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Felyn'na - Pale Spirit

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Yousei Akki
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PostPosted: Wed May 06, 2009 1:30 pm


PostPosted: Wed May 06, 2009 1:44 pm


Apostle of Peace
In a world where conflict usually means violence, where good and evil meet regularly on the field of battle, where might too often makes right and power is measured in gold pieces, the apostle of peace is a lone voice crying in the wilderness, calling for a change of heart. Having completely forsworn violence in any form, the apostle of peace is an advocate for nonviolent resolution of conflict. He is a powerful font of divine magic, but his spells are all aimed toward healing, calming hostility, and aiding his allies.

Members of all classes can qualify to become apostles of peace, though barbarians, fighters, and rogues have difficulty meeting the skill prerequisites and are usually too oriented toward martial exploits to be interested. Clerics, bards, and druids often develop pacifistic philosophies and gravitate toward this class, but any character can experience a conversion of sorts and become an apostle of peace.

Apostles of peace are usually solitary wanderers or even hermits. Many nonplayer character (NPC) apostles are far removed from the violent struggles of the adventuring life, but may serve as resources of knowledge, spells, or spiritual guidance for adventuring characters.



Albino Drow
((The following information is quoted from the D&D sourcebook 'Drow of the Underdark'))

ALBINO DROW (SZARKAI)
The dark elves are bad enough, but some legends speak of an even more sinister and deadly foe—drow who resemble surface elves and can walk among them undetected. Called szarkai (pronounced zahrk-eye), these enigmatic drow are natural spies.

Szarkai (whose name means “ghost spiders”) are rare mutants in the deep confines of drow cities who appear perfectly natural in other surroundings—especially those on the surface. Thus, albino drow receive intense training in espionage almost from birth.

Ecology

These albinos appear only rarely, representing one-hundredth of one percent of the drow population. Other drow hold them in some awe, and the birth of one is considered a blessing to the family. They are called “ghost spiders” to signify the boon of Lolth.

Whether through inbreeding or the intentional dabbling of the Spider Queen, szarkai tend to appear more frequently among the noble houses than among the lower castes. Their existence is hidden from all but the highest-ranking drow who have a need to know. Szarkai are largely sequestered from drow life, being are too valuable to risk losing to a casual murder when out among the riffraff. Although they are physically
safer than other drow, their lot in life is no less harsh and corrupting.
Szarkai receive the personal attentions of the cruelest priestesses and most Machiavellian of nobles.


Typical Physical Characteristics: Other drow often consider szarkai to be a separate race, but the two kinds of elves are genetically identical except for the szarkai’s pale skin and red eyes. This popular opinion has some basis in fact, though: Some szarkai have subtle deformities, such as hairlessness, gnarled, clawlike hands, or small fangs.

Environment: Although szarkai are born and nurtured in the underground cities of the drow, they can be found in any setting as befits the nature of their missions. Often an albino drow lives among surface elves or in cities where elves are common.

Alignment: Like many of their kin, albino drow are often neutral evil. Szarkai cultivate cold patience, and few drow are as skilled at subtle and cruel intrigues.

Society: When szarkai have completed their training and have demonstrated the necessary skills to carry out their missions, they are
deployed to the surface in deep cover assignments. There, they ingratiate themselves with the surface folk when furthering the agenda of their drow masters and of Lolth. These agents provocateur are always long-term visionaries, since their missions can last for lifetimes among the lesser races. Their assignments might be simple information gathering and relay, reconnaissance of the physical and political landscape, forming a sleeper cell for some future act of sabotage or violence, or quietly manipulating those around them to turn potential allies against one another or to keep surface communities small and weak. Rarely is one of these agents dispatched to perform anything so pedestrian as an assassination; the chance of discovery is too high, and the removal of any specifi c individual among the surface races too insignificant, to be of any real value to the drow. Rather, these master spies weave webs of intrigue that are so thinly stretched across such a span of time as to be virtually invisible. Szarkai studiously avoid liches, since the undying spellcasters are adept at piercing their disguises and guessing their plots.

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PostPosted: Wed May 06, 2009 2:24 pm


Biography


~ Born into a Noble House, Felyn was hidden at birth as most albino drow are. As is a common practice, he was handed over to the most harsh, cruel, and demanding members of his family for conditioning and training. As a child Felyn had no choice and endured the malicious treatment as best he could. However, a random twist of fate gave the young boy a slim opportunity to shake off his keeper and escape into the Underdark itself. Without a single possession to aid him, Felyn escaped his House and fled blind. ((I am open to Plotting on this. I'd love to give him a actual House and House members to avoid))
PostPosted: Fri Sep 11, 2009 11:23 am


Skills and Abilities

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PostPosted: Fri Sep 11, 2009 11:25 am


Magical Spells

~Due to Felyn'na being mute, he can not cast any of his spells currently.~
PostPosted: Fri Sep 11, 2009 11:26 am


Journal


I recount the past. So the present will not overwhelm me. I can not speak. I can not make a sound. I can not put to ink and paper the stir of memories and feelings that come daily. So, I recount them. I acknowledge my memories and I call them to the surface that they not become buried and take festering root in darkness to bare blooms of madness.

This room reminds me of my very first. Only smaller and less furnished. Back then I had a bed. Now I have a lump of blankets. Back then I had a book case filled with lore and knowledge. Now I have bare walls marked only by blood where I have beat upon them until my fists have split. These rooms are linked by the single locked door and the cruel hand that turns the key.

She never gave me her name. My keeper. Priestess of Lloth. I do not know if she was family or not. But she was cold. Very cold. I was only a child. Pale skinned and fluffy haired. My faded grey purple eyes had often turned to the sound of the door opening to greet this demoness of a woman. She was more then my keeper. She was also my instructor. She taught me the earliest lesson of all drowkind. The lesson of pain. It was a daily ritual for her to take her serpent whip and beat me while I howled and wailed out a prayer of thanks to Lloth. I was only a boy! I felt misery then. A sadness and lonliness that wrapped around me as surely as the darkness did.

Not that I had the comfort of darkness often. My training included long sessions of blindness by brilliant white light. In the begining I crused that light. My eyes tears and I had terrible head pains from the constant exposure. When I finally began to adjust to this light pain, when my eyes finally stopped watering and began to focus on my surroundings, that is when my lessongs changed to something a little less painful. Actually they seemed a bit pleasent really.

I was given images and instructed verbally about my purpose in the Underdark. That being to go to the surface. I was still a child, so my lessons were not complete. I was given no clear path, only told that much would be required of me and should I falter the Spider Queen would punish me. But...those images. They burned more brightly then the light itself. I saw things in those images that I had never seen before. The brilliant greens and blues. The tall reaching branch's of trees. And elves... Elves that looked so much like me that it hurt to look upon them. As pale as I. With fair hair and beautiful eyes. I saw them olf and young. I saw innocence and I felt pangs of such envy as I was educated on their 'weakness'. I did not see it as weakness, I saw it as fortune that I desperatly wished for myself.

My education included early weapon training. My keeper provided me with dull bladed weapons while she used keenly sharpened ones. Many of my lessons ended with me upon the floor, bleeding out upon the stones while some poison ravaged my sensitive organs.

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PostPosted: Sat Oct 03, 2009 10:15 pm


Journal


I recount the past. So the present will not overwhelm me. I can not speak. I can not make a sound. I can not put to ink and paper the stir of memories and feelings that come daily. So, I recount them. I acknowledge my memories and I call them to the surface that they not become buried and take festering root in darkness to bare blooms of madness.

I have been allowed by some unknown twisted grace of my captor to keep this journal. I suspect he see's no harm in it now. As the words I write are in the delicate beautiful script of the surface elves. Perhaps he plans to read my journal later, after I have poured the remainder of my heart and soul into these pages. I am beyond careing now. I merely wish a outlet from this pain. Some measure of mourning to escape me besides the tears I shed so often.

I was recounting my past. The begining of my life.

My Keeper was very through. She early on numbed my flesh to the lash of her whip, but was careful not to leave a mark behind on my skin. Appearances would count for much once I ascended to the surface in the name of Lloth. Resistance to pain was quite important, so that I would not bend and break should I be captured and tortued for information. My Keeper took great satisfaction in these lessons I think. She seemed happiest when she was able to make me cry out in pain. When I did it gave her reason to tear down my fragil ego and inflict other types of harm on me.

I was a good student diary. Despite all I have written here, I was a good student. I learned my lessons and I applied myself. I did, in fact, try to succeed and pass her tests. When I did I felt pride and I recieved some form of meager approval. There was only one lesson I did not learn so well. That would be the lesson of hatred. Oh. I feared my Keeper, and out of that fear I respected her. I was in awe of her and desired to appease her so she would not hurt me. I did not hate her though. So if I could not hate the one being that daily tortured me, how could I hate the pale skinned ones that looked so much like me yet had done nothing to me? My Keeper taught me they were weak. She taught me they were pitiful creatures that would one day be either eradicated or enslaved to the drow. She tried to tempt me with images of owning my own pale skinned elf. Yes, the thought of having someone obaying my commands was interesting. To have a servant or slave to wash my cloths, to give me shoulder massages, and maybe converse with me about things other then the subject of my lessons? Oh yes! I wanted that very much! So, over the course of thirty six years I tried my best to earn this slave
PostPosted: Sat Oct 03, 2009 10:19 pm


Journal


I recount the past. So the present will not overwhelm me. I can not speak. I can not make a sound. I can not put to ink and paper the stir of memories and feelings that come daily. So, I recount them. I acknowledge my memories and I call them to the surface that they not become buried and take festering root in darkness to bare blooms of madness.

The anniversary draws near. My owner makes certain to inform me each time. How many years has it been now? Seven of course. My owner delights in reminding me how many years have passed since I have become his.

I believe I was last writing about my studies? Yes, yes I was. I studied hard and endured my lessons. I knelt and prayed and my Keeper finally began to teach me how to read and write. You would think that after such a long time she would have already begun these lessons. I believe that she believed that by keeping me ignorant of these useful tools she could keep control over me more. She was right of course. My inability to read and write had hindered me in my lessons, thus giving her ample excuses to punish me over the smallest things. I was allowed to look at the pictures in the books provided, and I understood mathematics better then most szarkai my age. So she said...how would she know though? How many of my kind had she honestly taught? Or for that matter even seen?

She continued to promise me a slave if I were a good student. I believe this was a empty promise though, meant to break my trust of one's word. It worked for a time too. It grew to the point that I even began to doubt minor promises on her part. I did not look forwards to anything she said she would bring or do, and I was not punished for being so impertinante as to ask her to follow through on these promises.

Priestessesss of Lloth shall fulfill any promise they wish to a male, but even as special as she said I was, I was still a male under this white flesh and had to learn my place. I had begun to accept this cold reality, despite how unhappy it made me feel.

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PostPosted: Sat Oct 03, 2009 10:21 pm


Journal


I recount the past. So the present will not overwhelm me. I can not speak. I can not make a sound. I can not put to ink and paper the stir of memories and feelings that come daily. So, I recount them. I acknowledge my memories and I call them to the surface that they not become buried and take festering root in darkness to bare blooms of madness.

A hopeless and bleak life lays out before me. Gods...gods...I miss him. I miss Mer so much. Why won't they just let me die? Everything is pointless. There is no reason for life. There is no joy or warmth. There is nothing kind or wonderful. Just let me die. Please.. I begged him like a broken child as he wrapped my arms. I have done everything they have demanded of me. I have renounced Elistraee. I have cursed her name and committed the blashphemy of sacrifice in the name of Lloth. Blood is on my hands! I have broken every vow I have ever made! They have won, I have submitted! Why won't they just let me die now! My wounds are healed. The gashes I had gouged in my wrists have been mended by divine magic, but the scars are left there. More scars. Along side others that have been made in the past seven years. Scars of my own making. The only wounds that he heals without a mark are the ones I have made to my face. He does not want my beauty marred in that way. He enjoys looking upon my features, his hot breath in my face as he pins me beneath him. His taunting words of my physical intimacy with Mer still bring tears to my eyes as easily as the first day he uttered them. I am a betrayer of my love. For all my insistance that I loved only Mer...Gods...just let me die. I will it. I wish it. I focus on it with all my being. They say you can will yourself to death, but that is a lie. I have been willing it for as long as I have been a captive and I still am alive. I still breath. My heart still beats. Lies. They all lie!
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