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 Scrawny Physique,
Birthmarked Skin,
and Frizzy
Hair. Your Face is
Perfect, your
Speech Cryptic. You have
Rancid Clothing. You are
Courageous and
Nervous.
Your age: 33.
π Attributes
HP: 6
Armor: 0
STR: 4
DEX: 11
WIL: 4
π Equipment (8)
Items:
Rations (3 uses)
Lantern
Oil Can (6 uses)
Stake (d6)
Chains (10ft)
Blood Pail (bulky)
Crowbar (d6)
Whistle (petty)
Gold: 16
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
Folks say that a faint laughter can be heard echoing out of wells all over the city. At night, they say the echoes change to sobs.
π Your Past
What did you take from the dead?
A Blood Pail (bulky) from a local death-cult. Empty it to raise a servant built from whatever is buried below, with 6 HP, 1 Armor, 13 STR, 11 DEX, 4 WIL, and shard fists (d8+d8). Only one servant can be raised at a time. If destroyed, you permanently lose 1d4 STR. Recharge: Fill with the blood of a dying warrior.
What tool was invaluable in your work?
Crowbar. d6 damage. Sometimes you just need to get the damn thing open!