Background: Vangelis had originally been part of a group which protected pilgrims on their way to a holy site in a dangerous land, but it was dangerous indeed, and the pilgrims and the rest of his group were lost. Sorely wounded, half-mad with hunger, and wandering back towards civilization, he fell in with the mercenaries, and tells himself he is still working for good and order, at least when they are not wantonly pillaging.
Last Edit: Aug 23, 2012 10:35:35 GMT -6 by aergraith
Chain Shield Helmet Sword Daggers x 3 (balanced for throwing, in chest bandolier) Waterskin Pack --rations --100' rope --crowbar --13 gp Lyre (in a leather case, strapped to backpack)
Guard Dog, "Spaz" (hp: 4/4)
Dram has headed out find fame and fortune with a battered set of armor and sword he got from a family friend. He struggled with learning archery and finally surrendered to the reality he couldn't hit a barn if he were inside it. The throwing daggers are because his practical side told him "slim chance is better than none". Spaz is an ill-tempered dog, there is nothing about this animal that says "pet me".
Dram has developed the habit of moving very deliberately in order to make up for his lack of dexterity. He always carries a lyre in his backpack. Due to the nature of his profession, he rarely plays it but when he does he favors elvish melodies; which he sings alongs to (in elvish, natch) with a passably good voice.
In addition to Common, Dram speaks orcish, elvish, and goblinoid. The orc and goblin tongues he learned from a former brother-in-arms, rumored to be half-orc himself. Elvish he learned to impress a local elvish beauty, an unrecquited love (to say the least).
Background: His hair is greying, his eyes a piercing blue, and his body worn and fraught with scars. While his brothers-in-arms rest peacefully in their graves, Gaspard rises each morning like the Sun, a veteran of innumerable campaigns.
War has garnered him neither coin nor rank. Could faith offer him respite? Purpose?
Last Edit: Aug 19, 2012 8:51:32 GMT -6 by verhaden
Tirandir the Elf has traveled with the Grey Hart for many months. He is an Elf of very few words, which some take as an arrogance and others think he is perhaps unbalanced. He can often been caught smirking or laughing when given direct commands, and obviously holds some contempt for his present lot in life. Perhaps this is understandable as his luck thus far as a mercenary has been mostly ill. His fine shortsword was stolen several months ago and his leather armor destroyed in the last encounter. At this pace he will be penniless and without means of support by the end of the year unless fortune smiles on him and he can gain a share of battle plunder.
Tirandir stands with the Archers of the company and is considered a fine marksman, but often he has been seen silently spying upon the companies Wizard's. Some think he might have magical powers as many Elf's are rumored to, but thus far he has not shown it.
Last Edit: Sept 5, 2012 18:58:19 GMT -6 by mgtremaine
Background: Joining the Grey Hart shortly after Tirandir, Firas was quickly determined to be a "second-rate elf" when compared to the former. Even through his arrogance and solitude, the other members of the company could see the skill in Tirandir's bow, especially when compared to Firas. Side by side, Tirandir's larger frame gave testimate to his superior strength.
So who could blame him when Firas quietly snickered to himself the day Tirandir lost his shortsword? Or, when he smiled at the sight of Tirandir's leathers shredded by a spiked flail?
But Firas can never be accused of giving in to mediocrity. He has high designs for greatness and a deep well of inscrupulous means with which to attain it. He covets one of his few treasures, a scroll he pulled off a cloaked body three nights ago that he has yet to evenonly just recently read. And he has a fine shortsword, only slightly modified with a scrap of leather wrapping around the original chain-wrapped hilt and a few smears of mud on the crossguard...
OOC: Just for fun, I randomly determined the spell on the scroll by rolling 1d15 (included the reverse of all spells). Got a 9 (Darkness).
Last Edit: Aug 16, 2012 10:25:24 GMT -6 by ehiker133
Jaras is a relatively plump hobbit with a heart as big as his bottom. Orphaned one tragic night as a young child by two cunning wererats, he wandered in the dark forest frightened, hungry, and confused until found by a small group of elves in search of wild night-herbs. Sheltered and raised in their ways he has grown quite fond of elven food and especially drink! This love of such keeps his pockets empty whenever he is in sight of fresh elven delights.
He is quick to laugh with gusto but it plagued by mood-swings and terrifying memories of the night his parents were cruelly taken from him. Jaras's true identity was lost with his heritage and his name was given him by the elves.
Despite his jovial demeanor, his eyes flash with hatred at the sight of any rodents and he carries with him, at all times, a silver arrow ready to sink into the heart of any lycans he may encounter. He is fiercely just and will often “shoot first, assess risk later” whenever he sees oppression of any form taking place among children or the defenseless.
Background: Slightly aloof but always charming Alvearsa has decided to see the world and learn what makes mortals so fragile. Not gifted with intellect he sometimes can get himself in trouble and a school of hard knocks has toughened him up. He is wise enough to know when to retreat and when to confront, he has been known to stay a bed to long on occasion which has alarmed his "companions" husband greatly of a morning. He favors daggers and is always on the look out for that perfect throwing blade with which to impress the plebs and more importantly the ladies.
He recently joined a motley band whose rough edges appeal to Alvearsa, plus he likes to see how humans have to rough it out...a unique experience indeed.
6 starting spells: Charm Person, Detect Magic, Hold Portal, Protection from Evil, Read Magic, Sleep.
Prepared Spell: Sleep
GOLD PIECES: 8
EQUIPMENT: 4 Daggers. (12gp). (One hung at his side in plain view, one secreted up his left sleeve, another concealed in his right boot, yet another strapped at the nape of his neck). (“Why, I am practically unarmed, good sir! We mages are peaceful, scholarly souls. Might I perchance give the back of my neck the merest scratch..?”)
Waterskin. (1gp). ((Sigh!) “One must drink water to live...”)
Flask of wine. (2gp). ((Grins): “...but one drinks wine to make life worth the living!”)
Backpack. (3gp). (“Dratted, cumbersome thing! I really must hire a man to attend to such manual unpleasantness...”)
Rations, 1 week. (7gp). A few small bread rolls, a round of pleasantly-tangy hard cheese, a few handfuls of dried fruit, an apple or two, a fistful of cured wild boar sausages, etc.) (“Iron rations? Good Gods, my dear fellow, I’d rather starve...”)
Travelling cloak. (3gp). (“Dratted, waterlogged country! Does it ever stop raining in these benighted parts?!?”)
String of garlic. (5gp). (Somewhat picked at; He’s been using the occasional clove to add a soupson of flavour to the company’s otherwise-dreary meals...) (“You may call it chicken stew, my dear fellow! I can but regard it as a tragically-drowned fowl deserving of a better send-off than the company of stale turnips and – I’m not even sure what that is. These little white-and-purple jewels may serve to provide just that..!”)
Tinderbox. (2gp). (“Oooh, catch, you cursed thing! CATCH! Nine shaved dwarfs, but there’s got to be an easier way to start a fire...”)
Lantern. (10gp). (“A dark lantern for oh-so-occasionally dark business, hmm..?”)
Oil, Flask. (2gp). (“...but it wouldn’t do for the old girl to run out of flicker on us, would it? I’m all for the dark, but there are limits...”)
TOTAL WEIGHT: 50 (Incl. spellbook).
BACKGROUND: No-one seems to be entirely sure when Ædelwynn fell in with the Grey Hart, or why, but the young magician has been lurking on the fringes of the company for some time now, despite the occasional curse and hurled missile sent his way, that he has so far managed (largely) to avoid.
Of medium height, slim of build, with sandy-brown hair framing an affable, smiling face (that is swift to take on a shrewd, watchful look when he thinks you’re not looking at him), he is clearly educated – cultured even – at least that is the impression he tries to give. He certainly affects a cultivated, scholarly manner, but there’s more than a little of the mountebank about him. Keep your hand on your purse and an eye on your girl when Ædelwynn’s around – chances are he’s after both, a predatory, calculating look in his pale blue eyes which has earned him the occasional blacked eye and split lip from his comrades, although he is swift to bounce back, insisting it was all a misunderstanding and falling over himself to be agreeable to his former antagonists (while quietly marking their names for future retribution...)
He spends a lot of time pouring over his (admittedly quite impressive-looking) spellbook, although on occasion he seems a little wary – even nervous – of it. Surely it couldn’t be that it doesn’t belong to him, could it?
Nonetheless, he has proved himself on occasion to be a shrewd and capable spell-caster, enough to ensure Sir Trevor has seen fit to permit his continued presence in the ranks of the Grey Hart, despite the occasional – heh – ‘misunderstanding’ arising between him and his fellow sell-swords.
“Ruins, you say? Hmm. Yes, potentially interesting, I suppose. I may perhaps join you in investigating them... should I wake up in time... and after a proper breakfast, naturally...
In the meantime fear not, my bold companions. I shall be certain to keep a close and watchful eye on any belongings you may see fit to leave behind...”
Last Edit: Aug 24, 2012 12:47:30 GMT -6 by doctorx
Background Malaveque is an outcast Elf, in part due to his brooding and sarcastic nature and also his deformed appearance, the result of an ambitious alchemy experiment gone wrong as an adolescent. His skin is marred by acid burns from the right half of his face across his chest and down his right arm. His right hand is functional, but badly scarred, leaving him somewhat weak. He has lost his hair on the right side where only scars remain, while on the left it grows unkempt due to inattention. Driven out by his own people, he has sought various employment in order to fund continued magical studies. He has been with the mercenary band for about a year, and has been considering leaving as the rewards have been lacking.
Equipment: Leather Armor Helmet Shield Mace Holy Symbol, Wood Scroll of Cure Light Wounds Backpack 17 of 30# -Tinderbox -Rations, Iron (x1) -Waterskin -Cloak (used as blanket while sleeping)
Encumbrance: 68/75 lbs
Background: No one knows The Herald's true name or city of origin. It's said he wanders from place to place, looking for battle on the fringes of civilization. He is loathe to fight other Men, as he considers himself the Champion of Mankind, chosen by the Gods to wipe all Beastmen and other heathens (he tolerates Elf and Dwarf, but just barely) from the face of the earth. Killing other Men in self-defense, on the other hand, is an acceptable course of action.
The Herald is quite lax on enforcing the rules of any temporal church, nor is he too keen on converting the unbelieving Man. His purpose is plain: Beastmen will never accept the Gods, so they must be obliterated. When facing those types, his zeal (i.e. lust for battle) shines like a beacon.
He speaks the language of most Beastmen (Orc, Goblin, and Ogre, to be sure. A smattering of Kobold, as he's troubled by most of the fricatives common to that language) but if he learned them for any reason other than to taunt his enemies before smashing them to pieces with his mace Solais ("Light" in some ancient tongue, he claims), it's not at all clear why.