PC Spotlight - Luther Greenbottle

We have our next character spotlight for Luther "Lou" Greenbottle, the lightfoot halfling wizard! This one is a little different, written in a day-in-the-life style. And as a reward for the (rather lengthy) background, Lou will have the following traits and items:

Merle: A folding chair of green fabric and figured mahogany is known to Lou, affectionately, as Merle. If a creature is attuned to Merle, they know that the fabric between the wood is magical. Two spells can be stored within the fabric, one on the back piece and one in the seat piece. Any spells that are already stored there are revealed to the creature. By casting a spell into the fabric piece, the creature can change the stored spell, removing the old one. If the creature subsequently casts the spell while sitting in the chair and attuned, they receive a bonus to their spell save DC and attack modifier for that casting equal to half of the spell's level + 1. So a 2nd level spell has a bonus of 1 and a 3rd level spell has a bonus of 2.

Scroll of Fireball: Lou has been saving a scroll of fireball from his days in the War Wizards. It is wound around an iron rod and protected inside an iron tube. After using an action to read the scroll, the caster can use the fireball spell with a DC of 15 and the scroll will crumble to dust. This counts as a Spell Scroll, so to use the scroll fireball must be on the caster's spell list. If the caster cannot cast 3rd level spells, they must make a check with their spell casting ability with a DC 13 or the scroll is lost.

Potion of Healing: This potion's red liquid glimmers when it's agitated. Receive 2d4+2 points of healing from drinking this potion.

Luther Greenbottle - Lightfoot Halfling Wizard

Deep in the Reaching Woods, awash in dew and a scent of mild but pervasive rot, the sun began its achingly slow crest over the treetops. It was some time past sunrise, and the birds had been tittering for hours, perched as they were above the shadows. A dove called somewhere in the distance, mournful and unanswered.

Freshly illuminated with the first rays of dappled light between the leaves, the clearing was emerging from its dark and muddled slumber. A stubborn haze hovered a few feet off the ground, blanketing the low-lying vegetation in a ghostly shroud. The forest was subdued, muttering with the quiet, groggy sounds of morning.

Suddenly, the reverie was broken by the unwelcome staccato crack of a branch snapping somewhere beyond the glade. It echoed through the trees, terse and jarring; a grating, high-pitched snicker followed shortly after. Shrubbery rustled in the distance, drawing closer with every passing moment.

The disturbance grew louder, its source more distinct—a few yards to the east, approaching with some poor semblance of stealth. More boughs bent, broke, shook loose their nightly damp, sounding at times like miniature rainstorms as their moisture peppered the ground. Frantic cackling cut through the birdsong as tiny footsteps quickened with anticipation, and soon a small, ugly, greenish brown figure emerged into the clearing.

BOOM.

An explosion erupted through the wood, white-hot fire bursting from the ground where the creature had stood. The flames shot higher than the treetops, singeing a number of errant limbs and sending the formerly peaceful chickadees screeching, fleeing for their lives. A cloud of smoke, pitch-black and shaped like a mushroom, grew to take their place.

From beneath the fog, a head topped with matted brown hair burst forth, eyes darting side to side with a peculiar mania. The rest of the wrinkled face remained stone-still, save for a periodic flaring of the nostrils. A long, unkempt beard, caked with mud and leaves, obscured most of the mouth, and two rounded ears poked out from beneath the disheveled locks. Only one eyebrow adorned the forehead, bushy and wild.

Thop.

A fleck of crimson landed atop the pockmarked, bulbous nose. The previously restless eyes crossed, attempting to bring it into focus.

Thop. Thop.

Slowly, the face turned upward, gazing into the sky with a look of resignation.

"Aw, hell."

A deluge of blood, viscera, and unrecognizable bone fragments began to rain down upon the clearing, splattering the aged face and much of the surrounding greenery with a foul-smelling paste. The eyes and mouth clamped shut—much too late—and for what seemed like minutes the shower of entrails continued before, mercifully, trailing off into silence once again.

The mist was gone, dispersed as much by the falling carnage as by the explosion that preceded it, revealing a small man sitting upright on a pile of pine boughs, blanketed by viscous gore. He was no more than three feet tall, and though adorned in a now-ruined tunic and trousers, he wore no shoes upon his calloused, hairy feet. He cautiously lowered his gaze, opening one eye, then the other.

Resting on his lap, rising and falling with every breath, was a single, pointed ear. He let out a sigh before picking it up between his thumb and forefinger, giving it a cursory sniff, and deftly tossing it well beyond the tree line.

✱

As he dug the shallow, paltry excuse for a grave, Luther Greenbottle attempted to recall exactly how many goblins he'd buried in this forest. A dozen? Fifty? A hundred? The years blurred together in an addled haze—these were questions for younger men.

The slab of whittled stone he used to scrape at the earth was lashed to a wooden dowel only slightly shorter than himself. It was a poorly-fashioned shovel, the hempen twine precariously frayed, but it was what he had.

The handle was nearly as tall as he was. It had once been part of a standard-issue trench spade, a ubiquitous tool in the army of Cormyr, long since pried from its mangled steel counterpart. Luther found himself remembering the way it would bounce against his knee as he marched, strapped to the side of a pack designed for someone much taller.

He shook his head to clear it, leaves clattering dryly in his beard. That was a memory he did not care to entertain.

The depression in the ground was only a foot deep, pitted and irregular, but it would do. Luther snorted, heaved a sigh, and set the shovel aside. His bones creaked, and his right elbow ached worse than he was accustomed to.

The remains of the goblin lay in an unceremonious heap atop a pile of sodden linens. They were gelatinous and rank, unrecognizable save for a stray eyeball and a couple of fingers, and the flies had begun to settle in. The smell would have bothered someone of more sophistication. Perhaps Luther himself, in his youth.

He grabbed the linens by one end and dragged them to the edge of the grave, paused, and dumped them in with a nasally grunt. He lay the cloth on top, almost tenderly, and took a step back.

Perched a few feet to Luther's right was a small, incongruously well-kept folding chair, fashioned from dark, sultry wood beams with a seat and back made of luxurious green fabric. Luther looked at it thoughtfully for a moment.

"Well, Merle, would ya care ta say a few words?"

Silence. Luther waited patiently, and after a few seconds pursed his lips in a gesture of loving exasperation.

"Yeah, well, I don't wanna either, but somebody's gotta do it."

He straightened, adopting some semblance of military posture, and reached for the top of his head as if to remove a hat. Finding nothing, he lowered his hands, placing one behind his back and the other over his heart, and cleared his throat. The words flowed through him with ease in a thick, syrupy drawl.

"We're gathered here today ta bid farewell ta this humble creature'a the forest, whose name will never be known by me, nor Merle, nor any livin' man nor woman who ain't got goblin brains between their ears. His—or hers, seein' how I was unable ta locate anything resemblin' a pecker—was a simple life, consistin' mainly'a killin', eatin', maybe some screwin', an' right there at the end, tryin' with some unfortunate lack'a foresight ta steal shit outta my camp. And yet, it was in many ways a noble life, lived the way the gods intended his or her species ta do. Though I may question said gods' wisdom in the department'a creatin' such a mean, stupid, and generally sonofabitchin' variety'a organisms, I feel compelled to respect that decision and the creatures it hath wrought. For who among us have not, at least from time to time, acted accordin' to our nature and pissed somebody off because of it?"

Luther looked up from the grave, his eyes coming to rest upon the chair. After a moment he smiled, nodded, and reached once again for his shovel.

✱

The remains of the goblin safely interred a quarter mile or so from the clearing—a necessary precaution, lest a curious bear wander through his perimeter and leave an even more voluminous mess to clean—Luther shuffled back towards camp.

It was a good thing he'd done, despite bearing responsibility for the creature's untimely combustion in the first place. Though its death pained him on some level, it had been many decades since he had harbored much guilt about this sort of minor tragedy. His was a world that necessitated boundaries, and what good was a boundary if it went unenforced?

As Luther approached the glade, the barely-perceptible shimmer of said boundary caught his eye. With a practiced wave of his hand and a few muttered words, so often repeated that he had forgotten their original meaning, he opened a small gap in the defenses and passed through. Unconsciously, he touched the bald spot where his eyebrow had been—a reminder of the last time he had come home in a hurry and forgotten about the warding spell. Behind him, the diaphanous ring re-formed, encircling the camp in relative safety.

Luther set his shovel on the ground next to the pile of boughs that was his bed, slipped the straps of the folding chair from his shoulders, and deftly set it up with a single flick of his wrist. He smiled as he settled into its well-worn seat, fitted to his backside like a glove. The joints of the old chair groaned much like his own.

"Y'know, Merle, I think I'm gettin' a little old for all that shovelin' and liftin' and draggin' type'a work."

It was past midday now, and the sun beat down on his leathery skin. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead. Another flick of his wrist, a mumbled incantation, and a tall, cold glass of tea appeared in his hand. A subtle clink of ice echoed through the clearing as he raised it to his lips, took a long sip of its sickly-sweet contents, and let out a satisfied sigh.

Somewhat abruptly, Luther leaned back in the chair, its front legs rising precariously off the ground, and looked up into the sky. Squinting, he turned his gaze directly into the sun. A searing pain drove into the back of his eyes and tears welled up at their corners, streaming down his face after just a few moments.

He slowly raised his right arm and pointed it skyward, stubby index finger extended in some semblance of a threatening gesture. He frowned, his teeth clenched tight, and closed his right eye in concentration. The creases on his face grew deeper, scars of a life lived beneath some unspoken weight.

A string of unintelligible language slipped out beneath Luther's breath, and three luminescent purple spheres appeared in orbit around his finger. A moment of silence passed as he continued to stare defiantly upwards, eyes never leaving the sun.

A single, staccato syllable passed his lips. The bolts leapt from around his finger in rapid succession, streaking into the air with a hiss, leaving faint, glowing trails in their wake. Luther watched their ascent until they grew too dim to distinguish from the glare of the sun. He waited, counting quietly to himself.

Suddenly, from several hundred feet in the air, a silent explosion of iridescent light and jagged arcs of energy burst forth, obscuring the sun from his vantage. A smile crept across his face in anticipation.

CRA-BOOM.

The roar followed half a second later, and with it a gentle puff of wind that Luther knew had been a formidable shockwave at altitude.

"Haw!" He began to cackle, somewhat startled, unable to contain himself at this brazen display of natural power. That a thing of such destructive ferocity could come from his own hands both awed and terrified him—and his only response was to laugh uncontrollably.

So uncontrollably, in fact, that he momentarily lost his balance atop the chair and tumbled backwards, rolling head over heels and coming to rest splayed atop his makeshift bed. And yet, he continued to guffaw with unrepentant joy, catharsis washing over him after what had been a more troubling morning than he realized.

✱

Luther closed his eyes and leaned over the mouth of the roiling cauldron, fragrant steam billowing into his face, and inhaled deeply. Earthy aromas of barley, tree nuts, and wild sage entered his nostrils, giving rise to a faint, nostalgic pang in his chest. This was his mother's recipe, and though he had prepared it most every night for the last century, it never failed to bring him thoughts of childhood suppers.

It was evening now, barely sunset, but the wood had already fallen quite dark. The days were short among the trees, the sun only deigning to show its face for a handful of hours after cresting their peaks. That was fine with Luther. He preferred the quiet solitude of night, when the crickets made themselves known one by one, like lights flickering on in the windows of the capitol at twilight. And, when he felt so inclined, the blackness of the sky made a much better canvas for his pyrotechnics.

Tonight, though, would be a quiet night. He was exhausted, sore from hauling the jellied corpse so far from camp. But it was a welcome fatigue, brought on by exertion rather than the inertia of sloth, and it made him feel young despite the aches and creaks that argued otherwise.

Luther lifted his head from the stew and shuffled across the clearing, eyes well accustomed to the low light. At the far end, nestled between two young, slender oaks, was a jury-rigged alembic, fashioned from a combination of copper scraps, hempen lashing, and old, lead sewage pipes scavenged from gods knew where. Stacked in front of it stood a number of pint-sized jars filled with clear liquid.

He approached, the left side of his mouth curling into an expectant smirk. As far as he was concerned, no learned mind in the realms of man or halfling had ever conceived a word more poetic than moonshine.

He stopped abruptly, forgetting his manners, and turned back toward the yellow glow of the fire. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted in the direction of the folding chair.

"Hey, Merle! You wan' some hooch?" He waited for a moment, and when no response came he smiled and nodded. Merle never wanted any hooch, but he had learned in the army that failing to offer your compatriot a drink was bad form.

Luther returned to the fireside, jar sloshing in hand, and ladled himself a bowl of barley stew. As expected, it was a bit bland; he was running low on salt and spices, and had been putting off a trip into town until it was absolutely necessary. The people of Triel thought him strange, avoiding eye contact and yet staring incessantly, rudely when he turned his back. He supposed that was fair—the periodic explosions and pillars of smoke coming from his camp must have seemed rather frightening—yet it made his errands nonetheless unpleasant.

As he ate, he took several hearty gulps from the jar. The acrid, unsubtle spirit burned at first, warming him as it traveled palpably down his throat and into his stomach, but after a while it went down as easily as water. By the time he finished his meal, less than half of the jar remained.

Luther's head swam, the familiar embrace of drunkenness swaddling him like an infant. He took another swig, this time holding it in his mouth instead of swallowing. He raised a hand in front of his face, blinking heavily in an attempt to steady himself, and snapped his fingers. As he did, a small spark streaked between his thumb and forefinger, and all at once he spewed the moonshine at it in a fine mist. The cloud ignited, shooting a brilliant fireball across the clearing.

The flames had barely dissipated before he burst into laughter once again, coughing and sputtering as the pungent, alcoholic fumes filled his sinuses.

"Holy shit, Merle, d'you see that? Haw!" He stood from the chair, nearly losing his footing as he stepped over a rock, and filled his mouth with moonshine once again. A snap of his fingers, a wet, undignified pfthfthfthfthfthfth from his lips, and another burst of fiery light exploded into the middle of the glade.

Luther howled, doubled over with intoxicated glee, and collapsed face-first onto the ground. Wheezing, breathless, he rolled himself onto his back and looked up at the stars. The constellations spun above him, twisting in half circles to one side, then the other, making him feel as if he were smeared across the surface of a comet, hurtling wildly through the gyres and epicycles of the heavens.

A spell of nausea shook him from his reverie, and once it had passed, he rolled over and began crawling on hands and knees toward the inviting mound of pine and heather. Unable to stifle them this time, the memories came flooding back.

Again he was a child, yearning to move under his own strength but still too small to walk, his mother smiling on the far end of the dining room, impossibly distant; again he was a student, prostrate in the schoolyard as the older boys surrounded him, laughing, his brother's snickering the cruelest of them all; again he was a lieutenant, fresh off his commission and crawling through the mud as his instructor shouted orders, consumed by longing for the family he'd left behind; again he was in the fields of Netheril, cowering in a rain-soaked trench as artillery and lightning tore the sky asunder, realizing that it would take a braver man than he to return fire.

The jar of moonshine lay on the ground, empty save for a few drams. Luther reached the pile of bedding and threw himself upon it with the last of his strength, exhaling pitifully before surrendering to the oblivion of sleep.

✱

This is a familiar dream.

The sun hangs high in the afternoon sky, but instead of the bright, dogged radiance Luther has come to expect in the waking world, it is black, an empty, circular void in a sea of gray. Stretching to the horizon in every direction is nothing but dry, cracked, lifeless earth. A hot, dusty wind blows into his face, and though he raises his arm for some protection the sand and grit are relentless. It stings his eyes, nostrils, and pores, sapping the very saliva from his mouth. It's difficult to breathe.

Luther turns away from the wind and squints into the distance. Far away, at the edge of the world, it seems, he thinks he sees a shape. A strange, dark, angular silhouette breaking the plane of the monotonous wasteland. He begins to walk toward it.

With the wind at his back the journey feels effortless. The silhouette, hovering over the horizon like some Fata Morgana, grows in size, but remains too distant to recognize. The wind begins to pick up, howling savagely and blowing hair into his face, obscuring his vision once again.

Struggling to resist the wind, fearing that he'll be knocked to the ground, Luther begins to run. His old joints groan with the effort, cartilaginous pops keeping time with his steps. A gust of wind blows harder, nearly causing him to lose his balance. He's sprinting now, trying to outrun the scorching gale, certain that the looming shape ahead will offer some shelter. His footfalls are becoming lighter, barely touching the earth.

Another gust and Luther is lifted off his feet, hurtling through the air, limbs flailing in every direction. Always fearful of heights, he does his best to gather his wits. He looks down, attempting to orient himself, and sees the silhouette once again. From this new vantage it has gained form, footprint, substance—this is Suzail. The capitol. "The brightest gem in Cormyr's crown."

Luther is overcome with relief. After all these years—a century, truly—he's come home. He imagines his mother, his beloved tutor Shaena, the benevolent gaze of the queen herself, all waiting at the gates to embrace him, welcome him back. There was no need to flee, they'll say, no need to abandon us. But we do not blame you, and we are here, still, as we were when you left. We can start anew.

Luther smiles at the thought, and speeds through the air toward the city. He has never flown before, but the movements are instinctive, like willing his fist to clench or his eyelids to blink. The promise of home drives him onward.

Suddenly, from the direction of the capitol, a cold, bracing wind begins to blow, buffeting his tiny body and all but halting his approach. He gasps, and his lungs fill with frigid air, causing him to cough and retch uncontrollably. He looks to the city.

From the east, a tide approaches. Black, viscous, inexorable, it flows across the arid wastes, heading directly for Suzail's walls. Luther begins to wave his arms frantically, attempting to swim through the air, to warn them, to no avail. He tries to scream, but no words escape his mouth.

He watches helplessly from hundreds of feet above as the dark, implacable tide slams into the wall, crushing the stones and timbers beneath its weight. The liquid splashes, oozes its way through the breach, giving off noxious fumes as it advances.

Luther realizes, to his horror, that this is some kind of acid. It begins to eat through the foundations of the eastern half of the city, collapsing buildings and, it becomes clear as the wails reach his ears, dissolving the residents where they stand.

From the west, an explosion. Luther turns in time to see the wall to his left consumed in fire, slabs of granite fifteen meters long cast into the air like confetti. The flames continue eastward toward the center of the city, engulfing everything in their path like tinder. A smell of burning wood and flesh wafts towards him on the bitter wind.

To the north, violent, angry clouds spring from nowhere. They glide in the direction of the last remaining walls, faster than he's ever seen a storm move before, blue lightning arcing to the ground as they loom.

Before Luther can even attempt to call out again, the first bolt strikes the wall, splitting it down the middle in a long, jagged wound. A second bolt hits one of the watchtowers, blowing it to pieces and sending stone, mortar, and severed limbs flying. Again and again, electricity ravages the wall until, finally, it shatters, crumbling under its own weight, crushing onlookers as they run for cover.

Standing defiantly in the center of the city, still untouched by the hellish cascade, are Castle Obarskyr, seat of the crown, and the Citadel of the Purple Dragons—home to more than two thousand of Luther's comrades. Unable to move, he has resigned himself to watching as the acid, flame, and lightning close in on this final bastion.

The fires arrive first, exploding into the side of the castle and destroying its turret in seconds. The lightning follows shortly, cracks of thunder now assaulting Luther's eardrums as bolts punch into the side of the citadel's high, regal tower. Bricks rain down onto the fleeing citizens below as the acid sweeps through the manmade lake, boiling it away and lapping at the base of the buildings beyond.

Through the cacophony of screams, explosions, and thunder, Luther hears a familiar sound. It's a voice, his mother's voice, and she's calling to him. His eyes dart back and forth, frantically looking for the source. Her cries grow louder, more desperate, and finally he sees—she's standing atop the citadel, windswept in her favorite blue gown, arm outstretched toward him, begging for help.

Luther resumes his flailing, struggling despondently against... nothing. His limbs can find no purchase save for handfuls of air, and yet there he sits, suspended above the horrors that descend upon his home.

There is a creaking, a moaning of ancient stone and steel, and the citadel wavers. He screams, profaning the gods and the queen and the city and his mother for giving him life, cursing him with the burden of love, and leaving him to watch, alone, as everything is viciously ripped away.

A final cry passes from his mother's lips as the citadel crumbles, sinking into the earth below, finally acquiescing to the gravity it had scorned for centuries. Luther shrieks, a child again, and begins to sob. The world goes black.

✱

Luther bolted awake, sitting upright beside his bed. A thin trail of spittle hung from the corner of his mouth. He looked around frantically in the predawn gloom, heart still pounding, the agony of loss still fresh behind his eyes.

This dream had been different. The desert, the black sun, the stinging wind—all were common images that came to him in sleep. But Suzail, his mother, the sheer cruelty and scope of the destruction were unlike anything he had ever conjured in his mind's eye. In the pit of his chest he felt a darkness, a profound despair that clawed at his soul.

Greenest. He wasn't sure why the word came to him. A small town to the southwest, if remembered correctly, and a deeply unremarkable one at that. Yet, for whatever reason, he felt drawn to it. He said the word aloud, tasting it against his dry, cracked palate, and remembered how much moonshine he'd consumed the night before.

He stood up carefully, blood rushing to his head, his vision momentarily obscured by shimmering spots of light. He reached for the nearly-empty jar, shook it around, and upended the dregs into his mouth, then tossed it lazily in the direction of the still.

Luther looked about the clearing, briefly forgetting where he had left the folding chair. After a moment, his eyes came to rest on its inviting form, olive fabric blending seamlessly into the forested backdrop. For the first time since waking, he felt a moment of calm.

"Well, Merle, guess we're goin' shoppin' today after all."

✱ ✱ ✱