|Half-Elf||Cleric||Female||??? years old||???||??? lbs.||???||Common, Elven, ???||???||-Deceased-|
Long purple fingers held a paintbrush in a most delicate fashion. The studio was filled with silence, save the scraping of the brush's hairs against the canvas, lubricated lightly with oil paint. She did not hum, nor move except to apply herself to the task, an eerie portrait taking shape before her. Echo Duskpainter had retired from adventuring to become an artist, deep in the forest, away from civilization. And her memories.
She was a hermit, for all anyone else might think. Long ago, she could wield powers in the tradition of the ancient clerics, until the fateful day when a ritual backlash nearly slayed her, forever marking her skin, disfiguring her. Now, she concealed her face behind thick black locks and veils, but once in a while, she'd remove a glove to reveal a paint-stained yet curiously plum-colored hand. In a bygone era, Echo was a startlingly lovely elven priestess, a skilled adventurer who was gregarious and popular. Magic had warped and cursed her. Even still, the change allowed her an opportunity to rethink things, to examine her faith or lack thereof, and to become a deeper and more critical thinker. Instead of seeking riches until the day she died by the sword, she was able to hone her skill as a painter, to study art, to read books, and to become a person of substance. Perhaps the ritual's effects were not all bad.
The ritual, a hare-brained scheme concocted by the leader of an old adventuring party, was to seal undead into a dark catacomb, forever keeping them inside and away from any that they might harm. It was a measure the group felt was necessary in the absence of miracles from long-dead gods. And so, they researched, and proceeded, and decimation followed. The side of the mountain caved in from the magical explosion, and the energy itself warped and killed most of the party members. Somehow, Echo was spared. Although she looked on the bright side, she did not necessarily consider it a holy gift. If anything, it was perhaps a curse on her for her foolish arrogance in trying something far, far beyond her capabilities.
She looked at her mace and armor on the wall. It hung there, pristinely maintained, never touched. She felt no call to hold it, no urge to return to holy service. All she wanted to do was paint and seek personal edification.
Yet someone or something else had another thing in mind for the discolored and gentle painter.
|Initiative: ???||Speed: ???|
|AC: ???||HP: ???|
|Passive Insight: ???||Passive Perception: ???|