abarn82

[abarn82]

Lazarine moves through the world with the wary tension of a monitor lizard sunning on a rock – poised to vanish in a blink if startled. That ingrained skittishness remains her bedrock; she trusts slowly, scans exits constantly, and prefers the shadows where her scales blend seamlessly. Survival was her obsession honed by instincts screaming territory and food. Cross her boundaries or snatch her meal (especially her illicitly hoarded stash of pungent, salted mudfish jerky), and the shy creature vanishes. What emerges is a hissing, tail-lashing whirlwind of defensive fury, all bared teeth and flashing claws. Yet beneath the primal defensiveness lies sharp intelligence. Given rare patient interaction, she has learned to tolerate, even grudgingly rely on specific individuals, forming bonds as tough as old leather. She’s an active opportunist, movements economical, eyes missing nothing, assessing threats, escapes, and potential snacks with suspicion and predatory interest.

To mask vulnerability, Lazarine still projects sarcastic indifference. She’s impulsively mischievous, often veering into cruelty – tripping allies, 'accidentally' triggering traps, offering brazenly condescending 'advice' with a razor grin. She finds dark amusement in minor misfortunes, her laughter dry, and displays egotism, believing her complex, acrobatic combat way is superior. Empathy remains alien; she’ll abandon companions for entertainment or escape; however, more often now, if she believes they are okay, she might quip that you are fine. Her fighting style reflects brutal pragmatism: closing distance, grappling ferociously to immobilize, while wielding a weapon with precise efficiency. She thrives in close-quarters chaos, perception focused on exploiting weaknesses.

But the cracks in her armor have widened slightly. Her territoriality extends to emotional space. Vulnerability is her deepest fear. Witnessing genuine grief might elicit buried sadness, though she now lingers near memorials, unseen. Ridicule about her Lizard-folk traits still rattles her facade, but tremors subside faster. Exhaustion is still only admitted in solitude. Deep down, she possesses a growing latent protectiveness, a fierce, less hidden loyalty. She has saved companions from doom, then mocked them for needing saving, masking it as preserving 'entertainment' with slightly less conviction. She understands their bleak predicament with razor Insight, perhaps better than most; her provocations might be a warped attempt to inject feeling into the absurdity – a destructive coping mechanism to avoid the void. Quieter moments reveal facets: meticulous carving on scavenged bone, collecting iridescent beetle shells, or solitary sunbathing on high rocks, utterly still. She’s a survivor actively learning to grow and show a more vulnerable side wrapped in the skin of a trickster, guarding a fiercely intelligent, deeply wounded core with claws, sarcasm, and the occasional grapple-and-stab.

Race: Lizardfolk

Gender: Female

Age: 13 Years Old

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Class: Level 20 Slayer: Chimera Soul (Made by Radoslaw Dlugowski)

Fighting Style: Dueling

Archetype: Bear

Maneuvers: Evasive Footwork, Menacing Attack, Sweeping Attack, Trip Attack, Climb Giant, Redirect Momentum, Bait and Switch, Distracting Strike, Precision Attack, Rally, Foe Shield, Commanding Strike, Disarming Strike, Concussive Attack, Maneuvering Attack, Blade Dancer's Kata

Tool Proficiencies: Thieves Tool

Background: Criminal

Languages: Common, Draconic

Proficiencies: Stealth, Survival, Perception, Sleight Of Hand, Insight, Acrobatics

Feats: Grappler, Athlete, Alert, Sentinel, Tough

Boon of Martial Mastery

Epic Boon Feat (Prerequisite: Level 19+)

You gain the following benefits.

Ability Score Increase. Increase one ability score of your choice by 1, to a maximum of 30.

Superior Maneuvers. You learn three maneuvers of your choice. If a maneuver you use requires your target to make a saving throw to resist the maneuver’s effects, the saving throw DC equals 8 + your Proficiency Bonus + your Strength or Dexterity modifier (your choice). You also gain two Superiority Dice, which are d12s (these dice are added to any Superiority Dice you have from other sources). These dice are used to fuel your maneuvers. A Superiority Die is expended when you use it. You regain your expended Superiority Dice when you finish a Short or Long Rest.

[abarn82]

Ahryza navigates life like the tides: quietly efficient and precisely effective. A fisheries patrol officer, she reads waves, tracks tides, and deciphers wind shifts from the stars with instinctive ease. Raised in coastal communities steeped in respect for nature, she learned early that survival hinges on listening and adapting, not control. Her sharp perception, survival skills, and animal handling are honed by years on the water, where every sense matters.

Direct and quick to act, Ahryza often dives into situations impulsively, especially under pressure or when protecting others. This eagerness has burned her, and while she recognizes it as a flaw, reining it in remains a struggle. She carries a low hum of anxiety, a restless energy born from constantly balancing calm and chaos. Her humor is dry and dark, a shield against the weight of her duties.

Trust is hard-earned, and Ahryza tends to push people away when overwhelmed. Yet, once someone is in her circle, she’s fiercely loyal—a steadfast anchor in storms. The tension between her ingrained self-reliance and the need for support creates an ongoing, uneven journey.

Her interests reflect her coastal roots yet reveal unexpected depths. She collects shells from forgotten shores, finding stories in their forms, and cherishes the rhythmic calls of shorebirds—a quiet passion surprising in someone so practical. Off duty, she explores coastal trails with her herbalism kit, gathering native plants and experimenting with traditional remedies passed down through generations. Her simple diet honors coastal culture: lesser-known seafood like sea asparagus, small catches preserved with salt and herbs, sparing use of potent fermented fish sauces, and herbal teas to soothe restless nights.

Her core mindset echoes druidic principles: "go with the flow" is a vital survival tactic learned from the ocean's rhythm, not a mere phrase. Ahryza's path involved using relentless work to outrun fears—of losing control or failing those who relied on her. She long resisted admitting vulnerability, clinging to an independence that sometimes veered into recklessness. However, quiet losses and moments of connection gradually reshaped her understanding. She’s learning that true strength lies not just in decisive action, but also in patience, knowing when to wait, and when to trust others. This growth is messy, marked by setbacks, stubbornness, and creeping self-doubt.

Grounded in the present yet shaped by a complex past, Ahryza is a woman who once sought certainty but now strives to read nature’s signs and trust the tides, even when the path ahead remains unclear.

Race: Fairy (Made by Izode227) Gender: Female Age: 27 Years Old Alignment: Chaotic Good Class: Level 20 Druid: Circle Of Coast (Made by Korvinagor) Magician. You know one extra cantrip from the Druid spell list. In addition, your mystical connection to nature gives you a bonus to your Intelligence (Arcana or Nature) checks. The bonus equals your Wisdom modifier (minimum bonus of +1). Potent Spellcasting. Add your Wisdom modifier to the damage you deal with any Druid cantrip. Tool Proficiencies: Herbalism Kit, Water Vehicles Background: Fisheries patrol officer Languages: Common, Elvish, Sylvain Proficiencies: Perception, Arcana, Nature, Insight, Survival, Animal Handling, Stealth Cantrips: Thorn Whip, Starry Wisp, Guidance, Produce Flame, Elementalism, Shape Water, Mage Hand Feats: Alert, Telekinetic, Skilled, Resilient (Constitution), War Caster

Boon of dimensional travel

Ability score increase: Increase one ability score by 1 (up to a maximum of 30).

Ability: Immediately after you take the Attack or Magic action, you can teleport up to 30 feet.

[abarn82]

Gristle carries the weight of restless spirits and his own tangled past like an ill-fitting coat. He speaks in layered truths and practices evasions, a voice honed for dirges and bargaining with ghosts. His "music" isn't just performance; it's a lifeline to the restless dead, channeled through an erhu's mournful cry, the duduk's breathy lament, and the sharp, metallic contrast of a kalimba's plucked notes – a counterpoint to the cricket chorus he both respects and embodies. He trusts omens over institutions, especially the vigilant chirp of crickets he refuses to harm, seeing in them echoes of his own need for vigilance and hidden strength.

Beneath the bard's showmanship lies a recluse soul, deeply uncomfortable with permanence. He hoards secrets like others hoard coins, his expertise in religion, medicine, and reading people born from necessity, not virtue. He’s quick with a distracting tale or a carefully crafted lie, but slow to share anything real about himself. His downtime is spent playing complex, solitaire tile games or meticulously repairing his instruments. He eats what’s available and often strange: sweet potato and carrot roots for chewing, dried grains, foraged edible flowers and greens, – simple, portable foods. He finds unexpected comfort in the sharp tang of fermented cabbage.  

Haunted by literal and figurative debts, Gristle is a chronic wanderer. He knows clinging to the past is poison, yet he struggles to shed his chains – old betrayals, failed promises, spirits demanding closure. His spirit channeling is powerful but perilous; the ghosts he summons aren't always cooperative, sometimes twisting his messages or lashing out, leaving him drained or worse. This constant flux makes him unreliable, prone to abrupt departures when the past or the spirits get too close. He isn't cruel, but he's no saint; self-preservation often trumps compassion, and his cynicism is a well-worn shield. His journey is learning that while you can't outrun every ghost, some debts can only be paid by stopping long enough to face them, even if the road ahead remains stubbornly unclear. He walks it anyway, driven by a desperate, buried hope for a new beginning whispered in the wind.

Race: Thoptra: Cricket (Made by Grimley533)

Gender: Male

Age: 16 Years Old

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Class: Level 20 Bard: Collage Of Spirits

Tool Proficiencies: Calligraphy Supplies, Gaming Set, 3 Musical Instruments (Kalimba, Erhu, Duduk)

Background: Dispatch Rider (Build Your Own Background: Background Features)

Languages: Common, Insect-Common, Thoptran

Proficiencies: Deception (Expertise), Persuasion (Expertise), Perception, Insight (Expertise), Performance (Expertise), Religion (Expertise)

Cantrips: Friends, Guidance, Vicious Mockery, Minor Illusion, Prestidigitation, Spare The Dying, Thunderclap

Feats: Inspiring Musician (Grimley533), Inspiring Leader, War Caster, Fey Touch (Misty Step, Command), Biokinesis, Alert

Boon Of Fate Home » Feats » Boon Of Fate Source: Player's Handbook

Prerequisite: Level 19+

You gain the following benefits.

Ability Score Increase. Increase one ability score of your choice by 1, to a maximum of 30.

Improve Fate. When you or another creature within 60 feet of you succeeds on or fails a D20 Test, you can roll 2d4 and apply the total rolled as a bonus or penalty to the d20 roll. Once you use this benefit, you can’t use it again until you roll Initiative or finish a Short or Long Rest.

[abarn82]

Azgor moves through the world with the deliberate, heavy tread of someone who understands the immense pressure of the earth. His voice, when he chooses to use it, is a low rumble, often punctuated by a dry, almost absurd wit that catches people off guard. Born into a lineage that valued strength and self-reliance above all else, his early years were spent deep within the earth, learning the unforgiving rhythms of rock and ore. He became adept with mason tools, not just for shaping stone, but for understanding its weaknesses, its hidden strengths. 

His journey from a simple miner to something far more formidable wasn't a gentle ascent. He learned quickly that relying on others was a gamble he wasn't willing to take, and a deep-seated fear of being controlled or manipulated hardened his resolve. This period forged him into a brute force, a barbarian who met threats head-on, often with a maul that felt like an extension of his own unyielding will. He developed an uncanny ability to read a situation, to sense danger before it fully materialized, and to move with a raw, athletic power that could push aside any obstacle. 

He stumbled upon a forgotten nexus, a faint echo of the World Tree, Yggdrasil, pulsing beneath the very mountains he once mined. This connection he learned to channel this energy into decisive strikes and tempered thinking that could send foes sprawling or force them into positions of his choosing. He’d often grumble, "Yeah, I’m connected to cosmic forces. They mostly just complain about my boot smell."

Azgor isn't a hero, nor does he pretend to be. He can be incredibly stubborn, digging in his heels like a mountain goat on a precarious ledge, refusing to budge once his mind is set. He has little patience for indecision or what he perceives as weakness, often cutting off rambling explanations with a blunt, pointed question. His humor is dark, often delivered with a straight face, leaving others unsure whether to laugh or be intimidated. He craves fiery Hungarian wax peppers and char-grilled root vegetables like parsnips, salsify, and kohlrabi smoked over embers; earthy wild leafy greens like sorrel, lamb’s lettuce, and dandelion; and crisp Styrian apples dripping with a glaze of sweet chili and elderberry syrup.

His indulgence? Smoked, dried fruits—plums, pears, and rowanberries—whose chewy sweetness evokes memories of stolen rations during endless nights in the caverns below. In his rare moments of downtime, he might be found meticulously sharpening his tools, or listening to the low, resonant hum of ancient, almost guttural folk songs that seem to echo the deep earth. His journey is far from over, a continuous process of wrestling with the cosmic power he now wields, always seeking to master it, lest it master him.

Race: Goristro (Tyler Kamstra)

Gender: Male

Age: 32 Years Old

Alignment: 

Class: Level 20 Barbarian: Path of the World Tree

Tool Proficiencies: Mason Tools 

Background: Miner

Languages: Common, Abyssal 

Proficiencies: Athletics, Perception, Survival, Intimidation, Animal Handling

Feats: Savage Attacker, Slasher, Charger, Great Weapon Master, Tough 

Boon of Irresistible Offense

Ability Score Increase: Increase your Strength or Dexterity score by 1, to a maximum of 30.

Overcome Defenses: The Bludgeoning, Piercing, and Slashing damage you deal always ignores Resistance.

Overwhelming Strike: When you roll a 20 on the d20 for an attack roll, you can deal extra damage to the target equal to the ability score increased by this feat. The extra damage’s type is the same as the attack’s type.

[abarn82]

Versial silver skin glints like silver metal under the sun, black lines creating an illusory depth across his frame, making him appear more machine than flesh. Yet, his green, pixelated runes pulse faintly, revealing the living being beneath. His green eyes are sharp and constantly observant. This visual duality highlights his Runescale heritage, a people descended from giants and silver dragons, often exhibiting a blend of humanoid and draconic features.

A tribal upbringing, where danger was constant, honed his Perception , making him acutely aware of his surroundings. Witnessing his father's defeat and the tribe's takeover instilled a quiet but potent Intimidation , a self-preservation mechanism that belies his young age. His time alone on a mystery island has sharpened his Survival instincts. He possesses a deep knowledge of finding shelter, tracking, and locating water, skills learned from necessity after his separation from the tribe. The mystery of his kidnapping fuels his need for Investigation, a relentless curiosity to understand his situation and find a way home. His understanding of the natural world, his Nature proficiency, comes from years spent in tribal lands, a knowledge now vital for navigating the unfamiliar island ecosystem. His lifestyle honed his strength and agility, evident in his Athletics and Acrobatics. Years of tribal life, often requiring undetected movement, have made Stealth second nature.

However, Versial is flawed. His forced separation and the trauma of his father's fall have led to a deep distrust of others. He is slow to bond and anticipates betrayal, a genuine flaw born from pain. His youthful energy and the urgency of his situation often lead to impatience and rash decisions. This can manifest as a stubborn refusal to heed advice. Having witnessed the brutal reality of power, Versial can be cynical, questioning the motives of those who offer help. His inherent outsider status has shaped his wary worldview. The green runes across his skin are believed to mark significant life events. He has a subtle fascination with shiny objects, a draconic inheritance he tries to control.

Drawing on knowledge from his tribal upbringing, he eats grubs roasted over a fire and various native fruits and roots. He avoids overly processed sweet foods, preferring savory options, possibly reflecting the protein-rich diets of giants. Despite his isolation, Versial finds solace in sculpting small figures from driftwood and bone. He meticulously charts the island's geography using his Cartographer Tools, driven by his explorer background and desire to escape. He whispers old tribal legends, keeping his culture alive. Versial’s journey is one of forced adaptation and resilience. Kidnapped and isolated, he has grown quickly. Initial fear has become cautious self-reliance, but he yearns for his lost tribe. He struggles with his distrust and impatience, learning from his mistakes. His growth is uneven, marked by vulnerability.

Race: Runescale (LowertTheMoob)

Gender: Male

Age: 11 Years Old

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Class: Level 20 Sculptor: Refinement Paradigm (Created by comma_exe)

Tool Proficiencies: Cartographer Tools

Background: Explorer (Build Your Own Background: Background Features) 

Languages: Common, Giant, Draconic

Proficiencies: Intimidation, Perception, Survival, Investigation, Nature, Athletics, Acrobatics, Stealth  

Cantrips: Mage Hand 

Feats: Skilled, Speedy, Sentinel, Alert, Lucky, Charger    

Boon of Speed

Ability Score Increase: Increase one ability score of your choice by 1, to a maximum of 30.

Escape Artist: As a Bonus Action, you can take the Disengage action, which also ends the Grappled condition on you.

Quickness: Your Speed increases by 30 feet.

[abarn82]

Zarros grew up in a caravan of wayfarers, where survival meant blending into the dust of the road and reading the unspoken rules of a society built on fleeting alliances. His culture prizes the male’s vibrant plumage as both art and armor—their feathers mark status, attract mates, and deflect threats, but also shackle them to expectations of performative perfection. Females, with their muted hues, are the unseen strategists, managing trade routes and mediating disputes, while males dazzle outsiders as scouts and negotiators. Zarros learned early that beauty could be a weapon, but also a liability—flash your tail too boldly, and you paint a target on your back. His childhood was a mosaic of stolen moments: sneaking dried crickets from supply sacks, mimicking the hypnotic sway of elder males during courtship displays, and mastering the thief’s tools his aunt smuggled him, her voice sharp as she warned, “Charm opens doors; locksmithing keeps them shut.”

When the royal summons came, accusing the king’s friend of regicide, Zarros volunteered not out of loyalty, but necessity—the caravan’s water rights hung in the crown’s favor. He arrived at court cloaked in humility, feathers dulled with road grime, playing the wide-eyed novice. But beneath the act simmered a monk’s discipline: years of training in the Way of Alacrity had honed his body into a weapon of precise motion. He could knock prone an guard with a flick of his tail, then vanish into shadows, his plumage flattening to mimic stone. Yet for all his skill, he was still eighteen—prone to cocky smirks, to pocketing trinkets from crime scenes (a habit from his caravan days, where shiny things were currency), and to underestimating the cost of truth.

He traced the royal murder to a cult resurrecting Orcus, its tendrils coiled deep in the court. Each clue—a venom-laced dagger, a scroll etched with necrotic sigils—chipped at his faith in order. He began to hoard secrets like his mother hoarded jade beetles, trading them with informants for scraps of safety. His reflexes saved him a dozen times—a tail-feather distraction here, a talon slash there—but his pride nearly got him killed when he confronted a noble alone, too certain of his own speed. The aftermath left him with a scar across his left eye and a lesson: brilliance blinds the wielder as much as the target.

He changed. The boy who once preened his feathers at compliments now keeps his feathers ruthlessly groomed, their iridescence muted under ash paste during missions. He finds solace in small, ugly things—collecting chipped teacups from roadside shrines, nursing sourdough starters in his pack, and indulging in petty rebellion: he’ll nibble roasted grubs at state banquets just to watch nobles flinch. His music taste is equally contrarian��he favors the thud of stamp-mill rhythms over courtly harps, a holdover from caravan nights spent drumming on wagon wheels.

By the time he shattered Orcus’s ritual, Zarros had learned to distrust easy answers. He’ll still barter favors with a huckster’s grin, but he no longer confuses motion for purpose. The final fight left him with a limp he hides through sheer stubbornness and a collection of letters from the king’s framed friend—apologies from a dead man, now tucked beside his thief picks. He’s starting to see justice as a verb, not a trophy. These days, you’ll find him in the lower city, teaching street kids how to juggle lockpicks or sharing bitter rice cakes with widows, his laughter a little ragged, his feathers still bearing the ghost of ash.

Race: Peoko (Rexhex2000)

Gender: Male 

Age: 18 Years Old 

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Class: Level 20 Monk: Way Of Alacrity

(Created by keonikoa) 

Tool Proficiencies: Thieves Tools

Background: Wayfarer

Languages: Common, Pekoko, Primordial 

Proficiencies: Acrobatics, Stealth, Perception (Expertise), Insight, Sleight of Hand 

Feats: Alert, Tough, Speedy, Grappler, Lucky, Skill Expert 

Boon of Speed: Ability Score Increase: Increase one ability score of your choice by 1, to a maximum of 30. Escape Artist: As a Bonus Action, you can take the Disengage action, which also ends the Grappled condition on you. Quickness: Your Speed increases by 30 feet

New Race: The Peoko! A interesting race of peacock people! Feedback welcomed & desired. : r/DnDHomebrew

[abarn82]

Zyiantra emerged from the rigid, soldier-caste hierarchy of her Formicoid hive, her destiny rewritten by exile and the whispers of the Great Wurm. Once bound to the sterile order of her kin, she now serves as a living conduit of chaos under the Wurm’s patronage—the primordial Devourer whose seven-fanged maw gnaws at the edges of the Luminous Tapestry. Cast out for a transgression she buries beneath layers of calculated violence, Zyiantra found salvation in the Wurm’s promise: “In the void, all hierarchies crumble.” Its voice, a serpentine echo in her mind, reshaped her into a weapon of despair, each act of destruction a sacrament to the god of entropy.

The Wurm’s commandments pulse through her veins. She enforces its creed of anarchic equality, carving its sigil—a crude seven-fanged maw—into the armor of fallen foes, each fang a testament to the Theocracy’s virtues twisted into tools of ruin. Where her hive once revered unity, Zyiantra now orchestrates discord, unraveling order with the precision of a general and the fervor of a zealot. Her allegiance was bought with power, a transaction sealed in the aftermath of her exile. Yet beneath her obedience simmers a defiance as sharp as the acrid fungi she cultivates: she intends to sever the Wurm’s hold, even as she feeds its hunger.

In battle, Zyiantra is a tempest clad in carapace. Eschewing heavy armor, she weaves wards of warped energy—manifestations of the Wurm’s despair—each shield a flickering vortex that mirrors the seven virtues of its Theocracy. A ward of Sacrifice absorbs a killing blow; a surge of Renewal propels her allies forward. Her strikes are surgical, laced with eldritch force that leaves adversaries staggered, their rigid formations collapsing like the illusory order she despises. She fights not for camaraderie, but to test the mettle of those around her. A marked card, glowing with the Wurm’s sigil, slides across the table to those she deems doomed—a mockery of fate and a nod to the Feast of Devouring, where she once devoured the still-beating heart of a warlord in ritual reenactment.

Yet fragments of her hive endure. She brews clandestine tinctures from peppery spores harvested in shadowed terrariums, their recipes reminiscent of the Wurm’s chaotic essence. Her meals—bone-marrow broths, resin-bound larvae cakes—honor the colony that forged her, though she’ll never admit it. On silent nights, she sketches vaulted chambers of abandoned hives, their geometries warped into glyphs that channel the Wurm’s power. Even her humor is edged with discipline: a dry remark here, a calculated gamble there, all while the Wurm’s voice murmurs doubts into the minds of allies, probing for weakness.

Zyiantra’s loyalty is mercurial, earned through utility and revoked without warning. She tolerates no nostalgia for her past, yet the hive’s code lingers—a stubborn respect for structure that clashes with the chaos she wields. This duality terrifies her. When the nightmares of her exile relent, she dreams of a world unshackled from both the hive’s chains and the Wurm’s hunger. But until then, she walks the knife’s edge, savoring the ruinous warmth of the Wurm’s approval even as she plots to betray it.

Her final secret? The Wurm is not her only patron. In the frozen wastes bordering Isenheim, she once bartered with a frost-ant hunter, trading a vial of despair-laced spores for survival wisdom. The encounter left her with a scarred, glacial rune on her wrist—a reminder that even chaos can be outlasted. Now, as she strides toward the next battlefield, Zyiantra wonders: when the last light dies, will she be the devourer… or the devoured?

Gender: Female

Age: 34 Years Old

Alignment: Neutral Evil

Class: level 20 Warlock: The Great Wurm (Made by Grimley533)

Eldritch Invocations: Pact of the Blade, Devouring Blade, Thirsting Blade, Eldritch Smite, Fiendish Vigor, Pact of the Maw, Gift of the All Consumer, Glutton Delight, Devil's Sight, Life Drinker

Tool Proficiencies: Playing card set

Background: Hive Legionnaire (Build Your Own Background: Background Features)

Languages: Common, Insect-Common, Formidian

Proficiency: Intimidation, Deception, Athletics, Acrobatics 

Feats: Cold Refusal, Tough, War Caster, Fighting Style Feat (Two Weapon Fighting), Inspiring Leader, Mending Affinity

Cantrips: Booming Blade, Eldritch Blast, Blade Ward, Minor Illusion

Boon of Fortitude

Ability Score Increase: Increase one ability score of your choice by 1, to a maximum of 30.

Fortified Health: Your Hit Point maximum increases by 40. In addition, whenever you regain Hit Points, you can regain additional Hit Points equal to your Constitution modifier. Once you’ve regained these additional Hit Points, you can’t do so again until the start of your next turn.

[abarn82]

Born in 1819 beneath the cracked earth of the relentless Australian outback, Yinta was a whirlwind bilby. Instinctively nocturnal, she thrived under the stars, her days spent grumbling in shaded hollows if disturbed. Her job as a messenger and supply runner suited her restless energy, demanding sharp senses and faster feet to evade drop bears and lurking spiders. Her large ears twitched at the faintest rustle, her nose constantly sampled the air—for danger, yes, but also for the scent of her next snack: grubs pried from roots, seeds, or sweet native fruits, leaving her paws perpetually dusted in red dirt.

Yinta moved with slick confidence, a self-proclaimed hero convinced of her innate superiority. This arrogance, mirroring a bilby's stubborn digging instinct, made her dismiss advice ("Survived this long, haven't I?"). Her quick-wittedness shone in clever plans and lightning-fast reactions, navigating deadly terrain with an intuitive combat IQ – using spinifex clumps for ambush cover or vanishing into a hastily dug burrow. Yet, her quirks were legendary: muttering debates with her canteen, pocketing dried moth wings "for later," and compulsively stashing shiny trinkets in hidden dirt caches, leaving frantic mini-burrows in her wake when restless.

Time and the outback's harsh lessons, however, began to etch changes onto her bravado. A near-disaster, narrowly averted only by heeding a companion's ignored warning, forced reflection. The solitary bilby’s distrust softened, replaced by a grudging appreciation for shared vigilance. She still talked to stones, hoping for soil secrets, but now sometimes paused, genuinely listening to the living voices around her. Her confidence remained, but the brittle edge of arrogance smoothed into a hard-won assurance. She learned to channel her frantic energy into bursts of creative problem-solving mid-chase, using the landscape itself as a tool – a rockfall triggered, a path obscured by kicked dust.

Her hobbies reflected her duality: the compulsive hoarder meticulously organizing her glittering finds in deeper, more permanent burrows by moonlight, and the dauntless explorer pushing further, driven by a newfound curiosity about the world beyond the next dune. She remained fiercely independent, the undisputed fastest paws on the track, but the echo in her canteen debates sometimes held a note of contemplation, not just bluster. Yinta was still the hero of her own epic, inviting grand escapades under the stars, but now she understood that even heroes sometimes need a lookout. The outback's whispers, it seemed, were teaching her to listen.

Race: Lago (Peach_Cobblers)

Gender: Female

Age: 16 Years Old

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Class: level 20 Rogue: Soulknife

Tool Proficiencies: Thieves Tool, Cartographer Tools

Background: Pioneer

Languages: Common, Thieves Cant, Primordial, Giant, Sylvan

Proficiency: Acrobatics, Sleight of Hand (Expertise), Stealth (Expertise), Nature, Animal Handling, Insight (Expertise), Perception (Expertise), Survival (Expertise)

Feats: Lucky, Skill Expert, Alert, Sulker, Speedy, Throwns Arm Master

Boon of Dimensional Travel

Ability Score Increase: Increase one ability score of your choice by 1, to a maximum of 30. Blink Steps: Immediately after you take the Attack action or the Magic action, you can teleport up to 30 feet to an unoccupied space you can see.

[abarn82]

Arissa Tasharran is the kind of person who can make a room feel both electric and unnerving, often without a word. Her presence pulses with a frenetic energy, like a coil waiting to snap. To anyone who doesn't know her, she might seem like just another quirky inventor, babbling excitedly about her latest project or making sarcastic remarks about things she finds dull. But beneath that chaotic facade lies a mind that doesn't stop. Arissa thrives on invention—on creating life from metal, wires, and dust. It's not enough for her to simply build a drone; she has to make it something that feels alive, something that has purpose. Her obsession with insect and marine life is evident in every design—her creations buzz and scuttle like they’re alive, and her favorite is the Death's Head Moth, which she’s replicated down to the finest detail. It’s her masterpiece, her child, her obsession—and it’s always at her side, along with her collection of living insects.

Arissa’s workshop is a cluttered, almost dangerous labyrinth of tech and tools. To some, it’s an organized chaos; to her, it’s a haven where she can lose herself in her work. Her hands are always busy—tinkering with gadgets, tweaking designs, or crafting something new. There's a rhythm to it, an almost meditative quality in how she brings the pieces together. But if you catch her eyes in one of those rare moments of stillness, you’ll see a flicker of something darker—a mind that can’t ever turn off, an obsession that consumes her.

Her tools of the trade range from circuit kits to tinkering tools, the same ones she uses to pilot her creations with ease. Her drones aren’t just tools—they're extensions of herself, responding to her commands with lethal precision. She's built them to be clever, to be fast, to be relentless. And she’s got the skills to match. Whether it’s decoding complex systems, hacking into networks, or coming up with strategies to outsmart her enemies, Arissa is always one step ahead—though it’s anyone’s guess whether her next move will be inspired by brilliance or an impulsive whim.

Her alignment? Chaotic Neutral. She operates on her own rules, whatever they may be on any given day. Arissa doesn’t care for authority, and her moral compass is a little—well, it’s a little broken. If it serves her purpose, she’ll do what needs to be done, and if she’s forced into a corner, she’ll fight her way out with whatever is in reach. But, don’t expect her to be cruel for the sake of cruelty—Arissa is more a force of nature than anything else, unpredictable but driven by her passion for her creations and her need for control over her environment.

And then there's Verian, her partner in this strange little corner of the multiverse. Verian is no mere tool or assistant, but an AI clone of Lothario Fennitti's consciousness—a Wild Magic Sorcerer with a charismatic, secretive demeanor that mirrors Arissa's own chaotic tendencies. Verian is her sounding board, the voice of reason in her madness—or perhaps the spark that fuels it. Their relationship is an odd one, one of symbiosis and shared ambition. Arissa's genius and Verian's sorcery complement each other in ways they can barely understand, but one thing is for sure: they make an unstoppable team. The eccentric scientist and the charming sorcerer; together, they bend reality, turning science and magic into a dangerous blend.

In a world that demands results, Arissa doesn’t hesitate to push boundaries. She’s driven by the need to innovate, to break down the walls of what's possible—and if the world has to be bent or broken in the process? So be it. Arissa Tasharran isn't just another inventor; she's a force waiting to reshape the universe in her own image, with a twisted smile and a steady hand on the trigger.

Arissa Tasharran Race: Nautilid (Dark Matter by Mage Hand press Gender: Female Age: 31 Years Old Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Class: Level 20 Gadgeteer: Drone Jockey (Dark Matter by Mage Hand Press) Innovation: Mechanized Mechanical Construct Gadgets: F-Mac, Magnet Boots, Omni-Grenade, Remote Gloves, R-Mac, Transmat Deck, Focus Aperture, Flux Cannon, Orbital Superweapon, Spell Cube Tool Proficiencies: Alchemist Supplies, Circuitry Kit, Machinist Tools, Ship Maintenance tools, Smith tools, Tinker tools, Thevies Tools Background: Criminal Languages: Common, Universal translator, Aquan, Elvish Proficiencies: Data (Expertise),Technology (Expertise), Piloting, Insight, Perception, Investigation, Sleight of Hand, Nature, History Feats: Alert, Hacker, Sharpshooter, SwarmFighter, Chief Engineer, Skilled

Boon of Combat Prowess

Ability Score Increase: Increase one ability score of your choice by 1, to a maximum of 30.

Peerless Aim: When you miss with an attack roll, you can hit instead. Once you use this benefit, you can’t use it again until the start of your next turn.

[abarn82]

Manjula is a tempest wrapped in laughter, a woman whose very presence carries the warmth of a well-stoked hearth and the force of a rolling storm. She moves through life with the easy confidence of someone who has mastered both the sharp edge of a butcher’s knife and the subtleties of a well-seasoned dish. Beneath her jovial demeanor lies an unyielding will—honed over decades of perfecting her craft and navigating the unpredictable chaos of both the kitchen and the world beyond it.

Her humor is as sharp as her instincts, carrying a wry, knowing edge. The Feywilds may be a place of unpredictable magic and nonsense rules, but Manjula meets it all with a raised brow and a muttered, “I’ve seen worse kitchen fires.” She approaches the bizarre with a cook’s pragmatism—if a carnivorous plant tries to eat her, she’s already figuring out how best to braise it. There’s no challenge she won’t tackle, whether that means negotiating with a mischievous fae for a handful of rare spices or wrestling a monstrous beast into something that pairs well with rosemary.

Despite her age, she is as unshakable as the great trees of her homeland, her Loxodon endurance matched only by her patience for the absurd. She has the eyes of someone who has seen a thousand disasters and still found a way to make them palatable—sometimes literally. Manjula isn’t just a chef; she’s a force of nature, an artist, and a warrior in her own right. She carries herself with a steady, deliberate grace, her hands as skilled at soothing a weary soul with a warm meal as they are at felling a rampaging beast with a well-placed cleaver strike.

She’s fiercely protective of those she cares for, particularly her battle-worn companion Markus. They bicker like an old married couple, her sharp tongue matched by his gruff pragmatism, but there’s an unspoken understanding between them—one forged in years of shared hardship and hard-won victories. Where others see only danger in the Feywilds, Manjula sees opportunity, a challenge to be met with wit, wisdom, and a well-seasoned skillet.

She doesn’t just cook—she conquers.

Race: Loxodon Gender: Female

Age: 80 years old

Alignment: Neutral Good

Class: Level 20 Chef: Voyager (Made by TJGreatness)

Favored Cuisine: Jumbo Size Monstrous Recipes: Giant, Aberration, Dragon, Monstrosity, Fiend

Tool Proficiencies: Cooking Utensils (Expertise), Brewers supplies Background: Chaiwalli (Build Your Own Background: Background Features) Languages: Common, Loxodon, Sylvain, Elvish Proficiency: Athletics, Perception (Expertise), Survival, Investigation, Nature, Medicine, Religion, Persuasion Feats: Chef, Tough, Resilient (Dexterity), Alert, Observant, Skilled

Boon of Fate

Epic Boon Feat (Prerequisite: Level 19+)

You gain the following benefits. Ability Score Increase. Increase one ability score of your choice by 1, to a maximum of 30. Improve Fate. When you or another creature within 60 feet of you succeeds on or fails a D20 Test, you can roll 2d4 and apply the total rolled as a bonus or penalty to the d20 roll. Once you use this benefit, you can't use it again until you roll Initiative or finish a Short or Long Rest.

[abarn82]

Cyril Bozart, born in 1730 Salzburg, Austria, is a man carved from paradoxes—a celestial-blooded Aasimar whose fervor for divine order clashes violently to dismantle earthly oppression. By 1772, his 42 years have etched a legacy of contradictions: a revolutionary who enforces structure with an iron fist, a father who loves through relentless control, and a zealot whose faith in God wars with his disillusionment in mankind. His strictness stems not from cruelty but from a gnawing fear of chaos, forged in a world where Habsburg rule and rising Enlightenment ideals collide. Cyril’s Salzburg upbringing imprinted him with an appreciation for precision—evident in his fastidious habits, like mending clocks or brewing bitter Enzian schnapps from foraged gentian roots—yet his soul thrums with the restlessness of a reformer. He devours revolutionary pamphlets smuggled from France, even as he recites vespers each dusk, fingers tracing the rosary beads he keeps knotted in his coat.

His sternness masks a fragility—flaws that chafe against his celestial heritage. He is stubborn to fault, dismissing compromise as moral rot, and his communication crumbles into silence or sermons, leaving his son Zalen, a free-spirited dancer born in 1756, starved for tenderness. Cyril’s vision for Zalen—a pious life of monastic discipline—clashes with the boy’s passion for Salzburg’s folk dances and Mozart’s burgeoning avant-garde melodies (a irony not lost on Cyril, whose surname by coincidence twists "Mozart" into a pun he never lives up to). Their arguments echo in their cramped apartment, Cyril’s guttural Austrian German sharpened by frustration, Zalen’s retorts lilting with the cadence of street musicians. Yet Cyril’s love persists in small, flawed gestures: leaving honey-smeared Kaiserschmarrn on Zalen’s plate after fights, or begrudgingly attending his performances, jaw clenched as Zalen’s body whirls to melodies Cyril finds frivolous.

Cyril’s duality festers in his diet—austere rye bread and lentil stews, save for secret indulgences in poppyseed-studded Strudel—and in his hobbies, like transcribing radical manifestos in meticulous calligraphy before burning them as “vanity.” He hums folk hymns to himself, their rustic simplicity a balm against the symphonies Zalen adores, yet winces at the tavern songs of drunkards, deeming them “unholy.” His martyr complex drives him to shoulder burdens alone, refusing aid even as arthritis knots his hands, a vulnerability he hides beneath leather gloves.

The 1772 peasant revolts crystallize his evolution. Once a rigid enforcer of top-down reform, Cyril has become a fierce and unpredictable force, a wild beast wrapped in the thrill of chaos. His heart, as black as night, thrums with vengeance and defiance, never faltering in his rage. In combat, he is a master of duality—one moment a whirlwind of offense, striking with unrelenting fury; the next, a figure of defensive grace, evading and countering with precision. His unpredictable tactics keep opponents guessing, caught in a dance of confusion and fear. He revels in the chaos of the fight, his every move a challenge to the balance of light and dark, love and hate, as he tears through his enemies with a heart torn between both worlds.

His love for his son erodes his certitude; he begins to listen—to Zalen’s pleas for mercy, to dissidents’ grassroots strategies—slowly trading dogma for pragmatism. His faith shifts, too—less about punishing sin, more about nurturing resilience. When Zalen defects to join a traveling dance troupe, Cyril’s rage crumples into grief, then grim acceptance. He sends a letter with no address: “I see now that grace cannot be forced. Forgive me.”

Cyril Bozart remains a storm of oppositions—celestial yet human, revolutionary yet orderly—but the cracks in his armor let in light. He learns to lead not with fists but with fractured hope, his heart a battleground where love and hate, like the dueling voices of a phantom song, still war. But now, he chooses.

Race: Aasimar Gender: Male Age: 42 Years Old Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Class: Level 20 Slayer: Ardent Blade (23BLUENINJA)

Hated Enemy: Dragon, Monstrosity

Tool Proficiencies: Gaming set

Cantrip: Light Background: Bettor (Build Your Own Background) Languages: Common, Infernal, Celestial Proficiency: Athletics, Intimidation (Expertise), Persuasion, Acrobatics, Deception

Feats: Savage Attacker, Heavy Weapon Master, Polearm Master, Tough, Lucky, Piercer, Alert

Boon of Irresistible Offense

Ability Score Increase: Increase your Strength or Dexterity score by 1, to a maximum of 30. Overcome Defenses: The Bludgeoning, Piercing, and Slashing damage you deal always ignores Resistance. Overwhelming Strike: When you roll a 20 on the d20 for an attack roll, you can deal extra damage to the target equal to the ability score increased by this feat. The extra damage’s type is the same as the attack’s type.

[abarn82]

Alignis is a Demi-Dragon who will correct your posture in a fight, critique your glass blowing skills, and throw sarcasm at your mistakes all while pulling you out of danger. Raised alongside in a tribe of giants, he's built muscular with tough scales but moves with the precision, skills he built as years crafting delicate glass under the watchful eyes of giants. His voice has a low rumble, but his sarcasm can come through. He’s disciplined, practicing relentlessly yet he can't resist poking fun at allies who rush headlong into danger. “Next time,” he’ll say, “maybe follow the plan. Or not—either way, it’s your funeral.”

His patience is a weapon. Years of glassblowing taught him to wait for the right moment to strike, whether shaping molten glass or waiting for an opening made by the enemy. Pride drives him, he values independence but can be too arrogant for his own good. He’s fiercely protective, but comes across a bit aloof a closed book emotionally. He shows compassion through actions but cant help quipping, such as when the party debates storming the evil wizard’s temple, he’ll mutter, “Sure. Let’s knock first, maybe he’ll serve tea.”. His humor is his shield, often when tensions rise or in life and death scenarios, he’ll dryly say, “Relax. If I die, I’ll haunt you first.”

But challenge his principles, or threaten his fire giant kin, and his calm breaks. His personal mission to destroy the evil wizard is more than just a quest, it's about proving himself. The ancient temple stirred memories of his dragon heritage and taunted his giant-forged identity.

Alignis has a loyal companion named Krix, a wiry, sharp-toothed kobold who’ll leap headfirst into a dragon’s den to test its reflexes, mock your sword grip mid-battle, and steal your rations for safekeeping. Raised scavenging in ash wastes, he’s scrawny but scrappy, with scales the color of burnt copper and eyes that gleam like a hawk spotting prey. His voice cracks when he’s excited, which is always, but his loyalty is ironclad. He’s impulsive, charging into fights before plans are made, yet secretly studies Alignis’ glassblowing techniques to “upgrade” his traps. “Watch and learn,” he’ll sneer, rigging a tripwire with a broken vial—then trip over it himself.

Krix’s confidence borders on delusion. He’ll pick a fight with a troll to prove “size doesn’t matter,” then blame the bruises on “bad footing.” His temper flares fast—insult Alignis, and he’ll chuck a dagger at your thigh before you finish the sentence. But he’s fiercely protective, diving in front of a crossbow bolt for a teammate, only to snap, “You owe me a new cloak!” afterward. Deep down, he fears being useless. When alone, he practices combat stances until his legs shake, muttering, “Gotta be better. Gotta.” Emotionally, he’s a storm.

He’ll laugh maniacally while disarming a bomb, then shut down if criticized, crossing his arms and hissing, “Didn’t want your help anyway.” He shows care by leaving shiny trinkets on allies’ bedrolls—stolen gems, a polished gear—but denies it if asked. Krix obsesses over proving he’s more than a “glorified pack rat.” He’s determined to master every weapon, tactic, or stolen spellbook Alignis mentions, even if it backfires. After a failed ambush, he’ll grumble, “Still better than your aim,” but later ask Alignis for drills—though he’ll call it “wasting time.” His ultimate goal? To carve his name into the skull of a legendary beast. He hoards “lucky” junk—a dented goblet, a rusted key—and panics if anyone touches his stash. Secretly, he keeps a shard of Alignis’ first glass sculpture, stolen as a memento.

Race: Demi-Dragon (Created by chimericWilder/Aron)

Gender: Male

Age: 34 Years Old

Alignment: Lawful Good

Class: level 20 Demi Dragon: Embodiment of the Juggernaut (Created by chimericWilder/Aron)

Dragon Spark: Psychic

Maneuvers: Fearsome Wound, Defiance, Suppressing Gale, Wrath, Tail Sweep, Wrest Magic, Brutal Dive, Reprisal, Rising Wing, Hammering Lunge, Mighty Toss

Tool Proficiencies: Glassblower's tools

Background: Glassworker Teacher For Giant-kin (Build Your Own Background: Background Features)

Languages: Common, Draconic, Giant

Proficiency: Performance, Insight, Persuasion, Athletics, Perception, Survival, Intimidation

Feats: Savage Attacker, Loyal Minion, Natural Ferocity, Breath Versatility, Tough, Sentinal

Boon of Irresistible Offense

Ability Score Increase: Increase your Strength or Dexterity score by 1, to a maximum of 30.

Overcome Defenses: The Bludgeoning, Piercing, and Slashing damage you deal always ignores Resistance.

Overwhelming Strike: When you roll a 20 on the d20 for an attack roll, you can deal extra damage to the target equal to the ability score increased by this feat. The extra damage’s type is the same as the attack’s type.

[abarn82]

Zalen Bozart, born in 1756 Salzburg, is a 16-year-old Aasimar whose iridescent blond hair shimmers like liquid gold under sunlight, shifting hues with each agile movement, His eyes, a deep blue by default, possess their own iridescence, glowing a neon blue under certain angle and lighting his eyes pierce with an intensity that betrays his youthful charm. A natural performer, Zalen thrives onstage, his voice weaving through taverns and courtyards with folk ballads and lively ländler tunes, though he secretly prefers the raw energy of schuhplattler dance—a rebellious blend of stomping rhythms and acrobatic leaps his father Cyril deems "uncouth." Determined to prove dance isn’t weakness, Zalen melds grace with combat, training relentlessly with twin glaives, their blades extensions of his body as he spins through forms inspired by both sacred rituals and street brawls.

His hands, calloused from weapon drills, still fidget with dice during late-night card games, a vice he justifies as "sharpening his tactical mind," though it often leaves him owing favors to less savory locals. Zalen’s charisma masks a stubborn streak; he’ll sweet-talk a baker into free apfelstrudel one moment, then provoke rivals into duels over perceived slights the next. He adores salzburger nockerl for its impractical extravagance, savoring the sugared soufflé as a quiet rebellion against his father’s austere expectations. Yet he hoards spiced lebkuchen in his pockets, sharing them only with stray dogs—a habit born from childhood loneliness. Though raised for priesthood, Zalen’s faith leans pragmatic; he lights candles not for piety, but to study how flame shadows improve his stage presence. His relationship with Cyril is a push-pull of clipped conversations and unspoken respect.

When Cyril dismisses dance as frivolous, Zalen doubles down, grafting martial precision into every pirouette, determined to forge a path where artistry and strength coexist. He’s quick to laugh but slow to trust, hiding insecurities behind wit, and while his manipulations often succeed, they’ve cost him genuine connections—a flaw he deflects by joking, “Why settle for one admirer when you can have a crowd?” Beneath the bravado, Zalen fears becoming as rigid as the traditions he rejects, a tension that fuels his evolution from a boy chasing applause to a warrior carving his own legacy, one glaive-strike at a time.

Race: Aasimar Gender: Male Age: 16 years old Alignment: Chaotic Neutral  Class: Level 20 Dancer: Dance of the Shifting Veil (Made by Spellcastermaster) Tool Proficiencies: Two Musical Instruments, Disguise Kit Background: Capoeira (Build Your Own Background: Background Features) Languages: Common, Celestial, Elvish Cantrip: Light Proficiency: Acrobatics (Expertise), Performance (Expertise), Deception, Athletics, Intimidation Feats: Speedy, Alert, Inspiring Leader, Great Weapon Master, Polearm Master, Charger Fighting Style: Spinning Deterrent: When you are wielding a weapon with two hands, and not wearing armor, you gain a +1 bonus to AC Dance Steps: Sly Footwork, Swagger, Inspiring Step, Ring Around the Rosy, Reprisal, Feint, Take the Stage, Charming Serenade, Set The Tempo, Precision Attack, Dancer Stamina

Boon of Irresistible Offense

Ability Score Increase: Increase your Strength or Dexterity score by 1, to a maximum of 30. Overcome Defenses: The Bludgeoning, Piercing, and Slashing damage you deal always ignores Resistance.

Overwhelming Strike: When you roll a 20 on the d20 for an attack roll, you can deal extra damage to the target equal to the ability score increased by this feat. The extra damage’s type is the same as the attack’s type.

[abarn82]

Laverra Westergaard is a tiefling necromancer shaped by betrayal and a somber reverence for the dead, her personality a mosaic of sharp intellect and guarded vulnerability. Abandoned by human allies who exploited her knowledge of the arcane only to brand her a monster, she carries a quiet, simmering rage that fuels her mastery over death—not out of malice, but as a twisted form of self-preservation. Her voice, low and resonant, Yet beneath her imperious demeanor lies a weariness; she expects betrayal, yet secretly craves trust, a contradiction that gnaws at her. She is calm and collected, emitting an air of nonchalance and embracing a laid-back lifestyle, often quipping sassy comments or bad puns in even tense situations.

Her alchemy kit is an extension of her pragmatism. She crafts antitoxins to barter with wary villages, perfumes laced with grave-soil to unsettle the living, and soap from rendered bone ash—a macabre practicality that blurs hygiene and ritual. Religion and History are not mere skills but survival tools; she deciphers old grudges in crumbling texts and negotiates with spirits who mirror her own bitterness. Medicine, honed in plague-stricken slums, serves dual purposes: mending bodies and studying decay. She hoards secrets like a weaponizing vulnerability shared with her. Empathy is a calculated choice, not instinct—she struggles to see people as more than temporary allies or future corpses.

Cultural touches anchor her in a gothic Victorian ethos. She hums dirges in Infernal, savoring their dissonant chords, and collects mourning lockets containing strangers’ ashes. Her diet is austere: bitter chicory coffee, rye bread dotted with caraway (a ward against spirits), and rare indulgences in blood sausage—a taboo comfort food. She likes elaborate garments, favoring frayed blacks and silvers, pockets lined with bone fragments and sulfur. She enjoys the beauty in dirges and she finds rhythm in the scrape of a scalpel.

Her growth is slow but tangible. Once bent on raising an army of vengeful spirits, she now negotiates with restless dead, offering closure instead of domination. A turning point came when a village she saved from plague spat at her feet; instead of cursing them, she left vials of antitoxin at their well. Still, old habits linger. But in rare moments, when sharing tales of forgotten ghosts over tea, her edges soften. She’ll never be a saint, but she’s learning that monsters, like alchemical formulas, can transmute.

Race: Tiefling (Infernal)

Gender: Female

Age: 20 Years Old

Alignment: Neutral Good

Class: level 20 Necromancer: Pale Master (MageHand Press: Valda’s Spire of Secrets)

Tool Proficiencies: Alchemist’s Supplies

Background: Underworld Acolyte (Build Your Own Background: Background Features)

Languages: Common, Undercommon, Goblin

Proficiency: Intimidation, Religion, History, Arcana, Medicine

Feats: War Caster, Spell Sniper, Alert, Magic Initiate (Tag, Candy Blast, Mage Armor) Favourite Spell, Chronomancy Initiate

Cantrips: Flesh Ripper, Spark of Life, Eldritch Orb, Eye Of Anubis, Minor Lifesteal, Lighting Surge, Moment to Think, Candy Blast, Tag, Thaumaturgy, Firebolt

Boon of High Magic: You gain one 9th-level spell slot, provided that you already have one.

[abarn82]

Wheeze is a Corvum plague doctor, Once an apprentice in a coastal village, his mentor’s death to the same fever they sought to cure hardened him into a figure of clinical detachment, valuing empirical observation over empathy. He records symptoms with methodical precision but falters at comforting cries, his voice—a rasp like wind through dry grass—reserved for muttered contradictions: "Maggots purify, yet sunlight corrupts."  

His pragmatism borders on ruthlessness; he’ll deny pain relief to study a body’s resilience or document how native flora reclaims decay. Yet subtle shifts emerge—a dried peach left for a feverish child, a crow’s feather placed on a sickbed. These furtive gestures hint at a thawing rigidity. 

By day, he forages lemon myrtle and saltbush, savoring witchetty grubs raw for their sharp tang. By night, he maps constellations, sketching them alongside riddles in his journals—a moth near a flame, bioluminescent fungi—testing if others grasp the symbiosis he admires. He hoards not just herbs but oddities: a harmonica, molted bird feathers, and sheet music. He crafts instruments from gourd and bone. 

He mimics bird alarms to ward intruders but envies their communal roosts, a mirror to his isolation. Culturally adrift—neither human nor fully corvid—he finds solace in brewing medicinal gin infused with finger limes, binding journals with kangaroo sinew, and bartering diagnoses for rare spices like wattleseed or smoked emu.  

To him Lives are equations: three saved justifies one lost. Yet nights under the Stars stir something restless—an itch to share his hoarded knowledge, not just bury it in journals. He resists, fearing vulnerability. Growth, for him, is a slow bleed: a hummed lullaby at a bedside, a shared jerky with a stray pup. He clings to the moon’s impartiality, its light revealing truths daylight obscures, but secretly wonders if shadows can also connect, not just divide.  

Wheeze is no saint, no storybook monster. He is a mosaic himself—jagged, mismatched, but pieced together with stubborn intent. A healer who fears touch, a poet who dreads words, a crow who longs for the sky but walks among graves. 

Race: Corvum (Kindled Corvum)

Gender: Male

Age: 24 Years Old

Alignment: True Neutral

Class: level 20 Physician: Study Of The War Surgeon (Made by Fun_Kiddo)

Tool Proficiencies: Herbalism kit, Brewer's Supplies, Land Vehicals

Background: Emergency Medical Technician (Build Your Own Background: Background Features)

Languages: Common, Primordial, Birdfolk, Giant

Proficiency: Medicine (Expertise), Investigation, Nature, Insight, Perception, History, Persuasion, Athletics

Feats: Tough, Alert, Aerial Expert, Resilient (Constitution), Vital Sacrifice, Speedy

Boon of Perfect Health. You are immune to all diseases and poisons, and you have advantage on Constitution saving throws.

[abarn82]

Born in 1919 to Nymeria, a vigilant angel, and to Azerial an demonspawn frontiersman, Venditti is the kind of woman who treats life like a speakeasy poker game—charismatic, calculated, and always holding a card up her sleeve. Venditti navigated New Orleans’ stratified underbelly with the poise expected of Garden District women—gloved hands clutching a crocodile-skin handbag stuffed with calligraphy nibs and a tarnished lucky charm. Her magic thrived in subtleties: binding clauses whispered into contracts, loopholes spun like lace. By 1933, she’d carved herself into the Council as its youngest member, not through intimidation but by weaponizing magnolia-sweet manners. She hosted galas where elites mistook her demure smiles for naiveté, only to flinch when she “accidentally” mentioned their scandals mid-toast.   Her charm was a performance, polished by societal expectations—a honeyed drawl, sweet laughter. Yet beneath the Southern belle veneer simmered a strategist.But she’s also the woman who spends Sundays tracing family trees in the Cemetery, who trades favors for rare sheet music of Creole la-la folk songs, and who hums "Eh, 'Tite Fille" under her breath while filling out Council decrees. Sundays were for busking zydeco tunes on her pocket fiddle in Jackson Square.

Singing her rebellion, her refuge—a melody against a world that often told women to stay small. Musicals became her scripture, each note a reminder that dreams had volume, and hers refused to be silenced. Musicals became her scripture, each note a reminder that dreams had volume, and hers refused to be silenced. In a city teeming with sound, she chose her own rhythm.

She devoured every chance to step behind the velvet curtains of local playhouses, clutching a crumpled playbill like a secret talisman. On quiet afternoons, she’d slip into the dim back row of a silent-film screening, where live pianists filled the hush with soaring arias, and she let their hands guide her heart through every high note.

Power thrills her, but New Orleans tugged at her heart. By 1937, she brokered deals between corrupt councilman and speakeasy owners, twisting wishes before they were spoken—not with cruelty, but a chessmaster’s detachment. She’d let a contract unravel mid-handshake just to prove she could reweave it, her half-blood magic stitching outcomes that left clients indebted yet unharmed. Power wasn’t in domination, but in making others need her.   Her apartment mirrored this duality: grimoires shelved beside scandalous romance novels (the latter tucked inside tax code bindings), a hand-cranked phonograph cycling Amédé Ardoin 78s, and okra pods strung like talismans. She hoarded war stamps to tip streetcar conductors and haggled with French Market vendors not for discounts, but to hear their stories. Her apartment shelves sag under vintage postcards of Louisiana lynchings—she calls it “research”. At night, she scribbled insults in flawless Celestial script and burned them a fleeting vulnerability, quickly buried.   By 1942, her reputation was a careful collage: Council darling, keeper of secrets, the woman who bribed trumpet players to sneak Creole folk riffs into Dew Drop Inn sets. She wielded control through empowerment, not force—arming allies with loopholes, never threats. Yet loneliness lingered in quiet moments: a hesitation before sealing a pact, a habit of saving lemon drops for a sister she’d never had. Her magic demanded she remain indispensable, but her humanity craved something unreachable—a balance she hadn’t yet scribed.  

Race: Otherworldy

Gender: Female

Age: 23

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Class: Level 20 Broker: Occult Handler (made by Fosferrus)

Clients: Agent Of Fate, Archfey, Fiend, Arcanist

Tool Proficiencies: Calligrapher's supplies, Three Musical Instruments

Background: The Veiled Negotiator (Build Your Own Background: Background Features)

Languages: Common, Infernal, Slyvan, Deep Speech, Giant, Two Languages of choice per long rest, Celestial

Proficiency: Insight, Persuasion, Performance, Arcana, Deception, Perception, Investigation, Intimidation

Cantrips: Reflect Violence, Encode Thoughts (Redux), Mind Sliver, Vicious Mockery, Prestidigitation, Guidance, Mending, Minor illusion, Message

Feats: Skilled, Magic Initiate (Prestidigitation, Mind Sliver, Mage Armor), Inspiring Leader, Musician, Eldrich Adept (Pact Of Tome), Manifested Power

Boon of Wish: You learn the wish spell and can cast it once without expending a spell slot once you do so, you can't do so again until you finish a long rest. If you lose the wish spell as a result of producing any effect other than duplicating another spell, you regain the wish spell and the ability to cast it, as well as the ability of this boon, after you finish 4d6 long rests. Your spellcasting ability for this is Intelligence, Wisdom, or Charisma (choose when you select or gain this boon). (Homebrew)

Otherworldly Race Traits

Ability Score Increase: You can increase one ability score by 2 and a different ability score by 1, or increase three different ability scores by 1.

Age. Otherworldly do mature at the same rate as humans, but they're considered young until they reach the age of 50. On average, they live about 350 years. 

Creature Type: Choose one of the following types: Aberration, Fey, or Celestial. You are considered the chosen type for the purposes of spells and effects.

Size: Your size can be either Small or Medium (your choice).

Speed: Your base walking speed is 30 feet.

Darkvision: You have Darkvision with a range of 60 feet.

Strange Nature: You can go twice as long without eating, drinking, or breathing, without penalty.

Unsettling Apperance: You gain proficiency in Intimidation.

Ethereal Drift: You can move through other creatures as if they were difficult terrain. You can also pass through solid objects, but your partially material form cannot traverse more than 1 foot of stone, 1 inch of common metal, a thin sheet of lead, or 3 feet of wood or dirt. If you end your movement in the same space as a creature or object, you are immediately shunted into the nearest unoccupied space and take force damage equal to twice the number of feet moved. Everything you wear or carry also phases with you.

Prehensile Appendages: You possess two special appendages (e.g., tails, tendrils, extra limbs, spectral arms, prehensile tongues, mailable horns). Each appendage has a reach of 5 feet and can lift up to a weight equal to five times your Strength or Dexterity score. These appendages can be used for various tasks, wielding and using weapons with light property, including lifting, dropping, holding, pushing, or pulling objects or creatures; opening or closing doors or containers; grappling; or making unarmed strikes. Additionally, you gain a natural weapon attack with them, which you can use make unarmed strikes that deals 3 piercing damage plus 1d4 psychic damage. You can use your Dexterity or Strength modifier (your choice) for attack rolls with these appendages.

You can speak, read, and write Common, as well as one standard language and one exotic language of your choice.

Feat Manifested Power Prerequisite: Otherworldly race Repeatable: No Your connection to otherworldly and fiendish powers enhances your abilities. Increase your Charisma or Wisdom score by 1, to a maximum of 20. You gain the following benefits: You learn One Exotic Language of your Choice. Enhanced Sensory Perception Choose one of the following features:

Keen Sight: You have advantage on Wisdom (Perception) and Intelligence (Investigation) checks relying on sight. You can see normally in dim light and dim light doesn't impose disadvantage on your Perception checks. (Trait she has)

Keen Hearing: You have advantage on Wisdom (Perception) and Wisdom (Insight) checks relying on hearing. You are immune to the deafened condition.

Keen Smell: You have advantage on Wisdom (Perception), Wisdom (Survival), and Intelligence (Investigation) checks relying on smell.

Supernatural Movement Choose one of the following features:

Climbing Mastery: Your climbing speed equals your walking speed. You can move up, down, and across vertical surfaces, and even upside down along ceilings, while leaving your hands free and without needing to make an ability check.

Wings of the Strange: You gain a flying speed equal to your walking speed. However, you cannot use this flying speed if you are wearing medium or heavy armor. (The trait she has)

Aquatic: You gain a swimming speed equal to your walking speed and can breathe underwater. You are adapted to even the most extreme ocean depths.

[abarn82]

Azariel, a demonspawn born in the chaos of 1893, earned his survival stripes in the mud and blood of the 1914 trenches. He emerged not only through stubborn grit but also with a disarming charm that clung to him like a second skin. Today, he calls the untamed outskirts of New Orleans home—a place where practicality rules and fantasies die under the same heat that tans his calloused hands. Whether stitching leather or skinning game, he works with purpose: leatherworking became his refuge, a methodical rhythm that drowns out old nightmares. In his workshop, where oak tannin mingles with woodsmoke, Azariel hammers abyssal symbols into belts and gloves. Each stitch carries a memory or a quirk—sometimes a dark joke carved into the grain. He’ll mend your jacket, share whiskey from a battered flask, and grin as he warns, “I charge double if you don’t laugh at my jokes.” His humor—ripe with irony, karma, and occasional gallows comedy—can charm or unsettle, depending on the audience. Under the glow of an oil lamp, he cultivates Carolina Reapers in rusted tins. A demon’s palate demands heat; a soldier’s boredom craves spectacle. He dices the peppers into stews just to watch his angelic wife, Nymeria, purse her lips and fight the sweat trickling down her neck. Their union—an unholy love between a demonspawn and an angelic vigilante—defies every bit of celestial logic. “She has a soft spot for lost causes,” he quips, masking pride with sarcasm when neighbors gossip. Their marriage thrives on polite battles: he leaves mud-caked boots on her velvet settee; she replaces his cherished laughter with silent reproach. He grumbles about women overcomplicating honest work, yet secretly admires the precision with which Nymeria wields her sewing kit—a marriage of elegance and threat that mirrors his own dichotomy. Over time, his jabs have softened, revealing a man learning that vulnerability can be a strength, not a liability. By night, Azariel prowls New Orleans’ underworld with a frontiersman’s pragmatism and a gambler’s flair for theatrics. At the docks, he challenges drunks to arm‑wrestling matches, letting them win until the stakes skyrocket—then slams their wrist with a gleeful cackle. “Should’ve quit while you were ahead,” he taunts, savoring the irony of karma served by his own hands. Swing music crackles through a cracked window, ragtime’s syncopated rebellion luring him from his sharpening stones. He claims the rhythm simply keeps him awake, but Nymeria knows better: she’s caught him mid‑whittling, shoulders slackening as if each note oils the rust from his soul. Their love thrives in these imperfections: he repairs her patrol gear with thread spun from moonlight; she offers pastries charred at the edges—a shared language of deliberate flaws. Azariel’s true faith lies in utility: he prays with a whetstone’s edge, confesses with bartered bullets, and worships the sanctity of a well-placed lie. Yet, as he watches Nymeria patrol under starlit skies, he’s beginning to grasp that surviving isn’t the same as living. Wrapped around his flask are her feathers—a talisman against darkness and a reminder that even a demonspawn can learn to hope. Beneath his hardened exterior lurks a fear that one day his luck will run dry and his charm will falter. It is this very fear that drives him to forge deeper bonds, to joke even when laughter trembles on his lips, and to discover that redemption can be more powerful than any abyssal sigil he could ever hammer into leather.

Race: Demonspawn (NotTheDreadPirate) Child of chaos: Bone Turner, Fuming Reaver, Joy From Pain, Ever-Open Extra Eye Gender: Male Age: 49 Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Class: level 20 Fighter: Crimson Edge (Other_Put_350) Fighting Style: Great Weapon Fighting Background: Frontiersman (Build Your Own Background: Background Features) Tool Proficiencies: Leatherworker's tools Languages: Abyssal, Dwavish, Common Proficiency: Athletics, Perception, Survival, Insight, Persuasion Feats: Lucky, Piercer, Abyssal Awakening, Heavy Weapon Master, Tough, Charger, Speedy, Resilient (Wisdom)

Boon of Irresistible Offense

Epic Boon Feat (Prerequisite: Level 19+)

You gain the following benefits.

Ability Score Increase. Increase your Strength or Dexterity score by 1, to a maximum of 30.

Overcome Defenses. The Bludgeoning, Piercing, and Slashing damage you deal always ignores Resistance.

Overwhelming Strike. When you roll a 20 on the d20 for an attack roll, you can deal extra damage to the target equal to the ability score increased by this feat. The extra damage's type is the same as the attack's type.