Siniira T'sarran

TN Drow Fighter


Sin, as she prefers to be called away from home, is average sized for a drow if a bit more muscular. She has white hair and red eyes to go along with her darker skin. Her alignment is True Neutral. She counts as a Medium creature and moves 20 ft (4 sq) per full move because of the weight of her scale armor. Her favored weapon is the greatsword though she does wield others. Usually found on her person are several daggers of the normal and punching variety as well as a light crossbow for ranged combat. Her armor is very finely worked in patterns of webs, with the clasps of her armor formed to look like spiders. Her true and favorite weapon is the greatsword Drada.

While moving through human territory, Sin is careful to mask and cowl herself whenever she passes too near human cities and settlements. Her attitude towards most of the world is ambivalent at best, and she tends to view offers and individuals with a healthy amount of skepticism. She likes having money in her purse as much as anyone, but she knows she can’t spend it if she’s dead. As a creature of pride, she prefers not to hide away unless she is forced to, so around party members she probably would leave off her disguise. She still wears the symbol of her house and her goddess on her armor, though the surface world may force her to reconsider what she’s been taught.

In combat, Sin is the first to put herself between physically weaker members of the party such as spellcasters. Then she attempts to draw as much enemy attention to herself as possible, quite comfortable fighting mobs on the battlefield. When she bites off more than she can chew, she will either use a potion or make a tactical withdrawal to a more favorable area of the terrain. After her ward has left, of course. She is not particularly deterred by damage and finds a sense of purpose in combat. She has a certain fondness for battle and doing something she knows she was meant to do.


Excerpt from Sin’s Journal

I am Siniira T’sarran, second daughter to that house. In my youth, I demonstrated my aptitude for physical prowess—many fist fights, even the use of weapons. I also had a quick tongue in those days, until it was beaten out of me by my sister’s snake-whip. Even now beyond her presence I often find myself mute. As I grew older, it became apparent I had the talent for neither divine nor arcane magic, something most displeasing to the Matron. I was thrown to our Weapons Master, who had no love for me. He would break me until nothing was left, he had determined. It was easier said than done.

My first sword was a clunky, rusted bar of metal barely shaped to have edges. My first armor was little more than scraps of leather and iron cobbled together. They did not hold up well, but they taught me many lessons. The foremost in my mind is that the you cannot purchase a warrior spirit or a willingness to kill, only better implements. If the heart behind is weak, the strikes will soon falter and fail. I grew better and better with each passing week under the cruel tutelage of the Weapons Master. I hated him, he hated me, and it was refreshingly straightforward. He would growl an order that I detested and I would snap back. But he could do nothing grievous lest the Matron hear and the same went for me. It was as close to the hells as I have ever come. Brutality and violence broken up by grueling physical tasks were the order of those days. And Goddess forbid I ever make the smallest mistake.

I had to be better than the best. Nothing less was good enough, not for the Matron and my House. The pressure was almost more than I could stand. But I trained at the Academies and acquitted myself well though much of my tenure was with males—which leaves me much more gently disposed towards them than most drow women are. Returning, I found a life of politics awaiting. My eldest sister was trying to determine what manner of threat I could be, the Matron wanted an enforcer, the Patron wanted a shield against both of them, and the Weapons Master still hated me. Not to mention the male children. I found excuses to be out of the city as often as possible.

A fight between my patrol and duergar ambushers killed most of the group and drove us backwards towards the dreaded surface. As the last of my comrades fell, I turned and ran into the burning sunlight without sparing a glance backwards. Someday they will learn that I have survived, but for at least a time it will appear that patrol died completely. When they hunt for my body and discover it gone, then I will have to decide what future I want for myself. The surface has at least offered me something no one else ever has: choice.

Siniira T'sarran

Tales of the North SaintCyr