lifehack: write your dnd characters’ backstories as magnus archives statements.
i did this and i’ve never written a more detailed and well thought out backstory in my life (not saying much tbh, i’ve never been great at writing out backstories). it also allows you to put personality into it! so it not only tells your dm what happened to them, it also tells them how the character feels about it and reacted to it.
im going to put the backstory of temerity, my tiefling fighter, below the read more as an example. also im proud of it and want to show it off lol
(disclaimer that i’m not usually actually good at writing, the only time i ever actually write is for dnd backstories. this is an example of what the format can do to make the backstories of non-writers better. don’t expect a masterpiece)
TO BE READ IN THE ARCHIVIST VOICE
I was raised in an orphanage from birth, the one in Klaubury, near to the barracks. Joined the military as soon as I was old enough, of course. That's just how it went there; almost everyone who stayed in that place went on to join the army. If you didn't then- well. Whenever those people's names came up in conversation it was with a sneer, the unspoken implication of coward just behind their teeth. So I enlisted. I was good at it too. Fighting, even killing. That's the hardest part for most people, the killing. It was never hard for me though. I wish it had been.
But I fought and I killed and steadily I rose through the ranks. I never used my magic- you know how people like me have magic? How we can burn someone for inflicting even just a scratch? I hate it. Feels like cheating. No, I worked my way up through sheer hard work and skill. I have never used my magic, at least not... not in battle. And I never will.
I made Captain by the age of 37 and it was the best day of my life. Handed my insignia of rank and a whole company of 136 men to command. I was also good at this, though I preferred fighting on the frontlines; getting my hands dirty, you know. The command came a year into my captaincy. We were to take out an enemy camp, kill them all, take no prisoners. A routine enough mission, Major Ashgrove, my superior, told me. He wasn't wrong - we did this sort of thing what felt like every other month.
So we marched to this camp. It was small, a cluster of tents around several firepits. Couldn't have been more than 50 people staying there. When we attacked, it was clear this wasn't an important camp. It had to have been one of the small local militias, farmers who thought it noble to fight for their king, return home a hero. See, you can tell because armies never bother to properly equip them. Too expensive. They fight with pitchforks and old rusty shortswords, armour themselves by layering all the clothes they own. It was easy. Just set the tents on fire, slaughter those that managed to escape the burning.
It wasn't until they were all dead that I realised we’d been misled. It was- it was the crying of a baby that alerted me, in the end. A screaming, hoarse cry of absolute terror. How stupid are they, I had thought, that they would bring their infant to a battle camp? I followed the crying to a burning tent near the centre of the cluster. I don't burn like normal people do. If the fire is hot enough, if I stand in it for too long then sure it'll hurt eventually, but it's the one part of this curse that I don't have a choice but to take advantage of, that has come in useful.
I was burnt in that tent. I couldn't help it. The second I crossed the threshhold, I froze, the flames that wreathed the entrance licking at my skin. It was filled with bodies- that, I'm used to; can't get far in this line of work if you have a weak stomach. But this was different. Bodies twisted on the floor, choked to death on smoke, or burnt beyond recognition. Small enough that there was no way any of these... corpses were older than 14. By the time I could move again, it was too late. The crying had stopped. These children had obviously tried to protect the baby, keep it as far away from the flames as they could, shield it with their own tiny bodies. Still, it was blistered from the heat, and suffocated from the lack of oxygen.
In retrospect, it was clear. The pitchforks, the ancient swords. These weren't the weapons of an ill-equipped militia, but the desperate defence of a refugee settlement. These people, driven from their homes only to be chased down and massacred anyway. And I had given the command- had even taken part.
The burning is what brought me back to myself, the pain. I had to put a brave face on for my men. I couldn't change what we had done, but I could at least shield them from the guilt of knowing.
The next time I met with Major Ashgrove I saw red. I demanded he tell me whether he knew, and he laughed. I didn't kill him, at least I don't think so. When he tried to fight back, I burnt him. I was discharged. Stripped of my rank and tossed into the streets. I don't know what to do with my life now. Almost 40 years old and with nothing to my name but the meagre savings I scraped together.
I think that one day I’d like to go back and finish the job. To hear his cries fade, and see the light drain from his eyes.
Until then, I think- yes. I want to make up for what I've done. I'm- I'm good at fighting, I can... defend people? Prevent anything like that from happening again. Never again.
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