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The iconic wizard wears the conical hat to draw down power, wears flowing robes and in many cases has a long (sometimes forked) beard to focus the channel of power (and to represent the wisdom of age). There are many other tropes like binding the index and middle finger during tutelage, wearing kohl to protect against the spirits etc. Going along with this, the stereotypical necromancer is draped in a black robe and bedecked in skulls and bones. So my question is, what would the other specialist wizards wear? What separates an evoker from an abjurer? One option would be to use the "Color of Magic" idea, with each specialty associated with the color of its school (using whatever spectrum of preference), but does anyone have any ideas as to what garb specialist wizards besides necromancers might wear to identify themselves in the world? Often even a simple farmer can identify a wizard (or generally a spellcaster), but would someone a little bit more in the know be able to discern your average diviner from your average transmuter?
This is the discussion/out-of-game thread for my Peddler's Tale campaign. The campaign is (currently) a solo game taking place in the Eberron world using Pathfinder game rules. You are welcome to discuss here, dot to follow along, or ask any questions for clarification (such as Goblin words or any Eberron material that is unfamiliar). Our story opens with a brief interaction between Raunip's mother and father, the hobgoblin merchant Sora Esma and a hobgoblin warrior named Raunip. The campaign begins a few years ago when Raunip II is still a child. Gorb, the bugbear, is Esma's servant acquired in a trade seasons prior.
Wildnight- Sypheros, 971 YK: The olhirot's eyes lit up as they landed upon the blade. Wielding shaarat of the marguul, any ghaal'dar could earn the rank of rhu. No longer would the hobgoblin be a common soldier... "Ta muut, Sora." As he reached for the blade, the merchantess withdrew the prize. Clicking her tongue, she chastised the warrior. "A fine weapon indeed. Many good trades were made to acquire it, but Esma needs one final trade from you to seal our bargain." The fire of greed in his eyes dimmed slightly. "What do you need of me, Niianu Batvuuk, Mother of Markets?" The aged trader laughed, "Your words are like shaat'aar to be so sweet, but flattery is only the beginning of your payment. Look to the sky. Do you know what tonight is, gaa'dar?" Raising her hand, both hobgoblins looked towards the sky, the Golden Ring shining amongst the stars. He shook his head. "It is her Wildnight," the crone explained. "And tonight you shall trade me your lasting name." "Paatcha, but I do not know what you ask." The hobgoblin began to worry that she would take the great blade, the skai shaarat, and his chance to become more than a foot soldier. "Whatever you ask, I will offer." Waving her hand, the old hobgoblin began to change. Her fur became more vibrant, creases of time removed from her face as her bent back straightened. Now she stood as an example of beauty and youth. "You... you are no maiden, Sora Esma." the warrior stammered. "And you are no lhesh. Tonight, Raunip, you will give me a child..."
10 Eyre, Zor 998 YK High above the heart of the City of Towers, a light rain falls on Sharn. Lyrandar Tower, one of the highest points of the city, is far removed from the toils down below. Only the Skyway blocks the perfect view of the rainy skies above. Passengers and crew continue to board and leave , a sleek but impressive elemental galleon built of dark soarwood. A bell sounds, signaling the last call for passengers. Glancing at your orders, you know that viceroy Solia would have your hide if you missed your ride, or worse- assign you to deckhand duty for the next several months. Though you have spent the last two days with your kinsmen in the Lyrandar Enclave, Captain Thariv habitually checks over your orders and identification papers as you board her vessel. Her Storm Mark glimmers across her face. She smiles as she hands your papers back, "No worries, cousin. As long as the winds hold, you'll be in Stormreach in three days. Your quarters are on first deck with the crew. We have capable hands, but should winds turn against us you'll be expected to help maintain the Talon. Other than a crew of Tharask prospectors, we have a few passengers hoping to see the wild continent, and our emissary K'exik. If you have any questions, flag me or my crew down." The young captain slaps you on the back as she urges you on board, reaching out to inspect the papers of the next passenger. The deck is spacious, and half a dozen of your kin rush about to prepare the ship for launch. One or two passengers make their way down below, but the majority stay to witness the galleon's take off. Once everyone is on board, Captain Thariv takes the helm. You watch as her dragonmark flares to life, glowing blue and purple as she communes with the elemental bound to the airship. With a thrum and a crackle, a cerulean ring of energy bursts into view around the vessel. Many of the patrons awe at the marvel as the Roc's Talon lifts away from the dock. Flocking to the rails, they watch for the next few minutes as Sharn passes underneath. Amidst the travelers, you see an aquatic elf standing on deck, his eyes closed in serenity as he enjoys the mist of rain. He stands quite tall for an elf, matching the height of most humans, his green hair whipping in the breeze. His dark green robes paint him as a man of faith.
The Sea of Rage earns her name this evening. Between the spray from the sea and the downpour of frigid rain, one would have a difficult time staying dry. Water cascades down the edges of the roads, sweeping away debris, guilt, and regret. The ramshackle buildings of Port Krez stand next to each other, sometimes the foundation of its neighbor the only thing keeping a structure erect, seem themselves to cling together for an illusion of warmth. Crowded and overbearing, yet a network of alleyways has managed to worm through gaps in the city’s construction. Occasionally to the East, glimpses of the Sea can be seen through interruptions in the wall-to-wall buildings, and in the fading sunlight, grey mists ebb and flow on the horizon. Even passersby have heard tales of the Gray Tide, a dangerous and elusive phenomenon. Architecture here is as varied at its people. Many doors were made wide and large to accommodate the ogres and orc-kind seen trudging through the streets, but many more buildings show the squat and sturdy defendable designs of the Dwarves of Mror, and too can descendants of these architects be seen going about their business in the City. Dwarven magewrights tend to the few intact continual flame lanterns as the light fades. Though the streets are lined with many, most are shattered, or have fallen into some form of vandalism or disarray. Pulling their cloaks tighter and their wide brimmed hats lower, natives begin to make their way indoors or out of sight, as the water continues to fall in sheets. Alistair:
The last several weeks have not been kind. As you find yourself traveling further and further East chasing rumors of forgotten treasure, you find yourself in the company of seedier peoples. Few caravans and vessels have need of an exorcist’s talents, the less educated have deduced that anyone in league with spirits is a Khyber-worshipping lunatic, and you have found yourself less than kindly removed from a few of your paid passages. People stopped asking questions near Talenta. If you pull your weight and defend the folk you travel with if it comes to it, they let your business be. A dwarven merchant offered you a ride aboard her derelict ship, not much more than a glorified paddleboat, and took you to her home city of Port Krez in the Principalities. The old salt talked your ear off about the treasures of Trebaz Sinara and the possibilities of Tempest Isle. If you’re going to search for some coin to fill your coffers, there are worse places than Lhazaar. The storm that hit as you made port occupied your hostess, but she assures you that answers can be found in the city… Avicia:
A full night’s sleep would be a blessing, but it has been too long for you to expect such kindness. A lovely maiden of Thrane would draw many an eye in the Isles, afflicted as you are, you draw even more sidelong and wary glances. Most give you a wide berth, though a few pirates have found firsthand your skill with your pike. A den of aberrant-marked thieves and urchins has taken kindly to you, your withered countenance pales in comparison to some of their physical side-effects. Their leader, a man to which you are still unsure is dwarf or lizardfolk, has been trying to get you to join their brotherhood, confusing your dark talents with Khyber’s blood blessing. He is adamant that your mark will manifest and you will lead the Boilers to glory. At night, the voices whisper. Lately they have been telling you of dragons painted in stars, and of opportunities waiting to be grasped. “To live, one must travel to Dolurrh…” Chierak:
Your exile has been a lonely one. You’ve met few dar on the open waters, save for the random ship golin by and by, but fewer still know of the glory of your people. Aboard one ship, as you worked for travel, you found that the Talentan minstrel knew a few songs of your kind, and though she sang sweetly, her words were empty of the reverence that the duur’kala blend into their songs, a hollow reminder of home and what you have lost. The Lhazaarites put your strong back to use, and even mostly human crews are willing to accept your aid. Baubles and battles you have found a’plenty, but none with honor or much reward. The pirates attack each other and villages almost without purpose. Off the northern shores of Lastpoint, the brigands you were employed by came under attack. Their pathetic schooner quickly falling prey to the revenge laid upon her by one of the Cloudreavers’ elite. She took no prisoners, and soon left all for dead in the burning and sinking remains. Adrift a piece of the ship, unsure if any others survived, you were lucky enough to be pulled by the tide into Port Krez. It has been a Khyber of a week, and you could use a fresh start. Dwarves at the docks offer you a room for the night to shake off the cold, and the next day point you into the city to begin anew. Dharatatak:
”Wake, little soldier, your Destiny awaits.” For a moment you think that your blade sounds much nicer than it has before, until you open your eye and realize the voice belongs to the human serving girl that offered you a place to sleep. Rolling over in the hay you find yourself nose to nose with a hefty sow. The serving girl giggles. “I managed to sneak you some breakfast, but Kra would be most displeased if he found I let a goblin sleep in our pen. I’m afraid after you eat you must go.” After a too-small breakfast, even for you, you find yourself ushered out into the rain. Orienting yourself, you hear a familiar voice whisper “Aram’dar.” You find your swordhand outstretched and pointing further into the city. Making your way through alleys and between the legs of larger folk, you overhear this city is called Port Krez, however any time you try to inquire further your answer is usually the end of a boot. Glancing up, as goblins have to do often, you catch sight of the bottom of a ship sailing over the rooftops. You catch a glimmer of a burning ring of fire before it is gone from your sight. Illyri:
Not a day goes by that Zach doesn’t cross your mind. How could he not, in a place like this, where street urchins are far too common? The Isles have been fair to you thus far, jumping from one island to the next. No place has felt like home since The Nest. Usually you find it easy to finish a job, but now and again it rings too much of the past and a changed face later you start again in a different town. It is all too easy to get lost in Lhazaar. Every few months some deranged pirate goes after Trebaz Sinara, most never return, those that do rarely have more than horror stories to share and battle scars to back them up. You’ve heard whisper that there are changelings in Lastpoint, and without realizing it, every trip you’ve made has brought you further South. The last ship you jumped dropped you off in Krag, in Port Krez. A wretched city composed of mostly orc-kin and dwarves, an odd mixture but works here for some reason. If you could just land a good haul, you might be able to make some headway in life. Few people question the presence of an elf, being relatively common in the Isles. A storm has carried over, though, and fewer people are out today in the chill of the rain. As you head into the city, you spy a child lifting a few coins from the cloak of a dwarf sailor. She seems oblivious. The youth has the familiar blonde hair that you came to love, and you are awestruck, but the moment is broken when you notice the boy’s other hand is the size of an ogre’s, and blister red. Meeting your eyes the boy scampers off into the dark flooding alleys. Micha:
Your travels have taken you across the entirety of Khorvaire. You have seen good, and also terrible evil, stains from the Last War. Your mark has opened doors to you that you never thought possible, travel and luxury, but also the burden of every carpenter with a splinter coming to you for aid. In Breland, you met an elderly half-orc who calls himself Jazahn. Seeing your quest for experience, he offered to take you and Poppy with him on his sailing vessel as he explored the coasts. In the weeks you passed with him, it became apparent that his health did not match his fervor. In his quarters, through bouts of heavy coughing, he revealed that his true reason for bringing you along was in hopes you knew of a remedy to his wasting ailment. Discovering that the illness is foreign to you, the captain resigned to finish out his days in his homeland of Krag. Along the journey, you discover how needy some people can be, and how many people are just trying to make their mark upon the world. The Fang pulled into Port Krez just as a heavy storm hit. Jazahn took your hand fondly, apologized for his ulterior motives, and sent you on your way to see the world. Somehow you knew that would be the last time you saw the half-orc amongst the living. As the cold downpour drenches you and your companion, you find it might be a good idea to get an agitated wolverine dry. A few fisherman point the way into the city where a few taverns can be found, answering quickly to get away from your snarling pet. As you pass the alleys, you can see several spots where fresh blood from the darkness mingles with the water flowing down the streets. One by one lights inside businesses and homes extinguish, adding a sense of urgency to the chill solitude of the night. A few people can be seen congregating towards an alley. Bottlenecked, the alley is cramped, but mostly clean of refuse. A solitary door betwixt two smoky windows lies at the end. Many of the figures make their way inside, a few linger in the alley chatting or smoking. A simple symbol etched into the door resembles the symbol for the Sovereign Host, two words written in Common and Dwarven are scribed beneath the symbol- Dolurrh’s Doorstep.
The Sea of Rage earns her name this evening. Between the spray from the sea and the downpour of frigid rain, one would have a difficult time staying dry. Water cascades down the edges of the roads, sweeping away debris, guilt, and regret. The ramshackle buildings of Port Krez stand next to each other, sometimes the foundation of its neighbor the only thing keeping a structure erect, seem themselves to cling together for an illusion of warmth. Crowded and overbearing, yet a network of alleyways has managed to worm through gaps in the city’s construction. Occasionally to the East, glimpses of the Sea can be seen through interruptions in the wall-to-wall buildings, and in the fading sunlight, grey mists ebb and flow on the horizon. Even passersby have heard tales of the Gray Tide, a dangerous and elusive phenomenon. Architecture here is as varied at its people. Many doors were made wide and large to accommodate the ogres and orc-kind seen trudging through the streets, but many more buildings show the squat and sturdy defendable designs of the Dwarves of Mror, and too can descendants of these architects be seen going about their business in the City. Dwarven magewrights tend to the few intact continual flame lanterns as the light fades. Though the streets are lined with many, most are shattered, or have fallen into some form of vandalism or disarray. Pulling their cloaks tighter and their wide brimmed hats lower, natives begin to make their way indoors or out of sight, as the water continues to fall in sheets. Alistair:
The last several weeks have not been kind. As you find yourself traveling further and further East chasing rumors of forgotten treasure, you find yourself in the company of seedier peoples. Few caravans and vessels have need of an exorcist’s talents, the less educated have deduced that anyone in league with spirits is a Khyber-worshipping lunatic, and you have found yourself less than kindly removed from a few of your paid passages. People stopped asking questions near Talenta. If you pull your weight and defend the folk you travel with if it comes to it, they let your business be. A dwarven merchant offered you a ride aboard her derelict ship, not much more than a glorified paddleboat, and took you to her home city of Port Krez in the Principalities. The old salt talked your ear off about the treasures of Trebaz Sinara and the possibilities of Tempest Isle. If you’re going to search for some coin to fill your coffers, there are worse places than Lhazaar. The storm that hit as you made port occupied your hostess, but she assures you that answers can be found in the city… Avicia:
A full night’s sleep would be a blessing, but it has been too long for you to expect such kindness. A lovely maiden of Thrane would draw many an eye in the Isles, afflicted as you are, you draw even more sidelong and wary glances. Most give you a wide berth, though a few pirates have found firsthand your skill with your pike. A den of aberrant-marked thieves and urchins has taken kindly to you, your withered countenance pales in comparison to some of their physical side-effects. Their leader, a man to which you are still unsure is dwarf or lizardfolk, has been trying to get you to join their brotherhood, confusing your dark talents with Khyber’s blood blessing. He is adamant that your mark will manifest and you will lead the Boilers to glory. At night, the voices whisper. Lately they have been telling you of dragons painted in stars, and of opportunities waiting to be grasped. “To live, one must travel to Dolurrh…” Chierak:
Your exile has been a lonely one. You’ve met few dar on the open waters, save for the random ship golin by and by, but fewer still know of the glory of your people. Aboard one ship, as you worked for travel, you found that the Talentan minstrel knew a few songs of your kind, and though she sang sweetly, her words were empty of the reverence that the duur’kala blend into their songs, a hollow reminder of home and what you have lost. The Lhazaarites put your strong back to use, and even mostly human crews are willing to accept your aid. Baubles and battles you have found a’plenty, but none with honor or much reward. The pirates attack each other and villages almost without purpose. Off the northern shores of Lastpoint, the brigands you were employed by came under attack. Their pathetic schooner quickly falling prey to the revenge laid upon her by one of the Cloudreavers’ elite. She took no prisoners, and soon left all for dead in the burning and sinking remains. Adrift a piece of the ship, unsure if any others survived, you were lucky enough to be pulled by the tide into Port Krez. It has been a Khyber of a week, and you could use a fresh start. Dwarves at the docks offer you a room for the night to shake off the cold, and the next day point you into the city to begin anew. Dharatatak:
”Wake, little soldier, your Destiny awaits.” For a moment you think that your blade sounds much nicer than it has before, until you open your eye and realize the voice belongs to the human serving girl that offered you a place to sleep. Rolling over in the hay you find yourself nose to nose with a hefty sow. The serving girl giggles. “I managed to sneak you some breakfast, but Kra would be most displeased if he found I let a goblin sleep in our pen. I’m afraid after you eat you must go.” After a too-small breakfast, even for you, you find yourself ushered out into the rain. Orienting yourself, you hear a familiar voice whisper “Aram’dar.” You find your swordhand outstretched and pointing further into the city. Making your way through alleys and between the legs of larger folk, you overhear this city is called Port Krez, however any time you try to inquire further your answer is usually the end of a boot. Glancing up, as goblins have to do often, you catch sight of the bottom of a ship sailing over the rooftops. You catch a glimmer of a burning ring of fire before it is gone from your sight. Illyri:
Not a day goes by that Zach doesn’t cross your mind. How could he not, in a place like this, where street urchins are far too common? The Isles have been fair to you thus far, jumping from one island to the next. No place has felt like home since The Nest. Usually you find it easy to finish a job, but now and again it rings too much of the past and a changed face later you start again in a different town. It is all too easy to get lost in Lhazaar. Every few months some deranged pirate goes after Trebaz Sinara, most never return, those that do rarely have more than horror stories to share and battle scars to back them up. You’ve heard whisper that there are changelings in Lastpoint, and without realizing it, every trip you’ve made has brought you further South. The last ship you jumped dropped you off in Krag, in Port Krez. A wretched city composed of mostly orc-kin and dwarves, an odd mixture but works here for some reason. If you could just land a good haul, you might be able to make some headway in life. Few people question the presence of an elf, being relatively common in the Isles. A storm has carried over, though, and fewer people are out today in the chill of the rain. As you head into the city, you spy a child lifting a few coins from the cloak of a dwarf sailor. She seems oblivious. The youth has the familiar blonde hair that you came to love, and you are awestruck, but the moment is broken when you notice the boy’s other hand is the size of an ogre’s, and blister red. Meeting your eyes the boy scampers off into the dark flooding alleys. Micha:
Your travels have taken you across the entirety of Khorvaire. You have seen good, and also terrible evil, stains from the Last War. Your mark has opened doors to you that you never thought possible, travel and luxury, but also the burden of every carpenter with a splinter coming to you for aid. In Breland, you met an elderly half-orc who calls himself Jazahn. Seeing your quest for experience, he offered to take you and Poppy with him on his sailing vessel as he explored the coasts. In the weeks you passed with him, it became apparent that his health did not match his fervor. In his quarters, through bouts of heavy coughing, he revealed that his true reason for bringing you along was in hopes you knew of a remedy to his wasting ailment. Discovering that the illness is foreign to you, the captain resigned to finish out his days in his homeland of Krag. Along the journey, you discover how needy some people can be, and how many people are just trying to make their mark upon the world. The Fang pulled into Port Krez just as a heavy storm hit. Jazahn took your hand fondly, apologized for his ulterior motives, and sent you on your way to see the world. Somehow you knew that would be the last time you saw the half-orc amongst the living. As the cold downpour drenches you and your companion, you find it might be a good idea to get an agitated wolverine dry. A few fisherman point the way into the city where a few taverns can be found, answering quickly to get away from your snarling pet. As you pass the alleys, you can see several spots where fresh blood from the darkness mingles with the water flowing down the streets. One by one lights inside businesses and homes extinguish, adding a sense of urgency to the chill solitude of the night. A few people can be seen congregating towards an alley. Bottlenecked, the alley is cramped, but mostly clean of refuse. A solitary door betwixt two smoky windows lies at the end. Many of the figures make their way inside, a few linger in the alley chatting or smoking. A simple symbol etched into the door resembles the symbol for the Sovereign Host, two words written in Common and Dwarven are scribed beneath the symbol- Dolurrh’s Doorstep.
I am going to be running Reign of Winter tabletop for my players starting this week or next, but I would very much love the chance to go through the campaign as a player as well. If anybody is willing to run a game, I would greatly appreciate it. (I am wanting to play a changeling or hag~themed tiefling if possible) Thank you in advance! ~Quip
Wand Breakers is an original campaign set in the Forgotten Realms campaign setting using Pathfinder rules. Most 3.5 material is also viable. My party consists of:
The party is 1st level. At this time, I am looking for 1 more player, and a very specific role. If anybody would be interested in playing a female tibbit cleric of Sharess please contact me. As other party needs arise I will be posting here again. Thank you.
This will be the discussion thread for my Wand Breakers campaign. Any questions you guys have, you may post here, or if you need a refresher. This is a Forgotten Realms campaign using Pathfinder rules. The party started in the town of Dawnscry, a small Lathander worshiping village in the southern part of Vilhon Reach.
15th Harvester, Starday
"I never knew that my father... was a dream. Although it does explain a lot, it opens up more questions. But what are we to do with this Orion and the Scarlet Inquisition?"
I am trying to get at least two more players for my crew and weekly games. We play 3.5, Pathfinder, Call of Cthulhu, Mutants and Masterminds, and Heroscape... Really hoping to find people for at least our upcoming Pathfinder games. I would like to start a Carrion Crown game as soon as I have a solid group of players. If anybody is interested, please just let me know! Thanks everyone! ~Jarrod
In my attempt to compile a list of all hags in my post Here: Hags I was told by W E Ray that Rezdave could assist me in this endeavor with a listing of hags as they appear in Dungeon Magazine. I would formally like to ask for help with this and would greatly appreciate anything that anybody could tell me or any directions anyone can point me in. Thanks!
I am trying to assemble data on all of the 3.5/d20/OGL Hags and hag-like creatures I can find. Here is the list I have currently, if anybody has any I've missed, please let me know. Thank you!
Creatures created by Hags:
Creatures connected to Night Hags:
A while back, I was flipping through one of my Dungeon magazines, and in the advertisement for back issues, one of the adventure synopses mentioned an imp beseeching help from the party because it does not wish to become a goblin's familiar. Unfortunately, I didn't mark the page or issue, so I am wondering if anybody can please point me in the right direction. Which issue has that adventure? Thank you!
I am trying to find which minis people think would work best for these two great witches. So far for Tasha, the best miniature I have found so far is Hordes - Minions: Lanyssa Ryssl, Nyss Sorceress I think I can paint her cloak to resemble Fiend's Embrace. I would appreciate any feedback on this idea or other suggestions for her or Baba Yaga. Thanks! |
