This is an excellent place to make in character story contributions. Character journals, short stories etc. are all welcome here.
Phoebus Silverhelm never expected to have a life worthy of a name meaning ‘Sun God’. Born to a family of horse groomers, Phoebus was originally known as Pheeb Ironhoof and lived his life in the crusader state of Mendev. The Ironhoof clan lived their lives under the shadows of the great Worldwound, an interdimensional tear in the fabric of reality that functioned as a gateway into the Abyss itself. Young Pheeb had big ambitions as a child and dreamed of becoming like the great crusading paladins of the Order of the Shining Sword, a sect of knights that also doubled as the personal guard to the royal family. His father and mother often laughed and shook their heads, knowing that their station in life would never afford their boy his dreams. Sadly, this simple and happy existence would soon be lost to the Ironhoof clan. In the early days of the 4th Crusade, a massive demonic incursion poured through the Worldwound, the likes of which had not been seen since it first appeared hundreds of years prior. Pheeb’s father tried desperately to usher his family into the safety of the inner keep of the castle, but his wife was heavy with their second child and they had horses to lead as well. Demons and devils washed over the fleeing populace and in the confusion Pheeb’s mother and father were cut down. Worse still the strain on his mother prompted the premature birth of Pheeb’s only kin, a baby sister, Philly. Pheeb himself would have been next had the paladins not come thundering out of the gates in righteous fury, forcing back the infernal incursion and rescuing the few survivors.
In the following days, Pheeb struggled to care for Philly and himself. A chance encounter at the open market brought the last Ironhoofs some much needed good fortune. Darius Silverhelm, captain of the royal guard and a leading knight of the Shining Sword, took pity on the desperate children and brought them into his household so that they might be properly cared for. As Pheeb was eldest and soonest in need of a career, Darius brought the boy to his study and upon his desk, placed two objects: a sword and a tome and bade Pheeb choose his course in life. The tome represented scholarship, culminating in a career as a rsnking clergyman or government official, the sword represented knighthood, a chance to join the Order and seek personal retribution for his clan. At age seven Pheeb took the path of the sword, leaving his sister in the care of Darius with the promise that she would recieve full care and schooling while he trained. In order to secure his entry into the knighthood, Darius made Pheeb the inheritor of his estate, as well as sponsoring him as a patron. Finally, Darius re-christened Pheeb Ironhoof as Phoebus Silverhelm, saying that his name would shine like the sun in the hearts of terrified demons.
For ten years, Phoebus trained his mind and body. Now at seventeen, he is ready to take his final test and become a full fledged knight. In the Kith’takaros swamplands, rumor dwells of an illegal opiate ring that has an interest in creating a drug with effects similar to mind control. If used on the ferocious lizard-folk who make the region their home, whoever controls them would have control of a massive army. To ensure the abolition of this possibility, Phoebus has been dispatched by the Shining Sword to gather what intel he can, and if possible procure a sample of this mystery drug. Based on what he brings back, the Order will vote on his knighthood. So Phoebus departs, not knowing what awaits him at the swamp at the end of the world.
Markos Kri was born in a small logging village called Cutfrum north of the Kith Swamp. He was the son of a trapper named Marton Kri and his wife whom died during the birth of Markos. Markos was hale and fleet of foot as a youth always most comfortable in the wilderness and when hunting and checking the traps as often as he could with his father.
About ninteen months ago just after Markos’ 18th bithrday Marton and Markos joined a security detail for the village mayor to travel into Kith’takaros on some official bussiness. During this trip the small caravan was beset by brigands and dueing the attack Markos horse – having taken a crossbow bolt that also happened to to pass first into and pinning his leg to the beast – fell atop Markos and into a wagon leaving him senceless.
His memory is fragmented after the attack but he has flashes of being dragged through the swamp. Or glimpses of a dark thatche roofed enclosure. His memories cleared after what he learned had been a full moons cycle from the lizard-like swamp men indiginous to the Kith’takharos swamp area. Adter his month of near death state in the care of swampmen healers,he spent another few months recovering from his wounds and learned some of the ways and languadge of the swamp men – the ways of nature and of the local flora and fauna.
About seven months after the attack the tribe of swamp men he found were called the Tribe of the Britewater brought Markos blindfolded to the outskirts of the town of Kith’takharos and vanished into the swamp, leaving him with nothing but the tattered clothes his knife and a slight limp.
In the town of Kith’takharos he found no clues to the fate of his father or the rest of the caravan. the Britewater tribe had told him he was the other living “soft-skin” they found at the sight of the attack.
A year later having earned a meager living making bows and living off the land – his offer to join the Jade Leaf been declined – Markos met some outsiders new to Kith’takharos and they soon embarked on thier own journeys into the swamp. His new companions being a paladin, a sorcerer, and a bard to write the journals of their exploits and bravery, and himself a budding Ranger with a doomed future.
This skruffy warrior in dirty leather carries little but his longbow and sometimes a spear and his trusty large knife accross his chest. Markos is a far cry to the clean and metal clad warriors of more civilized lands he is often mud caked and smells of old damp leather with a slight stink of onions and garlic. he stands just under 6 feet tall weighing about 185 pounds, his long unrully dark brown hair hanging limp over his green eyes set deep in his unshaven face.
R.I.P. Markos Kri died in session 4 10/18/09
Mason Is a huge man of 6 feet and 4 inches tall and weaighing 225 pounds and full of muscle anger and just a little curiosity. This massive man has grey ashen colored skin has short shorn hair and black eyes and slightly enlarged tusks. He has many scars over his back and a few on his face. An odd birthmark is found on his left forearm that looks like a word but is written in a languadge that he nor anyone else can read. He wares a chain shirt over a black undershirt and leather pants and rugged hobnailed boots. He wears a simple black belt and two pouches. A pair of leather pauldrons the left of wich is crested with what looks like a human jawbone and his hands are gauntleted the right glove having curved claw-like spikes protruding from the knuckles.
Mason was born 22 years ago in a brigand camp some miles north of the village Kith’takharos to a half-orc whore. His father was one Marton Kri who left the camp without knowing of the child he would leave behind. When he was 10 Mason’s mother was slain by one of the brigands and left his without a parent.
But the brigands, while they lost a favored whore gained a slave. Mason grew up hard and grew up strong through shear force of will along with plenty of brute force as well he came to adulthood knowing nothing but how to fight for every scrap of food or personal items he could get.
A little over a year ago while bringing firewood to the camp the mark on his forearm warmed and tingle considerably. looking up from the bundle in his arms he saw entering the camp near him a scouting party that had left days before. In their midst were two men one looked like a diplomate of somesort judging by his clothing and the other just a simple lowly older civilian. But the civilian while beaten and battered carried himseld with pride. This man with his hands bound behind him looked over and directly into Masons eyes just as Masons locked onto the old mans, Masons eyes drifting to the mark on the old mans forearm that matched his own birthmark.
Later that night Mason went in search of the old prisoner. He found that both had been taken out of the camp by Lenar Hoyt. But he learned that the two prisoners were from a small logging village in the north and the nobil was the mayor from this village Cutfrum and would be ransomed and bring more money for Hoyt and the older man was a caravan gaurd and a former employee of Hoyts, to be punished for having the audasity of leaving the Huygens band.
Intruiged Mason stole away from the camp in the night and tracked Hoyt and his small band to a camp near an old ruins. . . a ruined stone bridge and found no sign of the old man or the mayor of Cutfrum but did find Hoyt. Upon asking Hoyt about the two prisoners Hoyt simply had his thugs attack and subdue Mason and after a struggle Hoyt used magic to put Mason to sleep.
The next thing Mason recalls is awakening to a biting cold in his forearm from his mark and feeling very flush and dizzy from the blood rushing to his head because he is hanging upside down from a large column in the middle of a murky river. He hears the what sounds like combat and almost imediatly sees one of Hoyt’s men jumping from something above his feet and splashing into the water.
Ascendant campaigns can view previous versions of their pages, see what has changed (and who did it), and even restore old versions. It's like having a rewind button for your campaign.
We've already been saving your edits, so if you
you will have instant access to your previous versions. Plus, you get a 15-day free trial, so there's nothing to lose.