- Recognized Donor
- Posts: 406
- Joined: Mon Feb 06, 2012 10:06 pm
- Location: Where shadows dwell...
First Name: Voskul
Last Name: Gloamfathom
Race: Water Genasi
Age: 25 years
Height: 70 inches (178 cm)
Weight: 160 pounds (73 kg)
Hair Style: Matted strands splayed in wet clumps
Complexion: Sea-gray, clammy
Physique: Staunch yet sinuous
General Health: Resilient, though subject to dehydration in arid climes
Profession: Hunter, mercenary, rover
Base Class & Proposed Development: Fighter > Elemental Archer > Shadowdancer
Weapon of Choice: Longbow
Background Feat: Veteran
Place of Origin: Ruathym
Languages: Common, Aquan, Illuskan
Voskul appears staunch of frame yet gaunt of countenance. A deep hood casts his face in shadow and sets azure eyes aglow. His skin looks akin to that of an eel, of a dusky pallor and slightly scaled. Droplets seep from his pores, rendering him with a clammy complexion. Strands of blue-black hair hang in matted wet clumps.
At upper body, overlapping sections of boiled leather join together in segments, much like a crustacean’s carapace. Beneath the jerkin, swathes of tough canvas drape to his knee, concealing every inch of exposed flesh. Sealskin boots and gloves are trimmed in thick leather bands adorned with a barbed serpent motif.
Voskul wields a bow of blackened whalebone. The grip is faceted with coral inlay and fit with an intricate sighting device crafted from shark tooth and black pearl. A quiver juts over his right shoulder, each arrow fletched with gull feather; a second quiver is slung at his side, its arrows fletched with veined fin.
A network of straps crisscrosses his armor, each band secured by various buckles and clasps and ornate steel hooks. Slotted around his belt in a continuous ring, luminous potion vials emit a soft glow, some black as squid ink. A length of ragged sailcloth underlays the belt, its shredded folds hanging at his left side, as though a token banner claimed from the battlefield.
Lowly fisherfolk of meager means, Voskul’s brood had ever scavenged the rugged coastal wastes of western Ruathym. Under roiling gray clouds they foraged the windswept dunes, bent figures swathed in tattered hide drifting like phantoms through streaming seaborne mists. Glimpsed through offshore fogbanks, countless broken vessels listed in the shallows, remnants of a long-forgotten Luskan invasion. Skeletal frames of warships still lined the shore as though fractured bones of beached whales.
Puckerhead. Chumface. Squidsack. Many generations past, such racial slurs had escalated from harassment to persecution. Deemed mutant pariahs, those of genasi lineage were pushed to the isle’s bleakest shores, where only a planetouched being might hazard survival. As far back as clan elders could recall, the fisherfolk had subsisted on raw mollusk and cold kelp, garbed themselves in ragged sailcloth and sheltered in driftwood shanties. But none could recall how their bloodline had become so tainted, so attuned to the elements that flesh turned to scale and eyes glazed to a shark-like stare; some could even will the air to shimmer as though an enshrouding vapor.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
In an endless struggle for the isle’s scarce resources, past hostility eventually crept its way even to their desolate coast. By Voskul’s twentieth nameday, it was no longer safe to openly rove the shoreline; local villagers preyed upon his kindred as though rodents sniped afield. Abandoning sealskin hovels, they took sanctuary in breeched hulls drove deep into dune. Beneath the sprawling wreckage and pounding surf, they moved through a warren of tunnels burrowed shipwreck to shipwreck. Voskul took up the bow and learned to hunt sand-rat and spider-crab, but ever under cover of night.
In time, a sense of imminent demise slowly spread throughout the passages. Desperation overcame the folk. Some went missing, some stockpiled arms, and still others such as Voskul sought out a dark glimmer of salvation. Within the bowels of a galleon buried six fathoms down, braziers sputtered and lit upon arcane sigils carved into plank both overhead and underfoot. Clan shamans bent over potbelly cauldrons, stirring viscous black oils steeped in decades of indignant rage. Lured by a grim promise, elixirs were quaffed, sacrifices were made, pacts were struck. But such rituals would not prove strong enough to hold back the tide of destruction surging their way.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The night the soldiers came, Voskul did not take up arms. No arrow did he nock when helmed horsemen charged the strand, riding down those who attempted to flee. No blade did he loose as armored brutes set torch to bone-dry timber, skewering his kin as they broke from the blazing husks. Voskul grasped their intent the instant he felt the thunder of hoof: extermination, like flushing vermin from a nest. Resistance would be futile. Gliding among flame-cast shadow, he retreated to water’s edge and slunk his way through the shallows, leaving the violent snap of burning timber far behind.
Upon lone skiff, Voskul chanced turbulent seas, barely surviving the treacherous crossing to the Moonshaes. For weeks he skulked among dockside trestles, a hooded figure flitting below piers and gangways. It took weeks to finally stow away aboard a merchant cog, then months for the wayward vessel to cross the Sea of Swords. Voskul endured the passage knee-deep in bilge water, surrounded by dank and darkness and other sinuous creatures that swam the cavernous hold. When the ship at last put into port at Baldur’s Gate Harbor, the genasi emerged a shell of his former self, but with a renewed mindset keen to train his bow on fresh targets.
• Leverage his racial aberrations to become an elemental marksman.
• Expand planar knowledge to master attunement to the shadow plane.
• Develop partnerships with other planetouched adventurers.
- DM Soulcatcher
- Retired Staff
- Posts: 7366
- Joined: Wed Oct 05, 2016 3:40 pm
- Location: Always in Your Shadow
Better read this, so I don't harvest your soul... too soon
Dungeon Master Rulings
To avoid confusement and becoming a soulless husk