The Foreign Sellsword
You came a long way for coin. This land has strange gods. You still get paid.
A fighting style nobody at the table has seen before. The DM narrates your combat the way someone narrates a scene they're still a little impressed by.
Your Story
You are [name], and you are a long way from [homeland]. The Sword Coast is soft weather and rich men and bad beer and you have been here nearly a year and you do not know why. You came for coin. You have coin. You have not left.
The work is easy. Caravan guard. Bouncer. The occasional messy job for a factor in Baldur's Gate who pays well and doesn't ask questions. You keep your own counsel. You keep your own code. You pay for your ale, you drink alone, and the southerners whisper about you in taverns as though you can't hear them. You can hear them.
Something in you pulled you here. You won't admit it to anyone, because it sounds like the kind of thing your grandmother used to say — but it's true. The way you were tired. The way the sea kept telling you further. The way three times now you've tried to board a ship going home and three times something has kept you on the dock: a fight that wasn't yours, a woman who needed help, weather. Excuses. All of them convincing.
Two nights ago you met a tiefling in a loud tavern — hair like a barn fire, a ticking engine where her heart should be, and a laugh that shook the rafters. She looked at you the way one soldier looks at another across a room full of civilians. Neither of you spoke. You both knew.
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This one is me →A week before we play, a letter will arrive at your house. Open it alone. Do not compare notes with the others until you reach the Trade Way.