Sanguine Sorcerer


Young, thin and dressed in tattered clothing too big for him, only Wyrmrune’s dead eyes and icy touch hint at his true power.

Level: 1
HP: 10
AC: 15

Disrupt Undead
Acid Splash
Touch of Fatigue
Ghost Sounds

Cause Fear
Burning Hands

Weapon Finesse
Light Armor Proficiancy

May drink the blood of the recently dead to gain 1d6 HP and become well fed (7/day)

Casts necromancy spells at one level higher than actual.


Born of a loving mother and a loathesome, abusive father, it was immediately apparent that Wyrmrune was a child like no other. Local rumors insist that no flesh appeared on the baby’s head for nearly an hour after his birth, yet the newborn child screamed and hissed abominably, causing the delivering mid-wife to flee gibbering in terror. The next morning, the mid-wife was found dead in the nearby woods, apparently choosing to burn herself to death than live with the memory of the previous night.

At age 4, Wyrmrune’s father savaged the boy, promising to “make a man out of you or break you in two trying!” When his mother, Lillian, tried to intervene, she too, was whipped whithin an inch of her life. Although it happened twelve years ago, Wyrmrune still remembers entering his father’s room that night; remembers the smell of his father’s flesh as it burned…

Again rumors sprang up about the little farmhouse with the decidedly “different” child whose father had disappeared the same night his house nearly burned to the ground. Always a capable shield for her son, Lillian covered for her son’s vengeful deeds and insisted to the magistrates that her husband had gotten drunk, started a fire, and then left them for parts unknown.

Lillian carefully raised her special boy until the night before his 16th birthday. She understood both his power and how others would react to it and schooled Wyrmrune to be mindful of his abilities and be wary of outsiders and their prejudices. Still, a mother can only do so much and more than once, Wyrmrune’s antics had been witnessed by other children who occassionally dared each other to spy upon what had been become known as the “witch-house.” More than once, the constables approached with stories of dead animals scampering about in the moonlight and invisible voices speaking from the grasping trees to frighten on-lookers.

The night before he was to turn 16 years of age, Wyrmrune’s mother woke him and told of the townspeople’s plan to come and destroy him the next day. She had bundled what little possessions they’d had which a traveller might find of use, and given them to him; biding him to leave and not to return until at least his 25th year. With a long hug and a kiss, Lillian bade farewell to her special boy, who she unleashed upon the world to save him from the narrow minds and sharpened spears of her neighbors.

To this day, Wyrmrune still remembers his mother fondly, and the bedtime rhyme she’d taught him those many years ago:

“Tidy your room and hop into bed,
And forget ye not; keep tidy the thoughts in your head.”


Blood and Magic marakesh