You walk into a bar, right...
Aluyu gave the tavern door a shove, letting it swing open with a loud creak. Almost instantly the music and hubbub of voices stopped.
Stepping forward he drank in the room - a dozen faces stared back, each set of eye, each weathered cheek told a different story.
Unslinging his baldric he tossed his short sword to the wretch cowering by the door and mounted the creaky steps to the bar.
"Ale," he barked to the greasy tub of lard working behind the bar.
First the bard started wailing on his oddly shaped pipe. then the talk resumed.
When the drink had come and the sellsword had parted with two copper bits, he turned to take in the other patrons.
So, back by popular demand are more ready made NPCs for Barbarians of Lemuria
The Duelist
Noble houses are known to frequently feud and when they do, it is better to send hirelings to do the dirty work.
Once a mere vagabond the duelist has made a name for himself as the fastest blade in town.
When a noble wants a rival removed or an opponent humiliated, they call the duelist.
For a simple pouch of gold that rival will suddenly find himself facing off with this dark caped swordsman in a back alley.
St: 1 Ag: 1 Md: Ap:
Bwl: Mle: 2 Msl: Dfc:
Mercenary 1
Thief 1
Longsword, short sword, dark clothes
Gentleman adventurer
Some men are content to sit at home, grow fat off their coins and die content. Others like this gentleman find they have a thirst for something much more.
Once a rich noble this character sold off all his possessions in order to quest into dary crypts, deep jungles and across unending seas.
Generally found bloodied and bruises or covered in grime the gentleman adventurer spends coins as fast as he receives them on financing his next great adventure.
St: -1 Ag: 1 Md: 1 Ap: 1
Bwl: Mle: 1 Msl: Dfc: 1
Noble 1
Soldier 1
Heavy armour decorated with silver links and studded with gems, expertly painted shield, ridiculously plumed helmet, short sword
Big Game Hunter
With feline grace a beauty one would expect to find this lass on a sheik's pleasure barge. Instead this wild woman lives for one thing: the hunt.
An expert tracker she is proficient with a range of hunting weapons and has been known to go weeks without sleep or rest while on the hunt.
Little is known about her, but is reputed to be the last of a tribe of savages who lived high in the mountains. A tribe where women ruled by their might and men were mere pretty playthings.
St: Ag: 1 Md: -1 Ap: 2
Bwl: Mle: 1 Msl: 1 Dfc:
Hunter 2
Brace of spears, knife, slings. Leather and fur garments (acts as very light armour)
Withered seeress
The seeress can see into the future. And, it is reputed, into the very hearts of men.
But to gave upon her is to risk madness and only the bravest will seek her counsel.
Over the years she has been in the employee of great lords, ladies, kings and empresses but only for a short period.
Her mere appearance is enough to make her employees sick of her. Despite her wealth, the seeress wears tattered dark robes and the few who have seen past her ratty veils say she is horrid to look upon.
But folk still seek her visions.
St: Ag: Md: 3 Ap: -1
Bwl: Mle: Msl: 1 Dfc: 1
Sorceress 1
Scribe 1
Tattered robes, occult trinkets, fetishes and objects.
The haunted highwayman
Once this bandit had a life, a wife and a babe on the hip. He was never rich but he had a farm and some land.
All this changed when bandits came - his wife was raped and then sold to the slavers and his child thrown into the fire.
He was given the chance - join or die. A coward he chose to side with the band and has spent the last years raiding and pillaging with the group.
But his thirst for vengeance has been carefully fed each day he spends with the brigands.
One day he will have his revenge.
St: 2 Ag: Md: Ap:
Bwl: 1 Mle: 1 Msl: Dfc:
Bandit 1
Farmer 1
Short sword, light armour
The Stout soldier
A fighter, fighting man, man-at-arms, serviceman, swad, warrior. He is all of these things.
The professional soldier is a fighter sworn to his lord's service - in return for protection and agreeing to fight when and wherever he receives food, lodging and gold.
His body is criss-crossed with the scars of his trade but life is good for this one.
St: 2 Ag: Md: Ap:
Bwl: 1 Mle: 2 Msl: -1 Dfc:
Soldier 2
Short sword, spear, shield
Showing posts with label NPCs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NPCs. Show all posts
Monday, October 4, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
BoL foe: Zolique
Zolique raised his goblet in a mocking salute and then drank deeply from the silver chalice.
"May Ka, the Master Maker shine bright on your endeavours Lord Prince," he said once he had swallowed.
Reclining on the opposite pillow Prince Likia ah-Hakk grimaced at the ironic toast but also drank. The wizard had demonstrated now that none of the food or drink was poisoned and he felt slightly more at rest.
Around them more than two hundred courtiers, merchants, and nobles rested on great silken pillows arrayed around the long tables that took up the centre of the gilded hall.
The prince had received the elegant invite the week before - a long papyrus scroll, sealed with black silk and wax and written in a fine hand.
Curious to be invited to a feast by his one his primary rivals he had accepted and now found himself in the great hall of the wizard Zolique.
"I am glad you came Lord Prince, I feared that some of my... indiscretions had caused a great gulf between our houses," the wizard said, gesturing with one hand for more wine while using the other to stroke his wispy grey beard.
The city's ruler almost barked in laughter. The dammed wizard had appeared less than a year ago and in that time he had erected this great, slab-sided, pyramid near the centre of the city without permission and then turned the entire kingdom on its head.
First he had drawn half of the women in the city to his bed - never to be seen again and then he had incited the bloody peasants into open revolt by declaring that taxes were a sin. That, that had cost the prince dearly in soldiers and gold.
The sorcerer flouted the rules of the city at every step.
"On the contrary my friend. You must forgive our provincial ways here in Ulldulla, it is far too rare that sorcerers of your calibre live among us," the prince said oily.
Never let it be say that I cannot honey my words like the best of them, you snake headed bag of shit, he thought inwardly.
Drinking from his goblet once more Zolique craned his head, looking over the lord's shoulder.
"Ahah! at last, the entertainment begin," he said as a sudden wave of drum and flute music flooded from a corridor.
"You will have to forgive me, Lord Prince - until recently I was very much unaccustomed to the pleasures of high society."
Likia knew this from the rumours he had sourced: the wizard had been a mere beggar child in some far-flung city before being discovered by a magician who had taken him in.
The wizard suddenly clapped like a child, as dozens of beautiful women swirled into the feasting hall to the tune of flutes, drums and bells. Each woman - some dusty skinned others pale and flaxen haired was clad only in the briefest of silk girdles and jewellery. And all of them had glazed over, totally empty eyes.
With a start the prince recognised several former ladies of the court - the ones who had disappeared into the wizard's lair months ago. Most he didn't know but he guessed they shared a similar fate.
Hours passed in a blur of good food, strong wine and the swirling, twisting flesh until finally Zolique stood, raising both gaunt arms to the domed roof as he did.
The music stopped and the drunken diners finished with a clatter.
"My friends - it has come time to tell you all why I have gathered you here!"
Around the table there was nervous muttering, which dissolved into laughter at the drunken belch of a fat silk trader at the far end of the table.
"Enough!" the wizard shouted. Letting the room sink once more into silence.
"More than 40 years ago I was nothing more than a beggar child on the streets on this very city, a nothing living in the gutter,"
Likia's eyes widened at this revelation - he had not known the wizard was born here.
"For years he scratched out a living, and not once did any of your ilk bother to notice me- none of you.
"Tonight we have gathered the riches traders and merchants, nobles who live in opulent villas and the great men of the city - including our lord prince."
As he spoke the wizard gestured wildly at the gathered host. His dark eyes bored into the soul of each one - a brawny soldier rewarded with a title, a fat wine merchant and his young wife who had drunkenly pulled down her gown to reveal great, pale breasts and finally the hawk nosed Prince.
"Tonight you die"
Suddenly with a collective feral growl, the dancing girls leapt at the guests - their mouths warped into hateful grimaces and their fine fingers suddenly hooked like sharp talons.
Gore flew as the screams rang out - all the while Zolique cackled with glee.
Watching as his subjects became red puddles Likia spun, kicking aside his pillow as he fled - only to be confronted by the wizard who had moved with blinding speed.
"I think not, Lord Prince," he smiled mockingly.
Turning, Likia saw he was the only one left - the others were crumpled, bloody messes, and the girls had now gathered around him.
Zolique
St:
Ag: 1
Mn: 3
Ap:
Bwl: 2
Mle:
Rng: 1
Dfc: 1
Lifeblood: 10
Beggar: 1
Thief: 0
Scribe: 2
Wizard: 4
"May Ka, the Master Maker shine bright on your endeavours Lord Prince," he said once he had swallowed.
Reclining on the opposite pillow Prince Likia ah-Hakk grimaced at the ironic toast but also drank. The wizard had demonstrated now that none of the food or drink was poisoned and he felt slightly more at rest.
Around them more than two hundred courtiers, merchants, and nobles rested on great silken pillows arrayed around the long tables that took up the centre of the gilded hall.
The prince had received the elegant invite the week before - a long papyrus scroll, sealed with black silk and wax and written in a fine hand.
Curious to be invited to a feast by his one his primary rivals he had accepted and now found himself in the great hall of the wizard Zolique.
"I am glad you came Lord Prince, I feared that some of my... indiscretions had caused a great gulf between our houses," the wizard said, gesturing with one hand for more wine while using the other to stroke his wispy grey beard.
The city's ruler almost barked in laughter. The dammed wizard had appeared less than a year ago and in that time he had erected this great, slab-sided, pyramid near the centre of the city without permission and then turned the entire kingdom on its head.
First he had drawn half of the women in the city to his bed - never to be seen again and then he had incited the bloody peasants into open revolt by declaring that taxes were a sin. That, that had cost the prince dearly in soldiers and gold.
The sorcerer flouted the rules of the city at every step.
"On the contrary my friend. You must forgive our provincial ways here in Ulldulla, it is far too rare that sorcerers of your calibre live among us," the prince said oily.
Never let it be say that I cannot honey my words like the best of them, you snake headed bag of shit, he thought inwardly.
Drinking from his goblet once more Zolique craned his head, looking over the lord's shoulder.
"Ahah! at last, the entertainment begin," he said as a sudden wave of drum and flute music flooded from a corridor.
"You will have to forgive me, Lord Prince - until recently I was very much unaccustomed to the pleasures of high society."
Likia knew this from the rumours he had sourced: the wizard had been a mere beggar child in some far-flung city before being discovered by a magician who had taken him in.
The wizard suddenly clapped like a child, as dozens of beautiful women swirled into the feasting hall to the tune of flutes, drums and bells. Each woman - some dusty skinned others pale and flaxen haired was clad only in the briefest of silk girdles and jewellery. And all of them had glazed over, totally empty eyes.
With a start the prince recognised several former ladies of the court - the ones who had disappeared into the wizard's lair months ago. Most he didn't know but he guessed they shared a similar fate.
Hours passed in a blur of good food, strong wine and the swirling, twisting flesh until finally Zolique stood, raising both gaunt arms to the domed roof as he did.
The music stopped and the drunken diners finished with a clatter.
"My friends - it has come time to tell you all why I have gathered you here!"
Around the table there was nervous muttering, which dissolved into laughter at the drunken belch of a fat silk trader at the far end of the table.
"Enough!" the wizard shouted. Letting the room sink once more into silence.
"More than 40 years ago I was nothing more than a beggar child on the streets on this very city, a nothing living in the gutter,"
Likia's eyes widened at this revelation - he had not known the wizard was born here.
"For years he scratched out a living, and not once did any of your ilk bother to notice me- none of you.
"Tonight we have gathered the riches traders and merchants, nobles who live in opulent villas and the great men of the city - including our lord prince."
As he spoke the wizard gestured wildly at the gathered host. His dark eyes bored into the soul of each one - a brawny soldier rewarded with a title, a fat wine merchant and his young wife who had drunkenly pulled down her gown to reveal great, pale breasts and finally the hawk nosed Prince.
"Tonight you die"
Suddenly with a collective feral growl, the dancing girls leapt at the guests - their mouths warped into hateful grimaces and their fine fingers suddenly hooked like sharp talons.
Gore flew as the screams rang out - all the while Zolique cackled with glee.
Watching as his subjects became red puddles Likia spun, kicking aside his pillow as he fled - only to be confronted by the wizard who had moved with blinding speed.
"I think not, Lord Prince," he smiled mockingly.
Turning, Likia saw he was the only one left - the others were crumpled, bloody messes, and the girls had now gathered around him.
Zolique
St:
Ag: 1
Mn: 3
Ap:
Bwl: 2
Mle:
Rng: 1
Dfc: 1
Lifeblood: 10
Beggar: 1
Thief: 0
Scribe: 2
Wizard: 4
Thursday, June 17, 2010
BoL foe: Gren Ilyria the Crimson Lady
Lord Ulfrix pushed aside the crimson velvet curtains and stomped into the stone basement, 20 of his best spearmen behind him - each of them clad in the purple cloaks, bronze breastplates, greaves and helmets of his Tigers of Lix.
The scene that the warlord was confronted with made him gasp with horror.
The formerly bare stone room had been decked out and draped with velvet and pelts and at least 30 naked forms writhed in the midst of passion.
In font of him his personal batman was pumped enthusiasticallywhile a young slave girl screamed with pleasure, further away a woman crouched dog-like while two men -
"What manner of filth is this?!" Ulfrix yelled. With one swift motion he drew his sword, bringing the blade about he struck it loudly against the steel rim of his shield.
The rumours were true, it seemed. The warlord beat his sword against the shield even harder.
Oblivious the couples continued their carnal act.
And then from the rear of the hall she stood. A tall, beautiful form rose from the mass of naked flesh.
His young wife Gren stood - naked save for the red cloak thrown over her shoulders and the giant horns that rested on her head.
It had been four years since the warlord had left his home to campaign, four years that he hadn't seen his new wife and now she walked in public almost as naked as the day she was born.
Ulfrix started to stutter a reply but the woman held out one hand - and suddenly the head dress she wore began to hum. She wore a thick leather headband that had two great black horns affixed to it.
"What matter of evil is this?" he growly - only to be confronted by two of his men who stepped forward.
Luhj, one of his toughest fighters, let his spear clatter to the ground and clasped Ruk, a devoted family man when not on the battlefield, by the shoulders.
The pair began to paw at each other, their mouths meeting.
His protest died on his lips as Ulfrix's men began to grasp each other or run into the orgy presented before them.
"Fall on your knees, man and realise the power of Gren Illyria - The Crimson Lady"
Gren Ilyria the Crimson Lady
St: -1
Ag:
Md:1
Ap: 4
Bwl:
Mle: 1
Rng: 2
Dfc: 1
Lifeblood: 9
Wizard: 2
Scribe: 0
Dancer: 1
Priest: 1
Boons: Attractive, Magic of the Sorcerer-Kings
Flaws: Addiction
Dagger, spellbooks and components, The Horns of Lust
Gren Illria, sometimes known as the Crimson Lady is a seductress and enchanter of the highest form.
It is whispered that she started life as one of the Temple Virgins of Knothakon, God of Wisdom but soon tired of the duty after learning all that she could.
What is know is that this beautiful woman, who looks hardly a day of 20 is actually well into her second century.
Somewhere along the way she made a pact with a dark god who bestowed a frightening head dress upon her in exchange for horrible sacrifice. The horned head dress feeds on lust, giving the wearer extreme power and negating the effects of aging.
Over the years Gren has appeared everywhere - as the young wife of rulers, the court sorcerer, owner of a high class brothel, a wandering rogue - and every where she has gone lust, chaos and destruction follow.
The scene that the warlord was confronted with made him gasp with horror.
The formerly bare stone room had been decked out and draped with velvet and pelts and at least 30 naked forms writhed in the midst of passion.
In font of him his personal batman was pumped enthusiasticallywhile a young slave girl screamed with pleasure, further away a woman crouched dog-like while two men -
"What manner of filth is this?!" Ulfrix yelled. With one swift motion he drew his sword, bringing the blade about he struck it loudly against the steel rim of his shield.
The rumours were true, it seemed. The warlord beat his sword against the shield even harder.
Oblivious the couples continued their carnal act.
And then from the rear of the hall she stood. A tall, beautiful form rose from the mass of naked flesh.
His young wife Gren stood - naked save for the red cloak thrown over her shoulders and the giant horns that rested on her head.
It had been four years since the warlord had left his home to campaign, four years that he hadn't seen his new wife and now she walked in public almost as naked as the day she was born.
Ulfrix started to stutter a reply but the woman held out one hand - and suddenly the head dress she wore began to hum. She wore a thick leather headband that had two great black horns affixed to it.
"What matter of evil is this?" he growly - only to be confronted by two of his men who stepped forward.
Luhj, one of his toughest fighters, let his spear clatter to the ground and clasped Ruk, a devoted family man when not on the battlefield, by the shoulders.
The pair began to paw at each other, their mouths meeting.
His protest died on his lips as Ulfrix's men began to grasp each other or run into the orgy presented before them.
"Fall on your knees, man and realise the power of Gren Illyria - The Crimson Lady"
Gren Ilyria the Crimson Lady
St: -1
Ag:
Md:1
Ap: 4
Bwl:
Mle: 1
Rng: 2
Dfc: 1
Lifeblood: 9
Wizard: 2
Scribe: 0
Dancer: 1
Priest: 1
Boons: Attractive, Magic of the Sorcerer-Kings
Flaws: Addiction
Dagger, spellbooks and components, The Horns of Lust
Gren Illria, sometimes known as the Crimson Lady is a seductress and enchanter of the highest form.
It is whispered that she started life as one of the Temple Virgins of Knothakon, God of Wisdom but soon tired of the duty after learning all that she could.
What is know is that this beautiful woman, who looks hardly a day of 20 is actually well into her second century.
Somewhere along the way she made a pact with a dark god who bestowed a frightening head dress upon her in exchange for horrible sacrifice. The horned head dress feeds on lust, giving the wearer extreme power and negating the effects of aging.
Over the years Gren has appeared everywhere - as the young wife of rulers, the court sorcerer, owner of a high class brothel, a wandering rogue - and every where she has gone lust, chaos and destruction follow.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
BoL foe: Morgur-Zeel Alis
The necromancer bent low over the body of the noblewoman, his dark eyes drinking in every detail with fervor.
A light, gauzy, cloth had been thrown over her and even with only the dim light of his flickering torch he could see every tantalising inch of her: from her glossy raven-coloured hair, her cool alabaster skin and the rosy tips.
And soon all of her would be his.
"Master- are you ready?" there was a bestial rumble from behind him and the sorcerer stood abruptly, angers at the interruption.
"Yes, yes - you have prepeared the rites as I ordered? good, good - let us begin then."'
Morgur-Zeel Alis, the necromancer raised both gloved hands to the silver mask that encased his entire face and carefully undid the laces that bound it over his face.
Months ago he had spied this beauty: Alita el-buderia, eldest daughter of the visiting ambassador of far off, Tyr-Sog, she and her father were newly arrived in the city and he had spotted her across the room at some reception.
The tall wizard let out a long breath as he thought back to that night. She had looked radiant, clad in light, flowing silks of the eastern kingdoms, her hair artfully pinned back in a web of jewels.
But his advances had been rebuffed - her mind poisoned by the honeyed words dripped into her ears by those fawning dogs - those popinjays and lizard eyed peacocks.
It had been a simple matter to enter her room in a shadowy form and administer the potion into her winecup.
Now, looking at her still lovely form he was overjoyed that death had not marred her beauty.
"Master! We must hurry - the temple guards could be here any moment," his assistant quipped.
The pair had drawn the circle and dabbed the mixture of blood and crushed root to the corner of the dead woman's mouth. It was time to begin.
With quick movements, Alis removed his mask and passed the face covering of beaten silver to his assistant.
The mask had been hammered into the leering visage of a jackal and inlaid with tiny diamonds and the torchlight reflected off it.
Alis pretended not to notice his apprentice's slight wince when he glimpsed his master's visage.
"ah -ana-al-anak-al ut -DRAK!" the necromancer spoke the words of power and could instantly feel the temperature in the chamber drop.
The flickering torches suddenly dimmed. He quickly tugged off his left glove, holding out his hand he waited patiently as the assistant drew the dagger across his palm, allowing several drops of blood to fall onto the corpse.
"ah-ana- al-anak-al ut- FEELIOR!" he barked - instantly there was the prickly of energy... and then nothing.
"Morgur-Zeel - you pox faced bastard! Stop right there!"
The necromancer whirled around to find Lord el-buderia and half a dozen of his retainers - all clad in leather breastplates and armed with swords - blocking the portal to the tomb.
"What are you doing with my daughter?" the lord snarled, drawing his short sword.
The necromancer held up a warding hand - that was instantly encased in swirling, eldric green light.
Behind him Alita moaned softly and sat bolt upright on the slab.
Morgur-Zeel Alis
St:
Ag: 1
Mnd:4
Ap: -1
Bwl:
Mle: 2
Rng: 1
Dfc: 1
Lifeblood: 10
Wizard (necromancer): 3
Priest: 1
Noble: 1
Alchemist: 1
Boons:
Fearsome Looks, Magic of the Sorcerer-Kings, Learned
Flaws: Unsettling, Arrogant
Equipment: Silver mask, staff, dagger, spells books and other instruments.
Morgur-Zeel Alis is a powerful necromancer who has gained much power in his study of the dark arts. Originally from a small town in the Kothian Confederation he was born to a minor noble house.
All that is known is that there was an incident when he was about 16 and Alis was banished by his family - stories told in taverns told of a dead sister and a horrible accident that left him horribly mutilated. But no one knows for sure.
But more than a decade later Alis returned to the Kothian lands a powerful sorcery with the ability to bend minds, warp wood and steel and - it is whispered - raise the dead from their rest.
His time in exile had left him a bitter, twisted man and in a fit of rage he struck his father, vowing to never ever step foot in the same house.
The next morning everyone who bore the Alis name was discovered dead in their beds without a mark on them.
He is a tall, thin man, who mostly gets around draped in dark but richly worked robes and always his mask.
Few have seen his face and of those that have... they prefer not to talk of it. The mask of beaten silver has been cunningly worked into the visage of a jackal - a scavenger dog-thing of the east and crusted with small diamonds near the eyes.
Simple slits have been cut for eye, mouth and nose holes.
Alis has a tower in Oxy but is known to travel the lands, accompanied by loyal retainers and assistants - all that is known is that he has an insatiable appetite for new subjects for his experiments.
He has been known to appear at the gates of a city or a lord's standing and demand whatever he wants: wine, women, gold. And it is a wise person that gives him what he wants.
A light, gauzy, cloth had been thrown over her and even with only the dim light of his flickering torch he could see every tantalising inch of her: from her glossy raven-coloured hair, her cool alabaster skin and the rosy tips.
And soon all of her would be his.
"Master- are you ready?" there was a bestial rumble from behind him and the sorcerer stood abruptly, angers at the interruption.
"Yes, yes - you have prepeared the rites as I ordered? good, good - let us begin then."'
Morgur-Zeel Alis, the necromancer raised both gloved hands to the silver mask that encased his entire face and carefully undid the laces that bound it over his face.
Months ago he had spied this beauty: Alita el-buderia, eldest daughter of the visiting ambassador of far off, Tyr-Sog, she and her father were newly arrived in the city and he had spotted her across the room at some reception.
The tall wizard let out a long breath as he thought back to that night. She had looked radiant, clad in light, flowing silks of the eastern kingdoms, her hair artfully pinned back in a web of jewels.
But his advances had been rebuffed - her mind poisoned by the honeyed words dripped into her ears by those fawning dogs - those popinjays and lizard eyed peacocks.
It had been a simple matter to enter her room in a shadowy form and administer the potion into her winecup.
Now, looking at her still lovely form he was overjoyed that death had not marred her beauty.
"Master! We must hurry - the temple guards could be here any moment," his assistant quipped.
The pair had drawn the circle and dabbed the mixture of blood and crushed root to the corner of the dead woman's mouth. It was time to begin.
With quick movements, Alis removed his mask and passed the face covering of beaten silver to his assistant.
The mask had been hammered into the leering visage of a jackal and inlaid with tiny diamonds and the torchlight reflected off it.
Alis pretended not to notice his apprentice's slight wince when he glimpsed his master's visage.
"ah -ana-al-anak-al ut -DRAK!" the necromancer spoke the words of power and could instantly feel the temperature in the chamber drop.
The flickering torches suddenly dimmed. He quickly tugged off his left glove, holding out his hand he waited patiently as the assistant drew the dagger across his palm, allowing several drops of blood to fall onto the corpse.
"ah-ana- al-anak-al ut- FEELIOR!" he barked - instantly there was the prickly of energy... and then nothing.
"Morgur-Zeel - you pox faced bastard! Stop right there!"
The necromancer whirled around to find Lord el-buderia and half a dozen of his retainers - all clad in leather breastplates and armed with swords - blocking the portal to the tomb.
"What are you doing with my daughter?" the lord snarled, drawing his short sword.
The necromancer held up a warding hand - that was instantly encased in swirling, eldric green light.
Behind him Alita moaned softly and sat bolt upright on the slab.
Morgur-Zeel Alis
St:
Ag: 1
Mnd:4
Ap: -1
Bwl:
Mle: 2
Rng: 1
Dfc: 1
Lifeblood: 10
Wizard (necromancer): 3
Priest: 1
Noble: 1
Alchemist: 1
Boons:
Fearsome Looks, Magic of the Sorcerer-Kings, Learned
Flaws: Unsettling, Arrogant
Equipment: Silver mask, staff, dagger, spells books and other instruments.
Morgur-Zeel Alis is a powerful necromancer who has gained much power in his study of the dark arts. Originally from a small town in the Kothian Confederation he was born to a minor noble house.
All that is known is that there was an incident when he was about 16 and Alis was banished by his family - stories told in taverns told of a dead sister and a horrible accident that left him horribly mutilated. But no one knows for sure.
But more than a decade later Alis returned to the Kothian lands a powerful sorcery with the ability to bend minds, warp wood and steel and - it is whispered - raise the dead from their rest.
His time in exile had left him a bitter, twisted man and in a fit of rage he struck his father, vowing to never ever step foot in the same house.
The next morning everyone who bore the Alis name was discovered dead in their beds without a mark on them.
He is a tall, thin man, who mostly gets around draped in dark but richly worked robes and always his mask.
Few have seen his face and of those that have... they prefer not to talk of it. The mask of beaten silver has been cunningly worked into the visage of a jackal - a scavenger dog-thing of the east and crusted with small diamonds near the eyes.
Simple slits have been cut for eye, mouth and nose holes.
Alis has a tower in Oxy but is known to travel the lands, accompanied by loyal retainers and assistants - all that is known is that he has an insatiable appetite for new subjects for his experiments.
He has been known to appear at the gates of a city or a lord's standing and demand whatever he wants: wine, women, gold. And it is a wise person that gives him what he wants.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
BoL: an NPC for every game II
As I've said before - I love a back story. And back by popular demand.... here's some more BoL NPCs.
The tired pit fighter
This gladiator has been fighting on the sands, before the cheering (and jeering) crowds of Arn for far too long.
He's killed close companions and watched others died during the 10 long years he's been enslaved and slowly he's coming apart at the seems.
And now he wants out.
St: Ag: 1 Md: -1 Ap: 2
Bwl: Mle: 2 Msl: -1 Dfc: 1
Gladiator: 2
Paired short swords (d6 each), spiked gauntlets, helm.
The hired slayer
This beauty does her best work under the cover of darkness - no, not that work. Rather this lady of shadows is a skilled and cunning assassin who plies her trade for the various nobles and factions that vie for supremacy in the Arnian League.
It is whispered that she was once the daughter of a noble house herself, or a royal concubine who broke free from her restrictive life and found a taste for danger.
St: Ag: 1 Md: Ap: 1
Bwl: Mle: Msl: 1 Dfc: 1
Assassin: 1 Dancer: 1
Brace of daggers, garote , poisons, lock picks
The robber knight
Second sons are useless. At least that's what this lad's father told him from day one. Born the second son of a minor Arnian house he left his father's holdings aged 17 with little more than a trained war kroark, his weapons, his armour and his squire.
Since then he's made his living by his sword, fighting as a mercenary for and against the various feuding princelings that make up borderlands.
Even years of constant battle have not dulled his sense of honour and fairness however/
St: 2 Ag: Md: Ap:
Bwl: Mle: 1 Msl: 1 Dfc:
Mercenary: 1 Noble: 1
Heavy armour (d6) and helm, Sword, lance, crossbow.
The willful witch
It is said adventurers crossing the barren hill lands to the north of the city of Arn might run into this woman. Coldly beautiful with a voice like amber wine and dancing eyes, this woman is reputed to be a worker of magic and old power - despite his residence in a run down hut in the wastelands.
Few know anything about her, save that she will give out simple magic trinkets, directions to ancient and lost ruins or advice on tackling mighty foes. But there is a price, regardless of sex or age, you'll be drawn into her bed for the night.
St: -1 Ag: Md: 1 Ap: 2
Bwl: Mle: Msl: Dfc: 2
Sorceress: 1 Alchemist: 1
Robes, staff
The penant pilgrim
Sentenced to seek a far off, long forgotten shrine to the godsmith, Yrzlak, for a crime he hardly remembers, this pilgrim has been travelling for a long time.
Along the way he's heard many tales and knows all manner of lore and news.
St: 1 Ag: -1 Md: 1 Ap: 1
Bwl: 1 Mle: Msl: Dfc: 1
Farmer: 1 Bard: 1
Short bow, travelling cloack
The cloistered scribbler
Obviously a scribe - from the ink stained fingers, the constant squint and the sallow skin - he's made name as one of the better scribblers in Arn. Considering some 85 per cent of the League can't read or write, this might not be saying all that much though...
Born the son of a simple trader he was given to the Great Library aged five, when it became obvious he was smarted than he seemed.
For the past 25 years he has hardly ventured out of the cloistered library.
St: - Ag: -1 Md: 3 Ap:
Bwl: Mle: Msl: Dfc: 2
Scribe: 1 Merchant: 1
Robes, inks and writing materials.
The rural healer
This priestess of Afyra has served the lady of healing for longer than most people live. Wise in the ways of healing she has travelled from township to township and household to household, caring for the sick, assisting in births and preaching that men do good to one another.
For the most part she lives on the charity of those that she helps.
She avoids the Arnian cities, fearing the rough justice of the Council because she has long been a voice against their Draconian rules and abuse of power and knows full well that they slay anyone who speaks against them - even old women.
St: -1 Ag: -1 Md: 2 Ap: 1
Bwl: Mle: Msl: 1 Dfc: 1
Priest: 1
Healer: 1
Staff, short bow, travelling gear and various potions.
The cunning soldier
A stout soldier of fortune, a curiouser and fighter with the best of them: he just as likely to be seen buying ale for others as he is in the shield wall.
In reality this mercenary is in fact an operative for the rival kingdom of Tyr-Sog. The Sark, Osric has spent almost a decade training up his intelligence services and this man is one of them.
Once an officer with the Tyr Household infantry he was picked for "special duty" early and now roams enemy lands in the guise as a simple sell sword, all the while reporting back to his masters.
St: 1 Ag: Md: 1 Ap:
Bwl: 2 Mle: Msl: Dfc:
Soldier: 1
Thief: 1
Long sword, shield, helm, light armour
The dutiful daughter:
Once this lass was the eldest daughter of a large and industrious merchant family. Her father had his eyes on marrying into the upper crust of Arnian society and quickly married her off to the first struggling noble he could find.
The clammy-handed slug in question just happened to the main tax collector and was well connected, meaning no one cared that he beat his young wife or regularly amused himself with young slave boys.
Unable to take it any more, she fled - leaving a dagger buried in her husband's eye socket, and joined the first band of robbers, bandits and footpads she found.
First she was a simply fighter, then the bandit leader's lover and finally the leader herself.
St: 1 Ag: 1 Md: Ap:
Bwl: 1 Mle: 1 Msl: Dfc:
Noble: 1 Mercenary 1
Sword, dagger, very light armour
The ambitious prizefighter
This fighter started his life as a tribesman on the Plains of Phut until the slavers came - his new wife and son were killed and he was dragged to Arn in chains and put to work in the salt mines until he killed one of the overseers in a fist fight.
Rather than a quick death he was taken to Arn and put in the sand circle, fighting barehanded - while not as glorious as the great arena, the fights always sold out.
A solid string of wins won him his freedom and now he hopes he can continue to advance in polite society until he finds the man responsible for his enslavement.
St: 2 Ag: 1 Md: Ap: -1
Bwl: 2 Mle: Msl: Dfc:
Slave: 1 Gladiator: 1
Silver studded Cestus fighting gloves. Villa and slaves.
The reluctant executioner
The Arnian League is governed by a council of 12, over an assembly of 120 who appointed two Epur - or generals. The Leaguers like to pretend they live by a democracy where everyone is free. In reality they don't even have the trappings of democracy and the council is made up old men who hold their positions for life and the assembly does what it's told.
The two Euprs however are required to run the army and keep the peace and can't get aspirations beyond their station.
Which is what happened in this case - the former brilliant general has been appointed Lord High Executioner and meets out the council's judgement as a "reward" for speaking out against his superiors.
St: 1 Ag: Md: Ap: 1
Bwl: Mle:2 Msl: Dfc:
Soldier: 1 Executioner: 1
Great sword, black robes.
The tired pit fighter
This gladiator has been fighting on the sands, before the cheering (and jeering) crowds of Arn for far too long.
He's killed close companions and watched others died during the 10 long years he's been enslaved and slowly he's coming apart at the seems.
And now he wants out.
St: Ag: 1 Md: -1 Ap: 2
Bwl: Mle: 2 Msl: -1 Dfc: 1
Gladiator: 2
Paired short swords (d6 each), spiked gauntlets, helm.
The hired slayer
This beauty does her best work under the cover of darkness - no, not that work. Rather this lady of shadows is a skilled and cunning assassin who plies her trade for the various nobles and factions that vie for supremacy in the Arnian League.
It is whispered that she was once the daughter of a noble house herself, or a royal concubine who broke free from her restrictive life and found a taste for danger.
St: Ag: 1 Md: Ap: 1
Bwl: Mle: Msl: 1 Dfc: 1
Assassin: 1 Dancer: 1
Brace of daggers, garote , poisons, lock picks
The robber knight
Second sons are useless. At least that's what this lad's father told him from day one. Born the second son of a minor Arnian house he left his father's holdings aged 17 with little more than a trained war kroark, his weapons, his armour and his squire.
Since then he's made his living by his sword, fighting as a mercenary for and against the various feuding princelings that make up borderlands.
Even years of constant battle have not dulled his sense of honour and fairness however/
St: 2 Ag: Md: Ap:
Bwl: Mle: 1 Msl: 1 Dfc:
Mercenary: 1 Noble: 1
Heavy armour (d6) and helm, Sword, lance, crossbow.
The willful witch
It is said adventurers crossing the barren hill lands to the north of the city of Arn might run into this woman. Coldly beautiful with a voice like amber wine and dancing eyes, this woman is reputed to be a worker of magic and old power - despite his residence in a run down hut in the wastelands.
Few know anything about her, save that she will give out simple magic trinkets, directions to ancient and lost ruins or advice on tackling mighty foes. But there is a price, regardless of sex or age, you'll be drawn into her bed for the night.
St: -1 Ag: Md: 1 Ap: 2
Bwl: Mle: Msl: Dfc: 2
Sorceress: 1 Alchemist: 1
Robes, staff
The penant pilgrim
Sentenced to seek a far off, long forgotten shrine to the godsmith, Yrzlak, for a crime he hardly remembers, this pilgrim has been travelling for a long time.
Along the way he's heard many tales and knows all manner of lore and news.
St: 1 Ag: -1 Md: 1 Ap: 1
Bwl: 1 Mle: Msl: Dfc: 1
Farmer: 1 Bard: 1
Short bow, travelling cloack
The cloistered scribbler
Obviously a scribe - from the ink stained fingers, the constant squint and the sallow skin - he's made name as one of the better scribblers in Arn. Considering some 85 per cent of the League can't read or write, this might not be saying all that much though...
Born the son of a simple trader he was given to the Great Library aged five, when it became obvious he was smarted than he seemed.
For the past 25 years he has hardly ventured out of the cloistered library.
St: - Ag: -1 Md: 3 Ap:
Bwl: Mle: Msl: Dfc: 2
Scribe: 1 Merchant: 1
Robes, inks and writing materials.
The rural healer
This priestess of Afyra has served the lady of healing for longer than most people live. Wise in the ways of healing she has travelled from township to township and household to household, caring for the sick, assisting in births and preaching that men do good to one another.
For the most part she lives on the charity of those that she helps.
She avoids the Arnian cities, fearing the rough justice of the Council because she has long been a voice against their Draconian rules and abuse of power and knows full well that they slay anyone who speaks against them - even old women.
St: -1 Ag: -1 Md: 2 Ap: 1
Bwl: Mle: Msl: 1 Dfc: 1
Priest: 1
Healer: 1
Staff, short bow, travelling gear and various potions.
The cunning soldier
A stout soldier of fortune, a curiouser and fighter with the best of them: he just as likely to be seen buying ale for others as he is in the shield wall.
In reality this mercenary is in fact an operative for the rival kingdom of Tyr-Sog. The Sark, Osric has spent almost a decade training up his intelligence services and this man is one of them.
Once an officer with the Tyr Household infantry he was picked for "special duty" early and now roams enemy lands in the guise as a simple sell sword, all the while reporting back to his masters.
St: 1 Ag: Md: 1 Ap:
Bwl: 2 Mle: Msl: Dfc:
Soldier: 1
Thief: 1
Long sword, shield, helm, light armour
The dutiful daughter:
Once this lass was the eldest daughter of a large and industrious merchant family. Her father had his eyes on marrying into the upper crust of Arnian society and quickly married her off to the first struggling noble he could find.
The clammy-handed slug in question just happened to the main tax collector and was well connected, meaning no one cared that he beat his young wife or regularly amused himself with young slave boys.
Unable to take it any more, she fled - leaving a dagger buried in her husband's eye socket, and joined the first band of robbers, bandits and footpads she found.
First she was a simply fighter, then the bandit leader's lover and finally the leader herself.
St: 1 Ag: 1 Md: Ap:
Bwl: 1 Mle: 1 Msl: Dfc:
Noble: 1 Mercenary 1
Sword, dagger, very light armour
The ambitious prizefighter
This fighter started his life as a tribesman on the Plains of Phut until the slavers came - his new wife and son were killed and he was dragged to Arn in chains and put to work in the salt mines until he killed one of the overseers in a fist fight.
Rather than a quick death he was taken to Arn and put in the sand circle, fighting barehanded - while not as glorious as the great arena, the fights always sold out.
A solid string of wins won him his freedom and now he hopes he can continue to advance in polite society until he finds the man responsible for his enslavement.
St: 2 Ag: 1 Md: Ap: -1
Bwl: 2 Mle: Msl: Dfc:
Slave: 1 Gladiator: 1
Silver studded Cestus fighting gloves. Villa and slaves.
The reluctant executioner
The Arnian League is governed by a council of 12, over an assembly of 120 who appointed two Epur - or generals. The Leaguers like to pretend they live by a democracy where everyone is free. In reality they don't even have the trappings of democracy and the council is made up old men who hold their positions for life and the assembly does what it's told.
The two Euprs however are required to run the army and keep the peace and can't get aspirations beyond their station.
Which is what happened in this case - the former brilliant general has been appointed Lord High Executioner and meets out the council's judgement as a "reward" for speaking out against his superiors.
St: 1 Ag: Md: Ap: 1
Bwl: Mle:2 Msl: Dfc:
Soldier: 1 Executioner: 1
Great sword, black robes.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
BoL: an NPC for every game
I love a back story. From every character I create to the NPCs that inhabit my worlds, I like everyone to have a bit of a motivation and a life outside of the 20 seconds they're "on screen".
Of course the trick is to make sure you don't become too attached to your NPCs - what happens if they die, the pcs never eve speak to them, etc?
At the same time, it can shit the pcs to tears if every blacksmith they run into is a retired fighter and every inn keeper has an ancient family curse and a kidnapped daughter.
So, a fine balance is needed.
But just for funzies: I've thrown together a list of quick and dirty BoL NPCs.
The gimpy merc
This experienced sell sword has seen it all. At some point during his career he suffered a horrible leg injury and is now reduced to a hobble. Now he mainly takes the low rent jobs: caravan work, body guarding, etc, and has been forced to become canny and wily to survive.
St: 2 Ag: -1 Mn: 1 Ap: 0
Bwl: 0 Mle: 2 Msl: 0 Dfc: 0
Mercenary: 2
Protection: d6 (medium armour & shield)
Sword (d6+2)
LB: 10
Desert raider
A member of one of the nomadic clans that prowl the desert outside Oxy. He and his small band have been forced to raiding caravans and travellers to survive.
St: 0 Ag: 2 Mn: 0 Ap: 0
Bwl: 0 Mle: 1 Msl: 1 Dfc: 0
Barbarian: 1 Hunter: 1
Protection: none
Sword, d6, bow, dagger
LB: 9
Adept of the death god
Sworn to the Grand Temple of Nemmereth in Oxy, this young Adapt is in her first few years of training. Children are given over to the temple at a young age or taken from the orphanages by the priests to serve and will spend many years learning the secret rituals and rites.
St: 0 Ag: Mn: 2 Ap: 0
Bwl: 1 Mle:0 Msl: 0 Dfc: 1
Priest: 1
Scribe: 1
Protection: none
Black robes, holy symbol, staff
LB: 8
Temple Guard
The priesthood rules the city through fear but enforces its rules and regulation through the thousand strong Temple Guard. These "Swordsmen of the Long Sleep" are experts at using the great, two handed swords of their order and wear long dark robes under their iron breastplates and helms.
They might not care for Nemmereth but they are totally devoted to their mistress, the High Priestess.
St: 2 Ag: 1 (0) Mn: -1 Ap: 0
Bwl: 0 Mle: 1 Msl: 0 Dfc: 1
Soldier: 1
Priest: 1
Protection: Heavy armour (d6) and helm.
Two handed sword, (d6+3) short sword.
LB: 10
Free trader
This greasy tub of lard serves no master and knows full well that all laws are only there to be broken. He trades with the city of Oxy, the desert nomads and even the far-off Plainsmen, buying, selling and trading gems, fine ivory, wooden furniture, spices and silver hilted swords cunningly made by dark skinned smiths in the shadow of the Fire Mountains.
St: 0 Ag: 0 Mn: 1 Ap: 1
Bwl: 1 Mle: 0 Msl: 0 Dfc: 1
Merchant: 2
Protection: Fur-lined robes and cape. (1)
Sling, club.
LB: 8
Street thief
She's just a wee lass that should still be at home helping her ma, but she's already carved out an excellent reputation as a pickpocket and pilferer.
Raised on the streets and hardened by the tough life she's found there, this thief is an expert at her trade.
St: -1 Ag: 3 Mn: 0 Ap: 0
Bwl: 0 Mle: 0 Msl: 1 Dfc: 1
Thief: 2
Beggar: 0
Dagger, rags.
LB: 6
Tomb raider
Oxy is built on the ruins of a far older city which is rife for plundering. Every year, thousands of tomb raiders descend into the catacombs seeking riches and fame. Few return.
St: 1 Ag: 1 Mn: 1 Ap: -1
Bwl: 1 Mle: 0 Msl: Dfc: 1
Thief: 1
Mercenary: 1
Proection: d6-2 (light armour)
Short sword (d6+1), crossbow, climbing gear, thieves tools.
Lifeblood: 9
Temple prostitute
While the temple of death holds supreme, other gods are still worshiped in Oxy. Temples ofLilandra "the Seductress, Goddess of Love" tend of resemble high-class whorehouses.
They regularly host services that revolve around getting your gear off. 13 temple prostitutes, all beautiful women aged between 16 and 32, are always on hand.
St: -1 Ag: 1 Mn: 0 Ap: 2
Bwl: 1 Mle: 0 Msl: Dfc: 1
Dancer: 1
Prostitute: 1
Jewellery. They don't wear anything else...
Lifeblood: 5
Ranger
This huntsman from one of the small communities outside Oxy ranges through the arid lands with his bow.
An expert at surviving the rocky barrens he feels very out of place on the few occasions he finds himself inside the city walls.
St: 2 Ag: 1 Mn: 0 Ap: -1
Bwl: 1 Mle: 0 Msl: 1 Dfc: 0
Hunter: 2
Bow, knife, woodsman's' axe.
LB 10
Mageling
With great power comes great responsibility. Or so they say. This young sorcerer is only just out of his apprentice robes but reckons he knows it all.
From a noble house he was packed off to study with a wizard when his talent became apparent.
Now he's out to prove his worth.
St: -1 Ag: Mn: 2 Ap: 1
Bwl:0 Mle:0 Msl:0 Dfc: 2
Sorcer: 1
Scribe: 1
Robes, staff.
LB: 8
Tavern keeper
When you order an ale - you ask this lady very nicely. A former sellsword she settled down to run a local tavern. She keeps the place ship shape and is more than happy to spill the latest gossip or just bore you with tales of her day soldiering.
St: 1 Ag: 0 Mn:0 Ap: 1
Bwl: 1 Mle: 1 Msl:0 Dfc:0
Soldier: 1 Merchant: 1
Tavern. Sword (kept under the bar)'
LB: 7
Noble scion
This strutting peacock is the heir to a vast fortune and lives in the lap of luxury in the Tower quarter.
He doesn't mind occasionally slumming it by touring the lower class dives to see how the other half lives, but spends most of his time enjoying himself.
St: 0 Ag: 0 Mn:0 Ap: 2
Bwl: 0 Mle: 1 Msl:0 Dfc:1
Noble: 2
d6-2 (light armour), duelling sword.
LB: 6
Of course the trick is to make sure you don't become too attached to your NPCs - what happens if they die, the pcs never eve speak to them, etc?
At the same time, it can shit the pcs to tears if every blacksmith they run into is a retired fighter and every inn keeper has an ancient family curse and a kidnapped daughter.
So, a fine balance is needed.
But just for funzies: I've thrown together a list of quick and dirty BoL NPCs.
The gimpy merc
This experienced sell sword has seen it all. At some point during his career he suffered a horrible leg injury and is now reduced to a hobble. Now he mainly takes the low rent jobs: caravan work, body guarding, etc, and has been forced to become canny and wily to survive.
St: 2 Ag: -1 Mn: 1 Ap: 0
Bwl: 0 Mle: 2 Msl: 0 Dfc: 0
Mercenary: 2
Protection: d6 (medium armour & shield)
Sword (d6+2)
LB: 10
Desert raider
A member of one of the nomadic clans that prowl the desert outside Oxy. He and his small band have been forced to raiding caravans and travellers to survive.
St: 0 Ag: 2 Mn: 0 Ap: 0
Bwl: 0 Mle: 1 Msl: 1 Dfc: 0
Barbarian: 1 Hunter: 1
Protection: none
Sword, d6, bow, dagger
LB: 9
Adept of the death god
Sworn to the Grand Temple of Nemmereth in Oxy, this young Adapt is in her first few years of training. Children are given over to the temple at a young age or taken from the orphanages by the priests to serve and will spend many years learning the secret rituals and rites.
St: 0 Ag: Mn: 2 Ap: 0
Bwl: 1 Mle:0 Msl: 0 Dfc: 1
Priest: 1
Scribe: 1
Protection: none
Black robes, holy symbol, staff
LB: 8
Temple Guard
The priesthood rules the city through fear but enforces its rules and regulation through the thousand strong Temple Guard. These "Swordsmen of the Long Sleep" are experts at using the great, two handed swords of their order and wear long dark robes under their iron breastplates and helms.
They might not care for Nemmereth but they are totally devoted to their mistress, the High Priestess.
St: 2 Ag: 1 (0) Mn: -1 Ap: 0
Bwl: 0 Mle: 1 Msl: 0 Dfc: 1
Soldier: 1
Priest: 1
Protection: Heavy armour (d6) and helm.
Two handed sword, (d6+3) short sword.
LB: 10
Free trader
This greasy tub of lard serves no master and knows full well that all laws are only there to be broken. He trades with the city of Oxy, the desert nomads and even the far-off Plainsmen, buying, selling and trading gems, fine ivory, wooden furniture, spices and silver hilted swords cunningly made by dark skinned smiths in the shadow of the Fire Mountains.
St: 0 Ag: 0 Mn: 1 Ap: 1
Bwl: 1 Mle: 0 Msl: 0 Dfc: 1
Merchant: 2
Protection: Fur-lined robes and cape. (1)
Sling, club.
LB: 8
Street thief
She's just a wee lass that should still be at home helping her ma, but she's already carved out an excellent reputation as a pickpocket and pilferer.
Raised on the streets and hardened by the tough life she's found there, this thief is an expert at her trade.
St: -1 Ag: 3 Mn: 0 Ap: 0
Bwl: 0 Mle: 0 Msl: 1 Dfc: 1
Thief: 2
Beggar: 0
Dagger, rags.
LB: 6
Tomb raider
Oxy is built on the ruins of a far older city which is rife for plundering. Every year, thousands of tomb raiders descend into the catacombs seeking riches and fame. Few return.
St: 1 Ag: 1 Mn: 1 Ap: -1
Bwl: 1 Mle: 0 Msl: Dfc: 1
Thief: 1
Mercenary: 1
Proection: d6-2 (light armour)
Short sword (d6+1), crossbow, climbing gear, thieves tools.
Lifeblood: 9
Temple prostitute
While the temple of death holds supreme, other gods are still worshiped in Oxy. Temples ofLilandra "the Seductress, Goddess of Love" tend of resemble high-class whorehouses.
They regularly host services that revolve around getting your gear off. 13 temple prostitutes, all beautiful women aged between 16 and 32, are always on hand.
St: -1 Ag: 1 Mn: 0 Ap: 2
Bwl: 1 Mle: 0 Msl: Dfc: 1
Dancer: 1
Prostitute: 1
Jewellery. They don't wear anything else...
Lifeblood: 5
Ranger
This huntsman from one of the small communities outside Oxy ranges through the arid lands with his bow.
An expert at surviving the rocky barrens he feels very out of place on the few occasions he finds himself inside the city walls.
St: 2 Ag: 1 Mn: 0 Ap: -1
Bwl: 1 Mle: 0 Msl: 1 Dfc: 0
Hunter: 2
Bow, knife, woodsman's' axe.
LB 10
Mageling
With great power comes great responsibility. Or so they say. This young sorcerer is only just out of his apprentice robes but reckons he knows it all.
From a noble house he was packed off to study with a wizard when his talent became apparent.
Now he's out to prove his worth.
St: -1 Ag: Mn: 2 Ap: 1
Bwl:0 Mle:0 Msl:0 Dfc: 2
Sorcer: 1
Scribe: 1
Robes, staff.
LB: 8
Tavern keeper
When you order an ale - you ask this lady very nicely. A former sellsword she settled down to run a local tavern. She keeps the place ship shape and is more than happy to spill the latest gossip or just bore you with tales of her day soldiering.
St: 1 Ag: 0 Mn:0 Ap: 1
Bwl: 1 Mle: 1 Msl:0 Dfc:0
Soldier: 1 Merchant: 1
Tavern. Sword (kept under the bar)'
LB: 7
Noble scion
This strutting peacock is the heir to a vast fortune and lives in the lap of luxury in the Tower quarter.
He doesn't mind occasionally slumming it by touring the lower class dives to see how the other half lives, but spends most of his time enjoying himself.
St: 0 Ag: 0 Mn:0 Ap: 2
Bwl: 0 Mle: 1 Msl:0 Dfc:1
Noble: 2
d6-2 (light armour), duelling sword.
LB: 6
Sunday, April 11, 2010
BoL NPC: Nerreus the Bonerattler
Marr ran a hand through his ragged beard absently hunting a louse. He used his other hand to balance his spear over his right shoulder.
The bandit was sick of this patrolling, who did Mulo think would be hunting their band up here in the high woods, anyway?
Glancing back to where his four companions walked behind him he bestowed a gap-toothed grin.
"Not long now me lads," he said.
"Back to the camp in an hour or two and we can get back to the real business, eh?"
Coarse laughter from the other bandits greeted his jest.
With idle thoughts about the captive girl he'd had the night before, the brigand continued to stride on.
They'd raided a small village the week before, putting the men to the sword and taking most of the women and children.
The poor wretches were bound for the slave market in Arn but they'd be sorely used by the band of bandits before they got there.
"But I want that fat one, this time," one of his men called out.
The laughter began a new. But something was ahead made Marr raise his free hand to call a halt.
Something was wrong.
"Felaz? Grom? Where are you bastards?" he called to the two scouts ahead.
When there was no answer he unslung his spear. Like most of the men under his command Marr was clad in a mix-mash of armour: leather breastplate, bronze greaves and other off casts he'd stolen or found over the years.
His short sword hung at his side, clad in the pricey leather scabard he'd taken from a caravan trader two winters ago.
Suddenly there was a high pitched TWANG and a scream from behind him. Spinning around Marr could see one of his men had sprouted an arrow from his right eye.
The bandit sunk to the ground, while his hands twitched impotently.
Before Marr could yell for his men to scatter the twang of the bowstring rang out again and his brother Lemi clutching an the missile that had penetrated his upper chest.
Charging towards the tree line where the arrows had come from Marr let out a blood curdling howl. He'd spent six years as a spearman with the Tyr-Sogian army before an incident involving a dead whore and a scheming pimp had forced him into banditry and he knew the only way to survive this encounter was to attack.
Behind him his men had finally been forced into action and were following suit.
A gaunt man stepped from the treeline, arrow knocked and string drawn back to his shoulder.
A third bandit died and the mysterious man stepped forward to meet them.
He was dressed in good quality but dirt hunters' garb and tall, much taller than Marr but gaunt almost to the point of being skeletal.
But what captured the bandit's eye was the enormous sword the man was drawing from a sheath over his shoulder.
Unlike his own short and those used by most soldier - double edged, straight and usually less than 50 centimetres - this blade was huge.
It was much longer than any blade he'd heard of - except maybe those in the far north, and only had a single cutting edge.
The mere sight of the blade and the evil grin on the swordsman's face made the experienced fighter start to draw up, letting his spear point drop.
His companion had no such problems and continued to charge forward, his own short pulled back for a low thrust and his wooden shield held high.
The man stepped forward, that huge blade moving almost too quickly to see as it looped down and then suddenly up.
There was a sudden fountain of blood and the bandit was looking down at the red, spurting stump where his sword hand once was. Before he could even react the sword flicked back around almost effortlessly cleaving through hair, skin, skull and brain.
Almost totally detached Marr noticed how the warrior was able to wield the large sword both single and double handed.
He turned that blade on Marr then. Still smiling that chilling grin, the tall warrior slashed, catching him across the arm.
The bandit pulled back, thrusting his spear at his opponent only to have it knocked effortlessly aside.
He saw the mocking grin as the sword hilt swung around and smashed into his temple, drowning him in darkness.
Later he awoke with a horrible ringing in his head and a fierce, red pain along his shoulder. He was laying on the grass, a heavy hempen rope binding his hands and feet together.
"Ah, good. You're awake," a voice said with a heavy accent.
The grinning swordsman stepped into his view, the long sword once more sheathed over his back. Now he gripped a long, thin rod of blackened metal.
A fire lay, crackling behind him. Further back Marr could see the piled corpses of his men.
Squatting down beside the fire the man thrust the rod deep into the flames and left it there.
"My name is Nerreus. You may know me as the Bonerattler," he said in that funny accent.
Nerreus? Marr knew that name - what bandit or rogue didn't. Nerreus the hunter - the Bonerattler.
He let out a low whimper. It would have been better to die with a sword or spear in hand than the way he was going to go.
"You're going to tell me exactly where the rest of you are," the Bonerattler said pulling the object from the fire.
"I've got a whole list of questions."
The rod was glowing white hot.
Marr screamed.
Nerreus the Bonerattler
Strength 3
Agility 1
Mind 1
Appeal -1
Brawl 1
Melee 2
Ranged 1
Defence
Soldier 2
Blacksmith 0
Hunter (of men) 1
Torturer 1
Lifeblood: 13
Hero Points: 5
Medium armour (d6-1), -1 to agility. (Boiled leather cuirass, helm)
Long bow, dagger and Bonerattler* (Bastard sword), torture tools
Languages: Lemurian
Boons:
Tracker
Hard to kill
Flaws:
Unsettling
Nerreus, called the Bonerattler, started life as the son of a simple village blacksmith in a quiet corner of the kingdom of Tyr-Sog. From a young age he desired to be a soldier and when he reached the appropriate age his father took him to the nearest garrison town to apprentice him.
For more than a decade he served in various border clashes, eventually leading a company of spearmen.
After his stand at the Kibal pass, where he led a bitter rear guard action against overwhelming odds, Nerreus was granted a small plot of land near Tyr-Sog and released from service with honour.
Now a relatively wealthy freeman he settled down, took a local wife and decided to pursue his father's trade as a blacksmith.
With the rents from his land Nerreus did not need to work and the smithy was not much more than a hobby and his skills never really advanced much further than basic work.
His wife bore him two sons and a daughter and the family prospered until a band of masterless men, bandits and rogues came across their estate.
Nerreus had taken some of his wares to market earlier in the day and did not realise the danger until he saw dark smoke in the distance.
His wife, Lucrenza had been raped and killed, his children murdered along with most of his slaves.
No more the gentleman freeholder Nerreus went after the band. Within the month all 19 of them were dead and Nerreus had dedicated himself to hunting and finding such men.
Over the years he learnt the skills of tracking men and how to hurt them with fire, iron and water, to make them talk. He turned his arts at the forge towards creating instruments for interrogation and other objects of pain.
Several years after gaining his vengeance he took a contract on a disgraced warrior who had killed the son of an eastern noble in a drunken fight. The noble paid Nerreus with the bastard sword he now carries.
Made by smiths in hot, far off eastern lands the sword is long and curved and unlike the short swords of the northern kingdoms.
Over the years men began to call Nerreus the Bonerattler - maybe because he makes even a stout swordsman's bones rattle in fear or because of the things he can do to you with hot irons that will make them rattle in fear.
The hunter has also taken that name for his unusual sword.
His constant hunt for evil doers has left him a bitter man with no taste for pity or compassion. Once a happy, care free young man he has turned into a cruel, uncaring man in his 40s.
A lifetime of killing and hunting has turned his grim face into a hatchwork of scars and old wounds over leather-like skin.
* The Bonerattler is a bastard sword that can be either used two handed or one handed if the wielder has the right training. It's very well made and legend has it that the blade was dipped in a red haired slave's urine (or blood, depending on the story) on a full moon.
Therefore it always deals +1 damage on top of whatever damaged rolled.
Strange, wispy runes adore its hilt and pommel and the scabbard is made of black, lacquered wood.
It resembles a Japanese Katana
The bandit was sick of this patrolling, who did Mulo think would be hunting their band up here in the high woods, anyway?
Glancing back to where his four companions walked behind him he bestowed a gap-toothed grin.
"Not long now me lads," he said.
"Back to the camp in an hour or two and we can get back to the real business, eh?"
Coarse laughter from the other bandits greeted his jest.
With idle thoughts about the captive girl he'd had the night before, the brigand continued to stride on.
They'd raided a small village the week before, putting the men to the sword and taking most of the women and children.
The poor wretches were bound for the slave market in Arn but they'd be sorely used by the band of bandits before they got there.
"But I want that fat one, this time," one of his men called out.
The laughter began a new. But something was ahead made Marr raise his free hand to call a halt.
Something was wrong.
"Felaz? Grom? Where are you bastards?" he called to the two scouts ahead.
When there was no answer he unslung his spear. Like most of the men under his command Marr was clad in a mix-mash of armour: leather breastplate, bronze greaves and other off casts he'd stolen or found over the years.
His short sword hung at his side, clad in the pricey leather scabard he'd taken from a caravan trader two winters ago.
Suddenly there was a high pitched TWANG and a scream from behind him. Spinning around Marr could see one of his men had sprouted an arrow from his right eye.
The bandit sunk to the ground, while his hands twitched impotently.
Before Marr could yell for his men to scatter the twang of the bowstring rang out again and his brother Lemi clutching an the missile that had penetrated his upper chest.
Charging towards the tree line where the arrows had come from Marr let out a blood curdling howl. He'd spent six years as a spearman with the Tyr-Sogian army before an incident involving a dead whore and a scheming pimp had forced him into banditry and he knew the only way to survive this encounter was to attack.
Behind him his men had finally been forced into action and were following suit.
A gaunt man stepped from the treeline, arrow knocked and string drawn back to his shoulder.
A third bandit died and the mysterious man stepped forward to meet them.
He was dressed in good quality but dirt hunters' garb and tall, much taller than Marr but gaunt almost to the point of being skeletal.
But what captured the bandit's eye was the enormous sword the man was drawing from a sheath over his shoulder.
Unlike his own short and those used by most soldier - double edged, straight and usually less than 50 centimetres - this blade was huge.
It was much longer than any blade he'd heard of - except maybe those in the far north, and only had a single cutting edge.
The mere sight of the blade and the evil grin on the swordsman's face made the experienced fighter start to draw up, letting his spear point drop.
His companion had no such problems and continued to charge forward, his own short pulled back for a low thrust and his wooden shield held high.
The man stepped forward, that huge blade moving almost too quickly to see as it looped down and then suddenly up.
There was a sudden fountain of blood and the bandit was looking down at the red, spurting stump where his sword hand once was. Before he could even react the sword flicked back around almost effortlessly cleaving through hair, skin, skull and brain.
Almost totally detached Marr noticed how the warrior was able to wield the large sword both single and double handed.
He turned that blade on Marr then. Still smiling that chilling grin, the tall warrior slashed, catching him across the arm.
The bandit pulled back, thrusting his spear at his opponent only to have it knocked effortlessly aside.
He saw the mocking grin as the sword hilt swung around and smashed into his temple, drowning him in darkness.
Later he awoke with a horrible ringing in his head and a fierce, red pain along his shoulder. He was laying on the grass, a heavy hempen rope binding his hands and feet together.
"Ah, good. You're awake," a voice said with a heavy accent.
The grinning swordsman stepped into his view, the long sword once more sheathed over his back. Now he gripped a long, thin rod of blackened metal.
A fire lay, crackling behind him. Further back Marr could see the piled corpses of his men.
Squatting down beside the fire the man thrust the rod deep into the flames and left it there.
"My name is Nerreus. You may know me as the Bonerattler," he said in that funny accent.
Nerreus? Marr knew that name - what bandit or rogue didn't. Nerreus the hunter - the Bonerattler.
He let out a low whimper. It would have been better to die with a sword or spear in hand than the way he was going to go.
"You're going to tell me exactly where the rest of you are," the Bonerattler said pulling the object from the fire.
"I've got a whole list of questions."
The rod was glowing white hot.
Marr screamed.
Nerreus the Bonerattler
Strength 3
Agility 1
Mind 1
Appeal -1
Brawl 1
Melee 2
Ranged 1
Defence
Soldier 2
Blacksmith 0
Hunter (of men) 1
Torturer 1
Lifeblood: 13
Hero Points: 5
Medium armour (d6-1), -1 to agility. (Boiled leather cuirass, helm)
Long bow, dagger and Bonerattler* (Bastard sword), torture tools
Languages: Lemurian
Boons:
Tracker
Hard to kill
Flaws:
Unsettling
Nerreus, called the Bonerattler, started life as the son of a simple village blacksmith in a quiet corner of the kingdom of Tyr-Sog. From a young age he desired to be a soldier and when he reached the appropriate age his father took him to the nearest garrison town to apprentice him.
For more than a decade he served in various border clashes, eventually leading a company of spearmen.
After his stand at the Kibal pass, where he led a bitter rear guard action against overwhelming odds, Nerreus was granted a small plot of land near Tyr-Sog and released from service with honour.
Now a relatively wealthy freeman he settled down, took a local wife and decided to pursue his father's trade as a blacksmith.
With the rents from his land Nerreus did not need to work and the smithy was not much more than a hobby and his skills never really advanced much further than basic work.
His wife bore him two sons and a daughter and the family prospered until a band of masterless men, bandits and rogues came across their estate.
Nerreus had taken some of his wares to market earlier in the day and did not realise the danger until he saw dark smoke in the distance.
His wife, Lucrenza had been raped and killed, his children murdered along with most of his slaves.
No more the gentleman freeholder Nerreus went after the band. Within the month all 19 of them were dead and Nerreus had dedicated himself to hunting and finding such men.
Over the years he learnt the skills of tracking men and how to hurt them with fire, iron and water, to make them talk. He turned his arts at the forge towards creating instruments for interrogation and other objects of pain.
Several years after gaining his vengeance he took a contract on a disgraced warrior who had killed the son of an eastern noble in a drunken fight. The noble paid Nerreus with the bastard sword he now carries.
Made by smiths in hot, far off eastern lands the sword is long and curved and unlike the short swords of the northern kingdoms.
Over the years men began to call Nerreus the Bonerattler - maybe because he makes even a stout swordsman's bones rattle in fear or because of the things he can do to you with hot irons that will make them rattle in fear.
The hunter has also taken that name for his unusual sword.
His constant hunt for evil doers has left him a bitter man with no taste for pity or compassion. Once a happy, care free young man he has turned into a cruel, uncaring man in his 40s.
A lifetime of killing and hunting has turned his grim face into a hatchwork of scars and old wounds over leather-like skin.
* The Bonerattler is a bastard sword that can be either used two handed or one handed if the wielder has the right training. It's very well made and legend has it that the blade was dipped in a red haired slave's urine (or blood, depending on the story) on a full moon.
Therefore it always deals +1 damage on top of whatever damaged rolled.
Strange, wispy runes adore its hilt and pommel and the scabbard is made of black, lacquered wood.
It resembles a Japanese Katana
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
