Here's the backstory for Strife, a Marksman/Witch starting off with a level of Slayer. The idea for him is that the events in Assimilation Strain will unlock his psionic potential. I will get the crunch into the profile shortly.
Background:
Strife slid off the wagon as it came to a stop at the edge of Holver's Ferry. He reached in to the wagon for his few belongings and turned to shake the driver's hand. Thom was a good sort, offering Strife a ride even as he warned Strife to stay away from the man's daughter. In other circumstances, Strife would have taken that as a challenge, but the farmer hadn't had anything personal against Strife; he just didn't want Sophi's heart to be broken when Strife inevitably moved on. The company had been pleasant enough and helped the miles go quicker. He told their fortunes, and played some cards, though not for money. "Only take coin from those who can afford it," Old Gershom used to say. "Or those who deserve it," he'd end with a wink. He called it the Gambler's Code.
As the farmer pulled away, Strife tipped his hat to Thom's wife and waved goodbye to the children. A cool breeze came off the river and Strife reveled in it for a long moment before setting his shoulders and beginning his search for whatever establishment catered to people's vices. Looking around, it didn't seem like there was anything special about this particular frontier town which made him think about why he'd come here.
The Honey Rose was as respectable as one could hope for a whorehouse to be. The saloon was clean and Miss Joelle didn't water down the liquor too much. Strife was playing cards to distract himself from what was happening upstairs. The game was going well; he had a solid read on most of the other players who were easily studied, though the woman was confusing his usually reliable insight. From her dress and mannerisms, she seemed much too classy for a place like this. She definitely knew how to play, but didn't seem to be playing to win or even enjoying the game. It was as if she was bored, but resolved to see it through to the end. The cards in his head shuffled endlessly, never stopping to land on the one that captured her essence.
The night grew long and layers moved on, either upstairs with one of the girls, or to the inn next door. Finally, it was just Strife and the woman. A couple of hands in, and she couldn't call his raise. For the first time, she smiled. Strife was confused, especially with the cards still shuffling in his head. "Perhaps you will consider an alternative to coin," she asked in her wispy, melodic voice. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a small wooden container. He recognized the sound it made as she set the box down. She lifted the lid and, as he expected, there was a deck of cards inside. It appeared to be a very nice deck. The colors were vibrant and the paint was well-lacquered. She flipped over three of the cards onto the table. Between The Avalanche and The Cyclone sat The Hidden Truth. The art on the face of the cards lived up to his expectations. He started to reach out towards the cards without thinking, but she hastily flipped the cards back in and shut the lid. He looked up at her, slightly dazed and she looked back at him expectantly. "Will the deck suffice in making up the difference?" Strife gave her an affirmative nod. He wasn't overly concerned with the prospect of losing to her with the hand that he had and the deck seemed like a nice piece of craftsmanship.
As expected, he won the hand and in the process, the deck. She rose from her seat, saying, "That should do it. I'll leave you to your winnings." He smiled in acknowledgement and reached out towards the box. Again she put her hand on it, leaned in, and whispered, "Are you certain that you accept the deck?" Something about the way she asked made his neck hairs stand on end. The shuffling in his head seemed louder and he knew that he really wanted that deck. He nodded again, and she lifted her hand. "So be it. Good fortune, you'll need it soon." With those final words, the cards in his head stopped and a card was turned over. It was The Juggler. The woman turned and glided away. Completely creeped out, Strife felt like he jumped ten feet when someone put a hand on his shoulder in the next moment.
Turning, he saw an attractive older woman with tears welling up in her eyes. Tazel was Gershom's favorite and had been for many years. "It's time," she said simply. When he realized that he was dying, Gershom entreated Strife to bring him to Tazel for his final days. Out of respect for the old man and everything he had taught Strife about cards, Strife had done it. Gambling, fortune-telling, making cards to sell, it had all been in Gershom's repertoire. And he had passed it down to Strife. It was the most paternal thing that anyone had ever done for him and that mattered. Following Tazel, Strife went upstairs to her room. Inside, Gershom lay, seemingly asleep. But he opened his eyes when Strife sat down next to the bed and took his callused hand. Gershom motioned for Strife to lean in, and when Strife did, Gershom exhaled two words with his final breath. "Holver's Ferry."
"Watch out!," Strife says needlessly, stepping forward to help Montaign. He puts his hand on Montaign's shoulder, but is too late to move the newcomer away from the incoming attacks. Instead, healing energy infuses Montaign.
"Nice job," says Strife, patting Montaign on the shoulder. A sense of confidence infuses the skinwalker. Cast Guidance. Strife stays in the back as everyone makes their way inside, peeking over shoulders. "Which way, do ya think?" The end of Strife's staff begins to glow. Cast Light.
"Something is definitely going on. It's way quieter than a factory should be." Strife ponders Tarnish's question. "I have no talent for locks, but we should figure it out quick if Ameiko is in trouble."
As is probably obvious, never mind on the map thing.
Tarnish comments, "It might be nice if we didn't have to fight. But given that we do have to fight we need to have people who are good at it. By the way Strife, you might want to do a better job of cleaning the goblin brains off your staff."
Strife's eyes go wide and he looks down at his staff. "Oh, gods!" He stumbles a bit when he sees the leftover gore. He puts his hand on his stomach as if that will quell the queasiness. "Was it really necessary to point that out?" He does, however, start gesturing at the staff which becomes very wet.
As the group is running for the Glassworks, Strife says, somewhat despairingly, "It'd be nice if we didn't need people who are handy in a fight." His head jerks up. "Uh.. I mean... nothing personal, you know. It just seems like trouble keeps finding us. Uh.. Strife, by the way."
Strife steps forward slightly, aiming the butt of his staff at the goblin's head. The blow lands with a sickening crunch and Strife grabs at his own stomach as it begins to heave.
Round 1
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The appearance of the goblins makes Strife's horse become skittish, and he slips off of it in a crouch. As he uncurls himself, his eyes glow especially blue for a moment. He throws one hand over his eyes, and he says something. "Golau seren." His other hand lunges out toward the nearest goblin and an explosion of shooting stars of various hues streak towards it.
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Ride:1d20 + 1 ⇒ (7) + 1 = 8 Move: Dismount: 1 square east.
Std: Cast: Color Spray(DC14) | Target: G2
Awesome Display(-3):
Revelation: Awesome Display (Su): Your phantasmagoric displays accurately model the mysteries of the night sky, dumbfounding all who behold them. Each creature affected by your illusion (pattern) spells is treated as if its total number of Hit Dice were equal to its number of Hit Dice minus your Charisma modifier.
"Umm, no, well, I....umm, don't, uh, really know enough about goblins to say. But I don't know why you'd doubt that. They don't seem like, um, brilliant, or anything," Strife offers without confidence.
"Well, if you think we should run..." Strife pauses for a moment before continuing in a hushed voice. "But won't that just lead them back to town where people will get hurt?"
Strife looks around nervously. "Umm... guys... do you hear anything, like something all round us?" Seeing the looks he receives, Strife shrinks in on himself a bit. "I mean, it's probably nothing..." He suddenly jumps, and his words come out in a rush, "Ohcomeonth-th-thatscreepy! Pleaset-t-tellmeyouhearthatwailing!" He is clinging to the horse as if seeking protection.
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Perception:1d20 + 7 ⇒ (11) + 7 = 18 As a haunted oracle, Strife dismisses nothing as "just the wind".
Sensing no deception in the man's motives, Strife hesitantly asks, "Maybe a shield of some sort. I don't really have one since the carnival took off with my stuff."
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On the road:
Wivvy wrote:
After a few minutes of travel Foxglove clears his throat, "So, what brings you all to Sandpoint?"
"Traveling with the carnival. The festival was supposed to be a big payday. Then those goblins showed up to ruin things. Man, I was really drumming up business, too...," Strife trails off wistfully.
Strife looks down at the floor, digging one toe at it. Coming out of his funk, he looks out of the corner of his eye at their new "friend." Slokum the Dogboy always said, 'Nothin's free in this world'. What does he really want from us?
Foxglove gives Strife a confused look, "Dragons? Why who on earth told you there were dragons in these parts? There haven't been any dragons around these parts for millennia!"
Strife looks to Tavius for confirmation and stammers, "Just ch-checking. Dragons are the kind of thing one wants to be sure about."
Strife is a bit melancholy, though he refuses to allow it to diminish his appetite. They could've waited for me. That's the least they could do, considering the coin I bring... brought in.
In-between large mouthfuls, he manages to get out, "Sure, why not? Nothin' else to do. Fellas?"
Magic? Oh, yes, ummm... For just a moment, Strife seems confused, but then his expression changes to one of exaggerated seriousness and he raises his voice, adopting the performance tone that he previously used during the festival. He raises the staff and says, My curse sent him fleeing. No mere parlor tricks here. A glimpse into the future is what I offer. He lowers the staff and the light is extinguished.
The three of you have the sense that Strife doesn't believe a word of what he said.
Strife stands up abruptly at the man's last words, his chair screeching backward across the floor. Wiping his mouth with his right sleeve, he reaches out with his left and his quarterstaff leaps from the wall into his hand. He twirls the staff grandiosely, pointing one end at the man.
The Curse of Resus the Belly-Crawler comes for you. Flee, coward!
Strife takes a step to his right, putting Tarnish between himself and the enraged boar. "Are we having b-b-bacon tonight?," he nervously asks as he claps Tarnish on the shoulder.
Strife appears shocked by the suggestion and quickly makes a warding sign. He leans in and whispers, "You never ever ask the spirits about your own future. Everybody knows that."
Strife smiles nervously. "Wh-wh-whatever shows up? That seems a lit-... a little all-encompassing. A d-d-dragon seem like a bit much to ask," he finally gets out in a rush. He grips his quarterstaff tightly.
"Holy... wow!," Strife exclaims as Kugrim grows in size. Strife steps to the northeast, making room for The hobgoblin's growing form, "coincidentally" putting Kugrim between himself and the giant bat.
"Well, you definitely have this, right?," he asks as he casts Guidance on Kugrim.
Guidance: This spell imbues the subject with a touch of divine guidance. The target gets a +1 competence bonus on a single attack roll, saving throw, or skill check. The target must choose to use the bonus before making the roll to which it applies.
"It's a metaphor, if you throw one stone and kill two birds with it, it is considered very efficient. In this case, the human leader of the goblins stole the corpse and probably had another motive for not stealthing in: maybe he wanted to disrupt the festival, maybe he wanted to kill some people in town, maybe he wanted the goblins to suffer heavy losses..." Strife suddenly stops, realizing that he is rambling. "Uh...I'm sure you get the point." He steps back, trying to divert attention away from himself.
"Not for any good purposes, I'm certain." Strife looks around for clues and tries to think why they would want the priest's corpse. "We can guess that the attack was a diversion from what they really wanted."
Tarnish says, "I've got a lantern we can use if somebody wants to hold it."
Tarnish turns to Strife and says, "Unless you can make light magically. That might be better."
Strife looks at Tarnish in bewilderment. "Magic light? How would I do that? I'm just a carnival fortune-teller." Strife twitches suddenly, as if seeing something out of the corner of his eye. When he turns back, Tavius has cast Light. "Oh, you meant him. Sorry."
When the skeletons appear, Strife exclaims, "Oh, holy...Nine Hells..."
Strife follows behind Tarnish, keeping the warrior between him and the skeleton. He claps Tarnish on the shoulder. "Fight well... please."Cast Guidance.
Move: 20' SE to E2? Std: Cast: Guidance. Target: Tarnish.
Strife follows behind as the group goes to find the sheriff. He is curious as to whether there are any answers to be found, and nobody said that he couldn't come along.
He definitely perks up at the mention of Father Zantus discovering the tomb door and a possible goblin hiding inside. "The Father... he's okay, right?" He seems surprised by his own question and bashfully hopes that the real warriors don't send him away.
Strife accepts the admonishment with quiet and a hung head. But it isn't enough to stop him from following the group and partaking of a couple of hot meals and a bed.
"Breakfast? Well, um, sure. Since you're offering, it'd be rude to decline."
Strife gives a glance in the carnival's direction, even though he can't see it. "The company of a pretty woman, a real bed, and food that isn't cooked by Shomu the Dog-boy? I probably won't be a hard sell." He would argue that he didn't really do much, but he isn't going to willingly talk his way out of the offered comforts. He looks to the others quickly, to see if they rightly object to his inclusion.
