Numenera: Shadows of the Past
A mystical Nano who bears a halo of fire
Light Weapons – S
Numenera Training – T
Onslaught (1 Int)
Scan (2 Int)
Shroud of Flame (1 Int)
Hedge Magic (1 Int)
Unnerving Aura (Charm, persuasion, deception +1 step difficulty)
Erase Memories (2 Int)
Resonance Field (1 Int)
Mind Reading (2 Int)
Fiery Power (2 Int)
Hurl Flame (2 Int)
Fiery Hand of Doom (3 Int)
Energy Protection (3 Int)
Speed Recovery (3 Int)
Fabricate Minion (4 Int)
Exile (5 Int)
Invisibility (4 Int)
Flameblade (4 Int)
Artefacts & Oddities
Oddity: Five metallic plates that orbit around your head and display ever-changing, unknown symbols (destroyed)
Artefact: Fire-resistant spray
Oddity: A cube that disappears for one minute when activated, and reappears in the same spot
Oddity: A stronglass shell that sometimes has a ghostly visage of a crab inside it
Artefact: Level 6 Crown of Eyes
Artefact: Two level 1 detachable eyes
Artefact: Quaran’s Mask
History Book (read)
Explorer’s Pack (17 rations)
Book of Healing (read)
2 Antidote Potions
1 Sleeping Powder
2 Healing Powders
1 Bag of Light Tools
Clothing – Aeon Priest Robes (Seeker)
Special forged rapier (4 damage)
To know truth is to endure, and few have endured more than Tranavaros Syr.
As a boy from Beoth, Tranavaros (or ‘Tran’ as his friends called him) was always exploring. His younger brother, Kyros, was his partner in crime. No cave, river, tunnel or tree was left undiscovered by the adventurers.
One day, they journeyed far beyond the sight of the city and into the woods, where they heard a wondrous tune – a flute. Few in the Steadfast had ever heard such a beautiful melody, and neither boy could resist its lure. And a lure it was.
Deeper and deeper it drew them, the music tuning into their minds. Each snap of a twig and crunch of a leaf on the woodland floor became louder than thunder, cutting through their thoughts and severing them from reality. Deep in the wood the Llaric scorpion waited – long had it waited, for such creatures are patient with their meals. Its song turned Kyros to mania, and before the beast could clutch its prey, the boy had turned on his older brother. For reasons unknown, Tranavaros was immune to the creature’s music, but not immune to his brother’s iron grip around his throat.
Tranavaros wishes he could say he resisted – that in his great love for his young brother he was resolved to die by his hand rather than lift his own against him.
The truth sears.
Feeling the oxygen being torn from his lungs, panic in his eyes, Tranavaros grabbed for something, anything that could save him. He found a rock; Kyros’s skull cracked when it hit. He fell to the ground, limp. By then the scorpion chewed through its patience. It approached with such speed, Tranavaros felt sure to be caught.
The first spear struck the creature in one of its eyes. It shook off the pain to regroup but the city guards surrounded it by then. A skirmish followed, blood spilled and bodies littered the woods, including that of the Llaric.
Kyros survived, though he was never as he was. His mind was broken and Tranavaros was responsible. He was never welcomed back home.
That was the first truth he learned: self-preservation knows no love.
The white robe emblazoned with the eye of truth is the garment of a Seeker. For Tranavaros, it was more. To be a Seeker meant more to him than simply retrieving relics and forgotten things; for him, it was about purpose. Every truth had its place in the world — a space reserved for it and it alone. He was content with finding those spaces and guiding truth to the correct ones, but where, he wondered, was his space? What, or who, would accept the truth he kept shrouded behind his gaze?
He would risk everything to find out.
The sky was on fire.
Tranavaros looked up and saw clouds burning, heat touching his face. The light of a thousand suns scorched his eyes, the sting of sunlight on his cheeks. Wind wailed over the surrounding plains, his white robes snapping in its wake. His hair, hot and ready to combust, whipped about his face.
Among the inferno, in the distance, a pillar of flame rose to a chasm in the sky. Sheets of orange and blood-red light cast over mountains blacker than onyx. At the foot of the range Tranavaros made out the white shadow of a city.
The landscape scattered like a thousand leaves in the wind. Among the rushing colours he saw the faces of seven strangers.
‘Excuse me,’ said a voice.
Tranavaros awoke from his nap, lying on a hill in the afternoon sun among the Navarene plains.
Standing over him was a young man with determined eyes and a bunch of irritated lines on his face. ‘Excuse me,’ he said again, ’you’re resting on a bloom of stylomecon. They’re quite precious, you know.’
‘Oh,’ said Tranavaros.
Strange, he thought. I’ve seen him before, but where?
‘Are you going to move?’ he said.
Tranavaros climbed to his feet, dusting grass and petals off his backside. ‘My name’s Tranavaros Syr. May I ask yours?’
He looked bewildered. ‘Asher,’ he said. ‘Asher Marlen.’
‘Is that an Uxphon accent, Asher Marlen?’
The man crossed his arms, his face stern. Everything about him looked defensive. ‘It is. Uxphon is where I was raised.’
’You’re a long way from home.’ A Seeker of Truth always felt the need to prod.
‘Wanted to travel,’ he said, his expression softening. ‘No stylomecon in the Beyond.’
Tranavaros’s vision warped, a flash of crimson crossing Asher’s neck.
He blinked. The crimson vanished.
‘Problem?’ said Asher.
In the distance a loud crash echoed, followed by the savage shouts of men and the hiss of arrows.
‘Too many problems,’ said Tranavaros. ‘I think someone needs our help.’
‘Most likely bandits.’ Asher glanced at the priest’s sheathed rapier. ‘You any good with that?’
Tranavaros looked at the man. ‘Yes,’ he said, stoic and without arrogance.
‘Then let’s go.’
Can dreams lead to the Truth?