An odd birthmark, a strange smell: somehow, the touch of elsewhere still lingers. Wherever you are, you have trouble fitting in. Roll on the Omens table (even if you're not the youngest player), but keep the results private for now.
You have a Rugged Physique,
Marked Skin,
and Frizzy
Hair. Your Face is
Rakish, your
Speech Whispery. You have
Soiled Clothing. You are
Merciful and
Lazy.
Your age: 47.
🙛 Attributes
HP: 2
Armor: 0
STR: 11
DEX: 11
WIL: 14
🙛 Equipment (7)
Items:
Rations (3 uses)
Torch (3 uses)
Salt pouch
Heirloom amulet (petty)
Sling (d6)
Dagger (d6)
Storybook
Drowning Rod
Letter (petty)
Gold: 15
🙛 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
Swarms of insects are fleeing from the Wood in droves, destroying any wooden structures they come across. The sound of their wings hum a familiar tune as they pass overhead, like a forgotten nursery rhyme.
🙛 Your Past
Who took you in?
A troupe of traveling entertainers. For a time, they were like family to you. One day you woke up and they were gone with no explanation. Take a Storybook, a Dagger (d6), and some burning questions.
What keeps bad tidings at bay?
Drowning Rod: A finger-sized wooden stick that doubles in size each time it is fully submerged in water. It does not shrink down again.