Cardea
2016-11-01, 10:53 PM
http://cdn.obsidianportal.com/assets/40767/kingmaker_banner.jpg (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?503294-PF-Kingmaker-OOC&p=21297115#post21297115)
Player
Character
Race
Class
Archetype
Campaign Trait
Notes
Eotyrannus
Cassian Wood (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=948389)
Human
Hunter
Courtly Hunter
Pioneer
Lady Gracious (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=948522)
OracleofSilence
Aedan nic Vasilyev (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=950617)
Half-Elf
Mesmerist
Vexing Daredevil
Bastard
Aldurin
Dimeski Surtova (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=952677)
Half-Elf
Stalker
N/A
Noble Born (Surtova)
Athaleon
Gavril Sokolov (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=951229)
Human
Bard
Chelish Diva
Rostlander
Exthalion
Iremiel Politrophos (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=959233)
Elf
Artificer
N/A
Rostlander
In the Court of Heroes
Hearing about heroes, of their exploits and adventures, is one thing. But to learn from them, to hear from them, the things they accomplished in their lifetime? There's no better ingredient to the mix to make another hero of another generation. Perhaps Cygnus undersold her influence, but even with the keywords, even with the right things said, people were eager to bring you aboard. Too eager. She mentioned political plots long before the official call for explorers to the Greenbelt came, long before the Swordlords began to pass judgement on those they deemed in line with their cause. Others they interviewed, questioned, lay into with probing inquiries. But you? They looked at the letter, nodded, and asked how your day was. And now here you are, on this road, with four other strangers on foot, for the horses loaned to you were taken back as you crossed the border. Who truly decided you could play hero? You? Cygnus? Or someone else, waiting to twist your arm for their own version of heroism?
Devil's Knight Out
The night before you left on horseback, the night you were publicly, "officially", chosen to be one of the few to head to the Greenbelt, you isolated yourself. No family, no friends, no one. Atop a rooftop terrace, overlooking a garden, you ate your dinner in silence, mentally readying yourself for this endeavor. Ten thousand different sword strikes, and you had chosen words as your way to cut. A lifetime of balancing between bloodlines, so you could one day attain an unnoticeable life. But lifetimes of political maneuvering leading to you, and this is when you chose to swing down a hammer. You could have fought it, sure, but the thought of wolves tearing at you as a pack, bears standing double your height and roaring, brigands and cutthroats eyeing you for blood? These things mattered little. Staying here with the act, staying here with the balance, staying here and fading into the annals of dust? That was something to be terrified of.
Patriot Stalker
You weren't necessarily selected, more so drafted and volunteered. By your higher ups, by your blood relations, by the Swordlords, you didn't care, and it didn't matter. Brevoy had given you all the sights it had, and still you desired more. Maybe service abroad would give you sights you can't get here, Maybe give you actual challenges. Doing fine in school is one thing, but you'd never know how good you were unless you were slammed against the real thing. You were overseeing the final provisions, making sure the stipend given was used wisely, double checking it with the other members of your group. An apprentice with a wasp, another noble's outcast, a performer, and an elf stranger than others you've met. These were your allies now, making a hand to grasp the Greenlands.
Saga of the Bard Abroad
Debtors, thieves, political maneuvers, brute tactics, intimidation rackets. Maybe there was some other way to avoid the wrenching of your arm into this fate, some way to free yourself of this shackle, but when it came to, you smiled inwardly. They made the offer, but you put the ball and chain on, lying through your teeth as you solemnly accepted "their" terms. Maybe it was their initial idea, but you were running with it across the country. Gold, land, jewels, lumber, mineral, food. Any number of things laid bare in the Stolen Lands, waiting for someone to reclaim them. Waiting for you to claim them. You might be forced to go, but they'll need to force you to give up anything you find. Its one thing to cross swords with a swordlord, but are you prepared to fight a sword with words, ones of denial and defiance?
Artificial Doorways
Five candles lit in a dark chamber of ember red clay bricks, white chalk outlining spaces and distances around you. This was your study, growing up among the sages and loremasters. Each year you'd draw a new line, noting another doorway you had learned. Its beginning, and when it was lose. Years passed by and the chamber was a spokewheel of dimensional travel, though you yourself had never gone. But one day, you felt a tugging, like something had hooked into your skin and pulled slightly. You alerted your elders, told them what you were experiencing, and they in turn wrote letters. They sent you away, far away, to the land of Brevoy, to join some expedition. There's a gateway across the world, Iremiel, they told you. There's a gateway in the Stolen Lands, a land that no one has grasped, no one has grabbed, in memory. A gateway lies somewhere in there, waking up. It would recognize out blood, so you must go in our place. You must go and see what made it turn its gaze away from the world. As your group travels on, these thoughts expand in your head.
Location: Oleg's
The five of you have spent the past few days and nights traveling, heading to a place known as Oleg's Trading Post. The Swordlords have assured you that there, you'll find a roof over your head, and good, simple meal. The owners are a couple, Oleg, and his wife Svetlana. They've owned and run their Trading Post for several years, and the Swordlords have, again, assured you of what you'll find. After days of travel, you see a building. An old stronghold, a palisade of wood rising up 10 feet, with each corner marked by a 20-foot-square watchtowers. On top of each you can see a catapult. Rounding the stronghold, you find a single, open entrance into the stronghold's palisade. You find the entrance to Oleg's Trading Post.
There are four buildings inside this place. Two to your right, and upon the smaller of the two, a man is hammering away on the roof. To your left are the stables, in which you see one horse. Inbetween the two buildings on your right, however are two benches and table sets, with a small fire between.
As you enter, you see a woman approaching you from the larger building on the right, a cheerful smile on her face. "Yer jes in time, ye are!" She says. "Stew is nice an' warm, jes' like tha bread, and we got a nice bot'le o' wine for ye troubles. Ahm' Svetlana, and ah'd like to thank ye for comin' fer us. Stables are free fer tonight, as per the letter paid fer. Now c'man, we ain' had company like yers in a long while." She waves for you to join her at the benches and tables.
Player
Character
Race
Class
Archetype
Campaign Trait
Notes
Eotyrannus
Cassian Wood (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=948389)
Human
Hunter
Courtly Hunter
Pioneer
Lady Gracious (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=948522)
OracleofSilence
Aedan nic Vasilyev (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=950617)
Half-Elf
Mesmerist
Vexing Daredevil
Bastard
Aldurin
Dimeski Surtova (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=952677)
Half-Elf
Stalker
N/A
Noble Born (Surtova)
Athaleon
Gavril Sokolov (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=951229)
Human
Bard
Chelish Diva
Rostlander
Exthalion
Iremiel Politrophos (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=959233)
Elf
Artificer
N/A
Rostlander
In the Court of Heroes
Hearing about heroes, of their exploits and adventures, is one thing. But to learn from them, to hear from them, the things they accomplished in their lifetime? There's no better ingredient to the mix to make another hero of another generation. Perhaps Cygnus undersold her influence, but even with the keywords, even with the right things said, people were eager to bring you aboard. Too eager. She mentioned political plots long before the official call for explorers to the Greenbelt came, long before the Swordlords began to pass judgement on those they deemed in line with their cause. Others they interviewed, questioned, lay into with probing inquiries. But you? They looked at the letter, nodded, and asked how your day was. And now here you are, on this road, with four other strangers on foot, for the horses loaned to you were taken back as you crossed the border. Who truly decided you could play hero? You? Cygnus? Or someone else, waiting to twist your arm for their own version of heroism?
Devil's Knight Out
The night before you left on horseback, the night you were publicly, "officially", chosen to be one of the few to head to the Greenbelt, you isolated yourself. No family, no friends, no one. Atop a rooftop terrace, overlooking a garden, you ate your dinner in silence, mentally readying yourself for this endeavor. Ten thousand different sword strikes, and you had chosen words as your way to cut. A lifetime of balancing between bloodlines, so you could one day attain an unnoticeable life. But lifetimes of political maneuvering leading to you, and this is when you chose to swing down a hammer. You could have fought it, sure, but the thought of wolves tearing at you as a pack, bears standing double your height and roaring, brigands and cutthroats eyeing you for blood? These things mattered little. Staying here with the act, staying here with the balance, staying here and fading into the annals of dust? That was something to be terrified of.
Patriot Stalker
You weren't necessarily selected, more so drafted and volunteered. By your higher ups, by your blood relations, by the Swordlords, you didn't care, and it didn't matter. Brevoy had given you all the sights it had, and still you desired more. Maybe service abroad would give you sights you can't get here, Maybe give you actual challenges. Doing fine in school is one thing, but you'd never know how good you were unless you were slammed against the real thing. You were overseeing the final provisions, making sure the stipend given was used wisely, double checking it with the other members of your group. An apprentice with a wasp, another noble's outcast, a performer, and an elf stranger than others you've met. These were your allies now, making a hand to grasp the Greenlands.
Saga of the Bard Abroad
Debtors, thieves, political maneuvers, brute tactics, intimidation rackets. Maybe there was some other way to avoid the wrenching of your arm into this fate, some way to free yourself of this shackle, but when it came to, you smiled inwardly. They made the offer, but you put the ball and chain on, lying through your teeth as you solemnly accepted "their" terms. Maybe it was their initial idea, but you were running with it across the country. Gold, land, jewels, lumber, mineral, food. Any number of things laid bare in the Stolen Lands, waiting for someone to reclaim them. Waiting for you to claim them. You might be forced to go, but they'll need to force you to give up anything you find. Its one thing to cross swords with a swordlord, but are you prepared to fight a sword with words, ones of denial and defiance?
Artificial Doorways
Five candles lit in a dark chamber of ember red clay bricks, white chalk outlining spaces and distances around you. This was your study, growing up among the sages and loremasters. Each year you'd draw a new line, noting another doorway you had learned. Its beginning, and when it was lose. Years passed by and the chamber was a spokewheel of dimensional travel, though you yourself had never gone. But one day, you felt a tugging, like something had hooked into your skin and pulled slightly. You alerted your elders, told them what you were experiencing, and they in turn wrote letters. They sent you away, far away, to the land of Brevoy, to join some expedition. There's a gateway across the world, Iremiel, they told you. There's a gateway in the Stolen Lands, a land that no one has grasped, no one has grabbed, in memory. A gateway lies somewhere in there, waking up. It would recognize out blood, so you must go in our place. You must go and see what made it turn its gaze away from the world. As your group travels on, these thoughts expand in your head.
Location: Oleg's
The five of you have spent the past few days and nights traveling, heading to a place known as Oleg's Trading Post. The Swordlords have assured you that there, you'll find a roof over your head, and good, simple meal. The owners are a couple, Oleg, and his wife Svetlana. They've owned and run their Trading Post for several years, and the Swordlords have, again, assured you of what you'll find. After days of travel, you see a building. An old stronghold, a palisade of wood rising up 10 feet, with each corner marked by a 20-foot-square watchtowers. On top of each you can see a catapult. Rounding the stronghold, you find a single, open entrance into the stronghold's palisade. You find the entrance to Oleg's Trading Post.
There are four buildings inside this place. Two to your right, and upon the smaller of the two, a man is hammering away on the roof. To your left are the stables, in which you see one horse. Inbetween the two buildings on your right, however are two benches and table sets, with a small fire between.
As you enter, you see a woman approaching you from the larger building on the right, a cheerful smile on her face. "Yer jes in time, ye are!" She says. "Stew is nice an' warm, jes' like tha bread, and we got a nice bot'le o' wine for ye troubles. Ahm' Svetlana, and ah'd like to thank ye for comin' fer us. Stables are free fer tonight, as per the letter paid fer. Now c'man, we ain' had company like yers in a long while." She waves for you to join her at the benches and tables.