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Tyding Character Sheet

Tyding Grimm

Tyding is an elf from the island continent of Aerenal. He was born into the noble family Grimm, who oversee the city of Kathuran. Although nobility in Aerenal is earned through deeds rather than blood, the family Grimm is prominent, having no fewer than twelve direct ancestors amongst the Undying Court and several others who have become "spirit idols" (elves who have died but whose spirits remain tethered to their embalmed bodies so their knowledge is not lost). Tyding and his sister, Satisfaxa, spent their formative years being groomed to become the next Sibling Kings of the nation. Sadly, his sister fell victim to Dreamfever while just in her eighth decade, a strange malady that causes the victim to fall into a deep slumber (unheard of among elves) in which they thrash and moan as if in terror before eventually wasting away and expiring. The death, especially of one so young, was devastating to Tyding and, indeed, his entire family.

Tyding is a former Aerani noble trying to make a new life for himself in Khorvaire. So far, that hasn't been working out. He is joined in his travels by the spirit of his Gam-Gam, who in her day was a great oracle.

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Presented Sex
Ice Blue
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
95 lbs

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Tyding Trades Some Teeth

My belovéd best-book,   Will this infernal camping never cease? I'd thought I'd made it clear that I'd had enough when I successfully led our intrepid band back to within sight of Korth, dirty and dreadful though it be. I don't mind telling you, I was positively gob-smacked when the others turned around and marched back into the... the... Oh, bother. (What's the name of this dark, wooded area again, GamGam; something like The Freakish Forest? Nightwood? Really? ...That's a bit on the nose, don't you think? Yes, I'm aware you weren't the one who named it.) She's old enough to have dated that unimaginative chap, though, wot, journal? Was around back when it was called The Mid-Afternoon Wood. (Ouch! You know I don't have my toiletries and my ears get tender when they haven't been oiled! It was a joke. Oh, don't be so sensitive! Fine. I'll carry on writing, and you carry on reading over my shoulder.)   After we inexplicably opted for several more days of nightly tick searches and morning privy-hole digging, Fynn took over as navigator and was quite effective. I'm not sure how since he can't see over the undergrowth (huzzah!), but who am I to argue with success? Although, if success is tramping about aimlessly through a mushroom-y maze of trees and spiderwebs, perhaps it's overrated. Success, as it turns out, requires a great deal of effort. One has more time for comfort when one is comfortable with failure. (Egad. That was both clever and wise, wot, Gam? It won't be etched on many family crests, but I daresay it might get stitched on a throw pillow or two!) One night while we camped, we were assailed by brigands, although Gammy foretold their coming and we dispatched them without much trouble (see, I do so write nice things about you). Fonzie claimed that the brigand leader had one of those invisible dream monsters in his brain, and then spent the next few minutes trying to open it up to show us. He's a nice enough fellow, but perhaps a few stones short of a henge, if you catch my meaning.   But who am I to bring silver to a shifter's party? (What do you mean I can't say that anymore? Racially insensitive!? It's just a fact; they don't like silver. ...They aren't the same thing? But that Silver Flame chap I met last year said... Yes, perhaps we should save it for another time.) Where were we? Oh, yes. Fynn was walking in the direction an ordinary cloth doll told him to go, and I was following Fynn. The doll, which the Club has taken to calling Cassie for some reason, only “moves” when no one's looking. And it's not as if she's rolling up her sleeves and drawing us a map, either. At best, she slightly shifts an arm. I've had wooden soldiers that were more animated! In fact, PopPop once animated my wooden soldiers, and they re-enacted the entire Battle of Beskarfield. He might've left out the beheadings at the very end, but like all Aereni he was a stickler for the details. I have to remind myself that my friends are poor. It's not their fault they've never seen a proper toy. I mean, they stare at the doll (nothing more than a sad, peasant dust rag really) with such earnest reverence, you'd think it housed the soul of a saint. (What's that, Grandmummy? And when did we establish that? ...I'm there when a lot of things happen, you can't expect me to recall all of them. ...What zombie!? Oh, the lumberjack with all the teeth? I was just getting there...)   We finally found a shelter from the elements in the form of large boat wrecked deep in the forest nowhere near any body of water. (...That can't be right, can it? I suppose I should make an effort to be more present, but in my defense, the jigsaw, sewn-together person is much worse than me. Half the time it's like they're not around at all!) Inside the boat lived some fairies, and these fairies bartered with teeth instead of money. (Ah, I hear it now. I apologize, dearest journal, for making such a hash of this tale. It's simply non-sensical at this point. I fear I ate the wrong mushroo... It was real? But an economy based on teeth would never work, Gammy. You'd just keep adding more teeth into the economy without any way to eliminate the old (to pull teeth out, if you will (double huzzah!)). They'll suffer crippling inflation in a matter of months! Every fairie will be hauling around so many teeth that a crust of bread will cost five bags of biters! Thank the fates we met them when we did while the currency still held decent value.) As you know, friend journal, I can be a shrewd negotiator when necessary. On this occasion, I turned a modest number of liberated teeth into 6 magical acorns, a treasure trove of valuable information, and one un-molested, half-human boy!   The charming lad's name is Dax Steele. (I've been meaning to ask, GamGam, mightn't he be kin of Lord Remington? You said yourself that Remington had more than just a lust for wandering, wot wot. Well, I don't know the etiquette. Perhaps I'll just ask if any of his grandparents are bastards. I suppose you're right. We'll let him bring it up.) Apparently, the boy's ladyfriend was seduced and sold by a satyr (I'm no racist, but they really are all quite beastly and ought to be rounded up) to yet another self-styled fey “queen,” this one choosing autumn as her particular bailiwick. Yes, yes. You're very impressive for three months a year. Some of us were groomed to rule ALL YEAR ROUND. Ugh! I'm afraid I'm quite over these self-important, rural fey behaving like hayseeds and bumpkins just because there happens to be a “Wild” at the end of their realm's name. This is Eberron, cousins; try to act like you belong. Two weeks ago, I met a veiled medusa named Gorjenna doing her shopping at the Kingsgarden open-air market. A month before that I saw a child-sized woman sitting astride a saddled dinosaur talking to a dragonborn I once saw kick an armored skeleton in the face. No one is impressed by your self-appointed titles or your shaggy goat legs!   I beg pardon, friend. You're always there to listen, and tonight I fill your pages with cross words. I'm just miffed we're still in the out-of-doors, and I suspect GamGam is, too. We'll both feel better after some rest and meditation under the wooden roof of a thoroughly smashed ship. (Keep an eye on my teeth, Gammy.) Until the morrow!   I remain,   TG

Tyding Goes Camping

My dear, leather-bound friend,   Forgive my brevity, but it is difficult to write with only the light of a guttering campfire to guide me. Had I known I would be spending this much time in the out of doors, I'd have purchased some decent elven ink that I could actually see at night. Why are humans so bad at making things?   My new friends took me camping! It was extremely thoughtful and kind of them to invite me, so please don't tell them how much I hate it. One thing no one ever tells you about camping: there are no beds! People assume just because elves don't sleep that we can rest anywhere at all. There are lots of rocks on the ground, and I bruise quite easily. And the victuals one is expected to eat out here could make a bloke positively nostalgic for the dinners back at the Diseased Dog! (Dreadful name for inn; how does it stay in business?) I soldiered through, of course. We Grimms are nothing if not determined, wot, GamGam? I don't mind telling you, though, things looked dire for the continued comfort of my tushy on multiple occasions in the first day alone!   Now for some words Father said I'd never utter: All that sword practice on Mother's shrubbery was time well-spent! My sword, the one Daddy dubbed Weedwhacker, has tasted sap again! This strange woods (the name escapes me) is home to at least two varieties of man-sized, carnivorous flora! I cut down half a dozen leafy monstrosities (hush, Gammy) single-handedly (hush, I say!), and our shaggy-browed compatriot Moes burned another to the ground with a well-placed fire pot! It's true what they say, miracles do come in bunches. Or shall I say, "in bushes?" (Did you hear that, Grandmummy? In bushes? How droll I am tonight! It's the fresh air, I'll wager. This is the first night in over a year that I've breathed air that doesn't reek of tanner's wee. I'm giddy!)   We also met some travelers that we didn't fight. Yes, it was a surprise to me, as well. After our trip to the orphanage, I was under the impression that our Breakfast Club simply fought everyone. Perhaps we only attack things that are small. Egad... Is that why Fynn so rarely fights? He is passing small himself, come to think on it. And did he not shoot that child with three arrows made of magic? She was smaller than him, if only barely.   That's it, then. Another mystery solved, sweet journal! It's a relief to finally understand some of the rules of this Breakfast Club. We learned the hard way that one needs to humor Fonzie when he speaks about the invisible dream demons that wear human skins and secretly run the world. He sounds quite mad, but we must remember that he has taken several forceful blows to the head recently and has been living on a diet consisting mostly of fish entrails for half a year. And the jigsaw person - one day they are so quiet they seem almost not to be there, the next it's impossible to shut them up. They seem to have a story for every occasion, often concerning some chap named Gay Gayle. I expect it's one of those ironic monikers as the fellow doesn't sound very gay at all. He seems quite taciturn, actually.   Alas, friend, these letters grow harder to pen, and there is suddenly a heretofore undiscovered root trying to wedge itself between the cheeks of my bum. I must away, but, as ever, I remain (a very uncomfortable),   TG

Tyding Joins a Breakfast Club

Dearest Journal,   The most wonderful thing has happened! This morning, as I've done for the past 468 days, I awoke, dragged on a semi-fresh smock (GamGam, remind me to ring the inn's laundress tomorrow), and stumbled downstairs for what passes for brekkie at this dreadful tavern grandmummy insists I live. (Why can't we stay at this Dog's Bollocks place I keep hearing about instead, Gammy? It is...? Are you certain...? The Different Dog's Bollocks? How uncouth!) In any case, it's not so much that I had forgotten about the new friends I'd made (they are an odd-looking group after all), it's just that I was simply so terribly accustomed to eating alone. I don't know that I can describe the elation I felt seeing them all there ordering. Let's just say that during our repast, I was nearly able to drink the tea without weeping.   We had barely finished gnawing the last of our bread (I daresay the kitchen seems more cursed than the stage) when the ghost of a slain bard came out of the stage and proceeded to make a real nuisance of itself. One of its spectral spotlights actually burned me! (No, I will not let it go! ...It hurt!, but it could have left a mark! It could have easily!) After we vanquished the angry spirit, there was some exposition which led us to another angry ghost and some unruly children. Friend Moes exorcized that spirit by flinging firepots all around it. At first, I was alarmed at how cavalierly he tossed burning pitch in a house full of children, but so accurate was the magnificent oaf that not only did his pottery start no fires, they never even landed near anything flammable!   More exposition followed and the jigsaw-person agreed to babysit once a fortnight or something (better they than us, wot wot, Gam?) and we returned to the Doggy Door for dinner and some much needed meditation. I'm fairly certain I heard Fonzie (who might become anemic if he continues to bleed so much every day) trying to charge his dinner to my room, but no matter! Breakfast will cure all, sweet journal. Brekkie will cure all.   Until next I we meet, my bookish chum! I remain,   TG

Tyding Makes Some Friends...?

Dearest Journal,   For years you have been my closest friend, my boon companion. Actually, that's still true, but I did meet several people today who may one day surpass you for my affection. Apparently we'd met before and arranged to reconnect today at an inn called the Spotted Dog or some such, but I must confess I have no recollection of any of that. It's fortunate, then, that when I stumbled outside at noon after breaking my fast in the dreary common room of the inn where I reside, I discovered the aforementioned potential friends waiting for me (and for one other, although, upon hearing the description of our missing companion, I rather suspect the chaps might have been engaging in some good-natured fun at my expense). It turns out that this Dog's Bollocks Inn where we agreed to meet is the very establishment where I hang my proverbial hat most evenings! Huzzah! Grandmummy strikes again it seems, always making sure I'm in the right place at the right time despite my best efforts to the contrary. It might be nice to make a decision now and again, but we've been through that before, you and I, and there's no need to spoil the magic of the day rehashing my old whinging.   Between the two of us, my steadfast friend, I still might have walked right past the lot of them had not our magnificent chum (you know the one; that delightful, blue-nosed ape-man with all the pots... Ah, yes. Gammy says his name is Moes) been among them. And well I didn't amble by, because, no sooner had we exchanged pleasantries, action arrived in the form of... The form of... Well, who can remember? What matters is that for once sweet, considerate GamGam let me draw steel and get a few solid jabs in. I was actually quite winded at the end (and, yes, at the very beginning too, if you must know). We were never in any real danger, of course. Despite appearances, GamGam wouldn't have let anything REALLY hurt us. She made it look quite dangerous though. That Fonzie fellow with the thick accent bleeds quite a lot. Oh, and there was a gnome with us as well. I wasn't certain he was in the group because he disappeared for most of the fight, but perhaps I simply forgot to glance down.   In any case, it all went swimmingly, and after the fisticuffs we even shared some of that vile swill masquerading as tea in this part of the world. The group wants to continue our burgeoning friendship by banding together so that we might labor in return for rewards of goods or services. How dreadfully proletariat! I was prepared to take my leave of them at that point, but Grandmummy says I mustn't. And, I suppose, however distasteful the activity might seem, any relief from the monotony of my continued existence should be welcomed.   Work or no, another adventure awaits me tomorrow, gentle journal. Apparently, we're to go to some theater where ghouls cavort on the stage and put a stop to it. .. Or help them dance better? I tuned most of that out, I'm afraid. I'm sure someone will tell me. Until then, I remain -   TG


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