maddalena Merosett):

Class:
Oracle, Intrigue mystery, Clouded Vision curse
Alignment:
LN
Link to Taldor/Oppara:
Born and raised Opparan.
Livelihood:
As a noble her primary income comes from stipends from her family, but she also works as an aide to the church of Aroden.
Rollplay & Roleplay:
Having not finalized her crunch, I imagine her major contribution to battle would be buffs, perhaps debuffs too. Out of combat I'll focus on taking abilities providing things skills typically cannot, such as mind-reading, instant disguises, and lie-detecting. I also intend for her to be able to cast undetected.
Progression:
Unsure. Probably straight Oracle, but I'm eyeing some options.
Motivation/background:
Like so many other Taldans, Maddalena "Maddy" Merosett grew up hearing stories about ancient Azlant. About how this long gone super-civilization once ruled the world, and how they, the Taldans, were the rightful heirs to that legacy. The tales were enough to swell the heart and fuel anyone's civil pride, even one otherwise so defective as Maddalena. For you see, Maddalena Merosett was born blind.

However, every cloud having a silver lining, her disability didn't come without advantages. Maddalena herself believes that she would have grown up as xenophobic as most every other Taldan if not for her blindness. Because while others judged by appearance, she never had that option. Instead, she listened. And the young Merosett found a great deal worth listening to from a great variety of people. Foreigners usually so distrusted in Taldor represented nations with philosophy, magic and science every bit as worthy as that of Taldor itself. Even in Qadirans, their long-standing enemy, Maddalena found something to admire. She became convinced that all the tribes of humanity should reunite under a new banner, a new super-civilization. A new Azlant.

If only there was something that could band them all together, some common ground all of mankind could unite over. It was then that it struck her. There had once been such a thing. Not long ago at all, at that: Aroden. The one true god of humanity, the Last Azlanti, had unified them all through shared purpose. Why shouldn't he do so again? The deity might be gone, but his teachings were not. Maddalena reasoned that if entire nations such as Rahadoum could be centered around a philosophy, then why couldn't the principles of Aroden lead humans as they once had? In pursuit of this goal, she dedicated herself to the betterment of the failing church of Aroden, and because she wanted to lead by example, even started to pray to the dead deity. This had an unexpected consequence that ensured the young Merosett's undying devotion to her cause: she began to see.

Comments:
So yeah, Maddy is a devout follower of Aroden, but more so as a philosophy than a faith. Can’t really be called a faith in-universe what with the god being dead. She believes in innovation, civilization, justice, the strong protecting the weak, work ethic, culture, the preservation of history, and the community over the individual. Really, she’s pretty much an Abadaran except her beliefs are centred entirely on the human race. And boy, does she have big plans. Her end goal in the political mess that the adventure path purports to be is more funding from Taldor to the Arodenite church, which I understand from the lore still exists, albeit extremely diminished. I love that, by the way. No better sign of how resistant Taldor is to change than the fact that they’re still keeping the church of a dead god around. Maddy wants to utilize the Arodenite church, this one thing every human tribe on the planet has in common (or rather used to), to unify all of humanity. I mean, if religions in our world can do it without magic, then why shouldn’t that follow on Golarion? She doesn’t think this can be done in her lifetime. Heck no, this will take time. But that doesn’t really matter to her as long as she can set humanity on the right course. Others will follow in her footsteps, and all of this will begin in the nation Aroden himself founded: Taldor. Starting small, right?

As far as her personal life goes, I didn’t want to write anything too specific as I don’t know if following chapters in the AP will have specifics on the Merosetts that my scribbles will just run against. I do have this idea though, that only her closest family members know that Maddy isn’t blind. Not entirely anyway, according to the mechanics of the Oracle curse. She keeps up the lie to disarm people; it makes others underestimate her. Additionally, even though she has her own agenda at court (mo’ money for the church), princess Eutropia from the player’s guide intrigues her. After all, she is a woman herself and would benefit from the end of Taldor’s primogeniture. I’m hoping that these goals (a personal political motive; fixing Taldor in Aroden’s eyes; Eutropia’s reform) will make Maddy a good fit for the path.

If you're still reading at this point, thanks.

My time zone is GMT-ish, but I may post at odd times of the day. I'm not terribly experienced with PbP in these parts, but I have a few games under my belt. I am not currently in any game. I typically only participate in one at a time, partly due to time constraint, partly as I like to dedicate myself to one game at a time. I'm with you on the year-long commitment.

Apologies for the wall of text, but you asked for it, Dak. Comments are of course welcomed.


Been looking for an excuse to get into superheroics, and M&M more specifically, for ages, and I have some familiarity with InFamous too so this is ticking a lot of boxes for me. Heck yeah, I'd be up for this.


Oh man. I've wanted to try out Kingmaker ever since first hearing of it, and there's also a very specific character option I had in mind for it, specifically from the Core rulebook. Very glad to hear you like the core PrCs, GM Relic, 'cause here's the barbarian start of what is hopefully going to be a Dragon Disciple.

Crunch:

Sigmar Darastrix
Male Human Barbarian 1
20 Years of Age
CG Medium Humanoid [human]
Init +1; Senses Perception +0
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 15, touch 11, flat-footed 14 (+4 Armor, +1 Dex)
HP 14 (1d12 + 1 Con mod + 1 FC)
Fort +3, Ref +1, Will +3
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Weapon: greatsword, +4 attack, 2d6+4 Damage, 19-20/x2 crit, slashing
Weapon: sling, +2 attack, 1d4+3 damage, 20/x2 crit, bludgeoning
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 16 (+3), Dex 12 (+1), Con 12 (+1), Int 8 (-1), Wis 11(+0), Cha 15 (+2)
Base Atk +1; CMB +4; CMD 15
Feats: Iron Will; Intimidating Prowess
Traits: Bastard (+1 Will, -2 Cha checks)
Skills (4 per lv.; armor penalties included): Climb +4; Intimidate +9; Linguistics +0; Swim +4
Languages: Common, Draconic
--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Oh man. I've wanted to try out Kingmaker ever since first hearing of it, and there's also a very specific character option I had in mind for it, specifically from the Core rulebook. Very glad to hear you like the core PrCs, GM Relic, 'cause here's the barbarian start of what is hopefully going to be a Dragon Disciple.

[spoiler=Crunch]
Sigmar Darastrix
Male Human Barbarian 1
20 Years of Age
CG Medium Humanoid [human]
Init +1; Senses Perception +0
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 15, touch 11, flat-footed 14 (+4 Armor, +1 Dex)
HP 14 (1d12 + 1 Con mod + 1 FC)
Fort +3, Ref +1, Will +3
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Weapon: greatsword, +4 attack, 2d6+4 Damage, 19-20/x2 crit, slashing
Weapon: sling, +2 attack, 1d4+3 damage, 20/x2 crit, bludgeoning
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 16 (+3), Dex 12 (+1), Con 12 (+1), Int 8 (-1), Wis 11(+0), Cha 15 (+2)
Base Atk +1; CMB +4; CMD 15
Feats: Iron Will; Intimidating Prowess
Traits: Bastard (+1 Will, -2 Cha checks)
Skills (4 per lv.; armor penalties included): Climb +4; Intimidate +9; Linguistics +0; Swim +4
Languages: Common, Draconic
--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Adventuring Gear: hide armor (+4, +4, -3)
Other Gear: coming soon...
Coin: 96,67 GP
--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Class: Fast Movement; Rage (5 rounds/day)
Racial: Bonus Feat; Skilled (extra skill point)

Background:

Living life without friends and family may seem a lonely existence, but not so for Sigmar Darastrix. Sigmar can't remember ever feeling lonely, despite longing for such a state. After all, one's never alone when you hear voices in your head.

Sigmar grew up in New Stetven, capital of Brevoy and former seat of power for House Rogarvia and their dragon servitors. Or so he assumes. The young man is only twenty, yet has no recollection of roughly half his life. From what he can gather he was dropped off at the orphanage some ten years ago in an odd state. His caretakers described him as delirious and assumed him... 'simple'. By his pampered soft skin and round well-fed cheeks, they judged him some nobleman's bastard dumped at their doorstep to avoid any public embarrassment. Still, the boy was awfully old for that. Perhaps his mental imbalance had only just come to light and had proven too shameful for his parents?

Cerebral failings aside, Sigmar grew up well enough, reaching six feet before his sixteenth birthday. The orphanage could have made use of someone with his frame, but, frankly, the caretakers wanted him gone as soon as possible. The young man was clearly not right in the head. Not only did Sigmar talk to himself incessantly, he was prone to violence. Sigmar feels great shame thinking back to those days now, despite acknowledging that his boyhood self could hardly help himself. What was a boy to do against a foreign presence inside his head screaming at him to harm others? Booted from the orphanage, the teenage Sigmar tried to stay afloat via menial jobs; he had stopped talking to himself (or rather to the thing inside himself), and was older and more disciplined. He didn't want to listen to the voice telling him to hurt people. That was evil and he wasn't evil. He didn't want to be evil.

But the more he defied it, the louder the voice grew. There were days when he would wander about practically deaf, unable to hear anything other than the presence screaming for bloody murder. And the only way it abated was by giving in. Those were dark days. Days nearly ended by his own hand. Over the years Sigmar adopted a gruff demeanor, as might be expected for one so disturbed. He shunned others out of fear, fearing that someone might learn of his madness and being equally scared that he could someday hurt someone he truly cared for. Sigmar eventually found work as a mercenary. It was not a vocation he took any pleasure in, but he had the strength for it, and it allowed him plenty of opportunity to calm the voice. Thankfully, all it demanded was violence; it did not care who Sigmar mowed down with his sword. This at least allowed him to attempt to be a sort of ethical mercenary. A ludicrous idea, yes, but he tries to avoid any job pitting him against anyone who doesn't deserve a good thrashing.

Sigmar is a troubled man, and more worryingly still is that he's recently started giving in to the voice in combat, entering a sort of berserker rage at times. Now he finds himself on a bandit clearing mission to the Stolen Lands, secretly happy to be away from civilized lands where he could hurt someone innocent. Surrounding himself with brigands and monsters is, somewhat ironically, the far safer option.

Author's comments:

I realize the character may set off some red flags for many GMs (he would for me...), appearing almost like a CN madman complete with a dull blank slate background. Wanted to assure you that this is not quite the case. I like melding game mechanics and narrative, and the original concept that led to Sigmar here is that of a lost scion of House Rogarvia. I've loved the whole mystery of this family of conquerors commanding red dragons and their disappearance ever since first reading of it years ago, and been aching to play a descendant of theirs in a Kingmaker game ever since. I'm imaging Sigmar's 'inner voice/split personality/madness/whatever' as a screwy manifestation of his dragon blood, 'cause I will indeed multiclass him into Sorcerer. His barbarian rage is tied into this as well, being not the result of some savage tradition and instead him giving in to the wild instinct of the red dragons.

Note that I have no intention of making the mystery of the Rogarvia the focus of the game; nor do I expect any extra work on your part to provide any sort of answer to said enigma. Christ no, as GM you have enough on your plate... I don't really intend for Sigmar to ever figure out his origin. Instead I want his story to be about coming to terms with what he is, and learning to connect with others (a prospect particularly interesting if he's going to be some sort of ruler). Sigmar is terrified of the voice inside him, not knowing if he's insane or even possessed, but truly wants to be good.

Apologies for not describing the character's appearance as requested; it's something I regularly do for my PCs, but in this case I find myself not particularly attached to the gender of the character. May turn him female for absolutely no reason other than some variety in the party. Will of course write something up if picked for the game.


R. Strawman, Esquire, here to ask another question: what's the point of it all?

That's a genuine question and not just me being belligerent (you'd know when I'm being belligerent). A defined end goal is the kickoff to most every game - it's what the adventuring party is founded upon: different people of different walks of life joining up around a common goal.

Which is why I feel the need to ask, if this game isn't centered around liberating Kintargo, then what is it? I think it's important to make this clear for character creation 'cause I see people primarily going one of two routes for their PCs here: either making little would-be tyrants to replace the current one, or turning the Silver Ravens into some sort of terrorist cell to tear down the Man and everything else too. And those players are not going to make a terribly cohesive party.

Best for people to know where the game is going before they put in the effort of making a character only to find said PC not to be appropriate for the game. I'm definitely interested myself, but I'll hold off applying with the roguish anarchist I'm toying with in my head until I know whether he's a fit for the game. What are we bringing to Kintargo? Tyrannical rule? Chaos and lawlessness? Or just fire?


How often can you post/contribute to the game?
Once a day should be perfectly manageable on weekdays, excepting extraordinary real-world circumstances like weddings, surgery or major earthquakes.

How many other PBPs are you currently playing?
That'd be a big fat nil, captain.

Pick a class.
Sorry to disappoint with such a basic request, but I haven't got the foggiest. Plain old Fighter? A Ranger without the magic? Slayer maybe? Suffice to say, I'm looking for a filthy no-nonsense martial who does underhanded tactics well, like trips and dirty tricks.

What will your character contribute to the party in and out of battle?
In combat, hopefully some damage, some debuffing via combat maneuvers and a whole lot of "I'm getting too old for this sh*t" quips. Out of combat, some decent bluff and knowledge: local (and maybe intimidate) numbers, and a bunch of fish-out-of-water shenanigans as this mercenary-turned-knight is not exactly at home among the nobility.

Mechanically where do you foresee your character going in the future?
I think I'll be trying to optimize a few combat maneuvers as much as I can stomach without going full munchkin.

How long has your character lived or been in Oppara? If they’re not from Oppara, where in Taldor do they live?
I dunno, a month or so? I imagine he's still trying to acclimate to the hoity-toity nonsense of the capital, although it's certainly not the first time he's been there. Not being intimately familiar with Taldor, I find it difficult to say exactly where he resides. Somewhere near the southern border, where skirmishes with Qadira are most common? Wherever there is most unrest in the nation, is what I'm going for.

How does your character make a living?
Taxes. Becoming a noble (however minor), owning land, and being able to comfortably support himself by doing near literally nothing has always been his ambition.

(Optional) What is your character's backstory?

Brace for collision, 1500 word wall incoming:

Sir Stig Bastardis, first of his name, is the most minuscule of minor nobles. Either that or the greatest success story of all mercenaries, depending on what step of the social ladder one happens to be viewing him from. Stig comes from lowly origins indeed - it's one thing to be a whoreson, but as he'll be the first to tell you, the true shame lies in knowing that your mother wasn't even particularly good at her vocation; only an incompetent prostitute would have gotten pregnant in the first place.
This is not to say that Stig feels any ill will towards his mother, nor that he thinks particularly highly of himself. No, the man is very much a realist and a cynic. His childhood fear of a world that seemed to view him with nothing but contempt gave way to adolescent anger at that self-same world, but it wasn't long before the young man started viewing everything, himself included, with a detached cynicism. Taldor was and still is a broken nation, all cracked gears chewing up and grinding everyone in it. Everywhere he looked he saw the destitute stealing to survive just another day, the working class keeping their heads down for fear of their masters, merchants hoarding and scheming to line their coffers, and the nobility at the top, pompous gits alternately squabbling or congratulating each other. And no one, not one among them, looked upon Stig the destitute street urchin with anything other than scorn.

And in his introspective cynicism, Stig couldn't really see any fault in this. He was a measly delinquent, he could acknowledge that, and everyone else was simply looking out for themselves. And then, just as now, Stig couldn't blame anyone for obeying their instinctual self-preservation. If anything he respected it. Of course people looked out for themselves. This was natural. You might as well chide cats for eating rodents, and in Stig's mind humanity is not all that far removed from animals. It was an ugly world out there and Taldor was just one great big pile of manure among many. But at least it seemed a lot more comfortable near the top.
So, in the interest of looking out for himself, Stig set out to climb the sh*t tower that was Taldor's hierarchy. He knew he didn’t have much to offer; nature hadn’t seen fit to bless him with talent or brains, but he was young, healthy and strong so the young man quickly found himself a mercenary. Stig spent well over a decade serving Lords and Ladies of the nation, starting with dirty work the official military either couldn’t be bothered with or considered beneath them, but eventually being entrusted with sensitive operations – activities of dubious legal merit that the aristocracy couldn’t hand off to the military. Aiding what was supposedly society’s finest with everything low and corrupt only reinforced Stig’s bleak view of the world, and in time he managed to curry enough favour to reach his goal: a title. He was ennobled Sir Stig Bastardis, a knight of the realm. Granted, it was the bottom rung of the noble hierarchy, and a title won through bribes and coercion at that, but he didn’t care. Stig never had grand ambitions. All he wanted was comfort and financial security, two things hard to come by in Taldor without blue blood in the veins. With the title came a small plot of land, an estate, and an arranged marriage to some poor aristocratic bint probably too ugly or old for her father to find her any other suitor. It was everything Stig had ever wanted. Now he could sit back, grow old, tax his farmers, sit on his ever expanding arse, make a few kids, and hopefully die in a warm bed with the most expensive prostitute he could find. It was perfect.

Except things didn’t go as planned. Several things went awry, actually. The first snag in Stig’s plan was the arranged marriage. The ex-court lady handed off to him was old for a maiden, as expected. But then so was he. They were in fact the same age. And no, she wasn’t winning any beauty pageant either, and, also as expected, they had near-nothing in common. She read books, talked to people, and smiled a lot. Furthermore, she was a really decent person. Annoyingly so. Stig had of course come across people like her before, idiot idealists who hadn’t seen enough of the world to be as cynical as himself. But in their talks it became clear she was neither idiot nor naïve, and living with one so honest and honourable proved surprisingly frustrating. He couldn’t help comparing himself to her and coming up infuriatingly short. He was the one who had won everything he ever wanted through blood, sweat and grime, while she was married off to a thug like a commodity. This was his victory. Yet despite this she was more content in life than Stig, and this without sacrificing her morals. It was maddening. So much so that he initially avoided her for anything other than their marital duties.
Said marital duties soon resulted in children, although after three daughters in a row Stig decided to stop bothering. He had hoped for a son, but clearly either his swimmers or the wife’s unmentionables couldn’t manage anything other than girl-children. This didn’t disturb his sleep overly much. True to his bleak outlook, Stig had never really wanted offspring and bedded his wife primarily for an heir; Taldor’s strict law of succession demanded a son. But this presented snag two and three to Stig’s scheme – because while he expected nothing but headaches from three daughters, what he got was far more disconcerting: he grew fond of them.
From the moment his oldest was able to walk he began to see qualities in them he couldn’t help but admire. All three were clever, an attribute he had no doubt came from their mother, but they were also headstrong, obstinate even. Living with three bull-headed girls could prove challenging, but their mother insisted that they got their drive from their father. And Stig realized she was right. He saw himself in that pig-headedness. It was that drive which had taken him from the slums to his current station. As they grew older their resourcefulness, their cunning and their composure in adversity all became evident, features their mother again smilingly assured Stig were positive traits of his own. The apples hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
Except they were good. Whether through nature or nurture the girls had inherited their mother’s moral compass, and for the first time in his life Stig began to see his own amoral ways as a curse rather than a blessing. He imagined his girls growing up to be like him, misanthropic and world-weary, and was despondent at the thought. He didn’t know what sort of parent he could be, amoral ex-sellsword that he was, but he promised himself that he would do everything in his power to ensure his children grew up better people than their father.

Years passed and Stig took to being a family man rather well. He loved his girls and they loved him. There was even a growing fondness towards his wife, and unless he was very much mistaken she felt similarly towards him. Every time the two saw qualities in their children they knew came from their partner their affection for the other grew. In this way the daughters brought them together. Perhaps it wasn’t true romance, whatever that was, but Stig knew it was more than he deserved. It was all more than he deserved. Which brings us neatly to the man’s current predicament: what the girls deserve. Over the years Stig has gotten increasingly annoyed at the thought of his childrens’ future. Taldor’s primogeniture prevents his daughters from inheriting his lands, and the thought of some ancient law forbidding him from bequeathing what is rightfully his, what he bled for, to the children he loves infuriates him. The distinct possibility that his land could instead be divided to some pompous noble born brats the girls might feel forced to marry as part of Taldor’s political machinations frankly brings his piss to a boil.
And this is why we find Sir Stig Bastardis in Oppara today. Having heard of Princess Eutropia’s plan to eradicate primogeniture in the nation, the old sellsword is in the capital to see what, if anything, he can do to help her, whether through his meagre title or crooked skillset. Lady Lotheed is simply a means to an end, namely reaching Taldor’s court. Stig is out of his element among the nobility and doesn’t know the first thing about government or campaigning, but there are two things he does know: he’s willing to do just about anything for his girls, and politics is dirty business. And dirty business is what he does best.

TL;DR (and I can hardly blame you):
Amoral sellsword cheats, steals and murders his way to knighthood -
Marries and gets three daughters -
Shocked to discover he actually loves his girls -
Finds faith in humanity through being a family man -
Furious that his girls can't inherit after him according to Taldan law -
Now wants to support the princess to change said law -
He loves his girls, dammit -

I don't know if my depiction of Taldor above fits your own idea of the setting, Tallgrass, but I am of course willing to adjust the character for ease of play. Hope you'll consider him and apologies for the long background.


1 person marked this as a favorite.

Tubular.


I'll echo rorek55 above; always been curious to try Kingmaker. Wilderness exploration and kingdom building sounds real neat.


I'll play whatever, really. Sounds like a melee damage sponge is needed. Are you looking for complete character submissions or just player interest? 'Cause I'd be up for rolling an urban ranger or somesuch.


I would be hugely interested, yeah. I've been dying to try a game over Roll20 for some time now, but have found time zone shenanigans a major obstacle at every attempt. Do have plenty of experience with PF though, both as a player and as a GM. I also have an appreciation for the lore of Golarion, and enjoy making characters that fit within the universe.

Would love to play any AP, really. My time zone is GMT.


Stats 1: 4d6 ⇒ (5, 5, 3, 4) = 17 = 14
Stats 2: 4d6 ⇒ (4, 1, 1, 3) = 9 = 8
Stats 3: 4d6 ⇒ (6, 2, 5, 6) = 19 = 17
Stats 4: 4d6 ⇒ (2, 1, 3, 5) = 11 = 10
Stats 5: 4d6 ⇒ (5, 6, 4, 5) = 20 = 16
Stats 6: 4d6 ⇒ (5, 4, 4, 6) = 19 = 15

Oh dear lord, that's point buy 33... I think I'll take the 15 points instead.


I am sorry to throw another cleric into the mix, another Abadaran at that, but I had this character lying about just waiting for a game like this. August Zlatostad is a dwarven support cleric of Abadar themed around economics. Be warned, his backstory is a bit lengthy.

August Zlatostad's background/vignette/thing:

"I... I'm sorry, sir, I must have heard you wrong. Could you repeat yourself?"

"I think you heard me just fine, Miss Vibia, but I could and will: 'I'd like you to whore yourself.'"

The sellsword stared at the dwarf, incredulous. She currently found herself in the somewhat shabby office of an August Zlatostad, merchant and moneylender, a person she had been advised not to approach. Her every contact were unanimous in proclaiming the dwarf unconventional, eccentric and suspicious, but every other moneylender in the city had shown her the door, so Vibia could not see the harm in at least speaking to him. Fortunately, she had long since learned to brush off whatever harm an insult could otherwise do. Vibia had heard far worse than the dwarf's proposition. She was more annoyed that he had wasted her time; her first impression of him had been surprisingly positive, dingy office notwithstanding. She rose from the rickety chair.

"Is this how you do business, sir?" she asked, cold eyes shooting daggers at the moneylender. "Snare naive girls desperate for money into some lopsided contract and then use their debt to take advantage of them? You're disgusting. I ought to report you to the authorities, or the Abadarans at the very least..."

"Oh please don't," the dwarf replied with a seemingly unconcerned smile. "Most of the fuddy-duddies at the bank are not overly fond of me."

As he spoke, one hand went up to his neck to free something hanging there, partially obscured by his mighty beard. It was a holy symbol. More specifically, it was the holy symbol of Abadar.

"Wha... It's true, then? You're a priest of Abadar?" Vibia could hardly believe the nerve of the dwarf. "And you abuse your station to get your dick wet?! What sort of..."

"Miss Vibia, I hate to interrupt, but you misunderstand. My genitals are none of your concern. Nor will they ever be, I expect. No, my agreement will require that you report for duty, as a mistress of the night, for one single day, at the parlour of a Mr Lemnus Mancilla, an acquaintance of mine. You may have heard of him? His establishment is quite professional."

The sellsword was visibly confused. "Wait... Hold on, what is this? Prostitute for a night? That's your deal? You'll give me 10.000 gold pieces for that?"

"That is the loan you asked for, is it not?" replied August the Abadaran priest, perfectly innocently. "That is my condition. Should we move on to talking interest rates? I was thinking nil percent."

"Stop, just stop. How are you gaining anything from... What did you say?"

"Interest rates, dear. At nil percent. If I may, these negotiations are going to take some time if I have to repeat every detail."

Later that night a mystified woman left the cleric's office. Vibia had gone over the dwarf's loan contract for hours, but the whole thing made no sense. He made no sense. The paperwork seemed iron-clad: after one day's service as prostitute, the proceeds of which would go to neither the dwarf nor the brothel owner but instead to herself, she would receive the full loan of 10.000 gold pieces. Without interest. She was baffled. What was the dwarf's game? How was he profiting from this? Try as she might, she couldn't find an answer to this question, and, somewhat startlingly, Vibia found herself ready to believe that there might be no answer. No answer beyond what the rumours would suggest: the man was mad. And yet she found this unsatisfactory. August Zlatostad had a way about him. He was evasive but never seemed insincere. He seemed very genuine in wanting to 'test' her, as if all he really wanted was to see whether or not she would follow through.

Which left the other, obvious, question: would she? Vibia could hardly believe that she was considering it. Her, selling herself? She had worked as a sellsword for years now, but had never stooped to selling her body in that manner. And yet; could she afford to pass on the opportunity? 10.000 gold pieces with no strings attached. A loan without interest and without any definite repayment date. It was practically a gift. She considered what the money would mean. It would be the realization of a dream. And what would she have to give up for it? Nothing, really. Nothing but her pride. Still, she hesitated. Damn that dwarf! Bless him for being willing to fund her ambition, but damn his outrageous demands! Vibia found her resolve wanting for the first time since deciding upon this endeavor, and was forced to reconsider just how far she was willing to go for this. Fortunately, she had time to think. Zlatostad had taken the loan condition very seriously himself and given her a week to think it over. She would need it.

Six days later a grimly determined mercenary reported for duty at Mancilla's establishment. It had taken some time, several sleepless nights and restless days wondering if her self-respect could survive this, but she had finally decided upon it. The loan meant too much. She'd never be able to live with herself if she gave up on it because of her own pride. As long as her cause was just, her dignity would weather any storm. She was resolute and prepared. The loan would be hers.

To say that having the pimp merely dismiss her took the wind out of her sails would be an understatement. After demanding an explanation, Mancilla could merely reveal what Zlatostad had told him, namely that if a person of Vibia's description ever turned up, he was to send her to the local bank where a new account in her name would be set up. He knew nothing more and was merely glad to be out of the dwarf's debt with this bizarre request. The mercenary rushed to the Abadaran temple where she was informed that, yes, she had an account worth 10.000 gold pieces, set up just a week ago. From there, Vibia set out for the dwarf's office, whether to thank him or to beat him she wasn't sure, but she would be disappointed regardless. August Zlatostad had left the city. From what she could gather, he had packed up soon after their meeting, after selling his office and a few other holdings in order to finance their arrangement. According to rumours, the dwarf had set out for the frontier, although his purpose in doing so was unclear. Vibia the mercenary would never understand his motives, but miles away, in the back of a caravan, August Zlatostad wondered if she had gotten her money yet. He was quite sure that she must have. He considered himself a good judge of character; he was certain that the woman would do whatever necessary to reach her goal. That goal, of course, being setting up a regulatory office for mercenaries. She was a good woman. It was a worthy goal, August thought, and one deeply needed in the crime infested city. It would take years before they would see any real impact, but that was just fine. Abadarans were patient and recognized that one could not 'fix' society overnight. But this investment would undoubtedly inch the great city nearer to the perfection Abadar forsaw for all civilizations. One step at a time. And make no mistake, it was an investment. Despite having no interest rate, despite having no payment date, despite what his colleagues at the church said, August considered it an investment. His investment was in her, Vibia. He vastly preferred investing in people over corporate entities. That's why he tested every loan applicant; to see if they were made of the right stuff. If the mercenary had let something as silly as dignity get in the way of bettering society, then she would not be worthy. Now... now it was time for him to undergo a test of his own. He was penniless once again. Let's see if he could strike it rich out in the open frontier. There was opportunity there, and gold was the fuel that kept the wheel of progress turning.

Crunch:

August Zlatostad
Male Dwarf Cleric 1
55 Years of Age
LN Medium Humanoid [dwarf]
Init +0; Senses Perception +8
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 17, touch 10, flat-footed 17 (+5 Armor; +2 Shield)
HP 10 (1d8 + 2 Con mod)
Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +5 (+2 vs poison; +4 vs spells)

--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Weapon: light crossbow, +0 Attack, 1d8 Damage, 19-20/x2 crit, 80 ft., piercing

--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 9 (-1), Dex 10 (+0), Con 14 (+2), Int 12 (+1), Wis 17(+3), Cha 12 (+1)
Base Atk +0; CMB -1; CMD 9
Feats: Steelsoul (+4 vs spells)
Traits: Seeker (+1 Perc; Perc class skill)
Skills (3 skill points + FC bonus): Diplomacy +5; Knowledge (Religion) +5; Perception +8; Sense Motive +7
Background Skills: Appraise +5; Profession (moneylender [banker?]) +7
Languages: Common, Dwarven, Goblin

--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Adventuring Gear: Heavy wooden shield (+2, -, -2); Scale mail (+5, +3, -4)
Other Gear: light crossbow, dagger, spell component pouch, wooden holy symbol, bolts x10, backpack (cheap holy text, bedroll, flint & steel, soap, torch, rations x5, waterskin, extra holy symbol)
Coin: 29,89 GP
Encumbrance: 63 lbs. - medium

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Class: Channel Positive, 1d6, DC 12, 4/day; Domains (Travel, Nobility)
Racial: Giant Hunter replaces Hatred; Treasure Sense replaces Stability and Stonecunning

--------------------
Spells
--------------------
Spells prepared:
0th: Create Water; Detect Magic; Read Magic
1st (2+1/day): Bless; Shield of Faith + Divine Favor

The crunch is only half-done; the guy is missing a trait and whatnot but I hope it will suffice for now. Thanks for reading.


Legacy of Fire has long held my interest despite me knowing near nothing about it. Something about the whole Araaabian Niiights motif just appeals to me. So yeah, I'd be up for that.


meloriel wrote:
Red Heat wrote:
submission
Hahaha. Love your story and character concept!

Thanks, man. I like Malora's desire to keep Brevoy united. She and August would make an interesting pair, being from opposite sides of the country yet practicing the same faith, albeit in their own way.


Yeesh, a surprising amount of 9th lv. divine casters... Here's another to throw on the pyre. Another Abadaran too.

In short: a support cleric themed around economics. More likely to go for the role of Treasurer than High Priest, if we ever get that far. Apologies for the background being excessive. Hope you'll give it a chance.

August Zlatostad's background/vignette/thing:

"I... I'm sorry, sir, I must have heard you wrong. Could you repeat yourself?"

"I think you heard me just fine, Miss Vibia, but I could and will: 'I'd like you to whore yourself.'"

The sellsword stared at the dwarf, incredulous. She currently found herself in the somewhat shabby office of an August Zlatostad, merchant and moneylender, a person she had been advised not to approach. Her every contact were unanimous in proclaiming the dwarf unconventional, eccentric and suspicious, but every other moneylender in Port Ice had shown her the door, so Vibia could not see the harm in at least speaking to him. Fortunately, she had long since learned to brush off whatever harm an insult could otherwise do. Vibia had heard far worse than the dwarf's proposition. She was more annoyed that he had wasted her time; her first impression of him had been surprisingly positive, dingy office notwithstanding. She rose from the rickety chair.

"Is this how you do business, sir?" she asked, cold eyes shooting daggers at the moneylender. "Snare naive girls desperate for money into some lopsided contract and then use their debt to take advantage of them? You're disgusting. I ought to report you to the authorities, or the Abadarans at the very least..."

"Oh please don't," the dwarf replied with a seemingly unconcerned smile. "Most of the fuddy-duddies at the bank are not overly fond of me."

As he spoke, one hand went up to his neck to free something hanging there, partially obscured by his mighty beard. It was a holy symbol. More specifically, it was the holy symbol of Abadar.

"Wha... It's true, then? You're a priest of Abadar?" Vibia could hardly believe the nerve of the dwarf. "And you abuse your station to get your dick wet?! What sort of..."

"Miss Vibia, I hate to interrupt, but you misunderstand. My genitals are none of your concern. Nor will they ever be, I expect. No, my agreement will require that you report for duty, as a mistress of the night, for one single day, at the parlour of a Mr Lemnus Mancilla, an acquaintance of mine. You may have heard of him? His establishment is quite professional."

The sellsword was visibly confused. "Wait... Hold on, what is this? Prostitute for a night? That's your deal? You'll give me 10.000 gold pieces for that?"

"That is the loan you asked for, is it not?" replied August the Abadaran priest, perfectly innocently. "That is my condition. Should we move on to talking interest rates? I was thinking nil percent."

"Stop, just stop. How are you gaining anything from... What did you say?"

"Interest rates, dear. At nil percent. If I may, these negotiations are going to take some time if I have to repeat every detail."

Later that night a mystified woman left the cleric's office. Vibia had gone over the dwarf's loan contract for hours, but the whole thing made no sense. He made no sense. The paperwork seemed iron-clad: after one day's service as prostitute, the proceeds of which would go to neither the dwarf nor the brothel owner but instead to herself, she would receive the full loan of 10.000 gold pieces. Without interest. She was baffled. What was the dwarf's game? How was he profiting from this? Try as she might, she couldn't find an answer to this question, and, somewhat startlingly, Vibia found herself ready to believe that there might be no answer. No answer beyond what the rumours would suggest: the man was mad. And yet she found this unsatisfactory. August Zlatostad had a way about him. He was evasive but never seemed insincere. He seemed very genuine in wanting to 'test' her, as if all he really wanted was to see whether or not she would follow through.

Which left the other, obvious, question: would she? Vibia could hardly believe that she was considering it. Her, selling herself? She had worked as a sellsword for years now, but had never stooped to selling her body in that manner. And yet; could she afford to pass on the opportunity? 10.000 gold pieces with no strings attached. A loan without interest and without any definite repayment date. It was practically a gift. She considered what the money would mean. It would be the realization of a dream. And what would she have to give up for it? Nothing, really. Nothing but her pride. Still, she hesitated. Damn that dwarf! Bless him for being willing to fund her ambition, but damn his outrageous demands! Vibia found her resolve wanting for the first time since deciding upon this endeavor, and was forced to reconsider just how far she was willing to go for this. Fortunately, she had time to think. Zlatostad had taken the loan condition very seriously himself and given her a week to think it over. She would need it.

Six days later a grimly determined mercenary reported for duty at Mancilla's establishment. It had taken some time, several sleepless nights and restless days wondering if her self-respect could survive this, but she had finally decided upon it. The loan meant too much. She'd never be able to live with herself if she gave up on it because of her own pride. As long as her cause was just, her dignity would weather any storm. She was resolute and prepared. The loan would be hers.

To say that having the pimp merely dismiss her took the wind out of her sails would be an understatement. After demanding an explanation, Mancilla could merely reveal what Zlatostad had told him, namely that if a person of Vibia's description ever turned up, he was to send her to the local bank where a new account in her name would be set up. He knew nothing more and was merely glad to be out of the dwarf's debt with this bizarre request. The mercenary rushed to the Abadaran temple where she was informed that, yes, she had an account worth 10.000 gold pieces, set up just a week ago. From there, Vibia set out for the dwarf's office, whether to thank him or to beat him she wasn't sure, but she would be disappointed regardless. August Zlatostad had left Port Ice. From what she could gather, he had packed up soon after their meeting, after selling his office and a few other holdings in order to finance their arrangement. According to rumours, the dwarf had set out for the Stolen Lands, although his purpose in doing so was unclear. Vibia the mercenary would never understand his motives, but miles away, in the back of a caravan, August Zlatostad wondered if she had gotten her money yet. He was quite sure that she must have. He considered himself a good judge of character; he was certain that the woman would do whatever necessary to reach her goal. That goal, of course, being setting up a regulatory office for mercenaries. She was a good woman. It was a worthy goal, August thought, and one deeply needed in the pirate infested city. It would take years before they would see any real impact, but that was just fine. Abadarans were patient and recognized that one could not 'fix' society overnight. But this investment would undoubtedly inch Port Ice nearer to the perfection Abadar forsaw for all civilizations. One step at a time. And make no mistake, it was an investment, August thought. Despite having no interest rate, despite having no payment date, despite what his colleagues at the church said, August considered it an investment. His investment was in her, Vibia. He vastly preferred investing in people over corporate entities. That's why he tested every loan applicant; to see if they were made of the right stuff. If the mercenary had let something as silly as dignity get in the way of bettering society, then she would not be worthy. Now... now it was time for him to undergo a test of his own. He was penniless once again. Let's see if he could strike it rich in the Stolen Lands. There was opportunity there, and gold was the fuel that kept the wheel of progress turning.

Crunch:

August Zlatostad
Male Dwarf Cleric 1
55 Years of Age
LN Medium Humanoid [dwarf]
Init +2; Senses Perception +8

--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 19, touch 12, flat-footed 17 (+5 Armor; +2 Dex; +2 Shield)
HP 10 (1d8 + 2 Con mod)
Fort +4, Ref +2, Will +5 (+2 vs poison; +4 vs spells)

--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Weapon: light crossbow, +2 Attack, 1d8 Damage, 19-20/x2 crit, 80 ft., piercing

--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 10 (+0), Dex 14 (+2), Con 15 (+2), Int 12 (+1), Wis 16(+3), Cha 12 (+1)
Base Atk +0; CMB +0; CMD 12
Feats: Steelsoul (+4 vs spells)
Traits: Frontier Healer (crazy Cure spells); Seeker (+1 Perc; Perc class skill)
Skills (3 skill points + FC bonus): Diplomacy +5; Knowledge (Religion) +5; Perception +8; Sense Motive +7
Background Skills: Appraise +5; Profession (merchant) +7
Languages: Common, Dwarven, Goblin

--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Adventuring Gear: Heavy wooden shield (+2, -, -2); Scale mail (+5, +3, -4)
Other Gear: light crossbow, dagger, spell component pouch, wooden holy symbol, bolts x10, backpack (cheap holy text, bedroll, flint & steel, soap, torch, rations x5, waterskin, extra holy symbol)
Coin: 29,89 GP
Encumbrance: 63 lbs. - medium

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Class: Channel Positive, 1d6, DC 12, 4/day; Domains (Travel, Nobility)
Racial: Giant Hunter replaces Hatred; Treasure Sense replaces Stability and Stonecunning

--------------------
Spells
--------------------
Spells prepared:
0th: Create Water; Detect Magic; Read Magic
1st (2+1/day): Bless; Shield of Faith + Divine Favor


On the subject of templates, these two should give you some inspiration.

Devilbound creature.

Demon-possessed creature.


Hello, all. I would be The Replacement (sounds like an early 90s Arnold flick that never happened) mentioned above. And this... This is my rolling post.

Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (1, 3, 1, 6) = 11 = 10
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (2, 1, 6, 6) = 15 = 14
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (6, 2, 1, 1) = 10 = 9
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (5, 6, 3, 6) = 20 = 17
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (1, 1, 1, 6) = 9 = 8
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (6, 3, 2, 1) = 12 = 11
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (2, 2, 1, 2) = 7 = 6 [DROPPED]

The above would be equivalent to point buy 16, but the total modifier would actually be no more than +3, unless my math is somehow off. That would make me eligible for a reroll, which I think I'll take... Not entirely happy with those...

Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (2, 3, 1, 3) = 9 = 8
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (4, 5, 1, 1) = 11 = 10
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (6, 3, 3, 6) = 18 = 15
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (2, 4, 3, 3) = 12 = 10
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (5, 3, 3, 1) = 12 = 11
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (2, 4, 6, 3) = 15 = 13
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (1, 1, 3, 1) = 6 = 5 [DROPPED]

Point buy 9... Reroll...

Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (3, 2, 1, 6) = 12 = 11
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (2, 3, 1, 1) = 7 = 6 [DROPPED]
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (2, 5, 6, 3) = 16 = 14
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (1, 6, 3, 4) = 14 = 13
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (4, 6, 5, 1) = 16 = 15
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (2, 1, 2, 3) = 8 = 7
Ability roll: 4d6 ⇒ (5, 1, 6, 5) = 17 = 16

Right. Point buy 22, total modifier of +6. Guess that's me. Do correct me if I've made a mistake, Aardvark, but I'll get to work setting up an alias. Looking forward to playing with all of you!


I wanted to reaffirm my interest in the game with a small vignette now that the recruitment window is closing in, because hot dang is there some fierce competition.

Trials & tribulations of Di:
“Breathe deeply before the plunge.”

Didiana was not given the opportunity before the hand at her throat forced her head under the water. The words spoken to her, the maxim of the Torrent, were an admonishment, not an instruction. The many hellknight orders differed in minor and significant ways, but one thing they all had in common were the so called reckonings. These were mortification rites, such as the Order of the Godclaws’s flagellation, used to focus the mind and temper the spirit. The Torrent’s unique reckoning, however, was less personal ritual and more punishment. Simulated drowning was, after all, difficult to achieve on one’s own.

The hand at her throat was strong, far stronger than her. Didiana knew this despite not having started to struggle yet. She knew she would eventually. Eventually she would run out of air and her panicking body would overcome her will and fight the hellknight holding her down. It was a fight she would lose. This was good. She knew that she deserved her reckoning. Her arms were still at her back. She was not restrained in any way; she forced herself to hold them there for as long as she could, but, sure enough, it wasn’t long before the flesh won over the mind. The hellknight assisting Didiana in her reckoning now felt the armiger’s flailing fingers on him. She was struggling now, desperately and pitifully. They all did eventually. He kept her submerged for a few more seconds, just long enough for her mouth to force itself open and her lungs to taste water. Only then did he pull her up.

“Why did you do it, Drost?”

Retching, wet coughs and frenzied breaths were the only answer he got. He plunged her back underwater. Didiana could not regain control of herself and felt her body fight that much harder in blind panic. It was only scant seconds before she was pulled back up, but the drowning sensation extended these into infinity.

“Why?”

She was given time to answer this time. She was allowed to cough up the accumulated water and find the air to form words. It was both mystifying and frustrating for the hellknight that Didiana chose to remain silent. She merely looked up at him apologetically. He resubmerged the remorseful face with some annoyance.

This process repeated itself a few times until Didiana felt the hellknight’s grip disappear without warning. She didn’t know when, but at some point in her reckoning a second hellknight had entered the room. Her superiors were talking amongst themselves, although she could barely follow them over her own coughing and spluttering.

“Let her go, sir?”

“Yes. The case armiger Drost was assigned to has been closed to satisfaction.”

“Closed? Sir, I have reason to believe that armiger Drost hid the identity of the culprit. However minor the crime...”

“I followed up on the case myself. The theatre director has nothing to fear. The threatening letters came from a scorned actress. He had apparently promised her a certain role, but dismissed her for someone else. I took the liberty to visit her myself. Just a shrew with delusions of grandeur. Harmless to anyone but herself, most likely assisted by drink in writing those letters. The case is closed.”

“I see... But this does not rectify Drost’s behaviour.”

“No. It does not. But there are mitigating circumstances.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact that the shrew in question happens to be armiger Drost’s mother.”

Armiger Drost stayed put during this exchange, the only movement from her being the water running from her bright red hair. Despite being dismissed by her superior she hoped that she could continue her reckoning. In her own mind, she deserved it. She was still too soft.

I realize now that I have no idea if my idea of the Order of the Torrent meshes with your own, Zek, but I hope I'm not too far off.

Trinam wrote:
Related, and definitely 100% important.

Best Zelda, right here.


GM Zek wrote:
Thank you for the dialogue sample and backstory. I appreciate the details you gave. As for background skills, Lore(criminal law) is fine by me. As for your other background point, I tend to think it's hard to go wrong with linguistics. Knowledge(nobility) would also be useful for this campaign. I'm okay with you taking two non-campaign traits, if you really think none of the campaign ones would make sense for your backstory. Also, what is your specific reason for being at the protest? Lastly, is this your first experience with play-by-post?

Thanks for the concessions. Yeah, looking back I suppose I could have been clearer in explaining why she's at the protest. In reading the player's guide the option 'Staying up on Current Events' would be a good fit. She's opposed to Barzillai but not to the point of open rebellion; she needs one final push for that. All she knows is that the current situation cannot stand, and being conflicted does not mesh well with her hell knight mindset. She's at the protest looking for that one push.

Alternatively, if you think she could reasonably have heard about this Silver Raven contact I could go for 'Meeting a Contact'. As a hell knight, again, she considers herself a guardian of the city and its people. If the Ravens are plotting open rebellion, she wants to know about it.
Whatever you think works best, really.

And no, I've tried play-by-post before.


Character sheet (thanks to Alistair whose format I pilfered):
Didiana Drost ('Di' to friends; 'Double-D' to no one; don't even try 'Deedee'.
Female Human Sorcerer
23 Years of Age
LG Medium Humanoid [human]
Init +1; Senses Perception +1
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 12, touch 11, flat-footed 11 (+1 Armor, +1 Dex)
HP 9 (1d6 +2 Con mod +1 FC)
Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +4
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Weapon: heavy mace, +1 Attack, 1d8+1 Damage, 20/x2 crit, bludgeoning
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 12 (+1), Dex 12 (+1), Con 14 (+2), Int 12 (+1), Wis 12(+1), Cha 17 (+3)
Base Atk +0; CMB +0; CMD 12
Feats: Light Armor Proficiency; Spell Focus (evocation); Eschew Materials
Traits: Natural Born Leader; Deft Dodger (+1 to Reflex)
Skills (4 skill points): Intimidate +4; Sense Motive +2; Knowledge (Planes) +2; Spellcraft +5
Background Skills: Lore (criminal law, pending GM approval) +5; (not sure what to do with the other point... Maybe find the girl a hobby?)
Languages: Common, Infernal
--------------------
Wealth
--------------------
Adventuring Gear: Armored Kilt (+1, +6, -0)
Other Gear: Sorcerer’s Kit, Bloodblock
Coin: 145 GP
--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
Class: Bloodline (Infernal + Blood Havoc mutation
Racial: Bonus Feat; Skilled (extra skill point)
--------------------
Spells
--------------------
Spells known:
0th: Daze; Detect Magic; Mage Hand; Light
1st (4/day): Charm Person; Magic Missile

Dialogue (Pulp Fiction reference very much intended):
“Listen, lady...” the exasperated dottari guard started.

“Drost,” she corrected him.

“Listen, Drost…”

“Armiger Drost.”

“Listen, armiger Drost! Asmodeus take me… You can’t just waltz up and expect me to hand out fines or jailtime to random street brats on your word alone. It takes... Hey, ease up on the kid’s wrist before it snaps, yeah?!”

The woman called Didiana Drost slackened her grip on the struggling urchin’s wrist. It was true; she had held onto the child with as much force as she could muster. Pain had been her intent. The kid was only marginally appeased.

“Right. As I was saying - even if I took your word for it, I can’t charge the boy. This kid’s what? Thirteen? He’s a juvie. And besides, petty theft? He was just trying to feed himself. He walks with a warning, you hear? You hearing this, boy? Let this be a warning, caught in the act and hauled down the street by a hell knight and all.”

Drost’s expression was difficult to read beneath her skull-like helmet, the mark of an armiger; a hell knight in training. The guard couldn’t imagine that she was best pleased with his judgement, however. The hell knight crowd weren’t exactly famed for their mercy. He was then surprised when the woman immediately relented.

“As you wish, soldier. The boy walks.”

The street urchin was so taken aback at being released that he didn’t even think to run, instead taking to soothing his newly released and aching arm. The guard didn’t quite know how to proceed.

“Alright then. Good. And that’ll be the end of that...?”

He hadn’t meant for this to be a question, but the inflection had slipped in. It was unusual, to say the least, for hell knights to let their quarry go, however minor their infraction. But the armiger reiterated:

“Of course, sir. You are the authority of our fair city. If the dottari does not wish to pursue this case, then I will not force the matter.”

“Good. Good. That’s good. Well then. I have somewhere to be... Be good, kid. Stay out of trouble.”

And with that the guard walked off, with just a hint of uncertainty in his steps, leaving the armiger and street urchin alone in the alley. The woman Drost was glaring at the boy from beneath her metal helmet, but the boy now felt brave enough to stare back. He had been terrified when he was caught stealing by not just a city guard, but by one of the infamous hell knights, albeit a mere armiger. This impotent display of hers, however, had bolstered his courage.

“Heh. Not so tough after all, huh? The stupid dottari let me go. You wanted to hurt me and the guard just totally told you off and you just took it. Like a chump. You can’t touch me,” he taunted her.

“Yes. Of course he let you go. Sections 66ZA and 66ZB of the Youth Crime and Order Act state that any juvenile without prior criminal record accused of a minor offence merely be given a reprimand. That’s what he just gave you: your reprimand.”

The boy’s face betrayed his confusion.

“But... If you knew, then why...”

“Because I needed you to see.”

“See whu...?” he slurred, newly gained confidence quickly waning. This woman, Drost, did not sound defeated. Her expression, what he could see of it, was calm and measured, and she spoke with authority.

“To whom do the hell knights answer? No, don’t bother replying. I know that you’ve skipped school far too often to answer that. Perk up those wax pools you call ears, boy, for I am about to educate you. The hell knights do not answer to the dottari, including that fool guard. They do not answer to the lord-mayor. They don’t answer to the brimstone priests. They don’t even answer to the diabolically won throne in Egorian. The hell knights answer only to the Law. And the hell knights hold all accountable.”

A sliver of menace entered Didiana Drost’s voice as the corners of her mouth drew down. Was that... disgust the boy saw?

“When the guard errs, when the politician deceives, when the priest exploits and the nobleman strays, the hell knights hold them accountable to the Law. Not the law of mortal man, because it is as fallible as he is but to a higher Law; a better Law. We must. For they are all equal before the Law. Everyone, from lofty Queen to pathetic thieving street urchin, equal. Never is this edict more important than when the government fails the Law. That is when the hell knights must remind them that we all stand equal.
And what did we just see? What did we witness, brat?”

The eponymous brat’s fear was back in full force now. The armiger’s tone was now as portentous and intimidating as any Asmodean preacher he had heard.

“We witnessed a criminal, however insignificant, brought before a law enforcement officer, a sworn guardian of the city. And the officer let the lawbreaker go. That was his right, in accordance with this city’s law, but a transgression requires just punishment. That is the hell knights’ Law. Our feeble dottari let you go and he was happier for it. He couldn’t be bothered with you. He called you ‘street brat’. That is all you are in the eyes of the state. You are insignificant and not worth the effort of jailing. That is what we saw. We witnessed complacency. We witnessed the failure of the government. And that, Zeke, is where I step in.”

“How do you know my...?”

“You name, Zeke? I know everything there is to know about you, you little piece of filth. I know where your friends roam. I know where your accomplices piss. I know where your family sleeps. Did you think our encounter today was happenstance? No, I walk in providence as an agent of the Law. Just design has brought us here, lawbreaker and lawbringer. Scum such as you must be stamped out, Zeke, so that others may live in peace. For you see, the path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. I am my brothers’ keeper and I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Law when I lay my vengeance upon thee!”

As the armiger reached for her mace, the boy named Zeke ran. His legs scurried him forward with the speed that only panic can provide. He never looked back, of course; he didn’t dare to. If he had, he would have noticed that Didiana Drost never pursued him.
Didiana soon found herself alone in the alley. Once she was sure that the boy was entirely out of earshot, she let out a heavy sigh.

Aw man. I haaate having to do that. Damn kid was terrified. Keep it together, girl. It’s for his own good. You did your duty. At best, you scared him straight. At worst, the dottari take him off the street now that you made sure he got his first warning. You did what you could.

The armiger took off her skull-like helmet to reveal a head of unusually bright red hair, cut short. She ruffled the locks. It got stuffy under that helmet. As she turned around and headed back to Citadel Vaull, Didiana thought back to her conversation with the tanner in Old Kintargo. She hoped that he would take Zeke in as an apprentice now.

Backstory:
For as long as she can remember, Didiana has dreamt of fire. It surprised her as a child to learn that not everyone saw a black void occupied only by gently flickering but all-pervasive flames in their sleep. That was alright though. Didiana was happy for anything that made her feel more unique and special; she was a needy child as she grew up in Jarvis End. The only child of a failed actress who paid more attention to her many lovers than to her daughter, Didiana quickly developed a deep need for validation. She found none in the revolving cast of father figures, which, she realizes now, was probably part of her mother's attempt to validate herself. Despite the failed theater career, the two lived comfortably thanks to the monthly royalty payment due to them. Didiana's great-grandfather was a successful playwright, extremely popular in his own day and although his fame had waned considerably since then, stage productions of his works are still put on every so often. It was these royalties from publishers and theaters that kept them afloat.

Didiana looked to her peers for the validation she missed in the home. And she pursued it with aggression and ruthlessness. Driven by the insecurities fostered by a broken home, she could accept no relation that wasn't rooted in admiration, envy or fear. On the playground she bullied any outsider to show her own superiority. In school she spread vile rumours about anyone who could be considered her equal. And on the streets she coerced others to her will. She was a master manipulator or, in the words of TV Tropes, an Alpha B&&%%.

Something changed in her early teens, however. Her dreams now featured guests, vague humanoid shapes that walked in the flames. More significantly, Didiana found that, on certain occasions, she could ask the most outrageous things of people and they would comply. Rather than be alarmed at this development, she escalated her social manipulation. Her coercion grew more insistent, her bullying harsher. A breaking point was inevitable and it came in the form of a death: after a particularly horrid prank, one of Didiana’s regular harassment targets committed suicide. This shook the young woman. She was never charged, nor even accused, of anything but Didiana recognized her own guilt. That night she slept poorly. And her dreams evolved further. The blurry figures walking in the fire drew nearer, revealing horned heads, leather wings, red skin and malevolent grins. Didiana woke up screaming but the flames did not leave her. Her bed was on fire.

The incident baffled her mother, but for Didiana that night was illuminating in more ways than one. She had time to think as she recovered from her burns and managed to confirm that she did indeed posses magic. Inhuman power flowed in her veins and she suspected, fearfully, that she knew its origin. Gods only knew what sort of bargain her grandfather had agreed to in exchange for his gifts as a writer. Her powers of coercion and manipulative temper were due to infernal influence, and the unnaturally bright red hair that grew out in place of the dark tresses burnt away acted as her proof.

Years later, Didiana Drost is unrecognizable to most who knew her. Fearing for her soul, she adopted a philosophy of strict self-discipline in order to control her every selfish urge. She avoids all vices and ignores wants and needs as she believes that succumbing to these can hurt others at best, and damn her eternal soul at worst. It was only natural then that she was drawn to the hell knights, famed as they are for their love of control, both of others and themselves. Within the Order of the Torrent Didiana learned self-restraint and got the opportunity to serve society. Today she is a true believer in the cause and fiercely loyal to her order.

The arrival of Barzillai Thrune puts Didiana in a difficult position, however. While not an outspoken critic of the royal family, she finds Barzillai’s actions in Kintargo abhorrent. His ridiculous proclamations are upheaving the city under the guise of rightful laws and the previous lord-mayor’s disappearance is suspect to say the least. The new regime makes a mockery of just rule (and having the Order of the Rack butting in on her territory is not exactly appriciated). Something has to change, but Didiana is reluctant to act without her Order’s blessing. And so it is that she joins in at the latest protest, not as a hell knight armiger but merely as a concerned citizen, looking for some sign to either relieve her fears or push her to action.

Expectations:
Thought I'd be cheeky and write an 'expectations' section of my own. Nah, this is just meant to show where I'm hoping to go with the character. I appreciate your own write-up of the same name; it's best for players and GM to be on the same page. Mechanically, I'm hoping to take Didiana down the Hellknight Signifier path. I've been wanting to play one every since I first saw those eyeless masks. Those things are way too cool. The idea of a caster covered head to toe in armor also appeals to some contradictory part of me.

Story-wise, I'd like to see the character grow throughout the game. I'm hoping that by the end of the game Didiana will have accepted that the source of her sorcerer powers do not define her, and that she's her own person and what have you. Something related would be her dislike of tieflings. I never got into it in the backstory ('cause things seemed plenty long as is), but Didiana is plainly bigoted towards tieflings. She sees her own personal issues of "blood destiny" in them, but magnified. Hoping that there will be opportunities for interactions with tieflings in the game, and for her to mend her racist ways. Did I mention that she has never revealed the source of her power?

Beyond that, just looking for a fun game, I think. Thanks for reading if you made it this far.

Would you consider letting a player forgo a campaign trait for a normal one? None of the traits appeal to me and I'd like to make Sense Motive a class skill. No biggie if you aren't up for it; I'll just take Natural Born Leader as written.