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Description: The beast called Trouble is a Minotaur, one of the most fearsome monsters found in many a maze. He is a muscular creature, bearing the head of a bull and the body of man. He has filed his teeth to sharpened points, making himself even more intimidating. Though many an adventurer has said he is not the largest of his race, he definitely possesses the most heart. He bears the scars of many brawls, most gained while defending himself from mobs of folk whom feared what they deemed monstrous. Trouble is a well-recognized fixture in most of the seedier barrooms of the Low Wharf and Dock Ward, where he has worked as a bouncer. When out of work, Trouble turns to the profitable back alley pit fights to find his supper. *Trouble recently purchased a spell (polymorph other) with his meager winnings to give him a greater resemblance to humans, now he appears to be a hulking brutish human, ugly as sin with a temper that’s even uglier. HistoryHistory: Troubles’ mother was once the captive of a Minotaur in the bowels of the Undermountain. This slip of a girl was rescued just about 20 years ago by a band of adventurers who safely returned her to the surface. Unfortunately, she was ‘with child.' The Minotaur that held her as a prisoner for so long and raped her so many times had burdened her with its cursed seed. When she could no longer hide her increasing bulk, one of the rescuers, an aging mercenary called Ferric Goth told her he suspected that she carried the child of the bovine beast. The young woman, Ervi Sul, wept. She wept for every time the Minotaur violated her, she wept for the new friends she feared to lose. Ferric comforted her, professing his love, he promised to protect and stand by her. The two married and lived happily for the rest of her term. Sadly, Ervi did not survive the birth of her Minotaur son. Ferric vowed to care for her son, as though he was his very own. The old fighter later purchased a tavern with the sum of his loot from his adventuring days. Ferric began training his adopted son, Gyve, in the ways of the warrior, whose great strength and keen grasp of combat tactics have made him quite a formidable fighter. Although getting the youngster to master his temper was harder than getting milk from a bull, it gave him an edge. Especially when the neighborhood kids would rouse him about 'the cow his father bedded.’ Many expected Gyve to fight like a raging beast. Instead, he fought with a level head, and the heart of a true warrior. Gyve got his nickname during a ruckus in his adopted father's tavern two years ago. The retired Ferric tried to get a drunken barbarian to leave, the brute asked if Ferric was looking for trouble, and spit in the old mercenaries’ face. Fire blazed in the old veterans' eyes. But sly old Ferric simply smiled a knowing smile and walked away. The barbarian guffawed and turned back to his companions, right into the hulking chest of the tavern-keepers ‘son.' "Lookin’ fer trouble? Here... I... am," Gyve said, biting off each word. The wild brawl that followed would be one of the stories' veterans warriors would tell their own grand-kin, after of course, they embellished their role in the melee. Ferric just stood back and watched, smiling at his young sons fighting prowess. All by himself, he took on the brute and his two companions. He would have won too, if the barbarians had not drawn their weapons. Troubles’ reaction was deadly, breaking the barbarians’ neck and impaling him on his own battle axe. That was when the City Watch arrived, and witnessed the killing. The Watch took Trouble away in chains. He was to be hung, but old Ferric agreed to sign over his property and holdings in the city. The corrupt official that was interested in Ferric’s little hole-in-the-wall tavern agreed to suspend the sentence. Trouble began working as a barroom bouncer to cover lodging himself and his father. Times were hard, and the two spent more nights under the stars in filthy back alleys than under a roof with a warm fire. Ferric developed lung-rot, and Trouble began accepting pit fights to cover the expense of having his father cared for in one of the so-called temples along the Dock Ward. Over the course of those long, cold months, Trouble tried to find a temple that could cure his ailing father. Regrettably, none of the goodly clergy could see past his beastly face and into his heart. The less favorable temples Ferric refused outright, stating he had seen enough of what their foul taint could do. Helpless Gyve watched his loving father wither away. More than a month ago, kind-hearted Ferric finally succumbed to the sickness in his lungs. Before he passed, he gave his son a worn, bone ring and a pair of magical boots, telling him that he had taken them from the body of the barbarian Trouble had to kill. He would have got the magic axe too, but the Watch confiscated the "murder" weapon. "Ain’t yer fault, boy. I knowed I taught to know that. Do me an' yer ma proud. Our troubles came from th’ fates, it’s their way…" old Ferric coughed, before he passed away. Trouble blamed himself for his fathers’ losses, and eventually turning to drink to make himself to forget, accepting street fights he could not hope to win. Surprisingly, he has come out of these blood sports ahead more often than not, only to spend his winnings on more mind-numbing drink. He is beginning to comprehend the value of his fathers’ gifts; not that he understands them. He realizes he is so much swifter while he dons the magic boots. The ring is more of a mystery to him. He took on one of the handicap fights that made his name in the illicit blood sports, and neglected to wear the ring. The veterans he fought were more than a match for him and nearly killed him. Now he goes nowhere without these items. He does know that the more he hits his opponents, the better he feels.
Description: The fierce Half Elf known as SUDDEN possesses impressive physical prowess. His powerful chest is bare, in defiance, as if daring someone to attack him. He allows his long black hair to hang in his face, obscuring his fiery green eyes. His face is always a mask of deadly seriousness. Among the most spoken of in the Street Fighting community, Sudden has made a name for himself in a very short time in the back street pit fights. He most often lures his opponent into taking the first swing, which he parries and counters with a vicious suddenness. He is both feared and respected for his uncanny ability to anticipate an opponent and be ready to counter any maneuver. Known for his no-holds-bared, anything-goes tactics, he is fast becoming a legend in the illegal blood sports of Waterdeep. Description: The fierce Half Elf known as SUDDEN possesses impressive physical prowess. His powerful chest is bare, in defiance, as if daring someone to attack him. He allows his long black hair to hang in his face, obscuring his fiery green eyes. His face is always a mask of deadly seriousness. Among the most spoken of in the Street Fighting community, Sudden has made a name for himself in a very short time in the back street pit fights. He most often lures his opponent into taking the first swing, which he parries and counters with a vicious suddenness. He is both feared and respected for his uncanny ability to anticipate an opponent and be ready to counter any maneuver. Known for his no-holds-bared, anything-goes tactics, he is fast becoming a legend in the illegal blood sports of Waterdeep. What is knownWhat is known: Very little is known of the individual recognized as Sudden. He surfaced in City of Splendors as a street fighter in the back alleys of the Dock Ward some three years' past. The virtual unknown is quickly earning a reputation for being quite a formidable combatant with the fastest consecutive knockouts ever witnessed. One Waterdeep Noble was overheard saying, "...he’s not just fast, he’s absolutely sudden!" Hence, the nickname. Truth be told, Sudden is gifted with astonishing quickness, even without magical aid (see the combat scouting proficiency for details). Each of the Wards in Waterdeep has Fighting Champions and Sudden has fought his way through every pit in the City. Sudden is the Champion of the Dock Ward at this time. A bitter rivalry began between himself and the noble Champion of the Sea Ward, Vhaas Gauntyl. Gauntyl raped Sudden’s twin sister. By the time he was ready to challenge Vhaas, the noble was regarded as the Champion of the Sea Ward. Aegis confronted Vhaas in the arena. Vhaas was furious, totally losing his noble composure, challenging Aegis to a fight to the death. Aegis beat the noble with one quick sucker punch, which earned him the nickname Sudden. Vhaas recovered more quickly than anyone would have expected and pulled out a wand of lightning. He would have killed Sudden, had Anna not severed his hand at the wrist. Anna then grabbed a handful of Vhaas’s manhood, whispering in low, menacing tones. What was said, even Sudden does not know. The twins left the pitiful weeping noble after relieving him of his magic items. Sudden claimed Vhaas’s enchanted bracers, while Anna- reborn as Mischief, took the troll-bone ring and wand. She sold the wand and had facsimiles of the bracers and ring made. Each of the twins wears one of the magical fakes, making the Indigo Boys think twice about challenging either twin. To add credence to the illusion, the false bracers radiate alteration magic, while the false ring radiates necromancy. Mischief recently acquired an enchanted sword, which greatly increases her attacking speed, adding more ‘truth’ to the deception. Ever since, Vhaas has carried a grudge against Sudden, having him attacked on several occasions, generally before important fights. With the aid of his gang, known as the Indigo Boys, Vhaas has made the young street fighter’s life a living hell. Sudden had always been one to watch his back; Vhaas has forced him to do so on a higher level. In the latest attack, Sudden was assisted by a band of outcasts calling themselves the Order of the Hydra. The Order defeated the Indigo Boys in what seemed to be more of a war than the simple gang fight it should have been. Weeks after the fight, Sudden began to notice members of the Order around the South Ward. He took special notice of the intense hatred the "Waterdeep Boys Club" had for the "dead-heads." Eventually, he considered the members of the gang allies, having learnt "the enemy of my enemy is my friend" long ago. He has watched them from afar, often acting in concert, working toward the goals of the Order. He has grown to admire their beliefs and tenacious never-surrender attitudes. What is not knownWhat is not known: Sudden takes great pains to keep these facts hidden from all, including the members of the Order. Much of Sudden’s family were involved in piracy along the Sword Coast. To his knowledge, his entire clan perished at sea save one. He was found swimming with his sister along side the Naval vessel that scuttled his parents’ ship. Since the two were merely children, they could not be held responsible for the actions of their pirate family, and summarily turned over to an orphanage in Waterdeep. When Sudden came of age, he became a member of the City Watch-Wizards. There, he has shown remarkable ability in anticipating those who may oppose the watch. As a Watch-Wizard, he goes by the name Aegis Everswift. He dresses in the loose fitting black, gold and green robes of the guard. He pulls his hair back from his face and ties it in a severe braid. This enhances the elven features of his heritage, which is remarkably effective in misdirecting onlookers since very few have realized Sudden is half-elven. Grifter, his commanding officer in the Watch, is aware of Sudden’s "alternate source of income." The two have an understanding. Sudden is to wager 50 gold pieces on every fight he has. If he wins, he brings the winnings to Grifter. For this, Sudden is permitted to make his own hours for his watch duties. Since he is not too ambitious when it comes to the Watch, the other Guards do not question his extended absences. In truth, Grifter has never been interested in the money. He just feels the boy needs a way to make a difference, this is his way. Sudden has a special knack for noticing details when it comes to melee combat. He can see the flaws in an elven general’s tactics where others may see only perfect execution. He seems to find the weaknesses in what others would call an impenetrable defense. Sudden has turned this talent to his advantage. He has gone to every fighting competition possible to observe the contestants and their fighting techniques, in order to refine and sharpen his own skills. He often wears a shabby, low cowled cloak to disguise his appearance when he is scouting these battles. There he watches the competitors, improving his repertoire. A large part of his success in these tournaments is his dedication to finding any fight he can and studying the adversaries. He does not go looking to fight per say. He goes to observe, to absorb every possible reaction and formulate a counter to it. If Sudden cannot find one of the many pit fights, he usually frequents the rougher taverns, since they are prone to have the encounters he seeks. Sudden keeps a journal of every fighter he has witnessed. In the journal he tracks any injuries, tells, flaws in technique, win/lose record, and so on plus whatever common knowledge he may know, such as hangouts, alliances, etc.
Description: Spike is a lean, powerfully built duergar dwarf who stands 4'0". He carries two unique weapons he calls scythe axes that he wields it with consummate ease and deadly precision. This gaunt powerhouse also uses his martial arts skills to great effect, with grace that is virtually unknown among the dwarven races. He ties his long gray mane into a topnot and shaves the sides of his head, cheeks and upper lip so that only a pointed gray goatee remains. Since his gray skin gives away his Duergar heritage, many have challenged his honorable nature. He tries to avoid these fights if possible, but he savors the thrill of combat and the fear in the eyes of his opponents when they realize the blunder of provoking his wrath. HistoryHistory: The brawny duergar rolled along through a clot of thin old humans playing one of the obscure Kara-Tur games of strategy, he never made time to learn the names. He ignored them as he ignored the taunts and beatings that were an every day part of his life, even before he was sold to these Asian devils. He remembered the last beating his father gave him, the one the nearly killed him. If he recalled rightly, it was because of a bur on his sires axe that he had missed while sharpening it. When he awoke, Spike discovered he was aboard a ship, chained like an animal to a massive oar with dozens of other slaves, on a ship bound for the Kara-Tur. His father finally did it; he sold his ignorant son into slavery like he always said he would. Then there was the keep of Tanaka-san; a highly respected feudal daimyo (or lord), weaponsmith and martial arts master of the Kara-Tur. Tanaka acquired the young duergar from a slave auction. When the sons’ of Tanaka started their lessons in the martial arts, Spike’s life became very complicated. Tanaka demonstrated various lethal techniques on the tough dwarf. The entire Tanaka-clan used him as a combat drone, practicing their deadly unarmed fighting style. At first, he fought desperately, fighting like a savage barbarian. However, with every beating, Spike learned. Every move they used on him, he remembered. He even improvised his own technique to defend himself from the often-vicious sparring sessions. Once Tanaka realized the dwarf was not letting his anger control his body, that he was actually learning the Way of the Mantis, he allowed Spike the privilege of becoming a student, rather than remaining a slave. This did not sit well with the Daimyo’s sons, who now went out of their way to make his life miserable, or attempted to injure him in the ‘sparring’ matches. Leave them to their games. He had more important things to consider. Today, Tanaka had sent him on an errand to deliver a pouch heavy with ch’ien and a brief massage in the trade common spoken by all the merchants in the sprawling marketplace where he would find the elderly metallurgist who had recently provided so much mithral to the famous weaponsmith. His curiosity at what Tanaka-san was using the rare metal for gnawed at him constantly. His thoughts frequently wandering to one of the first discussions between Tanaka and himself some ten years ago regarding the weapons of the duergar dwarves, their strategy (or lack thereof) in combat and awkward scribbles of axes, hammers and picks. Tanaka-san was aware of Spike’s difficulty in mastering the traditional weapons of the Orient. Perhaps… The attacker was waiting for him. An arm like steel smashed downward, and Spike gasped as the blow connected with his collarbone and neck. His legs went out from under him and he slid onto his back, scraping shoulders and cracking his head on the rough cobblestones. Stunned, the duergar felt the attackers’ presence like heat above him. He felt the strings on the pouch of currency snap as it was yanked from his belt. As the thief stood over him, time seemed to slow; he could actually see the strike coming. Slowly inching its way down, angling toward his throat, a spear-hand thrust meant crush his larynx. Spike knew the blow must have been moving faster than it appeared; yet his mind seemed to take in every detail of what was happening. The cloying scent of opium was strong in the air, almost masking the acrid odors of refuse. He noted the way the bandit’s wrist twisted, adding torque to the powerful blow. He also knew the bandit was not alone, that there was at least one other with him. What his attention settled on was the signet ring the thief wore. The engraved Mantis of the Tanaka-clan. Spike’s hand shot forward, his powerful dwarven fingers closed around the would-be assassin's fingers, snapping them like twigs. He rolled his legs over his head in backward somersault, maintaining his hold on the broken fingers, twisting the assailant's arm, pulling him face-to-face with the angry dwarf. Spike pulled down the mask of his attacker, accepting blows to his ribs as the thief struggled to escape the painful predicament. Sihn Ming Tanaka, the eldest son of Tanaka-san. Rage lent even more power to the punch of the dwarf, knocking the son unconscious. He could hear the footfalls of the second man, fleeing the scene, wanting no part of the brutal dwarf. Spike dropped Tanaka's son and threw one of the many throwing spikes he ‘acquired’ from a korobokuru (Asian dwarf) friend, a dealer of goods, as the korobokuru put it. The spike pierced the thigh of the second bandit as he leapt, almost ten feet straight up, trying to escape the duergar. The surprise and pain from the strike distracted the bandit from gaining firm footing to make the roof; he fell heavily into the refuse below. Spike frowned, knowing even humans could not jump so high without magical aid. No matter. He had prisoners; he must turn them over to the daimyo, and that was no easy task considering that he had to drag the daimyo's humiliated son and his accomplice back to the keep. Upon hearing of his son’s treachery, Daimyo Tanaka apologized for his son’s dishonorable behavior. He went on to explain to the entire hold, all of whom in turn bore witness to the dishonor of Sihn, that the mithral of the western lands was meant to craft stronger weapons for the sons of the Tanaka-clan. Now, the first of those weapons would be forged for the honorable guest who spared the life of his traitorous son. The man with Sihn Ming begged Daimyo Tanaka for his life, a decision left to Spike. The dwarf just said, "I see no reason to punish this one for his stupidity," he paused, seeing the glimmer of hope in the humans eyes, "at this time, Tanaka-san". The brow of the daimyo arched approvingly. "But I do want to know how he came to leap so high". The thief so mad with fear, kicked off his boots babbling about some Westerner he ‘purchased’ them from. Mention of the West pulled at the chords of loneliness in the young dwarf. He knew there would be no better time to ask. That day he requested to leave the Daimyo’s service to return to his homeland. The daimyo agreed to allow him passage on one of the merchant ships to Waterdeep, but only after Spike agreed to help him forge a set of unique weapons befitting his honorable guest, so that he may cut his own path. Discussing the weaponsmithing techniques used in the West verses those of the East; they left the trembling thieves in the courtyard, Spike absently picking up the magical boots. The doomed cries were ignored as one of the Daimyo’s soldiers separated the thief’s head from his body, the duergar wondered if Tanaka's son would be next, or if he would be permitted the honor of Sepbuku, ritual suicide.
Description:Description: The lithesome young woman called Mischief may appear quite helpless, at first glance. Most observers only notice her exquisite elven beauty, her ample cleavage and supple curves. A careful observer might even take note of a playful smile, the graceful physique and gentle sway of her approach, accentuated by an expensive silken, translucent shift. Others remember the long raven-black hair, streaked with lines of crimson, as if she had woven thin strands of scarlet through her thick mane. Few care to look into the narrow face with the haunted, icy blue, almond-shaped eyes. While fewer still notice her blade before it is twisted into their ribs, none of them live to tell about it. Mischief is most often seen passing herself off as a Duelist in the more ‘up-town’ neighborhoods, where men foster expensive tastes and bitter rivalries. When not posing as a Duelist she wears less conspicuous attire. Comfortably tight, form-fitting doeskin shirts, enhancing her obvious charms to the point of distraction. Mischief is not above using such diversions to her advantage in most any situation.Description: The lithesome young woman called Mischief may appear quite helpless, at first glance. Most observers only notice her exquisite elven beauty, her ample cleavage and supple curves. A careful observer might even take note of a playful smile, the graceful physique and gentle sway of her approach, accentuated by an expensive silken, translucent shift. Others remember the long raven-black hair, streaked with lines of crimson, as if she had woven thin strands of scarlet through her thick mane. Few care to look into the narrow face with the haunted, icy blue, almond-shaped eyes. While fewer still notice her blade before it is twisted into their ribs, none of them live to tell about it. Mischief is most often seen passing herself off as a Duelist in the more ‘up-town’ neighborhoods, where men foster expensive tastes and bitter rivalries. When not posing as a Duelist she wears less conspicuous attire. Comfortably tight, form-fitting doeskin shirts, enhancing her obvious charms to the point of distraction. Mischief is not above using such diversions to her advantage in most any situation. What is known:What is known: The bitter rivalry between Sudden and the noble, Vhaas Gauntyl, began with a poor orphan girl called Anna. Anna was Sudden’s younger twin sister, whom he had left in the orphanage while he dealt with the loss of his family in his own way. Vhaas saw a young, svelte girl playing in the streets of Waterdeep. Her rare, exotic beauty drew him to her, where his noble station and charm won him her affections. Young Anna fell hard for the gallant noble. Vhaas planned a ‘special’ escape for the two of them one night, where they might consummate their love. Vhaas was waiting for Anna when she arrived, bearing gifts. He gave her a long sultry gown of fine red silk. He placed a small, delicate blindfold over her eyes, whispering to her about the special surprise he had planned for her. After some gentle teasing and playful hints, he guided her along a rose scented path and removed the blindfold. Anna was both terrified and horrified. Several men stood before her, each wearing frightening masks and indigo colored robes. One spoke with the voice she recognized as Vhaas’ "Welcome to our sanctuary." The other robed men echoed the phrase. Vhaas spoke again, this time there was a mocking, cruel edge "Feel honored, bitch. You have been chosen to be the newest whore of the Indigo Boys." That is where the nightmare began. Over the course of the next three months, Anna was repeatedly and brutally gang-raped by the members of the Indigo Boys, fighting them every time. When they eventually grew weary of their sport, they beat her, nearly to death. They dumped her body in an alley just outside the noble ward. Somewhere, deep in the fog of pain and anguish, Anna heard the last words Vhaas ever spoke to her. "You live because I may want to enjoy your company again. You cannot touch me, Anna. My family owns the Watch. No one will believe a word you say my little whore. Oppose me or any of us, and I’ll crush you like the little blood sucking mosquito you are." With that said, they left her for dead. What is known: The bitter rivalry between Sudden and the noble, Vhaas Gauntyl, began with a poor orphan girl called Anna. Anna was Sudden’s younger twin sister, whom he had left in the orphanage while he dealt with the loss of his family in his own way. Vhaas saw a young, svelte girl playing in the streets of Waterdeep. Her rare, exotic beauty drew him to her, where his noble station and charm won him her affections. Young Anna fell hard for the gallant noble. Vhaas planned a ‘special’ escape for the two of them one night, where they might consummate their love. Vhaas was waiting for Anna when she arrived, bearing gifts. He gave her a long sultry gown of fine red silk. He placed a small, delicate blindfold over her eyes, whispering to her about the special surprise he had planned for her. After some gentle teasing and playful hints, he guided her along a rose scented path and removed the blindfold. Anna was both terrified and horrified. Several men stood before her, each wearing frightening masks and indigo colored robes. One spoke with the voice she recognized as Vhaas’ "Welcome to our sanctuary." The other robed men echoed the phrase. Vhaas spoke again, this time there was a mocking, cruel edge "Feel honored, bitch. You have been chosen to be the newest whore of the Indigo Boys." That is where the nightmare began. Over the course of the next three months, Anna was repeatedly and brutally gang-raped by the members of the Indigo Boys, fighting them every time. When they eventually grew weary of their sport, they beat her, nearly to death. They dumped her body in an alley just outside the noble ward. Somewhere, deep in the fog of pain and anguish, Anna heard the last words Vhaas ever spoke to her. "You live because I may want to enjoy your company again. You cannot touch me, Anna. My family owns the Watch. No one will believe a word you say my little whore. Oppose me or any of us, and I’ll crush you like the little blood sucking mosquito you are." With that said, they left her for dead. When she awoke, she discovered that a half-orc orphan had found her. Anna had been unconscious for five days, and genuinely feared the pug-faced creature. Anna eventually overcame her distrust, after meeting more of the half-orcs friends. The half-orc was a healer called Gema, who had been tending her wounds. A gruff dwarf called Skrap that kept promising a bloody end to her assailants. Then there was the half-drow, Sinister. His quick wit and gentle, if somewhat arrogant way, had her laughing and smiling, well on the road to recovery. There was something else driving her, though. Revenge. She wanted it so badly it was like a hunger that could not be sated. She began training with Sinister in the skills that she felt would aid her in gaining her vengeance. It was during one of the illicit duels that she found her brother, who had become a member of the Watch Wizards. Their reunion was one of tears and laughter, until Anna told Aegis of Vhaas Gauntyl. The two began planning. The siblings started following Gauntyl, tracking his movements through the city. On these forays, they discovered Vhaas was into the popular illegal Back-alley Street fighting in the Wards of the city. The two redoubled their training, preparing to challenge the despicable noble. Aegis began actively competing in the street fights, Anna following suit, primarily as Aegis second. By the time they were ready to challenge Vhaas, the noble was regarded as the Champion of the Sea Ward. Aegis confronted Vhaas in the arena. The noble just laughed. Until Anna spoke up, revealing the noble’s connection to Indigo Boys and the crimes they committed. Vhaas was furious, totally losing his noble composure, challenging Aegis to a fight to the death. Aegis beat the noble with one quick sucker punch, which earned him the nickname Sudden. Vhaas recovered more quickly than anyone would have expected and pulled out a wand of lightning, blasting Sudden in the back. He would have killed Sudden with a second bolt, had Anna not intervened, severing the nobles’ hand at the wrist. Anna then grabbed a handful of Vhaas' manhood, whispering in low, menacing tones. What was said, even Sudden does not know. The twins left the pitiful weeping noble after relieving him of his magic items. Sudden claimed Vhaas’ enchanted bracers, while Anna- reborn as Mischief, took the troll-bone ring and wand. She sold the wand and had facsimiles of the bracers and ring made. Each of the twins wears one of the magical fakes, making the Indigo Boys think twice about challenging either twin. To add credence to the illusion, the false bracers radiate alteration magic, while the false ring radiates necromancy. Mischief recently acquired an enchanted sword after a bloody duel, which greatly increases her attacking speed, adding more ‘truth’ to the deception. Although Mischief enjoys dueling, she is a street fighter at heart. This simple fact does not lessen the demand for her services to put an end to some noble grievance. Mischief’s’ keen grasp of political intrigue, exceeding beauty, professional courtesy and lightning quick blade have earned her a measure of respect in the dueling and street fighting society. Still, the elven maiden is unhappy with her lot in life and is always on the look out for an adventure or challenge.
Description:Description: The solemn Half Sea Elf known as Chains is of muscular build, with pale green hair and skin that is slightly blue in hue. His facial features make him seem feral. His eyes gleam with savage intensity. Chains bears scars and tattoos virtually everywhere on his body, a testament to his brutal lifestyle. His fighting style is not merely brutal and relentless, but cunning and resourceful. His most peculiar characteristic is the metal harness encircling his neck and shoulders. Attached to the silvery metal halter is a 15-ft. chain and 50 pound ball made of the same unidentified mystical metal. His Story:His Story: It is said that his own mother sold him into slavery, for less than the expense of ale. Chains grew up in the fighting pits of Skullport, a hidden harbor under Waterdeep. When he was but a child, he was thrown into a pit of hobgoblins, to fight for food. No one could have guessed at the savage fury within that puny half-breed. His first night in the pits did not go unnoticed. Many slavers took an interest in the savage intensity of the elven whelp and started to promote other slaves and prisoners to fight the "angry elf". He fought various creatures; most did not survive the contest. Even at that age, Chains had a volatile temper. His silent and violent nature made him one of the most feared, respected and profitable wagers in the blood sports. Three different slavers "owned" Chains; two of them died by his hand. The third, a powerful man by the name of Colstan Rhuul, "inherited" Chains from his last owner. In truth, few others were willing to take the risk. The half-elf was already an intimidating figure before he slew his two former masters. Rhuul decided to increase the value of his investment by having Chains trained in hand-to-hand combat. A geased slave, Zen, became a teacher and friend to the half elf. The old man taught the youngster to focus his rage in ways that are more productive. Chains excelled in martial warfare, quickly learning several lethal fighting techniques. Unbeknownst to Rhuul, Zen secretly showed the young gladiator the ways of the healer and the path of Eastern magic. Eventually Chains became a Pit-Champion while Rhuul raked in the gold. The slave master developed a fear that he would one day lose control of one of his most productive revenue generating assets. Rhuul commanded Zen, once a famous metallurgist and wizard-smith from the distant East, to design a very special collar that would ensure the paranoid slaver that he would never relinquish his dominion of Chains. The old wizard-smith was infuriated by the dictate. The geas forced him to comply with the command, but not without subtle twists. Zen was able to exert just enough of his will into the forging of the Tether, without violating the geas, to make the yoke more of a weapon than the fetter it was intended to be. The old man finished the Tether in under a year, much to Rhuul’s delight. One morning, Rhuul had Chains drugged with a powerful paralytic poison. Zen was forced to magically graft the harness to the helpless youth. Though the half-elf could not fight the incident, he saw the regret and sadness in the eyes of his friend. When the poison effects diminished, Chains lashed out at his captors, including Zen. The powerful fighter killed five drow guards and the beholder Overseer with his bare hands before being contained. The wounds of Zen would heal, the mind of Chains, to all appearances, had snapped. He became so dangerous Rhuul had to have Chains teleported in and out the blood sport tournaments to avoid losing too many handlers to this berserk warrior. The warrior went undefeated for nearly two and a half years. Zen received a coded message from Chains, explaining how he learned of the special powers of the Tether, and how he kept the secret under the deceptive rages. He apologized for attacking his former teacher, but he had to make sure Rhuul did not use Zen against him. He had planned an escape, now he was waiting for an opportunity to take Zen with him. The old wizard-smith truly regretted depriving Chains of that hope. The conditions of the geas prevent him from leaving the service of Colstan Rhuul for 500 years. Not even death could release him. It took months of correspondence to before Zen was able to convince Chains to leave without him. Before the elf made good his escape, Zen made sure that Chains was well provisioned, giving him two items. The first was Zen’s journal & spellbook. He asked Chains to find a way to get it to his family, in the Kura-Tur. The second, an ivory staff. This Chains was to use as a spellbook. Zen bade his student to transcribe any of the spells in his journal that Chains preferred to the staff. Chains had dug a tunnel, which led to an underground river. By virtue of his sea elven heritage, he was able to navigate his way to one of the slave ships in the harbor of Skullport. From there, he clung to the hull of the ship as it made its way from Skullport, through Undermountain. And so a new story begins….
Hybrid:Hybrid: Bait is the result of an insane drow mage’s attempt at creating a master race. The drow compelled one of the savage Malenti, the result of an unspeakable connection of aquatic elf and the sea dwelling sahuagin, to brutally rape a young captive, a high elven maiden. The end result was the birth of a half-Malenti, half-elf female, named after the sea inhabiting hybrid of piranha and moray eelHybrid: Bait is the result of an insane drow mage’s attempt at creating a master race. The drow compelled one of the savage Malenti, the result of an unspeakable connection of aquatic elf and the sea dwelling sahuagin, to brutally rape a young captive, a high elven maiden. The end result was the birth of a half-Malenti, half-elf female, named after the sea inhabiting hybrid of piranha and moray eel - Morana. Description:Description: The wild young woman nicknamed Bait is truly angelic, vibrant and dangerous. Standing 5’1", her diminutive physique is often underestimated; few adversaries expect such savagery or competence in combat. She frequently ties her long wild mane of platinum blond hair into a long braid hanging past her waist, unveiling her icy blue eyes. Her lovely face becomes a feral mask of relentless intensity when she is forced into combat. She wears a sahuagin harness to carry her gear, including her hand crafted combat nets. Surprisingly, she is among the most violent Street Fighters in the sport. Both feared and respected for her uncanny ability to intimidate even the hardiest veteran. Description: The wild young woman nicknamed Bait is truly angelic, vibrant and dangerous. Standing 5’1", her diminutive physique is often underestimated; few adversaries expect such savagery or competence in combat. She frequently ties her long wild mane of platinum blond hair into a long braid hanging past her waist, unveiling her icy blue eyes. Her lovely face becomes a feral mask of relentless intensity when she is forced into combat. She wears a sahuagin harness to carry her gear, including her hand crafted combat nets. Surprisingly, she is among the most violent Street Fighters in the sport. Both feared and respected for her uncanny ability to intimidate even the hardiest veteran. HistoryHistory: Morana woke instantly, hand automatically going to the shin-sheathed dagger she had taken from Naekeod, the drow mage that had been her master for all of her life. The damnable dark elf underestimated the petite, childlike stature of the young half-Malenti. When the dark elf was least suspecting, believing his little sex play-pretty beaten into submission- the youth attacked, stabbing the Naekeod repeatedly with his own dagger. She left the drow for dead, fleeing his lair with whatever she could carry. She learned about the daggers other magical powers much later. Later than that she learned Naekeod lived, and was using his other crossbred creations, among other resources, to hunt her. Terrible, disgusting things. Nightmarish, pathetic beasts of an insane drow bent on cross breeding more powerful and deadly races. She would have pitied the creatures had they not been sent to take her back. Reminders of her own half-bred nature, vividly recalling being forced to watch his breeding experiments. She was sickened with the memories of the brutal rapes of maidens of dwarf, halfling and elven heritage by the vile trolls, ogres, and whatever other monsters he could compel into mating with his helpless victims. Shaking off the chilling recollections, she listened. Something had awakened her. What? The faint heat signatures from the rock around her were enough to confirm that the small alcove she had taken refuge in was empty. Cautiously, she moved to the ledge and peered out into the cavern where she had hidden from those who hunted her. There was meager light in the cave from the luminescent lichen growing along the rocky walls. Anyone attempting to enter the cave would be silhouetted in the narrow entry crevice. Morana briefly considered slipping into the hot spring in her grotto and hiding but then she would have been cornered. Instead, she leapt gracefully from the ledge, landing lightly thirty feet below, on the rocky cavern floor, fingers flexing on the etched hilt of her dagger. Were it not for that sudden movement, she would lay dead, burned to cinders by the fireball that blasted into the alcove where she stood moments before. Instinct took over, using the momentary flash to veil her movements from heat sensing eyes, Morana sprinted in a half circle toward the entryway of the cavern, keeping her body shielded from the entry as much as possible. A tendril of fear curled in her stomach. Was it Naekeod? Had he found her so soon? Her mental distraction nearly cost her life. A slender blade flashed past her head, followed by a drow curse as the warrior skidded across loose stone. Morana spun into the soldier, smashing her elbow into the attackers face, grasping his sword arm at the wrist with her free hand, keeping the blade from her, then slamming her heel down on the bridge of his foot with a satisfying crunch. The warrior howled in agony as his fist shot out and collided with her jaw, knocking her senseless. She sprawled on to the rough stone, astonished by the shear power of the blow. Morana rolled away from the advance of the limping drow, knowing if he landed another blow, be it sword or fist, it was over. She let fly with her dagger, heartseeker. The blade shot from her hand trailing a silver wake, striking the elf fully in the chest, and vanishing. The warrior staggered. Dropping his blade, one hand going to his chest, seeking the blade that was not there, his other hand grasping a wand at his belt. Fearing another fireball, she threw heartseeker twice more, each toss unerringly striking. The wand fell from nerveless fingers, as the drow took one dumbfound step forward and fell dead to the stone. Morana nearly breathed a sigh of relief, unfortunately there was a commotion in the entry crevice. The shrill voice of a female drow, a priestess no doubt, was berating members of her drow entourage, who were attempting to clear a path through the narrow crevice for their matron. Frantic, the young half-Malenti’s mind raced. She snatched the fallen wand (of fire she supposed) and cursed since she had not heard the words of activation. She flung the wand toward the entry, then slid the slender drow sword in the same direction. Concentrating on the one thing she learned all drow either feared or respected, Morana cast a spell and prayed. nearly breathed a sigh of relief, unfortunately there was a commotion in the entry crevice. The shrill voice of a female drow, a priestess no doubt, was berating members of her drow entourage, who were attempting to clear a path through the narrow crevice for their matron. Frantic, the young half-Malenti’s mind raced. She snatched the fallen wand (of fire she supposed) and cursed since she had not heard the words of activation. She flung the wand toward the entry, then slid the slender drow sword in the same direction. Concentrating on the one thing she learned all drow either feared or respected, Morana cast a spell and prayed. nearly breathed a sigh of relief, unfortunately there was a commotion in the entry crevice. The shrill voice of a female drow, a priestess no doubt, was berating members of her drow entourage, who were attempting to clear a path through the narrow crevice for their matron. Frantic, the young half-Malenti’s mind raced. She snatched the fallen wand (of fire she supposed) and cursed since she had not heard the words of activation. She flung the wand toward the entry, then slid the slender drow sword in the same direction. Concentrating on the one thing she learned all drow either feared or respected, Morana cast a spell and prayed. The matron entered the cavern as only a matron of Lolth could, shunning the proffered hands of her drow males. In the middle of the cave stood a magnificent web, complete with dozens of large spiders already forming a cocoon around a dead drow warrior. "Bare witness to the folly of Sorn. The fool disturbed the sacred spiders of Lolth and paid for it with his worthless life," the matron said scornfully. The priestess extended a slender elven hand to the ground before her, and eight drow males, literally fought to retrieve the fallen wand and sword. The swiftest drow extended the wand to the matron, "You are my new weapon master, " she cooed, accepting the wand. A second drow offered the slender blade. The matron glanced at the blade disdainfully, "And you, are dead. Leave his body as an offering to Lolth." Seven blades flashed, silencing the unfortunate warriors protest before it left his lips. Once the patrol withdrew, Morana released her illusion, exhausted and relieved. She worked quickly, searching the bodies for anything useful. The patrol took most everything of value from the soldier they slew. When she turned her attention to the drow she killed, she noted he worn no armor but a fine leather girdle. She donned the girdle, his dusty cloak, worn boots (which fit, thank the gods), the few coins in his purse and climbed effortlessly back to her alcove. Then sat stunned, recognizing the new strength coursing through body, granted by her prize. She whispered a grateful prayer to the Protector. The half-Malenti healed her wounds and left the cavern, in what she hoped was the opposite direction the patrol had taken. She eventually made her way to Waterdeep, where she has lived for nearly a half year. Taken under the wing of a group of outcasts calling themselves the Order of the Hydra, she has been learning much about martial and magical warfare from a half-elven sentinel called Chains. She has not decided if this city is the place for her, but it is better than the places she has been. Everyone has to start somewhere…
What is known:What is known: Dirk knelt, manipulating the lock on the ironbound door. He marveled at the borrowed pair of gloves that made his work so much easier. Their owner, the slender elf Falvaron stood behind Dirk as he worked the lock, watching the dark cavern with elven eyes. The partners knew which tasks suited each best. Falvarons deep sight was sharp as Dirk’s own dwarven eyes, however, Dirk concentrated much of his skills in lock-smithing and such. The dank stale air of the underdark did little to alleviate the tiny beads of sweat on his brow. The rushing waters of the underdark river had covered their approach to the drow lair but could not drown out his pounding heart now.What is known: Dirk knelt, manipulating the lock on the ironbound door. He marveled at the borrowed pair of gloves that made his work so much easier. Their owner, the slender elf Falvaron stood behind Dirk as he worked the lock, watching the dark cavern with elven eyes. The partners knew which tasks suited each best. Falvarons deep sight was sharp as Dirk’s own dwarven eyes, however, Dirk concentrated much of his skills in lock-smithing and such. The dank stale air of the underdark did little to alleviate the tiny beads of sweat on his brow. The rushing waters of the underdark river had covered their approach to the drow lair but could not drown out his pounding heart now. Falvaron crouched beside him on the narrow ledge. His elven eyes seemed shockingly bright as he scanned for any signs of detection. In a combat stance, clad in a black and mottled body suit, he grasped two venom-coated blades. Dirk relaxed as the last tumbler of the ornate silver lock softly clicked into position. Nodding to Falvaron, he stepped back and stuffed lock picks into his baldric styled satchel. Falvaron moved to the door, opened it a crack and peered in. Falvaron signaled, stopping Dirk, who was pulling off the magical gauntlets, indicating the need for haste. Dirk shrugged the gloves back on and followed with cautious steps. In each corner, a brazier dimly lit the sickly sweet odor of the room. Dirk hesitated just within the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the light. Falvaron was across the chamber pulling away a heavy black curtain, to reveal… thousands upon thousands of gold coins. Dirk smiled, thinking of how enraged the owners of this little trove would be once they discovered their losses. Pushing the site from his mind, Dirk moved into the room, seeking whatever lethal traps had been commissioned to protect this awesome sum. After several long moments he turned to Falvaron and silently shook his head, nothing, no traps or tripwires, nothing. A smile played along Falvarons delicate features. The ego of the lairs' inhabitance would deprive them of much this endless night. Falvaron stepped forward sheathing his blades, opening his own baldric satchel and started scooping gold coins into the pouch. Dirks' eyes strayed to the corners. Drow were said to be the most suspicious and cunning of those who dwell in the underdark. Yet, there were no traps or sentries. Could the lair be abandoned, with the fortune in gold coins before them? If so, why were the braziers lit? As he glanced around the room, he noticed several vials with glittering liquid within. He absently dropped these into his pouch. Then his gaze fell upon the largest black sapphire he had ever seen. It was set in the hilt of a massive morning star. A black steel shaft and a pure onyx head tipped with eight golden hooked spikes, resembling spiders’ legs. The sapphire itself even matched the appearance of a large spider. Dirk could have cared less about the magnificent weapon; his attention was solely fixed on that gem and how fast he could part it from the shaft of the morning star. Dirk reached for the tools he would need to separate the gem and weapon when he saw movement behind him in the reflection of the from the gems facets. As he spun to face the threat, his left hand slid instinctively into an outside pocket of his trousers. His fingers grasped a handful of gritty powder. The elder drow elf he faced leveled a red glowing staff in ancient gnarled hands, and a sinister rictus upon his withered features. It was the eyes that truly frightened the young dwarf. This damnable drow had reptilian eyes. Dirk was gripped by fear such as he had never known before. He recalled an old ghost story, meant to scare children, about drow with reptilian eyes. Drow that were actually Deep Dragons. Dirk promptly wet himself, from dragon fear or his own genuine fear, even he did not know. He threw the powder into the old elfs' face as a fiery red bolt flashed from the staff. The deadly fireball splashed behind him, bathing his back in hellish fire. Dirk thanked Mask for the magical bracers that he stole from a rival, today they may have saved his life. In that moment, two wire tendrils erupted from the pile of coins, encircling Falvarons wrists. The drow screamed and choked in pain, dropping the staff and clutching desperately at his face and throat, his form twisting and growing. Dirk turned to see Falvaron struggling to prevent the spike, which had pierced his left hand from impaling him through the head. The thin wires stretching from the spike had cut deeply into Falvarons wrist, neck and face and a bloody froth spilled from his mouth. Dirk knew his best friend; his teacher could not be saved. Dirk ran to Falvaron, seized the leather thong and the generous quantity of coins in Falvarons baldric satchel, and ran. Three strides. He turned, tears streaking his cheeks and launched a dagger into Falvarons heart, ending his torment, grief shaking him to his very core. Hesitating no more, he ran. Falvarons baldric tucked into his belt and he grasped the other treasure, the massive morning star, held his breath and swung with all his might, bringing the mighty weapon down on the deep dragons shape-shifting head. At the instant of impact, there was a tremendous explosion, knocking Dirk through the open doorway into the cavern beyond. A swirling mist a surrounded the dazed dwarf, then took the shape of drow with the lower body of a giant spider. "I am Elxalrj, the spirit within the Spider Star. You are not Drow, heretic! Your greed has forsaken you," the spirit said, leveling a ghostly apparition of the morning star still in Dirks' trembling hands at the stunned thief. "You claimed me as yours, now forever I will be!" the spectral entity raged, and the sapphire on the end of the shaft exploded, sending a fragment of the stone into the flesh of his left forearm. The sleeve was burned away from elbow to wrist, though Dirk felt neither pain nor discomfort. The deep dragon stumbled from the lair in pursuit, still choking and sneezing and growing into its true form. Shaken and mortally scared, Dirk ran to the riverbank, unconsciously securing the Spider Star to his waist. He dove headlong into the freezing depths, allowing the rapid current to take him far from his foe.
Description: Warpath is said to be a dwarf of few words. Standing 4'6", this muscular deep dwarf is a very intimidating sight. He wears a battle-axe at each hip; his face is a mask of cold, shear granite, showing no trace of fear. Pale skinned with squinting eyes, others know he dwells the underdark. Warpath is almost always in the company of another dwarf, a duergar known as Sprout in the city of splendors. Both have been seen fighting trolls, ogres, and drow, few others have dared to challenge then, leaving them to their favorite past time, slashing and smashing. HistoryHistory: Warpath was born in the depths of the underdark and was raised to be a warrior-priest. Trained to be a priest as a child by his father, Warpath reached his goal and learned the path of healing and the ways of the Warrior. The youngster continuously sought combat, either in training seasons with his father, in mock combat with the dwarves of his clan or while patrolling the caverns around his village. The warrior-priest was always looking to find a new challenge, to sharpen his own skills as much as to build his reputation. Warpath returned to his clans’ village from a month long scouting mission with the rest of his patrol unit. All they found was utter destruction. The village was destroyed, only a single soul could be found. The dying elder told the patrol of the monster that attacked the patrol Warpaths father led a month ago. It killed Warpaths father. It must have followed the patrol back to the village, where Warpaths father was to be buried. The killings began the day after his father died, the entire clan perished. One of the patrol foundlings, a duergar called Sprout and adopted into the clan, found a blood trail and showed it to Warpath. The angry young dwarf led his unit on a week long pursuit, seeking the slayer of their clan. When they located the lair of the dwarf-killer, they were all shocked. Warpaths own father stood before them, an evil grin splayed across his undead face. "So, my little whelp has come to slay the beast. You come far too late, my son. Perhaps a few weeks ago you could have beaten your tired, old sire. Not now, son. I have consumed the blood of our clan, and now they serve me in death!" his father grated, no emotion in his speech. From the earth around them, the dwarves of the clan rose to surround them. As exhausted as they were, the weary patrol should have been easy prey. But the their dwarven hearts drove them to an unmatched level of rage, they fought hard and long. Seeing the undead faces of those they new before sent lances of grief though all of them, as they struck down former friends, mothers and brothers. In the end, only Sprout, and Warpath survived. "Impressive," Warpaths father chuckled. "You will both make fine vampires. Join me," said the dwarven vampire, heart-broken Warpaths father. Sprout leap to the attack, grief and rage from his own recent losses blinding judgment. The vampire caught him by the throat in mid air, draining his life away. Warpath charged his father and pressed his holy symbol to the vampires face, trying to sear it with holy flame. The vampire laughed, releasing his hold on the weakened Sprout. "You would strike your father?" the vampire grinned. " Join me", it said again. Warpath noted the mistake his father was making by not pressing an attack, something his living father would never have done. Warpath looked into his fathers' eyes, seeing only the evil that his father had become. His father hesitated. Both stood there staring into each other's eyes, when Warpath accepted that his father was gone and roared "To the DEATH!" The dwarven vampire smiled condescendingly at his son, thinking it would kill Warpath with its new vampiric powers. The fight climaxed when the vampire grabbed Warpath by the neck and lifted him into the air with one hand, then throwing him down to the ground. Warpath opened his eyes and saw his father getting ready to finish him off with the fire axe. A mighty flame tongue axe that was to be passed on to a son when he became of age, along with the bracers of defense it wore, a father to son tradition. Warpath desperately kicked the vampire in its dwarven manhood. His fathers' eyes bulged as it gasped out with the stench of undeath on its breath. At the same time, Sprout dove at the back of the vampires legs. Flipping into the air, the undead father of Warpath dropped the flame tongue in mid-flight. Warpath got up and snatched the fire weapon from the ground saying "Nice move," to Sprout. The vampire landed, a stalagmite piercing its chest. Lifting the flaming axe above his head Warpath said, "This will hurt me as much as it hurts you," and he decapitated his father. He took the bracers of defense off his fathers' dead body and walked off with the flame tongue in hand, "Oh, to sleep, father ... " he whispered, a solitary tear rolling down his cheek.
Description: Sprout is a squat, powerfully built dwarf who likes to punctuate he sentences with spit. Standing at 4'0", he carries a massive great hammer that must weigh more than he does, yet he wields it with consummate ease. This thickset powerhouse also uses a scourge whip with a score of tiny sharp hooks. He employs it to snag opponents legs, weapons or even more vulnerable areas. His gray skin gives away his Duergar heritage, though many have dared get within the reach of his awesome hammer, few have lived to regret it. Sprout is almost always in the company a deep dwarf known as Warpath in the city of splendors. Both have been seen fighting trolls, ogres, and drow, few others have risked challenging them, leaving them to their favorite past time, smashing and slashing. HistoryHistory: Aahz was born in the in the darkest depths of the underdark and was raised to be a priest. All Aahz wanted was to fight. He wanted to be a great warrior, like his father. But it was not to be. Trained to be a priest by his mother, Aahz was forced to learn the ways of healing. Unhappy with his station in life, he ran away, hoping to return to his people as powerful champion to aid his dwarven brethren. He was gone for nearly a year, depressed and angry. Not finding anyone to train him to fight, he was about to give up and go back to his people when he stumbled across a patrol of deep dwarves. They were in combat with several hook horrors. Aahz watched in fascination, the teamwork the dwarves employed, the thunderous song of battle they sung. He knew then, he made the right decision. Aahz used his ability to turn invisible to get closer to the battle, to see what he might learn. One of the dwarven warriors was horribly wounded, a wicked slash to the throat, his companions struggling to keep the monsters at bay. The reluctant healer knew the dwarf would die unless he acted. He reached out to the fallen fighter, muttering the prayer that would begin mending the wound. That was when his invisibility faded. The dwarf did not stir, nor open his eyes. Aahz cast another spell of healing, putting all of his heart into it, and willing the fallen one to live to fight again. The warrior opened his eyes, seeing the Duergar above him, a confused look on his face. Deep dwarves and Duergar dwarves do not normally help each other. The fighter felt at his wound, "Not so bad, a scratch, me thinks," he grumbled, and fainted into a calm restful sleep. As the other dwarves finished off the insects, one warrior let out a war cry when he saw Aahz kneeling before their injured friend. That dwarf heaved his war hammer, smashing it into the priests' head. Aahz saw the others rushing to attack before he fell to the throbbing ache in his head. When he awoke, his hands were tingling. He realized he was securely bound. He could hear the deep dwarves arguing over him. It was a dwarf called Warpath, who finally ended the dispute. "If he meant us harm, he had ample opportunity. Instead, old' Gravel is alive today. We let him go," he shouted, bringing a dull throb to Aahzs ears. They released him and he told them his story. Warpath invited him to journey with them on their way back to their village, he readily accepted. Warpath taught him how to use axes and war hammers. He taught himself how to use the scourge, a type of whip that he had taken from the body of a Drow elf they had killed. He even got a cloak of protection in that fight. Along the way, Aahz stopped by his village, leaving his friends a comfortable distance away so they would not be discovered by a Duergar war party. All he found were the decayed bodies of a few of his brethren. They had been dead for at least three months. He also found his fathers' body; his brawny arms wrapped tightly around the pulped head of an illithid, its deadly tentacles still embedded in his head. He could imagine the scene; his clan fighting fiercely to drive off the mind flayers, his father crushing the soft purple head of the illithid while it sucked out his fathers brain. Aahz buried his father with his great axe; the illithids severed head clutched in his dead hands. Leaving the city, he went to his fathers forge. There he found a massive great hammer mounted on the wall. Etched in the stone below it, the words 'For My Son, Who Has the Heart of a Champion That I Would Not See. Forgive Me," chiseled there by his father. He found his new friends, and explained what he had found. The group sang songs to honor those who fell. When the grieving was done, one of the dwarves suggested Aahz should get nicknames Aahz confidently said, "Hammer." Too obvious, one dwarf offered. Then, "How 'bout Flayer Slayer?" Warpath pointed out he had yet to see a living one to kill. "Not yet," he said, "but I wilt" Day after day, as they journeyed the underdark to Warpaths clan, Aahz more came up with more nicknames, each one worse than the last. Finally, Warpath got sick of it and said "Shut Up, Sprout!" He has been called 'Sprout' ever since.
Description: Shado is a mystery, even to himself. He spends most his time alone, lurking the darkness of his namesake, where he finds his solace. Always keeping his face masked and his voice muffled, he creates a mystique about himself to prevent others from guessing his identity. When Shado makes his presence known, he literally appears to have stepped from out of nowhere. All that may be seen (when he wants to be seen) of his face is a shock of his golden blonde hair and his deep, blue eyes that shimmer in the light. He wears formfitting leathers of elvenkind on his thin, muscular body with an oriental dragon embroidered on the chest. He wears plated shin guards that lock on. He wears a strange pair of golden fighting gauntlets. HistoryHistory: Shado remembers virtually nothing of his life before he awakened from the pile of stinking, mossy refuse. He discovered he was within a dank, oppressive cavern, unable to remember neither how he got there nor who he was. Hunger forced him to wander the dark labyrinth, seeking food, water and shelter. For quite some time he was forced to survive on rat-flesh and whatever disgusting, rotten, fungi he was lucky enough to find. Shado eventually found a defensible underdark grotto, a dark, quiet place to live. There came a day when predators, orcs and drow elven warriors, forced him to abandon his simple home. Upon his retreat, he heard the sounds of a tremendous melee, and cautiously went to investigate. Sweat glistened on bare, knot-muscled shoulders as an old powerfully built man greeted the interloping drow, challenging their intrusion into the cavern Shado made his home. A katana sword, single edged, glinted red and deadly in the light of his torch as he spun the blade lazily in one hand. The old man wore only sandals, tattered trousers and a pair of golden fighting gauntlets. He grunted from time to time, as he twisted, spun and cut. Slashing the foolish orcs who thought their numbers would overwhelm a lone old man. Then the drow moved in, firing the venom tipped darts at the determined warrior, scoring numerous hits. Still the old one fought sparks flying as his blade met those of the drow. Indecision gripped Shado, he wanted to help the old man, but unarmed, he feared capture or even death at the hands of the drow. Then the old mans eyes locked on Shados’ hiding place, seeing the young warrior even through the concealing shadows. The drow fighting the old man sensed the distraction and pressed his attack. Shados’ stomach fell as the brilliant katana flew upwards out of the hand of the valiant ronin, over the heads of drow warriors, tumbling through the air towards his hiding place. The old mans face showed fatigue, and he seemed to be losing the fight against the drow sleep poison, he slipped to one knee. Shado reacted, launching himself from his position, his fingers closed around the hilt of the magnificent katana and descended on the shocked face of a drow elf. The blade cleaved through bone and brain matter like it was parting water. The old man sprang forward; landing punches, kicks and a head-butt to the stunned drow that had believed the killing blow was at hand. The elf was dead before he hit the ground. Shado did not allow his own surprise to overcome his flurry of slashing and thrusting. With surprise on their side, the old one and Shado made quick work of the remaining drow, the orcs howling and fleeing into the darkness. As they took whatever useful items the drow had and disposed of the corpses’ in a deep trench Shado said "You didn’t need my help. You would have killed them all without me." The old man chucked a body into the trench before answering "True, but you needed to defend your honor as much as you’re home. I have come to miss the sound of another voice, I would be most honored to share a meal with you." Shado shook his head in confusion, "You threw your sword to me? On purpose?!" The old man, Volgavia, Shado later learned said "Do you think I had need of it?" Shado vividly recalled the frenzy of blows the old man used to defeat their opponents. "Would you teach me how to fight like that," Shado asked. For the fist time Volgavia smiled, "Are you willing to pay the price?" was all he said. Shado and Volgavia traveled the underdark together for nearly two years, the old masterless samurai teaching eager Shado the Way of the Dragon, the complicated martial arts techniques that were so impressive on that first day. Shado also learned the meaning of honor and the discipline to use the fighting techniques as a last resort. One morning Shado awoke and Volgavia was gone. At the entrance of a large cavern, he heard low, loud growls. Without fear, Shado entered the dark cave. As the growls grew louder and louder, Shado hid in the shadows, moving steadily forward. Then he saw it. A huge, golden-reddish, oriental dragon, reading a huge book. Shado was so scared and amazed that he fell forward with a THUMP! In a blink, the dragon was over the prone Shado, huge claws pinning him to the ground. The dragon smiled (if you could say that fanged maw was capable of it) and said, "You startled me, Shado." The dragon smiled once more and said, "Do not fear, for I will not eat you. It is I, Volgavia." Shado tired to stand but decided to sit down when his legs would not respond. He tried to speak but only a squeak came out, "You’re a dragon!" The dragon seemed to melt away and there stood old Volgavia. "I am sorry to have frightened you, Shado," Volgavia said apologetically. All Shado could say was "You’re a dragon!" Volgavia explained that he was from the Kura-Tur, a land to the Far East. He came to Shado’s land to recover an item stolen from a temple where he lived. The Ogre Mage that stole the Heihachi’s Ruby dwelled in these caverns, fleeing Volgavia’s pursuit for years. The creature always seemed to know when the dragon was close. The two friends came upon the idea of sending Shado to retrieve the Ruby. Volgavia gave Shado his enchanted gauntlets and a suit of elvenkind leathers to aid him in the procurement of the magical gem. Shado followed Volgavia’s directions and found the Ogre Mage in the city of Waterdeep, posing as a magic user. Shado was a little disappointed at how easy it was to distract the creature and escape with the gem. Of course when the City Watch is on ones tail, one rarely keeps his eyes ahead of him so as to avoid a golden fist before its planted in ones face. Volgavia was so grateful for Shado’s aid he gave the golden gauntlets and the elven leathers as a token of his appreciation. The dragon offered to take Shado with him back to the Kara-Tur, but after seeing the City of Splendors the young martial artist decided he would try to find himself a place there.
Description: The dwarf called Catnap is truly a remarkable sight. Wearing tiger hide armor and a menacing snarl, he is accompanied by a large wild tiger he calls Maleece. The two are truly a daunting sight. With his axes crisscrossing his broad back and Maleece, wearing chain-mail armor and some sort of girdle as a collar, by his side, very few creatures have considered speaking to them, much less fighting the wild pair. History:History: Grimnvar was born in the city of Waterdeep and was raised to be a warrior by his uncle Anvil after his parents died in a mining accident. Over the years living with his uncle, Grimnvar was trained to be a supreme warrior, though he was not very happy. One evening, Grimnvar saw a caravan of entertainers performing in the city. He saw so many exotic animals and people. What really caught his eye was the tiger cub. So small and scared. Grimnvar wondered what happened to her mother. He went back that night to see the cub again, after the performers settled down for the night. That was when he heard the drunken laughter, not far from the animal cages. A group of humans, and an elf were standing around one of the tiger cages, laughing and drinking. The young warrior went to the group, pushing his way through the crowd to see what was so funny. All there was to see was the elf, abusing the tiger cub with a barbed whip. The elf was ranting and raving about the cubs’ mother and how she scarred his face. About how he killed the mother tiger, slowly… History: Grimnvar was born in the city of Waterdeep and was raised to be a warrior by his uncle Anvil after his parents died in a mining accident. Over the years living with his uncle, Grimnvar was trained to be a supreme warrior, though he was not very happy. One evening, Grimnvar saw a caravan of entertainers performing in the city. He saw so many exotic animals and people. What really caught his eye was the tiger cub. So small and scared. Grimnvar wondered what happened to her mother. He went back that night to see the cub again, after the performers settled down for the night. That was when he heard the drunken laughter, not far from the animal cages. A group of humans, and an elf were standing around one of the tiger cages, laughing and drinking. The young warrior went to the group, pushing his way through the crowd to see what was so funny. All there was to see was the elf, abusing the tiger cub with a barbed whip. The elf was ranting and raving about the cubs’ mother and how she scarred his face. About how he killed the mother tiger, slowly… That was all Grimnvar had to hear. The outraged dwarf shoved the elf face first into the bars of the cage, stunning him. The drunken elf whirled, drawing a slim blade. "I’m gonna kill you slow, like that damn cat!" he slurred. Grimnvar grabbed the drunks wrist, twisted it, choking the elf out with his own arm and slammed him, once again, face first to the ground. He stomped the elf’s head into feline waste several times for good measure. Grimnvar turned his attention to the tiger cub. He tried to reach out for the she-tiger but a dwarf blocked his path. "Ya want the tiger?" he said, looking at the youngster without menace. Grimnvar nodded his head, "I’d give her a better home than this place." The fellow dwarf smiled at him, "Tell ya what, boy. Ya can buy her. Got any gold?" Grimnvars’ scowl was all the answer the dwarf needed. "I thought as much" the old animal trainer grunted, and turned to leave. "Wait," Grimnvar retorted. "The elf ain’t gonna be able to handle training your tiger with two broke hands. You need a new handler." The trainer turned to correct the youngling. If the elf had to worry about anything, it would be trying to see through his swollen face. The animal master saw the fight, probably would have done worse if he had gotten to the elf first. That was when he saw Grimnvar grinding each of the elf’s hands under the heel of his boot, not once taking his eyes off the old trainer. "Ya want his job," he said, motioning to the unconscious, groaning elf, "Ya got it." The dwarf smiled at him again and said, "Only I ain’t gonna pay ya. Ya want the tiger, ya work fer me fer free, and I'll give ya the tiger cub. I’ll feed ya an give ya a warm fire to sleep by, but not a copper more." Grimnvar stared at him for a while, "How long?" The dwarf looked at Grimnvar with either respect or indifference and said, "Until I think ya deserve the animal." Grimnvar thought for a moment, looking at the tiger, seeing if it was worth the work for such an animal. Grimnvar agreed to work for the dwarf as a servant. The animal master, Hymn by name said, "I'll make another deal with ya. Work for me after ya earn the cub, and I'll teach ya how to be a animal master, deal?" Grimnvar agreed, and Hymn took the youngsters hand and spat in it. "Deal." They each said and shook on it. Hymn put the tiger on a leash and handed it Grimnvar. "I thought I had to work for you in order to get the tiger cub?" Grimnvar said. "Take the tiger tonight, and figure out a name for her. Meet me here tomorrow, early in the morning," said Hymn. Grimnvar nodded numbly, and walked off home with the she-cat. With the help of his uncle Anvil, he named the cat Maleece, dwarven for feisty, in a mean, strong way. Grimnvar worked for Hymn for three years, easily earning the cat in under a year. He was so dedicated to his personal quest, that he would even sleep with the great cat, which earned him the nickname ‘Catnap.’ He stayed with Hymns’ caravan long enough to raise and train Maleeces’ first pride. He made it back to Waterdeep just before Maleece gave birth to her second pride. Catnap decided to go exploring and hunting in the deep forests outside Waterdeep. He donned the magical hide armor Hymn gave him and got Maleece into her specially fitted chain-mail armor. When they walked into the forest, it was dark, cool and moist. An eerie whistling follow by a series of brilliant lights blinded the two companions. With a scream and roar of agony, Catnap and Maleece were drenched in mystic fire. When their vision cleared, they found themselves in a dark stone worked hall, filled with ghostly echoes and menacing shadows. They had been wrenched from the forest and dashed into some dank oppressive maze. While Catnaps eyes were adjusting to the absolute darkness, he stumbled over something, smartly striking his chin on the top of a stone block. He pulled out a light coin, given to him by his uncle Anvil, and took stock of his surroundings. He located the lower body of a large humaniod, maybe a human. The upper body pinned and crushed under the large stone block he just clacked his teeth on. Maleece was sniffing around the dead mans waist, half-clawing at the girdle it wore. The body was rotting, dead for some weeks, having nothing useful except maybe the girdle around its dead waist. Catnap reached to take the girdle off the corpse, but decided not to scum this dead mans corpse. He started to walk away, hoping to find a way out of the maze, when a voice said something in his head. "By right of battle and conquest, it is yours, may it serve you well," the voice said. Shinning brightly on the buckle was the symbol of Dumathion, Keeper of Mountains Secrets, gemstones in a mountain silhouette. Awed by the display, Catnap looked at the corpse, then again at the girdle. Maleece purred loudly. Inspired, Catnap decided to take the girdle off the dead body and wrapped it around Maleece's neck, using it as a collar.
In a cave, he was born of an unnatural union between a Drow male and a human female. The woman had left him in this cave for the father to find. For this was, the place were she was raped. Wrapped in a cloak left behind by his Drow father, forgotten in a rush to escape. Three days had passed before a widow woman on her way back to her lord’s manner found him. Mara knew this was not going to be any kind of life for this poor child but it was all she could do. The child would surly die if left there, so she carried the little boy off. Lord Tradon master of the house was nice, as a lord could be which as not saying much. He would how ever let Desmodus look at books in the library. Desmodus had keep secret that he could read not only that he could scan through books with hardly more than a glance at the pages and remember every word. He used this to his advantage letting every one think he was illiterate. He would also watch how the lord and his offspring acted, thus teaching him etiquette and how to act in a cultured environment. Little did he know how much that would come in handy. Life was hard as an indentured servant that is what he came to know his place in the pecking order as. In time, the young lordlings' started to take sword lessons. That is when Desmodus life became very complicated. They used him as a half-elven pincushion practicing what they were thought. With the constant stabbing, came knowledge of how to fight with a sword. It was not long before his skill had surpassed the sniveling little bastards. Nevertheless, he let them continue their dominance over him so he could learn all he could. In time, the lord wanted his eldest Bren to become a knight. Desmodus was sent a long as his squire to the training grounds. He did as he was told but watched everything soaked it up like a dry sponge. When he was not needed, he would hang around the swordsmen. After some time had passed one of the grizzled veterans named Rodden started giving him lessons. Rodden could tell talent when he saw it. Not to mention that every Drow was born with a sword in his hands. He found out how right he was upon seeing this half-breed could fight. Rodden tried to talk him in to joining the king’s guard. However, after hearing the boy’s story he understood why he could not. This went on for about a year before Bren was killed accidentally in a training joust match. Upon Desmodus’ return to the estate, he told Tradon about the accident. Tradon was hell bent on the fact that the person responsible for his son’s death should have been punished for this. The next few years passed very slowly for Desmodus. One day a little more than a year after his return a man came to the manor to talk to Tradon. From his vantage point, he watched Desmodus knew this person although he could not see his face, his stance and tone was enough. He rushed over to meet his old teacher of arms Rodden. As he reached him, he was greeted with a backhand from a gauntlet fist. Rodden stiffened as Tradon explained he was just a stupid servant. Rodden looked the lord square in the eye and proceeded to tell him exactly what he thought of him, and he used very blunt and offensive language. Tradon stared at him in disbelief. When Rodden finished his triad, he was asked what brought that on. Rodden proceeded to tell him about how good of a swordsman this young half-elf was, staring at Desmodus the whole time. He wanted to buy his freedom from the lord, explaining that there was a place waiting for him in the king’s guard. Tradon mind started working then on a plan to get even with the house he thought had wronged him by killing his son. He then told Rodden that he needed him for five more months then he could go of his own free will. Rodden agreed to this and said his farewells to the lord, as Desmodus followed him to the door Rodden warned him to watch his back that he did not trust the coward. One night about four days before he was to leave, he watched Tradon leaving his adopted mother’s room. Standing at the door, he heard her muffled sobs. Desmodus went in very carefully, only to see tears streaming down Mara’s eyes. Trying to comfort her, he held her head as he had so many times before. Ever time his wife was visiting her family he would sneak down to her room and have his way with her. Mara told him she knew of the arrangement between the lord and the king’s guard. She then gave him the cloak he was wrapped in and told him the truth of his origins. Desmodus looked at the cloak and realized what it truly was he did not know how but he knew and he knew how to us it. He then vowed to her on his own blood that she would be free also when he left. With that said he left the room and started towards his room. When he reached his room Tradon was waiting for him. "So, you know, what do plan to do about it?" He said. Desmodus looked him in the eye and responded " When I leave she goes with me, and your secret." Tradon responded "You must do one thing for me I need you to go stand for me at duel tomorrow. After that you both may leave." With out thinking he agreed. He left early that next morning to go as he was instructed. He learned upon arrival that this was a match to the death. It must have lasted about five minutes before his opponent was unarmed and bleeding. He looked at the father of the young man who had killed his lord’s son. " He fought well, do you want him dead?" Desmodus asked. "He would have killed you, and he is not my son. The choice is yours, he will die any way for his failure." The man made it sound as if his end would be painful. With a flick of his wrist his opponent’s head bounced twice before coming to rest. Upon his return Desmodus went to his mothers room to take her away only to find a garrote wrapped around her neck. In a rage, he flew up the stairs to find the treacherous lord. Tradon trashed the house, in an attempt to cover his crime. Desmodus landed at the head of the stairs, "Defend yourself, you bastard," the grief-stricken half-elf screamed. Tradon turned to face him, a look of guile in his eyes. "So, you survived. I doubted Roddens' claims. I thought you would be dead by now. I am glad you lived, half-breed. Now I can tell the Guard I found you strangling your poor mother, after you raped her, of course. You die now," he said, a sword flashing into his hand. Desmodus meet his charge and parried the lords’ first strike and lashed out with his own sword, slicing the flesh on the lords’ face. Then with the speed of a viper, he felt Tradons' blade cut across his ribs and watched in amazement as the wound on the lords face vanished. With a sneer on his face, the lord held up his hand, with only his index finger up. "The ring, you fool, It takes from you and gives to me," he haughtily. While Tradon gloated, Desmodus disarmed the pompous windbag with a stunning display of swordplay. "Now you answer to the king’s guard," he said simply. He turned to the door, and hears a boot scuff the floor, announcing the Lords charge. Desmodus turned and parried the Tradons' attempted back stab with his main gouche blade. Unfortunately the lords momentum carried him into the half-elf’s sword hand impaling him on the deadly blade. He told Rodden of the fight and Tradons’ murder of his mother. After the investigation and being cleared of any wrong doing, he left the kingdom of Cormyr, declining Roddens’ offer to join the king’s guard. He took a letter of introduction and left for Waterdeep to escape the memories in Cormyr. He began dueling as a means of supporting his sojourn, where many of his opponents and admirers have nicknamed him "Sinister" because Half-Drow heritage and his intimidating presence in battle. He became a duelist for hire, fighting for the family honor he was never permitted.
Description: The elvish maiden Autumn is powerfully built, with corded muscles not often seen on woman. With flowing reddish-blonde hair akin to fire, striking almond-shaped soft brown eyes and tall with supple, slender lines, Autumn looks as though she could be Artemis, obscure goddess of the hunt. She wears elfish cut leathers of mottled greens and brown, which provide excellent camouflage in the forest, making her standout in the urban confines of Waterdeep as well as a bandolier of elegant elven throwing blades resembling the feathers of some sort of avian. She is never seen without her quarterstaff.
History: She had been thinking of the city as a larger version of any one of the many hamlets she had passed along her path from the Neverwinter Woods to the City of Splendors. The truth was the city was as much like a hamlet as a lizard was like an eagle. Indeed, Autumn felt very much like a lizard in the magnificence of the city of Waterdeep. There were so many varieties of people and everything was so scrunched together, the wild elven maiden truly wondered how so many could stand to be so crowded in such a place, regardless of how large the city was. Did the place always smell this bad? How did they expect the wind to get in with the walls being so high and buildings sprawled together? Autumn was still fascinated. Ever since she was a child, her human mother Serah- once a ranger, then a druid, had told her daughter of the world outside the forest home, in-between lessons in fighting dirty. Always the young girl believed the tales to be fables, mostly because she favored the stories her sylvan father shared with her, the histories of the elven people. Now every tale, with every site tugged at the memories of her mothers’ stories. A tear traced a path down her cheek. With her mother now at rest, Autumn wondered how she would feel about her daughters’ sojourn away from the druids’ grove. She missed her mother terribly. After she had died, Autumn lived with her father, Tabyranith, and his people for a few years. Their scorn was obvious to the half-breed. The wild elves believed wholly in the purity of the sylvan race. While her father was forgiven his transgression with the human druid, the presence of Autumn, the result of that union could not be tolerated in the elven community. The half-elf returned to her mothers’ grove before her father was forced to send her away. During the few times the elf lord would return to the grove of her mother, Autumn’s father would train her in the ways of the ranger, scolding her when she lapsed into the filthy street fighting methods her mother taught her. When her strength grew to rival Tabyranith’s, he allowed her hunt bands of giants with him, terrorizing the beasts and putting an end to their bloodthirsty lives. After their last hunt, her father left her an extraordinary staff and a suit of elven chain mail. He said that her mother had taken the perfect straight-grained branch of ironwood the day Autumn was born. Serah had seasoned the wood herself, shaped its enchantments, and buffed it to a wax-smooth finish. Only the etched mithral caps had been her father’s work. Her mother had given him the quarterstaff the year she died, asking him to give it to their daughter when she was ready. The chain mail was once her mothers, a gift of the sylvan elves for her part in rescuing several wild elves from a band of giants. Her father insisted that it was hers now, her right as heir. She knew that it would be the last time she would ever see her father again. Autumn left the grove, never to return. Autumn wandered the city for several days, learning the city, enjoying the sites. A cowled man rushed past her, more than half a dozen rough-looking men wearing cobalt following him closely. One of the toughs shouted, “Go back to hell, devil!” and threw a stone. It glanced off the fleeing man’s shoulder. The victim staggered and lengthened his stride before coming to a skidding stop. The street was a dead end. The mob poured past Autumn, forming a semicircle around the mysterious man. She asked a wiry youth why they were pursuing the man. “Mind yer business wench, or ye get t’ be next.” he snarled, brandishing a long dagger. Autumn hit him in the face with the fist wrapped around the quarterstaff, a short punch capable of stunning a draft horse. These humans were so rude. The indigo clad and unconscious ruffian flew into two of his fellows, giving the half-wild elf all the space she needed. She saw the supposed victim of the mob leap forward, slamming his foot into a ruffian’s groin. Then the half-breed was too occupied with her own opponents to follow the cloaked man’s actions. Despite their apparent youth, two of the thugs moved as though they were one individual. One drew back as the other thrust, then reversed the action the moment Autumn focused her attention on the immediate threat. She knew better than to fight two opponents working in tandem, instead she concentrated on defending herself. The quarterstaff spun as a dynamic shield before her, its motion smooth and fluid. Autumn’s wrists crossed and re-crossed, feeding the heavy staff from one hand to the other. She would tire eventually, but for now the blurred rotation was as strong and sure as water flowing over the rapids of a river. The attackers poised and feinted, but they could not pierce her guard. The man in the cloak drew his blade so swiftly that the sword sang against the bronze lips of the scabbard, slashing an adversaries arm to the bone. Shining steel shimmered like moon light on still water. In the same instant, the man extended his other arm, firing a hand crossbow. The bolt struck one of the two well-trained warriors Autumn was fighting in the back. Wounded, the goon fell back to check the severity of his injury, giving the half-elf the opening she needed. Autumn shifted the quarterstaff from vertical to horizontal and smashed the ribs of her remaining opponent in the same spinning motion that had protected her for the several previous minutes. The man fell like a bird with a shattered wing, his sword arm slashed weakly, but he could not find the strength to put any force into the blow. A quick stomp to the head insured that this one would not rejoin the fight. The other warrior seeing his fighting partner down quickly came back in slashing, ignoring his wound. Autumn swung the full length of her staff in a low arc that shattered the attacker's ankle and swept both legs out from under him. Heels over head he landed, with less grace than his partner did. A forth attacker thought to sneak up on the maiden and stab her in the back. She could not help smiling at these foolish men. Had they not been taught to be aware of their surroundings? Autumn spun, using her body as a fulcrum, anchoring the quarterstaff under her arm, and putting all of her weight and inertia in to the blow. She staved through the surprised thug’s defense, fracturing his sword arm and slamming the mithral-capped end into the swordsman’s face. He, too, fell. She turned her attention back to the cloaked man, who now held his blade at the throat of a now unarmed assailant. “Leave,” he whispered harshly, “before I change my mind and eat you and your children.” Fearfully, the few conscious men gathered their fallen brethren and fled with all haste, giving Autumn a wide berth. The mysterious traveler sheathed his sword and extended a reddish-orange hand to his savior, “I thank you for your assistance, Lady,” he said in a melodious voice. Seeing now why this red-eyed man was called a devil, she clasped his wrist in a warrior greeting.
Appearance: The quiet half drow Black Ice is a tall man whose silver hair has been woven into scores of tiny braids. His brilliant blue eyes radiate a quiet intensity, a gift from his northern mother’s side of the family, as well as his massive physique. Powerfully muscled, his veins bulge fiercely even when his arms are relaxed. Standing a solid 6’3”, with the hardened muscles and strength common to the Northern barbarians and closely trimmed silver goatee, the half elf cuts an intimidating figure. His agility, deadly grace and dusky skin are the only traits he bears of his dark sire’s race. Black Ice, as he is called by most for his color and cool demeanor, dresses in clothes of the finest cut and impeccable fashion, disdaining armor of any kind. With an archaic, brutal-looking masterwork bastard sword in a well-worn leather sheath strapped across his ample back, he radiates an air of danger and menace.
Story: Svajian woke from his reverie without moving. A mental inquiry assured him of his familiar’s presence and readiness. He allowed himself a tight smile, reflecting on the events that led him to his current companion. A friend he never would have had if not for the wrath of the Skulls from the Port of Shadow. The guardians of Skullport laid waste to the slave ship of an evil drow priestess for some transgression of their “laws”, a ship he was enslaved on. As the lone survivor of the devastation that followed, the half elf thought his life forfeit when a Skull with amber eyes settled before him as he tread though freezing water and debris of the River Sargauth. “You have caused a disturbance,” the Skull’s voice echoed in his mind. “Kill me and be done with it”, Svajian stuttered with lame bravado though chattering teeth. The Skull turned it’s gaze to a small carved wooden box floating among the wreckage “Take this to the Fatted Bookworm and trade it for a scroll bearing this mark,” it telepathically whispered as the half breeds chest exploded into fiery pain. The freezing water did little to ease the burning agony in his chest, as an ivory skull was seared into his left pectoral. “Go to Bonewatch Pass, when you find Trust, read the scroll”. When Svajian asked why he should perform this task, “So that you might live,” was all that the Skull said before it drifted away. The half drow eventually made his way to Skullport- the Port of Shadow and a magic shop called the Fatted Bookworm. There he bartered the contents of the box, an ancient spellbook, for the scroll and a pouch of coin, more gold than the former slave had ever seen in his entire life. He made his way to the Bonewatch Pass, almost turning back once he saw the massive one-eyed skull in the entrance of the passage. He wandered the passages for days, mile after mile, trying to figure out how to ‘find trust’ as the Skull had said when the floor suddenly gave way, dropping him into darkness. He awoke sometime later, his side gashed but nothing broken. After casting a healing spell on himself, the half-breed cast a light spell to examine his surroundings. The pit he had fallen in was some 20 feet deep, strewn with bones of long dead adventurers. He had landed on an ancient bastard sword, the thing that had so neatly sliced open his side. The metal of the blade appeared to be adamantine, a rare silvery metal, with five runes carved along its length. When Svajian grasped the weapon by the hilt, trying to decipher the runes and wipe his blood from the blade, the runes began to glow with a brilliant blue-white light. It was then he learned the blades name; Trust. The awed half drow took the scroll and read the spell written there; find familiar. And so the former slave's life changed. The loneliness and fear he had lived with all his life was replaced with companionship and confidence with the bonding of the blade as his familiar. The sword, Trust, would telepathically tell the young elf the stories of its creator, a powerful Netherese warrior-sorcerer, whose bones lie among the others in the pit. He shook off the recollections. Something had interrupted his reverie. He listened to his familiar’s directions, allowing it to communicate the positions of his opponents in reference to the rock shelf where he had stopped to take his reverie. The unwavering heat signatures from two of the creatures below him were huge, brutish. They were torturing a young svelte maiden, their prisoner. Anger welled inside him, intense and savage. He imagined what it must have been like for his mother when she was taken by the drow, then cruelly cursed with their dark seed, resulting in his birth. The birth had killed her, so he was told. More likely, the dark elves killed her when they grew weary of their sport. The dark chilling rage sent him over the ledge, delivering a sharp kick into the back of the nearest monster, snapping its enormous neck and killing it instantly. The second creature, an ogre he later learned, bellowed its rage. It swung its massive two-handed blade, intending to split the young half elf’s head like a melon. Svajian only barely parried the vicious slash, losing his own sword in the process. The half drow spun his leg out, slamming it into the ogre’s knee, the ogre hardly noticed. Wincing at the pain in his shin, Svajian rolled away, barely avoiding the wild stomping and slashing rush of the giant beast. Thinking to surprise the monster, Svajian launched himself at it again, this time smashing his elbow into the ogre’s face, shattering its nose. The brute surprised him by dropping its sword and grabbing him up in a bear hug, pinning his arms. Only then, did he realized just how lucky he was when he had killed the first ogre with his leaping kick. Otherwise, he would have been dead by now. As the monsters crushing grip stole his breath, Svajian vowed not to ever allow his anger to get the better of him again. That is if he survived this onslaught. The ogre roared in fury and pain, slamming the half-breed to the rocky cavern floor, stunning him. Working independently, his sword familiar, Trust had cut a vicious slash across the creatures hulking back. Spinning to face this new attack, the ugly brute met the gaze of the maiden captive as she completed the words to a spell. A magical bolt of lightning blasted into the ogre’s body, hurling it backward over the prone form of Svajian, slamming it into a cavern wall with a sickening thud. It was dead before it hit the ground. Svajian healed the maiden, a human sorceress called Eden, with what meager magic he had. The lady mage explained that she had been captured while adventuring with friends. Still weakened by her wounds, Svajian carried the injured girl through a veritable labyrinth of halls, following her directions. The unlikely pair became fast friends in the days that followed, although the sorceress continued to weaken each day. There was little the half-drow could do with his sparse healing magic, by the end of each day he would put all of his effort and every healing spell at his disposal into the young maid just to keep her breathing normally. Eden taught Svajian several spells from the remains of her spellbook, taken back from the ogre’s loot, among other magic items. Eventually, the ebony and ivory pair made it to the sewers of Waterdeep, where they were found by members of the sewers guild, and rushed to the surface. Eden’s minor noble family, grateful for the return of their errant daughter, secretly (they could not afford to have any direct association with a drow elf, half-breed or not) rewarded Svajian for his efforts in keeping their daughter alive. Eden herself cares little for ‘appearances’, and gave Svajian a tiny silver earring of flight, a silhouette of a hawk that the half elf uses to sneak into the lady’s tower window, at her invitation, of course. On occasion, the sorceress tutors Svajian in spellcasting and the two continue to grow closer, despite the wishes of Eden’s family.
Havoc: This unwashed, smelly battle raging dwarf is probably the biggest and brawniest dwarf anyone’s ever seen, more muscular and thicker than any of his fellows. An assortment of intricate tattoos covers his whole body. A wild greasy mane of dyed red hair envelops his massive skull. A crude leather patch obscures his left eye. In one ham-sized fist he carries a massive blood-axe, the largest axe many have ever seen and length of mithral chain runs from it to his thick wrist, ensuring he does not loose track of it during his rages.
Mayhem: Maem is the calmer of these two dwarven brothers, although that is like saying a wizards lightning bolt is any less devastating that a natural lightning stroke. A finely groomed ring of golden hair surrounds bald dome and his leather attire is durable and in good condition. He carries a massive hammer he calls the battlehammer, which is obviously too heavy headed to be wielded one handed but Mayhem apparently has yet to notice any difficulties in swinging this weapon with one hand. Story: The attack came with the same surprise akin to a deafening clap of thunder startling one awake. The fact that two dwarven brothers rolled from their bunks and haphazardly donned their armor without taking potshots at each other was a testament to the urgency that the unexpected sounds of battle had wrought. They grabbed their weapons and ran to deck of the dwarfish trading vessel. Lying across the doorway leading to the deck were the bodies of the high priest Gruhilla Kegbuster, her throat torn out, and Benreor Kegbuster, impaled through the heart by a wickedly barbed trident, the dwarven brothers’ mother and father. By unspoken agreement the two laid down their own axes and war hammer, Maem gently taking instead his mothers prized Battlehammer from her dead fingers. Habik unclasped the mithral bracer from his father’s wrist, carefully unwinding the chain that was attached to it and snatching up the massive blood-axe at the other end of the chain. Maem could see Habik shaking with grief as he stomped out to the open deck, he quickly muttered a prayer to Marthammor Duin, and sped after his bother before the crazy battlerager got himself killed. The sight the welcomed them chilled them to the core. Their vessel was harbored in Waterdeep, the city of splendors, easily the greatest human city in Faerun. The entire city was under attack, fires burned brightly along the pier as the flames hungrily consumed warehouses. They could see scrag trolls, sea ogres and thousands of sahuagin swarming every ship docked in the harbor, some even probing deeper into the recesses of Waterdeep. The monsters had poured over the side of their ship, killing and maiming as they went, slaughtering their clansmen like sheep. Maem stopped beside his brother, who stood as if frozen in shock. Were they the last of Clan Kegbuster? Maem glanced at Habik and to his horror saw a sahuagin crossbow bolt had taken his brother in the eye. He saw the battlerager sway. Fear filled Maem, if his brother went down he knew he had no chance of survival against the swarm of assailants. Habik reeled but remained upright, reaching up to feel the wound. He yanked out the bolt. A look of surprise passed over his face when he saw his ruined eye still attached to the barbed dart. It was replaced in an instant by an expression of terrible wrath. The battlerager let out a mighty roar and charged towards the stunned sahuagin raiders. His ferocious attack took them off guard. The leader only just managed to duck back as the battlerager's axe whistled past its head. Its fluid agility surprised even Maem. With a terrible crunch the axe tore through the chest of a thin Sea Devil underling and then lopped off the head of a second. The backstroke tore through a seashell shield and sliced away an attached arm. Without giving them time to recover Habik tore among them like a deadly whirlwind. The leader leapt well out of the reach of the lethal axe, shrieking commands to its warriors. The sahuagin began to surround the dwarf, kept at bay only by the great slashing figure of eights illustrated by Habik's blood-axe. Maem launched his battlehammer into the fray. The magical hammer he had taken from their dead mother felt as light as a child’s toy in his hand. It almost seemed to sing as it flew through the air to crush a sahuagin skull. The runes glowed bright as it smashed through a Sea Devil’s head as easily as Habik’s blood-axe cleaved a joint of beef. The Sea Devil’s brains splattered his fellow sahuagin. Maem grimaced as the hammer returned to his hand. A shock passed up his arm as he rammed his hammer through a ribcage, into a Sea Devil's black heart. He saw the soldier’s eyes go wide with shock and pain. He forced himself to remember the carnage the raiders had caused to his clans’ caravan, and began smashing and bludgeoning another sahuagin. No mercy. He ducked the swing of a trident and lashed out at the attacker. His hammer shattered the cheek of a sahuagin priestess, ruining its already ugly face. Maem kicked it in the gut with the toe of his heavy hob-nailed boot and it doubled over, foolishly presenting its neck for the stroke that broke it. The next Sea Devil took an under-cut swing of Maem’s hammer on the underside of its jaw, flipping it head over heels over the ships rail back into the dark water below. Pain flashed through Habik 's shoulder as a saw-toothed sword delivered a glancing blow. He snarled and turned, driven to further into frenzy by the agony. The accursed sahuagin leader caught the look on his face and froze for a heartbeat. The leader raised his weapon in what might have been a gesture of surrender. Habik growled and chopped the warrior’s wrist. Blood sprayed all over him. The leader of the raiders screamed and writhed, clutching at the stump of its arm, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion now. Maem turned and saw Habik swaying like a drunken man. At his feet lay a pile of mangled bodies. Maem followed the slow sweep of the immense axe as it ca |