autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.

Chaara, Deva Druid, 4E ruleset

backstory for new character for bi-weekly DND session with WoTC folks.


It is midsummer within Faerun. The heaviness of summer sun drifts over Cormanthor Forest, drizzling rays like honey over the landscape. Through the thick canopy, rays find a small canyon that abuts the foot of a string of hillocks running north by northeast from the middle of Myth Drannor toward the Elven Court. Sunlight dawdles over the slenderest of paths that leads from the forest proper into the canyon, turning flecks of pyrite into false diamonds and warming the ground. Were one to follow the graceful path to the canyon’s back, one would be surprised to find it opens to a small glade, where rays drift and are filled with slowly spinning amber motes.

The only man-made thing within the canyon is a ramshackle ruin of what might have been a smithy, once upon a time. In the courtyard before the decrepit building, sits a large, circular fountain. The fountain is dry, cloaked by ivy and weeds that drape curiously about its form; strands of ivy running to ground create an effect not unlike some manner of verdant tarp. The dusty, mote-filled light lingers about the fountain oddly and the air shimmers slightly. Were an eye present to see it, one might assume the cause of the shimmering to be radiant heat rising from the
stone and mortar of the fountain.

One would be wrong.

The shimmering ripples and takes on an odd pattern; radiating not outward, but inward. From the center, a whispering voice intones, “Deep within the The Dales, nestled within the heart of Cormanthor Forest, the remnant of Myth Drannor remains. For many lifetimes, the Elven Court has watched over this desiccated remain, the last of what was once a city of many names, chief among which was ‘The City of Beauty’ and ‘The City of Song’.

Brilliant towers, long crumbled, all memory of peaceful streets and the golden age forgotten in the face or war and ruin. Six long centuries have passed and through it all, the Elves dutifully route evil from this place, the sad story turning to silence and, eventually, verdant peace. Reclaimed and restored, still there are places where restoration never sheds light.”

The breeze increases and a visible flickering appears within the depth of overgrowth around the fountain. The quiet voice rises from a whisper, speaking with odd intonation, almost as if chanting, “I am dreaming. I am remembering. The lives and lessons of many turns through this world cocoon me; I am reminded of my oath; to fair Bahamut, to the beings of a fraught, frail world. The dreaming stirs and within it, I too, am stirred, feeling once more the pull toward duty.”

A flurry rises along the dusty edge of the fountain’s base; eddies of earth rise to meet a mist descending from the canopy to cloak the fountain. Together, they turn, slowly at first, wisps of moisture gathering the earth and funneling it inward, the center of the fountain becoming obscured as the foliage sways and then, whips under unrelenting
winds as the voice in the center continues, “For centuries uncounted, I have returned to this place, to the lost glade resting beneath memory, covered by Cormanthor’s canopy. There is power here, deep and sleepless energy, tended by the Elves and my own brothers and sisters, the Devas. The tug of time and need ripples through the dreaming, and I remember again why I agreed to this endless effort.”

From within the center of the now urgently swirling miasma enveloping the fountain, a light begins to shine forth, casting a long shadow upon the ground; The form of a woman, hanging mid-air, four limbs stretched to cardinal directions, shaking violently, before curling in, upon itself, and dropping lightly to ground. Standing, the shadow deepens as the voice steadies and strengthens,

“And I decide to find my way to the world.
And I take up again my work toward the benefit of its beings.
And I know there shall be danger.
And I know there shall be pain.
And I know I shall be tested.”

The glow subsides as the winds settle and the vortex of earth and rain calm and dissipate. A lithe arm extends from within the bedraggled overgrowth of the fountain, sweeping it to one side. A woman steps gracefully over the fountain’s edge and pauses in the open glade, panting slightly, “The eternal struggle for ascendancy, unwinnable and
yet, compelling, calls….”

The woman stands roughly six feet tall, a fit and hearty specimen of humanoid heritage. The tell-tale signs of her nature are found in her skin, an almost pastel blue against which markings of grayish-white appear. Silver hair falls in dishevelment to her shoulders and her eyes slowly open to reveal silver grey orbs in which no pupil appears. She
shivers a moment, then stretches slowly and undertakes a series of ritualistic movements designed to familiarize herself with her new form.

Reaching back into the fountain, she lifts a well-worn knapsack and from it, extracts clothing and a small pouch that bulges. Tying the pouch loosely about her waist, she reaches down again and from the fountain withdraws a stave topped with mistletoe and wrapped about the head with supple leather that ends in a convenient loop.

“I answer,” She whispers, standing still and calm as the last memories of prior lives departs her mind; the remnant of thousands of years experience draining like water through a sieve. It is a process to which she has become accustomed, one she endures without struggle, eyes closing and only the softest of sighs revealing the sense of loss as everything sloughs away, leaving only the rudimentary knowledge upon which she will build in this life and a name — Chaara.

The moment having passed, she opens her eyes and with a peaceful smile and bearing, strides along the path to the world, once more leaving the sacred place at which she has reborn so many, many times.