Adventure Title
Reworkt Starting Log and Rest Changes for 2024 Rules

Levels Gained

Location Played
Roll20

Notes
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ # **Vallara Nightcry** ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Size: 170 (medium) Weigth: 40kg Eyes: Blut Rot Hair: Blondisch bis weis Skin: Sehr blass ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Costomizing your Origin: Race: Dhampier Creature Type: Humanoid Size: Medium (about 4-7 feet tall) or Small (about 2-4 feet tall), chosen when you select this species Speed: 35 feet, Climb equal to your walking speed Darkvision. You have Darkvision with a range of 60 feet. Spider Climb. You have a Climb Speed equal to your Speed. When you reach character level 3, you can move up, down, and across vertical surfaces and along ceilings while leaving your hands free. Trace of Undeath. You have Resistance to Necrotic damage. Vampiric Bite. Ability Score Point ´Buy: St 8, Dex 15 (+2), Con 14, Int 8, Wis 15 (+1), Cha 10 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chosen Class : Ranger Weapon Proficiencies: Simple weapons, Martial weapons Armor Proficiencies: Light Armor, Medium Armor, Shields Level 1: Spellcasting, Favored Enemy, Weapon Mastery Skill Proficiencies: Perception, Survival, Acrobatics Deft Explorer Language Proficiencies: Abyssal, Sylvan Expertis: Perception ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Choose a Background: Blood Rose (Vampire Devotee inspirirt) Skill Proficiencies: Persuasion and Stealth Tool Proficiencies: Cartographer's Tools (Proficiencies Switsch: Cook's Utensils) Language Proficiencies: Common, Elvish, Undercommon Source: Ability +2, One +1 Chose: Wis +1, Dex +2 Feat: Vampire’s Plaything Level 2: Deft Explorer, Fighting Style Level 3: Ranger Subclass Swarmkeeper: Swarmkeeper Magic, Gathered Swarm ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Class Equipment Choose A: (A) Studded Leather Armor, Scimitar, Shortsword, Longbow, 20 Arrows, Quiver, Druidic Focus (sprig of mistletoe), Explorer’s Pack, and 7 GP Equipment: Choose: (A) Cook's Utensils, Fine Clothes, 2 Glass Bottles, Healer's Kit, Perfume, Lamp, Oil (3 flasks), Waterskin, 19 GP ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ # **Biography** ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Vallara Nightcry - The Blood Rose Born as Eleonora Eirontalar – forgotten in the light, baptized in shadow. In the dusty archives of Waterdeep's noble families, between scrolls of genealogies, trade ledgers, and marriage protocols, the name Eleonora Eirontalar can still be found. A name that once carried weight. A daughter of House Eirontalar, born into a web of power, etiquette, and obligation. But her birth brought not joy, only concern. Her father, Lord Tharendil Eirontalar, a man of pride and position, saw in the newborn girl something foreign. Her features too strange, her skin too pale, her eyes too red. She was not his. Yet families like the Eirontalars do not air their shame. Instead, the girl was hidden away in a secluded northern estate. A vast manor surrounded by mist and silence. There, Eleonora was raised under the supervision of a governess, far from the splendor and cruelty of the main house. Her mother, Lady Saralyne, was placed under strict house arrest, barely allowed to see her child. Their rare encounters were tinged with sorrow – shadows brushing against one another, unable to merge. Eleonora's childhood unfolded in quiet succession. Her tutors were cold, her surroundings dull, the staff indifferent or cruel. Only one person offered her warmth: Joran, the stable master's son. A young hunter, grounded and honest, untouched by noble hypocrisy. He taught her how to move through woods in silence, how to defend herself, how to read nature as a living book. His affection was not romantic, but human. A lifeline to a world that wasn't lies. At sixteen, Eleonora was permitted to attend a diplomatic ball, held far from the main estate to avoid scandal. She was told to stay quiet, to observe, to become accustomed to the masks of society. Yet she stood out – not through opulence, but through stillness. Her presence was ghostly, strangely elegant. Few dared speak to her, but many watched. And he watched too. A man dressed in black. Masked, as tradition demanded, but unlike the others. No gold, no laughter, no polite chatter. Only a glance, a bow, and an invitation to dance. She accepted. What happened that night is shrouded in mist. Not because it was hidden, but because she no longer remembers. When morning came, Eleonora was gone. No footprints. No witnesses. Only a torn red ribbon on the balcony. House Eirontalar declared her dead. And moved on. The Birth of Vallara In halls of shadow, far from memory and light, she awoke anew. Not turned. Not cursed. Not like in the stories. There was no violent embrace. But there were bites. The vampire Velan d'Vorath, known in ancient songs of the dark as The Last Moon of Luvienne, did not kill her. He claimed her. Sipped from her slowly. Returned to her again and again, never draining her entirely. For she, like the others, tasted too sweet to waste. He fed on her — just enough to savor, just enough to leave her dazed, docile, drifting. Never enough to turn. He kept her on the edge, balancing between life and undeath like a fine blade resting on a breath. His domain lies folded between the Shadowfell and the waking world, a place where time stretches, where thought unravels, where reality blurs like smoke. There, Velan holds court – not as a tyrant, but as a host. His guests never leave. Some understand this. Others never realize. Vallara is among the latter. She was given a new name. A new purpose. Her memories of Eleonora were slowly eroded by dreams, illusions, and whispers. She was reshaped by affection, by desire, by the cold comfort of his presence. She came to believe her life had been empty before. That he had saved her. And, for a time, she believed it. Dhampir by Design Vallara's condition is not the result of a single act, but a long, deliberate process. Velan's magic, his aura, his feeding — they reshaped her over time. Her body became a boundary between life and undeath. She barely ages. Her heart beats slowly. Her senses are sharpened, her strength unnatural. Yet she is not undead. Not cursed. Not truly alive. She is a grown shadow flower – cultivated, consumed in part, and always called back. Velan sends her into the world from time to time. Not out of kindness. But because she is useful. "You shall walk," he says, "where I cannot. Gather knowledge. Echoes. Names. Return when you are heavy enough for my attention." She obeys. Always. Somewhere in her broken heart, she still believes it's love. That she is special. Chosen. But she is not alone. The Other Thralls Velan d’Vorath keeps many lovers and thralls. Some remain for weeks. Some for centuries. The two Vallara knows best are: ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ • Saela Veilstrance – The Silent Hand Once a devout monk, now an ascetic. Saela once walked the Way of the Long Death – a path of contemplation, discipline, and acceptance of mortality. Velan fascinated her. She entered his service willingly and became a ghost of order within his domain. He feeds from her too — ritualistically, reverently. She speaks little, moves with purpose, and watches always. Her presence is stillness itself. It is said she never sleeps. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ • Lyssaria Duval – The Gleaming Lie A sweet breath, a poisoned smile. Lyssaria shines like a goddess, speaks like a temptress, and lies like an artist. She welcomes the bite, relishes in the dance of attention and withdrawal. No one knows her origin. She weaves falsehoods like silk and dances through truths with a laugh. Vallara instinctively mistrusts her. But perhaps that's what Lyssaria wants. Her loyalty to Velan is unclear. Perhaps even to herself. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Vallara in the World When Vallara walks the world, she dresses in elegant echoes of nobility. An old corset, a high-collared coat, fingerless gloves, tall boots. Her hair is silver-white, flowing past her hips. Her eyes, deep crimson. Her voice measured. Her movements graceful. She appears composed. But she is adrift. She remembers nothing of Eleonora Eirontalar. Yet sometimes, memories surface: a sunrise through stained glass, the scent of lavender and parchment, a silver fox-fur shawl. She thinks they're dreams. Sometimes she wonders why she is named "Nightcry." Why she wakes in tears without reason. Why she cannot laugh without pain. She believes this is normal. But deep within, something stirs. Not rage. Not defiance. Not yet. Only a quiet, growing question: "Was I ever... truly me?" And perhaps one day, that question will become a whisper in the dark. Then a cry. Then a rebellion. But until then... she dances. For him. For Velan. For a love that may never have been real. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Vallara Nightcry is a striking woman of otherworldly grace. Her skin is porcelain pale, flawless and smooth, almost translucent in the right light. Her long, silver-white hair falls freely down her back, only broken by a single blood-red earring that sways with her movements. Her eyes are an intense, glowing crimson, framed by sharp lashes and rarely showing emotion – eyes that seem to study rather than see. Her lips are a muted rose, and though her features are delicate, there’s a sense of something restrained beneath the surface. Her attire blends noble elegance with a darker, gothic edge. A blood-red corset clings tightly to her frame, fastened with small golden clasps. From her waist, flowing black skirts spill down in layered folds – sheer in parts, heavy in others – and trail behind her like smoke or shadow. The upper edges of the gown are adorned with sculpted, thorn-like shoulder guards that resemble crimson petals, sharp and elegant. Her arms are gloved in dark leather, her legs clad in high black boots with subtle gold accents and reinforced knees, allowing ease of motion despite the formality of the look. Perhaps most unsettling is what hides in her dress: a swarm of shadowy bats, hidden between folds of silk and enchantment. They emerge when called, slipping between layers with eerie grace, almost invisible until they take flight. Despite her beauty, there’s a coldness to her stance – chin held high, back straight, movements precise. Vallara is not expressive. She rarely smiles. She speaks in low tones, every word deliberate. Her presence carries the weight of someone used to being watched, but never truly seen. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Velan d’Vorath – The Last Moon of Luvienne It is said Velan was not born in a grave—but in the mirror of the sky. Luvienne was once a secluded, mountain-top city hidden high in the Earthspur Mountains, along the borderlands of The Vast. It lay cradled within a flattened basin of snow, wind, and starlight. There, ages ago, a sect of Drow faithful to Eilistraee rose from the Underdark and built a sanctuary—peaceful, artistic, devout, and long forgotten by the world. The higher they climbed, the further they felt from Lolth's web, and the closer they drew to the moon they worshipped. Luvienne had stood since the time of Netheril, protected by ancient magic, music, and pacts sealed in silence. It endured for millennia—until the Spellplague came. When the world’s magic shattered, so did Luvienne. Wards collapsed. Stone cracked. Arcane foundations imploded. What remained was ruin: a broken citadel on a windswept cliff, scattered homesteads buried in snowdrifts—and Velan d’Vorath. Back then, Velan was a scion of the city—a duelist, poet, diplomat, and dreamer. As everything crumbled, he turned not to gods, but to something else—an entity seeping through the torn edges of reality: an ancient being of shadow, hunger, and memory. Velan did not beg for power. He pleaded for his people's survival. But over the centuries, both he and the entity changed. The pact bound them. Shaped them. Twisted them. Velan became something beyond death, and the entity learned to breathe through him. Now, Velan is a vampire lord, cloaked in silk and secrets, scented with bloodroses and ancient longing. His former domain—the castle of Luvienne—still stands, hidden in the frozen peaks, veiled by enchantments, blizzards, and silence. Few even know it exists. Fewer still attempt to find it. Velan is a collector. Of memories. Of gestures. Of servants, lovers, and thralls—sometimes all at once. Some he adores. Some he forgets. Some he nearly turns, then leaves suspended. For Velan bites, but rarely completes. His court is known for its beauty, its haunting presence, its bitter sweetness. Some whisper that a night with one of his companions brings luck—or at least a beautiful nightmare. Though Velan shuns most friendships beyond his walls, a few exceptions remain—a warlock queen, nobles with refined tastes, one or two fallen priestesses. To maintain these ties, he occasionally appears at private gatherings and secret salons, always accompanied by selected thralls whose presence changes the atmosphere of the room. And yes—he lends them. For favors. For secrets. For a night. But his domain remains forbidden. Those who come uninvited find only snow and silence. Those who are summoned return... altered, if they return at all. His sigil is both memory and warning: a black and gold rapier, ornate and deadly, piercing a bouquet of five roses—black, gray, red, pink, and white—against a looming blood-red moon. It marks those who serve him, and haunts those who dream of replacing them. And when the blood moon rises, he still dances. Alone, or with those who have long forgotten they were ever free. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------