Rise of Darastrix
The sensible of the two Rangers.
A man aged 27 years, with tanned skin and black hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. His eyes are a strange, light-absorbing sort of black. He is 5’9, 173 lbs, and always appears tired.
For some strange reason he does not cast a reflection. For that reason he tends to avoid large bodies of water and mirrors.
Strength 15 +2
Dexterity 19 +4
Constitution 15 +2
Intelligence 15 +2
Wisdom 16 +3
Charisma 12 +1
Hit Points: 20
AC Total: 15 Touch: 14 Flat: 11
The Story Thus Far…
Miles Sumner was first born to two rather normal Merchant parents in Tashalar, in the wake of a horrific tropical storm. He came into the world looking rather indifferent from most babies of the area, with dark skin, dark hair, all four limbs attached where they should… Except for a pair of unnaturally dark eyes, iris’ that seemed to swallow light. As he grew up, his parents became aware of some additional traits, like a strangely darker shadow, and upon his sixth birthday, his inability to cast a reflection. His parents, highly paranoid of magic and it’s ilk, immediately surrendered the young boy to the whims of the richer, more powerful ruling class.
The next years of Miles’ life, until his sixteenth year, could only be described as hell. The country of Tashalar was, and is, filled with distrust and hatred towards anything that could be even remotely connected with arcane magic. The boy was given to a man who was the foreman to a gold mine in the western hills of the country, told to do whatever he liked with the whelp, short of killing him. New slaves cost money, after all, and the run of usual convicts had already diminished for the season. At a young age he was sent to work in the mines, sifting out gold from sluices cut through hillsides, given only scraps of clothing and the same meager food that the rest of the criminals were given. Such a young boy, of course, didn’t know how to fight—but he took it up quickly, seeing those older than him duke it out and of course having to avoid the same thing happening to himself.
Ten years turned the once wide-eyed youth into a paranoid young man, bitter of the world and reluctant to trust anyone that’d give him so much a sidelong glance. Over the span of these years he tried to escape four times, resulting in beatings, starvings, and isolation from those he came to loathe. He finally escaped on the fifth attempt, the eve of the anniversary of his imprisonment—and mere months before the entirety of the world went up in the ghostly blue spellfire that chased him through the foothills and further south into the Black Jungle.
The next few months were hard travel, avoiding the scattered tribes of Yuan-Ti and learning to provide for his own while avoiding wild magic and being corrupted by the Spellplague. His skills with a bow, stolen from a fellow traveler, blossomed and he learned much from those he shared the road with in his journey to get as far away from the hellish landscape that was once his homeland. Part of him was relieved, happy even, that the end of the world was coming. It meant nobody would miss one dirty little slave that’d escaped his masters; especially if said masters were dead. Somewhere on the road he learned of, and picked up worship of the Goddess Akadi, who was the benefactor of travelers such as him. The ruins of Tashalar gave way to Thindol, and Thindol to Samarach.
So many more years had passed when his wary feet brought him to the halls of Samargol, fighting past mountains cloaked in illusion and the same monstrous Yuan-Ti that he’d avoided since leaving the mines. For once, he found himself tired of travel, but too restless to simply settle down… The idea of joining the militia appealed to both sides of him, allowing him to travel, have some place to stay, as well as further hone his skills in battle… And maybe, just maybe, give him a reason for his continued existence on this plane.