Awlrig
A Dead God’s Prophet. Lord of Nothing, Zealous First, Scholar Second. Your god’s name is Öde, Bride of Rust.
Öde is dead, slain by the Basilisk SHE within the wretched peaks of the Bergen Chrypt. Now no one wants to hear their words. But you can still hear them. Day and night. Like hot wires through your brain.
Assertive and snobbish. Nasty scar where a lung used to sit. Convinced you are a talented singer. This is not the case. After dreaming of an underground temple to a forgotten god you understand the songs of insects and worms.
Börda
A Sacrilegious Songbird with two monkeys that ignore but love him. Unnatural Charm. Always the bringer of unwelcome sounds, your vocation as a bard left you destitute and disreputable… until the rueful day when a being of impious character made you the deal of a lifetime. Your soul may be screaming, but your throat sings sweetly, and your purse ever sweeter. A small price to pay.
Ruthless and egocentric. Recently slashed and stinking eye covered with a patch. Unable to get to the point. Have never actually finished a story.
A deal was struck: In a Schleswig prison cell.
Von
A Fanged Deserter with an ancient gore-hound. Clumsy and illiterate. You have thirty or so friends who never let you down: YOUR TEETH. Disloyal, deranged or simply uncontrollable, any group that didn’t boot you out you left anyway. But your parliament of teeth—enormous, protruding, thick and sharp—have always been your allies. Bite attack: DR10 to attack, d6 damage. You must be close to your target. 1-2 on d6 chance the enemy gets a free attack.
Ruthless and shrewd. Decaying teeth. Insecure shit-stirrer. Will talk about whoever just left the room.
Earliest Memories: A burnt-black building in Sarkash. Your home?