Wow, there's a lot of people throwing good ideas into the ring. This is gonna be a tough pick. I do not envy Aest's job of selection.
Search Posts
@Simeon
Bastardholm does seem much better a name for it, though perhaps that might be the name of the capital, given it's tendency to be used for names. Though it also works given it's definition, the island of bastards.
Well, here's the last bit of Shacal's backstory. Fluff for Days:
Backstory:Shacal was not a child intended by either of his parents, but the product of foreign attraction and far too much mead. His father, a magister of some talent named Dalyor had performed a series of tricks and spells, dazzling the room of patrons of a New Stetven tavern, including a young, pretty barmaid by the name of Annabeth. The smitten server quickly engaged the elf in conversation, and by the end of the night the two had shared a bed. And so, as the sun rose with Dalyor leaving alongside the caravan to Kyonin, unaware of the son he was leaving behind.
Born under the darkness of a new moon, it quickly became clear to Annabeth her child was not like other half elves. Far from the comely appearance she expect, her child's face lacked a basic symmetry, as though two children's dolls had been tore apart and used to make another. However, the child was healthy despite his uneven appearance, and Annebeth loved him all the same. Her boy lacked a love for the woodlands, instead being fascinated by the stars, often spending nights under their glow. As he grew older, dreams begin to come, as did trouble. As he slept, dreams of flying past the stars, heading deeper and deeper into the darkness began to occur again and again, even as the elves denied him training in the arcane. His talent was evident, but there was not an elf who would teach a "Mínádúrtha" their ways, especially one without a touch for nature. Despite the occasional jeering and taunts of the human children, this disregard wounded Shacal greatly, and poisoned his opinion on his pointy earred kin. To the humans however, he was just another half breed, a fact he relished. What spurred him into the Stolen Lands was a different matter. His mother had worn herself ragged taking care of her son and feeding them, a fact her body was beginning to show. The fact her beauty had diminished with age had not helped either, less coins coming in with each passing month. And so, he joined a caravan much like his father, hoping to be able to send some of the wealth trapped in the forest in furs and lumbar to his doting mother. When the bandits raided his caravan, something inside him snapped. His entire life, everything that could go wrong had, and he was not going to die so easily, leaving his mother heartbroken and those elven bastards smug in their ideas about him. Feeling his body awash with the same icy cold of his dreams, Shacal rained wraith upon the bandits, icy comets careening down in waves. In the aftermath, for the first time in his life, someone thanked him. Stunned, the half elf gave a small lopsided smile. The lions share of the attacker's equipment went to the gangly magister for his effort, and it seemed his life was turning around. This frontier could very well be his home as well as his mother's salvation. The recent call to colonize has presented itself an opportunity for him to forge a home for him and his mother. Appearance: Whatever poets waxing on about the grace and beauty of the elves and their progeny had never laid eyes on Shacal. Possessing the pointed left ear of an elf bejeweled with earring, and the rounded right ear of his mother, uneven is the word most people use to describe him, followed by roguish. His face, angular and harsh, does not match the softness of his mismatched steel and gold eyes, framed by his mother's long, pale crimson locks. His short limbs, his left arm and right leg, have given him a slight limp that makes him seem far older than his actual age. Wearing the same dark colored clothing from the bandits years ago, Shacal has made the clothing his own through small modifications and additions, a little fur there, a extra pocket there. Personality: Possessing a dry wit alongside gallows humor, Shacal is surprisingly personable when he feels the desire, aided by his laid back persona. He understands the world is not a kind place better than anyone, and tends for pragmatic worldview, often playing the fool to be underestimated. He does however have tendency to softness toward half breeds and mothers, giving them aid wherever her can. Elves however, can rot in their woodlands for all he cares, his father included. Insult his mother however, and you'll soon find his ungainly limbs have plenty of speed in them. Goals: If Shacal accomplishes nothing beside making his mother's life easier, it will be a life well lived in his eyes. However, if in the process he can discover more about his powers and outshine the elves, his father included, he will be inordinately pleased. NPCS:
Orandek, would you be willing to perhaps do some collaboration given our related backstories? Side note, at this rate we'll have to call our kingdom the Bastard Lands, home to all the oppressed and downtrodden.
No worries, just wanted to double check before I accidentally worked up some sort of totally unrelated back stories. I hope for your sake not, Shacal is not exactly the prettiest of half elves ;) (Now to find another pic)
Crunch:
Male Half Elf Sorcerer 1 N Init 5; Senses +7; Perception +4
AC 11; Touch 11; Flat-Footed 10 HP 7; Wounds —; Non-Lethal — Fort -1 ; Ref -1 ; Will +4 DR —; Immune —; Resist —; SR —
Speed 30; Melee -1 Longspear (1d8, x3); P; Brace, Reach Melee -1 Dagger (1d4, x19-20); p/s; 10 feet throw Spell-Like Abilities
Spells Known/Prepared
Statistics Str 8, Dex 12, Con 10, Int 14, Wis 14, Cha 18 Base Atk 0; CMB -1 Feats Exile's Path, Skill Focus-Diplomacy, Eschew Materials Skills acrobatics +1, appraise +2, bluff +8, climb -1, craft +2, diplomacy +7 (+3), disable Device -, disguise +4, escape Artist +1, fly -, handle Animal -, heal +2, intimidate +4, knowledge Arcana -, knowledge Dungeoneering -, knowledge Engineering -, knowledge Geography -, knowledge History -, knowledge Local -, knowledge Nature -, knowledge Nobility -, knowledge Planes -, knowledge Religion -, linguistics -, perception +4, perform +4, profession -, ride +1, sense Motive +7, sleight Of Hand -, spellcraft -, stealth +1, survival +2, swim -1, use Magic Device 5; Conditional Modifiers 4/level Languages Common, Elven, Aklo SQ Mismatched (Racial), Elf Scorned (Racial), Adaptability (Racial), Elf Blood (Racial), Bloodline Arcana (Su), Eschew Material (Feat) Gear Weapon: Longspear, Outfit: Burglar's, Kit: Sorcerer's, Hip Flask, Fishhook (3), Rope, Hemp, Bell Net, Twine/String, Mead, Gallon, Charcoal (2), Journal, Weapon: Dagger (2); Money 99 cp, 36 gp, 86 sp Playstyle:
Outside of combat, our (grumpy mildly alcoholic) friendly half elf will be more than sufficient at soothing any ruffled feathers and sorting out disputes with his words. In combat, he'll be a mix of ranged nuker and debuffer, letting the others handle the messy side of combat. Shacal is a pragmatic man, with little concern on how something gets done, so long as it is done. Background is cooking, but I'd like a definitive answer from Aest on campaign traits before I set anything solid down. Also, you beat me to the punch Caerwyn, why ;-;
If recruitment is still open, I'd like to throw a hat in the ring. Silvatarae is still being constructed, but I think the foundations are all in place. He's built to fill a damage/support role, with all sorts of fun interactions with forests and the ilk. Plus, the idea of an angry forest elf that magically punches everything makes me inordinately pleased with myself. Moment of Acension:
With an grunt of effort, the last of the interlopers fell to the ground, his head tumbling shortly after to join it's body resting in the bloody loom. His slayer, a giant brute of an elf, knelt to inspect the bodies of the intruders, the green glint of his axe dulled by the blood covering it's head. "No one pushes this far into the forest, especially adventurers." The forest guardian mumbled to himself, foraging through the leader's belongings to see if there was a reason these fools had carved a path through his home.
Pulling free a parchment covering in charcoal marking, the elf stood up. Noticing an arrow still buried in his shoulder, Silvatarae snapped the haft with ease, before pushing the arrow through with a grunt of pain. Glancing at the map, the knight scratched at the moss that covered his face in the imitation of a beard. This map indicates the existence of a shrine near the Great Oak, but I don't remember any such structure there. Grabbing the haft of his axe, Silvatarae set off to check the veracity of the map. Eventually, the wilderness warrior stumbled upon a stone structure that seemed to be built like a temple. Grabbing his axe's heft, the elf wandered into the entrance cautiously. In the center stood a stone obelisk, covered in Sylvan markings. Peering about, Silvatarae neared the obelisk, squinting to read the script. His weapon's edge touched the obelisk, then pain wracked the elf's body. Dropping to his knees, he managed to make out a single sentence before he succumbed to darkness, his right arm feeling as though it was being burned to a crisp. One defender of the verdant shall be reborn...
His calling is to defend Nature, more specifically the great forests of Creation. |