I'm making my first foray into the realm of 5e, myself, right here at the Inn. Lady Dark has fired up her Ghostwood Groves under the 5e rules and I'm jumping in on that one. Been reading the PHB and, I gotta say, I'm not hating the system, so far. Bit of a learning curve, I guess... but not too steep. We'll see how it goes.

That's okay... you'll need it!

Already welcomed you to our little corner of the web on the Friends of the Red Dragon Inn facebook page but this should make it official...

Glad to have you aboard, Rezin! You joined us at an exciting time! Lots of upgrades and newness are in the works, hereabouts! If you have any questions or need any help, don't hesitate to drop any one of us a line (or tack up a post). I think you'll find that we're one of the friendlier communities you'll find out here in the ether and Mods and Innmates alike are more than happy to help with whatever you might need.

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:15 P.M.; The Sun Dog

“We can’t be sittin’ in th’ doldrums if we wanna capitalize on this’n, though, Capt’n. Th’ lubber offerin’ th’ purse fancies hedgin’ ‘is bets an’ has already go’ more’n one other crew on this lad’s scent.” His eyes slide away from her for a moment, panning across the Dog’s deck and across the waves, too, where they briefly linger on Tortuga’s shore before coming back to meet Anne’s, again. “Anythin’, yet, from Cracker er th’ rest?”

“Aye,” Anne remarks in answer to his question. “The lot o’ them just went ashore t’ look into a fella by the name o’ Davenport tha’ has his hooks int’ a bit o’ everythin’ hereabouts.” Taking the bottle from her quartermaster, Captain Cole lifts it to her lips and pauses as her green eyed gaze drifts out towards the settlement. “Found a buyer fer the junk in the hold—one Mr. Virgil Grover. From wha’ I gather, he’s been a king on this chessboard for some time, but has recently been demoted by Davenport.”

 Crowe nods faintly at this, pleased that the bric-a-brac they’d ported in wouldn’t be long for cluttering the Sun Dog’s hold and, also, making a mental note of the names Virgil Grover and Davenport. Where the workings of power are concerned, Fin knows, it’s always good to have names to hang on happenings.

Taking a long draw on the liquor, Anastasia Cole uses the back of her free hand to wipe away any lingering rum from her lips and hands the bottle back to Crowe. “This work you’ve chartered… whose wheelhouse does it reside in?”

 “Fella goin’ by th’ name o’ Oken,” Crowe answers, snaking the bottle from Anne’s fingers and tipping it to his own lips. “Th’ bloke’s in th’ employ o’ another who’s name I din’t get,” he confesses after a swallow, “though, judgin’ by what I’ve learned, so far, I don’ figure it’l be too bloody difficult ta ferret it out.” 

“If we’re t’ make Tortuga our port,” Anne says, walking toward the gunwales and, obviously expecting Fin to follow, “it stands t’ reason we best be gettin’ a feel fer the waves beneath our hull an’ the sharks tha’ lie beneath them waters ‘fore we cast off, wouldn’t ya say, Mr. Crowe?”

“Aye,” the Quartermaster nods, tacking in her wake, “Ain’t never th’ wisest o’ ideas ta dive blind inta strange waters, luv.”

 Leaning her trim belly against the rail, Anne grips the weathered wood with both hands and narrows her eyes as though she can see the various actors along the beach in full detail. “Truth be told, I wish you’d have been here t’ join Maggie in her search for details on this Davenport. Bless her, but she wouldn’ know guile if it spent the night with her in ‘er bunk an’ slapped her awake in the morn.”

 A gravelly chuckle splits Crowe’s grin as he sidles up beside his captain and props himself against the gunwales, elbows resting on the weathered railing and his gaze tracking hers as she scans Tortuga’s shore. “Per’aps not,” Fin agrees with a slow rolling of his shoulders, “but what Mags lacks in slyness she more’n makes up fer with other charms, eh?”

“The work you’ve netted is a distraction tha’ doesn’t sound like it’d take the whole crew t’ complete, or am I missin’ something Mr. Crowe?”

“I don’ figure so, Capt’n,” he answers, offering a slight shake of his head, “M’self an’ one er two others’d likely be enough ta do th’ thing.”

“Tell me then,” Anne draws his attention to her eyes by turning her face slightly towards him, her red hair catching in the warm breeze and drifting lazily about her freckled cheeks. “Is this somethin’ you wish to pursue?”

Fin tilts his head slightly to one side in lieu of a shrug, his gaze dancing between the clear, green pools of Anne’s eyes and the wind-driven capering of her fiery locks as he contemplates the query. “Up t’ you in th’ end, Capt’n,” he answers after a moment, “As I said, th’ up-front haul’s not much – a hundr’d guineas be a hundr’d guineas – but th’ promise o’ bigger an’ better on th’ return’s somethin’ worth a considerin’, anyway.”

His eyes let go of hers, then, and he lifts the rum bottle, again. He doesn’t drink from it this time, though; instead, Fin just looks at it for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly as he seemingly gets lost in quiet contemplation. “Th’ way this blue-bird, Oken, acted,” Fin rumbles softly, then, his gaze still fixed to the bottle in his hand, “an’ th’ way others made way fer ‘im, gives me cause ta believe that he’s in a fair position o’ power, Annie.” A mirthless smirk plays across his lips as his gaze comes back to briefly meet hers before redirecting toward the town beyond the beach. “If what ye say bout this Grover an’ Davenport’s true, I’m figurin’ Oken’s a hand o’ one er t’other… likely Davenport if Grover’s playin’ th’ deposed king, aye? F#%kin’ peacock had too much swagger bout ‘im ta be lined up wit’ a failin’ monarchy…”

Fin takes a long pull from the bottle then and turns to face Anne in the process. “If we’re t’ make Tortuga our port,” smiling a bit, he parrots her earlier words, “it mightn’t hurt ta take a wee swim wit’ one o’ th’ bigger sharks in ‘er waters, savvy?”

((OOC: Assuming there’ll be a bit more to this conversation but I don’t want to presume too much so I’ll leave it there for the time being... I’m almost picturing the bottle passing back and forth between them once or twice before a decision is reached… Theeeeennnnnn, something like this….))

“Ye’ll get no argument from me, luv,” Crowe nods in response to Anne’s last words on the matter, “I’ll see it happens as ye like it.”

Pushing away from the railing, now, and peering back in the direction of the town, the Sun Dog’s quartermaster asks; “Now, what about yer sister, then? Would ye be wantin’ me ta go find her er would ye rather jus’ wait her out?”

((OOC: And I’ll stop there. Still early in the day, I suppose, and Fin’s open to whatever the Captain might need him to do next… Go dig up more info on Davenport and Grover and/or find Maggie in the process? Start making preparations for Oken’s job (assuming we will, indeed, be taking that one)? Point and grunt, Capt’n Cole; Fin’ll make it happen. ))

Keeper - fluff is good stuff.

Nomad - Cracker's surname is Wylie and, as fate would have it, Sharky's given name is also Wylie... Wiiiam Wiley=Cracker, Wylie Stryker= SharkTooth.

...however, I'm not entirely sure that he's heard the last of that prostitute and her alley-lurking chums.

...it's not 100% finished (more like 98%) but close enough that I figured it was safe to tack up... Plus, Ayrn's seen it and approves... Aymani's picture has been added to her character sheet in the QA thread.

Back to work on Karos and Bory.

...that we don't already! Outside of Sharky and Daxon, I think we've all gotten off pretty lucky. Cracker, I think, is one of the few who hasn't gone and "jumped in front of the train" so far.

We be a cutthroat crew; we be!

YAY, MERI!!!!!!!

Great to have you aboard, Chess! It'll be fun to game with you again! Curious as to what sort of character you'll bring along, of course...

Speaking of characters - I've had the opportunity, this morning, to rough in some sketches of Karos and Aymani (still fiddling with Bory) and, at some point, am likely to drop a PM or two in their players inboxes before I get too far into detail and color... Y'know, just in case my interpretation of the descriptions don't quite jive with what you're thinking and/or for you to simply givve feedback on adds or changes.

Nomad - once you've got your character sheet ready, feel free to post it on the Q&A. Also, thanks for the description of Bory... juuuuust about the way I'd imagined him, actually... wasn't sure about the hair color or height but everything else you described is pretty close to what I had pictured.  Now that I've got some descriptiors for all four characters, I can get to scribbling! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

Ayrn - LOVE   Aymani more and more. That background is super-spiffy!

Our little group is shaping up quite nicely! 

Aymani looks to be a rather intense sort; can't wait to find out more about her story... and am kind of excited to draw her up.

Per some back and forth between Impulse and myself, we've established a bit of a connection between Karos and Castien, I believe... Very interested to see how this party of ours comes together... and who piggy-backs Bory.

...that that bit about Fin's love for Anne and Maggie going beyond the "platonic" was, for the most part, the rum talking. That's not to say that Fin hasn't entertained ideas of rollicking with one or both of them before... I mean LOOK at them, fer Pete's sake!!!... He truly does love the Cole sisters more than anyone else, just as stated in the post, and, to that end, he does his very best to keep his more "lusty thoughts" concerning either of them to himself.... In other words, he actually respects them enough to not act on some of his baser instincts. 

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:23 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

“Ye’ll be hearin’ from me soon enough, Mester Oken,” the Sun Dog’s quartermaster promises, “an’ I’ll have yer thief in tow…”  As Fin hasn’t seen Oken so much as smell the first mug of rum he’d poured, the pirate casually lifts the bottle of rum from the table and takes a quick pull directly from the thing’s neck. “Apologies in advance if’n I should have ta kill any o’ yer other crews,” he chuffs, turning for the door now, bottle still in hand, “Tha’s th’ price o’ business like this, savvy?”

“Either that, Mr. Crowe, or you’ll not find this port so friendly as you have,” Elias Oken calls after him as the quartermaster parts.

Friendly, Crowe smirks as he steps back out on the street and gets slapped by the heat of the midday sun, Been in port fer jus’ a bit more’n two hours an’ already been yelled at by a whore an’ had a slavin’ piece o’ s#!^ try ta take me head off. Friendly, he says!

Something nearby smells of manure and the flies have really set into their annoying dance. Crows and smaller birds hop about on nearly everything looking for some morsel to steal while chickens, dogs, and cats scurry about underfoot. People about their daily routines add to the commotion on the street and the stench in the air, but those close enough to him to, perhaps, engage (even accidentally), drawback. Others on the street who aren’t privy to what went down within the Rub of Del Monte pay him no mind.

Meandering back towards the beach, Fin keeps a close eye on his surroundings while occasionally taking a pull off of the rum. The harsh liquor stimulates his body with shivers and warm that threatens to overheat the man while at the same time, it soothes his nerves. In his wandering, he spots a couple of the others from the Dog and nods as they call out to him, but he doesn’t join them. He’s got business to attend to, after all.

Arriving at the beach, Fin’s narrowed blue eyes dart along the shoreline for signs of the Dog’s boat, eventually falling on it and a sailor near some of the fishermen who had just come back from their morning haul. Trudging through the shifting sands, the athletic quartermaster makes short work of the distance between them.

“Ahoy, sir!” Cyril Daumier calls out as he catches sight of his quartermaster. Springing to his feet from where he was sitting on the bow of the launch, the large-nosed fellow turns and positions himself to push the craft from the beach.

“Ahoy, Mester Daumier,” Fin rumbles, lifting the bottle, too, by way of reply. Reaching the launch, the quartermaster deposits the bottle inside and helps Cyril shove the longboat out into the surf

The sea is calmer this time of day, but calmer doesn’t mean calm. Fighting the waves, the two sailors eventually roll themselves into the launch, their footwear and most of their clothing soaked through. With seawater and a small amount of seaweed floating in the bottom of the launch, Cyril begins to pull on the oars.

“Please tell me tha’ the ladies are delectable an’ the ale flows freely,” the Frenchman calls over his shoulder to Fin.

“Aye,” the quartermaster replies, wringing some of the brine from his tunic before reaching for the bottle of rum, again, “Ye’ll find plenty o’ both, lad. Jus’ mind yerself in th’ lookin’, savvy?”

“Bless me an’ God forgive,” Daumier laughs and shakes his head. “Canna wait too much longer t’ wet my whistles.”

Fin snorts out something of a chuckle at that and, leaning forward a bit, reaches out and nudges the Frenchman’s shoulder with the bottle of rum he absconded with from The Rub of DelMonte. “Patience bein’ a virtue an’ all tha’ bilge aside,” he says as Daumier glances back and smiles at the offering of the bottle, “have yerself a wee pull, mate. Call it a preview.”

“Ah, merci,” Cyril grins, letting loose of the oars just long enough to accept the bottle and spill a sampling across his lips, “et que Dieu vous bénisse, Mr Crowe.”

“Don’ mention it,” Fin nods as the sailor hands the bottle back and takes up the oars, again.

Ten minutes later and the launch is bumping up against the Dog’s hull near the rope ladder. Cyril nods the ship’s officer away and then calls up, “Any others goin’ ashore?”

Chimwemwe’s bald head peers over the rail to the right side of the rope ladder Fin is ascending. “No,” the African says simply and vanishes from sight once more.

An unladen Fin Crowe crests his ascent with athletic ease and rolls over the weathered banister to plant his booted feet firmly on the main deck. Chimwemwe greets him with a nod before returning to the rope repair work he’s focusing on. Salazar and Blaize Campbell are just emerging from below deck with Campell’s tools and a bunch of wood. Aside from these, there are few sailors in view. About to continue forward towards the Captain’s cabin, Fin is drawn up when Anne flushes herself outside.

Resplendent in her white blouse, baggy gray cotton trousers and thigh-high boots, Anne Cole has her hair pulled up beneath a red cloth, her saber at her side, and a brace of two flintlocks across her bosom secure in a black leather baldric. Squinting her lovely eyes, she scans the deck from left to right before spotting her quartermaster.

“I weren’t expectin’ you ‘til after dark, Mr. Crowe,” she states before thinning her lips and standing firmly with her feet a shoulder-width apart, hands on her hips. “Whate’er you’ve experienced ashore is likely t’ be a tale judgin’ from the blood you’re wearin’.”

The genuineness of the smile that plays on Fin’s lips, when Anne’s eyes meet his, is a thing rarely seen by anyone aside from the Captain and her sister. If there was anyone on sea or shore of this God-forsaken world that the swarthy quartermaster truly loved, surely, it was the Sisters Cole… and, at times like this, when he’d had more than just a little to drink, he occasionally found himself wondering if that love might not exceed the platonic, familial sort that he freely admitted. He shook the thought away, tamping down the rum-stoked warmth in his chest and belly, as he forces his gaze to let go of the stunning Anastasia Cole and regard the blood that spatters his still damp clothes. “Aye, luv,” he chuckles, brushing ineffectually at a bloody streak on his tunic, “Disappear from th’ place fer a few years an’ ever’body wants ta throw ye a welcome ‘ome party when ye return… Din’t turn out th’ way they were hopin’, I reckon.”

With a faint shrug and that characteristic half-a-smirk playing on his lips, Crowe strides in his Captain’s direction, lifting the bottle by way of offer as he approaches. “Took me less time than I’d figured ta find a bit o’ work, too,” he says, drawing up within arm’s reach of the woman and pulling the stopper from the bottle. “No’ th’ biggest haul, right up front,” he admits, “A hundr’d guinea ta go fetch a bloke who’s playin’ a game o’ hide-an’-go-bugger-yerself wit’ one o’ th’ local fops. We pull it off, though, an’ it’s like ta open our h’rizons ta bigger an’ better opp’rtunities…”

“We can’t be sittin’ in th’ doldrums if we wanna capitalize on this’n, though, Capt’n. Th’ lubber offerin’ th’ purse fancies hedgin’ ‘is bets an’ has already go’ more’n one other crew on this lad’s scent.” His eyes slide away from her for a moment, panning across the Dog’s deck and across the waves, too, where they briefly linger on Tortuga’s shore before coming back to meet Anne’s, again. “Anythin’, yet, from Cracker er th’ rest?”

((OOC: Good place to stop, I suppose… Don’t want to assume too much where a conversation with the Captain goes. Plenty of room for Anne to take the conversation in whatever direction she chooses, as well. If she asks for details, Fin, of course, will relate his adventures ashore back to her, fill her in on Oken, etc. If you’d prefer to collaborate on any further conversation, Brom, you know where to find me.))

...Tink isn't always the quickest as far as replies go from what I remember. Given the time frame their working with, though, that was the best Sam could come up with and, so, he threw it out there.

And there it is... not my longest post but an answer to Wyatt's query, anyhoo.

If we do end up exploring the option of "killing" Petrie and invoke Tink's help, Roger, do we even have the time to contact our little cortex ghost and make those kind of plans?

The conversation at the breakfast table hadn’t been for much, this morning, and, as such, Sam hadn’t spent much more time in the common area than it took to down a cup of coffee. After washing out his cup and planting another peck on Ma’s ruined cheek, the pilot found his way back to the cockpit and settled into his seat to review his flight plans and double-check his math. He was in the midst of refining his calculations for a gravitational slingshot around a small moon when the familiar fall of Wyatt’s boots rang across the cockpit’s decking.

The pilot glanced sideways as the Captain flopped himself into the co-pilot’s seat and, as the man tended to do when he was pondering a weighty matter, plucked off his hat and started turning it round and round in his hands. Dash didn’t say anything right away, though; just kept himself immersed in his calculating until…

“You got any concept as to how we get one Petrie, Mr. Reverend’s son, on board ‘fore we burn atmo,” Wyatt queried wearily from across the bridge, “an’ avoid havin’ Patience hire every bounty hunter this side of Reaver Space to hunt our sorry skins down an’ relieve us of ‘em?”

At this, Sam abandoned his figuring for a moment and, reclining in his seat a bit, scratched at his head and put some thought to this new equation Wyatt had placed before him. “Petrie, huh,” he murmured, “Him bein’ th’ one as knocked up tha’ li’l Chloe girl we got stashed away in th’ infirmary?”

((OOC: Assuming a nod or some other acknowledgement from Wyatt))

“Guay, Cap,” Dash sighed, “in the time we got left ‘fore we’re set to dust off this rock, I dunno. Don’t leave a whole ruttin’ lot o’ time ta conjure up no elaborate schemes, get me?” He chuckled a little, leaned back a might further in his chair and scratched again at the whiskers that bristled out from his jaw. “I conjure we could kill ‘im…”

((OOC: Presuming a shocked or at least questioning look from the Captain, at this&hellip)

Sam grinned at Wyatt’s reaction and threw his hands up in mock-defense; “You asked th’ question, Wyungsung. I’m jus’ spittin’ back th’ answer. Gettin’ my own self kilt worked fer me fer many a year, right?” He shrugged, then, and turning in his seat to more fully face Wyatt, laced his fingers behind his head and pondered further; “O’course killin’ m’self took weeks o’ plannin’ an’ an assist from Tink on th’ back end an’, as I done said, we got jus’ a sniff more’n twelve hours ‘fore we burn atmo… We kill this Petrie kid an’ we gotta do it quick an’ ugly…

I din’t figger we was et ta turn this run inta no honeymoon cruise, Cap,” Dash smirked, “buuuut, ya want I should send a wave ta Neverland an’ see if we can get some fairies ta work some o’ that tian-ling-ling, di-ling-ling? ‘Bout th’ best I c’n come up wit’ given our schedule, get me?”

Got a post to do for Rocinante (got side-tracked by drawing, yesterday), then I'll get something tacked up for Fin.

As for languages, I believe it was as follows:

• Common


• Elven


• Draconic (as, I imagine, it's used in magic quite a bit)


• Gnome


• Dwarven

...aaand I think that's it.

Oh yeah! Fighting style: Duelist.

To be honest, I used a generator (point buy for ability scores) since this was my first time rolling up a 5e character. So, basically, I just posted what the thing spit back at me. 

The skills I picked and/or came with background were Acrobatics, Athletics, Arcana, and History... the remaining items, I suppose, are due to race and/or stat bonuses.

Edit: Insight, apparently comes from being a High Elf, and religion comes from the acolyte background as "granted" skills.. or some such blah-biddy-blah.

Aaaand, rip away, my friend!

...added to the first page of the Q&A thread.

Forgive the slightly skewewd aspect... drew her on a piece of paper that was slightly larger than my scanner could accomidate and, as such, had to improvise. 

Additional notes: Originally, I had started this pic based on a statue that Lady Dark described to me... being as he grew up in the temple (and is also a Blade of Astryliene) he'd know this statue very well. However, after discussing The Living Storm's descritpion with Lady D, I decided to go this route.... Looks a bit like Scarlet Johansen, doesn't she?

Picture of the Temple of Astryliene at Watertown coming soon.

Gives a whole new meaning to quivering palm!

Hoping to get a post out ther for Sam, today. Got my slide deck for today's meeting to take care of and a ticket or two that need some attention, first, but, hopefully, I'll have a little something by this afternoon.

...haven't truly seen one of those in a game in a loooong time! That said, I love the look of the half-orc! I'm sure that whatever you bring, Ayrn, it'll be awesome!

As I've already said, this is shaping up to be quite the interesting party!

Soooo.... Chess... are you out there? What are you thinking of bringing? Enquiring minds wanna know!

I've got one or two in the works, you know?

Say no more!

Castien's Character "sheet" is posted...

And we're getting Chess, too? NICE!!!

Name: Castien Mithretaryl

Race (Sex): High Elf (Male)

Class (Lvl): Fighter (1)

• Duelist

Background: Acolyte

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Height: 5’10”  Weight: 145 lbs

Eyes: Blue  Hair: Black

History

Castien’s parents, Jarenion and Saerima, were unregistered Bladesingers who operated, primarily, in the Deeper Wilds of Khadask for many years before being discovered by the Arcaren Authority. Their refusal to register with and submit to the Arcaren’s mandates quickly made them targets of the Authority’s Agents. As Saerima had recently given birth to Castien, she and Jarenion decided that, rather than staying in Khadask and trying to raise their son on the run from the Arcaren Authority, they would try and escape to The Evril Islands; their ancestral home and a place where the Arcarens had no presence. They made it as far as Watertown before the Authority’s Agents caught up to them.

There were very few ship captains who would so much as listen to the elves pleas once their destination was uttered and even fewer who so much as pretended to have any interest in making the trip whatsoever. With their options running out, their time growing short, and the Agents closing in, Saerima sought out the Sisters of Astryliene and, rather than allow him to be captured and/or killed along with her and Jarenion, entrusted the care and raising of Castien to the Sisters. Saerima left Castien with a kiss, her sword, and her shield, then, she and Jarenion attempted to flee the city. Their fate is unknown to this day.

Thus, Castien was raised in the Temple of Astryliene on the small island off the coast of Watertown where She was born. His memories of his true parents are few and even those are vague and dreamlike and, since he grew and trained in service to the Sisters of Astryliene, he simply acknowledges Grand High Father, Umanu, and the Grand High Mother of his order as his “parents.” He has been a devout and tenacious student over the course of his years at the Temple and, as such, given the balance he has managed to strike between his magical aptitude and martial prowess, Umanu has chosen to induct him into the elite team of acolytes known as Astryliene’s Blades. With this high honor bestowed upon him, Castien has redoubled his efforts to prove himself worthy of the title and the Blessing of Astryliene that comes with it. With his training now nearing completion, Grand High Father Umanu has decided that Castien is ready to face The Trials that will cement his standing as a Blade…

Description

Castien is readily identifiable as an elf, of course, with his slender, graceful build and the eerily beautiful features of his people. His ebon hair is worn long but neat, secured from ever falling into his eyes by a series of simple braids and a ponytail that pins the majority of his tresses behind his elegantly pointed ears. His eyes are a blue almost as clear and pure as the waters in The Pool of Tears; as beautiful as they may be, though, Castien’s eyes are rarely described as such, instead, words like “stoic” and even “severe” are utilized far more often. The studded leather armor he wears is dyed an almost muted blue-gray hue and is tooled and embossed in a motif that evoke an homage to The Living Storm. He wields an elegant scimitar of elven make that was once carried by his mother, Saerima, and, also her shield of banded ghostwood, though these are not his only weapons.

Ability Scores:

• Str: 13 (+1)


• Dex: 16 (+3)


• Con: 14 (+2)


• Int: 14 (+2)


• Wis: 10


• Cha: 10

Proficiency Bonus: +2

Passive Perception: 12

Armor Class: 17

Hit Points: 12

Speed: 30

Skills:

• Acrobatics +5


• Arcana +2


• Athletics +3


• History +2


• Insight +2


• Nature +2


• Perception +2


• Religion +4


• Sleight of Hand +3


• Stealth +3

Languages: Common, Elven, Draconic, Dwarven, Gnomish

Spells:

• Cantrips
  
  
  
  • Green Flame Blade
    
    
  
  
  
  

Feats:

• 
  

  Strike of the Living Storm: Once per long rest, you can cause additional damage during an attack when you channel Astryliene's power and fury against one target you can see by calling down a bolt of lightning, causing an additional 2d8 damage. You gain an additional 1d8 at levels 4, 8, 12, 16, and 20. At level 10, you gain the ability to use this feat once per short or long rest. You may use this feat as long as you retain Astryliene's favor, and/or are a member of Astryliene's Blade. 

  
  

Weapons:

• Scimitar


• Dagger (x2)


• Shortbow (20 arrows)

Armor:

• Studded Leather


• Banded Ghostwood Shield

Other Equipment:

• Backpack
  
  
  
  • Bedroll
  
  
  • Clothes, Common
  
  
  • Rations (10 days)
  
  
  • Rope, Hempen 50 ft
  
  
  • Amulet (religious symbol)
  
  
  • Vestments
  
  
  • Mess Kit
  
  
  • Torch (x10)
  
  
  
  


• Pouch
  
  
  
  • Tinderbox
  
  
  • Incense (5)
  
  
  
  


• Waterskin