Deep We Go
A Tiefling Driven By Revenge
TOTAL XP: 3874
Paragon Path: N/A
Epic Destiny: N/A
Adventuring Company: Deep We Go
Strength 19 (Mod +4)
Constitution 14 (Mod +2)
Dexterity 12 (Mod +1)
Intelligence 10 (Mod +0)
Wisdom 10 (Mod +0)
Charisma 12 (Mod +1)
Speed 6 (Base 6)
Passive Insight 12
Passive Perception 19
Surge Value 2
Saving Throw Mods: None
Resistances: +7 vs. Fire
Attack and Damage Workspace
|Dance of Steel||10||STR/AC||2d8+6|
Skill Training (Perception)
Weapon Focus (Scimitar
+1 w/ 1-Handed Weapons
Combat Challenge (Mark target on attack)
From a young age you travelled the Hearthlands with your father, seeing many strange things, hearing many strange tongues, and inuring yourself to culture shock in the process. You receive +1 to any check relating to geography, culture or language.
To your mind, being a tiefling is the ultimate shame for any Higher Spirit, and you find it difficult to befriend others of your race. Any skill checks in conversation or battle with other tieflings take a -1 penalty.
At-Will: Cleave, Reaping Strike
Encounter: Spinning Sweep, Infernal Wrath, Dance Of Steel
Daily: Brute Strike
1 x Jewelled Scimitar
Gold And Other Wealth
Ramnon is the son of Dogon, a male tiefling, and Alaya Damakos, a womannish of noble birth. He has never known true acceptance, even from his own father who saw him as a constant reminder of the decent children he could never bestow upon his wife.
The only flicker of what he assumed was love came from his mother’s smile; a fading memory from his youth. The earliest real memory he has is of a tall figure stooped over Alaya’s crumpled form and blood pooling at his feet. He remembers seeing the blood and being filled with such dark, swirling rage that most of the memory after that is hazy. The next thing he knew, he was running for his life beside his father.
Years passed. During that time, Ramnon learnt fighting skills from his father while they lived together in a small hut deep in the nourth-weastern forests. Dogon never spoke of Ramnon’s mother until the day before his eighteenth birthday.
“You are ready,” he said. “No-one knows your face. No-one knows your past. You must hunt down your mother’s murderer and destroy him, or be forever without honour.”
Dogon bestowed upon him the scimitar that they had been using for training, a bag of supplies, a handful of gold and a blood-stained scrap of coloured fabric, worn with age. When he asked what significance it held, his father told him that Ramnon had it clutched in his fist on the night his mother died. The statement begged no further questions, and Ramnon left the forest the next morning.
The Hearthlands were fascinating to him. He had never known there was such a diversity of creatures and places to be found yet, wherever he went, he was met with the same hostile expressions. He gradually became bitter and discovered that the best way for him to acquire information about his mother’s death was through intimidation and bloodshed. It was all anyone expected of him anyway.
One morning his investigations led him to the gates of Fallcrest, as a whimpering halfling had told him to seek out ‘the old man at the Consortium’. Before he had even begun his search, he found himself surrounded by armed guards telling him he had been summoned to the Panopticon. Curious, he had followed without raising his scimitar.
Inside the great building, he was led to a small room and asked to wait. An elderly mannish entered and smiled at him. Ramnon tried to smile back but had forgotten how. This didn’t seem to concern the mannish.
“I suppose you don’t recognise me,” the mannish had said. “Then again, I would not have recognised you. You have your father’s eyes.” The words were loaded, but Ramnon did not notice, still astonished that another being was being nice to him. The tiefling remained silent.
“I am your grandfather, child,” the man said. “And I need your help. I have heard that you are trying to avenge your mother’s death. I am trying to do the same.”
Had Ramnon any clue as to the complexities of a smile’s meaning, he would have been able to detect its deceit.
“What do you need of me?” Ramnon asked, the words rumbling across the cold, marble chamber.
The mannish told him of plots. Of secrets, of powerful enemies and a small, unassuming treasure, one that had to be kept hidden. Ramnon did not even notice the time passing, enraptured by the mannish’s words and by the suggestion that he was important, and had the destiny he had always craved.
How exactly this journey would help him avenge the death of his mother, Ramnon did not know. But for some reason, he trusted the mannish; he was family, after all. The man told Ramnon that a group of adventurers had entered the city, and that they had the treasure in their midst. They were unwittingly the agents of reason. The mannish, Lucan, asked that Ramnon find the group, convince of their folly, and persuade them to leave Fallcrest with the object. He was to protect them, and make sure that no harm came to the treasure.
He found the adventurers fighting in the Crampons, and when he saw them in peril a strange protective instinct took over. As he fought alongside these brave warriors, he saw their skills and was impressed, particularly with the dragonborn and the meg-wielding Eladrin, whose curious beauty did not elude him. He knew he could not allow those feelings to grow; he’d either be scorned by her for his advances or accepted, in which case their children would experience the same disdain that he had.