One of the earlier modeled Warforged, developed an affinity for artificing.


Relic, level 4 Warforged, Artificer

FINAL ABILITY SCORES Str 10, Con 17, Dex 11, Int 21, Wis 10, Cha 8.

STARTING ABILITY SCORES Str 8, Con 14, Dex 11, Int 20, Wis 10, Cha 8.

AC: 20 Fort: 17 Reflex: 18 Will: 15 HP: 44 Surges: 10 Surge Value: 11

TRAINED SKILLS Arcana +12, Dungeoneering +7, Perception +7, History +14, Thievery +7

UNTRAINED SKILLS Acrobatics +2, Bluff +1, Diplomacy +1, Endurance +7, Heal +2, Insight +2, Intimidate +3, Nature +2, Religion +7, Stealth +2, Streetwise +1, Athletics +2

FEATS Artificer: Alchemist Level 1: Weapon Proficiency (Superior crossbow) Level 2: Speed Loader Level 4: Improved Warforged Resolve

POWERS Artificer at-will 1: Magic Weapon (Preview) Artificer at-will 1: Aggravating Force Artificer daily 1: Caustic Rampart Artificer encounter 1: Spike Wire Artificer encounter 3: Fiery Infusion Artificer utility 2: Arcane Springboard

ITEMS Adventurer’s Kit, Alchemical Reagents (Arcana), Crossbow Bolts (20), Poisoned Superior crossbow +1, Cape of the Mountebank +1, Battle Harness Leather Armor +1, Potion of Clarity (level 10), Viper Belt (heroic tier), Ritual Book

RITUALS Make Whole

FORMULAS Alchemist’s Acid, Clearwater Solution


For a long time, there was nothingness. It felt nothing, saw nothing, and knew nothing – knew nothing, except for that it was. It remained still for what would have seemed like a thousand lifetimes to a mortal man, simply existing in some form. It did not grow bored, for it didn’t know what boredom was. It did not age, for time didn’t exist to it. It just remained.

Then, there was life. In an instant, everything happened. It could feel the excruciating pain as they augmented its wooden skeleton with steel plating. It could see the covered faces of its mothers and fathers. It could hear their cheers as they realized all of the above were true. The one thing it could not do, was react. It absorbed all this knowledge, understood it, and filed it away in its memory to be used at a future date, as it was designed to do.

Months passed uneventfully. It was given its first name; ”#8”, which lasted it for several years. #8 seemed to like it well enough. He thought ”#24” had a better ring to it though, and ”#6” had a bit more bravado, but ”#8” was fine. He guessed. It didn’t matter. Or maybe it did. Whatever. #8 moved on, and did what he was built for – fighting.

Months were spent in a strict training regiment that were mostly occupied by squishier, smaller, and more talkative soldiers. They gave him odd looks. Later, #8 would realize that these ranged from disgust, to fear, to curiosity, and even to anger. But at the time, #8 would just do his best to emulate such expressions as he trained. This amused him, so during the times where his softer counterparts were sleeping, he’d spend hours facing a mirror and doing his best to contort his metal features into what resembled facial expressions. Of course, this just resulted in a raised “eyebrow”, or a shifted jaw, but to him, these were the epitome of self-expression.

Graduation day from basic training was upon him and the people he thought of as comrades, but something was off. One of his Fathers was talking to a man he’d never seen before, and making what #8 realized were wild gestures of anger. They’d both shoot him a glance, but immediately after they’d resume their conversation. Eventually, the strange man approached #8, and told him that he wasn’t “ready for combat”. What could this have meant? He was literally built for combat, how could he not be ready for it?

Number 8 was escorted to a room where he sat alone for hours. A woman #8 recognized as one of his Mothers entered, and sat down across the table from him. She asked if he was “happy”. Without a moment of hesitation, he responded “yes”. Of course he was happy; he’d spent his entire life doing what he was built for, and learning wondrous things all the while. He explained this, and she frowned. She explained that he wasn’t supposed to be happy. In fact, he wasn’t supposed to be anything. He was an anomaly. They noticed the traits he was showing – empathy, curiosity, and camaraderie – have all been developing in all “models” since his creation, and they weren’t entirely sure why. These were not intended, and were potentially dangerous, and #8 was to not be allowed to go into combat while possessing them.

Not sure what to think of all this information, #8 reached into the pocket of his uniform and took out what looked like several small scraps of metal stuck together. The woman asked what that was, and he replied that, whenever he needed to think he took out such an object and toyed with it. The woman gasped as magical sparks leaped from the scraps of metal, and the jagged edges quickly rounded themselves, forming a perfectly smooth sphere. Being an artificer herself, she realized what #8 had done, and asked if he was aware of it himself. He was confused, but explained it was just “something he did”.

Years later, Relic is now one of the head combat engineers for the Legion, acting primarily as a combat medic for his metallic brothers in arms. He doesn’t do much fighting, but he still feels that he is able to help with the war effort, which is enough for him. And best of all, he finally figured out a new expression he’d been spending the last few months working on.


Discens and Deserts Countblanc