STR: 16        DEX: 14

INT: 17        CON: 14

WIS: 14        CHA: 13

Lawful-good. Male. Elf. 437 years old.

Athor Windhorse, third son of Matai Elmonath, blew on the steel blade. He drew his thumb across the edge. Satisfied at its razor-sharpness, he carefully slipped the sword into its sheath, tossing his whet-stone to the side. He tied his long, auburn hair back with a leather thong, strung his bow, shouldered his quiver, and bolted the door behind him. Just another day at guard duty.

Of the five sons of the Matai, Athor was the tallest and strongest. His eyes were firm, his voice strong and commanding. He fell into the role of captain easily at the young age of two hundred, and his men loved and honored him. He had always supposed that was easy to do on an island that hadn’t seen a stroke of violence in over five hundred years, but there were enough living elders to make well known the memories of the events leading to the Expulsion of the Children of Izlim.

The ruins of the Temple of Izlim still stood as a memorial, but would not be restored by decree of the Matai. Athor’s father claimed that the Shadow is a necessary element of life – we should recognize its presence and importance, but ever be mindful to keep the Shadow from becoming too powerful, too prominent. Athor nodded in the direction of the Temple of Izlim, acknowledging the god’s presence there but no more, and began his ascent of the mountain-side stair.

Two companies of guards greeted him at the summit, the now-departing night shift, and the incoming day. Athor carefully pushed aside thoughts in his mind – whether after five hundred years it might be time to reduce the number of elves put to duty each day and night. Fewer guards would mean more farmers. Athor was not an economist by any stretch of the imagination. He was a citizen of Elmonath first, a soldier second, and proud to be charged with protecting his home.

“Good day, Brethren!” he called, for all of the Children of the Gods called themselves such. “Reports from the outlooks state we appear to be drifting near the northern land-masses. We will keep a sharp eye, but we do not expect any troubles. Sword and spear drills will begin at highsun. Archery at nightfall.” An groan was heard from a younger guard. A sharp glance silenced him. “We will be taking on ten apprentices from the villages in six days. I will require all three-spear guard and above to be present at the choosing.”

A shout of pain was heard. All present broke attention to seek the source. A young guard, red-faced and breathless, scraped himself off the ground and ran at breakneck speed toward the Captain.

“M’lord… m’lord…” he choked. “A… a ship. From the northeast. It bears the mark of Izlim!”

Athor placed long fingered hands on the grey elf’s shoulders. “There, Brother. Slow down. There is one ship?”

The lad took a deep breath, exhaled, and began again. “We noticed it a short time ago, but it did not appear to be headed toward Elmonath. But it has gained speed – Q’ella is favoring them with her bitter winds! At first there was only one ship, but there appear to be shadows following at a distance. I did not stay long enough to hear whether they are more ships, or a plague of Shadow!”

Athor thought for a moment before speaking. “You may be correct on both counts. Continue down the mount. Inform Moen that his men must return to duty at highsun on my orders. Then, tell the Matai what you have told me.” He turned to the Guard, “I want double lookout at all posts. Battlemages along the East points. Two-spear Guard and below, send word to the villages and set post there until further orders.”

The prince turned toward the Sea. It had been five hundred years since a Child of Shadow had set foot on Elmonath –  that would not change this day. Not if he could help it.

Just another day at Guard duty.

STR: 12        DEX: 14

INT: 10        CON: 8

WIS: 15        CHA: 14

Lawful-Evil. Male. Human. 66 years old. (all decided by the Dice.)

The priest looked down his thin nose at his subject. The elf, shirtless and dirty, arms bound to the altar with thick leather straps, murmured prayers aloud. With each crack of the two-tailed whip, the mantras turned to shouts of agony. “You must praise the Shadow Lord through the pain, Konos. Know the lot the savage gods of Light have dealt your kind. Izlim wishes you always to remember your hate! Only by harnessing that hate can the Lord Izlim overtake the goddess and cast her into the sea!”

The elf-man’s deep grey flesh was streaked with blood that shone black in the moonlight. He gazed up to see the Lady’s rays mocking him through the iron-barred window. “Hail Izlim! God of the Night! Lord of the Shadows! Free your people, O my Father, from the dark caves where our children starve before they are grown! I pledge my blood! My pain! Let my agony nourish Thee!”

The last word rang out on the echo of the cracking whip. Konos fell unconscious against the altar, and the now satisfied priest wrapped up his weapon, and tossed back his hooded robe. Ice blue eyes reflected the moonlight, and a well-trimmed gray beard against skin dark as night absorbed it. Faintly one could make out the raised scars down the priest’s face – hairline to jaw, over each eye: The sign of his initiation so many years ago. Bel’or slammed the heavy iron door behind him, his heavy boots falling heavily on the flagstone path. The thunder had begun. It was not long now.

He stopped at a private altar not far from the prayer chambers – a small hollow in the rock – and whispered a request for strength. The priest bit hard the inside of his mouth, and spat his blood upon the rock in tribute before rising to meet the captain of the raid.

“I seek your blessing, Brother,” the Son of Shadow knelt before the priest.

“You will have it, when you return with the Ring. I trust you remember where it is kept?”

The dark elf nodded. “Aye, Brother. I remember your words well.”

Bel’or’s mouth twisted into a pleased smile. “Good. You will take your men to the village of Ban at the foot Kel’Morgha. Do as you please with the village and the creatures within, but you will bring me the ring from the Temple of Eosë.” The priest lifted his hood, and turned away. As the elf-captain rose, Bel’or stopped. “Oh, Dansk? Do not fail me. If you do, you fail your God, and life nor death will spare you the wrath of Izlim.”

Each day during the challenge, I will break out my dice and roll up a new character.

Here is how it will be done:

1. List each of the 6 Player Statistics: Strength, Dexterity, Intelligence, Wisdom, Constitution, and Charisma.

2. Roll 3d6 for each stat, right down the line. No number dropping, no re-rolling.

3. Create a detailed character back-story that matches the numbers rolled.

With any luck, the dice will provide me with a diverse group of new characters to populate the lovely land of Anithné.

******

Day 1.

STR: 4          DEX: 12

INT: 11        CON: 16

WIS: 11        CHA: 8

Well. A Strength of 4. We’re off to a great start. Oi. Thanks, dice.

According to the Player’s Handbook, anything with a STR of 5 or lower can only be a magic-user. Works for me.  With an INT of 11, he won’t be the next Merlin, but he’ll do. I can see the biggest challenge is going to be explaining such a low STR alongside a high CON.

Ashy etCalgar is a stout, barrel-chested man of 56 years. Not a troll, but not handsome either. He has a tangle of mousy brown hair and big, dark eyes with lashes any woman would covet. His face is freckled and lined with laughter, but the skin is smooth and free of scars and pockmarks. If one ignored the sleeves of his robes, he would seem the picture of youthful health even at his age.

He lay stretched upon the brick wall surrounding the fountain in the midst of the market square of Mizaren. The sun was shining gaily, the roads bustling with commerce and noisy with the chatter of gossip and merchants hawking their wares. Ashy, his head resting upon a thin arm that ended abruptly before the fist could begin, balanced a paper-wrapped sweetmeat upon his wide chest, and picked at it with three spidery fingers attached to a frail wrist.  Every third morsel went to Nikal, the tiny, three-legged orange kitten that paced the ground beneath him.

When the pastry was finished, Ashy licked his fingers, tossed the satchel over his narrow left shoulder,  and scooped the kitty to her favourite resting-place on the other. Gaily making his way though the crowd, stopping here and there to greet an acquaintance, the man came to the carven blue doors of the Temple of the Lady.  Most worshipers wouldn’t arrive until nightfall – when the Lady shone her silver face upon the land below – but Ashy had a bit of work to do.

Down the iron staircase, through the corridor, second door on the left, and Ashy knocked with his handless arm thrice. It opened into a library, if one could call it that, a room with a few stout shelves laden with dusty tomes, and a couple of uncomfortable chairs against a warped wooden table. The apprentice priestesses hadn’t forgotten him – the lantern on the table was lit for him. He smiled, wondering who had remembered. The last time it had taken ages for him to light the thing himself, and by then he had little energy left to work. He lifted a cloth-bound book from a nearby shelf, and carried it to the table. Aye, it was still unintelligible.

Ashy was most comfortable here – working slowly and diligently as he could at translating and copying these texts, preserving their knowledge for generations. The priestesses were kind – bringing him meals and at times keeping him company. There would be  no companionship today, though. This book had been lying blank on the table before him for more than a month. He had performed nearly every spell he knew many times, but the writing would simply not appear. He generally was not surprised by failure, as his magic had always been a bit hit-and-miss. That was the best part about this job: If his magic failed, he could hurt no one but himself.

Taking a deep breath, Ashy knew what he had to do. It was a spell he was not fond of – dangerous and unpredictable. He crossed the room to a cupboard and drew out a small ink-bottle. He dipped his brush in the ink, and set it to the freshly bound copying book. The ink seemed to glow of its own accord, a deep otherworldly blue. One more deep breath, and Ashy began to speak the words of the spell. His short arm rested on the protected tome, his other clutched the writing-brush. If he could not read the text, he would try to magically copy its contents. The brush began to move. It was all Ashy could do to keep his eyes closed – to hold his concentration and not sneak a look at the developing spell.

The temptation was too much. His arms were aching, his head hurt, and he could no longer think clearly. His eyes opened, and there was a fiery flash as he was sent reeling backward. His head struck the wall behind him, but that pain was unnoticed due to the madness brewing in his psyche.

The next time his eyes opened, they were met by the kind grey eyes of the priestess-mother. “Ah, dear Ashy… There you are. You are a stout fellow. A lesser man wouldn’t have waked from such a shock.” She placed a warm cloth upon his forehead. “It’s been a week. We’re passing that text on to the Druids. You’ll tell me next time you’re in over your head, won’t you?”