Nightfall, Neutral Evil Tiefling Rogue, five feet eight inches, one hundred fifty five pounds, Black hair and red eyes.  Nightfall is only seventeen years old, being part demon he never really had a chance, picked on bullied, he quickly tirned to a life of crime.  With a wealth of natural ability he can make himself useful to any number of gangs, and usually does.

William Thatcher, Neutral Good Human Male Bard, Twenty Two years old, five feet ten inches tall, weighing one hundred seventy pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes.  Always having been a good looking fellow, William was drawn to performing.  He was never the greatest musician or singer, while he was quite competent in those regards, he was more of a story teller, an orator.  Having William on your side in a fight is nothing short of amazing.  He can charm your enemies into surrender, or incite your allies to greatness.  He began adventuring to learn the best tales to tell.  He believed that first hand knowledge of a band of heroes would enable him to tell the best stories of all the bards in the kingdom.  He is currently a well respected member of the court of Lord Arturus, and can usually be found traveling with him as well. 

Mathelor Duskstar, Lawful Evil Cleric of the Earth Dragon, Twenty three years old, Six feet and two inches, One hundred ninety five pounds, Blonde hair with blue eyes, only out for personal gain of glory and power.  He grew up poor, never having anything of value that was his and his alone.  Day after day, he watched the clerics of the Earth Dragon in all their fine garments, and vowed to someday be one of them.  When he was old enough to enter the church he offered his body and soul to the Earth Dragon, and that was where his clerical training began.  He was an adept student, quickly surpassing his classmates in skills and spellcasting.  He was given his first suit of armor immediately after completing his clerical training.  He cleaned and polished his armor every day.  After just a few short adventures he was able to have a custom enchanted suit made for himself.  He now wears a suit of +2 spiked full plate, adorned with his holy symbol on the chestplate and on his magical shield, and spreads the word of the church to all in his path.

Altair Ustivuur is a neutral evil Tiefling character that hails from Geb.  He has traveled to Katapesh to make a name for himself.  He accidentally finds himself in the employ of Princess Almah, as a Gnoll hunter.  He is tasked with finding the lair of the pugwamps, a vile race of creatures which worship the Gnolls.  His companion, a sorcerer named Zastoran is one of his gang from his criminal enterprises.  With a quick wit and even quicker hands, Altair and Zastoran get into no end of troubles trying to eliminate the Gnoll threat.

The idea of a blog post seems like a simple one, until you begin to look at from all the perspectives.  Can I tell a good story? Hell yes! The adventures in the characters of a fantasy role playing game practically write their own novel.  There in lies the problem.  As I sit down to tell their tales, I want to do them justice, not just jot down a quick blurb, but tell the deep and interesting story to its fullest potential.  It then becomes a question of how good a writer am I?  While I think I can do a decent job telling a story, I'm not the greatest typist, I want to add flavor by uploading pics(which I have to search for and then download), which can take a significant amount of time.  I play Dungeons and Dragons weekly(actually Pathfinder currently).  The game sessions take from five to ten hours.  The amount of material produced could easily fill a small novella... EACH WEEK!  So I must apologize for not being better at keeping up with the tales of the characters.  Looking at my game bag(where I store all my gaming gear), I have quite a few characters, all of which have rich deep backgrounds, because that's the way I create them.  I will try to give each character his own post with some history and story line, but if I fail in my endeavor, please know that it is only my fault, and not that of the game.

The tales of Calendar Quickspell and Morghoul the cleric, continue, but first I must interject with a bit of history, Dungeons and Dragons was first published in 1974, I was just 5 years old at the time, but my reading skill was far beyond my years.  I read of monsters, my favorite being the werewolf from the classic Universal films, and horror stories.  It was a few years later that I first read The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien, opening my eyes to the wonders of the fantasy genre.  It was while I was in elementary school that I met Anthony Dunleavy, the boy who introduced me to the world of Dungeons and Dragons.  We began with character creation, and I was hooked.  That was over thirty years ago, and I still love creating new characters and guiding through anywhere my imagination can take them.

No Rest For the Wicked

     The fact that we had no time to rest came a quite a surprise, literally.  On my first night I was awakened by screaming and the sounds of several villagers calling out for help, I leapt out of bed and grabbed my sword before running out side.  A short run to the commotion later, I was standing in front of a large obelisk,  The obelisk, a monument to the prison and the guards who dies in the fire, had been spattered with blood, written in blood on the monument was the letter "V".  After a short investigation I realized no one had seen or heard anything until a barmaid heading home saw the defiled monument and had begun screaming.  When the violent events of the night had, at least for the moment been dealt with, the stunned villagers returned to their homes and locked their doors.  The next day came with no relief in sight, I began doing some research on the possibility of ghosts and who they might be.  The distrust of the town made it difficult for me to get anything done.  Everywhere I went I was shut out like a leper.  The only place I was able to accomplish anything significant was in the library of my old mentor.
     I found that the prison was well known for housing some of the worst criminals in the area, but generally never for more than a few months.  Harrowstone was well known as the last stop in many a criminals lives.  The fire itself was a bit of a mystery, the warden's wife was killed in the fire, but no one knew why she was there.  The warden, Lyvar Hawkran, and all of the guards on duty were also killed.
     Since I was unable to find anything conclusive, I decided to stake out the desecrated monument, hoping to catch the vandal returning to the scene of the crime.  I spent the rest of the day preparing for a night of restlessness.  I ate, read, studied my magic, and decided a nap might be a good idea.  After dark I gathered my weapons and stole quietly to a spot where I could observe the monument from a distance.  Time passed slowly waiting for something, anything to happen.  Being half-elven made the wait a bit easier, you see elves live a long time, and must learn patience from an early age.  While I was not raised by elves, I do have some of that patience trained into me.  My patience finally paid off, just after 1:00 a.m. I heard someone coming toward the monument.  I thought I had hidden myself well, but when I heard my quarry turn and run I knew I would have to give chase.  Springing from my hiding spot, I ran flat out after the figure.  As I closed in on him from behind, a flash of movement to the side caught my eye.  Just as I was about to reach out and grab the would be vandal, a large hulking figure smashed into him, sending them both sprawling to the ground.  I yelled for both figures to stop, neither listened.  As they stood, locked in combat, I realized that the man I had been chasing was one of the townspeople that had attacked us during the funeral, the other was what appeared to be a half-orc in battle gear, dressed for a fight.  "Stop" I shouted.  "You fool! Can you not see this man is possessed?" replied the half-orc in a snarl.  After looking again at the townsman, I noticed his eyes were completely white.  "He'll kill you elf, defend yourself!" cried the half-orc.  With that warning the townsman attacked, rushing at me, slashing with a blood-soaked razor.  I was unable to completely avoid the attack.  A large gash opened on my buckler arm.  I reached inward to my spells that I had committed to memory, and with the grace of years of diligent practice,  traced the arcane runes for my Frostbite Spell.  Steam began to form around my hand, like breath on a winters morning, it turned ice blue in an instant.  I reached out with my frozen fingers and touched the possessed man, he staggered from the cold as it seeped into him, but quickly recovered and attacked again.  The half-orc took my attack as an opportunity, flanking the would be killer, and smashing him in the back with a brutal looking mace.  "Don't kill him." I shouted.  The half-orc just looked at me and snorted derisively, "Why not? He'd kill us both if he had the chance."  While he was distracted, and injured, I whirled in for another touch with my blue frosted fingers.  It was enough, barely.  I saw his eyes close and limbs go limp as he fell unconscious.  When I turned the half-orc had once again disappeared into the night.  This was how I first met Morghoul the Cleric.