Sigil, City of Doors...
Medium size, 18
5’ 4", 150 lbs, Silver eyes, Green hair, red skin.
Strength- 12 – 1
Dex- 15 – 2
CON- 15 – 2
INT- 15 – 2
WIS – 18 – 4
CHA – 14 – 2
HP – 10
Touch 12 Flat-footed 12
Speed – 30
Base Attack- 0
Quarterstaff- Attack Bonus 1, Damage D6, Critical X2 (type B)
Dagger- Attack Bonus 1, Damage D4, Critical- 19-20 X2 Range 10, type P/S
Concentration- CON 6
Handle Animal – CHA- 6
Heal- WIS- 8
Knowledge Nature – INT – 6
Ride- DEX- 6
Spellcraft- INT – 6
Spot- WIS- 4
Leather Armor L, AC Bonus 2, MAX DEX 6, Check penalty 0, Spell Failure 10%, Speed 30, Weight 15
Food for 5 days
A magical Fruit
wooden chit- mercy killer honorary deputy
1 fate point/session
Dark Vision (black and white), 60 feet
Acid, Cold, Electricity Resistant
Celestial, Druidic, Common, Gnome, Sylvan
Feats: Improve Counterspell
lvl 0 (3 per day)
Daylight 1X per day
Detect magic 60 ft
Detect Poison- one object
lvl 1 (1, 1 bonus)
Cure light wounds
Barkskin 1 per day, +2 AC (mimic caster level)
Friend of 15 Cranium rats
Shailla is pleased
My name is Zariel, and I am a druid of the circle of Shallia (?). I was born in the wilderness, outside the confines of civilization. I know very little about my real parents. My father was a tradesman, a dealer in herbs and other natural remedies. He led a camel caravan from his homeland in search of new products and to establish new trade relations. On his travels he encountered the woman who would be my mother. Homeless and a beggar, she was nonetheless beautiful and captivated both my father’s love and his pity for her. He brought her with him on his journey into the wilderness, and after many months, I was born of their love.
However, my mother proved unsuited to life in the wilds, and the trauma of my birth in the primitive conditions of nature drove her back to civilization. She abandoned me to my father’s care alone. Not long after, my father died under mysterious circumstances, but not before leaving me in the care of a circle of druids. The druids accepted me as one of their order, and raised me as their own, though their style of rearing children was quite different from that of my father’s people.
I was incorporated into a group of young initiates, raised with them as a surrogate family. The eldest of the initiates, Borgan, has hated me, almost from the start. While the others were chosen to join our circle, I fell into their hands by accident, and yet I ended up mastering many of the tests the circle put us through, even when Borgen could not. The next oldest, Sarian, shares Borgen’s hatred for me. I am certain it is because she loves Borgen, but neither would ever admit their feelings for each other. Druids disapprove of such entanglements, which is why the other member of initiates, a girl named Maryn, just a bit younger than me, worked so hard to keep her true feelings for me a secret. Maryn and I were very close, like soulmates, and we grew up learning how to live with nature and practice the arts of our circle. However, Maryn recently left our circle without explanation. I suspect her feelings for me drove her away, but I cannot know for certain.
There are 2 other initiates in my circle, both a few years younger than me. Targa, the youngest male, is like my own brother, but the youngest female, Artiel, shares Borgen and Sarian’s hatred for me.
My best friend is called Rocinante, a camel who came to my circle of druids as a calf as part of my father’s caravan. He had grown up as my constant companion. Together, we made a certain valley in the wilderness our home, in the center of which lay a grove of willow trees, over which I appointed myself protector. However, in my young life the grove, and one tree in particular, became my protectors instead. Once when meditating in my grove, I was attacked by a wild beast. I had no weapon available and Rocinante could not reach me. I was backed up against my favorite tree, when suddenly a branch broke free of the tree and fell upon the beast’s head, slaying it. The branch was perfectly shaped, as if carved by a master craftsman. It was sized and weighted as a perfect staff for me, and as I grew, it grew with me.
Upon another occasion, I was wandering through the woods and was again attacked by a vicious beast. Eschewing violence, i did not wish to kill the beast, but it continued to press me, and I fell to the ground, my staff held defensively, the beasts gaping maw clamped firmly in the center of the staff. However, rather than breaking, the staff grew warm in my hands, and gradually began to cover my skin with the same bark that covered the staff. The beast could no longer harm me, and eventually stalked away.
The final miracle of the staff came when it once again grew warm as I wandered through my valley. On impulse, I stuck one end into the ground, and the staff seemed to plant itself there. I dug around its base only to find a brilliant dagger buried there, its edge still keen and its blade still shining, despite its obvious time underground. I have yet to discover the importance of the blade, but I am sure it was meant to find me.