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.

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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.

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Is This Anything?

A roaming philanderer who names all his bastards the same name. It's not of sentiment or of tradition; it's so he doesn't have to remember all their names. But if they ever do meet, he'll know exactly what to call them.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #NPC #Bastard #Philanderer

Is This Anything?

The Felt Digit of Tactile Telekinesis is a large, overly stuffed, pointing hand made of felt, sized to fit over a grown adult's fist. It is sewn from cheap red and yellow felt, with uneven seams and shifted stuffing. The item is in the shape of a hand curled up with an extended index finger.

To use the item, the user must wear the item on their own hand, then press the tip of the felt finger against any object, and concentrate. Telekinesis occurs immediately, but it's not the object that moves, it is the wearer.

By maintaining contact between the felt digit and the object, the wearer can move themselves in any direction, at any speed the telekinesis would otherwise permit, for as long as the tip remains pressed against the surface. Release contact, and the effect ends.

Wondrous Item, uncommon. Requires attunement by a creature with at least one hand.
The wearer can move at a speed of up to 30 feet per round in any direction while maintaining contact. The felt digit has 4 hit points and no AC to speak of.

#iTA #isThisAnything #DnD #Telekinesis #FoamFinger #Felt

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

Is This Anything?

The Bop It Idol - Wondrous Artifact

The Bop-It Idol was built by trickster gnome/shopkeeper/blacksmith/inventor of considerable skill and considerable irritability who loved a good riddle almost as much as he hated anyone who thought they had figured one out.

This garishly colored scepter is warm to the touch and deeply pleased with itself. It attunes to the first creature that holds it for more than a minute and then it refuses to let go.

At the start of each of your turns in combat, the idol issues a command in a loud, cheerful voice audible to every creature within 60 feet. Bop It! Twist It! Pull It! Flick It! Spin It! Encore!

What those commands mean depends on the DM. In one version, the idol is asking: strike a nearby creature, take the dodge action, attempt a grapple, expend a resource like a spell slot or ki point, or perform a flashy weapon flourish with disadvantage because it wants a show. Comply and your turn continues. Refuse and you pay for it in psychic damage, lost actions, or an embarrassing tumble to the floor.

In the other version, it is not asking at all: your body lurches toward the nearest creature, a spell slot is drained, your attack is redirected, you move differently in the order of things.

Both versions share one final mechanic. When you drop to zero hit points, the idol speaks one last time in a voice only you can hear: "Pass it." Then it throws itself at whoever is closest.

Crumwick thought that was the funniest part.

#iTA #isThisAnything #dnd #TTRPG #homebrewdnd #dnd5e #magicitems #curseditem #cursedartifact #bopit #gnomeinventor #homebrewmagicitem

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