Kendra Songweaver of Selgaunt
Kendrick, or… Kendra… as he prefers to be called, was born into a family of reasonable wealth. Making their trade as booksellers on the edge of the city of Selgaunt, Kendra had a wide selection of books to occupy his active young mind growing up. Among his favorites were adventuring stories, tales of heroic deeds and fiendish monsters, holy wars and ancient relics. Many a summer he spent in the courtyard swinging his wooden sword at imaginary beasts, avenging fallen comrades and rescuing those in distress. His parents had hoped he would “grow out of it”, as such fantastical musings were sure to be a distraction to learning his trade and taking over the family business. Try as they might, Kendra’s thirst for adventure never diminished, and at the age of sixteen, he decided to study to become a bard, so that he might live the stories that would become legend, and tell them first-hand across the land of Faerûn.
Several years later, with a small amount of coin in his pocket, he’s come to Easthaven, specifically seeking out an adventuring group with which he might align and make himself useful. Despite a slight nervousness in regards to his worth on the battlefield to come, he is optimistic and believes, with all his young heart, that good can and WILL conquer evil.
Kendra is half-elf, tending more toward the appearance of an elf than human (his mother was half-elf, his father full elf). Though he is biologically male, he has very effeminate features, accentuated by the mascara and blush he chooses to wear, long polished nails and carefully plucked eyebrows. His dresswear and mannerisms are similar, as he clothes himself in traditionally female garb befitting his social class. Most do not realize he is male and will refer to him in the feminine. He is pale skinned with a sharp nose and prominent cheekbones, his hair is dyed a vibrant crimson, his eyes are a honey brown verging on orange. Particularly gifted in music, he can play almost any instrument you put in his hands; the fife and the lyre are his specializations, however.
Kendrick, or… Kendra… as he prefers to be called, was born into a family of reasonable wealth. Making their trade as booksellers on the edge of the city of Selgaunt, Kendra had a wide selection of books to occupy his active young mind growing up. Among his favorites were adventuring stories, tales of heroic deeds and fiendish monsters, holy wars and ancient relics. Many a summer he spent in the courtyard swinging his wooden sword at imaginary beasts, avenging fallen comrades and rescuing those in distress. His parents had hoped he would “grow out of it”, as such fantastical musings were sure to be a distraction to learning his trade and taking over the family business. Try as they might, Kendra’s thirst for adventure never diminished, and at the age of sixteen, he decided to study to become a bard, so that he might live the stories that would become legend, and tell them first-hand across the land of Faerûn.
Several years later, with a small amount of coin in his pocket, he’s come to Easthaven, specifically seeking out an adventuring group with which he might align and make himself useful. Despite a slight nervousness in regards to his worth on the battlefield to come, he is optimistic and believes, with all his young heart, that good can and WILL conquer evil.
Kendra is half-elf, tending more toward the appearance of an elf than human (his mother was half-elf, his father full elf). Though he is biologically male, he has very effeminate features, accentuated by the mascara and blush he chooses to wear, long polished nails and carefully plucked eyebrows. His dresswear and mannerisms are similar, as he clothes himself in traditionally female garb befitting his social class. Most do not realize he is male and will refer to him in the feminine. He is pale skinned with a sharp nose and prominent cheekbones, his hair is dyed a vibrant crimson, his eyes are a honey brown verging on orange. Particularly gifted in music, he can play almost any instrument you put in his hands; the fife and the lyre are his specializations, however.
Josalyn Valiantstrike
The first thing you notice about Josalyn is her seniority. Having entered her fifth decade last winter, her posture is stout and purposeful; likewise, her demeanor is rigid and unyielding. She is no wasted movement, no wasted energy, no wasted thought. Her hair is greyed through, straight and cut short at the jawline, eyes a steel blue. She wears no adornment, neither in the form of jewelry nor cosmetics. A deep scar runs its course across her left eye, the wound having rendered her visionless in the eye. This mark somehow does not blemish her overall charisma, for while it is clear she was extremely beautiful in the prime of her life, she now exudes a virtuousness that many never glimpse, let alone embody.
Once a member of the royal guard for the Raumatharan King of Winterkeep, she and her husband Sir William served honorably in this capacity for many a year. But they became suspicious when the Lord’s only son began conducting secretive meetings behind locked doors, away from the ears of the guard. Upon investigation, they uncovered a dastardly plot between the Prince and one of the royal battle wizards, who was willing to aid the Lord’s son to ascension QUICKER than natural… by way of a poison, in return, of course, for a high-ranking position of power himself as Chief Consul and Magical Magistrate. Sir Josalyn and Sir William went to apprehend both subjects and bring them in for questioning. Upon accusation, the Prince willingly gave himself in, only to turn suddenly and bury his blade in Sir William’s back. Sir Josalyn, filled with blind anger and the need for personal vengeance, struck the boy down without a thought. Only when he lay dead at her feet did she realize what she had done.
She was jailed, and shortly thereafter, Josalyn stood trial. She spoke every word the truth. The King, heartbroken at the death of his albeit treacherous son, spared her life, but stripped her of title and cast her out to wander the wild. Josalyn has come to Easthaven in hopes to clear her good name and atone for the crime she hath committed by righteous deed.
The first thing you notice about Josalyn is her seniority. Having entered her fifth decade last winter, her posture is stout and purposeful; likewise, her demeanor is rigid and unyielding. She is no wasted movement, no wasted energy, no wasted thought. Her hair is greyed through, straight and cut short at the jawline, eyes a steel blue. She wears no adornment, neither in the form of jewelry nor cosmetics. A deep scar runs its course across her left eye, the wound having rendered her visionless in the eye. This mark somehow does not blemish her overall charisma, for while it is clear she was extremely beautiful in the prime of her life, she now exudes a virtuousness that many never glimpse, let alone embody.
Once a member of the royal guard for the Raumatharan King of Winterkeep, she and her husband Sir William served honorably in this capacity for many a year. But they became suspicious when the Lord’s only son began conducting secretive meetings behind locked doors, away from the ears of the guard. Upon investigation, they uncovered a dastardly plot between the Prince and one of the royal battle wizards, who was willing to aid the Lord’s son to ascension QUICKER than natural… by way of a poison, in return, of course, for a high-ranking position of power himself as Chief Consul and Magical Magistrate. Sir Josalyn and Sir William went to apprehend both subjects and bring them in for questioning. Upon accusation, the Prince willingly gave himself in, only to turn suddenly and bury his blade in Sir William’s back. Sir Josalyn, filled with blind anger and the need for personal vengeance, struck the boy down without a thought. Only when he lay dead at her feet did she realize what she had done.
She was jailed, and shortly thereafter, Josalyn stood trial. She spoke every word the truth. The King, heartbroken at the death of his albeit treacherous son, spared her life, but stripped her of title and cast her out to wander the wild. Josalyn has come to Easthaven in hopes to clear her good name and atone for the crime she hath committed by righteous deed.
Reginaldus “Rage” Firetongue
After 134 years of hedonistic life as one of the nomadic (and by the way, quite FEARED) Athasian elves, Rage is bored. Sure, he gets to bask in the glittering spoils of another successful raid, and maybe the nightly concubines stirred the blood well enough for the FIRST hundred years, but really, what is the POINT if you’re no longer enjoying yourself? Thankfully, Rage has recently found a new amusing hobby. Killing. Who KNEW it could be so much fun to watch a wimpy goblin’s flesh burn to a toasty crisp and peel off his bones at the hand of Aganazzar’s Scorcher? Who knew it could be so delightful to witness a horde of teeth-gnashing glibberlings choking and clawing at their throats from inhaling the bitter acid of a Stinking Cloud? Who knew that draining the very life force of a whimpering kobold until the last twitch leaves his toes and feeling the surge within his own veins from Larloch’s Minor Drain could be so very INVIGORATING.
Now Rage is hooked. If power feels THIS good using minor spells such as these, how much BETTER must it feel to channel advanced magicks and witness the destruction of all? Oh, he’s going to find out. He just needs to find a good place to start… somewhere a little secluded, not too many prying eyes or obnoxious whistle-blowing goody-two-shoes, at least, until he’s more proficient. Easthaven, maybe?
Reginaldus (a ridiculous name, really, his parents were cruel of that there was no doubt, but to be THAT cruel? No, Rage suits him FAR better) is seven feet, three inches tall, his skin an almost sand-papery texture and similar in coloration. His eyes are a solid black, all pupil, and his hair is jet black, spiked upward. His ears are long and pointed, and his nails have been grown and sharpened more or less into talons. Adorned in robes spun of silver and gold, he has an eye for valuables and trinkets; pretty things belong to him, so I’d suggest handing over that Laeral’s Tear Necklace right away before you find a Magic Missile lodged somewhere up your bum.
After 134 years of hedonistic life as one of the nomadic (and by the way, quite FEARED) Athasian elves, Rage is bored. Sure, he gets to bask in the glittering spoils of another successful raid, and maybe the nightly concubines stirred the blood well enough for the FIRST hundred years, but really, what is the POINT if you’re no longer enjoying yourself? Thankfully, Rage has recently found a new amusing hobby. Killing. Who KNEW it could be so much fun to watch a wimpy goblin’s flesh burn to a toasty crisp and peel off his bones at the hand of Aganazzar’s Scorcher? Who knew it could be so delightful to witness a horde of teeth-gnashing glibberlings choking and clawing at their throats from inhaling the bitter acid of a Stinking Cloud? Who knew that draining the very life force of a whimpering kobold until the last twitch leaves his toes and feeling the surge within his own veins from Larloch’s Minor Drain could be so very INVIGORATING.
Now Rage is hooked. If power feels THIS good using minor spells such as these, how much BETTER must it feel to channel advanced magicks and witness the destruction of all? Oh, he’s going to find out. He just needs to find a good place to start… somewhere a little secluded, not too many prying eyes or obnoxious whistle-blowing goody-two-shoes, at least, until he’s more proficient. Easthaven, maybe?
Reginaldus (a ridiculous name, really, his parents were cruel of that there was no doubt, but to be THAT cruel? No, Rage suits him FAR better) is seven feet, three inches tall, his skin an almost sand-papery texture and similar in coloration. His eyes are a solid black, all pupil, and his hair is jet black, spiked upward. His ears are long and pointed, and his nails have been grown and sharpened more or less into talons. Adorned in robes spun of silver and gold, he has an eye for valuables and trinkets; pretty things belong to him, so I’d suggest handing over that Laeral’s Tear Necklace right away before you find a Magic Missile lodged somewhere up your bum.
