Eroi D&D

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Eroi D&D

Mesaj  Daquinus la data de Joi 09 Oct 2014, 10:44



Drizzt Do'Urden

Like all dark elves, Drizzt has pitch black skin and white hair, but his lavender eyes—which gleam with feral light before he wades into battle—set him apart from most drow.
Having run from his home in the City of Spiders, Drizzt comes to the World Above a renegade, a stranger in a land where his kind are seen—rightfully so—as evil beings from a world of darkness and evil. Though he lived for some time in a cave on the slopes of Kelvin’s Cairn, he eventually found a home with his friends in the dwarven city of Mithral Hall—and for the longest time, was sure he was the only drow living on the surface.
A man of integrity and honor, Drizzt flies in the face of everything it means to be a drow. Though he is born in a city where treachery is the rule of the day, Drizzt tries to keep his word, however dangerous it might be for him. More than a paradigm of honor and integrity, Drizzt is also an excellent deductive thinker, with a steady, logical mind that never folds under pressure, though he will sometimes rely on instincts in critical situations.
On a day-to-day basis, Drizzt is a stoic, calm, and serious individual, but he’s always thinking—thinking about his place in the world, the value of his friendships, and the truth of his elf’s longevity that will see him outlive all of his closest friends.



Elminster, Sage of Shadowdale

Elminster is an infamous ancient wizard who's been around forever, is known to meddle in local affairs all over the Heartlands and beyond, and "is something to do with the Harpers." He has a long white beard, is gaunt of frame, has a hawk-like beak of a nose, blue-gray eyes, and is often dry, sarcastic, or whimsical in his behavior. At various times he sports a staff, the Lion Sword, and a floating, Eversmoking Pipe.
Born Elminster Aumar in the now-vanished Sword Coast kingdom of Athalantar over 1200 years ago, Elminster is actually a founding member of the Harpers and one of the oldest surviving and most powerful Chosen of Mystra, meaning he both serves the goddess of magic and carries some of her silver fire within him. Variously known as "the Sage of Shadowdale" (he often dwells in an old, leaning stone tower in the dale of Shadowdale), "the Old Mage," and by many less polite names, Elminster has lead a long and colorful life, and is usually "up to" about two dozen "somethings" at any one time.
You can read about Elminster's adventures in many novels by Ed Greenwood, published by Wizards of the Coast (chronologically, the books begin with Elminster: The Making Of A Mage, and the most recent Elminster novel is The Herald, the sixth and last book of The Sundering.)



Farideh

Even with outcast tieflings and dragonborn as her neighbors in the mountain village of Arush Vayem, Farideh knew they watched for the day one of the twins would show the stain of their devilborn blood. Despite doing everything she could to reassure them, including keeping wild Havilar out of trouble, the villagers focused on Farideh as the one who would embrace the dark side of herself.
They weren't wrong.
In 1478 DR at the tender age of seventeen, Havilar attempted to summon an imp with a borrowed scroll and wound up calling down a half-devil, Lorcan, instead. For all it seemed a lucky accident, Lorcan had been looking for the twins—or someone like them. As a collector of warlocks, Lorcan needed one of these two to complete his most prized set, a Toril Thirteen. Thirteen descendants of the warlocks whose ritual helped Asmodeus seize the godhood and doomed the tiefling race—and Farideh, as the great-great-granddaughter of their leader, Bryseis Kakistos, was the last piece. Toying with her affections, her fears, and finally her love for her sister, Lorcan convinced Farideh to accept a warlock's pact, confirming what the villagers of Arush Vayem had always said and leaving the twins and their adoptive father to roam Faerûn as bounty hunters.
Though Farideh draws magic from the Nine Hells, she uses it only to protect her loved ones and the good folk she encounters—especially those caught in the sights of devils. Perhaps she made a mistake taking the pact, but now she has the power to make a difference, rather than bending under the will of those who think she was wicked from the cradle and hiding away. She might be damned for falling under Lorcan's sway, but that doesn't matter to Farideh. She can still save those who have a chance.
Farideh has learned still more about her lost past and her daunting future: The crimes of Bryseis Kakistos and the Toril Thirteen. The rapaciousness of collector devils. The spell of protection cast upon her and Havilar, shielding them from devils' scrying magic. She's made more than one enemy in the Hells, but she's gained allies to match, including Harper agents, a scion of one of Cormyr's royal families, and, of course, Lorcan. Whether he remains an ally, an enemy, or something else, Farideh is still waiting to see.



Isteval

Isteval was born in the rustic town of Eveningstar, in the bright kingdom of Cormyr. As a teenager, Isteval joined the Purple Dragon Knights of Cormyr. His duties as a knight of the realm were always tempered with his dedication to justice, righteousness, and compassion. Dedicated to extending the reach of law and good beyond Cormyr’s borders, he slew orcs by the dozens in the Stonelands, fought Zhentarim mercenaries on the western frontier, and drove back a Sembian raid through the Thunder Gap. ...
As his power grew, he began to see the need for a different kind of knight. Over the course of a long career, he led no less than three adventuring companies dedicated to spreading Cormyr's vision of law and good into the Western Heartlands, the corrupt Moonsea, and the Vilhon Wilds. However, as his third company ventured into the Winterwood, they stumbled upon an ancient green dragon. Unprepared for such an encounter, the adventurers barely managed to drive the dragon away, but not before Isteval had suffered a grievous injury that shattered his left leg.
Though he is no longer able to fight as he did in his youth, Isteval seeks to bring together a new, great company of brave souls to carry on his legacy, to preserve his vision for future generations. Across Faerûn, his former associates share their fond memories of Isteval and his dream. His wounded leg means that Isteval's greatest quests now lie behind him, but he has never lost his vision of a better world coming with a new dawn. In these days of trials and chaos, Isteval sees the birth-pangs of a new age, and believes against all evidence and reason that it will bring unprecedented peace and prosperity. Though many trials yet lie ahead, he is convinced that at the end of his journey is a far fairer place.



Alaeros Margaster

Human Fighter
Faction: The Lords’ Alliance
Birthplace: Waterdeep
Goals: Bring some much-needed honor to his name, find a new family to call his own, and protect it to his dying day.

Quirks: Surprisingly thoughtful and fatherly, great at mimicking voices and accents, good with instruments and languages, and won’t chop down a living tree.
Quote: “You don’t want to pick a fight with me, friend.”
Alaeros Margaster hails from Waterdhavian nobility. Kidnapped at age nine by Luskanite pirates and sold into slavery, he was rescued by agents of the Lords’ Alliance (along with several other important captives) and delivered to his family estate in Neverwinter, where he was left in the care of a ruthless uncle named Orn, who saw fit to tell Alaeros that his parents never wanted him. Even at a young age, Alaeros knew that the Margaster name was more of a burden than a privilege. By all accounts, the Margasters were terrible people, willing to do anything to save their noble house from financial ruin and disgrace. They had borrowed large sums of money from the Black Network, and with the Margaster patriarch dying of old age in Waterdeep, his descendants were tearing each other to pieces over a paltry inheritance. Alaeros received no familial support; when he turned fifteen, he joined the local militia and learned how to wield a sword. A tall and powerful man, he literally stood head and shoulders above the rabble and had few rivals. Although thoughtful and quick-witted, he liked being a soldier and quietly reveled in his uncle’s disapproval.
Alaeros’s superiors resented his aristocratic bearing and saw fit to punish him without warrant. When he refused to be cowed, they accused the red-haired giant of stealing, going so far as to plant a coin-filled purse in his footlocker to support their accusations. The Margaster name was enough to keep Alaeros out of prison, but he was drummed out of the militia. Stinging from the disgrace, Orn Margaster ordered Alaeros back to Waterdeep, but Alaeros never made it home. Instead, he wandered the northern Sword Coast as a sword-for-hire, refusing to wear his family crest (a stylized green dragon) or embrace any of his family’s noble trappings. He idolized the freedom of the rural Northlanders and chose to dress and act like one after befriending a few of them.
One rainy summer, Alaeros and one of his Northlander companions were chased by a mob of goblinoids into a forest and hunted like bears. Alaeros’s friend did not survive, and Alaeros broke his sword after a nasty fall. However, he found an axe embedded in a gnarled tree. He pulled the weapon free, awakening the old tree, which was in fact a treant. The treant threatened to harm Alaeros but then agreed to help him defeat the goblinoids. Months later, Alaeros put the axe (which he named “Chopper”) to good use helping three travelers slay a wandering troll. Alaeros recognized one of the travelers as the very man who bore him from Luskan to Neverwinter years earlier. Having repaid the favor, Alaeros was invited to accompany the travelers back to Neverwinter. He declined at first but quickly changed his mind, intrigued by what the Lords’ Alliance stood for, eager to give Neverwinter a second chance, ready to turn the Margaster name into something other than a curse, and determined to see the look on his uncle’s miserable face.

_________________



Nu dor nici luptele pierdute,
nici ranile din piept nu dor,
cum dor acele brate slute
care să lupte nu mai vor.



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