Valadore Steelcloak

I would like to begin with an inspirational quote from the creator of the wiki: "Gareth, fill all this shit out"


 * ~wipes away tear~ True Poetry, Crimson.

Valadore Steelcloak, or, as he later becomes idolized, Dorian Vale of the Ferrous Hood, is a Human Wizard in D&D 3.5. ("How original," I hear you mutter).

He focuses on the class of Necromancy, thereby prohibiting himself from Illusionism and Enchantment.

Currently a level 9, he has recently prestige classed into Geometer, thus creating the Geomancer!

Valadore's familier is a viper by name of Repiv. (Repiv may or may not be 'viper' backwards)

Appearance
Valadore stands three inches over six foot tall. His age is hard to determine, which is not made easier by the fact that he has an everpresent hood casting his face in a wall of shadow.

Almost magically, ​his eyes glint through the shadow, shown to be an enigmatic absence of emotion in icy blue.

His cloak is not made of steel. His name was bequeathed to him by his mystery of a father, but not the cloak from whence it came. He wears a cloak the colour of silver outside, with an electric blue interior.

His weapon of choice (magic aside, naturally) is a quarterstaff. Masterwork ivory, which splits into a triple helix two-thirds of the way up, amalgamating into three snake heads facing outwards at the top. Their eyes crafted of jet so black it is not just dark, but rather sucks the very light from the air around it.

Personality
"Who needs one."

As shown above, Valadore is not the most warm of people. That said, he is open-handed and loyal to those who he honours with title of 'friend'. Those that fall into this category are Aror Silvertongue, Iriesys and some other bloody character who is always either lost or dead.

Aror is Valadore's closest friend, to the extent that during encounters they have taken to telepathic communication by use of the cantrip 'message'.

Valadore's personality changes drastically from using magic and intimidation to avoid confrotation, to hungering for battle. He is altogether cocky and self-important


 * God:        "You dare challenge a god?"
 * Valadore: "Hey, that's my line!"

Valadores spell type of choice when not Necrotic, is fire.

Motivation
Valadore yearns for ultimate recognition. He considers himself the best, and he wants everybody else to as well.

O'ershadowed and undervalued by his mighty wizard father for his childhood, he escaped during the night. Now grown and with might of his own, he wants to find his father and claim his rights (The Steelcloak) for himself. The cloak is a magic item wrought of supple, flowing mythril and cloth woven from Giant Spider Silk, which adds to protectiveness and comfort respectively.

Now aware of the gods (which afore hadn't existed) he plans to hunt them down in their insolence and kill them, they who chose to defy him.

Origins
Valadore met Aror in a tavern while looking for recruits to undertake the first quest. The story procedes as follows:

The fellowship began in the infamous inn, the Stout Stallion. Sitting in a dark, smoky corner sat Valadore, drinking his favorite brew of old; oaken mead. It was a mystery how he saw in the dim light, when you consider his face was hooded with a cloak. Silently he was surveying the crowd, picking out the potential companions and seperating them from the general riff-raff one found in holes such as this.

His party needed muscle, brains, power, skill and charisma... but he couldn't conquer his problems alone. And so he found himself here to find others who met the critetia. So far there had been a few possible options. A brutish-looking Half-Orc spilling more of his tankard of ale than he was drinking, whom already knocked out two people who passed him by was certainly strong enough, though he was lacking in charisma. The rest of the crowd were giving him a wide berth.

An Elf speaking naught but Elven to those around him seemed promising too, until walked by the Half-Orc...

Nevertheless, there was no shortage of candidates. A particularly cunning looking bard had already pickpocketed the bartender twice. It made Valadore's good nature twinge, but he reminded himself that clever hands were exactly what he needed. He decided to punish him later. It was thought Valadore was akin to dwarves, with how he held grudges.

The crowd in the Stallion was varied to say the least. It lay between the Mountains of the East, Greatforest, the Murkwater and Farplane. Dwarves were a common sight, and as often as not there was a fight between one and an Elf (no doubt caused by "that Elf's thieving scoundrel of a great grandfather, who stole a gem from the sword-hilt of my great great granduncle in the grudge-filled year of 1173," or something of the sort).

The bard had a sharp eye. He'd seen shrouded beings like Valadore before, smoking their pipes quietly in the darkest possible corner, never moving, never speaking, giving nothing away. Mr. Bard stumbled over and accidentally bumped into Valadore. 'Accidentally.'

Valadore grabbed the his arm as it slid out of his robes holding Valadore's most prized possession: His spellbook. The bard knew a wizard when he saw one, and he knew how much a spellbook was worth in the right hands. Mr. Bard had did something both incredibly stupid and austoundingly clever at once. All the loremasters warned "Never cross a wizard, children," but the master thieves advised "never miss an opportunity to steal a spellbook."

Fortunately Mr. Bard had proved his worth to Valadore, and that was more than enough for Valadore to overlook his blunder. If all went according to plan, the measly leather-bound 100 page spellbook was little more than a trifle.

A low, threatening, almost indistinguisable voice slithered from under Valadore's hood. "Did no one ever tell you not to anger a wizard?" He looked up towards the Half-Elf's instantly sobered face. Icy blue eyes shot through the darkness from beneath the hood, catching the emerald eyes of the bard. "Sit," whispered Valadore, so low it was frightening.

The would-be thief took a moment to consider. His fast hands could quickly silence many a man, but for all he knew, the wizard had slowed time enough to stop even the swiftest attack with ease. He decided to sit, more out of curiosity than fear.

The flash of blue subsided; in its place was darkness once again. Valadore continued, in a voice that was still barely audible. "Mr. Bard, you have courage, quick hands and an eye I could use. Moreover, you have a debt. My spellbook is quite valuable to me. Your life, conversely, is not. I propose an alliance. I guarantee it will be mutually profitable. What say you?"

The hissing quality the bard had assosiated with Valadore's voice ceased while he was speaking. He soon saw why, as the head of a snake poked out from the right sleeve of Valadore's cloak. It was dangerously close to the bard's leg. A persuation tactic? Perhaps.

In a charming voice with all the smoothness of silk the half-elf replied. "A bit chatty for a will-user, aren't we?" he began indifferently. Then, more warmly, "How much are we talking here, companion?"

In as few words as that, the fellowship began.