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 Statuesque Physique,
Scarred Skin,
and Filthy
Hair. Your Face is
Elongated, your
Speech Droning. You have
Frayed Clothing. You are
Ambitious and
Lazy.
Your age: 41.
🙛 Attributes
HP: 3
Armor: 0
STR: 9
DEX: 6
WIL: 12
🙛 Equipment (6)
Items:
Rations (3 uses)
Lantern
Oil Can (6 uses)
Stake (d6)
Chains (10ft)
Manacles
Blood-Red Flower (petty)
Gold: 4
🙛 Bonds
Blood-Red Flower: The Dawn Brigade did your family a service, giving you a dried Blood-Red Flower (petty) as proof. When the flower turns white, it means the favor is owed.
🙛 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
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?
Manacles. Though old, it's still effective even against the very strong. You don't have the key.