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[adam]

Kael Goron, Blackguard of Ahala, was born of the brief love between the Blue Dragon, Olothontor, and the Harper Agent, Storm Silverhand. Groomed by his mother to join the Harpers, Kael was taught the arts of war and diplomacy from the age of 4. Years later, sounding a call-to-arms, the Nine of Neverwinter enlisted young Kael with a draft. Thayan wizards were, with the conscripted forces of an Orc clan, bent on seizing the Demon Stone from the arch mage of House Talon, Sede Michra. The Thayans, blinded by ambition and without proper generals, were swiftly defeated by the Neverwinter forces. The three wizards, after their entire army was slaughtered, surrendered to Sig Drakken, ranking officer of the militia. The surrender was a ruse, for as soon as Sig approached the wizards to shackle them, a spell of a design unknown to all observers warped his bones and marked his flesh. All of the warriors were far too stunned to act, but Sede Michra returned the Thayan’s spell in kind, freezing him and his two companions with a glance, and summoning black oozing tentacles form the ground to rip them apart. The lord of Neverwinter could not have been more upset losing such prized prisoners, and sentenced Sede to execution. Young Kael, was twisted inside upon hearing the sentence…”those Thayan’s maimed one of the greatest warriors to ever grace the surface of Faerun…and all he is worried about is the small advantage he MIGHT gain from the interrogation…this cannot stand…”. As the guards approached Sede to secure him from casting, Kael struck out with his greatsword, halving both guards at the waist. Realizing the folly of his young savior, Sede teleported both of them to the outskirts of Neverwinter. “Outcasts we are, from here on, young Kael. We will travel to the city of Trinity. I have contacts in the Guild Ahala. They will take us in. Your future is yours now, but you will never be able to seek the guidance or favor of your mother again. She will, in fact, someday come to hunt you. As a chosen of Mystra, that is her duty….”

[bsb5652]

Very nice write up, Adam and Samyx! I credited your accounts.

[Blitzhande]

Account: Blitzhande

"Hey Snaggletooth!", the rude child sneered, "let's see if you can spear this melon on those fangs!?"

Grazzhen looked menacingly at the impetuous child and backhanded him. Across the Temple yard.

A approving Priest of Hoar immediately rushed over to discern the cause of the outburst.

"Grazzhen, what have you done!?", the priest querried. "Nothing that Hoar would not have done himself! That brat has been teasing me since the day I arrived and he had it coming!", he replied.

A wide, knowing smile crept across the face of the priest as he draped his arm across Grazzhen's shoulders. "You my son have much more to learn about revenge, come with me and your training shall begin!"

The Grey Orc, Grazzhen, was raised by an obscure temple of priests to the god Hoar. Trained as a warrior priest he was setup upon the world to exact his patron deity's wishes for wrath and retribution to those that truly deserve it. He was given the best the Temple could afford, fighters from afar to spar with, months of study with the High Priest, and even access to Hoar's sacred tomes of the StormLord. When his studies were complete he was given a set of armor, shield, and spear to go out and do Hoar's work.

Life hasn't been easy finding a place where he felt like he belonged, many not being willing to take someone that looked like an Orc but spoke like an Elf... seriously. After a few minor adventures he finds himself on the road to a new city heard of after a tavern brawl (of which he was the ultimate victor), Trinity. Perhaps this might be the home he's been looking for...

[bsb5652]

Blitzhande, your account has been credited. Thanks again for the great story!

[Duskrites]

Login: Duskrites

Character: Cherubael Dayne


BACKGROUND

Birth and early days

He never knew his family. Whoever his mortal parents were, they abandoned him on a small corn field, in a wilderness area close to Trinity's farmland. He was found by ascetic monks of Torm, who brought him back to the temple where the priests recognized his celestial heritage, named him Light of Dawn, and raised him with a clerical career in mind. The boy was surely gifted, with a magnetic personality, a quick mind and a natural attunement with a blade. Tall, with a penetrating, purple eyed stare and long, silver hair, he was a natural born leader even if only 15 years old. Light of Dawn, however, was far from perfect...he was righteous, and naturally good inclined, but overzealous and rash, and constantly restless for a chance to prove his superiority over the others. His sermons and chiding (of adults and children alike) often ended up in broken bones (that he called "justice"), and the adventures he was seeking were putting at risk the lives of all his friends, who saw him like a paragon and worshipped him like a god, following him everywhere. At 16, and totally out of control, the monks were forced to provide him with goods and put him on the road to Trinity city, only a few days of travel far, so that he could find his way...

Ironclad

Not much is known about his stay in the city itself, but Dayne (that's the name he began to go by, for practical reasons) was less than well accepted there. His "black and white" vision of the world brought him more enemies than friends, and he barely escaped a knife through his ribs more often than not, due to his inflexibility bordering into outright hostility towards anyone straying from his very own vision of "law", "justice" and what is "right". A turning point came at the age of 17, when a caravan he was traveling with, directed north on the main road, fell under attack by a combined humanoid force. Right past the first week's travel, caravan workers and guards alike began disappearing at night, shadows edging the torchlights' edges everywhere. With the tension rising, shortly after the full scale attack came: a band of hobgoblin started to rain fire arrows to pin the few defenders down to their scanty means of cover, while groups of bugbears were sneaking from the nearest treeline behind the convoy, assassinating easy targets (military and civilians alike) and stretching the scanty means of defense ever so thin. In this already difficult situation, a horde of trolls, probably attracted by the noise, swarmed out of a complex of concealed caves, opening a new attack front and threatening to end the resistance immediately. In the darkest hour, when all seemed lost, Dayne rallied some friends and a few adventurers who were happening to travel north with the merchants, and took up a fortified position between the caves and the wagons in an attempt to stem the tide . He held the position for six days, day and night fighting to stop the onslaught, showing strategic wisdom and tactical awareness as well as competence with a sword. He fought his battle, allowing the militia to fight their own against hobgoblins and bugbears. The stalemate was broken by the arrival of a mighty cleric of Tyr and his retinue of knights, whose charge annihilated the hobgoblins and gave the militia the chance to fight back and repel the invaders. When the Cleric rescued Dayne and (supposedly) his party, they found he was the only one alive, and even he would not have survived the day without the cleric's healing powers. The next day and night, Dayne and the Cleric discussed. No one knows what was said, but at dawn of the second day, The holy priest announced that he was going back to the Order of The Merciful Sword's stronghold in Waterdeep, and Lightbringer was coming with him to be ordained officially as a Paladin of Tyr.

Sir Cherubael Dayne, Paladin of Tyr

When the vigil was concluded, the sun dawned on Cherubael Dayne, Paladin of The Order of The Merciful Sword. They say Cherubael was one of his best friends, that sacrificed his life to protect him during the battle. Whatever the reasons behind his name, it is said that Light of Dawn had developed a dislike for humanoid monsters bordering in prejudice, and outright hatred. They say in the following years, he kept riding out in the night, visiting known caves infested with Orcs, goblins, gnolls and the like as near to the the City of Splendors as possible, and slaying countless numbers of them, not to bring justice and smite evil in all its forms, but out of pure desire for vengeance.At the age of 19, now being a knight errant for the temple, he was assigned to Daggerford, and in particular to help defeat a group of cuttroaths formed by ex adventurers and deserters from several militias who banded together and were preying on travelers. On his way to the city, it is said he found a Half-Orc bent on a human child, on the side of the road. Without a second thought, he quickly dispatched the halfblood only to find out too late he was just trying to use his clerical powers to heal the mortally wounded child, now as well beyond salvation. This occurrence had a deep impact on Dayne, and possibly it is one of the most important milestones in his life: The young adventurer, rash, impulsive, full of prejudices and with a black and white vision of good and evil died with that child. A new Cherubael Dayne was born: his judgement was now based on actions, no longer race nor prejudice of any kind. He now started to perceive good and evil as aspect of every living being, and therefore the righteous' duty to be vigil and aware that he himself is not immune to the taint. Conversely, not all evil is beyond redemption, although justice and law must be defended and enforced at all costs regardless of a villain's chance for salvation. Once he guided the local forces to a decisive victory against the bandits, he went back to Waterdeep and spoke to the Cleric who brought him into the order, explaining what happened to him and his ideas. After reflecting a few days, the priest claimed he had a vision from Tyr, and that Cherubael's destiny would unfold in his homeland, Trinity. More he could not say, but he arranged the travel immediately, giving the Paladin full powers from the Order to bring hope and justice wherever his quest to fulfill his own destiny brought him.

[jamesnuge]

username: jamesnuge
character: Stando Tanne

Stando Tanne - The false prophet of Kelemvor

For all of his dexterity Callum could not seem to shake his pursuer. As he darted between thick trees and dodged the overgrown shrubs of the forest floor his body surged with adrenaline, fearing the fate that would befall him if caught. Callum quickly scaled a nearby in an attempt to hide from the judge stalking him through the woods. As he caught his breath in the branches of the tree he could finally listen for movement over the sound of his heart beat thundering in his ears. Minutes passed without as a leave falling. A sigh of relief being the only noise Callum could hear as he carefully scaled down the tree. Turning to check the path behind him was clear caused him to miss the large gauntlet surge through the darkness to clasp his throat. As the assailant brought Callum up off the ground and closer to his face Callum's mind immediately forgot the about fear of capture. Gone were thoughts of the piles of gold he'd receive for the prized sword-and-a-half he'd stolen from the Prophet and his zealots. Gone were the thoughts of spending his nights in a Calimshan tavern with all the drink and company he could ever want. Gone were the thoughts of his next great heist. His mind was emptied of all thought, caught in the hypnotising gaze of his hunters piercing silver eyes.

The meagre noise of the scuffle was overshadowed by a booming baritone voice. "You have stolen from Kelemvor, he has demanded your life in return. I shall be the instrument of his will". Whilst still holding Callum clearly above the ground the Prophet picked up Kelemvor's artefact from ground, having fallen out of Callum's satchel. The darkness was broken as an wry smile crossed the face of Kelemvor's prophet. A swift swing of the Prophets arm cleft the half-ling in two as the sword seamlessly ripped through his flesh with what seemed like a single fatal touch. Pleasure filled the Prophet knowing he had fulfilled his Lords desires as he carelessly tossed the torso of the sinner aside.

++Background++

Stando Tanne was raised in the capital city of Cormyr, Suzail. A human male of dark complexion, the most notable trait of Stando was his piercing silver eyes. Contrasting
against his jet-black skin tone, none could ever seek to pull themselves from staring deep into his starlit pupils. At a young age he developed the ability to manipulate
people as they seemed to lose their social bearings once caught in his gaze. As he developed into a man he grew quite tall compared to much of his family. Regardless of his
6 foot build, his most noticable trait remained his penetrating stare.

Being from a city almost devoid of any temples to the God of the Dead it is quite odd that Stando came to devote his life to the God of the Dead, Kelemvor. Rumour is that he travelled south-east to Ormpetarr and become a disciple at the great temple there, but all that is known is that he left Suzail in 1567 DR only to emerge in Neverwinter as preacher of great presence and personality in 1589 DR.

++The Hand of Kelemvor++

Upon arriving in Neverwinter Stando quickly started preaching to the masses in the streets. Whilst clinging to many of the traditional teachings of Kelemvor, Stando frequently would paint his God in the image of a great panther, referring to the Lyonsbane curse as 'The great gift'. This teaching in particular rubbed the Doomguides the wrong way, but they were happy to turn a blind eye as long as Stando was growing the influence of their temple. Another quirk of his devotion was the lack of dedication to unearthing the mysteries of their deity. He refused to seek wisdom in the holy tomes, and preferred to spend time in prayer and communion with Kelemvor. However the Doomguides could not refute that his preaching as it was validated by the miracles and holy gifts that only Kelemvor would impart.

Stando continued to preach and found that with every sermon he gave his stature grew proportionally to his influence. As a youth, while he was tall, lacked any real physical strength, but it seemed the more he preached and his dogmatic teachings penetrated through the minds of all who would listen he grew in strength. Stando eventually found that those who could not succumb to his silver tongue would often be swayed by a simple flex of his strength. Eventually news of the "Deathly Zealot" and his intimidation reached the Doomguides. Stando's new evangelical methods had not yet brought the ire of the clerics to tipping point, but that would eventually change.

During a fairly routine sermon given the commoners of Neverwinter Stando started to hear other-worldly musings. He had previously felt the call of Kelemvor, but never had he audibly heard Kelemvors voice. It spoke of his high regard for him, and the words he must impart to his dedicated follower. He repeated this holy utterings to the crowd and they grew into a frenzy. He called all who follow Kelemvor to call upon the gift of the Lyonsbane and be transformed in to the fury of Kelemvor (Local historians maintain that this was nothing more than a call to fire up the crowd, whilst remnant believers claim they all took on the form of the panther and were blessed with Kelemvors Family Gift). Stando had the crowd in the palm of his hands. His sermon ended with a simple proclamation. He was The Hand of Kelemvor. The one who was to decide the when, where and who of the Judges work. All who denied his rightful claim as the avatar of the death god were declared heretics and sent to be judged by Kelemvor.

The crowd painted Kelemvors sigil onto their bodies and faces, but removed the scales associated with the judge. With this they were no longer Kelemvors disciples, but disciples to he who whispered into Stando's ear. As a hoard of white skull bearing zealots accompanied Stando he knocked on the temple of the Doomguides with his bastard sword giving the clerics an ultimatum. Declare him their holy patron or be sent for judgement in from of Kelemvor. The Doomguides begged the crowds to listen to reason and the true teachings of Kelemvor, but their minds were already too poisoned by the propaganda Stando had preached. Those faithful to Stando attacked the temple. The Doomguides were able to repel the minor insurrection as they were blessed with the true gifts of Kelemvor and they banish Stando from Neverwinter once his force was routed. Journeying from Neverwinter after his expulsion he swore a vendetta against the Doomguides of Neverwinter and felt Kelemvor call him homwards towards Cormyr.

As the Kelemvor clergymen recovered from dispelling the Hand of Kelemvor, they reflected on the nature of the event and learned from the errors of their ways. However one
revelation that would complete their understanding of the rebellion eluded them. If they were the true followers of Kelemvor, and his favour rested upon them during the
battle, which of the Gods was empowering Stando during his evangelical mission in Neverwinter?

[bsb5652]

Duskrites & jamesnuge, thank you both for the great stories, your accounts have been credited.

[MortisCorpus]

How it began, well, if I must… So you can understand Ahala…

A fishermans bastard they said, but that might have been a fairy tale if taken in stride. I was raised at the Gates of an old town nearing Neverwinter, in another time. The road had been hard and I was sworn to apprentice some unbeknown villain, as I understood him at the time, by my seventh year.

“Infernal Beshadowed Boy!” He would scream and rage into tantrums of drunken abuse. I got old enough to take the blows and scrape into the shadows to last the nights. In a matter of weeks, I knew when he woke and where he got his next drink; so he was easy enough to stay away from in a very short amount of time. I learned which chores needed doing so as to keep him temporally at bay.

His customers, thieves and back-alley sort, knew to stay clear of him when he was drunk. It only took me a few seasons to learn his herbal arts. By my tenth birthday, I had taken his customers and poisoned him, using the avenue to practically step into the dark arcane arts. I was perhaps fourteen, and I was already a product of dire times and dark circumstances when I met them though…

I often ask myself, “Would I have had a better chance at being a good soul if I had been raised in a quaint country town?”

I linger, I was 14 or so, I met them at the tavern, wearing dark robes, smelling of old dirt and fungus. They ordered water and bread and sat in a corner, so they could see who entered the establishment. I had been sent for, as was the way for some ‘herbs’, and I was to do business with them from that day on. They would be the keepers of lore’s I would learn, and eventually master. They would lead me to Bane, and magic.

The wells of knowledge, which were the stepping stone…

I was introduced to the Red Wizards, the necrophages to be particular. I had no idea that a sect of their order would be so close to the squalor I was calling home at the time. I was eager to invest in the dark arts. I was found to be of extremely high magical potential and already knew all the herbs and magical components. I was given a chance to take a step towards greatness, and I leapt. I did not take any time to address the choices and commitments of the soul. I was young, foolhardy, and ‘invincible’.

To be honest, I was nearly starving, already bald and pockmarked, covered in scars from a lifetime of bed bugs and sleeping on dirty floors … it was the only thing that kept me alive.

I was found young and naive, and convinced to make lifelong, unforgivable, eternal oaths. I made them, and I am now an evil old thing; I am not repentant. I cannot undo this path, but I can help those in need.

A Beshadowed Mage, of Ahala

[addict-ant]

Account: addict-ant. Character name: Zara Nightblade.
What follows is an only slightly artistic take on real in-game events: my first encounter with a DM (I had no idea what was going on at the time - only the vaguest notion a DM was involved, it took weeks before I found out which DM it was - as such it isn't a background story; I hope that's ok).

Dedicated to Oberu, the Mighty Metalsmith.


The Dakmor cemetery was quiet, eerily silent. Sheet lightning played across the night sky but no sound issued forth, for no natural noise could permeate this unholy ground. Zara Nightblade could feel the preternatural chill of the undead emanating from every grave, reflecting from every tombstone and crypt. The restless dead would be found in abundance here on this dark, foreboding night.

But Zara was not afraid. She had been raised in the Underdark of the Drow: the fearful and the weak were quickly culled from such ranks. Born a half breed slave in the arena of Menzoberranzan, she had earned her right to survive, nay to thrive; in battle and blood and death. No surrender, no retreat...no mercy. And if she was ever to return there, to reclaim what she had fought so hard and so long to build there, she was going to need power. Power such as the mystical Adamantine with which to forge the weapons she would need to take back what was hers from that bitch of a high priestess, Matron Vernier. Zara's vengeance would have no measure; she would tear her retribution from Vernier's battered, broken body and elicit a scream for every day she had been forced to endure the sun and these idiot, weak surfacers. Or so she plotted. She would not withdraw: the vampire that ruled this dread place had the adamantine she needed and she would take it from her cold, dead hands.

Striding boldly forward, Zara entered the cemetery her short swords held grimly in her hands. Ahead she spied the forms of two shambling undead, zombies most probably she thought. She readied her weapons and advanced upon her enemies. Battle commenced.

Within the first few strikes it became clear these were no normal zombies; where her enchanted swords should have rent their forms and taken their limbs, only shallow lacerations were evident. This was going to be tough but their shambling counter attacks were of little threat and Zara danced about them, a whirl of blades and corpulent flesh ensued. Seconds became minutes, five minutes became fifteen, fifteen became thirty but finally her enemies were sliced pieces upon the ground. Ahead she spotted more and grimly stepped forward, eager for the challenge.

And so it went: zombies, skeletons, death knights and hydras fell to the blur that was Zara's twining swords and agile form until at last she had climbed the hill and reached her first objective: the mausoleum.

Within its cold and unforgiving walls the war continued: against restless wraiths, shambling dead and vicious giant insects. Ever did Zara press onwards, confident in her victory for few there were in all the realms who could match her swords or her fervent thirst for vengeance.

Eventually she spied the monster who's heart was the first key to entering the vampire's lair. A towering monstrosity of brute force and decaying flesh. The bigger they are, the harder they fall she thought. Marching against the muscled menace she set about her task with deadly efficiency. Zara hacked and slashed, cut and rent, her opponent would not last long.

But then, mid conflict, a change in the fortunes of war began and where before she had dashed around the things clumsy swings, suddenly it began a far higher accounting of itself; connecting more and more. Bruised and battered Zara redoubled her efforts and drawing upon the flasks of healing she had about her belt and bandolier she finally laid the corpulent corpse to its final rest. Gasping for breath, she breathed a sigh of relief.

But no sooner had its worm infested body hit the deck when suddenly, out of seemingly nowhere, appeared goblins and thrice damned wizard goblins at that! What had been a steady drumbeat of combat throughout the cemetery now became a whirling dance of death for her very survival. As magic and missiles were flung about the chamber it was all Zara could do to keep them at bay, let alone score hits of her own. Again and again she drew upon her healing flasks. Back and forth the battle raged, the cursed Goblins had healing flasks of their own! Worse still the wounded looking combatant Zara had been concentrating on had some sort of sorcerous emmanation continually weakening her. Switching targets she found the other gob's not so ensorcelled and Zara began to make some headway. Still their magic was strong and their frames not nearly as frail as they appeared.

At the culmination of some dread goblin incantation an army appeared, ethereal and incandescent and Zara's heart nearly flagged to despair; for there was no hope of victory against such an overwhelming force.

But, thank the Spider Queen, the magic most have gone awry for almost as soon as it appeared, the army vanished. There could be no doubt however that a higher power was involved here. Perhaps Lolth was testing her, Zara had heard of such things but being only a half breed and not especially devout in her sacrifices at the Queen's altar, she had never dreamed of being challenged and honored so. Her strength ebbing, her resources all but spent, Zara resolved: victory or death! Slowly she recited her prayer to her dark majesty:

I shall not flee quietly into the night.
I shall stand
And I shall fight,
For power
And for might.
For yay though I walk thru the valley of the shadow of Lolth,
I shall fear no light!
For the path of the strong
Is beset on all sides
By the iniquities of the weak
And the tyranny of lying Gods.
For there is but one Law in Life:
The strong can do what they like with the weak.
For the weak perish…and the strong survive;
Only the strong survive!
For I shall strike down upon them with great vengeance and furious anger,
All those who declare themselves my enemy.
And they will hear Lolth's Lament,
When I lay my vengeance upon them.

Throwing the last of her reserves into the fray and draining the last of the many resources she had brought with her, Zara finally gained the upper hand and smote her enemy's ruin upon the mausoleum's cold, cavernous floor. Giving thanks to Lolth for the strength to victory, she fell upon her knees exhausted.

From the quickly cooling corpse of one of the goblins, a discordant and disconnected voice issued forth:
"Gud fite"
Stunned, shocked and without really considering how or with who she was conversing, Zara exhausted, whispered:
"Helluva gud fite"
It slowly dawned upon her, as she slowly stripped the dead of their belongings, that she had conversed with a higher power; she had been tested and she had prevailed. Exultant, she spied her reward appearing out of the ether: an amazingly graceful and deadly looking short sword materialized before her, a weapon of awesome power, Zara could feel the magic coursing through its adamantine blade. Giving thanks to her Queen she lifted the sword and found a short note upon it:
"Deagle.
This is a very sharp sword. May it always serve you well."
Deagle - as good a name as any.
"If only I had another just like it" Zara spoke to the heavens, hopeful. She did not expect an answer, let alone another sword but thought it couldn't hurt to remind her Queen she was a dual weapon expert. You don't ask, you don't get. I shall forge or find another just like it, she thought, and I shall name it Beagle.

Triumphant in victory, Zara claimed her prize and set about completing her mission in the cemetery. Vengeance would be hers, Vernier's time in this life would be measured: months, years or decades; it didn't matter - Zara Nightblade was coming for her, Zara Nightblade would claim her retribution...Zara Nightblade had gained the favour of the Spider Queen.

[bsb5652]

addict-ant, you have been credited for your superb submission!