Here's an example character using the daemon race, created by contributing author Kristy Eagar. Click any of the character sheet images to the right to get to a .pdf version.
I’ve been looking for my father. He was a stranger. A colonial by birth, they tell me, but I can’t be even sure of that. A warrior, tall and quiet. Always moving. Searching for something. My mother died before he knew he had a child, so all my information has come from the village elders where she lived. They say my father was a tortured man, lucky only in battle. Unlucky in love. Unlucky in birthright. Unlucky in having had a daughter like me.
He came for me, but he saw the mark of a daemon on my scalp and he knew what I was. He judged me. He found me worthy of no better fate than death.
Or so I assume. What else could have led him to cast me off as he did? Why else throw a small child from a cliff into a river? An Avan priest pulled me out of the water, and brought me to one of the hidden enclaves of his order. By the grace of our Lady Mother, they healed my broken body. They raised me to be a warrior. They raised me to be strong, despite the scars that mark me, body and soul.
I’m a daemon, and they tell me that I was once called to serve Lord Daemoth, life after life. Yet the Avans also taught me to prize freedom. When the dark herald came to lead me to my destiny, I knew I had a choice. I turned away.
I make my own destiny. I won’t let the sins of my past lives define me. But I will atone for them.
Sometimes, in dreams, I catch snatches of who I used to be. I reject her. I will not be the woman I once was. If Lord Daemoth wants me, let him come and take me. I’ve chosen the goddess Ava, and I reject him.
A place waits for me, among the operatives of my order. But I’m not ready for that, not yet. I’m not sure I ever will be. I know I’m not worthy. I’m too bitter. Too angry. I remember too much of who I used to be.
I’ve left my brothers and sisters in the hidden enclaves. While I seek to do the work of Lady Ava in a world gone dark, I’ve never been an idealist. My methods are practical. Already there’s blood on my hands, and I don’t know if she approves. Can even the goddess of lost children forgive the things I’ve done? The things I think I’ve done in my past lives? I could make this whole lifetime an atonement, but in the end, I’m not certain she won’t turn her face from what I am. Just as my father did.
I try not to think about it. I try not to think of much at all. I just keep moving, staying ahead of those who hunt me, following the traces of a trail gone twenty years cold.
Does my father still live? Who was he? What was he searching for? Did he find it?
Did he regret what he did to me?
I must know. This last question, I must ask him to his face.
When I hear his answer, I will decide if I believe in justice or forgiveness. I will know my path.
Perhaps I’ll never find my father. But in following the convoluted paths of his wanderings, I've already found myself.