You are an artisan of the arcane, a smith of subtle forces. In the crucible of your workshop, the laws that govern this world are warped to suit your needs.
You have a Brawny Physique,
Birthmarked Skin,
and Filthy
Hair. Your Face is
Broken, your
Speech Gravelly. You have
Bloody Clothing. You are
Serene and
Lazy.
Your age: 38.
🙛 Attributes
HP: 6
Armor: 0
STR: 15
DEX: 5
WIL: 16
🙛 Equipment (6)
Items:
Rations (3 uses)
Lantern
Oil Can (6 uses)
Needle-Knife (d6)
Protective Gloves (petty)
Blast Sphere (d12, blast, bulky, 1 uses)
Locket (petty)
Gold: 8
🙛 Bonds
Locket: You carry a Portrait in a locket (petty) of a past love who disappeared into the Wood long ago. Somehow, you know that they are still alive.
🙛 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.
🙛 Your Past
What went horribly wrong?
You were exposed to a long-acting truth serum whose effects have yet to wear off. The disorder has its advantages: you cannot repeat lies you've heard, either.
What alchemical marvel is the product of your latest ingenuity?
Blast Sphere: A head-sized iron ball filled with explosive powder that detonates on impact.