Sean's Carrion Crown Campaign
Dhampir Dirge-Soundstriker Bard Level 1
I travel mostly on my own now. Not that anyone can tell that I’m different by the way I look. Most folks think I have a touch of elven blood, or maybe even a full elf that has spent too much time amongst humans. Natural grace and charm is one of the better side effects of fighting off the kiss of a vampire.
Contrary to what most believe of people with my…affliction, I wasn’t born this way. No, I grew up as part of a Sczarni caravan traveling from town to town fleecing the locals until we were found out and driven off. I had a knack for tale-spinning, most of it made up, but working folks believed it, or at least wanted saw it as an escape to the mundane day-to-day. Others played music while the prettier girls sand, danced, and revealed just enough skin to provide a distraction to the pick-pockets of our band. We even had an old grandmother who, from what I could tell, was a bonafide Harrower. She had me fooled anyway.
I had it good. I wasn’t rich but I never went hungry and usually didn’t sleep alone. But, like most young males, I wanted to be the daring adventurer like in the stories I made up. One night a few of us decided to supplement the take by doing a little grave robbing. Bad idea in hindsight. Everything was going just fine. We were taking in quite a good haul and should have just ignored the crypt in the middle of the headstones. Instead we broke in looking for whatever idiot noble family thought would be a good idea to bury with their long dead and decayed ancestor. The thing is when we got to the coffins, the current resident was up and about and expecting us.
I can’t even remember what she looked like. All I know is that she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and I couldn’t look away. I vaguely remember my companions fleeing and her moving towards me. The next thing I knew she was tearing my throat out. I don’t care what the stories say, vampires aren’t sexy when they feed. They’re just like any other predator. Violent, messy, and completely devoid of any sympathy towards their victims. I knew I was going to die or damned for eternity. Neither of which sounded very appealing. As I was beginning to black out, I heard another voice speaking in a tone of conviction and authority. I don’t know what was said, but I remember being dropped face first onto the stone floor before losing consciousness.
The voice belonged to Professor Lorrimor. I woke up under his care and spent the next several months in agony as he purged whatever it was in me that wanted to make me one of the undead. I am living proof (and yes, I am really alive) that whatever he did prevented me from becoming the spawn of a vampire. From what he told me, I was the first and only success as whatever he did usually just killed the subject. Success is somewhat of a relative term I soon realized. Some of the vampirism took. Not enough for me to be killing babies and burying myself in the dirt every morning, mind you, but I do like my meat pretty rare and I’ve found that clerics can do more harm than good.
Once I was back on my feet, I owed the Professor. Owed him big time. It wasn’t like my old family wanted anything to do with me anyway. Seems that old Harrower spotted the taint in me right off. An old woman yelling and screaming that you’re the spawn of evil kinda ruins any mojo you had with the ladies. I spent the next few years helping him out and learning what I could. Eventually though, we drifted apart and I went back to being a traveling storyteller. I was quite shocked to hear of his demise. It feels like only yesterday that I saw him even though its been over fifty years. Time flies when you’re half dead already.