CHARACTER PORTRAITS

I did them at work today! I AM SUCH A NERD!

Here they are! ( I will just add links so as not to clutter up the Blog )

RHYS
TERAN
JETH
ANTEEL

Please keep in mind these are just how I see them in my head influenced by the descriptions you all gave me. I hope they help everyone visualize the party on a new level. Please leave me comments!

-The Law

GM Downtime 1

"The war began with the two brothers, Merath and Senath. Merath was a talented artificer; even from an early age, his ability to craft materials and magic into beautiful things was evident. His works were known far and wide, and he delighted kings and smallfolk alike with his "toys," often small automata and the like, or so the stories say.

They say that his brother Senath grew jealous of his ability. Some say that it was this alone that caused him to do what he did; others think that there was something dark to his nature. In any case, the stories say that, in an effort to gain the skill of his brother, he made a pact. Again, the stories are somewhat unclear as to who the pact was with. The most common theory is that it was a demon of some sort, although some of the later tales speak of both celestials and demons rising up together to aid Merath against his brother. In any case, Senath opened a doorway to somewhere else and brought through some sort of monstrous being, which gave him great power.

When Merath discovered what his brother had done, he gathered an army, drawing from as many places as he had allies, and managed after much hardship and sacrifice to stop him. Some traditions say that he killed his brother, others say he locked Senath away with the being or beings he had summoned. Little is known about Merath's doings after this time, even in the more conjectural tales; in most cases, he simply 'went away.' In a few instances, he charged his followers, called the Protectors or Keepers, to remain vigilant should his brother ever return.

There are many that know one version of this tale or another. Many a bard has sung the song of the Artificers' War, and many a book has been written about the significance of the story from a literary standpoint, but most regard the tale as just that: a tale. However, it is the purpose of this book to propose that the tale of the Artificers' War is, at least in part, the recounting of an actual event that occured over a thousand years ago. It is the opinion of this author that Merath and Senath were actual persons, and that it might even be possible that there are people who still call themselves Protectors, even today."

From the introduction to "A Study of the Possible Validity of the Tale of the Artificers' War" by Sheridan Mott, Professor, Thaumheim Mages' Academy, City of Thaumheim, Terrandin

Portraits

So I am interested in drawing some portraits of our characters. It would be helpful if when you have just a second add a post with a physical description of your character. Here are some things I am looking for.

-Hair Style
-Facial/Body type description
-Clothing style
-Armor/Weapons (if they have a certain look or emblems)
-Other details.


If you would rather I not draw your character just let me know. James, this goes for NPC's too.

And David, in the last post you stated that Anteel was the Cleric. That's Dustin's character. His name is Rhys.


-Lawrence

Break 1 - Taran Ullivarn

Boccob must be crazy!

It's amazing, really. I thought this part of my life was gone. Joining the forces of the legendary Warmagus of Gaeor was supposed to be my legacy; my stepping stone out of Meeran's Dell and to a world of adventure and insight. Calling lightning to smite airborne Blacks! Matching the mightiest of Reds, flame for flame, so to speak...

Instead I'm springing Good 'Ol Ezra from the Dell's jailhouse in the middle of the night, reciting mostly fabricated mumbo-jumbo doctrines that no one, outside of the War Camps of Gaeor, would ever care to remember. It's awe-inspiring how preaching something like "But in Article Six, Section Eight; it clearly states..." has such magical powers of bewilderment.

And then that fight with the elf and his hissing cronies ending in nothing but some fallen bodies and Ezra's house in flames. Almost gave me some Dragon-fear flashbacks, but a true soldier stands tall against all adversity and a couple of barrels of oil hardly compares to a Dragon's breath and those terrible, terrible eyes.

Doesn't alleviate the guilt of not seeing that arrow coming though. It landed in Ezra's gut right next to me! If only I'd had a proper defense posted! Protect the leader! I just always kind of thought that Ezra could handle himself. It seems too many of his stories were just that.

The gods giveth, and the gods - yadda yadda yah...

And really, Boccob does seem to have a sick sense of irony. He knows how much I despise the paper-pushing religious profanity that is "The Clerical Way", and yet He sees fit to reunite me with Rhys who's become a damned Cleric of Pelor! For Magic's Sake! He calls me brutal for helping torture the lizardman, but wasn't he the one who turned the metal in that damned elf's eyes damn-near to magma? Stupid Holier-Than-Thous with their "Do as I say, and not as I do" mentality. But I'll let it pass like the sick rush of a good Fire Orb leaving your body and just turn the grimace into a grin and nod the head as applicable. A man doesn't grow up as a God-chosen favorite in a school of combat-mages and not learn to have a thick skin and a favorable tongue. And to be honest, Pelor does seem to shine rather brightly off of him, though that may just be his pretty shield.

And the others:

Jeth, who I always thought would end up with an arrow in his own William Tell-shaped head, is a surprisingly good shot. A shaft right through the eye at damn near forty-five paces is nothing to scoff at. Even the best Dragon-Archers of Gold Keep would have a hard time managing that without a good True Strike or Accuracy spell to aid them. Especially when it seemed like he wasn't even really concentrating on it. Unfortunately, it looks like he contracted his daddy's ego along with his aim. I would have griped about keeping SOME semblance of formation, but he was SO sure that following the lizardman for a couple of days would turn up a lead. Maybe he's right, but I've already got five gold in the pot that says he doesn't.

And Anteel - his heart seems to harbor something darker than it did in our youth, I fear. He smiles the good smile and shows all the right amount of teeth, but his eyes give him away. Reminds me of the Maliyan Sulv Bugs that Archwarmagus Robalt made us study back in the Low Mountains just outside Wyv's boundaries. They play dead and let the smaller flies slowly devour their outer membrane, and then they strike - leaving nothing alive. Maybe it just takes a faker to know one. Maybe I've just seen too many betrayals. Either way, I will continue to subtly check any food or drink he offers for poisons or magics. I was taught better than that.

But alas, enough off-time to lament. Back to that Magic-damned Book, trying to find any clues that might help Rhys save Ezra. It would figure that Boccob's blessing, damn Him, once again turns out to be just what I need but never quite enough to be easy. Even with His eyes, the words seem to flow and pulse to some some unknown beat, and I just can't comprehend them properly. It doesn't help that Rhys's chanting and frustration keep causing me to lose my focus. Sometimes, the battle-axe at my hip twitches to shut him up, but I think I'm just worn at the hinges from the concentration. I was never really fond of book study. The only even slightly relevant thing that I've found thus far is a diagram of a key-shaped object that resembles something similar found on the lizardman's cloak. Maybe it's a coincidence. I'll just have to keep looking.

I wish this blasted book didn't read like a Terrandin Soundbox Manual.

Jeth Jones - Entry One

That stupid bird.
I could be studying the Astine flower right now, and I would be, if that bird hadn't found me. Instead I'm lying in a thicket, waiting for a lizard man to regain conciousness.
I knew that my trip back home was because of trouble, but I had no idea it would've been this bad. I thought maybe Ezra had gotten so old he couldn't live at home and maybe they were trying to move him out of his house. Possibly he had taken to the bottle and maybe he was in jail because of it. Worse case I thought maybe he woudld've lost his house in a bet or something, but I wouldn't have guessed that he would've been in jail for murder.

Seeing some of the boys from childhood was a pleasent thing to come home to. All 3 of the guys that I kinda figured would grow up to be the adventuring sort were here. We didn't a lot of catching up time, about as soon as i got into town we got down to business. Getting Ezra out of jail was pretty simple. Rhys had seen to that. Clerics sometimes make me a bit uneasy, but it was nothing short of a miracle what i saw.

The trouble came AFTER the jail though. While at Ezra's house, picking up a few things before we left town, we were ambushed. A group of lizard men, and the elf. I've put down a few bad days in my time, and everyone of them deserved it, but none of them felt it. One arrow right between the eyes. Its just easier that way.

He dodged it.

Not completely, I did get the eye. But it should've been a kill shot. I will finish what i started. No one comes into my town, burns houses, dodges my arrows, and just waltzes away.

We got out of town, but Ezra took a bad wound to the belly. A wound that cannot be healed by Rhys. We also got a lizardman to pinch some info out of. He had very little. So if he doesn't have the info, atleast he can lead me too some info. As soon as he wakes up..

The List:
The Elf With One Eye

Jeth Jones - Entry Zero

Life is like a flower. It starts off as a simple, non-descript seed. It could turn into anything. It could turn into a giant tree that lives for thousands of years and gives shade to all the creatures and other smaller plant in the grove. It could turn into the prettiest, and nicest smelling flower that glints gold in the sun. or it could grow up nice and big and turn into the sucker that gets drug home randomly by a crow that gets tossed into some insane conspiracy surrounding a book and an old man that, now that we find out, lied to people when they were children.

I had found a kobold tribe that has a special healing salve. This tribe lives in a rather swampy area, so they werent a huge pleasure to spend time with. When I first approached the tribe, I was met with spears. Over the next 3 months I found ways to engraciate myself with the tribe, by bringing gifts of food, tools, and going hunting with the tribe. Eventually I earned their trust. They told me of their salve and hwo it was made. Taking a flower that is found only on the southern cliffs of a nearby valley. They pick it, then dry it in the sun, then mix it with the blood of a swamp rat.

They were very specific about hwo to pick this flower as well. The stem of the flower is covered in thorns. The thorns are covered in a poison, a strong poison that will put whoever is pricked into a near coma for three days, and druing those three days boils will appear. Amazing how such a plant that produces ill effects from the thorns can be such an amazing healing reagent.

So there I was, 50ft in the air, dangling from a rope, studying this flower. It had taken me 8 days searching to find this flower already, and a good half a day working my way up the clift. I'm not a great climber. Finally I get to the flower, and start to sketch it. I'm about half way through the sketch, completely enthralled in my work, totally facinated by this flower, its so amazing to finally see it after all this time, and then SWOOSH! CRUNCH! CAW!! the flower is no more. Looking back at me now is a crow. Stupid fucking crow. At first I was startled. Then I was amazed that wild life would just fly up to me in such a bold way. Then I saw the message on its leg. Stupid stupid message.

Called back home for an emergency. There could have been worse places to be summoned too. Atleast I was going to get to see the storyteller. Ezra was a big part of my childhood. He was the best entertainer around. Traveling bards would often leave the town in quite a snit after being upstaged by a local. Fond memories of bonfire camp out stories with erza, the other boys, my pa when he was in town. So I wonder why I was called.

The List:
Empty

Intermission 1 - Rhys

~Wherein our intrepid heroes travel a long road seeking a cure for Ezra's plight.~

Rhys stood over the prone body, shuddering slightly as the light of Pelor filled him for the fourth time that day, setting his shield nearby to glimmering faintly. Ezra convulsed as the healing spell swam into him, pushing back the poison from the damned arrow that hit him on their escape. It was a never ending struggle; within hours, the wound would begin to fester again, seeping poison in blackened veins radiating away from the stomach wound.

And there was nothing he could do about it. Rhys had learned healing on the Wall, spending day after day walking the battlements with the men of Peron. He’d ridden out more times than he could count when some new emergency required the reserves to scramble for whatever was crawling out of the Fein. The attacks had been grievous towards the end, but the confrontation with the shambling horde on midwinter had been the turning point, the moment that he had been freed to go back to his childhood home at the behest of a man he hadn’t heard from in near a decade.

A man who was, by all accounts, dying in front of him. Rhys watched the tissue trying halfheartedly to knit around the puncture site, and felt a tinge of despair. He didn’t have the ability to heal this wound, not even the ability to stabilize it. Keeping the pestilence in check was draining more and more of his strength every day, and, soon, he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the demands of it. If they didn’t reach a senior member of the priesthood soon… there was a very real chance that Ezra would die, and that the shadowy creatures who had been after Ezra and his book would win after all.

With a quiet curse, Rhys stalked away from Ezra’s sickbed. If the book was part of this mystery, then it was possible that there would be something in it about the poison used. He laughed bitterly to himself there; he thought of this as a poisoning, but really had no proof of that. It could easily be a spell or something even more sinister. There was no way that he could figure it out in these conditions, unless luck held and there was something in the book. He made a litany of it in his head as he walked to where it had been left on Jeth’s departure: “Please. Something. Anything. Let me heal this man, and let us find the shadow men who dealt it. Please. Anything.”

Heart beating, he picked it up. The worn leather of the cover clung to his sweating palms as he slowly opened it, turning page after page, searching. After the first dozen, he began flipping through quickly, barely scanning the pages at all. They fanned, the moldy scent of the book spread, aged paper with a bare hint of strange spices, until they were all past and the back cover was closed. He sat still, book in lap, breathing deep and choking back his disappointment.

Rhys couldn’t read a single word of it.

Journal Entry 1- Anteel

Bloody black raven.... I hate being found so easily. Curse Ezra and his tricks.

I can't lie to myself though, its comforting to once again look upon the faces of my childhood friends. By the gods how we've changed. Two of the younger ones went off and joined churches. Regular army boys...Just a few steps above town guards if you ask me. The other seems just as tenacious, even if he doesn't parade around in his theologically advertising plate armor. As expected trouble found me...well...us. We burned down Ezra's home. Welcome home sons of the Del.

I must remain at least reasonable. I can't forget these are my friends. They were once, anyway.I only hope the feeling of brotherhood returns soon, for as it is I trust not a one of them. Not even the old lying coot. Rubies..pah. But they don't know what I have done, or the places I have been...They only know me as the old Anteel. This is in my favor. I will remain the hunter, and simply help my old friends, assuming they don't try to dance directly into the flames of conflict. I had hoped to escape such a lifestyle. Survival is key. My own.

Now we head off to some unknown town to find more holy men to poke around into Old Ezra's fatal wound. I knew he wasn't as tough as he always claimed. They cut up and cooked some poor fool lizad-kin and golden boy rode off after him once they let him into the wild. Back towards town no doubt. Pointless. Now I am left with a dying mentor from decades ago and two old friend who found a calling in life....Hunting men like me. This does not bode well for the last of the Derhilyans...


-Anteel

DND 3.5 BOOKS

GENTLEMEN! I PRESENT------


A LINK TO A FUCK TON OF MOTHERFUCKING BOOKS! FUCK YES!



-The Law Esq.

Background - Taran Ullivarn

Disciple and Discipline

It wasn't until my fourth year at The Dragon's Tooth Warmagus Academy that I truly understood the power of the rigourous training that I was forced to endure day after day. That was the first time I felt that stomach-churning thrill of an arcane spell reverberating through one's body and armor before releasing into a small ball of magical force. It was a rudimentary spell for the Warmagus. Indeed, I had learned the proper movements, speech and sublties of that spell in my first month at the Tooth, but this was the first time it had worked properly.

Now if you fall for that stereotype of the Mage as the miserly old fuddy-duddy with nothing but a stick and a coloring book to protect him once his spellpool runs dry, you would probably leave the Tooth feeling like the digestive track of a Lysisian noble after eating the latest delicacy the Fein had to offer - simply speaking, you'd likely need to change your armor.

The Tooth creates warmages - soldiers bred in the heat of Boccob's flames. The Warmagus are feared dragonslayers, every bit as potent as their sword and shield counterparts. They endure great hardships to be the best parts of a mage and a soldier: An Arcane Champion strapped into gleaming armor, his sword and shield only a tiny portion of his impressive arsenal.

At least, that's how it's supposed to go. For me, it was a slightly different story. My official title is Officer Warmagus-Vicar Taran Ullivarn, Third Rank, but calling me Taran is fine...and preferred. All the rest of that is just too much of a mouthful for my liking. It's a glorified title for a BattleMage-Medic on the front lines if you ask me.

Yes, I can throw spells with the best of them, and I do, but all the Royal Archmagus seems to be interested in is my other talent. A Blessed One of Boccob they call me, a Favored Soul. I call it a headache that keeps me from my real calling as a Warmagus Slayer, Boccob-Be-Damned.

He has me stationed at the Tooth's singular temple to Boccob when I'm not on rounds, I guess hoping that the Deacon there will rub off on me. It's probably for the best, really, since I did receive more than my fair share of ribbing from the other initiates for my first two years in the bunks. Apparently, being different makes you a target. Go figure.

Really, I don't have all that much against Boccob, Himself, but this "bigger plans" mumbo-jumbo is just a bit too much to stomach. Every time I scrape a knee, it's "The Will of Boccob" or some-such. I'm just a guy in iron and steel who likes to fling fireballs. When did that get complicated?

But my luck is sure to change soon. I am supposed to receive my orders any day now to head up to WarCamp Gallant; Second in command of an eight soldier detachment of Dragon Slayers to go hunt a troublesome Red sighted Northwest for the last few weeks.

Soon this will be but a distant memory.

Anteel Derhilyan

So here is a scene I wrote to set up the story of my character.

There was a criminal in the King’s wood. The sacred trees that bordered a kingdom of men stood proud and full of life, as they had for generations. None but the royal family and the castle guard were allowed to set foot in this sacred forest. Tonight a wanted murderer advanced through deep snow in hopes of finding isolation. He always felt he was being watched, and never went more than a few paces without looking over his shoulder. He couldn’t afford to be followed. He was always being hunted.

-

Anteel found a fresh set of tracks in the King’s wood, and couldn’t resist following them. He would eat well this month if he found the prey he sought. He did not enjoy his job.

He was a young man, despite the crease that found home on his brow, or the hen scratches around his eyes. A neat trimmed beard that formed a characteristic point was riddled with far more grey than most men his age. The only thing that would cause an onlooker to think he wasn’t in his decline was his young eyes. So full of life and awareness. Neither orange, nor brown, but the color of a pane of honey stretched with the sun at its back, and with as much luminescence. He wasn’t tall, nor was he short. He wasn’t thin but he did enjoy his sweetbreads. Many things about him were average, but once you saw his face you couldn’t forget it. This was his 5^th year in this land, and his 27^th year on this world.

He knew how to track well, and keep himself silent, even in the autumn when the fallen leaves crackled underfoot like dry wood on the hearth. He could spot a crow flying in a rainstorm in the dead of night. He could single out the fattest grape in a vast vineyard and pierce it with a bolt from his crossbow. At least that’s what the boys at the tavern always barked on about. The prey stood no chance. They rarely did.

He followed the tracks for half a league. Slowly and quietly. Every step. At one point he thought he had lost them, an impressive feat for the hunted (considering there was a fresh bed of snow up to a man’s navel). It took little time for him to recover the path though. He could tell his prey was growing more fearful as the tracks became clearer and clearer. He decided it was time to load his crossbow. Never had dry wood and cold metal springs made less noise.

He held his position near the base of a fat tree, slowly lowering his weight into the deep snow, with his weapon loaded and leveled. His target was near…he could almost hear another heartbeat and taste the breath still floating in the cold air. How could they hide so well from him? Where did the tracks vanish? A single furneedle dropped to the snow not a meter from where he crouch. He suddenly felt quite green.

No sooner than he had realized the fat tree he hid under was the same tree his prey had climbed, he dove away from his hole. Turning his body in the air he landed on his back as he saw the angry form diving from a low branch towards him. A cloud of powdery white snow exploded as his body hit the ground and from it came a snap. A speeding metal bolt tore out from the cloud and struck his enemy square in the neck. The writhing from landed hard in the snow and danced the dance of death until the life left its twisted body. The last of the exited snowflakes flittered to the ground.

Several minuets passed before Anteel got to his feet and examined his fine work. He couldn’t lie to himself. Every ounce of skill that went into that shot was shoved aside and outdone by pure luck. He knew what he had to do now.

His hands went to work the moment his curved blade slipped out of his boot. Blood painted a troubling landscape on the forest’s white canvas. He would be a rich man for this. He held up his dripping bloody prize. The sparkling white pelt of the rarest and more elusive snow leopard. It was speckled with tiny black eyes that made it a piece of art in itself. Any lord would pay a gunny of silver for such a fine piece of trophy. He would make good use of the meat and bones too. He didn’t care for cat meat, but a man has to eat. He didn’t enjoy his job.

-

The criminal left the King’s wood using the same path he had made entering it, with a well wrapped bundle over his shoulder and a smile on his face. Men who are wanted for murder can rarely be counted on to change their ways, but in Anteel’s opinion, poaching was something he was much more suited to.


Indeed Anteel has made some bad choices in his time, not that he truly regrets a one...but he knows that his temper and sometimes too-quick thinking gets him in trouble. The road he has traveled ages a man, and makes him tough as cured hide. He has no shortage of courage, street smarts, or even skill yet trust is something he has in short supply.

Character Sheets

Hello! Lawrence here, posting some ARTIFICE CHARACTER SHEETS for us to use for game-play. They are very compact, so I hope people can write small and be organized. Otherwise the interwebdz are full of other character sheets to use. I made them for how I like to play, so I can't guarantee others will enjoy the style. Either way, here they are.

PAGE 1
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SPELLS


-The Law