You are a shepherd to the departed. You listen to the final whispers of the dead as they descend into the cold, unyielding earth. You know that to fully celebrate the gift of life, we must honor its finale as well.
You have a Lanky Physique,
Weathered Skin,
and Oily
Hair. Your Face is
Elongated, your
Speech Gravelly. You have
Soiled Clothing. You are
Gregarious and
Aggressive.
Your age: 21.
π Attributes
HP: 1
Armor: 0
STR: 6
DEX: 13
WIL: 14
π Equipment (6)
Items:
Rations (3 uses)
Lantern
Oil Can (6 uses)
Stake (d6)
Chains (10ft)
Crowbar (d6)
Whistle (petty)
Gold: 3
π Bonds
Whistle: You carved a Whistle (petty) from an Oak Lordβs branch. Your act did not go unnoticed. You cannot seem to rid yourself of the whistle either.
π Omens
The songbirds of the Wood have fallen eerily silent as of late. Hunters claim that a spectral figure has been spotted wandering the forest, gazing longingly at anyone it encounters.
π Your Past
What did you take from the dead?
A mortal wound from a freed revenant. You were healed, but the disfigurement has made you a pariah. You require neither air nor sustenance but are still subject to pain and death. Trapped between worlds, the dead see you as one of their own.
What tool was invaluable in your work?
Crowbar. d6 damage. Sometimes you just need to get the damn thing open!