Fear Cuts Deeper Than Swords
(A Song of Ice and Fire/Pathfinder and D&D 3.5 Quest)
It is the...
(A Song of Ice and Fire/Pathfinder and D&D 3.5 Quest)
It is the...
Fear Cuts Deeper Than Swords: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 and Pathfinder Quest
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Character Selection and Character Sheets
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- E-Girl Deseret
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- She/Her
Fear Cuts Deeper Than Swords
(A Song of Ice and Fire/Pathfinder and D&D 3.5 Quest)
(A Song of Ice and Fire/Pathfinder and D&D 3.5 Quest)
It is the year 294 after Aegon's Conquest. Magic has returned to the world, the sorcerers and warlocks and pyromancers whisper, power truly unlike anything the land has seen in many, many years. And while stories would have you believe that only kings and peasants of legend see magic, lords and ladies in between those extremes can find themselves with much power in this new age. Villains and heroes, rebels, leal vassals, sorcerers, madmen and just men, those gifted can be these things and so much more.
Who shall you be in this world awakening to magic and monsters?
[] Dacey Mormont, She-Bear of the North: You are the eldest daughter of Maege Mormont, Lady of Bear Island. You are a warrior, and some say skin-shifter too, able to turn into a bear… and sleep with them too. In truth, that particular talent of your house has not arisen in you before. But now, after a raid on your ancestral island, you have been captured by Ironborn, taken who knows where. Are you on a ship or in a prison? No matter, for you are Mormont, and here you stand. You will claw your freedom out of Ironborn corpses if you must. (Shifter Class, age 18, Early Ironborn and Magical Creature Focus. Starting Location: ???)
[] Allyria Dayne, the Lady of Stars: You are the youngest of four siblings; the late Lord Dayne, Ser Arthur Dayne known as the Sword of the Morning, the beautiful Ashara, and yourself. In another life you could have been the wife of a powerful Stormlander lord, but in this world of awakening magic, things are very different. Ancient, alien threats awaken below your family's seat of Starfall. The star-sword Dawn was not the only boon or perhaps curse of the fallen star. Strange lights appear from the basement of the castle, and peasants and gentry alike whisper of creatures unknown to man until now. Your liege lord and nephew Edric "Ned" Dayne is far too young to be gallivanting about solving this mystery. But Lady Allyria is of age, and Daynes have never been the craven sort…. (Sorcerer Class – Starsoul Bloodline, age 21, Early Aberration Focus. Starting Location: Starfall, Dorne)
[] Domeric Bolton, Cleanser of the Dreadfort: You are Bolton, heir to the sinister Dreadfort, and scion of the Leech Lord. Yet your family's dark legacy does not call to you like it does your sire. You know the family's grim secrets, and perhaps seek to end them once and for all. But in this new world, dark things stir beneath the snows and graveyards. Rotting, decaying things. Is your father, Roose Bolton, involved in this? Or are darker things than even Boltons behind the sightless eyes of the dead? Nonetheless, you ride to purge the Bolton lands of these disquieting things. (Paladin Variant – Ghost Hunter, age 19, Early Undead Focus. Starting Location: Dreadfort, the North)
[] Imry Florent, Voice of Fox and Faerie: Nephew to Lord Alester Florent, you are heir to nothing, save the ears of your parents and their parents before them. You are young and vigorous, and dream of martial glory, the clash of steel, and the honor of a lady. Yet your concerns of glory and valor are swept aside one day when a fox, the traditional symbol of your house, walks up to you and speaks, claiming to be the legendary ancestor of your house, Florys the Fox, and telling you of a destiny of tree and stone and sky. Will you accept the beast's strange message? (Druid Variant – Green Faith Inititate, Age 20, Early Fey Focus. Starting Location: Brightwater Keep, the Reach)
[] Allyria Dayne, the Lady of Stars: You are the youngest of four siblings; the late Lord Dayne, Ser Arthur Dayne known as the Sword of the Morning, the beautiful Ashara, and yourself. In another life you could have been the wife of a powerful Stormlander lord, but in this world of awakening magic, things are very different. Ancient, alien threats awaken below your family's seat of Starfall. The star-sword Dawn was not the only boon or perhaps curse of the fallen star. Strange lights appear from the basement of the castle, and peasants and gentry alike whisper of creatures unknown to man until now. Your liege lord and nephew Edric "Ned" Dayne is far too young to be gallivanting about solving this mystery. But Lady Allyria is of age, and Daynes have never been the craven sort…. (Sorcerer Class – Starsoul Bloodline, age 21, Early Aberration Focus. Starting Location: Starfall, Dorne)
[] Domeric Bolton, Cleanser of the Dreadfort: You are Bolton, heir to the sinister Dreadfort, and scion of the Leech Lord. Yet your family's dark legacy does not call to you like it does your sire. You know the family's grim secrets, and perhaps seek to end them once and for all. But in this new world, dark things stir beneath the snows and graveyards. Rotting, decaying things. Is your father, Roose Bolton, involved in this? Or are darker things than even Boltons behind the sightless eyes of the dead? Nonetheless, you ride to purge the Bolton lands of these disquieting things. (Paladin Variant – Ghost Hunter, age 19, Early Undead Focus. Starting Location: Dreadfort, the North)
[] Imry Florent, Voice of Fox and Faerie: Nephew to Lord Alester Florent, you are heir to nothing, save the ears of your parents and their parents before them. You are young and vigorous, and dream of martial glory, the clash of steel, and the honor of a lady. Yet your concerns of glory and valor are swept aside one day when a fox, the traditional symbol of your house, walks up to you and speaks, claiming to be the legendary ancestor of your house, Florys the Fox, and telling you of a destiny of tree and stone and sky. Will you accept the beast's strange message? (Druid Variant – Green Faith Inititate, Age 20, Early Fey Focus. Starting Location: Brightwater Keep, the Reach)
Welcome to Fear Cuts Deeper, my very first Quest, based off of A Song of Fire and Fire and Dungeons and Dragons! It is inspired by A Sword Without a Hilt, an ongoing quest, but my idea is that each character choice will have a distinct supernatural focus at first, and instead of using viewpoint or close to viewpoint characters we know and love, it will be centered around minor characters who I find interesting, and their struggles, triumphs, and friends. I doubt it will achieve the popularity or length of A Sword Without A Hilt, but I'd like a familiar setting for my first Quest. I'll give a week for the votes to be made, and we'll play whoever is chosen!
Additionally, for those who don't know much about the setting of ASOIAF, I will try to explain canon characters and concepts as they appear, and if you ever need anything explained further, I am happy to talk in PMs.
[THIS SPOT RESERVED FOR CHARACTER SHEETS]
Name: Domeric Bolton
Titles: Ser, (titular) Heir to the Dreadfort
Aliases: ???
Alignment: Lawful Good (ish)
Race: Human (Medium Humanoid)
Level 1: (0/1000 XP)
Class: Paladin of the Dawn 1 (Paladin Archetype)
Feats: Battle Blessing, Power Attack, Step Up, Scion of War
Flaws: Pride of Arms, Chivalrous Courtesy
Traits: Reactionary, Focused Mind
Class Features: Aura of Good, Detect Evil, Smite Evil 1/day (undead only), Ghostly Smite, Historian, Rich Parents, Favored Class Bonus (+1 HP per level).
Languages Spoken: Westerosi, High Valyrian
Description: A son of the North, and especially of the Leech Lord, Domeric is a tall, fit man with a graceful, almost melancholy face, framed by the long, thin hair inherited from his sire, and expressive, pale blue eyes. He is often garbed in armor and the light pink regalia of his house, and since his warding in the South, habitually wears a greatsword of excellent craft.
Picture:
Basic Combat Facts:
HP: 10
AC: 18 (10 - 1 DEX + 9 fullplate), touch 9, flatfooted 18, ACP -6 (STR and DEX skills)
Movement: 30ft (20ft in fullplate)
Initiative: +7 = (Uses CHA for checks, +5 CHA, +2 trait bonus)
Attack: +3 (1 BAB, 2 STR) with Flail, +4 (1 BAB, 2 STR, 1 Masterwork) with Falchion, Ranged +0 (1 BAB, -1 DEX)
Damage: 2d4+3 (Masterwork Falchion), 1d8+2 (flail, +3 if two-handed), 1d6+2 (shortsword), 1d8+2 (Composite Longbow)
Weapon Proficiency: All Simple and Martial
Armor Proficiency: All Armor, All Shields (except Tower Shields)
Stats:
Strength: 14 + 0 = 14 (+2)
Dexerity: 8 + 0 = 8 (-1)
Constitution: 14 + 0 = 14 (+2)
Intelligence: 12 + 0 = 12 (+1)
Wisdom: 8 + 0 = 8 (-1)
Charisma: 18 + 2 (human bonus)= 20 (+5)
Saves:
Fortitude: 4 = +2 (base), +2 (CON)
Reflex: -1 = +0 (base), -1 (DEX)
Will: 1 = +2 (base), -1 (WIS)
Skills:
Diplomacy: 1+ 5 (CHA) +3 (class) = 9
Handle Animal: 1 (bonus) + 5 (CHA) +3 (class) = 9
Knowledge (Arcana): 1 + 1 (INT) +3 (class) = 5
Knowledge (History): 1 (bonus) + 1 (INT) + 3 (class) = 5
Knowledge (Nobility): 1 (bonus) +1 (INT) + 3 (class) +2 (Noble Scion) = 7
Knowledge (Religion): 1 + 1 (INT) +3 (class) = 5
Perform (Strings): 1 (bonus) +5 (CHA) = 6
Ride: 1 - 1 (DEX) +3 (class) = 3
Sense Motive: 1-1 (WIS) +3 (class) = 3
Items:
Masterwork Falchion
Fullplate
Flail
Composite Longbow (Needs +2 STR modifier to wield)
Arrows (20)
Heavy Warhorse
Military Saddle
Saddlebags
Bit and Bridle
Small Harp
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Character Sheet
Prologue and Choice #1
- Location
- E-Girl Deseret
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Fifth Day of the Third Month 294 AC
You are Domeric Bolton, only child of Lord Roose Bolton, and heir to the Dreadfort, the strongest lordship in the mighty North, apart from your liege lords, the Starks of Winterfell. You have seen nineteen name-days, though your last seven had been spent with not your father and mother, but amongst your aunt Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton, as a page, and with Lord Horton Redfort of the mountainous Vale as a squire.
You have only just arrived back in the cold, enormous North, spending only a few days with your lord father Roose before tiring of the grim feeling of the Dreadfort. Before your squireship, your father sometimes remarked that you were of a more delicate persuasion than most Boltons, and you could never bring yourself to disagree. Even now, the pale pink cape of House Bolton and its badge of the flayed men feels an odd weight on your shoulders.
Something must have seemed troubled on your face during those early days of your return, for Steelshanks Walton, a loyal and brusque retainer for House Bolton, declared that the crisp Northern day was a fine one for hunting and fishing, and that it could be even finer if "Lord Domeric" could join him for the day. Steelshanks was not known for his subtlety, and as you put on cloaks and left the Dreadfort, you could almost feel your father's mouth approach an expression that would be a smirk on any other man. But even still, the Leech Lord did not begrudge you a day of relaxation.
So it was that Steelshanks and yourself traveled mounted along the Weeping Water, the river along which the stones of the Dreadfort sat. The captain wasn't much of a talker, but in your melancholy mood, that suited you. The cool air and soft snows of the North comforted you, and as you "searched" for wild game and fishing spots, you felt a little better.
After half the day was gone in the pleasant diversion, you began to cheer. Steelshank's idea had been a smashing success. But then, you heard a hoarse scream carrying over the wind. "Help! Help! By the Old Gods, someone help!"
Immediately you spurred your mount in the direction of the voice, hoping that you were not too late. You rode as quick as you dared, your years in the Vale paying off as you galloped. You were sure Steelshanks had been left behind by your mad dash.
Finally, you happened upon the source of the noise. About twelve feet away from the river, a peasant knelt in the thin snow. Stout and grubby, his face marked by pox and more importantly, an expression of pure terror, the man seemed horrified out of his wits, if wits you could call them.
As you approached the kneeling man, your hand went to your sword. You recalled your father's oft-repeated words, "A peaceful land, a quiet people." Now here was a man who disrupted both. You were not as suspicious as the Lord of the Dreadfort, but it was wise to be prepared. You dismounted and strode towards him.
The terrified man's expression shifted as he saw you, and in some strange manner, he seemed relieved by your presence, a disquieting fact. What could have terrified this man to rejoice at the arrival of a Bolton? Respect, aye, you could understand, and fear too. The flayed man struck fear in the heart of the enemies of the Dreadfort, and grim respect in its smallfolk. But relief, that was new. His words came babbling out faster than you could answer them.
"Milord you've got to help, someone has to, t-the village, it's all gone, they're gone, everyone is, they, the graves, its like the L-Long Night c-come again!"
That too, disquieted you. Your fingers still on the hilt of your Vale-forged falchion, gifted by Lord Redfort as you passed back into the North, you held your other hand to stop him from babbling further. Looking at him with a cold, almost imperious glance you had seen your father use many time, you examined the man, from his rough attire and furs at his waist, a hunter by trade. This hunter needed to give you more answers. A soft smile came to your lips, as if to comfort the man.
"Peace, good man. Slow down. What happened?"
"T-the dead, Milord. They rose out of their graves. Old Podrick, he was our village elder when I was a lad, he died thirty years ago when the old Lord Bolton was alive, he rose first, moaning and s-shambling out of his grave. T-then there were others, Beric the baker, he died three winters ago. He died of a sickness of the mouth; his jaw was missing, milord! The dead men ate whoever they could get their hands on, I don't know who's still alive!"
You looked at the hunter. The dead rising sounded like the Others of legend, a fairy tale in most of Westeros, and scoffed at even here in the North. Yet, the man was so obviously terrified; you could not rightly name him a liar.
"Where is your town, good man?"
"W-Widow's Brook, just a mile or so from here milord! Please, ye got to help us!"
How do you respond?
[X] Agree immediately and head for the town
[X] Go back for Steelshanks, he's a trained warrior, he may be able to help
[X] Say that you need to head back to the Dreadfort for more men; if the threat is truly that bad, you'll need reinforcements
You are Domeric Bolton, only child of Lord Roose Bolton, and heir to the Dreadfort, the strongest lordship in the mighty North, apart from your liege lords, the Starks of Winterfell. You have seen nineteen name-days, though your last seven had been spent with not your father and mother, but amongst your aunt Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton, as a page, and with Lord Horton Redfort of the mountainous Vale as a squire.
You have only just arrived back in the cold, enormous North, spending only a few days with your lord father Roose before tiring of the grim feeling of the Dreadfort. Before your squireship, your father sometimes remarked that you were of a more delicate persuasion than most Boltons, and you could never bring yourself to disagree. Even now, the pale pink cape of House Bolton and its badge of the flayed men feels an odd weight on your shoulders.
Something must have seemed troubled on your face during those early days of your return, for Steelshanks Walton, a loyal and brusque retainer for House Bolton, declared that the crisp Northern day was a fine one for hunting and fishing, and that it could be even finer if "Lord Domeric" could join him for the day. Steelshanks was not known for his subtlety, and as you put on cloaks and left the Dreadfort, you could almost feel your father's mouth approach an expression that would be a smirk on any other man. But even still, the Leech Lord did not begrudge you a day of relaxation.
So it was that Steelshanks and yourself traveled mounted along the Weeping Water, the river along which the stones of the Dreadfort sat. The captain wasn't much of a talker, but in your melancholy mood, that suited you. The cool air and soft snows of the North comforted you, and as you "searched" for wild game and fishing spots, you felt a little better.
After half the day was gone in the pleasant diversion, you began to cheer. Steelshank's idea had been a smashing success. But then, you heard a hoarse scream carrying over the wind. "Help! Help! By the Old Gods, someone help!"
Immediately you spurred your mount in the direction of the voice, hoping that you were not too late. You rode as quick as you dared, your years in the Vale paying off as you galloped. You were sure Steelshanks had been left behind by your mad dash.
Finally, you happened upon the source of the noise. About twelve feet away from the river, a peasant knelt in the thin snow. Stout and grubby, his face marked by pox and more importantly, an expression of pure terror, the man seemed horrified out of his wits, if wits you could call them.
As you approached the kneeling man, your hand went to your sword. You recalled your father's oft-repeated words, "A peaceful land, a quiet people." Now here was a man who disrupted both. You were not as suspicious as the Lord of the Dreadfort, but it was wise to be prepared. You dismounted and strode towards him.
The terrified man's expression shifted as he saw you, and in some strange manner, he seemed relieved by your presence, a disquieting fact. What could have terrified this man to rejoice at the arrival of a Bolton? Respect, aye, you could understand, and fear too. The flayed man struck fear in the heart of the enemies of the Dreadfort, and grim respect in its smallfolk. But relief, that was new. His words came babbling out faster than you could answer them.
"Milord you've got to help, someone has to, t-the village, it's all gone, they're gone, everyone is, they, the graves, its like the L-Long Night c-come again!"
That too, disquieted you. Your fingers still on the hilt of your Vale-forged falchion, gifted by Lord Redfort as you passed back into the North, you held your other hand to stop him from babbling further. Looking at him with a cold, almost imperious glance you had seen your father use many time, you examined the man, from his rough attire and furs at his waist, a hunter by trade. This hunter needed to give you more answers. A soft smile came to your lips, as if to comfort the man.
"Peace, good man. Slow down. What happened?"
"T-the dead, Milord. They rose out of their graves. Old Podrick, he was our village elder when I was a lad, he died thirty years ago when the old Lord Bolton was alive, he rose first, moaning and s-shambling out of his grave. T-then there were others, Beric the baker, he died three winters ago. He died of a sickness of the mouth; his jaw was missing, milord! The dead men ate whoever they could get their hands on, I don't know who's still alive!"
You looked at the hunter. The dead rising sounded like the Others of legend, a fairy tale in most of Westeros, and scoffed at even here in the North. Yet, the man was so obviously terrified; you could not rightly name him a liar.
"Where is your town, good man?"
"W-Widow's Brook, just a mile or so from here milord! Please, ye got to help us!"
How do you respond?
[X] Agree immediately and head for the town
[X] Go back for Steelshanks, he's a trained warrior, he may be able to help
[X] Say that you need to head back to the Dreadfort for more men; if the threat is truly that bad, you'll need reinforcements
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