The Derelict Shelves were a dangerous place, where books that defied categorization went to decay, their words bleeding into one another, birthing new and unstable narratives. The Library itself seemed unsure what to do with these wayward texts, and so they sparked within the shifting corridors like a fire left untended.

It was there, amongst the disordered and crumbling tomes, that two parents stared at the egg between them.

The Wandsmen were not known to bear children. They were protectors of knowledge, stationed within the Library, traveling across different worlds to observe, document, and when necessary, stop great evils from taking root. But now, within the safety of the Library, the improbable had happened. A child was hatched.

And so, in the hush of the Restricted Annex, beneath the glow of luminescent script, a child stirred. Her downy feathers were dark as ink, shimmering under the candlelight, and her golden eyes reflected constellations as if she carried the weight of the cosmos within them. Yet, though she was alive, she did not breathe, and when she moved, it was with an unnatural stillness, except when hunger took her.

Her hunger was not for words or stories but for the living things that lurked between the shelves. The Library had its pests that gnawed at bindings, that burrowed into ink and parchment, that scurried in the forgotten corners of the endless halls. And she hunted them.

Her father was the first to notice. He watched as she moved, silent as a shadow, her talons swift and sharp. The vermin that plagued the archives disappeared in her wake. She never ate at the family’s table, no matter what her mother brought her. It was not meat she sought, but something else.

As she grew, Alys became a child of the Library. She played among the scrolls, her talons clicking against the stone floors as she chased after fleeting words that danced off open pages. The books whispered to her, as though they recognized her as one of their own. She could read the stories hidden between the sentences, feel the pulse of knowledge that thrived in the walls. Yet, always, her hunger remained, a quiet thing, never spoken of, never questioned.

But the Library, for all its vastness, was only one part of the Wandsmen’s charge. There were other worlds to tend, other evils to watch.

Her mother was the first to speak of it. One evening, as the candles flickered low in the scriptorium, she traced her clawed fingers along the spine of an ancient tome and turned to her daughter. "The Library is vast, but our duty is greater still. There are stories beyond these shelves that must be written."

Her father nodded. "You are Wandsmen blood, Alys. The first born among us, though not the first to bear our charge. You will learn. You will watch. And when the time comes, you will act."

The books stirred around her, as if listening. Alys could feel the words within them shifting, rearranging, making space for a new story yet to be written.

It was then that the Wandsmen’s Map stirred.

The Map was an artifact of power, a living parchment that bore the shifting cartography of the multiverse. With the right command, a Wandsman could use it to step between realms, to traverse the endless worlds beyond the Library’s halls. But the Map did not respond to just anyone, it chose its user, revealing paths only when it deemed them necessary.

Alys was alone when she saw the words appear upon its surface.

Help me.

The ink was fresh, as if scrawled by an unseen hand, urgent and desperate. The Map pulsed beneath her talons, an unspoken command rippling through its parchment. She felt it, a pull, a direction, a need.

She did not hesitate.

With swift movements, she reached for her father’s rapier, a slender blade engraved with the sigils of the Wandsmen. It was not hers to take, but in that moment, she knew she would need it.

Alys pressed her clawed fingers against the Map, and the world shattered around her.

She was weightless, suspended between realms, the threads of the multiverse weaving around her as the Map guided her path. The sensation was not unlike flipping through the pages of a book, one moment in one world, the next in another.

Then, with a sudden lurch, she landed.

Alys stood upon a floating island, high above an endless sky. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, the hum of magic woven into every gust of wind. Before her, looming against the backdrop of endless clouds, was a tower, tall, ancient, and silent.

The words on the Map still lingered in her mind.

Help me.

Alys tightened her grip on the rapier. The Library had prepared her for many things. Now, she would see if she was ready to step beyond it.

Quote: "Those with the least sin can contain the most" - Zack'el, Director of CERN (Celestial Experimental Research Nexus) 

Name: T.E.S.S. (Temporary Evil Suppression System) 

Iteration: 1 

Age: 0 

The T.E.S.S. was created as a means of both containment and rehabilitation of evil entities and only the most clique protagonist souls are cultivated for this special task. An Evil entity is lovingly implanted within the T.E.S.S and serves its sentence observing through their senses. Weather this is meant to be an example on how to be a better being, or as a form of punishment is up for debate by the ethics committee. Because of Theological Determinism it's assumed that the entities punishment is over when the T.E.S.S dies. The longer they survive the more evil the being must have been. 

Aldric Storm's family (3 younger sisters & his parents) were killed by a band of evil and demented gnolls & gnoll bosses when they raided Neverwinter when he was 12 years old. He was raised by friends of his parents (the Foglers) who were not a noble family, but were educated & well off. They were able to provide for Aldric and made sure he was educated. He learned how to speak gnoll in order to better know his sworn enemy. 

He vowed an oath of vengeance against all gnolls and trained with some of the best knights in Neverwinter. He became a great fighter known for his skills with the halberd becoming a polearm master. He also became a master at throwing the javelin. He competed in regional games in javelin throwing and won many of these games allowing him to earn a good living. 

He changed his last name to Stormwrath to reflect the wrath he feels toward gnolls and began joining adventuring parties not only to seek treasure and enhance his fighting skills, but to seek out & destroy gnolls wherever he went. He became famous for killing gnolls and even tormenting them in their own language while dealing out punishment upon them & torturing them. 

Aldric fell in love with Cornelia, the daughter of the family who raised him, and they are now in a secret relationship. They plan on getting married and want to be open about the marriage, but they don not know how to tell the Foglers. Cornelia owns a very successful general store which also has some magic items in Neverwinter. 

While adventuring, Aldric and a small party were in a tough fight with some evil clerics. They were able to flee and came upon a temple of the god Pelor. While in the temple, a cleric named Gilyarian who was visiting from Neverwinter informed them that the evil clerics were still hunting them and even put a bounty on their heads. Gilyarian offered to send them to a different plane using a Plane Shift spell until the evil clerics are defeated. Aldric & his friends agreed to this, but asked to be sent to different planes just in case the evil clerics somehow discovered where they went. Gilyarian agreed to this and sent Aldric to the plane where the Never Ending Dungeon is. 

When Aldric arrived, he found himself in a small town with a magic elevator. Everyone in the town told him that the elevator would take them to various floors where he could hone his skills with fellow adventuring parties, obtain treasure & magic items, and maybe even kills some gnolls. He knew he'd fit in perfectly here. 

Foo Everlong is a dark-haired handsome human Eldritch Knight from the city of Waterdeep in Faerun. He comes from a wealthy but not noble family. He is the middle child with 2 older sisters and 2 younger sisters. His father crafted magic items for adventurers to gain his wealth and did this honestly. Foo comes from a loving family. He is honorable & honest, but does not practice any kind of religion, either good or evil. He was trained how to fight with the warhammer, flail, shortsword, and trident. He then trained with a well-known wizard in Waterdeep who taught him how to cast spells. He usually fights with his warhammer in conjunction with his spellcasting abilities, which he mostly uses for defensive purposes. 

He is also musically inclined and can play both the drum & the lute. He does not sing, but he does enjoy playing for others and will often play for them in the evening to relax with his fellow adventurers. He has taken up adventuring to seek treasure so he can maintain a comfortable lifestyle and to improve his magic abilities. 

Born beneath the emerald canopy of the southern Greythorn Wood, Trent Cross grew up far from the glittering courts and high towers that most elves are known to frequent. His home was a small, moss-covered cottage at the forest’s edge, nestled near the port town of Urbania—a place where the wilds met the sea. Raised by a single mother, Sylra Cross, a quiet herbalist and healer, Trent learned early the meaning of resilience. His father, Auren Cross, a merchant sailor and rumored half-elf, was slain when Trent was just a child. He died heroically, according to old dock tales, fending off a pirate raid while transporting a company of wounded soldiers from a battle in the East. Though his body was never recovered, whispers around the taverns speak of Auren's defiance and the ghost-ship that now sails the coast when the moon is low—a phantom relic of his final voyage. 

With no father and little coin, Trent had to become strong. Not out of pride, but necessity. Shorter than most of his elven kin and bearing an olive complexion rare among their kind, he often found himself an outsider—too human for elves, too elven for humans. But that never slowed him. If anything, it forged him harder. He took to the forests like they were written in his blood, mastering the bow from the treetops and hunting with the silent precision of a predator. Over time, his skill with a short bow became near legendary among local rangers and scouts. Yet, when pressed in close, he wields a scimitar with the same fluid grace—quick, decisive, and brutal. 

Trent’s appearance is striking: short-cropped dark hair, a trimmed goatee, and a body scared by years of survival and discipline. He moves with quiet purpose, and though he rarely speaks of his father, he wears a weathered compass—said to have belonged to Auren—on a leather cord beneath his tunic. Now, Trent walks a path between shadow and light, a ranger with a restless soul and an unspoken vendetta against the scourge of the seas. Whether fate or vengeance guides his hand, none can say—but one thing is clear: Trent Cross does not miss. 

Nyxaria was abandoned on the steps of a celestial temple, gravely injured, her strength rapidly fading. The clerics managed to save her life (and even her arms) but the nature of her wounds was unlike anything they had seen. These cuts didn’t seem to originate from the material plane; they were not merely physical, but spiritual. Nyx was being torn apart, separated from her very essence. Despite their best efforts, even the strongest healing magic couldn’t erase the dark scars that remained across her shoulders, back, and the base of her neck. 

As Nyx grew up within the temple, strange things began to happen. She tended to be at the center of several unexplained outbursts. Whenever she experienced intense emotion, such as fear or excitement, objects around her would break, shatter, or get hurled away, as though her feelings had taken on the force of a shockwave. It wasn’t until a visiting scholar witnessed one of these episodes that a possible explanation surfaced. After hearing her story, he theorized that although her body had healed, her spirit had not. In a neutral state, her ki remained stable, but when overwhelmed by emotion or deep focus, it surged uncontrollably, forcing its way out through her old, still raised scars. The scholar tried to teach her to manage her ki through focus and meditation, hoping to redirect the raw bursts of energy into deliberate siphons. But for Nyx (much to the frustration of the temple’s acolytes), clarity never came from quiet study or meditation. Her peace was found through movement, through the rhythm of martial arts. In the years that followed, she continued training in martial arts and honed her ki into physical extensions of her arms, learning to fight with them as if they were a natural part of her. 

Nyx left the temple in search of an explanation of what kind of magic or weapon could have caused injuries such as her own, and what kind of creature would yield such a thing. While she has learned to make use of the terrible situation she was left with, she wouldn’t wish the pain on any others. Her search led her to the Never Ending Dungeon, drawn by rumors of the treasures hidden within. If such a weapon existed, it might be buried in its depths. For Nyx, the dungeon offered more than just the hope of discovery--it was a crucible. A place to test her skills, to push the limits of her control, and continue to shape the energy inside her into something sharp, focused, and unbreakable. 

Nil Bog's story begins on a fateful night when a tribe of goblins discovered a baby abandoned in the wilderness. They believed it to be a sign from their gods, a child sent to bring fortune. The goblin chieftain herself declared the child would be raised as one of their own. 

From a young age, Nil Bog stood out among the goblins wiht his dark skin and green eyes. The goblins taught him their language, customs, and survival skills. They named him Nil Bog, a term from their tongue meaning "trickster spirit."(literally goblin backwards) 

As he grew, Nil Bog became fascinated by the shaman of the tribe, an old goblin who wielded ancient magic. The shaman recognized the boy’s potential and took him under his wing, teaching him how to carve runes, create totems, and commune with the forces of nature. Nil Bog, however, had his own flair—his carvings blended goblin symbols with intricate designs he felt compelled to create, as though the forest itself guided his hands.

 When he was a young man, his life changed forever. While scouting the nearby wilderness, he was ambushed by a monstrous predator and gravely injured. Bleeding and on the brink of death, Nil Bog stumbled into a hidden river glowing with bioluminescent mycelium. The fungal spores surrounded him, sinking into his wounds. Instead of succumbing to the infection, his body changed. The parasitic fungus bonded with him, granting him extraordinary vitality and magical powers but tying his survival to its symbiosis. 

Returning to his tribe, Nil Bog was hailed as blessed by the gods. But he knew the truth—this bond came at a cost. The fungus demanded sustenance, which Nil Bog learned to provide by drawing nutrients from the living things around him, including the blood of creatures he hunted. 

Driven by wanderlust and a growing connection to the cycle of life and death, Nil Bog eventually left his tribe. His travels have taken him across dangerous lands, where he continues to carve his runes, study nature’s mysteries, and honor the teachings of his goblin family. Despite his symbiotic burden, he views his condition as a gift, a chance to live in harmony with the natural world’s endless transformations. 

Through all his adventures, Nil Bog’s heart remains loyal to the goblins who raised him, and he carries their teachings with pride. Every step he takes is guided by the winds of fate, the cycles of nature, and his unshakable belief in embracing the constant change of life. Now he's traveled to a strange dungeon hoping to continue to learn and grow may the forest reclaim us all and through our death may there be life. 

Once, she was Tik-Tik(most were named after the sound they made rather then true names), a nameless worker among thousands, a drone in the endless cycle of hive labor. Her days were spent in tireless service—building, foraging, defending—never questioning, never desiring more. Purpose was instinct. Thought was fleeting. There was no I, only we. 

But then, she hungered.

A strange curiosity burned in her mind, a whispering hum different from the hive’s chorus. She had always been more observant than her kin, her eyes lingering too long on the sky, wondering what lay beyond. Perhaps that was why she made the fatal mistake, eating what was not meant for her.

The royal jelly was for the next queen, a sacred sustenance meant to birth a ruler. Yet, some trick of fate, some defiance of destiny, brought it to her mouth. The moment it touched her tongue, the change began. Her body grew, her mind sharpened, her will solidified. The voices of the hive became distant, yet a new song echoed within her—a hive of her own, small but hers.

She was no longer a drone. She was a queen.

The hive did not celebrate her ascension. Instead, they cast her out.

The true queen, ancient and vast, would not suffer an usurper. The workers turned on her, once her sisters now hostile. The drones, fewer in number but bound to her new telepathic field fled with her. They followed instinctively, devoted to their newly born sovereign, no matter how small her reign.

Banished and alone, she wandered—hungry for knowledge, for purpose, for power. With the intelligence she was never meant to have, she sought to build her own hive. One not bound by the rigid traditions of her old kin. A hive of strength, of will, of unity forged through choice rather than instinct.  A family.

Now she is Queenie, an exile and an empress without a throne.

She flits through the Town of Beginnings, proving her wit with every battle, forging alliances with strange, individual-minded creatures called adventurers. The more she fights, the stronger she grows, and with every victory, the voice of her new hive, her swarm grows louder.

Jump.

Deja Vu was born in the Feywild, a realm of vibrant color, whimsical magic, and endless possibility. As Harengon she was a creature of boundless energy, quick wit, and the unmistakable sense of adventure that characterized her kind.

Her name, Deja Vu, came about naturally, wherever she went, she felt an odd sense of familiarity, like she had met someone before or experienced something before it happened. At first, it was a curious feeling, then a frequent one. It wasn’t long before the nickname stuck, and Deja Vu found herself adopting it as her own, a name that now felt as if it had always belonged to her.

Life was carefree, and luck seemed to be on her side. Every decision she made led her toward fortune—whether in treasure or good company. Magic was in her veins, and from a young age, she showed an innate affinity for it. Her connection to the Feywild’s wild magic shaped her craft, and her spells would often take on an unpredictable, chaotic nature. But she didn’t mind; life was meant to be embraced, and the world was full of surprises.

But everything changed on one fateful day when Deja Vu’s life came to an abrupt and tragic halt.

A powerful wild magic surge, uncontrollable and devastating, swept through her family’s peaceful home, ripping apart the very fabric of their lives. The surge was like a storm made flesh, consuming everything in its wake—her family, her friends, her entire village. Deja, miraculously, survived, though the devastation left deep scars on both her heart and her weave. Her innate magic had been ripped from her, fragmented and broken. She was left alone in a world that had turned upside down, with nothing but the memory of what once was.

It was during this desperate time that she was found by the goddess Selûne, who had always watched over her as she had been born under the light of a full moon. Selûne, moved by Deja Vu’s grief and her shattered weave, called upon the aid of Mystra, the goddess of magic. Together, they used their divine power to repair Deja Vu’s broken magic. But this intervention came at a cost. The wild magic that had once defined her was now entwined with Selûne’s guidance over fate, destiny, and the constantly changing nature of existence. Her magic was no longer the same. It had been forever altered.