Need a character background written up?

[Tawmis]

Weird. Never got any notifications of these newer replies either!
All right - couldn't sleep tonight, so I threw on the "Aladdin" soundtrack for this one...

Would like a story for my new half elf warlock, his name is Aziz, he is the son of Aladdin, so he is a prince but still has his dad's and grandfather's bloodline of thieves so he still has the urge to steal and kinda want him to be kleptomaniac and a pathological liar. I also kind of want to work in a lion king reference with Aziz getting into some trouble and Aladdin has to come to save him and ends up dying. he has a flying carpet and a pet racoon, that also enjoys stealing.

So I see, Aziz was a evil human in the Aladdin cartoon series; but also he was apparently a main character in "Descendants" who was cut, and was to be Aladdin's and Jasmine's son - so clearly the one you are referencing I assume? I leaned VERY deep into the Aladdin feel, having fun with Bandit (the raccoon) as I named him (you can change it, but I think it fit the story and the character concept you had) - and the villain's name should be an obvious play on words too...
I enjoyed this and it certainly turned out longer than I thought. Even fit the Lion King reference in...
I'd love to hear feedback in this thread as it keeps it bumped and alive (and gonna see if I can fix the notifications!)
============================================

Would like a story for my new half elf warlock, his name is Aziz, he is the son of Aladdin, so he is a prince but still has his dad's and grandfather's bloodline of thieves so he still has the urge to steal and kind of want him to be kleptomaniac and a pathological liar. I also kind of want to work in a lion king reference with Aziz getting into some trouble and Aladdin has to come to save him and ends up dying. He has a flying carpet and a pet raccoon, that also enjoys stealing.

The relentless sun beat down on the arid desert as Aladdin stepped out onto the balcony where he saw his son, Aziz. “You should come inside son,” Aladdin said, folding his arms in front of his chest. “It’s a blistering hot day today.”

“I am waiting for Bandit to return,” Aziz said, standing and looking over the railing – a bright smile that could compare to the very sun that warmed the land, stretched across his features as Bandit, a furry, and sand covered raccoon emerged over the edge with an apple in his mouth.

Aladdin shook his head, “You know, just because the raccoon has a mask does not mean you have to call him Bandit and train him to steal.” Aziz picked up the Bandit who wrapped himself around Aziz’s neck.

Aziz looked at his father, “Why not? Isn’t that how you got all of this? Whatever happened to the genie? You never told me. And you always promise ‘next time.’”

Aladdin’s already tanned face turned red beneath the tan. “I’ll tell you next time. That was in the past,” Aladdin huffed. “You are too much like me,” he puffed. “Entirely too defiant and too wise cracking for your own good! Now come inside, your mother won’t stop talking about how you’re going to get a horrible sunburn out here. It’s far hotter than it has been in a very long time. The winds blow stronger than they have, bringing the heat and jagged sand crystals that bite at the flesh like tiny insects.”

Aziz heaved a deep sigh and said, “Come on, Bandit. “ Bandit, the raccoon, mimicked Aziz’s sigh. As Aziz passed his father, Aladdin shoved them into the doorway. Bandit, Aladdin could have sworn, stuck his tongue out at Aladdin, but then began cleaning its paw; so he wasn’t sure if he was seeing things.

Aziz had dinner at the table, which could have served thirty people with how long it was; and he and Bandit sat on one side (despite his mother’s protest of having Bandit at the table; as Bandit insisted on cleaning everything in the water bowl that was placed in front of him). Servants conveyed messages back and forth between son and parents on opposite sides of the table.

That night, as Aziz lay in bed – Bandit began making excited sounds as he pressed his tiny, blackened, furry paws against the window. Aziz got up from bed, and leaned his head forward, his bleary eyes trying to see into the night. Bandit grabbed a clump of Aziz’s hair and yanked so that Aziz’s forehead hit the window with a resounding ‘thud!’ This caused Aziz to shake his head and scowl at Bandit, who seemed to be pointing outside. Aziz looked outside and the night was clear with the moon’s white light piercing the dark blue sky of night. Aziz scowled again at Bandit. “Did you wake me up because of the full moon?”

Bandit yanked on Aziz’s hair and slammed his forehead into the window again with another resounding ‘thud!’ Aziz rubbed his forehead, “Stop that!” Bandit pointed again out the window.

This time as Aziz looked out his jaw fell open.

“Is that … a pyramid?” The tip of a pyramid was visible under the moon’s piercing light; a pyramid that had been unearthed due to the wind. Aziz looked at Bandit. “Do you think father… do you think father put the genie in that pyramid and had it magically buried?”

Bandit’s glittering eyes was all Aziz needed to see. Aziz put on his dress clothes and quietly opened the window with Bandit leaping on his shoulder as he descended the wooden trellis. He knew he couldn’t get any of the horses; they’d report to his father he was out at night.

Unbeknownst to Aziz, however, he was already being watched; but not by the Royal Guard, or his father; bur rather his father’s assistant, Hou’phar. “Well, well, well,” Hou’phar smiled, “it would seem the prince has sought adventure on his own.” Hou’phar slid into his black robes and closed his own door behind him, trailing Prince Aziz.

It took an hour to reach the pyramid; it’d seemed so much closer – and the entire time Aziz wondered if his father had already stumbled into his room and noticed he was gone. He kept looking over his shoulder waiting for the bells to sound; but they hadn’t. More of the pyramid had revealed itself – now Aziz could clearly see a sealed door. He approached it and much like his father before him, Aziz had some practice with stealing and being a thief – but he could see no way to open the door. There was no locking mechanism; just an indentation – and if there was anything he learned about indentations is that you don’t just stick your hand in it, unless you know what it is.

Bandit was on Aziz’s shoulder, looking from Aziz to the indentation. Aziz shook his head, as he extended his arm, “I am not putting my hand on that thing,” and as he extended his arm, Bandit ran along his arm, and his own tiny, furry hands stretched out. “This is the worse idea, ever. If I get electrocuted or polymorphed into a sheep, I am going to be seriously upset at you.” Aziz closed his eyes, took a deep breath and slammed his hand into the indentation and at first nothing happened – until a whirring sound from within grew louder and the doors opened. “Welcome home, Lord Aladdin,” a voice from the shadows called out.

Aziz’s eyes were wide. “It thinks I am my father,” he whispered. Bandit scurried down Aziz’s body and began to sniff around. Aziz made his way into a large room and his eyes were immediately drawn to a lamp that hovered in the center above a pedestal. Aziz made his way to it, whispering to himself, “The genie’s lamp…”

Just then behind him, the pyramid rumbled. “Intruder detected,” it boomed – the pyramid shook with such force, that the ground split wide. Aziz was worried it’d been him, but suddenly tumbling out of the shadow, he saw Hou’phar. Puzzled, Aziz asked, “What are you doing here?”

Hou’phar kept his dagger behind his back, and lied, “Oh, my sweetest prince, I saw you walking the night. I’d only hoped to keep an eye on you and keep you safe.”

“Why wouldn’t you tell my father?” Aziz asked taking a step back, closer to the levitating lamp.

“My prince has never trusted me,” Hou’phar said as he took a step closer. “I wanted to keep you safe tonight, my prince and tell you tomorrow in secrecy how I knew you’d gone out; and that you would see I did not tell your father.”

Suddenly the pyramid boomed, “Welcome home, Lord Aladdin.”

“What?” Aziz looked around.

Hou’phar knew what that had meant. He spun around and saw Aladdin charging him. “Beware my son, he has a dagger! He knew only you and I could open the pyramid! He meant to kill you and take the genie for himself.”

“You’re too wise,” Hou’phar growled as he and Aladdin struggled; they tumbled and rolled, near the edge of the large crevice that opened. Hou’phar stabbed Aladdin on the hand, forcing him to release Hou’phar who kicked Aladdin who rolled down sliding over the crevice. Aladdin grabbed the edge as his body slid over. Hou’phar came to stand next to Aladdin who gripped on for his life. “Toss me the lamp boy, or I step on your father’s hand and send him plunging into eternal darkness.”

“Don’t do it, Aziz,” his father called out. “If you do, he will kill me anyway and he will have the power of the genie’s magic behind him.”

“But father,” Aziz began.

“For once in your life, Aziz,” Aladdin called out, “listen to me. Let me make it easy,” and with that he released his hold and slipped into the darkness of the crevice never even screaming.

Hou’phar sighed, “I hated your father, so righteous. Now, give me the lamp boy. You’re not getting out of this alive, otherwise. Give me the lamp and I let you and your mother run away free, if you promise to never return.”

At that moment, Bandit bit Hou’phrar in the ankle, who screamed and released his dagger which fell into the same eternal darkness that Aziz’s father had plunged himself into. Bandit proceeded to run up Hou’phar’s body and leapt from his head, throwing Hou’phar off balance; and unlike Aziz’s father, Hou’phar plunged into the eternal darkness screaming.

Aziz leapt forward and caught Bandit’s tiny arms and pulled him over the edge.

Bandit scurried up to his shoulder as Aziz turned towards the floating lamp and wrapped his hands around it. A djinni emerged and whispered, “I am sorry about your father, Aziz. I saw it all from the lamp. But, there may yet be something we can do about it. Promise yourself to me, and become my Warlock, and perhaps together, we may yet one day rescue your father from his fate…”

Aziz looked at the crevice, “I thought he died…”

“No,” the djinni replied. “This entire pyramid is mystical – he’s fallen into the Astral Plane. Where, I am not certain. But he’s somewhere out there – it will take some time to relocate where he’s landed. In the meantime, there’s much for you and I to do as we bond.”

======================

So I've got this great idea for a circle of stars warforged druid. His name is Relic (Rel) maybe because that's what the first druids who met him in the forest called him. He was a relic of the battles passed. But that's all I've really got, I figure he's neutral good and trying to find his way back into the new world. Would appreciate anything you can come up with. Happy holidays!

I've never played a Warforge - ever. Nor have I had any in any campaigns I run (don't really fit my world yet), nor in any campaigns I've played in, ironically.
But through this thread, I've written quite a few Warforged origins - and since I am so vastly unfamiliar with them I always worry if I got it right.
I enjoy writing them - because there's a sense of mystery to the characters always.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story!
Would love to hear any feedback - good or bad! It helps me grow, also keeps the thread bumped and alive.
Enjoy!
====

“Don’t you see!” The Tiefling paced back and forth, his hands behind his back. “For so long, we have used the power of the sun to harness power into these Warforged creations. But I think I’ve figured it out – you see, the constellations – they have meaning. Look, there,” he shoved his companions head towards the telescope. “Do you see the pattern in the sky? The horse? The dragon? The spear?”

His companion, rubbing the socket of his eye as he pulled back, “I suppose.”

The Tiefling sighed, glaring at his human companion. “The stars – the cosmos – the very gods dwell there. What if we could harness such power? Such secrets into this Warforged? We can finally turn the tide of this war that has ripping our world apart.”

“I don’t know Erikkus,” the human, named Kres said, scratching his head. “I think this war is all but over and we’re just too ignorant to see it; we believe that somehow we will overcome.”

“I have spent my entire life being questioned,” Erikkus’ eyes flared, “just because of how I look. I spent my entire life striving to prove myself. Some might think I’ve gone mad in my quest,” he admitted, allowing the flare in his eyes to simmer down. “I’ve seen it even in your own eyes, Kres – my best friend throughout my childhood – how, in recent weeks you look at me with concern.”

“It’s just you’ve spent so much time invested in this,” Kres’ eyes drifted to the hollow Warforged, “thing. Each day the Anzi army has closed its hold around our country, the noose ever tighter. Soon we will have no escape, no air. We should just abandon the country and flee and hope that we survive.”

“I can’t ask you to stay, Kres,” Erikkus said, his voice low. “But you can’t ask me to leave.”

Kres heaved a deep sigh. “I am in this until the end.”

Together Erikkus and Kres worked relentlessly, often forgoing sleep, as the sounds of the every approaching war drew nearer. Finally, as Erikkus clicked the final gear into place, aligning the Warforged’s internal telescope to the heavens; its eyes flared open.

At the same moment, the Anzi army burst through the doors. The Warforged gained sentience just in time to see Kres murdered by an assassin, repeatedly stabbed in the neck, blood spraying the walls. The Warforged turn and saw a large fighter had grabbed Erikkus and snapped his neck. Erikkus’ life faded from his eyes as he gazed at the Warforged who was now alive. “Enemy detected,” was the last thing Erikkus heard before his own life ebbed away finally.

The screams of the Anzi army could be heard as bones snapped, body parts were torn from limb to limb as the Warforged, awakened and powered by the Cosmos, marched forward from Erikkus’ small lab and into the small village he’d taken refuge in so many years ago. The Warforged proceeded to march through and decimate without mercy or remorse, any who bore the symbol of the Anzi army. The Warforged’s actions proceeded to inspire the people of the hamlet, who had once been fleeing, now turned and used farming equipment to turn on the Anzi. The inspiration grew, spreading out from this hamlet, as people followed the Warforged, fighting alongside him.

The story of the Warforged’s actions were such that when he appeared on the battlefield, the die hard Anzi army often broke rank and fled.

Sixteen years after the bloodiest war had begun; it finally came to end in the woods, at Ciorcal Cloiche – a small forested area with spiraling stones formed in a circle. Here, the Warforged, designed to fight the Anzi army, had finally shut down – it’s primary goal accomplished. It slumbered against one of the large stones, and did what mortals often did – it “fell asleep.”

Over the years that passed, nature reclaimed the area, the stones covered in spiraling vines, which also embraced and encased the Warforged, until one day, several druids who had come to this area, drawn by some sense of power – believing it to be the circle of stones – discovered the Warforged. Prying it from the endless vines, they could see that the markings and damage on it showed it’d been from ages long gone.

As the night sky, the moon shining brightly, the stars glittering in the heavens, celestial symbols powered the ancient Warforged who awakened – the star chart that had been embedded into its hands showing connecting lines.

One of the druids looked at the awakened Warforged. “What do you call yourself, my friend?”

The Warforged recalled its ancient memory – it’d been so long, they were like small fragments – pieces of a star chart that were missing. “I have no name,” the Warforged replied. “My creator perished before I was given a name.”

“Judging by the markings, you’ve been around for a long time,” the second druid commented. “You’re like a relic.”

“Relic,” the Warforged replied. “I shall take the name Relic, if that is what I am.”

“Or just Rel for short,” the first druid said.

Relic nodded. “I would like that.”

=======

Need help fleshing out a potential NPC.
A Bard, probably a human, but also contemplating a longer life spanned race.
One renowned as a font of inspiration for tales well versed in the politics and history of the land, and a possible quest giver. His knowledge and storytelling have left him in demand (of the appropriate amount to be involved in the campaign when they meet him and growing as they grow)
From humble beginnings as a story teller, he grew as a performer and learns the lay of the land and its history as he travels. He seems to be involved as that character that's there for all the big events of his time in a Forest Gump kind of way.
Is he better off as almost a random encounter character? One that shows up here and there over a campaign, or an in a singular place for an arc of a campaign?
I wanted to be able to include you in my future campaign as I'll probably be using your writings for a few characters. So I'll probably be sticking with the name Tawmis as I doubt my players have read this site. And if they have hopefully they recognize your inspiration and writings in my world.

Hah! Flattery will get you everywhere...!
I had fun writing this one.
The characters mentioned are either my characters, or the names of characters from my own campaign, which was fun to do.
This was a lot of fun, and hopefully gives fuel to how you can use, Tawmis the Bard...!
I'd love to hear comments, as always!
It helps me (and it lets me know it got read!) but also keeps the thread bumped and alive!
Enjoy!
========

The firewood crackled, sending small flecks of ash and flame ever dancing, spiraling upward before burning out completely. Shadows danced around them, weaving in and out of the woods, creating varying expressions on each of their faces.

“What did you say your name was bard?” the Dragonborn fighter asked as the flames reflected off his damaged chainmail armor.

A human figure, adorned in forest and dirt colored robes with a lute strapped to his back and a large, leather bound book with small rubies adorned down the spine. “Tawmis,” the human bard said, as he pulled back his cowl with his other hand. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

“I can’t say that I have,” the Dragonborn growled.

“Easy now, Silver,” the female elf, clearly a cleric by the symbol she wore on her chest, said as she placed her hand on the Dragonborn’s arm. “My name Asilia. This over here,” she gestured to the Dragonborn, “is Silver. Next to him is our halfling friend, Morobunce.”

Morobunce extended his hand to Tawmis.

“I wouldn’t shake his hand,” Asilia smiled. “Not unless you enjoy traveling a little lighter,” she winked. Morobunce smiled coyly. “Next to Moro is Dalmarius,” she gestured to the elf who kept to the deep shadows of his cloak – a wizard, by the looks of it, with the staff he was holding. Despite the shadows his cloak provided, one thing was also clear – he was no ‘elf’ but rather a Drow. It’s no wonder he kept his features hidden. The Drow have a bad history among many. “The grumpy one over there,” Asilia gestured to the dwarf sitting slightly apart from the others, “is Karnstone of the Northwind.” Northwind, home of the barbarians; also explains why he was sitting away from the fire – he was used to the cold winds that pierce the flesh. “And lastly,” Asilia rounded up the group, “is Pallus, our resident forest gnome.”

“And druid,” Tawmis remarked, noticing Pallus’ leafy attire. Pallus blushed and hid deeper into the greenery.

“So what can we do for you, bard,” Asilia asked. It was becoming more and more clear that she was the obvious leader.

“Well,” Tawmis replied as he sat himself between Asilia and Silver, and as far away from Morobunce as he could be. “I’ve been on the road for weeks now. My feet are blistered. I was looking to make camp when I spotted your campfire.”

“I told you it was too bright,” remarked Dalmarius from beneath his cowl.

Tawmis smiled towards Dalmarius then looked back at Asilia. She was breathtakingly beautiful; but then Tawmis found most female elves tended to have that effect on him. He cleared his throat and his thoughts, “As I was saying – been traveling for weeks, tired, and saw your campfire. When I got close I saw you looked like a trust worthy bunch.” His eyes lingered on Morobunce, as if to say, “Well, except maybe you.” He smiled and continued, “And I thought to myself, ‘Self, there’s safety in numbers and these folk look mighty nice!’”

“You’re welcome to share our campfire,” Asilia remarked, “and rest with us tonight.”

“Would this be a good time to mention that the giant spiders further back,” Tawmis smiles, “I am sure you saw them – well, I ran into them and had to drop some of my bags because they were stuck in the webs. Well, one of the said bags I left behind had my food in it.”

“We’re not giving him any of our food,” Silver growled. “It took us along time to gather these rations.”

Asilia laughed, “We have more than enough. Here, have some of this,” as she handed Tawmis some dried meat.

“Well, the least he could do is pay us for it,” Morobunce chimed in.

“Well, I would,” Tawmis replied, between chewing on the dried meat. “But there were some bandits, just before the spiders…”

“Then what benefit are ye to us tonight, except fer takin’ our food an’ ramblin’ like the north wind?” Karnstone growled from off to the side. “Certainly no good in a fight, if ye be runnin’ from spiders an’ brigands.”

“I could pay you in something that is far more valuable than coin,” Tawmis said, taking the last bite of dried meat and throwing the crumpled paper into the fire pit which sent flames flickering high, and more ash and smoke.

“Stop that,” Dalmarius growled, his dark features more present in the flash of the flames.

“I have stories,” Tawmis replied. “Hundreds of them. Heard about the one where the wife sold the soul of her daughter so that her husband might live? How about the one about the sacred blood of Frostmane – Karnstone, you are probably familiar with that one? There’s one about a Drow Paladin who turned her back on her people to save a couple who’d been slaves? You ever heard of Sureena Pyre’sin, Dalmarius?”

Tawmis continued to skim over the hundreds of stories he was aware of; some he’d admitted had become far more fabricated over the years; some he claimed he was there, but as the great actor he was known for across the land (though the party exchanged confused glances), he claimed to be there but took on another name. He even claimed he was there when a Warforged was assigned to protect a very special princess; and that’s how he’d gotten his foot into the courts.

As he wrapped up one of his many stories, which seemed to zigzag and interact with a number of other stories, he took a deep breath. “So, as you can see. I’ve been around. I’ve met some astounding people. Learned so much along my travels! Even being here, speaking with you all, I’ve learned a thing or two. I take every meeting with me forward. Because, I’ve told a hundred stories. But the best one is yet to be told. That’s your story.”

====

Happy holidays! Hopefully this thread is still going. I've never yet requested a background, but have had a good time reading a bunch of those already written. So this will be my first time offering opportunity for a background (I hesitate to say request as this one is a little......different.)

=================
Name: Duke Reginald Morris
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: late 50s
Setting: Dragonlance (for the newly released published adventure)
Background (Mechanical): Mage of High Sorcery
Class: Necromancer
Subclass: Book of Undead Divination
Description: tall, frail looking, but stout of bearing (low strength, high con); Pale skin, thin white hair, clean shaven; he is a genuinely good person, but very quirky; not anti-social, but definitely socially-awkward; He was working as a mortician before Mages found him; hates his title, but can't escape it; Member of the Order of the White Robes
Goal: There's a war going on. Perhaps I can learn from the dead to help the living.
NOTES: I'm more than willing to change just about any part of this if it helps make a more compelling (and fun!) character at the game table.

It was interesting trying to find a way to tie something like "Necromancy" to the Order of the White Robes...
But as I began to write this... Duke Reginald Morris began to tell his own story for me...
And made it very easy.
This one flowed very naturally from me, probably because of my love of Dragonlance.
I'd love to hear your thoughts (even if you hate it! Tell me!)
Comments help me grow and also keep the thread alive.
Enjoy!
=====

Just east of Kalaman lay Hinterlund where Duke Reginald Morris made his living as a mortician. As he paced around the mortuary, his pale skin and thin, white hair, almost making him look as if he should be one of the dead, he muttered to himself. “The rumors of war,” he said, shaking his head. “This room will soon be full of many more.” He leaned down and looked at the corpse of an old, male human who had died of natural causes. “I never mind it, when someone has lived out their entire life like you have, Crandon. But it’s when someone’s life is cut short,” he stood up and looked over at another; a young man, murdered in the night. He walked over and placed his hand on the corpse’s chest. “You, Herick; you never truly got to live to see your potential. Soon this room will be full of others like you. Young men who march off to this war they say is brewing and get cut down in their youth.”

Duke Reginald Morris placed his hand on Herick’s cold chest and closed his eyes. “I can’t expect to hear all of their stories,” Duke muttered to himself, “but yours, I can hear.” In his mind’s eye he could see Herick walking and then heard the young man’s voice. He opened his eyes and could see a shimmering, ghostly figure of Herick standing in front of him. “What happened to me?”

“I need you to tell me,” Duke Reginald Morris replied. “I need you to remember.”

“I’m dead,” Herick’s phantom suddenly realized.

“Yes, I am sorry, Herick. They found your body by the Firemoon farm,” Duke Reginald Morris explained.

Duke Reginald Morris came from a long line of morticians. His father, grandfather, and great grandfather were all morticians; and beginning with his great grandfather, had kept a tome of their findings and passed it down each time. It was tattered and beaten; and like his father and grandfather before him, each of them possessed this ability to tap into something.

This not only made them sought after morticians – not that morticians were often sought after – but they often brought a sense of peace to those who’d lost a loved one, because they were able to communicate with the spirits and pass the message on to those who had lost a loved one.

“Firemoon farm,” Herick’s haunting voice recalled. “I had gone there to meet Dharla. Something… someone…”

“Think back,” Duke Reginald Morris whispered. “You can see everything – you are not restricted by your own eyes. What do you see? Turn around.”

The phantom of Herick turned around in the mortuary, but his movement was reflected in his memory as well. “Tiberius,” Herick whispered. “He stabbed me from behind. Why?”

It’s as Duke Reginald Morris had suspected; Tiberius had longed for the hand of Dharla for many years, but Herick was the one she’d longed for. He was kind and generous and spoke poetry; while Tiberius was rude, crass, and demanding of her, expecting that she would love him for his youthful, strong, frame and the money his family had.

“When I first sensed your power,” a second voice said, startling Duke Reginald Morris and snapping his mind from the spell. He spun around and saw a youthful human, long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail similar to how many of the Knights of Solamnia had worn their hair; but this was no Knight. This youthful, young man wore white robes and leaned on a staff – a Mage of High Sorcery. “I thought perhaps you were a follower of Chemosh, the evil god of the undead; and I thought that you and I would battle one another.” He smiled at Duke Reginald Morris and said, “I am glad to see I am wrong. The necromancy you use; it’s not to raise large armies of undead, but to bring peace to the dead and to the loved ones who must bury their dead. Your heart shines with light rather than shadow. But where there is light, there is always shadow – for light always casts darkness, but darkness can exist without light. I need to know when the war comes – and it is coming – that you will not be overcome by the shadow.”

“Who are you?” Duke Reginald Morris asked.

“Pardon me,” the white robed mage nodded. “My name is Pyter, and I am, as you might guess, one of the Order of the White Robes. I was passing through when I sensed an energy – and I followed it to you. I would like to extend an offer to come to the Tower of High Sorcery to take the Test that every Wizard should take.”

“I am not interested,” Duke Reginald Morris brushed off the offer.

“What if I told you, that you – and your unique ability – would be a great asset in the war that is brewing,” Pyter explained. “Your uncanny ability to speak with the dead the way you do could make a difference on the battlefield.”

“Battlefield? Look at me, I am fifty years old, I am too old to see battle,” Duke Reginald Morris scoffed.

“You will see it,” Pyter said more firmly. “Whether it’s out there, trying to make a difference,” he continued, “or trapped in a corner, in this mortuary, surrounded by piles of bodies from the people who live here in Hinterland; before they come here and then there’s no one left to bury the dead.”

Duke Reginald Morris sighed.

He grabbed his family tome and looked at Pyter. “Lead the damn way.”

====

Name: Galausitha Iswis Walthufnja Riqisis (->Language Nerd who likes to troll<-)
Gender: Male
Race: VHuman
Class: Divine Soul Sorcerer 1/Warlock (Genie, Dao) 2
Background: Custom
Setting: Wildemount
Notes: Member of a somewhat established clan that the DM will mostly develop. They're not-so-bright people serving Ioun. Their living aasimar ancestor betrayed them after he built a base somewhere, looted the clan's treasury, and began to kidnap a few clansmen. This is vaguely known by Galausitha although he does not know his ancestor's motives or goals.
What I'm looking for is an interesting personality and personal history for Galausitha and a connection to a ranger buddy named Finny. Bonus points if Galausitha's personality is easy to roleplay. Thank you so much for your help and happy holidays!

I always find it difficult to write for DM specific stuff, when I am not aware of what their plans are - because I don't know what I might write that might conflict with their plans or development.
So I kept it pretty simple... but at the same time it was a lot of fun.
You didn't name the Assimar ancestor - so since I used him in this story to allude to his thief I gave him the name "Saimaar" (which is basically just all the letters of 'Aasimar' scrambled to spell a name).
I did manage to introduce Finny and tie him to the story (if Finny is a player in the game, they may want to review this too, as I allude that your character and his have been friends for awhile)
The shard of glass is eluding to the Divine Soul, when you see it; and I explain how the Genie portion comes into it, as well.
As always I'd love to hear what you liked or disliked - and what may work or not work for your DM's campaign, if you have that info.
Enjoy!
===================

Forjar hammered away ever so gently at the glass decoration he’d just pulled out of the furnace; it’d been tradition to offer Ioun, the goddess of knowledge, an annual gift at the ioun stone in the center of town. Gifts would have to be from a trade the person was skilled at so that Ioun could accept the gifts and read the knowledge and care that was put into it.

“You’ve been at this for weeks, Forjar,” Galausitha sighed.

“And you would be wise to get starting on whatever gift you plan on giving Ioun at the ioun stone ceremony, Galausitha,” the dwarf muttered. Forjar, like all dwarves, enjoyed his time at the forge; but unlike other dwarves, who thrived on crafting steel weapons, Forjar enjoyed forging glass. His work was well respected and loved, and people clamored around him hoping he would have the time to create a beautifully colored window for them.

“I’ll think of something,” Galausitha shrugged.

“Think of something? Lad had ye not even given it any thought?” Forjar paused, perhaps for the first time in weeks, and looked at Galausitha, mouth agape. “It’s a wonder that Ioun hasn’t struck ye down yet, lad.” With that Forjar gave another gentle hit of the hammer and a small, fragmented piece of glass flew and struck Galausitha in the neck. It was so small that it’d barely been noticeable and Galausitha tapped his neck, thinking that an insect had bitten him. “Just ‘cause ye got some kind of divine linage or some nonsense,” Forjar continued to shape the glass, “ye think ye can sit on your duff until some divine insight comes to yer mind.”

Finny, a good friend to Galausitha, laughed. Finny was unlike both Forjar and Galausitha, because Finny didn’t enjoy his time inside the small hamlet, and would much rather spend his time wandering around the woods and living off the land. The only time he truly came inside the hamlet was to try and convince Galausitha to head out into the wild with him.

Finny threw the piece of wheat he’d been chewing on at Galausitha’s forehead. Galausitha looked at his friend and Finny gestured with a jerk of his head that it was time to go. Galausitha nodded and looked at his dwarven friend, “We will be back later, Forjar.”

“Well ye know where I will be,” Forjar grumbled as he smoothed one of the edges of glass; there’d been a small chip he hadn’t noticed.

As Finny and Galausitha walked through the woods, Galausitha muttered, “I really should get to starting on something for the Ioun Stone Ceremony.” He looked at Finny, “Have you already started something?”

Finny shrugged, “Just going to make something from the woods… like carve something out of a branch or something.” Galausitha sighed. Galausitha had no idea what they would do for the ceremony.

“Maybe we can go to the Ioun Stone Circle and see what others have put there?” Galausitha shrugged. “Maybe I can get inspiration from that?”

As Finny and Galausitha approached the Ioun Stone Circle, they could hear someone’s voice; and they sounded angry. Finny placed his hand on Galausitha’s arm. “We shouldn’t go forward,” he whispered. “It could be bandits.”

Galausitha looked at his friend, “Sounds like only one person. What if they’re robbing the offerings at the Ioun Stone?”

Finny shook his head and whispered, “It’s not worth it. Let’s turn around. And if you want to check, we should double back and see if we can get others to come with us.”

Galausitha nodded. “I will wait here. If they leave I will come get you. In the meantime, you go back and fetch others.” Finny quietly snuck away, heading back for the hamlet as quickly as possible. Galausitha edged forward and unfortunately snapped a twig beneath his foot. A hand suddenly thrust through the brush and pulled him out of the shadows. When Galausitha’s eyes focused he saw his living ancestor, Saimaar. “What are you doing here?”

Saimaar looked furious and frustrated. “Do you know where it is?”

“Where what is?” Galausitha asked, genuinely confused.

“Don’t toy with me, Galausitha,” Saimaar growled. “I know it’s here. I can feel it.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Galausitha replied.

“Worthless whelp,” Saimaar growled and threw Galausitha into the largest Ioun Stone, which he struck with such force, that it cracked the stone as Galausitha’s head slammed against it. Galausitha saw Saimaar rummaging through some of the offers that had already been placed before darkness, and Galausitha assumed, death took him.

However, Galausitha awoke to see the offerings scattered about. He rubbed his head and felt the moist blood from the wound; he looked at his hand in bewilderment and then looked at the large Ioun stone he’d been thrown against. An odd mist seeped from the stone. Galausitha tried to quickly crawl away, but the head wound had left him dizzy, so as he stood he nearly collapsed almost instantly. He turned, dreading the end – for what he assumed was a second time – as the mist continued to grow.

It took the form of a misty, rock looking form as it looked down at Galausitha. “You, mortal have freed me from my prison,” the Dao said, his voice booming. “But I can see that in doing so, your wounds are fatal and you will die shortly. For your service of freeing me, I shall bestow one boon upon thee – I shall spare your life. But, I am still weak – and need you to do things for me until I can regain my true power. Will you accept my offer to save your life at the cost of serving me?”

Galausitha, though his mind was blurry, and he could feel the swelling in his brain, was of clear enough mind to know he had no desire to die so young. “I accept your offer,” he said.

“Good,” the Dao said and vanished at the same moment Galausitha lost consciousness again.

He was awakened by Finny, who was surrounded by others, all looking at Galausitha curiously. When they asked what had happened – Galausitha could scarcely remember, realizing that the last thing he remembered was being thrown against the large Ioun stone – and what happened after – he wasn’t entirely sure if it was real or some fevered dream. But who had thrown him? His mind felt like puzzle pieces that had been scattered all around. There were pieces – some of which he could see – but it wasn’t clear.

====

Name: Babidi
Gender: Male
Race: Fairy
age: (23)
Class: Warlock (Archfey) 1 (support)
Background: Courtier
Setting: own
Description: He was working as a clerk in some courts before the recent events.
I know who my parents are/were. (My parents mysteriously disappeared dead/kidnapped by Chitine)
I was born in a house of the fey plane.
Siblings: 2 (I'm the oldest sibling).
we were raised by: my grandparents.
lifestyle: modest(neither rich nor poor).
abode : village near the forest.
easy to make friends and loved being around people.
I was ensnared in my patron’s' schemes after accidentally stepping through a portal.
Fleeing from the Chitine (I almost died, I have ugly scars all over my body, I lost my ear), falling unconscious after going through the portal. A dwarf (Menegroth) found me and took me to a tavern (where I met the goddess Anewin - goddess of taverns) and there the goddess found out about my existence, and made me a tavern steward.
Now at the services of the goddess of taverns.
Goal: During my time working at Anewin's taverns, I discovered that I have a "talent" for creating exotic foods, but not everything is easy, to make them I need exotic spices.

I was confused at first - because when I saw "fairy" I was like, "Great! Not done a fairy background yet!"
Then I saw Menegroth - and I immediately recognized that as Tolkien.
So I kept reading - and saw "Anewin" and wondered if it was a take on Arwen, also from Lord of the Rings?
Regardless, I assumed it was your own setting as you noted and went from there.
I focused on how your character has the unique recipes thing and built backwards from there.
There's some fun in the dialogue and the way that it's written, because Fairies and the Fey just beg for some silliness.
The Archfey I mentioned is one from my own campaign (Solas Asdorcha) who - ironically - was a Pixie who ascended into Archfey status. So naturally you can change the name if you want.
But here it is - hope you enjoy it.
As always, I'd love to hear feedback - what you liked or didn't like or both - because first time (I think?) writing a fairy background in this thread.
Enjoy!
============

Mortals always talk about how the Fey Realm is full of beauty and magic; and everything is to the extremes – colors are more vibrant, the skies are purple, fairy dragons flutter about in every tree. Admittedly, all of that is essentially true.

Namely how everything in the Fey Realm is in “extremes.” My name is Babidi, and I have the good fortune of working for Solas Asdorcha – who, as an Archfey – has a lot of mortals and other beings across the multiverse who call out to her for favors. You know who has to keep track of these favors, so that she can call on them for an exchange, or simply answer or ignore them? Me.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s an enjoyable job. I am lucky that Solas Asdorcha noticed me and offered me such a position in her High Court. But while others get to mingle and dance at these festivities in the Fey Realm that Solas Asdorcha often celebrated, I was in an office, sorting through requests – since Mortals rarely understand how often the Fey simply enjoy celebrating anything. Three clouds in the morning sky? That calls for a celebration of the “Tri-Clouds.” I’d like to say I am exaggerating, but I’m not.

But Solas Asdorcha was gracious; she kept my family and I safe. Her only real demand is that her employees never leave the realm – or they become true servants to her rather than employees of her. Which, over all, wasn’t a bad deal at all; after all why would anyone leave this fantastic realm?

For me, life was pretty normal. I was raised by my grandparents, and I had two other siblings (though I was the oldest among them). My grandfather told me about how my mother had gone missing in the Dorchadas Caverns – and my father, fearing for her safety when she hadn’t returned in two hours – went after her. Neither of them were heard from again. My father believes that the Chitine captured them. The Chitine, here, thrived on capturing Fairies such as myself and parents. They rip our wings out, my grandfather said, and harness the natural magic in our bodies to complete dark rituals.

My grandmother always told me how my mother had a special talent for making exotic food and when one day I finally asked just why my mother ventured into the Dorchadas Caverns if she knew it was home to the dreaded Chitine, my grandmother sighed and said, “Because only inside the Dorchadas Caverns do Shrieker mushrooms as well as the purplish mushroom known as violet fungus. My grandmother explained that the inside of the cap of a shrieker contains special nutrients that add incredible flavor when applied to food and that, despite the dangers a shrieker mushroom possessed by emitting such a loud alarm, my mother had said they were worth the risk. The violet fungus, my grandmother explained, was used to break down the material – because if it was cooked, the fungus’ ability to break down things could be harvested. It was almost like digestive oil if carefully applied could break down materials. My grandmother laughed and told me a story how it reminded her of how when my father had encountered a rust monster.

Over the years I became increasingly curious about the Dorchadas Caverns and trying to harvest these mysterious mushrooms my mother had once harvested. One night, on the way to my simple home from a long night (some of these nights seem eternal in length, I am telling you!) working for Solas Asdorcha, after sorting out a number of requests from a gnome wizard named Dango, I paused as I looked to the west where the Dorchadas Caverns were – embedded into the side of Greystone. I heaved a deep sigh and told myself I’d just take a quick look inside. Just a few steps in. Just to see if I could see any of these mushrooms.

I trekked westward and made my way up the Greystone Mountain, where I finally reached the mouth of the cave – and what I say mouth of the cave – I literally mean mouth of the cave. The entrance had jagged rocks on the top and bottom that seemed to represent teeth. Coming out from the cave was an unnatural coldness; as if the peaks of Greystone’s snow covered caps somehow channeled themselves all the way from the top to exit through this horrible looking mouth.

I stepped inside, and the coldness seemed to double in intensity. Waiting for my eyes to adjust to the unnatural darkness, I could see no mushrooms of any kind; just cold, stone, rocks. It’d be a wonder that any grew in here with the amount of cold that rattled my bones. I fluttered inside a little further; a little further; a little further. Before I knew it, when I turned around I could no longer see the mouth of the cave behind me – but up ahead, I saw a faint purple glow. The violet fungus, which means the shriekers should be close by as well. I inched ever closer, my eyes scanning the bleak caverns for any sign of trouble…

However, being inexperienced as I was, I wasn’t aware that the Chitine could scale walls. I was a fly in the spider’s web, and before I knew it, six Chitine had descended upon me and captured me. For days, I was tortured at the expense of the Chitine’s pleasures. They’d cut me up, crushed my wings, and cut off a piece of my ear as a part of some ritual. As I lay in their cage, death lingering over me in the form of a woman with a spidery torso in my fevered state, I suddenly heard a loud, gruff yell in what mortals called The Common Tongue. I could barely force myself to sit up – but when I did, I was surprised. It was a Dwarf who was using a Warhammer to smash his way through the Chitine.

“Back!” I heard him shout as he crushed the skull of a Chitine beneath his mighty weapon. “Back to the Hell hole of your spider queen! Let her know you failed! You shall have no dwarf tonight!” He proceeded to crush through several Chitine, when he reached the cage I was imprisoned in and smashed it with his hammer. “Run, boy,” I heard him say, as he pointed down a passage. “Run that way and don’t stop. Don’t stop for nothing. I will be right behind you.”

I didn’t hesitate; I stumbled out of the cage and tried to fly, but my broken wings could not bear the weight of my body, so I crawled as fast as I could, hearing the dwarf behind me continue the fight against my Chitine captures. I was certain that perhaps my grandparents had perhaps employed the services of this dwarf to see if I was alive; after all, why else would he be here?

After what seemed an eternity, I saw a light, but my eyes were so badly beaten and swollen, I could scarcely make out what it was – I could be running headlong into the maw of a red dragon about to breathe fire – but at this point, anything would have been better than being a prisoner of the Chitine.

I stepped through the light and fell for what seemed to be hours and in that moment thought I’d gone too far and run off the ledge; but the landing was soft, like landing on cotton covered clouds. A loud thud resounded next to me and I looked through my swollen vision and saw the dwarf. “Damn bastard got away from me,” he growled. He looked at me and picked me up. “You look pretty bad. Let me take you somewhere to get some healing.” Along the way – I assumed he was taking me back to my grandparents who would undoubtedly have a thing or two to say about me going inside those dreaded caverns – the dwarf introduced himself as “Menegroth.”

We arrived at a tavern, much to my surprise – where immediately I felt a sense of ease like I’d never felt before. He introduced me to one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met – named “Anewin “ who claimed to be the goddess of the taverns. I wasn’t sure if that was a self-proclaimed title (was she an excellent bartender?) initially – but I’d come to find, that she was in fact, an actual goddess. With her help, and her mixture of drinks, I was quickly on the road to recovery. My wings were functioning once more, but my body still bore the scars from the Chitine torture and my ear was still gone; but I was alive.

Anewin offered me a position at her tavern, which I gladly accepted. Three weeks into it, I thought about my grandparents – when suddenly a familiar voice entered my head. “There you are, my pet. You ran off through a different portal. Do you not remember our deal? Now I need to hire a replacement for you here in the Keep. But now you’re a servant to me.”

The voice belonged to my former employee, the Archfey, Solas Asdorcha.