Hello all! I'm new to the community, and sort of new to fantasy roleplay (I've done a few sessions in the past few months or so). I've been having some fun developing my character's backstory and thought I'd post what I wrote to the forum. Thanks for checking it out!
Helga Kerkoff of Kislev
Helga stepped inside The Three Hogs and squinted as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The inn smelled of sweat and fried octopus, and it was largely empty save for a few lazy patrons. An old man lay, passed out, in the far corner of the room, his beard dripping onto the sodden floor with the ale that had surely caused his condition. Another, larger man sat at the bar, guzzling down a thick amber ale. The inn was so quiet a hay bale may as well have rolled through it.
Fulgamere wasn’t so great. Almost a week Helga had been in this town and it hadn’t grown on her one bit. The heavy scent of bog octopus followed her everywhere she turned and had likely seeped into even her armor by now, the locals were obsessed with a witch they hadn’t seen but once in a fortnight, and not a single Fulgamerian was proving susceptible to Helga’s otherwise irresistible feminine allure. It was all enough to make the young Kislevite homesick. How deeply Helga missed the harsh white snow of Kislev’s countryside and the crass mannerisms of its burly men.
But Helga had to accept that she was in Fulgamere now, and she had to make the best of it. She shook off her homesickness and made her way to the bar.
This was a rare moment of peace for Helga. Most of the town was in the courtroom currently, enthralled by a witch trial that would surely proclaim an innocent woman guilty, and her dwarf companions were sniffing out gold and spoils somewhere nearby probably, or plundering some dinner tray at the Inn. Such simple-minded creatures, these dwarfs. Good for a hearty laugh, but otherwise driven blindly by their thirst for money. They’d do anything for a gold coin, it seemed - hunt for oversized monsters, enter eerie marshlands, ignore all logic. Bearden and Thoren were the only reason Helga was even in this town. She’d have gladly sailed on down the river with the river merchant, thank you very much.
Instead, she made the choice to stay with the dwarfs, and she would have to see that decision through. She and the dwarfs had become companions of sorts and she didn’t have the heart to abandon them.
Except she feared she would not make it out of Fulgamere alive, what with all the monsters and talk of witches. She had set out from her birth city a year past in search of answers for the untimely death of her mother and father and had learned nothing more than that the realm she lived in was inhospitable and full of chaos. Greenskins were everywhere, and wretched beastmen, and grotesque cannibals who tore apart unknowing passersby. It seemed she could go nowhere without meeting some devastation of the psyche or spirit, and she was starting to think it was folly to have left the safety of her goat farm at all.
In some ways though, Helga knew that this journey was long overdue. She had been content enough shearing sheep and milking goats, but every so often she ran into a weary traveler at the local tavern in Chazask, and she’d hear his tales of the sights he’d seen and the places he’d visited. That’s how she learned of dwarfs and elves and beasts, and how she heard of the injustices being wrought upon innocents by blood-thirsty witch hunters. Soon, Helga was nursing a hunger to see these creatures with her own two eyes and putting away the earnings she made each Marktag for traveling goods.
Still, the thought of leaving her farm for longer than a few days left a sour taste in Helga’s mouth. She had brought the farm out from under a deep ruin after her parents were hung, and put her heart and soul into its upkeep. She took pride in the health of her goats and the hardy milk and cheese they yielded. If she left, there would be nobody to take care of them. Her brother had no taste for farm life and took no interest in tending to the animals. He sat around in his study for the majority of days, doing Ursun knows what. Leaving simply was not an option unless Helga was prepared to see her land fall back into ruin.
But maintaining the farm became a non-issue after a witch hunter rolled into Chazask and accused Helga’s brother of performing something called “hedge” magic. Helga was unsure what that meant, but she knew her brother was too squeamish to perform any kind of task beyond sitting. Even the flies in the barn irked him. The only kind of magic he could possibly be performing was the feat of sitting for as long as he did each day.
The witch hunter was deaf to Helga’s pleas though. After a single afternoon of questioning, he hung Helga’s brother in the town square. Helga could still remember the sickening crunch of Philip’s neck breaking as the bar holding his feet up was kicked out from under him. My brother did nothing to deserve this, Helga had screamed. She had shouted at the witch hunter for his unjust treatment. She had beat his chest with her fists and kicked his shins. But the despicable man had only glared at her and warned her that she would be next unless she calmed herself. She was lucky he hadn’t hung her just for breathing the same air as Philip.
After that, Helga knew she had to leave Chazask, and perhaps Kislev itself. It only took her a few hours to pack up her traveling goods and set her animals free. Helga was loathe to see her hard work set so aimlessly free, but she knew she had her own journey to take and felt confident that her neighbors would take in her animals. Still, she let her favorite goat, Rob, follow her at a distance. She figured she could use a trusty traveling companion.
Helga took off south into the greater Empire with her sights set on Altdorf, where there were rumored to stand grand houses that held unparalleled magical powers. If the rest of the realm was going to succumb to the flighty whims of witch hunters who used no more than the sigh of the wind to condemn innocent people, then Helga would learn to stand strong against them. She would bring justice to families who had fallen victim to witch hunters’ empty accusations, and she would find out why her family had been such a ready target for them. She felt instinctively that her quest would be one of self-discovery, and she was eager to learn of what stuff she was made of.
. I really liked the story FridgeGargoyle, it is precisely the thing I like players to do. Exploring your characters story is a great way to be creative and also flesh out aspects that might otherwise go unsaid.