Estimated Members Requested: 4
Cold. It was always the blasted cold about the places that got to Gregg. They never hit a warm house or robbed a shop or inn. It was always these blasted crypts with the cold. Rats too, the bloody rats in the places. They were always sealed up nice and tight but the bloody rats always got in. "Traps too, ya know. They say these places got ancient runic traps." He spoke despite the bite of the cold he let creep into his body with every word. He was just so miserable he thought the conversation would detract from his woes.
"Ah, stop yewr groombling Greggor. Thar ain't no blewdy traps. Nether magical nor mundane.New KEEP DIGGIN'!"
"I heard there were traps up in these parts." Gregg mumbled to himself as his pick stung into the mountain once again. The life of a grave robber had grown thin in the days of late. Driving Gregg and his crew up into the mountains under the employ of a man in robes. A man who was always watching, even when he wasn't there. The monotony of digging was interrupted with a ringing clang of Gregg's pick. The sound echoed for what seemed like ages through the cold tunnel. Then it was silent. The silence that chills the very air. "Bone chills are the worst." Gregg spoke, more to fill the silence more than anything. He was answered with nothing and as he turned he was greeted with the scene of his crew, his men, dead upon that cold tunnel floor. The men dead and the robed man standing there looking at Gregg with hunger in his eyes. He was looking not at Gregg though more through him at what it was he had uncovered. Then in an irritated almost distracted tone the robed man spoke the last words Greggor Royce would ever hear.
"Isn't it though?"
Then with a flash Gregg was met with a puzzling sensation. Warmth had overcome him. A warm that sunk into the bone. Only a sliver in his stomach remained chilled. Chilled like an icicle that warmed every other part of his body. As he fell to the tunnel floor he watched as the robed man walked to the pick, still in the earth where Gregg had left it, and pick up his prize. That hideous twisted crown. The one that haunts Gregg to this very day.
Starting Level: Level 1
Wealth: Standard Wealth at level 1
Stats: 34 point buy
Races: Anything with no Level adjustments. If you think it needs to be run by me run it by me.
Alignment: Anything and everything. As long as people are polite and mature I have seen all combinations of good and evil lawful and chaotic work as a party.
Sources: I have all the books so I will accept everything. Just cite the sources you got it from and I will okay and veto case by case.
It has been many years since great evils have arisen. Stories of heroes and monsters were fading in the memories of the elderly and the youth had only been exposed to your more mundane creatures and monsters. Orcs and goblins had been the nastiest things got in Querral. But that was before the Night's Crown had been rediscovered in the Mountains of the north. We start this game with a party of four men and/or women who had been chosen by fate to rise when all others stand down. These four will be the worlds hope.
The world of Querral is a home-brewed world with the rules of standard 3.5 So if you are comfortable learning a new world with all it's twists and turns as well as excitement and rewards then sing aboard this game and let me know what needs clarification and what more you would like me to expand on.