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MinusInnocence's picture

OK, so of course we all know that stat blocks are confidential in this game, to protect each character's alignment (among other things). But what about everything else?

I'm posting this here so everybody can share their characters' backgrounds, descriptions of personality and physical appearance, how they perceive and relate to the rest of the party, what they think is going on in terms of plot, etc. It can reveal as much or as little of the character's biography and motivations as you want, and you can write it however you like. I think it would be helpful for everyone to refresh their memories about who they're adventuring with. Plus, I lost my copy of all of this, so it will be doing me a favor, too.

Edited by: MinusInnocence on 03/05/2021 - 21:01


Appearance: Thunk is obviously not human. His huge stature, sloping forehead, and small tusks jutting out from an exaggerated lower jaw gives him away as a half-orc; and from his rough appearance, some might say more orc than half. You would guess he’s about 6 and a half feet tall when not slouching and slightly hunched over and he is at least half as wide as he is tall from shoulder to shoulder. Calculating from his bulky form, he’s around 250 pounds of muscle and dense bone. To anyone ignorant of the half-orc’s maturation rate, Thunk looks to be in his mid to late twenties. He’s actually just less than two decades old.

Thunk wears ragged travelers clothes on the verge of failing apart – anyone can tell he’s been on the move without a permanent home for some time and it’s obvious he has little more than what he carries and no skill to repair it. Under his clothes he wears a much newer shirt of fine chainmail and on his back is strapped a huge great sword; both items are much nicer and newer than the rest of his equipment and are obviously recently acquired.

Personality and Behavior: Initially Thunk appears almost child-like in his behaviors, but it’s obvious that he’s been on his own for some time and managed to survive so far. He also seems to have a keen predatory sense which has no doubt aided in his survival and while traveling with companions has helpfully pointed out plants and herbs along the way that are “good eats”, “bad eats”, and “no eats.”

Contrary to his normal behavior, Thunk isn’t stupid (though he’s far from winning a noble peace prize). He’s just found it easier to play his part; Thunk knows there is a stigma associated with his appearance, but tries making up for it in civilized areas by trying to please and help others when he is able. He also realized that if he was going to make any kind of living, it would be better to play to his strengths – so he seeks employment in situations where he can carry and lift (or other physical work requiring great strength) or fight. He’ll occasionally offer his opinion or bring an idea to the table, but for the most part he tries to sit back and play the least confrontational role. The more he’s with a group (and the more comfortable he feels that they will accept him), the more he may speak up and those around him will realize he’s a little smarter than he acts.

The few that have engaged the seemly dumb half-orc in a philosophical conversation will find that he has an almost reverent respect for death and sees death as the ultimate purpose of life. He has no fear of dying and though he isn't a truly violent or malicious creature by nature, he believes that each death he causes releases a soul from mortal bonds to become one with all and is the only way to know any universal truths. "What Thunk see... What Thunk hear... is not all, but all Thunk can know now. When Thunk is dead, Thunk will stop seeing. Thunk will stop hearing. And Thunk will know all."

History: Idle small talk attempted with Thunk about his history reveals bits and pieces of an odd story. Apparently his father was human and a bit of a drunk. The source of Thunk’s conception weighed much heavier on the later fact rather than the former. From what he tells, he spent his childhood living on a farm in Quigsby with his human family; He has several siblings (though he has only mentioned one brother by name – an older brother named Harvel) - all human. He’s never mentioned his mother or any other full blooded orc relatives, but occasionally slips an orcish word into his speech, making one wonder which language he learned first.

As Thunk tells it, about 5 summers ago his father died and Harvel took over the family farm and the rest of his father’s affairs. Harvel quickly kicked Thunk out, telling him that their father had to live with his shame, but he did not. He put Thunk to the street with a few coins and told him to never come back.

Thunk says after his ejection, he’s traveled from place to place picking up odd jobs here and there. He’s spent a lot of time guarding caravans that will have him, often working for little more than food. The details of the jobs he’s done differs every time he tells it and it seems like maybe he’s done more jobs than he can remember. In all his stories, he makes no mention of the Mindwar or politics.

Fixxxer's picture

Feruq ibn Sa’halid

Height: 5’9
Weight: 180 lbs
Age: 21
Eyes: Hazel
Hair: Thick and wiry brown hair that is tightly braided into a single, thin rope. This is usually wrapped atop the head and kept under a cap or turban. A well-groomed beard and mustache accompanies.
Skin: Dark and sun-toned in the style of a people bred to the desert or the steppes.
Misc: Feruq has a single visible tattoo, a knotwork mass located on the back of his neck.

Feruq ibn Sa’halid is extremely outgoing and lives life to the fullest. He laughs heartily, he loves deeply and he rages violently. Feruq values friendship over all else, and while he may travel with a band of brigands one month and then fall in with a traveling minstrel the next, if he finds true and honest friendship, he’s likely to move mountains to keep it. Feruq travels lightly, never becoming too attached to anything he can’t carry on his person. He never knows when he might end up having to climb down a rocky hillside or run from armed guards set on throwing him in prison.

Feruq does not drink alcohol. This has nothing to do with any cultural or religious belief. He has been raised with the story of how his father was an alcoholic and it got him killed. If no other potable liquid were available, he might consider drinking a beer or wine to wash down his meal, but won’t willingly drink hard, distilled alcohol.

Feruq has no qualms about getting his hands dirty (literally), and in fact, believes that hard work is good for the soul. He’s not above picking up a shovel and helping someone dig a ditch or helping someone move a load of firewood or the like. However, he’s a bit vain about his beard, which he keeps groomed short and to a point (like the old pictures of Lucifer). He doesn’t like anyone messing with his beard, and takes steps to keep it clean and straight (relatively), even while working.

deadDMwalking's picture

Argus Turner

A slight man standing just over 5'8", Argus looks weathered. His dark hair is roughly cropped but kept short, and his chin is perpetually covered in a layer of thick dark stubble. He always wears a wide brimmed hat and a dark travel-stained cloak. His sword and unstrung bow are slung on his back in a special quiver, where his arrows also reside. Across his chest he wears two belts for attaching potions, daggers, or what have you, but they're currently empty. Argus is a smoker, and while he prefers not to use his tindertwigs to light up, he will if he gets extremely stressed. He rolls his own cigarettes, collecting ingredients as he travels and drying them as he has time. He favors a long, irregularly shaped cigar. When he can't or won't smoke, he tends to chew long pieces of grass, or straw.

Background: If there is a stereotypical background for an adventurer, Argus doesn't have it. His parents weren't killed by marauding orcs, he wasn't raised as an orphan on the mean streets, and he isn't the scion of an aristocratic house recently escaped from his enemies. At the age of 20 Argus had his life well in hand. He was a hard worker with an uncanny ability to relate to animals. He was much sought after as someone to treat wounded animals. As an animal doctor and someone well aquainted with the wilds, he was soon doing well for himself. He had a farm with sheep, cows, goats, pigs, and some crops. He was on track to earning a bourgeois existence for himself. He took a wife and they were happily expecting their second child when things took a turn for the worse.

With the collapse of government authority things became unsafe. Hired hands were no defense against well-armed brigands. Coming back to his farm in the early hours of the morning, after delivering a particularly difficult foal, he found everything in flames. Bandits, human bandits, destroyed everything he had built. After taking everything of value, they burned his barn, his outbuildings, and his house. He found the burned remains of his wife and child, and countless field hands. His animals were taken.

He began a search not just for the bandits who destroyed his farm, but for all that would prey on the weak. He sees himself as a vigilante - an enforcer of the laws that the government cannot - or at least a protector of the citizenry.

The bandit leader he managed to kill. The rest of the gang split up and disappeared. But with nothing to tie him down and unwilling to build a new life, Argus is committed to a life of wandering.

Talanall's picture

Dalvar Hart

Physical Description: Dalvar habitually garbs himself in simple, utilitarian garments. He typically wears a pair of sturdy leather breeches that hang loose about his legs, tucked into the tops of a pair of clunky boots at his calf, and cinched at the waist by a wide belt with a heavy brass buckle. A clean, collarless white linen shirt is tucked into his pants, and laces all the way from his sternum to his throat. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled back to leave his hands and the lower part of his forearms free to move, and a heavy leather vest provides his torso with a little extra protection and warmth. A thick cloak of water-repellent unwashed wool joins the rest of his clothing when he is out of doors, especially in cold or damp weather.

He is visibly, if lightly armed; a wide-bladed dagger rides at his right hip, its hilt wrapped in simple jute twine to provide a firm grip, and a truncheon of pale wood dangles from a loop just behind the dagger, ready to hand as a bludgeon. A small but well-filled pouch hangs from the left side of his belt. He carries a crossbow slung over his shoulder for ranged combat; its steel limbs and string and the small windlass fitted into its stock indicate that this is one of the heavy ones that can punch a chisel-pointed bolt through an armored man's chest. Given that Dalvar is short and very lightly built, perhaps five and a half feet tall and 140 pounds, it's evident that in the event of trouble he's likely to rely on the crossbow to keep the fighting at a distance.

The little fellow is pale-skinned, with large, intense brown eyes, a prominent chin, and a strong nose; the intensity of his gaze is emphasized by thick eyebrows and a high forehead. A shock of mahogany-colored hair sprouts from his scalp, parted a bit to his left of center. His customary demeanor is to stare in unsmiling silence at whatever catches his attention. When he speaks, it is in a resonant, cultured baritone. He looks as if he can't be much older than twenty.

Personality: Adventuring with Dalvar for a couple of weeks has given little insight into the man's origins; he just doesn't talk about himself. By now it's clear to you that he actively avoids doing so. If he's allowed to be tactful about it, he'll just change the subject, or give an answer that doesn't actually say anything. If pressed, he'll ignore the question. Judging by his behavior, he's a study in contradictions.

It's safe to say that he's not a happy-go-lucky sort of person. When he wants to be, Dalvar is good with people - polite, sociable, and charming. But it's clearly something that he has to think about, something that takes an effort for him.

In battle, your wizardly friend is unsettling at best and frightening at worst. It's a good day for the enemy when Dalvar uses that massive crossbow of his to turn some unfortunate bandit's lungs to mush. The creatures he summons to do battle on his behalf look as if they've been dragged straight from Hell . . . because they have. And if it's not hell-spawned carnivorous rats, it's bolts of concentrated fire.

A few nasty incidents have also suggested that Dalvar is not conventionally moral. He is tactful enough not to push the issue by suggesting that anyone else do so, but you're pretty sure that he's tortured men for information when he had opportunities to do it without being observed or interrupted, and then executed them once he'd wrung out all the information he could. On the other hand, he also was among the strongest supporters of attempts to parley with creatures that most people would consider little better than monsters to be exterminated.

Wæs se grimma gæst Grendel haten,
mære mearcstapa, se þe moras heold

drumandfight's picture

Jugg'r Shieldcrusher

Appearance: Age: 55. Height: 4’8”. Weight: 190lbs. Hair: Black. Eyes: Black and Red.

Jugg’r is tall for a Dwarf. Jugg’r is strong for a Dwarf. He stands at a solid 4’ 8” tall and his body is a mass of rippling muscle – a litany of strength. His skin is light beige, but one would not notice unless inspecting very closely – his head, face, torso, and arms are covered in black and red tattoos; they are Dwarven runes telling tales of his history, his clan, battles, and most notably victories. His head is shaved except for a 2 inch wide patch of tall black hair running from his brow to the base of his skull. A long, traditional black beard hangs from his chin to his chest – he keeps it shorter than common Dwarves to be practical in battle, a remnant of his past life as a Wild Dwarf – one long red braid of hair runs from the middle of his chin down. If he had his way, he would enter the battlefield completely naked, but since he is no fool and understands the importance of armor, Jugg’r dons a masterwork Breastplate. Engraved onto the front of it is a broken shield – his clan’s namesake - with Dwarven runes above and below it. Connected to the bottom of the Breastplate, for extra protection and ease of movement, an armored kilt of studded leather hangs to his knees. From his calloused, battle-weathered hands, hangs a Dwarven Dorn Dergar – ten feet of Cold Iron chain connected a heavy Cold Iron ball. The masterwork weapon’s bludgeoning end, forged in the fires of Torag’s Pact, is in the likeness of a screaming Dwarf-warrior. For most enemies of Jugg, this is the last face they ever see.

Personality and Behavior: Jugg does not take well to strangers for the most part. He uses his physical attributes to convince most people to see things his way. It is difficult for him to trust others, but once they earn his trust they have it for a lifetime. Jugg is very protective of the relatively few creatures he takes a liking to and will sacrifice himself in battle for their well-being. Jugg loves to spit, curse, fight, and drink, but he usually has enough tact to be aware of his surroundings and act something akin to appropriate.

History: Jugg was born outside of the protective walls of Torag’s Pact. For most of his life he lived as a Wild Dwarf of the Shieldcrusher Clan. As a result of circumstance, Jugg’r was forced from an early age to be stronger and hardier than most other, “soft”, Dwarves. Trained in the traditional ways of Shieldcrusher combat, Jugg’r is more than a veteran with his deadly Dorn Dergar. Naturally, Jugg’s particular hatred for Goblinkind, mixed with his uncanny ability with the Dorn Dergar, has resulted in quite the kill-count for the young Dwarf. Before his clan was wiped out, Jugg’r was one of their most formidable warriors. After barely escaping with his life when his clan was destroyed, Jugg’r, on his last limb, made it to the outskirts of Torag’s Pact. Taken in by a generous household, Jugg’r spent the next 15 years living inside the walls of Torag’s Pact, learning common and the ways of the “civilized” world, and helping the local guard with any problems they had. At the age of 55, Jugg’r decided that leaving the confines of the mountains, in search of adventure, was the next step in his journey. With the blessing of his adopted family and a new master-crafted Dorn Dergar, Jugg’r made his way out of the mountains and into the embrace of his new friends.

Cronono's picture

Leon Ranellen

Height: 5'7"
Weight: 150 lbs
Age: 31
Eyes: Green
Hair: Dirty blonde and closely cropped
Skin: Strong farmer's tan

Description:Leon is a man of the people. It doesn't matter who the people are, he's of and among them. He's not the strongest, not the smartest, not the bravest and certainly not the wisest. He is, however, the most present. When the people gather, Leon is there. When the fighting is thickest, Leon is there. When someone needs to hold the line, Leon is behind that guy.

Board Rider
Board Rider's picture

Aramil Dyvers

Height: 6' 1"
Weight: 170
Age: 30
Eyes: Bloodshot and grey
Hair: Short brown and partially bald
Skin: Burned and ruddy brown

Upon first glance it is a bit difficult to distinguish the race of Aramil considering much of his exposed skin is scarred from serious burns at worst, ashy grey at best. Whatever burned the poor bastard left one eye almost completely bloodshot with the other a dull grey. It would stand to reason there is burned flesh elswhere if the prounounced limp Aramil walks with has anything to do with it.

Keen viewers, or those who interact directly with Aramil will easily distinguish that he is human, with perhaps a fair bit of elf somewhere along his lineage. If it isn't the impeccibly unblemshied skin, save for the burn scars, the slight raise of the cheekbones, or the guant frame that gives it away, the ears ending in a point certainly will.  

More importantly than his looks is how Aramil carries himself or, perhaps more importantly, what he carries on him. Draped in various patterns of light oranges, pale blues, and even a ragtag clerical military uniform may cause a bit of confusion but the openly worn holy symbol of Sarenrae make him a welcome sigh in almost every situation. Except, perhaps, on the front line. The young half-elf carries nothing but a scimitar and mace visibly. If Aramil has a strength it doesn't appear to be fighting.