#me-fish

I have a myriad of OCs from various sources, mostly from my writing projects and D&D games. To keep this post at a reasonable length, I'll only describe my characters from the long-term campaigns I've played. Mainly because other people have already seen them, and so they feel less... fragile and personal than the OCs from unfinished projects or daydreams.

Without further ado, here they are, in no particular order:

Givralyn Stonefist - Dwarf, cleric. 35 years old.

A former soldier of an endless war, she left her homeland to save the world. The world is nearing destruction, being overrun by demons. Is this just another endless war, or is it merely the preamble of the world’s natural cycle of destruction and rebirth? No, says Givralyn. As long as there’s still good in the world, one must be willing to defend it - fuck destiny, fuck the gods that have left the world at the mercy of demons! She will fight with hands and teeth until the world is safe and just again.

Givralyn is the most metal character I've ever seen, and I can’t believe she’s my brainchild - she’s nothing like me! Hardworking, stubborn, and brave - she firmly believes in what she’s doing and will not let any injustice slide. She follows a strict moral code, based on rules, laws, and customs - to uphold society to the standards of good. A balance to that is the god that has chosen her as her servant - Meriandlar, a chaotic goddess of tempest, protection and growth. Meriandlar is a source of creativity and inspiration, reminding Givralyn of all that a law cannot describe.

(Of other fictional characters I’ve encountered, Sam Vimes of Discworld is the most similar to Givralyn, I’d say. They have the same brand of chaotic lawful when they fight for the good in the world).

Bern Smith - Half-orc, bard, 32 years old

Soft. Soft baby boy. That is not what you’d think were you to see him in a dark alley - you’d most likely think “aaaaaaargh!” and run. He’s big, and the longsword he wields would make anyone reconsider their choices were they to meet the business end of it. Yet if you catch him in conversation, you’d meet a soft-spoken, kindhearted and dreamy man with the mad soul of a poet.

Bern grew up in a village in the middle of nowhere, in the companionship of the inheritance of his grandparents: a small library and an old violin. He devoured the ancient poems and novels, taking them at face value, believing that the heroes described actually walked the world and were just as noble and heroic as the beautiful verses. He learned to play the violin, and his otherwise fearsome appearance suddenly turns gentle when he holds his dear instrument.

He believes in good, the kind of good that is told of in those ancient tales. With his sword in his hand, he has embarked on a journey to witness real heroes. He has discovered that the world is not as simple as he believed, still, he is not disillusioned. Yet... I’m worried for him ;w;

(I had just sent off a description of Bern to my DM when I realized that I’ve recreated Vladimir Lensky of Eugene Onegin. Look up Chapter 2 VI-X and you’ll find the spirit of Bern, down to the shoulder-length black curls).

Trefkan - Aasimar, sorcerer/warlock, 25 (?) years old

Trefkan is the kind of character that has a 30 page backstory. I guess that’s enough to get an idea of what he means to me :’) I wrote it down after a couple years of playing him, and I’m still just as obsessed with him as when he first spawned from the pages of the rulebook. My writer brain looooves coming up with scenarios to make him suffer through.

Trefkan’s story is a story of identity - how you forge a you from all the building blocks that makes a person, and how you reshape your identity after those building blocks crumbles. A former pirate, he left the sea when his crew was betrayed by one of its own, but what started as a quest of vengeance is now a quest of... everything. Including, but not limited to: a bargain with a celestial, death and reincarnation, and a found family.

(Trying to come up with a well-known fictional character to compare him to... He’s essentially all of those “bad boys turned good”, one of my favourite tropes.)

In summary

“And I say it was an angel,” Tuco says, very cheerful. His hands are busy, preoccupied with the sweater he’s knitting (it’s been in the works for over a month, and he’s been taking infinite pains to get the thing just perfect). “It was Texas, a cemetery called Sad Hill.”

“Are you gonna insist on telling this story?”

“If you don’t, sure. I think I come out of it in a good light.”

Blondie groans, sinks further beneath the quilt (in deference to Tuco’s tastes, a brightly patterned one). “It’s not a story that Pablo would use to convert a skeptic. There’s too many holes in it. It doesn’t make sense.”

“We were pretty young,” Tuco says. “Just getting to know the southwest. I found out I can’t take chili peppers too well.”

“Oranges. So many oranges…”

“Well, Angel knows about the oranges. G’on, Blondie.” 

“Uh-huh…okay, so I wake up one morning. Afternoon. We’d had a fight the night before, something stupid I don’t even remember-”

“What colour car we ought to buy,” Tuco says. “He wanted a red one, but that cost more. I said it was stupid wasting good money like that, he said it was beautiful, I asked what was so ugly about white and he punched me. Or I punched him, I don’t really remember. There was a lot of drinking that night, okay?”

“Do you hear me casting judgment?” Angel Eyes inquires. 

“…well, no. So I wake up early and go out by myself. He wakes up very late, because you know Blondie’s not a morning person, and decides to go get some hair of the dog-”

“At the bar, they’re talking about this cemetery. A haunted one. There’s some chat of putting up stakes for a bet, if anyone’s brave enough to spend the night there.”

“So of course Blondie’s thinking, well, that will cover the price difference for the car. If he can get that out of one night’s work I probably won’t complain too much about using a windfall like that. And he’s right, I wouldn’t.”

“Long story short, I shook hands on it,” Blondie says. “One night, payment in advance. Tuco catches up with me just in time, he’s nervous but doesn’t stop me, so it’s off to the cemetery.”

“Payment in advance, because they figured on being able to collect it off the corpse next day,” Tuco says. “After dying of fright. This little gang, they were running their own hustle, and it wasn’t so quiet as ours.”

“Now I was sure that was complete nonsense,” Blondie says. “Cemeteries are consecrated ground. By a strict doctrinal reading, that should be about the last place in the world you’d expect to see a bad spirit of any description.”

“He went pretty green about the gills next day, when I found the pamphlet about how the Confederates had desecrated the cemetery during the Civil War. It was rededicated afterwards, but still…”

“So there we are, sun going down and dogs barking in the distance,” Blondie says. “I was hunting around for place to camp, found a nice tree to sleep under. Tuco didn’t like it.”

“There was a storm coming up. One of those funny times, when half the sky’s grey and the other half’s blue and gold,” Tuco says. “You wouldn’t call it a good omen, if you believed in them.”

“If this ends with you two just barely missing death by falling tree branch, I’m not going to be much impressed,” Angel Eyes says, puffing away. “It’s been done.”

“It’s weirder than that,” Tuco promises him. 

“You could say that,” Blondie mutters. “I was getting pretty fed up with Tuco by then, because he’s got the bag with all the camping equipment in it and he’s being lazy and refusing to unpack. Only not that lazy, since he thinks it’s funny to run off laughing when I try to take it myself.”

“Yeah, well, even back then you should have known better…”

“I chased him for a while, until I decided this was too ridiculous for words- all right, fine. I’ve got a bottle of whiskey, there’s an open grave, I’ll just set up right there and try not to get too wet.”

“So he says, and I don’t remember this, that I came back to him all serious and said we should get out before nightfall. Now does that sound like me?” Tuco asks. “All serious?”

“Yeah, it was strange…but I’m just off my half-baked seminary training, I gave him the same Jesuit rundown his brother would have. That there’s really nothing to be afraid of from the supernatural, because there’s no powers anyone can encounter that are more potent than God.”

Angel Eyes maintains a discreet silence. Tuco ostentatiously crosses himself. Then curses. 

“Tuco…?”

“I dropped a stitch, damn it. Keep going, Blondie.”

“So I do all that, fix up some boards with my duster spread over them, it’s warm enough to be comfortable. Tuco decides to slip in and join me after I’ve finished all the work, which just about figures.”

“Let me guess,” Angel says. “You two drowned from setting up camp in a hole during a rainstorm, and an angel had to come along and miraculously resurrect the pair of you.”

Blondie rolls his eyes. “I suppose it could have happened that way, if the storm had ever actually broken, but it didn’t. Thunder and lightening in the distance, but no rain. Tuco didn’t like that either.”

“But you don’t mind storms,” Angel says curiously. “Only twisters, you’ve said that more than once.”

Tuco just shrugs, a hank of yarn in his mouth. 

“So I’m lying there, feeling pretty self-satisfied,” Blondie says. “I’m still drunk and likely to stay that way for a while, I’ve got a nice red car coming to me tomorrow, and the softest hustler in the whole state nestling up against my chin. Perfectly fine night. I didn’t have a bit of trouble going to sleep, and I said that when I came out the next morning. That was a pretty disappointed gang, I can tell you- but they’d been keeping watch on the place all night, they knew I hadn’t gone anywhere.”

“They weren’t happy with their leader at all, though,“ Tuco notes. “We bought a paper next day- he’d died. They’d made him stay in the cemetery himself all night, it was as ugly a face as you’d ever seen in the photo. Blondie was pretty shaken up about it.”

“That he got his comeuppance, that didn’t surprise me much,” Blondie says quietly. “But that I hadn’t…”

“So a superstitious man who’s good at bamboozling folks, took too much of his own medicine,” Angel says. “I’m still not impressed.”

“That’s not the end of it,” Tuco says. “See, when Blondie shows up at the car dealership next day, I ask where he spent the night. Because I’d had to sleep in the motel all by myself.”

“Then it gets messy and we started comparing notes…and it turns out, Tuco swears point-blank that he’d never been to the bar at all, never heard about this bet or the cemetery, and didn’t have a clue any of this was happening.” 

“Still at a bar that night, but a different one,” Tuco says. “But it’s not as if Blondie’s likely to mistake anyone else for me, you know? I’m me.”

“And I honestly would have sworn to it on a stack of Bibles- I mean that. Down to the last curl and Duluth strap, I was so sure.”

“So the best we could figure it, was that Blondie has a guardian angel who looks just like me,” Tuco says. “I wouldn’t have counted on it, you know?”

“I almost would credit it,” Angel says, coughing as he knocks out his pipe (maintaining a straight face, with some difficulty). “Did you get the red car, then?”

“We got the red car. It was nice,” Tuco says fondly. “A lot prettier after all, Blondie was right.”

“I was wrong about a lot of other things,” Blondie murmurs. He moves his head a little, further up Tuco’s thigh; Tuco puts down the knitting again and rubs it affectionately. 

“Sad Hill,” Angel says, the start of a glint in his eye. “I wonder how you might get there…”

“No!”

Both his partners, and immediately. It doesn’t sound like he’d have that much luck persuading them. 

“I could go by myself.”

“Angel,” Tuco says, throwing the half-knitted sweater aside altogether. “If you go and get yourself killed in a haunted cemetery, after we went to so much trouble for- for everything we have together-”

“Yes?”

“Then- then I’ll never cook for you again. Or knit sweaters. Or anything.”

“After I’m dead.”

“Yeah, that’s right!”

“You tell him, Tuco,” Blondie says sleepily. “All I know is, you couldn’t pay me enough to go back. And he wasn’t that much like at all, when I thought about it. I mean, sleeping in an open grave with no supper and not a word of complaint, can you imagine our Tuco doing that?”

“Not in the least.”

“Well then.”