Do me a favor, stay dead this time.
Sisters raised in the aviation business, for use in a modern setting
A stern matron, 1950's pinup and failed protector against nuclear winter.
Her first contact will be on a laptop or mobile unit of some kind. The text "Can you help me?" will be written all over the screen.
Ms. Carlyle has made her presence known.
'I can't go back to yesterday, I was a different person then' ~ Mad Alice
Hailing from a long line of brewers, Stout has given up the life of the beer-maker for the life of the Adventurer-Upon-Return
A young sorcerous vampire with a penchant for making zombies.
""I am." Is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language. Could it be that "I do." is the longest sentence?" - George Carlin
"Impatient as well as stupid, some virtuous whip you are." Snap tilts her head to the side with a smile as her drumming fingers increase in tempo. "I assure you that my patience is vast." The man stops in his tracks stare Snap down, her expression remains unchanged. "Vast, not infinite. I am but a human so I am sure something could cause me to break my vows." Hastily he resumes filling the order. As Snap walks out the door with the goods the shopkeep grabs your arm. "That is a monster chained by monks robes, I have stared down raging barbarians and never seen such hate in their eyes."
The gnome hefts the giant tome situated on his back and then pushes his round spectacles up his protruding nose. He rubs the tip of his nose, knowing that he should really stop studying with his face so close to the books. The skin would sometimes rub off the tip during long hours of recording and study. Specks were moving on down the road, and he produces a spyglass from a loop on his hip. Through the lens, he spots a group of adventurers. He grins from ear-to-ear and gives a hoot, almost losing his balance due to the weight of the book on his back.
"These fellows look like they have purpose! It's time to find out what they're up to!"
CRTF's first resident goofball animal mascot.
Formerly Andrew 'Dandy' C. C. Yates, the Scranton Psychopath, now Andrew 12-C66
Some people call him Dr. Hammer. Some call him Mr. Hammer. Those with a flair for the melodramatic call him “The Hammer”. Others simply call him Hammer, much the way people call Madonna or Sting a single name. He is the one you contact should you have a "unique building" need.
Thirty Gladiators battleing away in the arena in front of you
Thirty wenches to pour the beer and feed hungry customers. And do other things as well...
'You can't just run around killing goblins and looting temples, this isn't the old days my boy. To make it today you've got to be part of the guild, and you need a team, and a look, and most importantly you need a manager. Like me.'
Sometimes life as you know it has to nearly end for you to find your true calling. By "end" I mean the everything you knew, loved, and held dear ripped away, your life torn down to the bloody roots and dragged over broken glass until the future yawns like a great big empty pit that threatens to swallow you whole type of ending.
The new you, the one that's left after such a sundering, is someone the old you would probably put a bullet in the brain pan of out of sheer mercy. Problem is, the old you is no longer around, and the new you likely doesn't have anyone left that cares enough to administer that hollow point piece of mercy.
An ex-cop vigilante, suitable for modern day supernatural horror settings.
A curious man with no past or desire beyond that of his art.
"Compared to the scum I deal with as a cop, fighting you was a piece of cake!"
*All that I am saying is, it does not count as murder if it is an Uplited porpoise.*
Oscar, in a drunken bar argument.
Far to the north amidst the endless ice-flows it is rumored that a dwarven Walrus Totem clan exists. These rumors have been unsubstantiated to date, unless the dwarven sage Glurt Goblinguts is to be believed. He claims to once having encountered a troupe of huge dwarves, each standing a beard’s length higher than the tallest known dwarf. These dwarven “giants”, their hairy chins crusted with frozen shards of ice and dirt, hauled gargantuan yellowed horns or tusks upon their wide shoulders, and their helms, likewise, sported massive, down-ward pointing tusk-horns. Glurt Goblinguts later speculated that the impressive size of these dwarves was most likely due to their arctic diets, almost exclusively fat-based.