While all D&D characters begin as a collection of numbers (on paper, my Eladrin Avenger is 14,12,14,14,16,12) those numbers don’t mean anything without a story to bring them to life. Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, maybe it’s because I have an imagination that I’ve always had to actively keep under control, but as long as I’ve been gaming, creating backstories for my characters has been as much fun – in some cases, more fun – than actually plunging them into a dungeon.

This comes from the backstory I wrote for Aeofel Elhromanë, the Eladrin Avenger I played for the most recent Penny Arcade D&D podcast. Though I have created hundreds of NPCs and dozens of PCs in my life, Aeofel was the first character I’ve created in about twenty years. As you are about to find out, I spent a little bit of time fleshing him out...

Two days’ journey from Mithrendain, beneath a thick canopy of leaves in the Forest of Astranz, there is a school, where, for countless human centuries, Eladrin have lived and trained, under Melora’s watchful eye.

Aeofel Elhromanë lived in this school for his entire life, devoting each of his 142 years to the service of Melora. He trained beside monks and clerics, and though he never saw battle firsthand, many of his instructors were veterans of the war with the Drow. He never knew his parents, but his fellow students were his House.

Eight nights ago, during the Court of Stars, the school was attacked by Goblin and Kobold raiders, lead by a human warlord. The school’s alarm, which had been silent for a generation, shook Aeofel and his brothers from their daily trance, and they ran from their quarters, ready for battle.

Aeofel dashed across the training grounds, ready to push the invaders back, but all he found was a trail of bodies –– attacker and defender alike –– from the school’s entrance to its shrine. Near the gate, a few warlords skirmished with kobolds, and wild magic crackled in the field beyond, but the attackers had fled the grounds.

His master, the great Avenger Immafen, stood beside the shrine’s entrance. His sword was slick with Goblin’s blood, and he breathed heavily.

“Master,” Aeofel said, “what has happened? Why were we attacked?”

There was no war. There was no reason. The school’s wealth lay in the knowledge it gave its students, and its power was in their training. Why would anyone attack? What could they possibly gain?

“They have taken the Crest,” Immafen said.

Aeofel gasped. The Crest of Melora was a powerful artifact.

Hours later, when the few remaining Kobolds and Goblins had been captured or killed, the surviving students and teachers gathered in the school’s arbor, where Lady Caelynna, an ancient Sword Marshall who was the school’s headmaster, spoke.

“We know that this attack was well-planned, and our captives prove it did not originate in the Feywild,” she said, her milky violet eyes shining with righteous fury.

A murmur of concern passed among the students. Entrance to the Feywild from other planes wasn’t impossible, but it was infrequent. Whoever lead the invasion was powerful, indeed.

“We do not know who took the Crest or why,” she said, “but should it fall to disciples of Ocrus, it could provide a disastrous bridge from the Shadowfell - or worse.

“All schools guard and hold a different artifact of great power within their walls. We were charged with protecting the Crest of Melora,” she said, her musical voice darkening, “and our failure has placed all Eladrin at risk.

“Many of you have never left this place, but you are our most powerful warriors. The fate of the Crest, and perhaps the fate of us all, is in your hands. You will gather with your masters, and follow their instructions.”

The arbor remained silent long after she left. Gradually, the gathered students broke and found their masters.

Immafen put his hand on Aeofel’s shoulder. “You will travel to the mortal world, at a crossing in the Winterbole Forest.”

“The mortal world is vast, Master. How will I know where to look?” Aeofel said.

His voice was kind and reassuring. “You are Eladrin, child. When the crest is near, it will call to you.”

Aeofel self-consciously gripped the hilt of his longsword. “What if I do not hear it, Master?”

“You will,” he said. “At the crossing, you must open yourself to Melora’s grace, and allow her to guide you. She will tell you where your quest begins.”

He took Aeofel’s hand, and gave him a small implement fashioned from dark Sennalwood into the shape of a shell. “Take this, and carry your House with you as you travel, my student.”

Aeofel closed his hand over it. “By Melora’s Grace,” he said. 

Immafen gazed, unblinking, upon him, for a long while. “By Melora’s Grace.”

+=+=+

In the Winterbole Forest, far away from any path, there is a clearing among the oldest trees. At the center of this clearing can be found a trio of stones, just taller than a halfling. To those who are unknowing, they are little more than an anomalous monument, perhaps left by forgotten ancients, or deliberately built by mischievous children to confuse those who happen upon them. To those who would use them, though, they mark a fey crossing, one of many points where the boundary between the fey and mortal worlds is thin and passable to those who know the way.

Aeofel Elhromanë appeared in their center, in a crackling flash of azure light. He clutched his chest as a cry escaped his lips. He had never been to the mortal world, and feeling his House, his people, his entire land ripped away from him was a pain almost too great to bear.

“If I do not retrieve the Crest,” he reminded himself, “I will feel nothing but that pain for the rest of my days.”

He reached into his robes. On a strap around his neck, he wore the implement Immafen had given him. He held it now, and spoke softly.

“Meloratoh Ancien Ethlochmir. Fea galena sindath.”

Where there had been silence before, he heard the thundering of a river, and knew that it he would find it, several leagues away, through thick forest that would be unpassable, even to Sylvans. A gust of wind blew into his face, swirling leaves into his long hair, and around his face. A voice heard only by him whispered, “Fallcrest.”

With his free hand, he touched one of the stones. He could see the feywild within, the way a footprint remains on the beach, after the sea has washed over it. 

“I will not fail,” he said. “I will return the Crest, and I will punish those who stole it from us.”

He walked into the forest, and began his journey.

***

Now I don’t think it’s reasonable to expect the average gamer to write a fucking novel about their characters like I do, but I love that D&D makes it possible if they want to. D&D is all about engaging your imagination and encouraging you and your friends to build a world and tell a story together. Because I knew exactly where Aeofel came from and why he sought out Acquisitions Incorporated, I knew how he would act in just about every circumstance. I knew why he carried the equipment he carried, why he cared about ridding the world of evil, and why those basic numbers were laid out the way they were.

Here’s a little insight into how I designed him, and why:

All of these stats are at 3rd level, so there’s plenty of room for him to grow and develop as he gains experience. Depending on a whole host of different factors, we may see Aeofel develop a stronger constitution, gain deeper wisdom from his travels, or even become more charismatic as he adjusts to life in the mortal world. As his player, I have some idea of where I’d like him to go, but I prefer to let his actions (via the choices I make during the campaign) shape his destiny. It’s important to me that there is a logic to how he grows, so that he remains a “he” who I genuinely care about, instead of an “it” that’s just a collection of numbers.

It's easy to create a character these days, and much faster than it was when I was a kid, but if you have some time and your imagination is willing, grab some paper and dice, sit on the floor surrounded by your PHB, DMG, and Adventurer's Vault, and take some time to get to know your character while you're creating him or her. Speaking from personal experience, it's well worth the investment.

It was just Wil Wheaton’s imagination, running away with him.