The Sword Coast
Human Tempest Cleric of Talos, Storm Sorcerer
Str- 16 Dex- 10 Con- 11
Int- 8 Wis- 13 Chr- 16
Age: 38 years old
Appearance; green eyes, black/gray hair, fair skin, scar on right side of face
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Karthos was from a small fishing village near the bustling port metropolis of Baldur’s Gate. At least, that’s where he was found. Washed ashore, in a crib of carved driftwood, carried by monsterous gales. Something was strange about the winds that blew that day, something powerful. He was found by a woman, staring over the edge of a cliff into the churning abyss below.
Had the gods finally answered her prayers?
She rescued the boy from icy waves, the hard rain masking tears of sorrow and joy. “The gods have finally heard us, they’ve brought us a son!” she burst through the door, “we can name him after you, Karthos.” She smiled, the widow’s eyes echoed ghosts since passed.
The hourglass of gods can be measured in irony.
Karthos grew up fast, and he grew up strong. He had to. Life wasn’t easy in the shadow of Baldur’s Gate. The lords and ladies lived their lives on the backs of the peasants, who scraped a meager living from the rememants of their excess. Heir to no great fortune, no titles, Karthos vowed to cut his own path. If life wouldn’t give him a chance, then he’d take it by force.
But, he wasn’t strong enough. Not yet.
Now a man, he needed to set out on his own and discover who he really was. He said goodbye to the grave of his mother, and vowed to return when he could change things. Like the setting sun, the shadow of Baldur’s Gate sunk into the horizon as he forged his path.
The light quickly fades.
Karthos’ world was plunged into darkness. After weeks of traveling, he awoke to find himself below the pits of the earth itself. He’d been taken in the night, sold into slavery to the drow. For nearly 3 years, he survived where not even the light of hope could burn brightly lest it be snuffed out completely. Not a day went by that he didn’t plot his escape. Finally, his chance came. The tunnels rumbled and shook, the cavern collapsed around them. He’d survived, and he was sealed off. He crawled over the bodies of the other slaves and his captors. He gathered what little he could, and took his freedom. He wandered the tunnels for days, familiar with their paths until he reached a giant carved stone door.
The light was blinding.
Exhausted and broken, he shambled through the mountains until he finally collapsed.
He awoke to find himself in the motley company of ragged individuals surrounding a campfire. Dorned in red cloaks, and well armed, his stirring had drawn their attention. “Finally awake, aye?” an old weathered man shot him a sly smile. They were the Crimson Dogs, blades for hire, that took just about any job for the right amount of coin.
By the strength of his sword arm, he’d begun to carve out a name for himself. They traveled the coast together, in the name of glory and the promise of riches. True mercenaries, through and through.