^^ Thanks. I have to say, I just love warlocks. I have another one made, and she's a human witch (feylock with a huge charisma) - complete with "brew potion" ritual :D
Also, a thought just struck me, inspired by the gunslinger - would anyone like to try and make a Predator warlock? Although, maybe a ranger would be more suitable, I don't know. Anyway, curse would be targeting with those 3 lasers, eldritch blast = the shoulder cannon, etc.
^^ Thanks. I have to say, I just love warlocks. I have another one made, and she's a human witch (feylock with a huge charisma) - complete with "brew potion" ritual :D
Also, a thought just struck me, inspired by the gunslinger - would anyone like to try and make a Predator warlock? Although, maybe a ranger would be more suitable, I don't know. Anyway, curse would be targeting with those 3 lasers, eldritch blast = the shoulder cannon, etc.
As a joke that didnt go too far with my players, I made a masterchief starpact warlock, each power was a different gun from the game and his pact blade was the plasma sword. http://www.trueswords.com/covenant-ener … -4030.html Mind you, lacking the pasma aspect.
I made an NPC warlock based loosely on old 3.5 warlock I once played.
Xana was born marked by some dark force, that speaks to her through her dreams (well, nightmares). Her whole life she is learning how to subtly deter from the fate that was shown to her in her sleep, but still be allowed at least some rest at night by the dark power that haunts her. She feels she is getting more and more control over her life. But she could be wrong
Her powers are based on 3.5 invocations: Hellish Rebuke -> Summon Swarm: Spiders start appearing on target's body, biting the exposed flesh. They crawl under the armor and clothes, and cause pain and distress. If Xana takes damage from the target she converts her pain and anger to summon bats to further damage and distract the attacker.
Eldritch blast: once again cloud of bats appers around her and fly to attack the unfortunate target. Or just for some variation, she sends her shadow to attack the target from behind.
Armor of Agathys: swarms of spiders crawls all over her body and clothes, jumping on and attacking everyone who draws near.
Vampiric Embrace: vampiric bats atacks the target and try to drink it's blood. Xana gains nourishment from that blood.
I am also toying with an idea of fiendish familiar, an Imp or whatnot, that attacks instead of her. Any comments on that?
Her implement is an amulet.
She was left as a baby in a basket in front of a church, and found by an old priest. Amulet was found on her. The priest named her after a legendary female paladin, because he sensed that some great fate awaits her. It seems that fate is somewhat different from one the priest envisioned.
When I now think about it, I kinda like those 3.5 invocations. They had great potential for creating atmosphere: Baleful Utterance, Beguiling Influence, Darkness, Spiderwalk, Summon Swarm.
Back on track. My Tiefling feylock (he's only first level) gets his inspiration from Lorne (you know, Lorne Greene? [blank looks] BONANZA??[more blank looks]) from Angel, with his pact source something like the trickster from (insert culture)'s mythology. Haven't really figured out what everything looks like, but there's a lot of dialogue to evil tieflings along the lines of "Good grief, you're an evil tiefling? Originality's not your strong point huh?"
NUMFAR! Do the dance of shame.
"When Friday comes, we'll all call rats fish." D&D Outsider
Feylock I wrote up the other day for my friend's campaign. Haven't had the chance to play her yet, but I thought I'd throw her in here and see what you all think.
Basically, she escaped from her abusive husband and made a pact with an ancient fey. She wanted to be powerful enough to remain independent. The ancient fey had its demands, one of which was, "To never be forgotten." I designed her powers around that concept.
Her appearance I designed around the modern Venetian Carnevale costumes. She wears a full dress and mask any time she's not alone, even into combat.
Appearance: She may be a woman of small stature, but with her back straight, shoulders squared, and head held high, she commands respect (or fear) greater than men twice her size. Regardless of people's attitude or opinion of her, everyone tends to do as she says, and folks are less likely to lose their temper when in her presence. She wears elaborate and elegant dresses that flow around her as if they are actively trying to conceal her presence. A beautiful mask covers her face, well built and artistically crafted. The mask is pale white in color, with images of leaves, flowers, and butterflies painted in hues of green and blue, the same colors as the lips. Beneath the mask and dress, she has long auburn hair and pale green eyes, with high cheek bones and slightly pointed ears, as evidence of her elven ancestry. Her contract with the fey is written upon her skin, starting right above her eyes and spiraling down her body ending at her toes on her right foot, as if a thin sash were wrapped around her body a handful of times. The letters are the pale green color of moss, about an inch tall, and written in a language long forgotten. Only a handful of individuals have ever seen her contract.
Powers: Every time she activates a power, her contract slightly warms up, starting at her feet, as if drawing the power from the ancient fey within the earth.
Misty Step: When she steps, autumn leaves in a misty fog scatter as if a swift wind had just hit; fog and leaf alike swiftly fly to where she reappears.
Shadow Walk: Her dress seems to take in the shadows of an ancient forest, making it more difficult for one to determine just exactly where she is.
Warlock's Curse: With a slight flick of her hand, or a quick glance of her eyes, she induces a curse upon an enemy. Whether or not her enemies can feel her curse, or even know it's upon them, she has yet to care.
Eldritch Blast: Part of her pact with the ancient fey, barely remembered, was for it to never be forgotten. It granted her the ability to draw upon the essence of its memories, but with old memories comes old pain, which the recipient of this blast feels distinctly.
Eyebite: You can't see her eyes, but you get the distinct impression that she is looking directly at you. You can't look away as those black eyes slowly start to consume you and everything around you. Everything is gone. Where are you? “Oh, Gods!” you cry out, “My head! The pain!” And then it all stops, and you're back where you were. What seemed like an eternity was just barely a moment. Everything's the way it was, except she's no longer there.
Witchfire: “You want to know why people sometimes scream when under my glare? I will tell you. Fire once scoured the world, at the cost of many a fey life. I simply allow them to understand the pain the fey went through. It is not my fault that the memories are sometimes too painful to bear.”
Curse of the Dark Dream: “Tell me, Mistress Aliuenna. In the heat of battle, you are able to make my enemy turn, this way and that, so he may fall to my blade. How is it that you do this?” “Well, my young friend,” her words come forth from behind the mask, lips unmoving, “The ancient fey want to be remembered, and I simply allow for that to happen. I conjure visions of the ancient times, before the dawn of man, elf, or dwarf, when the world was deadly and dangerous. The ancient fey then come out to play, and my thoughts help guide their ploys.”
Her name is Rilia. She grew up the daughter of a rich merchant who owned multiple shops and stores of various trades. She never knew her mother, as she died when Rilia was very young, as her father tells her. As a young child, her two favorite stores to hang out in were the blacksmith's shop, because the long bearded dwarf that worked there, Dolthen, was really nice and let her watch, and the dressmaker's shop, because the elven seamstress, Calvara, let her help when everyone else was ignoring her as a child underfoot. She loved playing with and trying on all the dresses the nobles had ordered for their daughters.. It was from these two that she learned to speak dwarvish and elven.
She grew up well mannered (in polite company) and decently educated for a merchants daughter. She was always very polite and charismatic as the dinner parties her father hosted. And although her relationship with her father wasn't the closest, she did learn a thing or two watching him work. Her father business dealings taught her the subtleties of the business and political world, like how to tell when someone is lying to you, and how to use simple words and gestures to get what you want. She was an excellent pupil, and her natural beauty only added to this.
By the time she was a teenager, she had control of the neighborhood. She could easily control the young men with her beauty and quick words, especially if a promise of a future kiss was given with a half smile. The girls she controlled through fear or respect, or some combination of the two, depending on who it was. Some, who struggled, she helped. She would teach this girl how to dress (often by having some boy steal a dress for the younger girl to wear), and how to walk to be noticed. Another girl she would blackmail with a dirty secret the girl didn't want to get out. Either way, fear or love, she had control. All the older folks in her community loved her little charms, and she was always the most polite and caring person they had ever met. Regardless of what anyone thought, no one could deny that she was one of the most beautiful girls in the kingdom.
At 15, her world changed. She was told that she would be marrying a Duke. It was a political move, her fathers attempt to gain political power and standing. She understood. She more than understood. She was going to be a Duchess. She was going to be nobility. She was ecstatic. The only thing better, she thought, was to marry one of the King's sons, but you have to be a Noble first, possibly even Royalty. She enthusiastically accepted her new title: Duchess Rilia. Six months into the marriage, she found nobility to be quite different than what she had imagined. The duke treated her like a prized trophy: one to be kept locked up so only he may see it. Which he did. Often. He only let her out of her quarters at the manor house when they had to officially show up to the king's yearly social balls, or when he had political company over. At the first ball, she learned everything she could. At the second, she manipulated her way into a position of power. She tried to use this power to gain her freedom. The duke discovered her ploy. She was beaten. By the third ball, she started pleading with the other noblewomen. They were no use. Finally, she called on her father for help. Once he heard of how she was treated, he demanded the duke to release her. Within the week, she heard news of a horrible tragedy: her father had been killed.
Years passed. She gained the trust of her servants, she opened a secret communication to her old elven mentor, Calvara, via letters, and set up a plan to have herself “kidnapped” at the next King's Ball. During the wait, Calvara, sent her papers of rites and rituals to summoning an ancient fey so may gain the power she would need to gain independence. The was a problem. The ritual must be performed in an ancient forest. There was no ancient forest in the manor proper. She spent the next year memorizing it. Everyday she would read it. She started writing it anew. She started writing it backwards. She burned every copy she owned. Everyday, she would write the ritual twice. Once forwards, once backwards. She would burn the copies.
The time had come for her to enact her plan. It was the King's seventh ball since her marriage. The kidnapping went perfectly according to plan. Nearly. She noticed something wrong. The men were familiar. They were the Duke's men. He knew of her plan. He let it happen. He wanted her gone. The kidnappers took her to the old elven forest. They made camp. They kept her. They raped her. They moved on. They took her with them. Months passed. Other women were kidnapped as well. She saw them come and go. Some were traded off as slaves. Others were killed. Others attempted to escape. She never saw them again. Did they make it? Were they killed?
More months passed. One night, she escaped. She initiated the ritual she knew from memory. She made a deal with an ancient fey spirit. The fey spirit had demands. It wanted to be remembered. It wanted blood. It wanted the taste of flesh long forgotten. She agreed. She gave it flesh. Her flesh. It took her and had its way. It ravaged her body. It ravaged her mind. It bathed in her memories. It took her in ways she didn't know possible. She took it. She didn't cry. She would endure. She would do whatever necessary. The first deal was complete. It gave her power. Power she had never felt before. A power that filled her soul. She returned to the camp. The men were still there. She killed one. Then another. A third was killed before the rest knew she was there. She made herself seen. They took the bait. She ran. They took chase.
She lead them back to the site of the ritual. She summoned these new found powers from within and she killed them. Violently. All of them. She nailed them to the trees and flayed their skin open, their blood dripped to the earth. The second deal was complete. She had earned its trust. She was given more power. Power she could feel crackling behind her eyes. The pact was nearly complete. The fey spirit drew up into form, earth made mud from blood soaked ground formed a humanoid shape, fallen leaves made up its skin, flowing vines became hair, and an ancient fey power barely seen by mortals glowed forth as pale green eyes. The final contract was written up on the bark in an ancient fey tongue no living mortal remembers. The last deal to be completed when she signs. She agreed.
It drew a finger across her arm, her blood dripped forth from the wound. When her blood reached her fingertips, she signed the contract. The words glowed green with power and flew off the bark, swirling into the air. They surrounded her, like fairies and sprites in the wind. They consumed her. She screamed, a scream of pain and joy beyond any she had ever felt. It seemed to last an eternity. It stopped. She is alone. No sprites, no letters in the air, no ancient fey spirit. Only her, and the bodies of the dead men on the trees, their blood still splattered across her flesh. She looked down at her naked body. She saw the letters of the contract inscribed onto her skin, in the same pale green color that were the eyes of that ancient fey. The letters start at her right temple, go down across her nose, to the back of her neck, over her right shoulder, her chest, around her back, across her waist, down her right thigh, and ends at her toes. Large letters, two fingers width, worn like a thin sash wrapped around the body four times. She cannot read the contract, but she knows every word, every letter, every meaning. She walked back to the camp. She released the other captives. She grabbed equipment: clothes, soap, backpack, etc.. She searched for a lake. She washed the blood off her. The contract cannot be washed off. It was there to stay. The ancient fey would not be forgotten. Not by her. The third part of the deal was complete.
She grabbed clothes from the bag. They didn't fit, but they would do. She concealed herself under the cloak. She returned to Calvara, her mentor. She wasn't there. The shop had been burnt down. It was burnt down months ago. The children on the street told her a witch lived there, a woman who made pacts with demons and devils. An old man told her the woman was arrested. The tavern owner down the street told her that some duke had the placed burned down. She hunted down Dolthen. She found him working at the same blacksmith's shop. He had inherited it from her father. His loyalty to the family was always strong. Dolthen had things for her. Things left by her father. Things left by Calvara. They were locked in separate chests. Dolthen gave her the key for one. “The other,” he told her, “may only be opened with the power of the fey.” He didn't know what it meant, but he was told by Calvara that she would know. She accepted the key. She accepted the offering of a room. She had the chests delivered to her room.
She opened her father's chest first. It was full of old documents of his business. Papers on finances. He left a will. Dolthen got the smith's shop. Calvara got the seamstress' shop. A few others earned their own businesses that her father help set up. She got everything else. The manor, the money, the business. Everything. The papers were dated the week her father died. He must have known the Duke would have him killed. She vowed revenge.
Calvara's chest was next. There were no locks. There seemed to be no seams. Headed Dolthen's words, she invoked her new powers. She focused them on the chest. It opened. Inside were stacks of books and scrolls. Arcana. This must have been why they claimed her witch. They were wrong. They used it to erase her trace to the Duke. More revenge. Power crackled within her. She became calm. She grabbed a book from the chest. She read until she fell asleep. She spent the next several months studying the books and scrolls from Calvara. She never left the shop. She was afraid she would be recognized. She didn't want Dolthen to get hurt. When she wasn't poured over a book or scroll, she was applying her studies to her powers. As time passed, she became more confident with herself. She started to venture out at night. She would travel to the other side of the city, to test her powers on some unsuspecting thug. More months passed.
One night, she was almost recognized. Outside a tavern. A girl from childhood. Not one who loved her. The girl recognized the beauty. Rilia quickly returned to Dolthen's. She would need something better than the night to hide her face. She would need something to give her a new identity. Rilia called upon Dolthen to build her a disguise. A Mask. Like the one's worn by nobles in the old kingdoms, of ancient times. The one's Calvara used to tell her about as a child. A mask to hide her face, to hide her pact. A new face. She drew upon her father's funds. She had dresses made to match the mask. She had Dolthen's men pick them up for her. The mask was finely crafted Dwarven steel. Light weight. Very durable. The dresses were sturdy. Strong. Flexible. Capable of being worn in the ancient elven forest. These were her specifications.
The mask was painted in fey design. It became her new face. The dresses became her new skin. They felt comfortable. Like a second skin. She would no longer be recognized by anyone. No one would know of her pact. No one who wanted to live. A new name, as well, she realized. A name flashed across her mind. She didn't wish it there. She didn't will it there. It came of its own accord. It came of fey accord. Aliuenna, it whispered. Aliuenna.
She left everything with Dolthen. All her inheritance. All her money. All her land. It was time to hide Duchess Rilia. Hide her behind a new face. A face with a new name: Aliuenna.
And in the night the Duke awoke with a start, the sweat of fear dripping down his face. Two words echoed in his mind, “I'm coming.”
Haha, your character and mine would get along FAMOUSLY, msghamster! A former duchess and former country bumpkin. Both fey women of hard hearts and fiercer power. Most delicious, my preciousss. :evillaugh
This is what my character would look like were she to wear a mask.
Haha, your character and mine would get along FAMOUSLY, msghamster! A former duchess and former country bumpkin. Both fey women of hard hearts and fiercer power. Most delicious, my preciousss. :evillaugh
This is what my character would look like were she to wear a mask.
Too add to the flavor, she's a half-elf, and I made her dilettante power the Warlord's Commander's Strike, so she can give a command in battle and her allies will do as she says.
Remember, part of her basic description is,
"...she commands respect (or fear) greater than men twice her size. Regardless of people's attitude or opinion of her, everyone tends to do as she says, and folks are less likely to lose their temper when in her presence."
As a half-elf, she grants bonuses to diplomacy to allies within 10', which tends to calm people down (more diplomatic), and I gave her the half-elf feat Group Insight, giving her allies bonuses to initiate and insight, which plays out as "people under her command tend to work quicker and more efficient." :D
Too add to the flavor, she's a half-elf, and I made her dilettante power the Warlord's Commander's Strike, so she can give a command in battle and her allies will do as she says.
Remember, part of her basic description is,
As a half-elf, she grants bonuses to diplomacy to allies within 10', which tends to calm people down (more diplomatic), and I gave her the half-elf feat Group Insight, giving her allies bonuses to initiate and insight, which plays out as "people under her command tend to work quicker and more efficient." :D
Here's her mask:
Wonderful, would you ming if I borrowered her as an encounter in a masquerade ball?
I have a Chaotic-aligned Hobgoblin fey-pact warlock. His name is Ghrout, and he is mildly possessed by the entity that he made his pact with. It is an aspiring primordial demigod (Culthis) embodied by shimmering blue flame that occasionally wisps from it's host body (Ghrout). Ghrout's left eye has been replaced with a gem slightly larger than his normal eye that contains the spirit of his blueflame fey patron. The blue fire constantly radiates from this eye socket. Ghrout has pale orange skin and unruly hair that is longer in the middle, where it draws to a point in the back. His goblinoid nose is scarred. While he shares a muscular build with most Hobgoblins, Ghrout draws his power from an arcane source and is therefore more nimble and lithe than others. He is about 6'1" and 140lbs. Ghrout wears tight and worn leather armor suitable for a thief (with a hood that he never wears). He has a small standard adventurer's backpack. Across his belt, he carries a set of thieves tools, rope, and several survival tools, as well as assorted pouches. At first blush, he appears to be a rogue, at least until he begins shooting pale blue eldritch blasts from his clawed fists. He wields a shortspear whose blade is curved like a flame. It actually serves as his pact blade. Ghrout wears no gloves or shoes (they interfere with the channeling of his arcane energy). He does, however, sport an iron wrist manacle on the same wrist that he holds his spear with, as well as an iron collar. These are remnants from his younger days, when his tribe shackled him until they needed to use him in battle. Eldritch Blast (Touch of Culthis): Every shot causes a faint aura of shimmering blue flame to envelop Ghrout's arm. and the blast itself consists of whirling tendrils of fire that fly in the erratic style of lightning bolts. Eyebite. The larger (gem) eye burns blue furiously, while the normal eye recedes into a pupil-less pool of black. A hit enemy recoils and shoots blue sparks out of it's eyes (if it has them). The primordial voice of his patron murmurs and laughs audibly. Ghrout fades from the sight of his victim in a flash of sparks. Witchfire: Similar to eyebite, but Ghrout points at his intended target and their head erupts in a corona of bluefire. Flames of Phegethos (Flames of Culthis): As described in the handbook, but the rivulets of flame are the appropriate blue color. Misty Step (Burning Step): Ghrout dissolves into blue flames from the feet up, then reappears in the reverse at his intended destination. When spending an action point afterwards, he sometimes jumps into his dissolve and then reappears above his enemy, plunging the spear into them from above. Shadow Walk: The image of Ghrout wavers like the heat lines from a mirage. Bluefire hovers around his blurred outline.
