Dr. Carter is a well known (at least in academic circles) as an Indiana Jones-esque scholar of the occult and professor of pre-human culture, a Mars born swashbuckler in her youth, now a tenured and crafty acquisitionist.
"Where do you come from?" asked Clovis.
"Well, this I do not remember," said the man. "And also, I am not sure where I am going. But one thing I do know is that I am very hungry, so I am happy that you have come along!"
One bad moment left him permanently destitute. Down on his luck, Mark Greaves learns that necessity sometimes brings you to work you never realized you could be good at.
Roaming the back roads, ever searching for his lost head. Beware the Headless Motorcycle Man.
Over the course of my time as an operative I have developed relationships with several individuals in an effort to diversify the skills available to me. Some in my profession call them assets, I prefer to think of them as associates.
Lounging around in the Cantina, Kolburn kept a watchful, yet unassuming eye on those around him as he finished the last morsels of what passed for a meal in this joint. Brushing off the crumbs, he glanced round, careful not to make eye contact with any of the other patrons who might later remember him as he made his way unobserved to the entrance and out into the cold of the port. He would come back and pay off his mounting tab, when he next came across a few credits, or found another odd job. After all, he wasn’t completely without his honour, unlike some people.
Sisters raised in the aviation business, for use in a modern setting
Incomplete and unlikely to be finished.
"Which one? Oh, him. He be Pancratius. Yeah, he's a bit moody, but he's all right when you get to know him. Ya see, back in the day, and by that I mean his day, before you an' I were born, he was a big shot. The gods loved him, and one day, he asked for a gift that turned out to be a curse. Once he figured out the horrible side o' his gift, he sought out an oracle, to figure out how to get rid of it. Ol' Pancratius ne'er did tell me what the oracle said. The gift? Didn't I tell ye? No? It be immortality."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub.
A new story is frequently being whispered in the dark corners of taverns across the country, telling of a traveler that occasionally appears in quiet, rural towns; that draws with him a plague worse than any other: a dragon's wrath.
A member of the Cynopterid race
Brief bio of a space intel officer
“Behold me the greatest traveler in history, eccentric, irregular, rapid, unaccountable, curious and, without vanity; majestic as a comet.” -John Ledyard
In theory, he could settle down. But because he’s such a nice guy, he won’t.
A pirate prince’s son with a secret he still hasn’t figured out…
His day in the power center of the realm is long over. He now helps the down trodden and forgotten peasants the ruling class seem to overlook.
30 People in a Tavern Crowd (21 Run Away): Bethany, the runaway bride…
A list of quick personalities for the many faceless NPCs.
Despite his great power, this mage desperately wishes that he was just average, so people would stop trying to plant axes in his back.
She sat down and chatted with the young man until the leeches began to just fall off her legs - satiated with blood. The young man, enthralled and disgusted by what he just saw, thanked her and went on his way.
The village sits on the edge of the deep fjord, often engulfed in mist or rain. Its people are fishermen, who work even through the sea-ravaging winter. And they pray to the gods of the deep.
At the beginning of every winter they hold a summoning ceremony. Three boats are taken out into the fjord, a hornsman on each. The mournful horns are blown in the language of the whales, the gods of the deep. The whales sometimes appear in answer to these calls, and it is taken as a good omen when they do.
To a party of PCs wandering the misty hills and valleys nearby however, the doleful whalesong of the horns can be disturbing and misinterpreted...