====== Created Using Wizards of the Coast D&D Character Builder ======
Midmardan, level 2
Build: Predator Druid
Primal Aspect: Primal Predator
Hardy Form: Hardy Form Reflex
Background: Wilden – Hunted (+2 to Stealth)
FINAL ABILITY SCORES
Str 11, Con 16, Dex 14, Int 10, Wis 18, Cha 10.
STARTING ABILITY SCORES
Str 11, Con 14, Dex 14, Int 10, Wis 16, Cha 10.
AC: 17 Fort: 14 Reflex: 15 Will: 16
HP: 33 Surges: 10 Surge Value: 8
Nature +12, Insight +10, Athletics +5, Perception +10
Acrobatics +2, Arcana +1, Bluff +1, Diplomacy +1, Dungeoneering +5, Endurance +3, Heal +5, History +1, Intimidate +1, Religion +1, Stealth +6, Streetwise +1, Thievery +2
Druid: Ritual Caster
Level 1: Primal Fury
Level 2: Ferocious Tiger Form
Druid at-will 1: Grasping Claws
Druid at-will 1: Grasping Tide
Druid at-will 1: Savage Rend
Druid encounter 1: Darting Bite
Druid daily 1: Summon Fierce Boar
Druid utility 2: Skittering Sneak
Ritual Book, Adventurer’s Kit, Fell Beast Totem +1, Enduring Beast Hide Armor +1, Hand Crossbow, Crossbow Bolts (40)
Animal Messenger, Create Campsite
“We see a spire in the Natural world, like a great spear being driven into the heart of the Earth. Water courses as blood from the wound. Air – gasping for air, a great howling votex of wind, Earth sucking in a last gasp. And Fire at the heart of Earth shrinking, cooling, as the spear drives ever deeper into embers that grow cold, black as coal. We see a hand. The hand weilding the spear. From the Far Realm. We see -” The venerable Wilden is unable to finish. Her body slumps, freyed brown vines and white translucent leaves like oiled paper seem to curl and slacken, unbinding her withered wooden bones. Her eyes, burning with white fire until just now, grow dull and gray. Her chest sinks, and does not rise again, as the matter of her being simply falls apart, slipping into the undergrowth of the feywild like ashes, the cost of this ritual.
“We see death,” the figure on her left continues. The circle of Wilden, surrounding Great Oak are silent. None in the circle casts a glance toward the vanishing foliage which was the woman who led their gathering until just now. The gap in the circle caused by her fall is quickly eliminated, as the other Wilden close in tighter about Great Oak. Each figure has the white eyes of The Ancients, though none burn as brigtly as hers had. All have stark white playing throughout their leaves, though none is quite so translucent or withered as hers had been. The figure who took up the narration continues again, his voice does not waver. “We hear the Earth call the Wilden. One of us must answer the call.”
Suddenly the feywild erupts with motion and sound. From the trees and underbrush surrounding Great Oak, Wilden come forward, scores of them. Some have the white eyes and leaves that each of the circle bear, but most display thorns and briars, eyes dark, or patches of color like the surrounding wild, camouflaged, and burning green eyes. Many show signs of Autumn under their Aspects. The spined Destroyers, and the camouflaged Hunters, Wilden with the most reknown, stand forward. But most are of the Summer, at the height of their physical prowess, their distinctions yet being made among their kind.
The Great Oak groans and creaks as its branches sway as if in a sudden wind. “One of us must answer, and only one,” the new leader continues. “One green as Springtime. Only this will deflect the spear from the heart of Earth. One must visit the Natural World, and wrest The Spear from the hand of The Far Realm.”
It has been an elaborate ritual. One Midmardan has never seen the circle perform. And Great Oak has never seemed so alive as with The Ancients surrounding her trunk, standing vigil upon her very roots. He cannot hold himself back. He stands forward with the rest, with those older and already known. He is young, and the verdant green of his flesh stands in contrast to the others. The new leader of the circle motions with both arms, and Great Oak’s branches flail outward with his gestures. One tendril points to each of the Wilden who have stood forward, and to each older and more experienced than Midmardan, the branch points back to the underbrush from where he or she came, but the branch pointing to Midmardan crooks and beckons him forward.
“We are the Ancient, we are the Destroyers, we are the Hunters, and now we are the hunted. The Far Realm will seek to pull you off the trail. Do not be turned aside.” Without looking at Midmardan the new leader of the circle puts his arm around the young Wilden and gathers him inside the circle of the Ancients. He closes the space, as Midmardan looks up to the enormous tree. Its trunk is wider than his field of vision from this close. There before him Great Oak’s proffered branches are hung with two items: a totem of bone, scales, vine, and fang, and a suit of hide armor made from the most enduring beasts of the feywild. As Midmardan grasps the proffered gifts, the new leader speaks again. “We hear and answer Earth’s call. Step through Great Oak. Step into the Natural World.”
Grasping his gifts, Midmardan places a green foot forward, and as it lands in the loam about Great Oak, her roots entwine his legs. They do not entangle or hinder him, rather they draw him forward, toward her trunk. He continues to stride purposefully at the great tree, but as it seems his body must make contact with her trunk, it does not. Her bark parts. He steps into her wooden core, feels himself pass through her growth rings, so many rings. All around him is living wood. Surely he has been walking for too long. Has it been an hour? Is that the center ring before him? Does he dare pass into the heart of Great Oak, the ring when she was but a sapling? Then suddenly, bark is splitting again, and Midmardan is expelled, tumbling into the dirt amid oaken roots. The dirt is not loam. It feels course and hard, grainy to his palms and knees. The air is not sweet, it is acrid like a campfire nearby has suddenly been fed with stale wormwood. Light comes not from everywhere above, but from a burning ball in the sky. And, a collection of creatures with pointed ears and placid expressions stand before him and the quite ordinary oak tree at his back. The creatures match the description of Eladrin he has heard from home, but he has never seen one before. With a graceful movement, the nearest creature extends an elegantly robed arm to Midmardan, and offers its hand.
“Welcome to Vera, Wilden. I am Aethanier. We knew you would come.”