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Moe Sphere

PLAYED BY: Juilan Boehm



CLASS: Rogue

AGE: Mid 20s

RACE: Human

HAIR: Brown


KNOWN SKILLS: Alchemy and Herbalist

RELATIONSHIPS: Member of the Nomads.

RUMORS: “do you think he’ll burn his eyebrows off again?” “Who cares. He makes the best apple pie this side of the world.” Over heard around the campfires of the Nomads.


Moe was an apprentice brew-master back on Faedrun. Given more time he would have become Faedrun’s best as his brews were enjoyed heavily among the Aldorian nobles. Learning to transfer his brew master skills into that of an alchemist his trade took off even further. As a few years passed he had become better than those he learned from, moving on to newer and better towns he eventually opened a Tavern all his own. The Pie House, named after his signature brew the business flourished and he hired on help quite steadily. Yet he still kept the entire brewing process all to himself, although people asked him many a time he kept quiet, often telling tall tales about how he plucked a chicken for a single feather to mix the entire batch.

When word of the undead within the city reached them, he wrote it off as drunken rabble, the man tumbled head first through his door and onto the floor. Voice cracking, wheezing with hiccups he babbled about the hordes as they struck down towns not too far from there. Handing the man a bottle of brew and a silver piece he guided the gent to the door and let him out. Laughter peeling across the tavern as people jested with each other, ridiculing the man as they presumed he ran on to tell his tale once more. Undead had never been able to breach this far into the city, they had taken care of them and only the outter lying towns need fear.

Staying late that night he tended to his brew, the great barrels stated the back of the storage hall were hauled up front to Make room for his next batch. The groans were soft as scuffles echoed in from outside, his wheelbarrow full he iced the door open to find himself staring into dead eyes. The monster let out a scattering screech as it lunged for him, eyes wide with hunger it’s call made more turn. Shoving the wheelbarrow at it he turned for the rear entrance. Shuffling multiplied behind him, soon a shatter of glass rang in his ears. Turning his head he could barely see the fire from his overturned lantern, licking at the barrels of brew like a desperate drunkard.

His heart pounded as he ran faster, throwing open the door and bashing the lock closed. Unable to contain his horror any longer he screamed, as lights appeared so did more of the horde. Panic ensued as people ran from their homes and into the thing. It turned into a bloodbath, the central square awash with the thudding of feet and groans of monsters.

A loud boom roared from behind him, as the brewery went up in flames. Undead poured from the now broken door, fire coating their bodies as they walked into pandemonium. The fire spread as people ran for the woods, neighboring villages, for safety. His legs started moving, arms pumping, lungs burned as his instincts took him far away. Dodging around bodies, lunging undead, to the dark safety of the forest.

Unwilling to stay any longer, he boarded the boats a week later. Arriving on Mardrun, he took to his old ways brewing and running tavern. But finding consistent customers was not as easy as it used to be. He turned to travel, both to gather more clientele, and to ease his troubled mind.

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