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Name: Arrora Darwalyn
Age 25
Gender: Female
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 125 lbs
Race: Half Elf
Class: Cleric; Life Domain

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Brief Description: Arrora is a girl of healthy build, but she is not particularly muscular by any means. Her pale skin is dotted with sparse freckles and she has blue eyes. Her long, platinum blonde hair reaches down to her waist and often has braids thrown in a bit chaotically at times.

Weapon & Armor: The armor pictured above is what she wears; generally lightweight
She wields a quarterstaff.

Accessories & Miscellaneous:
- She has a necklace with the symbol of Selûne that she uses as an arcane focus
- Crescent-shaped hairclip (See second photo) enchanted with defensive magic that makes her light armor have the strength of plate armor without the weight.
- Bag (See second photo)
Inside the bag there is:
- Flask of water
- A couple of random flowers
- A moldy piece of cheese she forgot to eat a while ago
- Ring of Obscurity
- Coin purse
- Diary
- Two potions of healing

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Personality:
Arrora is an absolute ray of sunshine to be around. She's super sweet and positive. Happy and smiling more often than not, Arrora loves to have fun and to meet new people. She follows a strict moral code and always tries to be kind and think of the best in everyone. The only downside to her moral code is that she has not encountered many people who are morally grey. This means she has a hard time understanding those who are selfish or unkind, but she makes an effort to nonetheless. When it comes to helping others, she'd go out of her way and not be bothered much at all as she is very patient. She's also generally calm and not easy to anger.

However, she isn't the most charismatic or witty. She wasn't the most highly educated and her word choice is usually more simple. She isn't a good critical thinker and sees things in black and white at times, despite being highly empathetic. Additionally, she's also extremely forgetful and very clumsy. Sometimes she's a bit dense, overly innocent, and naive. When it comes to inappropriate discussion or cursing, she will often get flustered as she hasn't encountered anything outside of temple behavior before.

In battle, Arrora can be a bit of a scaredy-cat. She is pretty new to the game and has not encountered many creatures at all. She reacts very strongly to intimidating creatures and is easily frightened. She's as skittish as a kitten. However, Arrora is determined to overcome this flaw and wants badly to be as brave as her comrades. She's very determined to not let anyone around her ever die and goes to lengths to try to care for others around her, making sure everyone is well-fed and well cared for.

History:
Arrora grew up in the village of Triel. She was raised in a middle-class family as an only child to an elven mother, Ivora, and human father named Qion. There weren't many elves in the village of Triel originally; Ivora had moved to live with Qion in his hometown. They had been starstruck and adored each other as much as they adored their daughter Arrora. She lived a sheltered yet kind life. The Darwalyns were quite humble and did not need much to be happy. As with such a lifestyle, Arrora grew up being very easily pleased. She never knew much hardship and was raised to value kindness and courage. Her life had been pretty mundane until one unfortunate day.

In the Autumn of Arrora's twelfth year, orcs raided Triel. Arrora had never encountered any sort of attack or danger, and reacted cowardly at the sight of the terrifying creatures, running to hide under her bed. When she emerged, she found that her parents were no longer of the world and so were many townspeople that she had loved. Arrora was devastated by this event, her happy demeanor destroyed for quite some time. She was completely traumatized by what she had seen. Luckily for her, the people of the temple of Selûne took her in and were very kind. They helped her repurpose her life despite her intense fear of the world around her, raising her as a cleric so that she'd always be able to protect herself and those around her.

Time healed as did the wonderful support she received. Her newfound faith for the deity Selûne became very important to her. She decided as she aged and matured, that she should face her fears and no longer be the coward that stood back as people died around her. Despite her underlying fear of death and fighting, Arrora wanted to be better. She decided she was finally ready to take on the world at 25, after years of preparation and prayer. While looking for info on an epic quest for her to undertake, she overheard that a pasha named Jakeem Kalil was seeking travelers and knew she had to face her fear in order to protect others on such a perilous journey so she set off traveling to Calimport.

Skills and Abilities:

As a cleric with a focus on the life domain, she has a wide range of spells mostly focused on healing and buffing allies. She knows some basic hand-to-hand combat, but nothing crazy. She was trained in the temple of Selune. She always has cure wounds and healing word prepared.

Race: Human
Age: 59
Height: 6'1"
Class: Monk - Astral Self
Appearance:
Zasheir is a heap of toned muscle beneath heavily scarred flesh. Matted strands of gray hair spill from the sides and back of his head down to the middle of his neck, rough, drooping cheekbones frame a thick and broken nose, and his left eye is discolored and gray. By most of Calimport's standards, Zasheir is a very ugly man. Though the whip scars oddly suit him, like a familiar and broken-in coat, it's obvious that he is entirely unconcerned with his appearance, dressing only in a ragged pair of trousers and eschewing any offerings or opportunities to clean himself or his possessions.

In stark contrast, Zasheir's body is in incredible shape. The only vestiges of his age that show themselves here are the veiny wrinkles on the backs of his hands and a slight sag to his flanks. His arms are strong and corded, his neck and shoulders are broad, and he walks with an air of youth and athleticism that entirely betrays his aged mask. At nearly all times, the man is shrouded in a naturally foul smell, with olfactory threads of a botanical or chemical scent poking through. Having been an indentured resident of the Shackles Ward for most of his life, Zasheir very much continues to look the part of an ill-treated slave, and seems, of all things, comfortable with the stigma it brings.


Personality:
"At all times we are encircled by two worlds- what is and what isn't. Material and imaginary. Real and not real. Our judgement is the only weapon we can hope to brandish at the latter."

Zasheir could be succinctly described as a mystical, ascetic monk, but to do so would extinguish the kernel of truth and nuance to his beliefs. His age and experiences have largely reinforced and buttressed these to the point where he can be a bit hard to budge. The central point of his dogma is the idea that there are two realms that someone inhabits at all times- the material, which he defines as things he knows are real and true, and an imagined realm that is populated by one's senses, emotions, and perceptions.

"Many come across this conundrum at one time or another, but few have the stomach to confront it. Fewer still rebut 'what if?' and in sidestepping the question, they deny themselves an identity all their own."

Zasheir believes that accurately parsing the material and imagined realms through judgement allows one to truly transcend, this transcendence being what powers his ki and allows him to perform the extraordinary feats of athleticism he does. However, determining what is truly real is no simple task, for the imagined realm exists solely to harry and cloud your acumen. Zasheir pinpoints three main aggressors in this- vanity, pleasure, and fear.

"Unchain yourself from how others view you- perhaps even, from how you view yourself."

The monk subverts vanity by embracing his repulsiveness. He seeks to be seen as vile and odious by those he interacts with- this was difficult in the Shackles Ward, where hygiene continues to be a blessing, but in the other Wards and drudachs Zasheir has flourished in the loathing he is capable of receiving. He purposely engages in anti-social behavior, shouting curses near funerals, openly imbibing narcotics, crashing private social gatherings- judging by his weathered scars, he has regularly been punished for such behavior.

"Pain will help you see clearly. It cuts through bliss and comfort like a fresh efreeti blade."

Pleasure is tackled by welcoming pain and discomfort. An easy task for a near permanent insubordinate in the Shackles Ward, Zasheir is very familiar with the bite of the whips from the House of Nine Blessings. His skin is covered in memories from his times there. He also seeks out discomfort, choosing to sleep in the most uncomfortable places or positions, all in an effort to "see clearly" through the imagined realm and help him grasp what is real.

"Fear is a challenge. If you let it win, it will arrest your mind."

Fear can only be quelled by confrontation. For Zasheir, it is the fear of death, of being made unreal. A rather morose dedication, the monk partakes in memento mori; a token kept on his person that reminds him that one day, he will die. This takes the form of a necklace of small fish bones strung around his throat, and a pertinence to carry some sort of small animal corpse on his belt, usually a mouse or rat.

"And if insight is needed, one need only partake in the labours of the underworld-"

Zasheir is a heavy user of narcotics, preferring hallucinogenic ones- dreammist and traveler's dust are his preferred substances, but the rarity or price of the two compared to opium in Calimport sometimes give him little in the way of choice. Zashier believes the visions given by their use offer him insight, or at least act as a way for him to exercise and train his judgement of what is real and what isn't.

Short History:
Zasheir adh Jelal was actually born Druzir Zasheir yn Nazkim el Lorkhan, the son and future inheritor of his father's drudach in the sabban of Pahlemm, itself within the Caravans Ward of Calimport. He was raised amongst all the fineries the villa of a lesser noble could afford; he was taught business and logic, how to hold and use a weapon, and even debate and administration. Zasheir does not look upon this time of his life in a positive light- he believes he was blinded by the gilded trappings and silken regalia, but also realizes that he couldn't possibly have known better. He exuded charisma and guile as he stepped into his father's role after his passing, and had his chance encounter with the thugs from the Muzad- the undercity- never happened, Zasheir probably would've continued on this very path until his eventual death.

Fate had other things in store for the young nobleman. At this point in his life, Zasheir had grown complacent with his station; he ate some of the finest foods, enjoyed delicious wines, and had filled his family's coffers to the point that his children's children wouldn't have to worry about finance. Zasheir was worried only about he and his own; what life was worth living if it wasn't spent enjoying every second of it? His family cherished him and his pursuits, he was respected by his amlakkar, and he was even awaiting being wed to the most beautiful woman he had laid his eyes on. He was a man who wanted for nothing.

It was a beautiful night when it happened. Zasheir was taking a side street from Pahlemm's khanduq back to his villa when a silk-robed stranger bumped shoulders with him. On any other night, Zasheir would've been quick to check his pockets- one didn't grow up in Calimport without learning to be wary- but Selûne had been graceful to that dark sky, and a business-weary Zasheir wished for nothing else than to lose himself in the warmly lit halls of his home, and to immerse himself in a comforting bath. His mind was set on pleasure, then, and only the rustling of chainmail in front of him broke his stupor. It was a young half-elven amlak, one Zasheir wasn't familiar with, accompanied by Magistrate Khalid al Anachtyr, the magistrate who held jurisdiction over Pahlemm. He was a bookish and grim looking fellow, that night even moreso. Zasheir remembers the light of the moon catching the spectacles on the end of his nose as he shook his head like a disappointed parent. "How could you," he had said, "when you've been the grace of your family name." Zasheir was confused as the amlak stepped forward, a pair of irons in one hand. Confusion turned to bewilderment as the guardsman withdrew a small vial of red crystals, each no bigger than a grain of salt. Traveler's dust. A glance behind was fruitless- the man who had bumped into him was nowhere in sight.

The following morning, the story broke that Pahlemm's well had almost been poisoned with traveler's dust, but the saboteurs had been apprehended. Shockingly, Druzir Zasheir was on the list, and apparently he had spearheaded the plot. His case was passed from the magistrate to the vizier of the ward, and was found guilty. Bargaining for his life, Zasheir managed to negotiate himself into slavery instead, and at the age of 35, was hoisted across Calimport in irons and interred into the Shackles Ward.

For a time, he resented having nothing. He was filled with anger and wroth at those who had taken his things. Those feelings slowly morphed into a resentment of Calimport as a whole, a city that was corrupt to its core. Zasheir resigned to quiet rebellion- his ownership changed hands several times, each one unimpressed with the meek slave who only barely did what was asked of him and never anything more. He became a regular at the House of Nine Blessings for punishment, and fervently wore his cuts with pride as a symbol of his malicious compliance. This was Zasheir's life for the next decade; the physical tasks he was forced to do strengthened his body, and he retreated into his own mind, growing his willpower from his persistence to endure, knowing some day he would find the opportunity for revenge.

Fate would throw him another curveball, however. One night, whilst again being perused by potential buyers in Katar's High, a scuffle created an opportunity for the ownerless slaves to escape into the Muzad. Finally presented with the fruits of his patience, Zasheir bit, and fled into Calimport's undercity, narrowly avoiding recapture. He chose to reside here until his scars healed- to make them somewhat less recognizeable- and adopted the pseudonym 'Lumal' to reflect his opinion on both others and himself. He was eventually offered a job as a runner, and transported narcotics through the Muzad, earning himself a tidy little profit, even if he had few places he could truly spend it. Zasheir, now called Lumal, made several close connections during this time, people he still considers to be true friends. It's hard to be deceitful on an empty belly, he would learn.

During one run transporting traveler's dust, he and a wizardly companion accidentally tripped a magical trap and summoned a guardian djinn. They had been taught to simply discard evidence if caught, and Zasheir obliged, though luck and a gust of wind from the djinn had a crystal catch in Zasheir's eye. At the same time, his mage companion banished he and the djinn- discarding evidence, after all- to the elemental plane of air. This would come to be the single most life changing moment for the Monk, and as he describes it, he finally saw clearly for the first time. He claims the djinn spoke to him about how perceptions and emotions are mere illusions; how man's yearning for pleasure and insistence on good impressions were often their own undoing. Though he was there for mere moments, when Zasheir was shunted back into the Material Plane he claims his life truly began. It was the first time he felt a spark of something within, something of true power and value.

He quickly spent all of his collected money on narcotics, searching for more insight he believed they brought. With each bout of drug-fueled enlightenment, Zasheir felt he was closer to a truer understanding of something. When he realized that that something was himself, he cemented his coda in his mind. Vanity, pleasure, and fear had brought him nothing but bad judgement and resentment and should be avoided- however, he was but a man, and the imagined realm of his mind would only work against him and towards those baser impulses. Thus, for perfect clarity, he had to fight these senses by imposing and embracing their opposites- revulsion, discomfort, and confrontation.

Zasheir now works odd jobs to afford his habits, and in searching for insight took up monastic training. The "spark of understanding" he had felt was actually him controlling his ki for the first time, and over the last several years spent listlessly wandering Calimport (mostly the Shackles Ward) made a little bit of a name for himself as an accomplished warrior under his pseudonym of Lumal.

Skills and Abilities:

• Hand to Hand Combat - Coinciding with his monastic training and the awakening of his ki, Zasheir has trained himself in the art of unarmed combat, in which he has grown very proficient.
• Ki - Zasheir has learned to control and evoke his ki, allowing him to easily accomplish staggering physical feats for someone his age. His most noticeable use involves him physically shaping it around his arms, acting almost as an extension of them.
• Drugs - Zasheir is encyclopedic in his knowledge of the mind-altering fruits of the undercity. He knows most of their effects, where to get them, and how much they cost. Most of this knowledge comes from experience, barring the excessively dangerous ones.
• Endurance - He is a peak physical specimen. Through sheer willpower and use of his ki alone, Zasheir can withstand gruesome amounts of pain and not falter; if anything, he seems to enjoy it.

Weapons & Armor:

• Hand Ropes - Zasheir fights with no weapons, instead relying on his fists, feet, elbows, and knees. He wraps his hands and forearms with rope, knots placed strategically at the knuckles.
• Ragged Trousers - They are supremely dirty and worn, the only item adorning the rope belt being his pipe. He usually keeps them tucked into his boots.
• Leather boots and tunic - Both of these were given to Zasheir by a kindly Chultan merchant who mistook him for a beggar. He remains committed to not washing either of them, however.

Accessories & Miscellaneous:

• Ring of Water Walking - He keeps it strung amongst the fish bones of his necklace. A useful parlor trick that earned him some coinage was to simply stand on the top of a full bucket of water.
• Rope of Climbing - 10 ft. Each five foot half is what he keeps wrapped around his hands.
• Pipe - Zasheir stole it from a den in the Muzad.
• Very simple and functional wooden canteen, small enough to fit in the pocket of his trousers. He also stores his coins in here.

• Character Name: Sir Brandon Rivers

• Age: 35

• Gender: Male

• Height: 7'1"

• Race: Dragonborn

• Class: Paladin

• Character Appearance: Brandon is a hulking brute of a Dragonborn, whose scales glimmer like tarnished gold. A giant even among his own kind, he carries more than twenty-five stone in scale and muscle, and in his plate armor he weighs a full quarter ton. Ragged scars stretch across his face and body, remnants of a life filled with battle. His armor fits him strangely, as it was forged in a human style, but its proportions match Brandon's size. The remnants of his golden heraldry are barely visible, the armor is rusted at the edges and shot through with bolt-holes, and he has completely forgone his helmet, boots, and gauntlets.

• Short History: Brandon Rivers does not know the name he was born with, he was too young to remember it when his family was killed, and there was no one among the people that found him that could read his clan's name set proudly at their gate. The clan that bore him, the mother that laid his egg and cared for his clutch, were put to the sword by a rival Dragonborn clan, a dispute over some farming land at the border of their two territories. Vultures came to pick over the remains the next morning, and found a golden, infant dragonborn clutched under the body of a she-dragon with six arrows in her back. The baby was dirty and sick from cold and hunger, but alive.

This was a find too rare to pass up. The scavengers took the baby with them, and as quick as they could manage it put him up for auction in a public slave market on the Sword Coast. A rare specimen like a Dragonborn would fetch a generous price quickly, they imagined. However, by a stroke of luck or fate, an emissary of Cormyr passed through the same market square as the baby was being auctioned off. The emissary thought nothing of the goings-on, but the knight leading his protection detail was aghast. At once he stopped their procession and bought the infant himself, swearing to raise him to defend the weak and innocent.

The infant Dragonborn, now named Brandon Rivers at the whim of the knight who had adopted him, was raised in the monastery of their order in Cormyr. Brandon was brought up among knights, monks, and priests, all sworn in service to the merciful light of Lathander. Brandon grew up idolizing Sir Harold Rivers, the knight that had saved him from a life of slavery, and as he grew (quickly, as Dragonborn children are wont to do) he trained and studied to be inducted into the Knights of Lathander himself. All the while he did his best to integrate into a human-majority society that either considered him a curious oddity, or a monster in the making.

Brandon grew like a weed, by age 13 he was taller than all of the human knights in their order. It was two years later, and after much struggle, effort, seminary study, and martial training that Brandon was knighted by his father and inducted into the order of Lathander. It was not long after his ascent into knighthood that the Dragon Cult of Tiamat enacted a bloody scheme on Cormyr, and the knights of the realm were called upon to put down the uprising. For years Brandon battled dragon-cultists and the twisted monsters that they used as weapons. Many of the cultists being Dragonborn that worshiped the Scaled Tyrant, Brandon grew distasteful of his own kind, considering their violence against the common people of Cormyr to be cowardly barbarism.

Eventually the cult's threat waned, and Brandon and his father both came away from the war as hardened veterans and celebrated heroes. Sir Harold Rivers was named Grand Master of their order, and Brandon earned many accolades and favors. The sight of the massive Dragonborn cutting down foes in swathes inspired his brother knights to bestow him with such epithets as "Drakehammer," (which Brandon despised, being neither a drake nor wielding a hammer) and "the Knight of Goldwyrm," (which Brandon still did not like, but was at least accurate). Not one to turn down a gift, Brandon begrudgingly accepted a coat of arms gifted to him by the king of Cormyr, depicting a golden serpent guarding a serene river, as a matching, purple serpent flew imperiously above it, with the golden rose of Lathander above all.

Brandon's days of heroism and chivalry came to an end as a power struggle emerged among the bickering nobility of Cormyr. The old king had passed away peacefully, but news of his hidden corruption came to light after his death. Nobles rallied to unseat the heir apparent and Brandon began to feel the tide turning against the crown. However, his father and master of their knightly order passed down the proclamation that the knights of Lathander would stand with the rightful king, their loyalty unwavering. Brandon's loyalty to his father outweighed his reliance on his instincts, and they took up arms against the usurpers. Brandon had been right, the rebel noble faction had far greater support than the crown, and while they fought bravely, their numbers could not be matched. Brandon's aging father was killed on the field of battle, while Brandon himself was captured and ransomed back to the king.

The king was eventually overthrown, and the knights of Lathander were left without a king to serve and without a grand master to lead them. The remaining knights, including Brandon, took and oath of vengeance against the rebel sat on Cormyr's throne, and went their separate ways into exile. Brandon took his arms and armor with him, as well as a keepsake of his father: the man's skull, stripped bare of flesh and dipped in gold. The experience embittered Brandon enormously, as he had spent his entire life in service to the people of Cormyr, enduring their suspicion of him as well as fighting zealously against his own kind. All of that effort was for nothing, as he was now a hated exile, a knight without a kingdom. He has wandered for years since, selling his services as a sellsword, searching for a new purpose in life. Brandon has gained some reputation as a powerful paladin for hire, the golden fetish-skull he carries him earning him the nickname, "Knight of Goldskull."

• Personality: Brandon strikes many as a hard, taciturn man; his emotions and thoughts kept closely guarded. He listens much and says little, though his scarred, scowling reptilian face often says more than enough on its own. While he has a warrior's practiced calm under pressure, a boiling rage still churns within him. While difficult to bring to the surface, Brandon's fury typically explodes in a literal gout of flame. His exile and the events leading up to it are a source of bitterness and shame for him, and in most cases he will refuse to discuss the matter. That aside, Brandon has little trouble finding work, as his clients find his service to be efficient and professional, a welcome difference from the majority of eccentric mercenary adventurers.

Additionally to his exile, Brandon considers his own race to be a source of personal embarrassment for him. Raised among humans, he was always aware that he was not like them, and they never let him forget it. He spent his youth kowtowing to the anxieties of the humans around him, and did his best to act like one among them. When he met other Dragonborn in the war against the dragon cult he was ashamed to see that these evil cultists were what others saw when they looked at him. To this day Brandon looks down on other Dragonborn, likening them to bloodthirsty barbarians, and has a poor opinion of dragons and draconic races in general, even having some reservations against Bahamut and his worshipers.

• Weapons & Armor: Brandon still wears (most of) his knightly armor, though it has seen far better days. His typical armaments include a huge, golden halberd, too heavy to be wielded by a normal human, enchanted by the clerics of Lathander, a simple shortsword and hand-axe to use as sidearms, and a tower shield that once depicted his coat of arms, but now suggests some kind of gold and purple mosaic.

• Accessories & Miscellaneous: Brandon's holy symbol that invokes his oath of vengeance is the skull of his father, mentor, and senior knight, which has been dipped in gold and often hangs at Brandon's hip by chains looped through the eye sockets.

• Skills and Abilities: As a paladin, Brandon is both a powerful warrior and a wielder of divine magic. A veteran of many battles, Brandon specializes in wielding his oversized halberd with both hands and rending his foes apart with his incredible strength and surprising speed. Brandon has the innate power to sense sources of positive and negative energy around him, can heal others with a touch, and can abjure his foes to suffer great harm at his hands, all by invoking his oath of vengeance. Brandon knows a considerable number of divine spells, such as those that invoke healing, courage, and protection, as well as those that search out his foes, undo their evil works, and smite them down. In his mercenary work, he has picked up a few other spells, mostly those that invoke greater harm on his foes, track them, or bind them in place. Brandon can summon a celestial mount to bear him into battle, which takes the form of a sturdy, robust bicorn (known among many races as a rhinoceros).

• Other: While Brandon has the ability to breathe fire like many other Dragonborn, he chooses not to except in matters of absolute life or death, as he finds such a display of his inhumanity to be embarrassing and distasteful.