Character Concepts

The Registry of Prospects:

INTRODUCTION
From the humble quills of the Guild Scribe, I
present herein a collection of individuals most
suited to the perilous life of adventure. Each has
been observed, studied, and deemed fit for the
challenges that await beyond our walls. Their
strengths, peculiarities, and potential contributions
to any company of heroes are recorded faithfully,
that the guild might match companions wisely.

What follows is a catalogue of promising

adventurers, whose names and natures may one
day be sung in taverns or etched upon memorials.
 CHAPTER ONE
Leth, Drow Lineage Elf.

W
e came upon Leth as he staggered from the black
depths of the Underdark, clutching the faded
crest of a Noble House. His body was broken, his
spirit desperate. It was in the shadowed canopies of the
The High Moor, on our road westward to a Western
Heartlands village, that we found him. At first, we mistook
him for some pale wretch of the surface; only when he
spoke did we learn he was drow. His doubt in our aid was
plain, yet hunger overcame suspicion, and he accepted
what little food we could spare. Soon after, one among us
caught the stench clinging to him—the unmistakable reek
of Spectator’s blood. In that moment, we saw not a beggar
but a survivor, perhaps even a prospect worthy of the
Guild. So we made camp, and when the fire burned low,
we asked Leth to tell us his tale. What follows is his
account.
"I was born to a house in Menzoberranzan that bent knee to the Spider
Queen. From my first breath, I was told my path was chosen—that I would
serve Lolth, as my blood demanded. But I have never believed in chains of
birth. A person is shaped by the choices they make, not by the god their
mother fears."
[Here, he gripped the faded crest of his house tightly, his eyes cast down
at the fire.]
"House Melrith was already crumbling when I first drew blade. In those
halls, betrayal was coin, and cruelty the only law. I would not take part in
it. That refusal marked me as weak. And in weakness, I became prey.
Rather than drown in the venom of my kin, I fled.
[His voice faltered briefly here, though pride still colored his tone.]
"My escape was bought in blood. I crossed caverns where madness ruled,
fought off two Spectators, and slipped past a Gauth unseen. The kuo-toa
nearly ended me—" [he shuddered visibly at the memory] "—and their
gods still whisper at the edges of my mind. But I endured. Scarred,
battered, and half-dead, I clawed my way to the surface. And when I saw
the sky for the first time, I swore: I will not sink into the same darkness
that consumed my family. My choices will be my own."

W
e found him pale as no drow I had ever seen, his
skin so wan it caught the moonlight and seemed
almost to shine. His hair was cropped short,
though poorly sheared, uneven at the edges in a way that
lent him a strange, rough charm. His eyes, once perhaps
bright, now held a faded emerald hue, their light dimmed,
I suspect, by long nights of flight and suffering in the dark.
He bore the scars of his journey openly: thin lines across
his arms, a stiffness in his gait, and a hollow look that only
hunger and grief can carve into a man.

And yet, there was dignity in him. Even half-starved, he

kept his back straight, his grip tight upon the crest of his
fallen house. His voice, though weary, carried the cadence
of a noble son, the kind raised not only to obey, but to
command. We were enchanted, we saw his expertise in
monster knowledge, so on my behalf and our scouting
team, we have incorporated him within our ranks, and we
are now headed toward the Heartlands where an Aasimar
was claimed to be living in.
 CHAPTER TWO
Serad, The Sunbearer. Aasimar

W
hen we arrived at The Heartlands we knew that
the claims were true: This place had been plane-
touched. Without delay we sought the local inn
for guidance to the Aasimar’s dwelling. The folk there
were wary at first, but the sight of our guild sigil
persuaded them to speak. When at last we laid eyes upon
him, we were struck still. Our gaze lingered without our
knowing, mouths parting in quiet awe. It was he who
broke the spell, greeting us warmly and bidding us calm
ourselves. He welcomed us into his modest farmhouse and
set before us a meal both hearty and much needed after
our journey. He never seemed alarmed by our Drow
companion, he showed no trace of fear or disdain—only
that same calm smile. Perhaps it was born of confidence,
as though he knew he could strike Leth down if pressed.
Yet I believe it was nothing more than sincerity.
He was an outstanding man. He was not jeeringly tall, yet
he stood as though he were a titan. He was not a large
man, yet he carried himself with the pride of a seasoned
warrior. His hair shone like gold, and his eyes gleamed the
same—this led us to believe he bore wings of golden light
as well, though we dared not ask. Not once did he part
from his armor, nor from the longsword ever at his side.
The armor itself was a marvel: ornate silver worked with
gilded trim, touched here and there with deep red
accents, as though each plate had been forged not merely
for battle but for reverence. His blade was much the same,
a weapon of war crafted as art, its guard and pommel
etched with patterns that caught the firelight. He moved
with a quiet grace, every motion measured, every word
chosen with care.
To look upon him was to feel both comfort and unease—
comfort, in that his presence inspired safety, and unease,
in that his radiance seemed almost beyond mortal ken.
There was something unworldly about him, as though the
heavens themselves had set their mark upon him.
When night fell upon his abode, we sat by the firelight and
queried about his tale. What follows is his account.

"I was born of mortal blood—two humans, simple folk, though I

never knew them. My mother died bringing me into this world, and
my father, broken with grief, sought to end me. His hand faltered.
He could not finish what sorrow commanded, and so I was left to
fate.”

"The village did not see a child when they looked upon me. They
saw the cause of my mother’s death. They saw a curse. A demon.
Their scorn was a weight I could not cast off, and though I never
understood it, I bore no hatred for them. They were frightened, and
fear breeds cruelty."

"I lived as a shadow on their borders, hunting by night, stealing only

what I must. I grew, but always apart. It was a lonely youth, but it
taught me silence, patience, and the worth of life—every meal I won
was paid for in struggle."

"When I neared manhood, the village fell to the savagery of gnolls. I

was no warrior then, and their claws cut me deep. I thought I would
die upon that soil. Yet in the hour of despair, a company of paladins
descended upon the beasts, driving them back. As I bled, something
within me broke free: light. Golden light. Wings. For the first time,
my heritage revealed itself. It was the first time I felt Lathander’s
warmth. The gnolls faltered before it. The paladins beheld it. The
villagers, who once spat at me, wept with regret."

"That was the night my wings were born, and the first time I knew
what it meant to stand for something greater than myself. The
paladins took me not as prisoner, but as ward. They tempered me,
trained me, showed me that my light could be more than omen—it
could be a shield for others. That is why I walk the path I do now.”

CHAPTER THREE
Whiskers in the Mist (Whiskers), Tabaxi

A
fter concluding our work in the Western Heartlands,
our path turned northward toward the beating heart
of Faerûn: Waterdeep. Along the road, in taverns
and crossroads alike, we heard whispers carried on the
lips of bards and beggars of a figure they named the Furry
Lightfoot. The tales painted him larger than life, a shadow
with whiskers who struck at lords and nobles only to
scatter his spoils among the poor. Such stories seemed
too rich with fancy to be true. Yet, upon setting foot within
the City of Splendors, we resolved to waste no time in
seeking the truth of this so-called people’s hero.

It was only the dusk of our second day in Waterdeep when

we heard news that the Furry Lightfoot had struck again.
We set out from our inn in search of this elusive Tabaxi.
The streets still hummed with evening trade, hawkers
shouting their final bargains while lanterns sputtered to
life. Word carried fast — a merchant lord’s vault, picked
clean of jewels though the locks remained untouched.
Some swore they saw a shadow flit across the rooftops,
tail glinting silver in the moonlight, but none could say
where it vanished.
W
e were right there, but we never saw him. Not
even Leth, who was attuned to darkness could
spot the Tabaxi. But we had not given up. We
followed the rumors and it pulled us deeper into
Waterdeep’s veins — past the gilded wards and into the
shadows where few scribes dared tread. Whispered tales
guided us to a warren of tunnels beneath the city, where
lanternlight burned soft and voices echoed in laughter.
There we found not bandits nor criminals, but a
community, a family almost. Tabaxi children were
laughing telling tales in their language, but when we
stepped into the light, the air shifted. Laughter faltered.
Words died in throats. The silence was sharp enough to
cut. From the crowd, he emerged — the Furry Lightfoot,
every eye following him as if he carried the room’s
heartbeat.

His blade gleamed as it left its sheath, warning in steel.

Leth mirrored him, weapon raised, tension sparking like
flint to tinder. I let mine fall. The clang of steel on stone
echoed louder than any threat. I told Leth to lower his
weapon, and after a long moment, he obeyed. That choice
seemed to matter. The Tabaxi’s gaze softened, just
slightly, and he lowered his weapon.
His eyes narrowed with suspicion, sharp and watchful,
ready to strike like a leopard on the hunt. His fur was ash
gray, sleek despite the marks of a hard life. One ear was
clipped, must have been a scar from some brutal
encounter, yet nothing in his bearing suggested weakness.
A rough cloth hood framed his face, adorned with two very
sharp daggers that almost seemed to shine its own light.
His claws, long and curved, glimmered like natural blades.
He was lean, built for speed and silence, every muscle
coiled with restless energy. When he moved, the ground
betrayed nothing. Not a footfall, not a whisper — only the
unsettling grace of a predator that owned the shadows.
Only when we showed our Guild sigil did he draw a long,
steady breath, then let it out in a rough sudden laugh. The
sound broke the silence like glass and the room followed
shortly after. Laughter slowly filled the room again.
He beckoned for us to follow inside and goblets were
pressed into our hands. We shared their stolen wine, and
after the cautious edge of suspicion had dulled down, we
finally asked for his tale. What follows is his account.
“I was born in Waterdeep, though I’ve never called it home. My
parents were slaves once, runaways who thought the city’s chaos
would hide them, but it did not. We were poor, hunted, and preyed
upon by bandits in the alleys, and hardship was all I knew. They
named me Whiskers in the Mist — a wish that I might stay unseen,
survive in the cracks where sunlight never reached. For a time, I
did. I stole what I could: fruit from a cart, bread from a careless
hand. Enough to keep my family breathing.
But one night, when I returned from a haul I was proud of, I found
only blood. The slave merchant lord had caught up to them. My
parents lay in the street, their hope ended by chains they thought
they’d escaped. To me, it was the end of my world. To the nobles, to
the slavers, it was nothing. Their lives weighed less than the coins
that bought their deaths. No one wept for them but me. The city
forgot them before the blood dried.

I took my father’s cloak that night and swore vengeance. Since

then, I’ve robbed slavers, cut purses from bandits, and broken into
noble vaults too fat with gold to notice what they lost. I gave what I
didn’t need to the alleys, the hungry, the forgotten, and I took
nothing more than my claws required. That was enough for me,
until my name began to spread. The nobles whispered of me, the
Watch cursed me, but not all despised what I was. One lady — a
noble sickened by her peers’ greed — found me first. She saw
purpose in me and gave me daggers of silver, knowledge of the
houses, and shelter where the Watch could not sniff me out. With
her aid, I struck harder, deeper, and the city learned a new name
for me. They stopped calling me Whiskers in the Mist. They called
me the Furry Lightfoot. And so I walk still, in shadow and laughter,
feeding those the city would rather starve.”