Andagard is a young man will little to his name. While young, his appearance is quite disheveled as it appears he has been traveling on his own for some time now, or at least in small pockets of groups through the Dead Lands. Lands that now belong to the Whispering Tyrant. His eyes seem quite distant as he has seen far too much for someone his age.
The armor beneath his cloak are cobbled together pieces from knights shattered and broken armor he has found along the way as he walks slowly with a thick gnarled staff gently resting in both of his hands to maintain his weight. Dried specks of rotten flesh and blood lie in the grooves that have been oiled and wiped clean as much as he can.
Ooo, I'd love to play this as well! I've got an idea for a spirit barbarian who would fit in well thematically (or at least I think he would based on what I read in the Campaign page).
An explosion. An impossibly bright light like a thousand suns that pours through the cracks in the stone wall beside him as if it was made of paper. A roar like a thousand dragons feels almost too quiet at first before swelling rapidly to a deafening howl. A heat like a thousand furnaces sears his face, his hands, as if he’d put his whole body inside the oven alongside the bread and opened the flue vents wide. Through the pain he sees the steeple of the cathedral, rising proudly above the rooftops of Vigil like the Inheritor’s sword itself. Through the pain he watches the spire break off, watches it fall, watches it land in the street, watches it crush a cart piled high with onions and potatoes to be sold at the market. Through the pain he watches as Saarah and Mikel turn back towards the bakery, watches as their clothes dissolve, watches as their flesh dissolves, watches as the love of his life and the light of his life are vaporized by a wall of brilliant fire. Through the pain he watches as the wall of his shop starts to sway, starts to rock, starts to fall towards him. Through the pain he watches as stones blot out the sight of the burning sky.
I shouldn’t be alive. It’s not fair.
It’s a miracle he survived, they tell him. It must have been the rocks and the earthen walls of his cellar that protected him from the worst of the blast, they say. He’s lucky to be here with a broken leg and the buttons of his apron seared into his chest. But they don’t seem to hear the whispers. They don’t flinch at the shadows, the shades that cling to the outlines on the scorched walls. They don’t listen to his pleas to go back, to look for Saarah and Mikel, to let him go back and find them. They don’t let him get up off the stretcher, push him back down when he tries, pull the strips of burnt kitchen towels and tattered shirts tighter around his limbs. They don’t listen as he begs, cries, screams, rages at them. They don’t look at him as his eyes turn bone-white and the shadows darken the air around him.
They don’t look up from where they lie on the ground as he hobbles away, ghosts trailing behind him like smoke from a smoldering candlestick.
I shouldn’t be alive. It’s not right.
Somehow he made it out of the ruins of the once-proud city. He didn’t keep track of how many days he stayed, scrabbling helplessly at broken buildings and weeping in empty streets. Nor did he keep track of how many undead creatures he choked with his bare hands, decapitated with a length of broken metal, bludgeoned with pieces of wood and rocks and rubble and brilliant white flames that ran up his burned arms as if to catch the tears running down his face. But eventually the tears ended. Eventually the sun rose again. Eventually he followed the river out of the Gravelands and into Caliphas. He would never be the same though - even after a priest of Pharasma set his leg, even after his reddened skin sloughed off and regrew. He would never open that pastry shop he had dreamed about with Saarah. He would never get to watch Mikel grow into a fine man with his mother’s hands and his father’s heart. He would never settle in one place for more than a few months before things got too comfortable, too familiar, too safe. He didn’t need such things, didn’t want such things, didn’t deserve such things.
I shouldn’t be alive.
Question while I'm working on making the character sheet: are you using the standard wealth for new characters, or something different?
The little bear did not know how he came to be, nor where he was, nor even who he was. Just that he was. The little bear started to stir, and realized that it could move it's fluffy arms and feet. Standing for the first time took some effort, not understanding or knowing how his body even worked. It took some practice, but eventually he managed to stand on his feet.
It took a moment to adjust to vision as well. One eye on his face, a button, was still attached. The other dangled loosely from its string. The loose eye could still see, but the vision was strange to comprehend. Armor was sewn into the little bear's body, with a symbol of some strange kind. He did not understand it, but had no complaints. The bear then took in the immediate surroundings. Everything was in black and gray, but he could still make out what was around him.
Bones, and corpses. Some were fresh and others looked like they had been sucked dry. A hand of one such sucked dry body was wrapped around the bear's leg. He looked down closer to see that it had been a child. The bear then felt sad, even though he was not sure why. The bear then also saw that there was a small metallic sword next to him. He reached down and picked up the blade, looking it over. It felt comfortable and correct, as though the sword belonged to the bear.
Using the blade, he gently pried his leg from the grasp of the now cold and stiff child's hand. All around him was death, and all he could feel was a deep sadness. This was a solemn place for a simple bear.
It was then that he heard voices nearby, and went to go find what would become his new friends in the trying times of finding out just who he was.
"Oh this? This is my lucky gem. Won it the other day in a game of chicken..." a lithe frame, just below average height, well-kept long hair strung tight back into rows, a youthful happy-go expression, wearing a simple clean tunic and drawers, the human man looks to have pretty good balance, not unlike a cat.
"That's a ways to go for a delivery, no?" he shrugs, loads the cargo, kisses the tiny red diamond secured around his neck, and gets to stepping...
Alright, this is Hawthwile’s barbarian. Finally finished - better late than never, right? XD
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Andagard Daesyn
Zeldana_
Gregoth
Knight Night the Hero Bear
You are all in.
When building your characters, please note that crafting is very important to this module.
These will be campaign mode characters... build fresh for this game, but using (mostly) standard PFS builds.
We'll move this discussion to the discussion thread, but I would like to leave it open for one more player, if any respond.
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I'd like to throw my hat into the ring with Gordie "The Pliers" Sauzmaun. He's just your typical atheist zombie killing dentist. He would be a human Inventor, with a weapon innovation.
He was in one of these villages, doing simple fillings and extractions when the undead attacked. He saw many commoners die with prayers on their lips and others cry out to their gods. Iomodae, Erastril, Sheyln. But none of them came to their rescue.
Gordie survived and when he did he decided he had a new mission, to do what the gods themselves couldn't do that day. He turned his scientific mind to the destruction of every undead creature he could find and realized that the same tools used to save lives could easily be altered to take them. He began turning the tools he made to heal into a weapon that could rip apart flesh and break bones.