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 Stout Physique,
Scarred Skin,
and Filthy
Hair. Your Face is
Rakish, your
Speech Whispery. You have
Filthy Clothing. You are
Ambitious and
Bitter.
Your age: 47.
🙛 Attributes
HP: 4
Armor: 0
STR: 17
DEX: 10
WIL: 14
🙛 Equipment (7)
Items:
Rations (3 uses)
Lantern
Oil Can (6 uses)
Stake (d6)
Chains (10ft)
Plague Doctor's Mask
Incense
Letter (petty)
Gold: 4
🙛 Bonds
Letter: During your travels, you met a dying hunter who asked you to deliver a message to their loved ones. Take a Letter (petty), sealed with tree sap. It is addressed only to the Lord Of Winter.
🙛 Omens
The night sky grows dimmer each evening, as if stars are disappearing one by one. Rumors of hellish creatures capturing farmers and pulling them into the Roots are spreading like wildfire. Village elders believe the two are connected.
🙛 Your Past
What did you take from the dead?
A plague doctor's mask, after its owner succumbed to the disease that wiped out everyone you once knew. They should have kept it on.
What tool was invaluable in your work?
Incense. Perfect for rituals or to keep the flies at bay. Cools the blood.