Eye Color: Mountain Peak Blue
Skin: Dark Gray, Goliath-Like Markings
Hair Color: Stark White
Alignment: Neutral Good
Veera is a very stout Half-Drow, Half-Goliath. Her height and her presence are imposing and tall, but there is something about her that denotes a sense of kindness or softness in her presence, despite how hard lined she might appear. Her skin bears a few markings here and there due to her Goliath ancestry, as well as a few freckles.
She is a bleeding heart, who cares too much and trusts the first who shows her kindness. Otherwise—-terrible. She can be a total zealot in her blind loyalty, if you don’t keep her in check. If you have her on your side, you have her forever. She takes everything at face value, can be manipulated very easily. She is not street smart, even though you’d think she’d be. She doesn’t bother to understand what she’s fighting for, the history or the culture. She understands the people—-isn’t that enough? She asks, as she sometimes winds up speaking over the top of people and culture. She can be insensitive and hurtful without realizing, does feel terrible after, but never seems to fully learn. All that aside, she is trusting, has a height complex, aloof and awkward- there’s something about her that feels almost gangly, like a bashful teen at times. She just cares, incredibly much. She possesses too much compassion which makes her feel like she is responsible and she might wind up feeling controlling to others.
Bonds, Allies, and Organizations:
She bonds with her homeland and people in the Gahdr mountains, feeling somewhat lost and deeply upset after its fall. It’s led her to feel for the people in a way few can.
She has deep, unnamed feelings with and for Nir. Everything about them however seems so tragic. They are an unbalanced duo, out of sync, yet want to be there for one another and ground each other,somehow, despite failing at it every time. Veera would gladly die for her, again.
Of the people, for the people.
Very self-destructive and thinks she stronger for it.
Weapon of Choice: Exomnis and Prudens
Exomnis, the twisted artifact sword of Rhoditian, is made from the burning ember of a rootheart, the very same rootheart from which Rhoditian draws his power, and all other incarnations of retribution have tapped. It is permanently embedded in the brand on Veera’s arm, tied to her anger and her soul, and called forth by her will, lit by the blessings of Rhoditian.
Exomnis: 1d10+1 slashing or piercing damage. If an enemy is not resistant to fire, they take +5 Fire Damage. If they are resistant to fire, they take an additional +5 radiant damage.
4 Platinum. 17 Pounds, well-balanced. Medium to Heavy strike patterns. Range 5 ft.
Bleed (Passive) – If an enemy has blood (never know, man) and bleeds on the weapon, that enemy will take 5 bleeding damage the next time it makes an action.
Swordspear (Active) – Veera summons Exomnis and throws it with extreme force at an enemy, piercing armor and flesh with one strike before it disappears, reappearing in her hand or remaining within the brand. Enemy takes 2d8 piercing damage. Range is 70 ft. If you try to use this to attack an enemy less than 10 feet away, you must roll with disadvantage to hit. Single target only. Unlimited use.
Ember Thrust (Active) – Veera takes Exomnis and plunges it into an enemy as it superheats using the fires of rage from deep inside her, effectively drilling through them with the strange drill-like blade. Enemy takes 2d8 piercing +7 fire damage. Can be used twice a day.
Prudens is a lantern shield made from the Steel of the Fallen fort, not destructible by any known means, having been hardened by the breath of Surtur during the War of Aretess. It also is tied to the brand on Veera’s off forearm, able to be summoned by her mind and heart as it is tied to her very essence.
1 Platinum. Armor Class +2 (When in use). 12 pounds.
Blood Tinge (Passive) – If an enemy has blood (never know, man) and bleeds on the shield when it hits an enemy, Veera instantly regains 2hp.
Shield Bash (Active) – Veera takes her shield and slams one of the external spikes into an enemy, inflicting 1d8 bleeding damage and 1d6 bludgeoning damage. The enemy is also pushed back 5 feet in a direction of your choice (unless it is a stationary enemy). Unlimited use.
Shield Throw (Active) – Veera summons the shield and makes a calculated throw between up to three enemies, inflicting 1d8 bludgeoning and 1d4 bleeding damage. The First enemy struck must be within 30 feet of Veera, and the other enemies struck must be within 15 feet of one another. Can be used twice a day.
Consider this girl: she is someone who is made out of sediments. Her skin is gray and etched in with marks and ruins, and she is proud of every single crevice, crack and callous that can be felt. Home is rooted in the earth, all the way up high in the mountains, where her hands could reach the sky if she could just stretch her toes a little higher. But she’s not that tall. She’s only half, you see. Half-goliath, and only with a quarter of her mother’s brilliance. Her father, on the other hand, is irrelevant and as forgotten as the drow culture from which he came. She doesn’t care for him.
Consider what she does care for: The Gahdr mountains, her homeland and Godarant, who gifted them this land. Her mother, one of the several Swordmothers, who oversee the clan. Her kin, each working hard, each striving for betterment. Jewelthasse, from the branches of Edeltrees— and everything this forest brings. And because she cares so deeply, she finds herself involved in the trades as a translator. The words feel clumsy on her tongue, no matter how fluent she sounds. But she does her job anyways, and works hard at it. Betterment is important, she needs to get better, she needs to be better. Self-improvement is their way, the Goliath way and that’s why they’ve remained standing for so long, or so she thought.
The Goliath way is etched on her bones, written with sinew, and upheld by her heart and sword. Self sufficiency was the only way to be, needing and requiring nothing more than necessary from another. Independence among peers. Strength, equality, and fairness. One must work hard, and harder, and harder—-until your fists bleed and your knuckles crack. It’s this drive that causes her to push herself with her sword, she pushes herself to dangerous heights- testing her limits with her blade, constantly. She has no understanding of power structures outside the Goliath way, outside the Gahdr way. She idolizes them. They are everything she wants to be; she is very self-conscious of her drow blood, of being half their line. The diaspora is real, and she’s constantly frustrated by it. That frustration grows when she meets her father. A weak, cowardly man who doesn’t stand up for what he believes in. She doesn’t want to be like him. Merit, action, accomplishment, and the right to be define her ideals. This might cause her to be weighed down by an unwavering sense of fair play.
Self-improvement doesn’t mean anything in the face of greed. She’s never realized greed could be a means of power before. Not like this. And then Odul comes and invades, and the mountains aren’t theirs anymore, and the people aren’t there anymore and Qath-edi sent her running back to her father, while he threw himself into slave labor to save her. She feels sick.
She hates her father. There is no merit in his work, and she finds his stagnancy, his eagerness to settle to be abhorrent. Why did her mother even settle for him? She wonders. She hates how he doesn’t care about anyone other than his own well-being. It takes less than a day to realize that there is activism and that she wants to join. She wants to be involved, but she also wants her father to be involved. So she pushes. Forges a protest in her father’s name, puts him on center stage and watches him cower and die, because he refused to budge. So she inherits the estate, and scowls at all those who knock at her door trying to curry favor and that’s when she meets Nir.
Veera does not know what love is, but she thinks she loves Nir. Nir is everything her father is not, everything she didn’t know a drow could be. Nir pushes and pushes and pushes. Pushes others, pushes herself especially into this fight. Doing everything that she can. But sometimes, it feels like they are two puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together, both of them out of sync and Nir pushes that too. And for that too, Veera loves Nir.
The War with Odul took 5 long years of subterfuge and unending violence. Unending loss. Victories came as swiftly as the losses. Things changed inside of her, a ruthless bud of a flaming rose nestling within her core, refusing to extinguish and continuing to smolder until it created a flame within every conflict. Nir is an exploding force of nature, and Veera is the backbone of the attack, sweeping in behind Nir after whatever clever but damn-near suicidal thing she pulled to launch them into the fray. Then the war ends. Ends on a sour, bitter note—-the bitterest note one could taste aside from bathtub gin. Dassivet doesn’t care that they won, doesn’t care that every man woman and child had to take up arms just to make sure there was a city left to defend in the morning. The Council patted them on the heads and offered a symbolic font of rosewater, then asked the city to return to work or face the consequences of acting against the city’s best interests.
Veera watched Nir spiral, even followed her to Odullian academies to support her as she learned the bardic arts. It didn’t take a month and a half before Nir was ready to return to Dassivet, noticeably filled with the same fiery rose inside of her, perhaps a twin to the rose inside Veera’s chest, never quelled, never dim. Never settled. Veera stood at her side as she played her song of revolution, and led attacks on the city, side by side, from the bottom up.
Nearing the eighth month of the final campaign of revolt, Veera was asked to find an old drow entrance to the area just beneath the Palace of the Golden Mount, exploring in the deep volcanic caves beneath the Steppe of Seasons. She fell, and fell hard, when she met stairs that ended abruptly and dropped her into a Drow mausoleum. At the head of the room, a proud armored man sits on the old Drow throne, looking tired, but strong. He speaks with her. Rhoditian, God of Retribution. He only sleeps when righteous vengeance is inflicted upon a deserving foe. He sleeps just about as much as she does. He tells her about herself, and how he’s been watching her fight the good fight, waking him from sleep that always felt too short—-and asking her why she fights. His voice is kind and strong, but there’s something in that tiredness that feels…bloody. No other way of putting it. Bruised. Tortured. Pummeled.
She meets him at her most volatile. He thinks that she was calling to him. Or maybe he was calling to her. Either way, it doesn’t matter. She’ll be his puppet, be his sword, be his shield. Anything for the cause. she’ll give herself to the cause, let the cause devour her. anything for the people. What is a god, but another person to help? He gives her a sword, her gives her light to guide. He brands the sword into her very skin, and the shield to the other arm, summoned from that fire inside her—-that burning rose that never extinguishes. Never dims. Never settles. The hilt of the blade feels very cold against her skin, but the mark on her skin feels very warm. There is this raw energy, this heat, that comes from the sword, this desire to push, to be better, better, better. To improve upon herself, to fight and fight until her hands bleed raw. It’s devouring you, they warn. Look at your arm, they say. She doesn’t listen. And if added marks were frowned upon in goliath culture, she doesn’t comment on it. Nir’s teaching her that she’s drow, too.
Veera returns to the surface, two weapons heavier, and one brow furrowed. Determined. She’d found the entrance to the crypts beneath the Palace, and she was ready. Damn near filled with ready.
And then…she dies. One last push. With Nir.
“A final mission, yeah?”
Veera dies far from Nir. Both in different areas, both making their last stand. The Knights of Steel come to life when she enters the courtyard, and they fight just as fierce as her—-but one step behind, and one fire short. As their armor falls off, piece by piece as she cuts at them with a desperation to succeed, she finds they bear the markings of her people. Of the Goliath. Sewn together with pigflesh and death. Her sword falters for just a moment. But only one. The Knights of Steel are formidable, but the merchants road is open and she feels like she can breathe. She falls, hair coming loose from her helmet, deep into the volcano as the courtyard gives way beneath her feet. She lands, but doesn’t feel it. She feels like sleeping. The warm magma envelops her proud body. She paves the way, and shuts her eyes against a pillar and after that— after that, she doesn’t remember, beyond the silence and the darkness. Until she wakes up, and realizes that the silence and the darkness are here too.
Somehow, it all feels less comforting.