Iniralchath 'Nir' Dalzhind

Description:

Age: 28
Height: 5’11"
Weight: 152lbs
Eye Color: Red
Skin: Dark Gray
Hair Color: White
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Additional Notes:
Nir is a flamboyant and incredibly flirtatious bard. She bears the ‘mark of queens’ which is a shiny, almost imperceptible web-textured birthmark appearing like a ring of web on her throat.

Personality Type:
Nir is determination at its most unrefined. She is as ruthless as she is relentless and oftentimes the only thing separating her good intentions from bad decisions is a matter of circumstance. She pushes and she pushes and she pushes until she has nothing left of herself to give and then she digs inside to tear out more. She’s intense, irreverent, and entirely incorrigible.

Bonds, Allies, and Organizations:
Nir’s passion has ever been a knife that cuts on both sides. When she spurs people to action, it is just as often that they rise up against her as they do with her. She never does anything halfway, and that includes her interpersonal relationships.

Ideals:
Tyrants must not be allowed to oppress the people.

Flaws:
Once she picks a goal, she becomes obsessed with it to the detriment of everything else in her life. She’s never satisfied with what she have—always wanting more. Her pride will probably (has) lead to her destruction.

Weapon of Choice: Megara and Pegara
Megara is a tapered falchion with an inlaid blunderbuss on either side of the blade just after the hilt. It’s presumably been stolen from some asshole in a bar.
Megara: 1d8+3 slashing or piercing damage.
300 Gold. 8 Pounds, well-balanced. Versatile strike patterns. Range 5 ft.
Special Qualities:
Blunderbuss (Active) – Nir fires one of the blunderbuss barrels directly into a nearby enemy. Enemy takes 2d8 damage per shot, but heavily armored targets take half damage (depending on shot load). Disadvantage against enemies further than 15 feet, advantage on enemies within 10 feet, with a max range of 20. By using different shot loads (flechette, single ball, sabot, alchemical) you can change the effects of this attack. Unlimited use, but requires a reload per 2 shots.
Prejudice (Active) – Nir stabs an enemy and fires both barrels of the blunderbuss directly into their body. Enemy takes 3d8+2 damage and if they’re not just fucking dead, their armor class will be reduced by 2 for the duration of the round. Can be used three times a day.

Pegara is a 10 shot snaplock revolver taken from the fresh corpse of an Odullian Cavalry officer who thought he was cool. Now he’s just dead. And down a nice gun.
Pegara: 2d6+1 piercing damage.
700 Gold. 7 Pounds, well-balanced. Range 150/400.
Takes 1 action to reload.
Special Qualities:
Fan the Hammer (Passive) – You are able to fire twice per action, but not on a bonus action.
Bitchslap (Reaction) – If she is being attacked within melee distance, Nir has a 1d12 chance to avoid the attack and bitchslap the enemy for 1d4 damage. Outcome of the d12 roll must be 11 or 12 to trigger the reaction. Unlimited use.

Bio:

Nir’s early childhood was marked by accidents: the first being the manner of her conception, and the second being the manner of her intended abortion. The first stuck, the second didn’t.

And thus a rather energetic drow child was born on a rather insignificant island off the coast of Odul. Her mother was a woman of no particular consequence, a brothel owner who had assured Nir’s father – a somewhat elevated criminal – that the matter had been taken care of. And it had, but in a manner that unknowingly made her unborn child stronger rather than, well, dead.

Though her mother nonetheless accepted the child, who she named Iniralchath Dalzhind though would quickly tire of saying the whole of it, her health was less permitting. In the dead of the night, Nir was dropped on her father’s doorstep and made to be his problem instead.

Nir’s father took her under his wing, though it was perhaps the only charitable act of his life (a fact he would often remind everyone of, when deep in the cups with a young child underfoot). What she lacked in formal education she gained in a wide collection of criminal talents. It was through these ill-reputable talents that Nir came to associate herself with a man who would eventually bequeath her the means to leave her small island hometown and set off for the kingdom of Odul – where dreams were said to be made, but the poor would never see them.

For the first time in a life that had otherwise been an upward climb, Nir experienced what it meant to find one’s limits. But Nir, who had defied the odds by simply being born, did not settle for rejection. During the day, she studied at the institutions of Odul, and by night she brokered deals with Odul’s landowners and merchants. She slept little, if at all, for a good many months.

Perhaps it was her weariness that lead her to discover a plot to bankrupt the merchants of her hometown, far too late to put an end to it before it began.

Nir returned home, hungry but with a taste for change lingering in her mouth. It’s then, with her mouth wet and saliva dripping, she encountered a girl whose fire rivaled her own – and together they would burn brighter for it.

“Your name,” she demanded by knifepoint.

“Veera Azad.”

And it was. And it was.

They fought a two-front war, the two of them, against both Odul and the Pirates of Davadjal. For a home that had never particularly wanted her, and for thanks that was less than forthcoming.

Nir left, battle-hardened and 5 years lost to the blood and the shitspray, with a paltry amount of recognition that faded long before she’d finished soaking it up. She was a veteran of a quickly forgotten war, growing ever more critical of the things she had fought for.

She took up the bardic arts when she had nothing left but frustration, and an earful for anyone that would listen. Her songs, it seemed, were easier to remember than a frothing rant and a ditty tune had a way of worming ideas into the minds of the public long after she’d moved onto a new and bigger crowd.

She found the embers of a dying flame burning in the lower and middle classes and she stoked it into a roaring fire. For the second time in her life she shed the name Iniralchath Dalzhind. Not for Nir, this time, but for something greater: an ideal.

She became, in every way, The Resistance.

And devoted herself to it completely, cutting the throat of her father before a starving crowd. “I have given you everything,” she told them.

But there was still yet to give.

And when she died, with the blood of the city’s mages soaking through the cracks in her armor, a man with a crooked smile and the intangible aura of a god watched her fall.

A pity death never seemed to stick for Nir.

Iniralchath 'Nir' Dalzhind

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