Castlevanialoft

sweet

Now I want to play with this in the background.

Oh REALLY?

I'm not sure if I would be able to find the time, but I'd definitely be interested.

It would probably start in there morning your time. Around 8 or 10 am and last anywhere from 2 to 4 hours. I get off work at 5, and would be available after I ate dinner around 6 pm CST.

ChucklesTheJester we are planning on one night each week if you could make time. We actually have a harlequin type roguish character that reminds me of you, so even if you can't make time we will be thinking of you.

Well, We have our 4th party member for this go around. Thank you for your interest, other people who wanted to play! I will probably be running the game again in the future for new people.

((I don't know if this is where we are supposed to put Background Posts or Not, but I finally got a couple of hours to quickly write mine, so I'm putting it here and can put elsewhere later if required.))


In a small corner of the Holy Roman Empire to a family of minor nobles, Johann Böse was born as the youngest brother in his generation. He grew healthy and strong as any young man in his strata could, nourished adequately and given the finest education that could be found. In the halls of his ancestral home, no door was barred to him, no part of the grounds that he was not allowed to traverse in the few precious hours he found freedom from his tutors, the studies of a noble child, and the attendance of court his parents insisted he accompany. Yet, by and large, he always felt himself drawn back to the library, delving ever further into the corners of the world from the pages of his books. Through them, the young man was immersed in subjects from mathematics and histories, to geographies and tales of old, terrifying monsters, the heroes who conquered them, and the magics that flowed like rivers through the landscapes of the dark and mysterious world.

It was in those stories of old in which he immersed himself the most, committing them to memory and making a study of them as he grew older, dedicating more attention to the deeds and the accomplishments of the characters, both mystical and mundane, until the stories themselves became little more than shadow plays, the characters reduced to little more than bit players in the tales of their grand accomplishments. His imagination blossomed, filled to the brim at first with notions of those spectacular figures, back-lit by the history of their myth and gifting the world with their wonders. Over time, with the shift in his focus, it was no longer the imagined faces from the past that bore the fruit of those accomplishment, but his own face, now nearly full-grown, that sallied forth into the world, hailed with praise, and his actions made into myths of their own.

The years had passed, and the boy so taken with myth had grown now into a young man, with responsibilities and obligations all his own, attendance at the Herzog’s court chief among them. Although his parcel of land had been chosen from his parents holdings, and his title prepared for his ascension to manhood, his imagination never left him, and he had begun to find refuge from the mundane in the written word. Though his quill birthed none of the stories that saw him a hero of legend, it had still won him great acclaim before he left the home of his forefathers, and he had gained a reputation at court as quite the poet. The Herzog himself called upon Johann to read his poetry before the assembled noblemen, a reading that, although met with a lukewarm reception from the courtiers, the Herzog enjoyed immensely, and before the family had departed, offered the young man a position in court, an offer that Johann jumped at, happy to be out of the home of his parents, and with access to a whole new library, filled with books.

When he arrived, he found waiting in his new quarters the uniform of his new position, the Mask and motley of the Fool. A surprise to Johann, but not one that he found unwelcome. After all, it was a position of some respect, and it offered him a great deal of time to peruse the library, in order to better compose his poems and stories. He had no need of more stories of course, having memorized hundreds of deeds around which stories could be told, and though he had been retained as a poet, it was for his stories that he earned acclaim. The traditional role and skills of the Fool, as the acrobatic entertainer, the tumbler, and the master of legerdemain came with time and practice, his early failed attempts rolled into self-effacing humour that entertained more than the tricks themselves would have. The court was his stage, and the library his domain, and it was ultimately the latter that brought him near complete control of the former. In one of his sojourns into the distant realms of mystical theory and academia presented by the multi-tiered demesnes of the library, he overheard the rumblings of a plot to overthrow the Herzog, and take his lands for themselves.

Johann found himself perplexed now, knowing well that he could not very well let that happen, for his loyalty was to the man who had given him his position, but these men were trusted courtiers, and he had never been the best of fighters. For a long moment, he planned, watching the conspirators at their game from his position in the gallery above, until at last one of them produced a map, and a promise for lands once the new Herzog was in power. He seized the opportunity and pounced from above, dropping upon the pair and attempting to seize the proof of their treachery.

He was summarily beaten down by the two men. Before the final blow was dealt, however, the wiser of the pair bade his compatriot to stay his blade. After all, he reasoned, was not the Fool the very person they could best use now? A spy, close to the Herzog and yet so insignificant as to be nearly unnoticed. Someone few would pay any close attention to. Someone whose loyalty, he was certain, could be bought with coin and with kind words. After all, surely a new Herzog would look more favorably upon someone who had helped them rise up against such an uncaring dictator. As this disaffected nobleman spoke, it was clear that his words were not lost upon the jester. For a long moment, there was silence, and an utter stillness, before finally the man in the motley spoke. “I'll do it,” he assented, nodding his head with guilt clear in his eyes, but resolve clear in his motions, “...But I want a promise. With all the pretty little pictures. Like he got.” After some deliberation, the nobleman agreed, and scrawled out a hasty promise upon parchment for the jester. For indeed, he thought, who would trust the words of a Fool?

Johann went straight to the Herzog, presenting the promise and insisting the matter was no jest.

The Herzog, though at first so disbelieving of his jester’s tale that he considered having the man put to death for so disparaging a courtier, conceded that the words, written in the traitor’s own hand, now held before him were worth at least checking into. The traitors were found, their effects searched, and their damning evidence collected. The rabble rouser was imprisoned, and the conspiracy was rousted before it ever truly began. Still, the ruler could be certain that there had been others, aiding and conspiring against him. And while that, in and of itself, was part and parcel of Power, never before had there been so concerted an attempt at uprising within his lands. However, from the ordeal, some good could be taken of it. Namely, that his young fool was intelligent, resourceful, and trustworthy. All valuable commodities to a man of power.

Johann was thanked heartily for his service, and asked simply to keep his eyes and ears open for any further rumblings of treachery in the court. To his great surprise, the Fool found that, once his eyes and ears were open to intrigue, the court Abounded with it. At first, it was just a matter of watching and listening the goings on around him, using his personable and easy going nature to disarm and assuage any feathers he happened to ruffle as he went. But watching became informing, if something were particularly interesting, and informing gave way to organizing and orchestrating, as the Fool gradually turned the castle’s serving staff into a, largely-unwitting, but incredibly capable network of informants, and then, the man who was no longer so young, expanded that network into the surrounding countryside.

It was surprising how easy this life had come to him, how quickly he had taken to the role of impromptu spymaster, and, perhaps most shockingly, how indispensable the Herzog considered him now. He was still and ever the consummate fool in court, his richly coloured motley and extreme personality a well and long-crafted affectation, a trademark of sorts. A cover, so that if and When he found it necessary to go among the public, he could discard Mask, Motley, and even personality, that no one might connect this most unassuming, unobtrusive and soft-spoken of men with the Herzog’s Extroverted Jester. He had taken become confidante and indirect bodyguard both, and no man could have been said to be more Crucial to the safety of the Herzog.

And no man crushed more absolutely when he was found murdered in his bedchambers.

Rent limb from limb and mutilated nearly beyond recognition, and no one, even his unofficial Spymaster knew what had happened. He had been helped to bed by his serfs, bidden goodnight to them, and when they had gone to help him to dress, there was only his gory remains. What followed was of no concern to Johann, the vagaries of politics and succession of no interest to him as the Jester sought to uncover what had befallen the lord he had failed so utterly. With each passing day spent in intense investigation, however, the trail of information grew colder and colder.


He was a man possessed, consumed by his failure, more than his desire to find it. Voracious, he devoured every piece of lore he could find, every little tidbit from his ad-hoc spy network that Might have yielded a clue. Even his dismissal from Court carried no weight in his mind next to his crusade for what happened to his Lord. After months and months of searching, all the information he found could be narrowed down to It had happened upon the night of the Full Moon, and a single scullery maid had seen a scarred serf she did not recognize, fleeing through the kitchen in the harried and raucous confusion of the next morning’s discovery.

It was more than he’d manage to overturn from the beginning, and he found his feet moving almost of their own accord, leaving behind the life he’d built in an attempt to follow the scarred man, his mind consumed with a burning thirst that could only be slaked with the blood of his quarry. He took with him very little, including his mask and his motley, as well as what little money he cared to find.

For several years he traveled, searching for any odd bit of lore or information on a man that may long have been dead. In this time, whenever he found his coffers running low, he took work in his former field, both as an entertainer and,when he covered his face with the blackened mask that had been his badge of office, and his body in his former motley, as a spy.

He gave a name only when he had to, and never that of his birth, lest he bring shame to his former family, instead, merely shortening his name, and telling any he met only that “They call me Jack.” Many were his travels, few were his battles, so effective was he at his job, and a trail of contacts lay scattered in his wake. Former employers, temporary allies, and a smattering of old friends, including a particular family whose dark reputation for dealing with denizens of the night he had come across. Many times, he found himself in the home of the Belmonts, aiding them with information that would assist their own quests in exchange for food and shelter, and the rare piece of information, (the odd sighting here or there, the occasional tale of foul deeds done in the light of the full moon,) on the scarred man.

And so his tale had finally begun, the stories of a man named Jack, who could tell such tales that could carry one away to another time and place, of a masked spectre who could find information on any man or beast save for one.

The story of the Mad Harlequin.
The tale of the Ragged Jester.
The Song of Jack Motley.

Wow, that is a lot of content right there. Anything is possible. Balance is important to the system. The best way to approach custom abilities is to look at what class features, feats and spells are available to a character at a level and customize it to fit the style you want.

Alexandra just reached level 3 and picked Weapon Master as the martial focus. This grants a selection of combat maneuvers that affect things such as movement, knocking down foes or adding damage. These would be perfect for restyling in a way that doesn't change the outcome of combat but feels more Castlevania.

This is also encouraged for any spell. The way spells look and sound can be completely up to the player, so long as the dice roll the same way and the effects have the same outcome.

You will find items throughout the game that will fit Castlevania, so those will add some of the style as well.

Let's look at sacred flame. I believe cantrips can be cast all day long without worrying about them running out. This is a fire spell, but for you it would make more sense to be an ice spell. It does radiant damage anyway, so why not just say it's multiple orbs of frost that deal the same amount of radiant damage and requires the same dex save? I'm more than fine with changing this stuff. In fact, I encourage it.

Now let's look at Flame Strike. A 5th level spell you could change.



Once again we can take a fire spell which is something that doesn't fit your character and make it more like a holy cross. This is a ranged attack that does radiant damage and fire damage. Let's just change it from fire to slashing damage and keep the radiant damage. Instead of it being a cylinder make it a 30 foot line. It can deal half the damage there and half on the way back.

I kept adding on to my post. I hope you saw the flame strike mod.