Meet Aldric.

He turned eighteen in the dark, which is how he would have
preferred to spend it -- quietly, without incident, without
anyone dying. He had gotten good at that. Staying small. Staying
away from the edges of things. He had watched his mother go
slowly and his father go suddenly and everyone else in between
go badly, and he had taken careful notes on all of it without
meaning to, and what the notes said was: it hurts, and it takes
a long time, and it means nothing about you except that it
happened.

The god did not introduce itself. It did not ask. It told him
what he was going to do and it did not wait for him to agree and
it did not offer him anything for the trouble and when it was
done speaking the room was just a room again and Aldric was
still in it, alone, the same as he had always been except now there was a direction.

He is not brave. He wants to be clear about that, in case
anyone is keeping track. He knows what swords do to bodies
because he has seen what smaller things do to bodies, and he is
not interested in finding out what the last part feels like from
the inside. But the god said go, and there is no one left to
stay for, and so he is going. Quietly. Terrified. One foot and
then the other, into whatever is waiting, which he is trying
very hard not to think about.

---

Aldric is a Paladin who did not ask to be one, built along the
lines of Oath of Glory less because he believes in it and more
because something does, and has decided he's the vessel. He
looks like someone who has been bracing for bad news long enough
that it has become his resting posture -- cautious eyes, careful
hands, the kind of stillness that reads as calm until you know
what it actually is. In combat he fights like a person who is
acutely aware that damage is real, which makes him precise and
not particularly reckless, and which makes his Divine Smites
feel less like power and more like desperation with good timing.
At the table he is the one asking whether this is actually
necessary, and then doing it anyway, every time.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #TTRPG #CharacterIntro #Homebrew
#Paladin #OathOfGlory #DivineMandate #CharacterBackstory
#Trauma #NewAdventurer

Meet Fat Man and Little Boy.

You'll meet them at a bad inn or a good road, depending on your
luck, and they will immediately be too much. Fat Man laughs
before the joke lands and Little Boy finishes it before Fat Man
can, and somewhere in the middle of all that noise you'll
decide they're harmless. Most people do.

Fat Man is broad and round and warm in the way of a hearth that
doesn't know it's burning too hot. He gestures when he talks,
which is always, and he has a laugh that arrives several seconds
before anything funny happens. Little Boy is long and narrow and
still, and watches everything with the patient attention of
someone who has learned that the world reveals itself if you
wait. They have been together long enough that their sentences
are a single thing split between two mouths.

They're carrying something. They don't know what it is -- not
really. They were paid to move it, told it was fragile, told not
to open it, and they haven't, because they are, despite
everything, professionals. It is fragile. It is also the reason
the next three sessions go the way they do. By the time you
understand what they had, you will have already decided you
liked them. That's the point. That was always the point.

---

Fat Man and Little Boy are comic NPCs built for early placement
and long shadow -- loud enough to dismiss, warm enough to trust,
and load-bearing in ways the party won't clock until it's loud.
Fat Man runs high Charisma and low Wisdom, all impulse and
infectious energy, a natural distraction. Little Boy is his
complement: high Perception, low everything the party might
think to check. Together they function as a delivery mechanism
for a plot device neither of them understands, and as a quiet
argument that the most dangerous things in a campaign are the
ones that make you smile first.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #TTRPG #CharacterIntro #NPC
#Homebrew #ComicRelief #PlotTwist #DungeonMaster #DMTools

Meet Zagrea Afxbis.

Six generations ago, a young Tiefling named Urxikas Afxbis was playing dice in a loud bar and caught another player cheating. He called it out. There was a scuffle. The scuffle became a brawl. The brawl became a full-room catastrophe -- everyone involved, furniture flying, chaos wall to wall.

Everyone except the Green Hag sitting alone in the far corner.

Urxikas got thrown across the room and landed near her. Scrambling up, he stepped on her pack. Something inside shattered. She screamed. The whole bar went quiet.

She walked up to him slowly. Got close. And in a voice barely above a whisper, she told him exactly what she thought of him and every red-blooded, tail-dragging devilspawn that would come after him. Then she blew a handful of sand in his eyes and walked out.

That was six Afxbisses ago. The curse has been passed down faithfully through every generation. Uncontrollable magic. Skin that changes color every time a spell fires -- bright green after poison, bright red after fire, eight colors counted so far, possibly more to come. The Afxbis line has learned, generation to generation, how to ride the magic, how to keep it from swallowing them whole. The skin, they never figured out.

Somehow, Zagrea is a happy guy. Charismatic, warm, a little prone to exaggeration when he's telling stories. He finds joy in most things. Most people like him immediately.

But spend enough time with him and you'll see it -- something behind the eyes. Something that doesn't quite rest. He keeps moving because standing still was never really an option. He wasn't welcome most places, growing up. So he kept walking, kept adventuring, and somewhere along the way started looking for something that resembles peace.

He hasn't found it yet. His powers are getting stronger by the day.

---

Zagrea Afxbis is a tall Tiefling Sorcerer with almost no muscle to speak of, wearing colorful striped overalls and a cape long enough to wrap himself in -- both striped vertically in white, red, vermillion, orange, amber, yellow, chartreuse, green, teal, blue, violet, purple, magenta, and black. He attacks from range and relies on his arcane knowledge when his spells don't cooperate. He can will his bare hands to strike like a club, dagger, or handaxe, and can summon a vibrant shield of light from his own arms when pressed. He is a lifelong adventurer, a walking folk legend, and arguably the most colorful person in the room -- sometimes literally.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #TTRPG #Homebrew #CharacterIntro #Sorcerer #Tiefling

Meet Phineas Draem, Proprietor of Phin's Finds.

He was never a warrior. Never an adventurer. Never a thief. He was a salesman.

Phin's Finds occupied a crooked alley in the kind of neighborhood that doesn't appear on city maps. Cramped, cluttered, lit poorly on purpose. The sort of shop where adventurers found oddities, nobles found things they couldn't buy anywhere reputable, and scholars found things they weren't supposed to touch. Phineas didn't steal or pillage. Everything in his stock passed through someone else's hands first. He simply had a gift for being the last person those hands sold to.

He built his business on charm, patience, and a network of whispers that stretched further than anyone knew. He out-negotiated rivals, cultivated desperate sellers, and kept careful track of who owed him what and who might need something quietly acquired. Over a lifetime of that work, card by card, he assembled his crowning piece -- a nearly complete Deck of Many Things. Not a replica. Not a partial draw. The real thing, almost whole.

Then one night it was gone. The stock too. Everything. Break-in, betrayal, curse -- he doesn't know. He may never know. What he knows is that he woke up with no money, no goods, no shop, and no status. Only the road.

He is not built for the road. He knows this. But desperation has a way of expanding a man's skill set, and it turns out that everything Phineas spent decades perfecting -- reading people, running networks, saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment, hiring the right middlemen, maintaining appearances under pressure -- translates surprisingly well to staying alive in places that would like to kill him. He ducks behind cover. He throws out distractions. He cuts through minds with words when steel would be slower. There is a hidden dagger, just in case. He has not had to use it yet. He intends to keep that record.

He is not chasing glory or gold. He is chasing stock. Artifacts, relics, cursed objects, forgotten magic. Anything with a story and a market. He wants his deck back. He wants his shop back. He wants to be, once again, the black market's most indispensable dealer -- and he is willing to go find the inventory himself.

---

Phineas Draem is a Rogue 3 / Bard 7 -- Mastermind and College of Eloquence -- and it shows. His silver tongue makes persuasion feel like a gift to the person being persuaded. His read of people borders on unsettling. He lies with the timing of a man who has rehearsed honesty so thoroughly he knows exactly when to abandon it. He has never seen real battle and does not intend to start now -- but he has survived everything the road has thrown at him so far on fast talk, misdirection, and the quiet confidence of a man who knows more about the situation than anyone else present. The dagger is a last resort. The words are the weapon.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #TTRPG #Homebrew #CharacterIntro #Rogue #Bard

Meet Dirty Daerjl.

He was good at his job. Really good. Medical examiner, respected by his peers, celebrated in his field. And every paycheck, every bonus, every coin he didn't immediately need -- straight to the table.

Cards, dice, lizard races. Gambit of Ord was his game of choice, but Daerjl wasn't picky. If there was a bet to be made, he was there to make it. And one night, he was so sure he had a sure thing that he bet everything he had. He didn't have a sure thing.

He ran before they could stop him. Took a roundabout path to an inn, lay low, and told himself it would blow over. He went home the next morning to smashed windows, a kicked-in door, and most of his belongings in pieces on the floor. On top of the debris: a note.

"We have informed your former employer that you work for us now."

And just like that, his credentials as a funeral director, coroner, and medical examiner became someone else's tools. For years, he planned the disappearances. Covered up the murders. Did the dirty work and asked, regularly, when his debt would be paid off. The answer was always nothing.

One day he just didn't go in. Left town. Didn't look back.

He hasn't paid off the debt. He knows they haven't forgotten. But out here, wand in one hand and firearm in the other, he is at least on his own terms.

---

Dirty Daerjl is a Rock Gnome Artificer, level 10. At 2'10 and 40 pounds, he is at least 250 years old, with dark tan skin, a large bulbous nose, and dark grey hair cut flat on top. He bridges magic and technology with the precision of someone who spent a career in the details. He is a hard worker, a dedicated craftsman, and genuinely cannot walk past a card table without slowing down.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #TTRPG #Homebrew #CharacterIntro #Artificer #RockGnome

Meet Daz'Throol, Knight of Rix-Cave, Protector of the Green Shield, Master of the Staff of Throol.

There are people who protect others because they have to. Because it's their duty, their oath, their job. Daz'Throol does it because he cannot do otherwise. Something in him -- something ancient and immovable -- simply will not allow the weak to fall while he still stands.

He is calm. Almost unnervingly so. He speaks quietly, moves deliberately, and carries himself with the kind of stillness that makes a room feel safer just by him being in it. He will listen to your problem. He will consider it fully. And if that problem involves something trying to hurt you, he will step in front of it.

He will always step in front of it.

His war pick and the Staff of Throol are tools, not trophies. The Green Shield, which protects him as he protects others, is worn with the ease of something earned. His chain mail covers his torso, plate covers his legs, and in his nose hangs the ring that carries both his holy symbol and the signet of his order -- present and visible, a reminder of what he is and who he answers to.

He does not raise his voice. He does not need to. When the calm breaks, you'll know.

---

Daz'Throol, Knight of Rix-Cave, Protector of the Green Shield, Master of the Staff of Throol, is a Loxodon Paladin, level 10. He controls the battlefield, absorbs punishment, and keeps his party standing. His presence at the table is that of an anchor: patient, immovable, and absolutely certain of his purpose.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #TTRPG #Homebrew #CharacterIntro #Paladin #Loxodon

Meet Danumo Tallfellow.

He started on the street. Coins in a hat, card tricks, a little sleight of hand. Then he picked up an instrument and the coins came faster. He moved inside -- taverns, pub stages, dock-side crowds. Then small theaters. Then leads. Then one-man shows. Then coliseums.

There is no bigger stage than the one Danumo has already stood on. He has filled every seat in every room in every city. He is not just famous. He is beloved. He is the kind of name that makes strangers smile just by saying it.

It isn't enough.

It was never going to be enough. He doesn't want to maintain his fame -- he wants to expand it. Into every market, every household, every corner of the known world that hasn't heard of him yet. There aren't many of those left. But there is one frontier he hasn't conquered.

Adventuring.

At 5'1, he is the tallest halfling you have ever met, and he knows it. Slender, olive-skinned, with piercing green eyes and hair that enters the room a moment before he does. He has been trained in stage combat by the best stuntmen working, and he intends to find out how well that translates to something real.

---

Danumo Tallfellow is a Halfling Bard -- performer, showman, and the most charismatic person in any room he walks into. He has never walked into a room he didn't own.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #TTRPG #Homebrew #CharacterIntro #Bard #Halfling

# Meet Cornelius "Papa" Behrr

Three hundred wins, but one loss that doesn't show up in any record book.

Papa Behrr had been fighting his whole career. He was good at it. He trained hard, he fought clean, and he was respected. Then one day, cooling down at the gym, he spotted a woman training across the room. Elvish. Striking. Moving like someone who had been in more fights than she'd ever admit. He introduced himself. She suggested a walk.

For hours they talked -- about fighting, about family, about the lack of it. Somewhere along the way she pulled out a staff, plain gold and wood, and balanced a stone above it. Then a leaf on the stone. Then a larger stone on the leaf. All of it spinning, hovering, effortless.

As Papa watched, Lucia reared back with her free hand and knocked him cold.

He woke up alone. No pack, no hat, no shirt, no rings, no shoes. Just his pants and the memory of every detail -- her long dark orange hair, her obsession with the Aqumore Archipelago, the tattoo on the back of her left hand, between thumb and forefinger: "LK."

He fell apart after that. Stopped fighting, started drinking. Then started drinking seriously. It was somewhere in a blackout that the decision made itself: find her. He doesn't know yet if it's for revenge or something worse. He just knows he has to look her in the eyes one more time.

---

Cornelius "Papa" Behrr is a Human Fighter -- a career boxer with over three hundred professional wins and one very personal loss he can't let go of. He fights with his hands, his feet, and the kind of stubborn endurance that only comes from spending decades getting hit and getting up. He is warm, steady, and easy to underestimate -- right up until he isn't.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #TTRPG #Homebrew #CharacterIntro #Fighter #PC

Meet Voss

He doesn't remember what ordinary thing he was doing when it happened.

He remembers before; a quiet and unremarkable life, sure, but it was *his*. And he remembers the after; which is Pip, already perched, already watching him with the patience of a thing that has been waiting a long time and is relieved the wait is finally over. Voss didn't go looking for this. He is still not quite sure what *this* is.

Voss is neat about everything. His coat, his words, the careful way he stands in a room as though he's already located the exits and decided which one he prefers. He watches people the some people watch fires, waiting for it to inevitably get out of hand but already knowing when that will happen. He's not unfriendly. He just seems that way because of his carefulness.

Ask him what Pip is and he will pause for a long time before responding: "I'm still working on that".

---

Meet Pip

Small. Fast. Certain, in an unearned way.

He arrived without invitation nor explanation.

He finishes sentences. Not out of impatience, but because he already knows where the sentence will end, and waiting for it to come seems like a dreadful formality. He is always right about that direction, and knows that this is not entirely endearing. He has not adjusted.

Voss noticed early on that Pip has never said anything provably false. Voss has spent considerable time deciding whether this is reassuring. It is not. Something that has never been wrong is either very wise or has never been tested.

What Pip is, exactly, is a question he deflects with the efficiency of something who has heard it many times and found the asking much more interesting that the answering. Voss asks sometimes, late at night when the camp is quiet. Pip often responds that he is still working on that. Voss suspects this is true, and he is not eased by it.

---

Meet Voss and Pip

If asked, they'll tell you they're not a team. Voss will tell you as much, very carefully, with a pause before the word team like he is checking whether it fits. Pip will tell you much quicker and with more confidence and with zero elaboration. They will then immediately function as a team, and nobody will bring it up, becuase obviously they're a team.

---

Voss is an Aberrant Mind Sorcerer who doesn't so much *cast* as *indicate*, neat and deliberate in everything including violence, built around reading the room before acting and acting *precisely* when he does act. Pip is a familiar by ruling, and something harder to pin down by name in every other measure. Small, construct-adjacent, forward-leaning, eager, with eyes that are slightly too steady and a certainty that has never once wavered in Voss's presence.

In combat, Voss stands at the edge and tilts the table quietly while Pip handles what needs handling. They are the most efficient two voices in the party, and the least forthcoming. And the question of which one of them is actually doing the magic is, as Voss might say, still being worked on.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #TTRPG #CharacterIntro #Homebrew #Sorcerer #Familiar #Construct #DynamicDuo

character intro time:

Meet Celdervinn Bringer! 🤺 🤺

As the first and only child to a noble family, she has lots of expectations on her shoulders - none of them being wanted. And yet she spends her life trying to appease her parents.

One part of her duties is sword-training, a discipline she eventually falls in love with; both because she finds a piece of her true self in it, and because she just *loves* being so good at it.

#Oc #Art #MastoArt #CharacterIntro #Cel #WlW #yuri #Lesbian