Ardat ar Karak'tat

Polite diplomat


Light armor, heavily wrapped in cloth, clawed gauntlets, sharp teeth, poor saves, and slow casting. Carries a large crossbow, heavy mace, heavy sickle. Doggedly determined, versatile, and driven. Speaks a spattering of tongues, but most enjoys playing his arghul. Never really seems to sleep, or eat. Carries a holy symbol devoted to Io (“Yi’o”), the “Great Wheel” or “Father of all colors”.

Original image courtesy


A native to the Flanaess, but adapted nonetheless. Has absolutely no issues with the burning, baking sun and scorching wind. He was once a scrawny, but cunning and high-destined* member of a dragon-fanatic raider tribe in a dangerous waste region of Perrenland when Io came to him, pulling him aside as he was about to tear a fallen drow to pieces.

Io said nothing, but simply held me there as a jeweler would inspect a stone, and throughout this time that was not time, I could sense all of him. His view, the perspective beyond petty conflicts of ideology and politics, the unerring, infinite patience. I was returned to the instant I had left, but I was no longer the same man I had been. In that instant, I had been made an exile from my people. I took up the elf, and left into the desert, to where I knew her caravan had headed.

His near-victim was devoted to Eilistraee and one of a cluster that very nearly killed him as he approached, having known of his clan for generations and learned well of their cunning and malevolence. It was there that he nursed the virtues of honesty and loyalty, of acceptance and negotiation, though he felt far too jaded to allow the seeds of the Seldarine to consume him, and the presence of so many elves – the most reviled of neighbours for his clan thanks to their history of slipping free of the most well-crafted ambush – unsettled him.

Ardat left then, claiming it was to study more of Oerth, but the truth was never once revealed. He had been at utter, absolute peace in the presence of the Great Wheel, and it was a place he sought once more, even if it cost him decades of searching. He entered the desert once more, to wander the wastes and seek wisdom in isolation.

It took no more than a day for his feet to tread a different soil. Known to few beyond the closest service of the great wyrm Ryxthashtis, the blue dragon had been dabbling in otherplanar magics, tearing holes in the fabric of space simply so as to see how it unraveled. Mile-wide swells where the Far Realm had spilled into the Material, gigantic bleeds where the elemental planes openly seeped and seared through the savannah.

If fate had taken a different turn, he may have entered one of the maddening reaches and lost himself to the lure of the alienist. His forage through the unreal was brief, the split running parallel to where the boundaries had revealed something more akin to the normal surroundings, and Ardat wandered through.

It has been years since his feet took him through to a new world, and he has established himself well, as a trader of water and a performer, a healer and lay cleric, a diplomat and courier, despite the dangers of the sands.

  • To the Karak’tat tribe, eyes the color of their patron’s scales were an indication of great destiny – typically a raider who would lead the tribe to great spoils or victory in battle over a difficult foe. It was because of this that the scrawny child was not left to the sands for his risk of weakness, and was instead allowed to exercise his budding magical, mental, and manipulative skills.

Ardat ar Karak'tat

Another Brick Thoriendal