Players



= Gramblor Berylbrand = Dwarvish Assassin

Backstory:
Gramblor Berylbrand, 7th son of Lorgroun Berylbrand, preferred the crossbow to the blade. All the sneaking about with daggers was more dangerous, not to mention messier. The crossbow however was elegant. You could slay a man in a crowd from a distance with a crossbow with the right luck and skill, and could sneak away without so much as a drop of blood on your cloak. Gramblor had like to think himself more skilled than lucky, but mostly he was thirsty for soup. He walked along the crowded streets of the wind district back to the Great Turtle Tavern to report his success on his latest kill, an unfortunate cabbage salesman who had tried to undercut the prices of Gramblor’s dwarvish kinsmen. Over the past few weeks Gramblor had seen the streets of Deepwater Dale swell in anticipation of the Waiirin Empires decision to open the eastern trading passage. The already busy port town was now just about bursting with excitement, excitement that had kept Gramblor busy the past few weeks. He pushed through the swinging doors of the Great Turtle and ordered a bowl of stew from Reilgilda, The lovely-bearded dwarvish barmaiden. The Great Turtle was a tavern owned by the dwarvish greatclans  of Rumvalid the Divine Beast, Gramblor’s home. As the 7th son of the Rumveild nobility Gramblor had been gifted to the Synapse, The Great Clan leader of Rumveild, to learn the art of assassination as was long tradition of 7th sons of the Greatclans of his home. Gramblor had seen a lot in his near 50 years of privileged service to Rumveild Greatclans. He and his trusty crossbow, Ricardo, had done everything from combatting the growing piracy to eliminating clan political and economic rivals and even more covert missions in the Waiirin Empire and the other Holy Divine Beast countries. Gramblor took his bowl of stew in both hands and finished it in one hearty chug that dripped onto his shaggy black beard. Satisfied, he reached into his midnight black cloak and placed a letter from his pocket on the Bar. The letter was of fine looking dwarvish stationary and bore the dark green seal of the greatclan Berylbrand. “Another one?” Reilgilda asked, eyebrows raised. “Poor bastard never saw it coming.” Gramblor replied. Reilgilda eyed him expectantly, hand outstretched. Gramblor sighed and reached back into his cloak, pulling out 3 silver pieces and placing them in her hand. “See to it that this gets back to Rumveild right away. We don’t want them to think I have been slacking off now, or even worse missing my shots.” Reilgilda smiled, her lovely blond beard glistening in the candlelight. Gramblor was a sucker for shiny blond beards. He reached into his coat and pulled out another letter, this one much plainer than the last. “This one is for Broznelda and the boys. There is an extra 2 silver pieces here for you if you send this one on the express ship.” Broznelda had a blond beard that would put the kind barlass to shame. Gramblor could never technically marry Broznelda, as his life belonged to the Synapse. However, she and Gramblor’s 3 sons Grulfwald, Gunwale, and MikePence lived in comfort as an attaché of the Berylbrand household. “You’ve got a deal” Reilgilda said. Gramblor paid her, and rose from his bar stool, his crossbow Ricardo’s familiar weight adjusting along the strap on his back. “The festival is soon. I have a feeling times are about to get real interesting.” he said as he rose. “I think it'll be exciting. And good for business!” Reilgilda replied jovially, pocketing her coin. “Just keep your wits about you lass, something is on the winds” Gramblor said, brushing his beard with his calloused hands. “I’m sure whatever it is, I can handle it. Well, as long I can shoot it.” They shared a laugh, and then Gramblor said. “It is time for me to rest. Goodnight, clanswoman. Rumveild blessing on us both. I'm sure I will need it; I know I will have work to do soon.”

Ricardo
Ricardo, Gramblor's trusty crossbow was gifted to him by his Assassin mentor Phyrax Quvain, a shadowy figure prominent in the Great Beast Rumveild. it was given to Gramblor in his 13th year after completing his first assassination in the name of the Synapse, a human target named Ricardo. Ricardo was caught selling faulty seeds to the farmers of Rumveild and was stabbed to death with a broken glass bottle.

Stats:
Level 3 STRENGTH

14 (+2)

DEXTERITY

15 (+2)

CONSTITUTION

15 (+2)

INTELLIGENCE

13 (+1)

WISDOM

8  (-1)

CHARISMA

12 (+1)

PROFICIENCY

+2

BONUS

Armor Class:
12

HP
24

= Varsen = Swiftstride Shifter Monk

Description
VARSEN [pronounced: VAR-sin | rhymes with "Car-pin"] is a nineteen-year-old swiftstride shifter monk, born and raised in the Dravenin Monastery by his mother, LYSANA, a longtooth shifter monk. He’s 5'9" when unshifted (6'2" when shifted), lithe, and toned, with dark brown skin, long legs, and a long spotted tail, dark brown hair, and hazel eyes. He has a layer of fur that runs up his calves and the back of his thighs, which he covers with form-fitting trousers. He sports a large tattoo of several constellations on his left arm and the left side of his chest, which stretches from the back of his hand, over his shoulder, up the left side of his neck, across his heart, and over both of his lungs. He has pointy ears, which are triangular and delicate, and he appears vaguely elvish; in shifted form, he has prominent, dark markings around his eyes, dark amber fur across his body, and vicious teeth. He also constantly binds his heels when unshifted, leaving his feet are bare to show his claws, and this part of his body does not change even when he shifts.

Childhood
If asked today, Varsen would say the first thing he remembers about the monastery where he was born is that he was never allowed to leave. For the first few years of his life, he had no concept of the world beyond the monastery walls, and believed the only people in existence were the ones he knew. He had teachers and mentors, friends, and his mother—but strangers were a foreign idea, completely inconceivable.

As a result, Varsen has few street-smarts, even now; his education was strictly scholarly. And while he remains a fidgety, impatient person, traits carried over from childhood, he has a good memory, a keen eye for detail, and a deep love of maps.

As a shifter, Varsen hit young adulthood fairly early, around the age of ten. This came with a rebellious streak, but was controlled through the heavy emphasis the monastery placed on his physical training. He was taught to rely solely on himself and what his body was capable of, with special attention paid to how quickly he could move on his feet.

Shifting came naturally to him as a child, but was not encouraged. Instead, he was taught to focus on the added dexterity and speed his abilities leant him in unshifted form. His inner beast is a serval, a type of wild cat, which he personally finds unremarkable—they’re known for their prominent markings and sprinting strike against larger, faster prey, but little else.

Other than his mother, Varsen has never met another shifter. And he learned very little about his powers from her, as he never saw her shift when he was young. Over the course of his life, she only taught him one lesson about his shifting abilities: never count on them to accomplish something he wasn't otherwise capable of. His animal form was a weapon, like a sword, meant to be used by a person with strength. If he was weak without sharp teeth and claws, he would always be weak regardless.

At the age of twelve, Varsen developed his first crush on another boy at the monastery. A few years older and incredibly book-smart, they bonded over a shared love of maps and stolen sweets. In many ways, this boy was Varsen’s first confidant, first close friend, who didn’t shy away from the more feral parts of his personality or his non-human appearance.

But through this friendship, Varsen came to realize that there was a wide, wide world outside of the monastery. The boy had gone beyond the scratched glass in the monastery windows and had met strangers in the nearby mountain pass, visited the nearby village, and eaten food with more texture than rice and seeds and bones. This curiousity would eventually fuel Varsen’s desire to visit the places in the maps he loved so much.

Lysana
Unbeknownst to Varsen during his formulate years, his mother, Lysana, was moonlighting as an assassin dubbed ‘the blue death,’ known for puncturing her victim’s lungs and then slashing out their throats before they fully asphyxiated. Also a shifter, she is particularly vicious and harsh with her enemies, and seems to have no qualms taking any contract with reasonable pay.

Like her son, she grew up isolated and self-reliant, but not wholly without love. However, she has come to see attachment as weakness, and hates that her son represents this in her own life. She has never spoken to him, or anyone, about his father.

Teenage Years
The end of Varsen’s childhood happened abruptly, on a night not long after his fourteenth birthday. He awoke to a raid on the monastery compound, and only narrowly escaped from a fiery death trapped in his own bed when his mother arrived to rescue him.

At first, the fight was a bloodbath. The scholarly monks (who had not trained to be warriors) were easily slaughtered, and those with fighting abilities were soon overwhelmed. Blasts of magic filled the night, along with explosions that tore through the monastery. Anyone Varsen did not stop to help soon died under his feet.

When it eventually became evident that the midnight marauders were on the hunt specifically for Lysana, Varsen broke off from her and tried to flee on his own. However, by shifting, he unknowingly called attention to himself as her son, and he was soon captured by the enemy. Wounded, the last thing Varsen can remember is looking up to see his mother leaving him behind as she fled into the night.

The following few months are a little hazy in Varsen’s memory. He remembers being initially held prisoner by those who attacked the monastery, and spending a long time chained to the bottom of a rickety wagon. But because his head and vision swam constantly, he can’t recall any specifics about where he went or where they were going, or even if he was fed anything.

Eventually, however, he recovered enough to retain some information. And, as it turned out, what he originally thought was a gang of hired mercenaries or lowlife thugs sent to destroy the monastery was actually a contingent of holy warriors, all committed to bringing his mother to justice.

However, learning that his mother has an extensive criminal history was—and still is—a hard thing for him to rectify with the woman who raised him, who was tough but not ferocious, and who often showed him tenderness when they were alone. To hear her described as lawless, merciless, and killing entirely for sport still doesn't make sense to him.

Still, to gain the trust of his captors, Varsen went along with their bitterness and their mission. He told them years of lies about his mother, and over time, they became more lenient with his restraints, even befriending him. He knows now, in hindsight, that he should’ve taken the first opportunity to escape. But he was held back for an additional year by his budding feelings for a young paladin among the group named Fenn.

Perhaps due to his age, Fenn eventually admitted to Varsen that he had found himself swept up in the quest to stop Lysana. He believed she should be stopped, of course, but he couldn't help developing a soft spot for her son (who he considered an unfortunate casualty of war). He snuck Varsen a few small comforts on the road: a bit more food, a little more water, an extra bedroll. Once, he even loosened Varsen’s bounds enough for him to sleep comfortably, and that soon became a nightly ritual for them whenever it was Fenn’s turn to keep watch. Their relationship was, Varsen recalls, a quiet thing, built on soft touches and hope for something more, but never fully realized.

Through his relationship with these paladins, Varsen also learned about the outside world in a more immediate way than ever before. He visited his first town, tasted his first ale, ate new foods, smelled new smells, and even glimpsed the wide, never-ending expanse of the sea. He was thankful for this, and eventually for the freedom and trust they gave him, but he grew bitter as well. Resentful.

By his seventeenth birthday, Varsen was sure his mother had lost all interest in him. She’d never attempted a rescue, and never bartered for his freedom; she’d left him to rot, essentially, with his captors, after wasting the first fourteen years of his life with rules and restrictions that weren’t real. Yes, he’d eventually moved on, fallen in love, befriended those he travelled with. But he decided he wanted her to answer for all she’d done.

It wasn’t long after this that his mother finally did make an appearance. Varsen can’t explain the timing, not for the life of him, but to this day it unnerves him.

In broad daylight, on a sunny afternoon, Lysana slaughtered almost their entire party. She was a flurry of slashes and bites and kicks, viciousness coupled with a personal vendetta that made the leaves bleed red. Varsen managed to shield Fenn, but not without shifting and tackling his mother, her own body contorted into an animal form he’d never seen before.

She'd asked him to join her, to leave with her, as she stood back between the trees and reverted to her human form. She looked nothing like how her son remembered her.

Varsen refused, of course. But that wouldn’t be the last he saw of her. Not by a long shot.

Two Years Ago
Fenn never moved on past the deaths of his friends. If anything, it only further solidified how much he wanted—and needed—to capture or kill Varsen’s mother. Varsen, on the other hand, wanted to get as far away from her as he could. They argued for weeks, and in the end, went their separate ways.

Varsen then joined the first seafaring crew that would take him, abroad a merchant ship called Daybreaker. He travelled with them for the following year as a hired hand and navigator, his precise memory and keen eye for maps enough to guide him. He still can’t swim very well, but he’s fond of hanging from the rigging of ships and sleeping in the crow’s nest, his feet dangling over the billowing white sails. The ocean breeze and the salty taste of freedom are parts of his life he cherishes now. As he neared his eighteenth birthday aboard the Daybreaker, his crew found themselves suddenly under attack by pirates. It was a short fight, over as soon as the enemy hull was breached, but before the vessel sank beneath the waves, Varsen went abroad and discovered a prisoner in their hold: a dark elf grave cleric named Krayl. It was a foolish decision, saving him, but Varsen couldn’t help seeing a part of himself reflected in the imprisoned stranger.

While aboard the Daybreaker, Krayl mostly kept out of sight. He was a soft-spoken man with a dry sense of humour, but had a deep intellect, born from years of study. He used his magic freely and often, sometimes just for fun, sometimes to tend to mundane things; to catch someone’s attention or patch a shirt or heal a small cut. It was through knowing him, and later loving him, that Varsen learned to embrace his own shifting abilities.

However, it was only after Krayl saved Varsen from drowning that the shifter finally agreed to move land-side with him. This was all of six months ago, perhaps, and the decision still weighs heavily in the space between Varsen’s lower ribs.

Lysana found the pair of them less than two months after they’d started their life in a minor port town. She stabbed Krayl brutally through the chest with her own hand and then dragged Varsen away. A boy of nineteen now, he’d watched his mother destroy—inadvertently or intentionally—every version of his life he’d ever had. And he’d had enough.

Varsen and Lysana fought, briefly, in their shifted forms, but Lysana was considerably more powerful and easily overwhelmed him. However, she spared his life, and asked him again to join her. Again, he refused, and she let him go.

Present Day
Now nearly twenty, Varsen continues bouncing from ship to ship, searching for something—what, he doesn’t know—that he hopes one day will give him the power to stop his mother.

He is wary even at the thought of being land-side, but he’s confident in his own way. He’s quiet, but impulsive, and likes to show off. He tries to live in the moment, always, but is fascinated by magic and the concept of luck.

And though no one asks, he is content. Or so he tells himself.

Stats
Level 4 STRENGTH

10 (+0)

DEXTERITY

18 (+4)

CONSTITUTION

12 (+1)

INTELLIGENCE

10 (+0)

WISDOM

16 (+3)

CHARISMA

10 (+0)

ARMOUR CLASS

17

HP

27