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Another random backstoryFollow

#1 Aug 28 2012 at 1:15 AM Rating: Excellent
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For yet another character I'll probably never get a chance to play because my roommates aren't very good at being ready to have more sessions for their campaigns. The character is a human fighter(Aldori Swordlord archetype) who will prestige class into Duelist(or Aldori Swordlord if it's any good). High Dex, High Int, good Con, Low Wis, mediocre Str and decent Cha.

Anya Anders wrote:

The artist sighed. Just as she had prepared to paint in the cerulean sky of her landscape, she discovered that she had run out of the blue pigment she would need to mix up the shade she wanted. She looked out the window of her small apartment at the shades of vermillion streaking the sky. It would be night soon. The market would be closing up within the next hour. At least she was fairly certain that a particular merchant would have what she needed if she got there before the man closed up shop for the night.
She didn’t bother to change out of her painter’s smock. She just pulled on a matching blue beret and coat, laced up her tall black boots and strapped on her sword belt – a young woman could never be too careful when traveling alone at night, even in Korvosa.
The sun had almost set when she reached the stall she sought. The proprietor, Praven, a large man of Vudrani descent, greeted her warmly and quickly helped her find what she sought. After leaving, she realized that she hadn’t eaten since morning. Luckily, she knew a place nearby that made an excellent stew.
Night had well and truly fallen when she began her journey home. Torches lit the city streets, which were sparsely traveled. She did pass the occasional Korvosan Guard patrol, as well as some members of the Sable Company heading to one tavern or another, but for the most part, she was alone on the street.
Which is why deciding to take a shortcut down a dark alley stood out as a monumentally foolish decision. Still, the artist weighed her decision for a moment and decided that the fifteen minutes it would shave off her trip was worth the risk.
It came as little surprise when a seedily dressed man stepped from the shadows. “Well now, what have we here? You seem to be in the wrong part of town, love. If you pay the toll, my friends and I will be happy to escort you to your destination.”
The artist spotted two others slinking from the shadows behind her out of the corner of her eye. “Sorry, but I don’t have much money left on me.” It was true, she had spent all but her last copper on her meal. “But I know the way. You need not trouble yourselves on my account.”
The lead man made a sound of disapproval. “That’s a shame. But I’m sure you can find another way to pay us,” he said, drawing his knife. The other men chuckled in agreement.
The artist sighed. “You’re making a mistake. My grandfather is Kirill Prokhor.”
The thug recognized the name. “The owner of that large dance academy in Magnimar? Well, now, this changes everything. Guess we won’t be leaving your corpse in a gutter after all. We’ll get a good ransom for this one, boys. After we’ve had our fun, of course.” The three men began advancing on the artist.
She drew her sword. “I would not recommend coming any closer. It seems that you misunderstood me.”
“A fancy sword,” the thug commented. “But a pretty sword doesn’t make one a better fighter.”
The artist just shrugged in response and took up a combat stance.
** * **
My name is Anya Anders. I grew up in the city of Magnimar on the southwestern coast of Varisia. My father passed away when I was five, killed by Orcish raiders while escorting a caravan from Korvosa. Mother and I moved in with her parents. Their house was large, so we had plenty of room.
When I turned six, Grandpa Kirill insisted that Mother enroll me in his dance academy. He told her that I would make a fine dancer, capable of finding work in any of dance troupe. In truth, all I wanted to do was draw, but Mother felt it was important to respect his wishes since he had opened his home to us.
If one suspected that I got special treatment as the granddaughter of the academy’s owner, they’d be correct. I was held to a much higher standard than any of the other students. Small mistakes that might have earned other students short scoldings resulted in harsh punishment for me. I can’t even guess how many of my evenings were spent scrubbing the floors of the dance hall or standing perfectly still for what seemed like hours with a bucket of water balanced on my head, knowing that if it fell, I would have to start over.
Despite the harshness of his training, it was my grandfather who most supported my desire to continue drawing. On my seventh birthday, he bought me my first set of painting supplies. Mother presented me with a finely made outfit like those worn by the artists in the city. Grandmother Anya, who I’m named after, bought me lessons with a local artist.
When I turned nine, Grandpa Kirill called me into his office. He told me that I was ready to begin special advanced training with him after my normal classes for the day had ended and ordered me to come to his office at the end of the day. I was unaware then what truly awaited me.
I arrived at his office as scheduled and he led me through a hidden door to a studio I had never seen. The walls were decorated with numerous swords. Grandpa Kirill later told me that those were trophies, the blades of those he had bested in combat. He explained to me that in his homeland, Brevoy, he had been a renowned swordmaster, but had been forced to leave in disgrace when he was bested by one of his rivals. He explained that he had chosen to pass his skills on to me, but that I could not tell anyone of our training.
He was a harsh master and on more than one occasion I suffered cuts, scrapes and bruises during my training. Those were always immediately treated by a cleric friend of his, someone he had known from the old country. Not so easily treated were the stings of his harsh insults. No matter how hard I trained, he was never satisfied. I wept many a night at the pain of his words.
Perhaps his favorite target was my choice of religion. A lover of art and music, I had chosen to worship Shelyn, goddess of beauty and love. The teachings of Desna’s followers also resonated with me, perhaps because I felt so trapped by my strict schedule, so I attended services by her clerics whenever they were passing through the city on their travels. Strangest of all, however, was my decision to also worship Cayden Cailean when I turned fifteen. Something about the Accidental God’s story and lover of adventure resonated with me, so I occasionally visited his shrines as well, despite the fact that most of them were in alehouses and most every visit risked the too friendly hands of drunken patrons. Thankfully my years of training as a dancer and swordswoman had taught me the skills I needed to easily dodge those unwanted advances.
Grandpa Kirill, on the other hand, was a devout follower of Abadar and felt that my choices were all sacrilege. Most of all, he hated my “inability to choose a religion”. While I endured his barbs at my shortcomings as a dancer and fighter, I was openly defiant when he belittled my religion. We had more than a few screaming matches about the subject. Looking back, I suspect that while he disagreed with my choices, he respected my unwillingness to back down.
On my eighteenth birthday, my mother got me a set of the highest quality brushes and paints money could buy. Grandmother Anya bought me several fine outfits made by the finest tailor in all of Magnimar. Grandpa Kirill waited to give me his gift until we met that day for my sword lesson.
When I arrived, he was waiting for me with his cleric friend and another young man I had never met. He presented me with my own blade. Its handle was inlaid with fine gold, my name was etched into the slightly curved blade with acid.
As I marveled at the exquisite craftsmanship of my new weapon, the young man drew a blade of his own. “Defend yourself!” he cried out in challenge. I barely raised the blade in time to block his slashing blow.
I kicked him in the stomach, knocking him back, then I looked at my grandfather, who simply said, “The challenge has been issued, you must accept it.” I nodded, figuring this for some kind of training. I unleashed a flurry of attacks, each wearing down the guard of my opponent more and more. He did not allow my attacks to go unanswered, retaliating with a series of calculated blows, several leaving me with shallow cuts across my flesh.
The pain was great, but I fought on. Eventually, I had worn him down to the point where I would clearly be called the victor. I told my opponent to yield, but he refused. “This fight is to the death!” he cried. I’m sure my eyes went wide at his words. In my shock, I missed parrying a low blow which opened a heavy wound on my stomach.
The blood flowing freely, I focused everything I had and delivered a series of blows to my opponent, each more devastating than the last. The final in the series did as I had intended, severing my foe’s hand from his arm, forcing him to drop his blade. I once again commanded him to yield. He responded by leaping for his sword and taking it up in his left hand.
My vision had blurred from the loss of blood. I knew at that moment that if I did not end it, I would die. So I did the only thing I could. I slashed with all my might. Albeit, that wasn’t much, but it was enough. I heard the sickening sound of his head hitting the floor moments before his body did the same. Grandpa Kirill cheered. I collapsed from my wounds.
I’m not sure how much later it was when I awoke, but all my wounds had been healed, likely the work of the cleric. What most surprised me, however, was the realization that the man I had fought before was alive as well. Apparently the cleric had revived him, a costly service, but for what purpose? Had this been simply some sort of training after all?
Grandpa Kirill never told me. He simply congratulated me on my victory and told me that he had nothing further he could teach me. I could be wrong, but I don’t think he’s ever looked more proud.
A month later, I moved to Korvosa, where some noble friends of my grandfather commissioned me to paint a number of portraits and landscapes to decorate their fancy homes.

** * **
The scene was grisly, that was for sure. Three men were dead, each with numerous wounds. Several of the younger members of the Korvosan Guard on the scene were stunned by the almost casual level of violence. Rumors of the killings had spread so quickly that the local magistrate had been forced to send one of his men to oversee the investigation. He quickly found the captain in charge.
“Tell me what happened here,” the investigator asked the guard captain.
“It appears to have been an attempted mugging. Those we’ve interrogated indicate that these three men commonly accosted people in this area, relieving them of their money and sometimes of their lives. Some women accused them of even worse, if you get my meaning.”
“So someone sought them out and killed them for it? Perhaps the husband of one of these women?”
“I wish it were that easy. It would certainly explain the apparent brutality of it all. But other evidence suggests something else happened here.”
“What other evidence?”
“Take a look at the footprints in the grime. The heavy boots of the men left scattered, chaotic prints. There’s a fourth set of footprints that tells a different tale. Each step seems deliberate, measured. And each of them is extremely light. If I didn’t know better, I’d tell you that they were completely unrelated, that someone had simply been dancing in this alley.”
“But you don’t think that’s the case?”
“No. I wish it were. When you combine the evidence of the footprints with the nature of each cut on the men, shallow slashes delivered to each man, likely in an effort to weaken them, you get a clear picture that I wish I wasn’t seeing.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see the picture. Care to illuminate it for me?”
“The footprints tell me that the person who killed these men is a master duelist. But most duelists around here use rapiers, which leave puncture wounds. There is, however, a single type of sword favored by certain duelists that is used to slash rather than stab. Tell me, have you ever been to Brevoy?”
“You can’t possibly mean what I think you mean.”
The captain nodded. “These men were killed by an Aldori Swordlord. If he’s the type of man to seek combat, this is only the first such scene we’ll see. It’s only a matter of time before more people start dying.”


I'm trying to leave her alignment vague so that she'll be capable of being played in just about any campaign.

Edited, Aug 28th 2012 2:38am by Poldaran
#2 Aug 28 2012 at 8:15 PM Rating: Excellent
Repressed Memories
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21,027 posts
The One and Only Poldaran wrote:
decent Cha.

The munchkin inside of me just cringed.
#3 Aug 28 2012 at 9:56 PM Rating: Excellent
Citizen's Arrest!
******
29,527 posts
Allegory wrote:
The One and Only Poldaran wrote:
decent Cha.

The munchkin inside of me just cringed.

As much as I know I should, I can never ever make a character without at least a 10 in Cha.
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