Ilias Ralesh
Ilias Ralesh (a.k.a. The Tide)
River, it has no master. It cuts stone to sand, turns timbers to rot, pulls fool and king alike to the deep. But it carries, too—it carries the bold, the clever, the desperate. I am Ilias Ralesh. Born too soon, born too small, but still, I float.
I do not kneel to kings, nor whisper to gods. No blade do I carry, no spells do I speak. I fight with what I have—hands, breath, will. I take what is mine, I leave what is not.
Call me vagabond, brawler, man with more scars than sense. Is fine. But some, they call me another thing—The Tide. A thing that does not wait, that does not yield. It just comes and it just goes.
No home but the drift. No law but the moment. No promise but to blood and breath, to those who tether me.
One day, river, it will take me. But today? Today, I still float.
Ilias is a river—swift, unrelenting, impossible to hold. Born too soon, too small, he learned to fight before he learned to swim, his fists swinging in dockside alleys and tavern brawls. He doesn’t chase glory, only motion.
Current Location
The Free City of Greyhawk
Alignment
Chaotic Good
Children
The Temple of Elemental Evil – The First Step
They handed me a black robe and a silver mask. They wanted us to pretend.
We walked through the temple doors, each choosing our allegiance. I picked Ice. It felt right.
Inside, I found a brazier burning with a strange, unnatural flame. A woman knelt before it, praying. She told me to wait, so I did. Patience is a skill, same as any strike or throw. I watched the room, listened. Learned.
We needed a key. The cults had them. First, the Children of the Suffocating Ooze. Then the Children of Splintered Ice. We fought, and we won. The way is open now.
Ahead lies a portal. A summoning. A thing greater than a dragon, greater than Wastri’s ooze.
We step through soon.
I do not know if we will step back.
The Winged God
A dragon. A wyrmling, but still—a dragon.
I was not there when they fought it. This gnaws at me more than I expected.
Tycho brought back the skull. Held it like a trophy, like a thing heavier than bone. He spoke of fire, of standing against it, of surviving. I wonder if he sees what I see—that it was a child. A dangerous, fire-breathing one, but still.
Dmitri Valonis tried to play us like a bard’s lute. I did not trust him from the start. He smiles too much. The Rhennee do not need politicians; we need boats that do not sink. He wanted us to fix a bet for him. The others saw his nature soon enough. I was pleased. Not because they saw I was right, but because they saw.
Miner Difficulties
I have fought men, beasts, spirits. Never a rock that falls from the ceiling to stab me in the back.
The mine was dark, full of echoes that did not belong to us. Things lurked—piercers, rust monsters, a gas spore pretending to be a beholder (it fooled Tycho for half a breath, which I will remind him of until my dying day).
We went deeper. Found drow. I told them the mine was cursed, and they believed me. Lies are easier when they are close to truth.
At the bottom? A hook horror. It screeched, it slashed, but in the end, it fell. The mine is safe. The Blackstone miners will drink in our name. Good. I prefer my victories toasted with ale.
I took a rope from the mines. Magic, this one—cut it, and it will mend itself. I wear it wrapped around my wrists and legs, like the old fighters do. A reminder.
The Fouled Stream
The river turned against itself. That is how it started.
A thing like this is unnatural. Water should not bring death—at least, not by drinking. Drowning, yes, that is expected. But to turn mad? To writhe, to vomit? No.
We found a treant, old and knowing. Borogrove, he called himself. Gave us acorns that heal. A good trade, since we found the ones responsible—worshippers of Wastri, the Frog God. Men and beasts alike, all kneeling to some croaking prophet.
They had an ooze. I have seen many things in my life, but this was something else. It did not move like a beast. It did not die like one, either. But we stopped it. The river will not claim those who drink from it, not today.
Borogrove gave us another acorn when we returned. I thanked him. I do not know if he heard me, but I felt the river shift, as if it did.
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