I like a lot of the ideas presented.
In my campaign sorcerers are Goetic spellcasters, a kind of summoner. They contact spirits and whatnot and the type they contact brings about thier paticular bloodline. While not required, I encourage my players to have taboos and habits to please and avoid angering the spirits.
This tale reads as more of a patron to potential witch scenario, because witches have patrons who grant their powers.
Sorry to nitpick your nitpick, but AFAIK witches aren't granted powers from their patrons, just knowledge. They use the patrons as a wizard uses a library, kinda.
Clerics are granted powers from their patrons, though.
This tale reads as more of a patron to potential witch scenario, because witches have patrons who grant their powers.Sorry to nitpick your nitpick, but AFAIK witches aren't granted powers from their patrons, just knowledge. They use the patrons as a wizard uses a library, kinda.
While a little on the vague side, they seem to get power and knowledge through a mysterious patron. They gain power through a pact and communion, which is why they have divine and arcane spells I thought. Why we're talking about witches in a thread about sorcerers I'm not really sure...
Some gain power through study, some through devotion, others through blood, but the witch gains power from her communion with the unknown. Generally feared and misunderstood, the witch draws her magic from a pact made with an otherworldly power. Communing with that source, using her familiar as a conduit, the witch gains not only a host of spells, but a number of strange abilities known as hexes.
At 1st level, when a witch gains her familiar, she must also select a patron. This patron is a vague and mysterious force, granting the witch power for reasons that she might not entirely understand.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
I have to concur, there are some great ideas here, thanks for sharing.
Back to the original question, I had a halfling sorceress with the celestial bloodline whose gift was not due to conjugal relations, but with a gift to an ancester - like a family curse, but reversed. IIRC, it was something like "every seventh generation, a pale child of great potential will be born" and it happened to be her.
I don't know if that's up to the level of quality of what's been presented, but she was my first - and maybe favorite still - PF character.
| 9 people marked this as a favorite. |
It is night in the City of Wards: Dunspar. While the city sleeps above, Midian Gage shuffles through the ancient crypts upon which the Boneward rests. He is a small man; not just in stature but in standing among the society he hatefuly calls home.
Brushing aside oily whisps of hair from his sullen red eyes Midian mutters and wheezes through the dank darkness. His only companions are the sqealing rats skittering from his lantern light and the moldering dead.
Most people would be appalled and frightened by this place. It is not myth but fact that the dead walk here and those unfamiliar with the Rites of the Crypt would soon find themselves torn limb from limb by the unliving. But Midian Gage is not most people, despite his many faults.
Midian has been a gravetender in the City of Wards all his life. He has learned to traverse among the dead and not be harmed. He has made friends with the worms, made his peace with the rats and is never without a sturdy iron shovel. With practiced ease he passes among the vaults; doffing his hat here, pausing and reciting a line there, and shielding his light when he hears the Muttering Beast nearby.
Midian Gage prided himself on his knowledge, cobbled from a life spent lurking just on the fringes of the Pharasmin clergy who'd scorned him years ago. He found more in common with the dead than the living; a fact that at best upset and at worst reviled the sanctimonious flesh-preservers. Yet he was no common thief, nor was he some disrespectful necromancer. Midian Gage had a genuine admiration for the dead, as well as the unliving.
Then he met Mr. Needles.
Midian was no fool. Mr. Needles is nothing more than a ghoul with his wits about him. Yet Mr. Needles knew things too; things the clergy wouldn't allow Midian to know. He'd found Mr. Needles crouched on the back of the Widow Haegenesj hours after she'd been laid to rest. The poor old bird had passed without the luxuries of most and had not the resources for the proper rites. As such her body would be at the mercy of fate for the first 3 days and Midian took to watching over her on his rounds.
Midian is no great warrior and was not that night either. But Mr. Needles spoke meekly and with humour. He parlayed with Midian, paid him a kindness he'd not known since he was a lad and his mother was still among the living. And so that night Midian Gage returned the kindness and watched Mr. Needles devour the corpse of the Widow Haegenesj.
Their friendship had led Midian here, deeper into the Crypts than he'd ever dared below. He is among the Primacy now; he can smell the seawater seeping through the bedrock and his breath makes ragged brume in the cold depths. Here, in a vault that had been sealed for over a century, he finds Mr Needles.
On the floor is a series of concentric circles, in the outer of which lurk 3 of the rotting dead, zombies. The walking corpses are mute statues, yet they seem to ebb with a force beyond themselves which lengthens the shadows and deepens the chill in the chamber. Midian finds though that the most striking feature is the banquet and his host in the center of the room.
A long table is laid with fine silver and porcelain. All manner of delicacy, from cakes to candied fruit is served, yet amid all these is the body of a man. "Are you ready Mathter Gage?" Mr. Needles smiles, his words lisping amid his trademark teeth. "This will grant me power and the semblance of unlife correct? Should I wish to remain among the living I may?" Midian asks, more as a practicality than in the grips of fear. "I athure you, my good man, thith will only unlock your potenthial. Thoud you with to abandon our Undertaking, the dethithion ith entirely yourth. Thall we begin?"
At that Midian is genuinely surprised when Brother Daen opens his eyes. "Midian? Midian, is that you? You have to get us out of here Midian. This creature..." "This creature is Mr. Needles and you are nothing more than the main course. Let us begin my gracious host." Midian nods to the ghoul, and begins to close the vault door once more, the chamber behind him beginning to echo with maddening screams.
It is night in the City of Wards: Dunspar. While the city sleeps above, Midian Gage shuffles through the ancient crypts upon which the Boneward rests. He is a small man; not just in stature but in standing among the society he hatefuly calls home.
Brushing aside oily whisps of hair from his sullen red eyes Midian mutters and wheezes through the dank darkness. His only companions are the sqealing rats skittering from his lantern light and the moldering dead.
Most people would be appalled and frightened by this place. It is not myth but fact that the dead walk here and those unfamiliar with the Rites of the Crypt would soon find themselves torn limb from limb by the unliving. But Midian Gage is not most people, despite his many faults.
Midian has been a gravetender in the City of Wards all his life. He has learned to traverse among the dead and not be harmed. He has made friends with the worms, made his peace with the rats and is never without a sturdy iron shovel. With practiced ease he passes among the vaults; doffing his hat here, pausing and reciting a line there, and shielding his light when he hears the Muttering Beast nearby.
Midian Gage prided himself on his knowledge, cobbled from a life spent lurking just on the fringes of the Pharasmin clergy who'd scorned him years ago. He found more in common with the dead than the living; a fact that at best upset and at worst reviled the sanctimonious flesh-preservers. Yet he was no common thief, nor was he some disrespectful necromancer. Midian Gage had a genuine admiration for the dead, as well as the unliving.
Then he met Mr. Needles.
Midian was no fool. Mr. Needles is nothing more than a ghoul with his wits about him. Yet Mr. Needles knew things too; things the clergy wouldn't allow Midian to know. He'd found Mr. Needles crouched on the back of the Widow Haegenesj hours after she'd been laid to rest. The poor old bird had passed without the luxuries of most and had not the resources for the proper rites. As such her body would be at the...
That...is really freaky. A wonderful read. :)
This tale reads as more of a patron to potential witch scenario, because witches have patrons who grant their powers.Sorry to nitpick your nitpick, but AFAIK witches aren't granted powers from their patrons, just knowledge. They use the patrons as a wizard uses a library, kinda.While a little on the vague side, they seem to get power and knowledge through a mysterious patron. They gain power through a pact and communion, which is why they have divine and arcane spells I thought. Why we're talking about witches in a thread about sorcerers I'm not really sure...
** spoiler omitted **
Ah, sorry, you're right. I'm wrong. :)
It is night in the City of Wards: Dunspar. While the city sleeps above, Midian Gage shuffles through the ancient crypts upon which the Boneward rests. He is a small man; not just in stature but in standing among the society he hatefuly calls home.
Brushing aside oily whisps of hair from his sullen red eyes Midian mutters and wheezes through the dank darkness. His only companions are the sqealing rats skittering from his lantern light and the moldering dead.
Most people would be appalled and frightened by this place. It is not myth but fact that the dead walk here and those unfamiliar with the Rites of the Crypt would soon find themselves torn limb from limb by the unliving. But Midian Gage is not most people, despite his many faults.
Midian has been a gravetender in the City of Wards all his life. He has learned to traverse among the dead and not be harmed. He has made friends with the worms, made his peace with the rats and is never without a sturdy iron shovel. With practiced ease he passes among the vaults; doffing his hat here, pausing and reciting a line there, and shielding his light when he hears the Muttering Beast nearby.
Midian Gage prided himself on his knowledge, cobbled from a life spent lurking just on the fringes of the Pharasmin clergy who'd scorned him years ago. He found more in common with the dead than the living; a fact that at best upset and at worst reviled the sanctimonious flesh-preservers. Yet he was no common thief, nor was he some disrespectful necromancer. Midian Gage had a genuine admiration for the dead, as well as the unliving.
Then he met Mr. Needles.
Midian was no fool. Mr. Needles is nothing more than a ghoul with his wits about him. Yet Mr. Needles knew things too; things the clergy wouldn't allow Midian to know. He'd found Mr. Needles crouched on the back of the Widow Haegenesj hours after she'd been laid to rest. The poor old bird had passed without the luxuries of most and had not the resources for the proper rites. As such her body would be at the...
Reads like something straight out of Warhammer FRP, actually. ;)
==Aelryinth
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Here's how my Aberrant Bloodline Sorcerer got his powers. Beware, very long.
Then they found the room.
Resa was the one who tripped the secret switch. As soon as he saw what was inside, he fell to his knees and retched. The room was full of alchemical equipment: test tubes, operating tables, experimentation benches, and the like. But the worst things were the bodies; they were obviously human at one point, but now it was debatable. Some had limbs randomly located on their bodies, and some had no faces but their torsos were covered with eyes. The group huddled in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at the macabre sight. "Wh-wh-what should we do?" stammered Halcen.
"Ye shoulda minded yer own business. But now, I insist ye stay fer a while."
The friends turned around, and they saw the duergar standing there, leaning against a staff. He pointed it at them, releasing a blast of shocking energy and knocking them into convulsing unconsciousness.
Over the years, Kendrik watched his friends die. The duergar performed horrible, torturous experiments on all of them, with the friends alternating between a rancid holding pen and being strapped to the tables. The madman only referred to them as numbers and before long that was all they knew. They lost track of time and had no idea of how long they had been kept prisoner. The only measure they had was the dwindling number of subjects. Eventually only Kendrik, now known only as Experiment 6, was left, and he definitely wasn't human any longer. He lasted as long as he could, but one day when the duergar was attempting another of his nightmarish "improvements", Kendrik slipped into blackness.
He awoke on a heap of bones, not remembering anything from before the lab, unsure whether he was truly alive. His horrible pain confirmed that he was indeed among the living. The duergar must have mistook his coma-like state for true death and discarded the supposed corpse. Number Six was familiar with this stretch of cave, and began to make his way to the surface. Black lightning crackled beneath his skin and between his many scars. Anything that came near was blasted away with the arcane bolts. Experiment #6 had been given these powers against his will, but he knew what he would use them for. He would hunt down the insane duergar who had done this to him and he would make. Him. Pay.
|
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Imperious, you think yours is long? You sure shamed me into adding spoiler tags! My backstory was for Aberrant too.
Goldmeadow Village's days were numbered as soon as Goody Willamette pulled up that first bucket of sludge out of the well.
The stuff sure wasn't water, no doubt. It was clear as water, sure, but as thick and gloppy as butter, with a smell like cloves and mildew. Getting in on your fingers made then sting, and nobody dared to drink it.
Doc Otis had a good long look at the stuff through his wizard's glass, and checked one of his books, and checked again, and after about three days he'd figured out what had happened-- a gelatinous cube had got into the well water. It must have squeezed its way in from an underground cave. Nobody was really surprised-- back when they first settled the village they'd tried four times to dig a well and had hit a dungeon the first three.
Of course by this point every house in the village had drawn a pail, and nobody had gotten anything out of it but that oozy glop. The sheriff's son tried rounding up some of his friends to adventure down there and kill the cube, but it didn't matter. The water supply was tainted and the town was going to die if it didn't get fresh water soon.
Some folks tried to buy water from the travelers. Most of them were adventurer-types, barely brought enough water for themselves if they even remembered to bring any. Pastor Tobias tried conjuring water, but after an hour of the same incantation six hundred times even the patience of a saint ran out. Still, he had made enough water to last the village a few more days.
An emergency meeting was gathered together to decide what to do to save the village. Iella the Hermit said she'd pray for rain, but it'd all flow into the ground and into the well anyway. Doc Otis found tale of a cave beast that eats gelatinous cubes-- if they could catch one and send it down into the well it might eat all the poison, but it'd just as surely poison the water itself with its sweat and dung. Finally Boris the innkeeper suggested that maybe ooze water ain't so bad, and if you could boil it down it might be safe to drink.
After that suggestion, everybody just sort of looked at each other, and decided it was time to move out.
Within a week, Boris was the last man left in Goldmeadow Village. He'd set up a still in his basement and gone to work experimenting with the stuff, running it through and feeding it to the rats he caught in his grain stores and hoping that this time it wouldn't kill them. By the end of the month, he'd found a way to purify it that was almost good enough and didn't taste quite so bad. But there was nobody left to thank him for all his work. He was alone in an empty village.
Boris got real depressed for a few months after that, but it wasn't all bad. Eventually the oozewater sickness cleared up, or maybe he just got used to it. Nobody else in the village meant all the farmland was rightfully his, even though he didn't know much about growing food. And he had all the other houses all to himself, and whatever else they had all left behind. He found some books, and a crossbow, and even a bag full of kittens! The kittens didn't like Boris's Ooze Stew though. Most of them got sick from it and died.
Boris kept working on his oozewater still, and soon enough he had come up with a drink that had as much kick as moonshine and tasted almost as good. He found some sweet berries to mix it with, and put a few bottles of it in his inn, so he could pretend people still came by.
After a few years, most people forgot why nobody came to Goldmeadow Village anymore, and adventurers started coming back thinking they'd find a ghoul and slay it. They never expected to find Boris still running the inn, but they were mostly nice enough. Boris would give them each a free bowl of stew, but the moonshine was 5g a bottle. They'd stay a few days, and buy some of Boris's moonshine and pay him for a room, and in the evenings they'd even talk to old Boris to try and find out what killed Goldmeadow Village. He always told them it was ghouls. Sometimes they didn't believe him, but he'd take them to one of the old failed wells that led down into a dungeon, and they'd find some treasure down there and leave town figuring dungeon monsters must've killed everybody. After all, they didn't want to stay around Boris too long. He looked like he'd been sick for a long time.
And then one day, somebody finally came back to Goldmeadow Village. It was Iella the Hermit. She'd been living in the wilderness all this time, traveling from forest to forest. She'd only come back to see if the wilderness had reclaimed the village yet. She'd never expected to find an old familiar face. She took pity on Boris, and cooked up an herbal curative to ease his illness, and partook of his moonshine even knowing what was in it, and one thing led to another...
Their daughter Anamaria was raised on Brois's Ooze Stew and Goodberries. She grew up thin and frail, with a pale complexion that looked sickly in the wrong light and circles around her eyes. But she never had any problems with her health, and was always in the best of spirits.
Except sometimes, she'd go down to the well where the ooze water came from and spend hours looking down into it. And if a traveler asked her what she was looking at, she'd ask them if they could hear the voice in the bottom of the well too, and if the secrets it told her were true.
Well, it seemed longer when I wrote it. What bloodline would that be for Saturn?
| 5 people marked this as a favorite. |
MANLY bloodline. Your father was a MAN. So was your mother. Pure, rugged MANLINESS runs through your veins. There hasn't been a woman in your ancestry for over a thousand years! Wait, how do men have babies? LESS QUESTIONS MORE FIGHTING
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
AMAZON bloodline. Your mother was a WOMAN. So was your father. Pure, rugged WOMANLINESS runs through your veins. There hasn't been a man in your ancestry for over a thousand years! Wait, how do two women conceive? LESS QUESTIONS MORE FIGHTING
(this bloodline is exactly the same as the MANLY bloodline but for female characters)
What about a virus instead of blood? It would be situational, but you could say that the virus is granting more and more power but slowly burning you out physically.
For a less dark approach, you might say that in your gameworld the Arcanavirus slew 2/3 of the population but those who didn't die became carriers. Transmission of the disease is only through "intimate" contact so certain chaste laws were sanctioned against these unfortunates. However in dormant hosts the disease creates a conduit for magical power.
Some of these plagued few learned to control and conceal their natures. They then went among the populace, sowing their nature and creating dynasties. Unfortunately the second plague brought about the Hexbane Inquisition and with them came the Burning Time.
Finally it is now. Sorcery is still outlawed but the carriers' identities have been lost and the disease itself has mutated. Its signs are subtle and so too are the powers it bestows. The Hexbane is still strong, though antiquated. They have cloistered monasteries scattered throughout the country and have become tyrants, expanding their impergium to include witches, wizards and any who would sympathize with the diseased.
It is feared that the Hexbane have scholars and spies hidden among the land; that they record and compile lists of all the known carriers' descendants. Children are carried away or worse. Yet still the insidious plague known as the Arcanavirus carries on, threatening once again to decimate these lands.
Wow. Even when I TRY not to go dark...I go dark. I apologize. Go watch a kitten video. Pixie dust, pixie dust...
AMAZON bloodline. Your mother was a WOMAN. So was your father. Pure, rugged WOMANLINESS runs through your veins. There hasn't been a man in your ancestry for over a thousand years! Wait, how do two women conceive? LESS QUESTIONS MORE FIGHTING
(this bloodline is exactly the same as the MANLY bloodline but for female characters)
The concept of two women forming a child is known as parthogenesis...it's actually quite possible. And they will always have daughters.
Two men, because it would result in an XX chromosome, is not. male children are XY.
==Aelryinth
Parthenogenesis is a form of asexual reproduction were an embryo grows and develops without being fertilized.
"Parthogenesis" is a word.
@ Ael, Dragon and UR: I have only one thing to say to that
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"I'll close the gap lads!" Rogar shouted as the otherworldly horror hurtled up the mineshaft. "But Rogar, if we can just hold it until the Defender unit..." his crew's protests were cut off by a stern glance from their foreman. "I may not be a hero or a Defender or even a warrior, but the dwarf 'afore you is STILL your superior! Now GET TOPSIDE! That's an ORDER" he barked. The crew of Goldgap 12 took a last look at their foreman as he heaved his pick, then began the scrabbling ascent for home.
Rogar cautioned a glance over his shoulder. The duergar summoner smiled confidently as his infernal beast made short work of the near-vertical shaft. It exuded a slimy film that stunk of acid and ate away at the stone, even as the stuff helped it squeeze up the shaft. "Just a few more seconds then. C'mon y' nasty..." Rogar thought. But just as the thing got where it needed there was a humming in the steel head of the pick. Before the foreman could snap the support and drop the roof on the 3 of them, the tool adhered itself to the wall, magnetizing to the ore within.
"You and your kind are FINISHED here Longbeard. The hordes below will follow behind. But be assured; your death will be honored in our Littany!" The sneering degenerate below watched with glee as the monster it summoned skittered into position over Rogar, its acidic slime dripping to the floor and sizzling.
"To the hells with this, and ALL of it!" Rogar roared, grabbing the support. It had been crafted cleverly as a fail-safe; normally it supported weight well enough but when forced a certain way the wooden fibers uncoiled from themselves, giving into the force and unleashing a devastating cave in. The miner had intended to use the strike from his pick to do the job with ease. Now the splinters bit into his raw hands as he heaved with all his might against the joint.
"NOOOO!!!" the arcanist howled. The sound of his next spell were quickly drowned out by the cacophony of 2 tons of stone exploding out to crush them all and plug the tunnel beyond.
Moments later a pair of Defenders arrived, Goldgap 12 right behind. They found their steel tools and implements useless from the magnetic resonance and a lingering miasma of raw, arcane power. To make matters worse the stagnant air was choked with a cloud of dust fouled by acrid slime that burned their lungs. Yet miraculously amid the rubble they noted Rogar's hand; and it twitched.
"He's alive!" one of his crew shouted. "You can't go in there lad," one of the Defenders admonished clapping a hand to the miner's shoulder. "Oy!" the dwarf snarled, throwing off the hero's grip, "that's our FOREMAN in there! We might not be shiny knights and all, but we got rules just the same, not the least o' which is 'ya DON'T leave a crewman b'hind' so back off chief, 'fore 'yer swallowin' 'yer teeth as a reminder!"
With that the other 11 members of Goldgap 12 set themselves to the task of digging out their fallen foreman. The work was long and painful; they moved with purpose despite the acid in the stone, on the ground and even in the very air burning them at every turn. Several passed out from the effort but the Defenders stripped out of the armor and weapons so as not to be trapped against the wall, then dragged out the fallen and took up with the remaining crew.
In the end Rogar was pulled from the carnage. His face had soaked in the stuff and thick, ropy acid burns and pocks covered the flesh to the bone. Despite it all though the man clung to some semblance of life and was borne like a battlefield saint up the dropshaft toward the Great Hall of Brutenheim.
Days later Rogar the Scarred awoke in the midst of a fever dream. He was in the infirmary wing of the Hall, his body and face bandaged but aching. His gasping breath came in waves; all he tasted was the stinging filth of the acidic dust as if he were still in the rubble. "Steady now Foreman. You're still recovering. Tear those poultices loose and you'll understand what pain is." the chiurgeon smiled, looking down on Rogar from the foot of the bed.
"Heh...thought I was a goner there. M' face though, feels strange...tingly..." and with that Rogar the Scarred convulsed and glared his mangled eye at the far wall where his fevered eye seemed to see the duergar's sneering face. "B'hind you!" he cried and his words and will seemed to focus the tingling energy, like a hose directing water. From the depths of his recovering oculus exploded a beam of opaque, green-hued energy that filled the air with an acrid sting. The ray hit the wall and fumed, burning the stone with acidic power.
"What in the 9 hells..."
Hmm, I actually learned the word from those green amazons who worked for the super-elf voyuer-artist race in Spelljammer. I've never actually had to look at the spelling for fifteen years!
I will choose to believe that 'parthogenesis' is when two females contribute to the creation of a single child for the human race. Because the male normally chooses gender with sperm either being x or y, a child of two women will always be female.
:) Hee!
'Parthenogensis' is actually a child born of a single parent, with no contributing member of the opposite sex. In humans, this would also result in 100% females. In Komodo dragons, it results in 100% males, because they are a 'WW' gender, and females are a 'WY'.
The state animal of Arizona is a lizard which has only one gender...female. Males aren't needed for the race.
==Aelryinth
how do two women conceive?
|
It is night in the City of Wards: Dunspar. While the city sleeps above, Midian Gage shuffles through the ancient crypts upon which the Boneward rests. He is a small man; not just in stature but in standing among the society he hatefuly calls home.
Brushing aside oily whisps of hair from his sullen red eyes Midian mutters and wheezes through the dank darkness. His only companions are the sqealing rats skittering from his lantern light and the moldering dead.
Most people would be appalled and frightened by this place. It is not myth but fact that the dead walk here and those unfamiliar with the Rites of the Crypt would soon find themselves torn limb from limb by the unliving. But Midian Gage is not most people, despite his many faults.
Midian has been a gravetender in the City of Wards all his life. He has learned to traverse among the dead and not be harmed. He has made friends with the worms, made his peace with the rats and is never without a sturdy iron shovel. With practiced ease he passes among the vaults; doffing his hat here, pausing and reciting a line there, and shielding his light when he hears the Muttering Beast nearby.
Midian Gage prided himself on his knowledge, cobbled from a life spent lurking just on the fringes of the Pharasmin clergy who'd scorned him years ago. He found more in common with the dead than the living; a fact that at best upset and at worst reviled the sanctimonious flesh-preservers. Yet he was no common thief, nor was he some disrespectful necromancer. Midian Gage had a genuine admiration for the dead, as well as the unliving.
Then he met Mr. Needles.
Midian was no fool. Mr. Needles is nothing more than a ghoul with his wits about him. Yet Mr. Needles knew things too; things the clergy wouldn't allow Midian to know. He'd found Mr. Needles crouched on the back of the Widow Haegenesj hours after she'd been laid to rest. The poor old bird had passed without the luxuries of most and had not the resources for the proper rites. As such her body would be at the...
As a HUGE Lovecraft fan, I applaud you. Masterful. :)
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Little Baeda was only six when Old Pogolo Peeps came to visit the city of Tashtanshire. The nightmares were horrible and the nursery rhymes soon followed: "Old Pogolo Peeps, in the shadows he creeps, at night he steals your eyes..."
Despite her mother's objections Guildmaster Rennev would not permit his daughter to be out of sorts. To him this was nothing more than an inconvenience in his career and that was something that would not happen. With fresh bruises concealed beneath her gown Lady Billiden silently assented to her husband's good judgment.
Baeda was seen by Abadaran clergy; friends of the guild who could be counted on to keep this affliction hidden. The girl was sullen, listless; so far she'd avoided the true horror of the touch of Pogolo Peeps - her eyes were still her own. However despite their best efforts there was nothing that could be done for the girl's failing health and resolve.
By night the poor little girl was haunted by the bogeyman. He is a tall, brutish thing with shards of mirror glass in his eyes and a savage visage. Yet despite his bulk he stalks with ease, prowling nightmare landscapes and terrorizing the children into states of such abject fear they may lapse into shock.
That was when some of the children in the neighborhood started to disappear. This final stage of the horror is when Pogolo Peeps begins calling the doomed to him for macabre and horrifying purposes best left unsaid. Baeda and her mother believed the fantasy was real, the fairy tales were true, but they had no recourse to stop it.
Then along came the Firmfoot Faire. Each year each of the districts of Tashtanshire held a faire to celebrate the tenants and businesses. The Firmfoot, though of lower income than most, celebrates with pennants, games and many different foods. The district had much to celebrate that year; the meteoric rise of Guildmaster Rennev Billiden from among the ranks of their own, humble ranks meant that for the first time in a century the fortunes of the neighborhood were looking up.
Yet despite the festivities the specter of Old Pogolo Peeps kept the affair maudlin. The children shuffled through the streets, jumping at shadows and suffering the day as best they could. All the while concerned parents did everything they could to distract and uplift the frightened lambs. All that is, save Baeda who was dressed, painted by her mother, and trotted out as the part of the image her father had to present to maintain the illusion of his prestige.
Then she heard something she hadn't for weeks: giggling. While her parents were distracted in a pavilion greeting other masters from neighboring districts Baeda slipped away and ran to find the source of the mirth. At the end of cul de sac out of the main traffic of the faire she found a puppet show in progress; the protagonist was a brave little boy who took up his father's axe and went into Bloodthorn Hollow to learn how to be afraid, since nothing ever seemed to frighten him.
The play was funny and sweet, until the final villain revealed itself - a hulking brute with shiny eyes. But the boy was clever and hid, drawing the monster to him and used the shiny axe as a mirror to see the creature. At the last he proved he was not afraid of the thing and "poof!" it became a simpering little mite with no more power than a willow wort. The boy laughed then and off with its head for the end of the play!
That night Old Pogolo Peeps finally came for little Baeda Billiden. Yet something had happened while she watched the play. She didn't seem to care when her mother found her in the dead end lane, even though Lady Billiden's face was streaked with tears of abject terror. Baeda didn't even feel the sting of her father's lash that evening when he corrected her for making him look a fool. No, something in the words and visions of the play stuck with her and filled her with a power and strength of such otherworldly energy she fairly thrilled to go to bed that night.
She awoke in the cold dark of night amid the ancient pines and massive Bloodoak trees at the cruel heart of Bloodthorn Hollow. All around her were children; they staggered through the twisted landscape like automatons. She caught one of them by the shoulder, recognizing him as a boy from the Firmfoot, but when she spun him around there were jagged splinters of mirrored glass where his eyes should've been. With ominous deliberateness the boy put one finger to his lips and hissed "shhhhhhhh"
But this was what little Baeda had wanted all along. She turned to the bole of a nearby tree. It was covered over with a living sheet of writhing vermin that made her stomach turn and her blood run cold, but somehow she knew inside, just through there, she would find the prize she sought. Braving the swarm she crawled through on her hands and knees chanting as the boy had in the play "I'm not afraid, no not one bit; I'm not afraid of a silly little nit."
Something gleamed in the inky blackness, just ahead. The chamber was small inside the tree but poor Baeda seemed to crawl for hours to get inside. All around her the bugs crunched and skittered, tangling her blouse and hair and pinching her skin. But all the while she kept the mantra and finally she reached her goal: a shiny silver axe.
She burst out of the tree with her prize. But as she did she was no longer in a forest but a dank cave. Everywhere she looked there were fragments of mirrors; the reflections in the glass were not her own but the children with the jagged eyes, singing the rhymes of Old Pogolo Peeps. She could feel him behind her but every time she turned to see there was nothing but shadow. Once or twice something brusher her hair or shook her shoulder but she could not see what it was.
Then the axe came to bear. Every mirror she found she shattered with the flat of the blade. The caves seemed endless but she went ever on, chanting her chant and using the weapon until the very floor beneath her feet was littered with glass. It cut her toes and she winced at the pain but she went on, brave little Baeda Billiden. She went on and on, bleeding and hurting and staggering under the heft of the weapon as big as her, but ever muttering "I'm not afraid, no not one bit; I'm not afraid of a silly little nit."
Then she arrived at the chair. The room was surrounded with floor-length mirrors and was dark; no mirror-children here. Her own reflection could be seen in the half-light gleaming from the axe, but it was distorted, twisted; there were tears of blood streaming from fresh shards in her eyes. She KNEW this place was in the real world somewhere too; it was here that Pogolo Peeps did its ghastly work. The chair was haggard and adorned with straps to bind a child in place, all the way to the neck.
Rather than attack or break the mirrors, little Baeda just went over, climbed up into the chair with her back turned and stood on it, waiting and chanting. All the while she kept her eyes fervently on the head of the axe. Slowly the shadows congealed and a cold chill came into the room. Behind her, Pogolo Peeps creeped.
With a "WHOOSH!" she whirled around. The blade cut the air and swung wildly but found no resistance from the neck of the bogeyman! His head flew from his body and at once all the mirrors in the chamber exploded. Just as the flying shards were about to tear the poor girl to ribbons she awoke in bed, the words of her chant still issuing from her raw lips. She'd been in some sort of fever dream for nearly a full day.
Her disapproving father called her stories rubbish and refused to hear them, threatening the lash again for lying. Her poor mother silently agreed and did nothing to defend the little girl. But Baeda knew somehow that by conquering the monster her dream had empowered her. Small tingles of the otherworldly energies still rippled through her and every so often they bubbled up into the waking world.
From that day forward she found she could chant her chant in a sing-song voice like in her dream, and when she did so her parents dozed, not seeming to notice her sneaking about the house. In time she learned to control this and many other powers her dreams revealed to her. Years later when her father's ambitions and frustrations had gone too far Baeda Billiden avenged her mother's death and forced her father into a magical slumber which she prolonged for days with the use of her power and a special drug obtained from the alchemists of Arabellyn; an extract of the dream spider that she injected directly into the man's veins. When he finally awoke his mind was broken; his fractured psyche could no longer distinguish reality from nightmare and he was committed to Blackgate Asylum in Dunspar far up the coast.
This is the origin of Baeda, the Dreamspun Sorceress who went on to become one of the greatest folk legends the poor folk of the Firmfoot District of Tashtanshire ever knew. As a child she saved 7 others from the final ravages of Pogolo Peeps and before she was done she saw and forestalled the Black Queen of Dammenterem from opening the Shadow Gates of the Hollow and wiping out Tashtanshire with a nightmare blight from another world.
I'm torn... I really want to read these stories, but I really don't want to read them...
So many words... -.-'
I guess I'll check them out one story per day... -.-'
@Laughing Lem: Sorry man, I should probably be spoilering the heck out of these what?
Anyway, I guess to sum-up my last epic, you could be a Dreamspun sorcerer by surviving a terrible trial in a dream.
Writing it got me thinking though of how energy flows and might enter a mortal being. Sorcerers have "bloodlines" implying their power is in their blood and therefore hereditary. But how does energy or matter enter the bloodstream? How in the really real world do our bodies change or mutate?
Disease is a great method of rapid change. Cancer or long-term disabilities weaken you but also cause the body to go to work on the disease, often modifying cells in small ways to deal with the issue. Heck, you get an infection, you get a fever; that's an elemental change right there.
Now you up the ante with magical spells and comic-book mentality that modifies real science to create whatever event you want, no matter how impossible. In that case you could have virtually ANY substance modify the body as you see fit.
So getting back to the story above, I assumed that the telling of a fable would be powerful enough to modify the physical body and mind of a young child. You might also have a beautiful song do the same thing. Heck, with all the magic floating around in some settings, you could even have someone just look at a fantastic work of art and the effect on that person might be so strong it changes them in ways they weren't expecting.
I like origin stories. Each one is like creating a spin off of the main game that's ALL yours. In the tale of Baeda the GM might then have Pogolo Peeps return to menace people at the outset of the game, or perhaps on a more mundane note have Baeda prosecuted for poisoning her father. But the story suggests how that player would view the world, how they would deal with the changes their powers bring and therefore what is valuable or important to them as a player.
Sorry (again) for all the words in my posts...
Next up, a bloodline fuelled by wasted potential. I mean, all that potential has got to go somewhere, right?
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Deep in the Findlethorn Swamps, among the trees and bogs there lives a truly wicked serpent that exists solely on a diet of creatures infused with the weird energies of the First World and the Shadow. Fortunately for the Mirthvile Serpent, the Findlethorn is rife with such creatures. This beast is much feared by the folk of Middenvurdt as its venom can have wild and unpredictable effects.
One hapless mortal accidentally provoked a Mirthvile Serpent to attack; his name was Devarion. A mere woodsman at the edge of poverty and starvation, he trekked deep into the Findlethorn for the rarer bounty it offers. He hoped to find a Erastoil trees; their rare sap can be distilled by skilled alchemists and used to coat arrows to reduce drag and increase accuracy, so it is a valuable commodity. He even remembered to turn his coat inside out, fill his tracks with crumbs and hum the Lightbringer's Tune to ensure he wouldn't be accosted by most of the otherworldly dangers of the place.
Alas he hadn't counted on the multi-hued Mirthvile Serpent he stumbled upon.
The encounter was frightening and painful. The thing exploded from the underbrush and sank its horrible fangs deep into his shoulder. Yet it just as suddenly released him and slithered off, it great bulk rustling the undergrowth as it left. The townsfolk would later tell Devarion the thing simply didn't find his mortal flesh appealing but he would always thank it for the gift it gave him that day.
He crawled for hours through the morass in pain and feverish from the venom in his veins. Devarion is hearty but by no means as great in stature as the Middenvurdt Bristleshields. He was sweating and breathing shallowly as he nestled himself in the bulging, twisting routes of an ancient willow near a nameless stream. Here he waited out the night, preparing for his inevitable and painful death.
When he awoke in the morning the fever had broken. His shoulder ached and it was still an open wound; infection would soon do what the venom had not. But miraculously he had survived. He found an old trail and an abandoned hunter's snare, so he followed that through the morning back to the outer fields of Middenvurdt and finally home.
It wasn't until he staggered up to his cottage that the work of the venom really bore fruit. Old Skrimm, the local reeve was waiting for him, to collect the taxes poor Devarion was already a week behind on. The woodsman begged for reconsideration but Skrimm was firm; he'd return within the hour with a brute squad and Devarion was set for Midden Prison.
Devarion put his hand on the old coin-squeezer and his words came out with a sudden, faint lisp. In slow, measured speech he asked patiently for more time on his debts, urging Skrimm to reconsider with a confidence that was not his own. The reeve's face clouded for a moment, and suddenly a grin shot across his blubbery jaw. OF COURSE Old Skrimm would give him another week, after all; what are friends for if not for favors such as this!
The grinning reeve strode off at once. Devarion leapt inside his modest cote and took up a glass inside. In his mouth he spied what his tongue had pricked as he spoke - a pair of serpent's fangs which receded as if by magic as he watched.
Horrified, Devarion hid his condition for months. Eventually he learned from Madamme Vildda, a witch outside of town, that he was not under a curse or possessed by the Shadow, but rather that somehow the Mirthvile's bite had infused him with the serpent's power. He had become a sorcerer.
@Laughing Lem: Sorry man, I should probably be spoilering the heck out of these what?
Am I laughing Lem? That sounds like an interesting character...
Heh... You don't have to apologize for anything, man. What I meant is that I'm really interested in these sorcerer backgrounds here, but I'm just too lazy to read them...
No amount of spoilers will help with that... lol
Although, now that you mention it, spoilers would be nice. They'd make the thread easier to read.
I made a Tattooed/Dreamspun sorcerer whose family was tied to a pocket dream realm, something an ancestor created through dreams and willpower. In every generation there are one or more Dreamspun sorcerers born, and upon their death they reside in their familial dreamscape. Through dreams, they teach and guide their living heirs. Each sorcerer gains a familiar tattoo which serves as a balance to their personality...my character was very peaceful, calm, and loving, so he was given a scorpion to make him a bit more defensive and aggressive when need be. To him, his ancestors are real people he speaks to in his lucid dreams often, and he has very real relationships with them...not always good ones.
Y'know another thing you can do with Dreamspun is craft a sort of dreamland with the help of your GM. Be it Lovecraftian (Dreamlands of Unknown Kadath) or Werewolfian (an umbral realm) you could craft it however you want. Then you can REALLLLY play around with your background:
- you're the waking extension of someone/thing in the dreamworld
- you share a mind/body with a creature of dream
- your ancestry crossed over from the Dreaming and you go the full bloodline route
- Your primitive-type character took a spirit-journey in the Dreamlands
- You're just a living conduit to the stuff of dreams; each tattoo/blemish/scar/whatever you get (one each time you level) opens more of the locks on the Gate of Night
- you or your family made a deal with Desna, Morpheus, a Nightmare or some other creature/entity of dreams
Wow; before this morning I never even NOTICED the Dreamspun bloodline!
Y'know another thing you can do with Dreamspun is craft a sort of dreamland with the help of your GM. Be it Lovecraftian (Dreamlands of Unknown Kadath) or Werewolfian (an umbral realm) you could craft it however you want. Then you can REALLLLY play around with your background:
- you're the waking extension of someone/thing in the dreamworld
- you share a mind/body with a creature of dream
- your ancestry crossed over from the Dreaming and you go the full bloodline route
- Your primitive-type character took a spirit-journey in the Dreamlands
- You're just a living conduit to the stuff of dreams; each tattoo/blemish/scar/whatever you get (one each time you level) opens more of the locks on the Gate of Night
- you or your family made a deal with Desna, Morpheus, a Nightmare or some other creature/entity of dreamsWow; before this morning I never even NOTICED the Dreamspun bloodline!
or the "Field of N" from Rozen Maiden.
Although, now that you mention it, spoilers would be nice. They'd make the thread easier to read.
Noted. Thanks for the help Lemuel Haynes!
Rabbity's eyesight was blurred. She didn't know what was greater, either her fear or pain. Blood was dripping from her lips.
What was that monster? Where did it come from? Why no other seemed to have noticed it? And why did it attack only her? Bizarre, ugly features and tentacles danced before her eyes while the creature readied itself for the final blow.
Yet, the blow didn't come. Time slowed to a blur before Rabbity's eyes. And something walked into view- a little dark form. It looked like a cat. But the light in its eyes was definitely not animal.
"So I've found you, it seems", said the silvanshee, calmly. "Do you know why you're here?"
"Am I dreaming?" said Rabbity, weakly. "Or am I dying? I'm seeing things".
"Neither, dear girl. Unless you want to. Creatures from above the stars are here to sunder your world- and they feel by instinct who are the chosen ones that could defeat them. It's up to you, now. This is your destiny from a thousand years before your birth. If you choose to die, I will respect your choice. But if you accept to help me fighting them, I can unblock your power. Then, together, we'll find others like you".
(Starsoul sorcerer...)
|
A 3.5 half elven Sorceress I played was an experimental subject. As in, the lawful evil empire wanted to learn how to 'tame' elves. So they used her as a test subject to a bunch of very different magical experiments....until the day she exploded.
Then she crawled away and slowly learned to live in the world, with the BBEG tracking her, often with their more 'successful' experiments being used to track her.
I considered making a 'loyal' sorcerer for PFS, serving Cheliax using either the arcane or infernal bloodline who has basically been tortured into obedience through their magical 'gifts' but the idea kind of turned my stomach.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Not all of Karnoss is a civilized place; in the highlands of Vardok, at the edge of the Grimmen Peaks lies a coastal range of boreal hillsides of green heath and rugged beauty. It is among these that the Dunevain, the proud and ancestral tribes of man first descended, and it is here that those of the Eldest Ways still dwell. These proud folk are not savages like the goblins of the forests or the orcs in the upper peaks, but they follow the rhythms of the land; they raid along the coast, follow the herds among the hills and refuse to accept the trappings of elite society.
Yet among these barbarians there are disciplines. The forging of iron weapons and tools; shaping wood into longships, oars and spears; the fusion of both arts into the round shields so feared along the Vardokton coast. But still there are the Eldest ways of Gozreh, the Green Path and the sacrifices needed to maintain these ways.
Every so often a member of these ancient clans finds themselves tested by the fates. They are drawn to some trial that seems impossible and yet, should they survive they find themselves gifted with fantastic power. The skalds do not sing of those who fail; these unfortunates are mourned and forgotten. Those who succeed however are both revered and reviled by the clans.
One such was Valik. He was not remarkable in any way, save that his father was the Skald of his clan. The lad was glib of tongue but far too witty for his own good. He’d scrapped with everyone including his own father Halveszke for what Valik considered nothing more than his good humour. By the age of 14, his father was ready to turn Valik out of his master’s castle to make his way among the highlands alone; a death sentence for most and certainly for the ungainly boy.
On the eve as Haleveszk discussed his woes and proposed course with Clanlord Uyll, Valik overheard the discourse and chose in a moment of strange bravery to prove his father wrong. He stole away into his master’s docks and escaped across Baelynnloch towards the verboten boreal wood known as Direfell Forest.
Reaching the far shore of the loch as the mists of falsedawn rose from the water to coil among the brooding thickets beyond, Valik suddenly came to his senses. If he returned now he would certainly be turned out, for he’d stolen one of the Clanlord’s boats and could expect to add a beating on besides. However many heroes much greater than he had quested into the Direfell, never to return. He had no weapons, no supplies. For the life of him he could not understand what had possessed him to come this far. Just then he caught sight of a meandering light, like a lantern hung from a bough and swaying with the morning breeze.
Valik tied off the boat and crept toward the source. There was a trail hidden among the brush seeming to lead straight at the light yet for as long as he traveled poor Valik never seemed to make any progress on the thing. In the bitter grip of morning’s gloom, at the heart of the Direfell Forest, Valik found himself suddenly very alone and unprepared. A fear clutched at his heart that he’d never known before. It was then that the light suddenly disappeared.
The young lad was cloaked in near total darkness. The fear made the blood in his ears like the crashing of the tide on the shore in a storm. His breath heaved and his knees buckled. His lungs filled with the ancient, loamy smell of the forest around him. But that was what caught him and steadied Valik’s nerves; the sudden realization of time. He was at the heart of the wood, at once the forest’s primeval core but also a place of eternal renewal and growth.
“You, Boy,” a voice croaked. It too was ancient and deep, yet somehow vital. “How have you come to this place, my home?” the booming voice demanded. A new scent mingled among the wood; the acrid taint of chlorine.
“By who am I addressed?” Valik managed, his wits suddenly flooding back into him. They were all he had left. “You trespass in my home and have the audacity to question ME?” there was a sudden gust of wind strong enough to bend the trees and send Valik careening into a trunk. The lad was bruised and winded, but not overly hurt. He stood, brushed himself off and turned to where it had seemingly originated. “I do at that. I’m Valik the Glibtongued; I go where I wish and return unscathed. I am born of skalds and it is to the legends I will return.”
“Pretty cocky for a scared little mouse. I SMELL the fear on you boy, as I have on so many others for centuries, since before your people crawled out of the earth. I am the First; the Alpha from which my kind spawns. You speak of legend; I AM legend. So I suppose, Glibtongue, you are meant for me.” The light returned, only now there was a narrow slit of the blackest green amidst it; it was a great and terrible eye.
“No last request then? Fine; though it makes you a pretty poor legend then.” Valik cast his mind, trying anything he could to stay his execution. In the gloam from the open oculus he could make out an immense, draconic snout, great horns and rows of fangs concealed in a leather case the color of the forest itself. “Last request? How dare you call me ‘poor’? You insignificant gnat, I should grind you into dust for that. But no, I’ll humour you boy. What request had you in mind?”
“Tell me a tale, YOUR tale Master Alpha. Entertain me with the time before my clan. If I’m to die, I want to die knowing how I came to trespass here in your home in the first place.” There was a great inhalation of breath and at once Valik closed his eyes and clenched his teeth expecting a horrible end. “In the beginning this place was just a young thicket when I came to be.” And with that, the ancient wyrm began his tale.
For 3 days Valik listened, while the dragon droned on and on, recounting every notable thing it had experienced. An ice age, terrible storms and earthquakes that shuddered the hills. The sundering of the land from the First World and the sorrow of the young forests. The coming of the most ancient of the Dunevain and their trudge through the highlands into the annals of history. He went on and on, barely pausing for breath.
All the while the thing did not sleep or eat or drink; it merely spoke. Valik however was clever and when he’d hit the tree he’d heard it rattle. Hidden in the knot behind him were a store of nuts left behind from some creature. He snuck them out and rationed them, chewing them slowly so that the noise would not disturb his host. At one point it rained and though the canopy blotted out most of the light the beast’s eyes cast enough for him to see the water gathering in piles of matted sphagnum which his father had taught him to collect and drink from so he did just that. He was even clever about his sleep. He clapped a pair of the nutshells over his eyes to make himself appear to still be awake even while he napped.
But eventually the beast seemed to tire. Yet still it went on. Then it let out a mighty yawn that caused the boughs to flutter. And still it went on. Finally the great lanterns of his eyes closed and this was finally Valik’s chance. The lad turned and crept into the forest, back onto the trail he’d found before. No sooner had he done so though that the Direfell exploded with a terrifying roar!
“You think to escape me BOY?!!” the trees parted and plumes of acrid air billowed into the sky. Valik ran then, his tiny legs carrying him as fast as they could. The beast took wing, somehow maneuvering through the canopy and lunging from copse to copse with preternatural grace. The lad sprinted until his chest burned and his heart felt it should burst. Around him the very forest came alive and snapped at his limbs but nothing in this primeval wood could hold Valik back from his destination; the boat.
He kept his legs moving a sudden silence denoted the beast perched just ahead and it breathed out a cloud that curdled the very air and yet still luck was on his side. The creature seemed to have misjudged the distance and the boy dove under a fallen log as the cloud hovered just overhead. It seemed as if nothing would stop him from reaching the shore. That was when the little bit of daylight guiding Valik was swallowed by the very forest expanding around him.
The plants seemed to come alive and grow, quadrupling themselves in moments. It was like the tales of the Wilding all over again. “You are done boy; you’ve nowhere left to go. You are mine!” The heady wind rose as the monster took wing and circled, readying to descend into the clearing at a dive. The lad gathered a pile of stones and stacked them in the gloom while the beast turned, then dove for the cover of a nearby shrub. The massive dragon wheeled, turned and bombed down into the stones only to burst through the curtain of wild growth and hurtle out over the loch.
The startled beast howled and began banking again. Valik hurled himself into the icy water below. The creature wheeled and turned, splintering the boat, but still his prey eluded him. He passed again, skimming the water with his claws but still nothing. With one more turn he searched again, his great green underbelly like a shower of emeralds against the opaque loch but still there was no sign of the boy. With a mighty roar that shattered a nearby willow the monster retreated, having been tricked by his food into letting it go.
Minutes later Valik climbed onto the floating detritus of the boat, discarding the reed he’d used to breathe. He was shivering, and alone but he’d survived. He began paddling for his master’s hall. All through the night he swam through the frigid loch. He sputtered and fairly convulsed from the cold which stole every ounce of the little strength he had. Deep within his heart though came a resolve he’d never known before and he continued on until at last the walls of the castle began to come into view, at which point his senses finally failed him.
He awoke 3 days later in his bed. He was scraped and bruised and waterlogged to the bone, but alive. He staggered down into his master’s hall where a great feast was laid in his honor. “Hail, Valik!” the heroes cried, toasting his success. “I, I don’t…” the lad stammered. His father met him at the stair. “You had Eldwynn nuts in your pockets boy! Do you know what that means? The only place those are known to grow in all our ancient lands are at the very heart of the Direfell. You must’ve been there and survived, which means you’re the first to do it in a hundred years! Hail, VALIK!” the hall resounded with his name.
I originally thought the heart of the wood would reveal itself as a primeval source of all creation and thus I'd send him into the Protean bloodline, but he just seemed like a hero of destiny type.
Thanks all for the kind words and Bardess I love the tale of Rabbity! Keep those ideas flowing!
A 3.5 half elven Sorceress I played was an experimental subject. As in, the lawful evil empire wanted to learn how to 'tame' elves. So they used her as a test subject to a bunch of very different magical experiments....until the day she exploded.
Then she crawled away and slowly learned to live in the world, with the BBEG tracking her, often with their more 'successful' experiments being used to track her.I considered making a 'loyal' sorcerer for PFS, serving Cheliax using either the arcane or infernal bloodline who has basically been tortured into obedience through their magical 'gifts' but the idea kind of turned my stomach.
A tortured soul who survives AND gets magic powers from the ordeal? That's freaking awesome! Infernal makes this sorcerer a puppet of Cheliax, but what about Martyred? This makes the sorcerer an ENEMY!
Say this sorcerer, we'll call her Ekullb, a half-orc beggar who was just simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, made a deal with the lawful torturers. If she provided a hundred hours of sport, they'd release a few fellow prisoners. Being LAWFUL evil, they intended to honor the request.
Ekullb did it, survived 100 hours of the most excruciating and humiliating pain imaginable, all for the pleasure of whoever are the nobles or notables there (I don't play Golarion setting all that much). In the end, just as she saw the others being released she expired and was ruled dead, hurled into one of the charnel pits.
At this point the energies that would go on to fuel her powers filled her with the barest ounces of life needed to claw her way up and out. From there the streetwise half-orc crawled into the sewers and eventually into the city. Finally, bleeding and staggered and assured of hours of pain thanks to the Filth Fever she'd undoubtedly contracted, she succumbed to her wounds on the doorstep of some contact that took her in and protected her long enough to survive.
Now her body is covered in terrible scars but she goes and visits the folks she saved. Maybe one of these or all of them become the other PCs; maybe they just become valued contacts. Whatever the case Ekullb now has one more reason to hate her jailors and to grow her powers.
|
|
Actually, in my upcoming campaign it's more common to get sorcerous powers from exposure to a source of magical energy than from ancestry. Usually this occurs at birth or when the person is young and still developing, but adults can be affected as well. For example, children born at a particular sacred volcano frequently become sorcerers with the Elemental (Fire) bloodline - or oracles with the Burned curse. Walking through a Fairy Circle on Midsummer's Eve might give you the Fey or Sylvan bloodline.
There needs to be a temporal bloodline that is granted its power by a future self.
Or by being concieved in a tardis.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
But when his son Braithwaite was born, Fleegle vowed to change his un-gnomish behavior. The only one of his blood-borne powers he was ever very good at was creating catchy jingles with his Ghost Sound, so using this as his inspiration he set to work.
He slaved for a year tinkering with a contraption to act as the baby's crib. When at last he was done and little Braithwaite was laid in, the reaction was immediate; the infant wailed. Yes baby Chowderspinner screamed and cried for hours while Fleegle and his wife Elladrannenstein (who everyone simply referred to as Millie) closed their eyes and gritted their teeth. It was at that point when Fleegle realized he'd forgotten to turn the thing on.
Springing to the cribside and flipping the switch, the thing hummed to life. a pair of arcane-powered limbs extended and lurched to and fro, rocking the infant gently. In time with the rocking came snippets of tunes from a conical amplification device the elder Chowderspinner had taken to refer to simply as a "speaker". The music tinkled and tonked off and on, a few seconds at a time, each time little Braithwaite moved.
The baby was instantly soothed and the crib, referred to from then on as the Graven Machine of Chowderspinner, or "Gracho" for short, was a rousing success. From then on little Braithwaite's days and nights were filled with a constant soundtrack of arcane energies and beautiful sounds.
Decades Later Braithwaite Chowderspinner, known to his teammates as Butch, discovered he had a latent talent for harnessing the sounds of the spheres. His sorcerous powers used these energies and his exploits became legend. This legend can now be yours...for just 3 easy installments of just 19.99 GP per month...
I didn't play him (went with another character), but my Sorcerer was going to have the Arcane bloodline. He learned to cast spells from reading books.
I always pictured the Arcane bloodline as the 'muddled' bloodline. You had several different bloodlines going through you, all they had in combination was pure magic, and so Arcane is what manifests.
I also consider it the bloodline associated with humanity (not the Imperious one), since humans make up most sorcs, and this is the most common bloodline. Other races who get the Arcane bloodline are suspected of having some human in their ancestry.
==Aelryinth
Magnets.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Magnets.
Fracking magnet sorcerers. How do they work?
Magnets.Fracking magnet sorcerers. How do they work?
I don't know, but it sounds attractive to me.
Magnets.Fracking magnet sorcerers. How do they work?