Legends of Belariath

Amahil pronounced; Amah-il

Amahil are a wandering, free ranging culture. They live, wherever they profit. Thriving upon the land. Teasing one out of their hard earned coined or perhaps as some described, putting one into a trance like state from the movement of bodies, to the lilt and haunting quality of their voices. Amahil could be whatever they most desired but what they most desire is always that mystery, preferring roaming the lands, song and the breeze to push that creativity of mind into a vastness of possibility. They are not farmers nor hardy soldiers but certainly its not above them to create and become such. Instead they are of a wily disposition, a fun breezy way of life that's hard and yet thrilling. They shun the city life and prefer making camp where a roaming eye might spot the perfect landscape or denote an easier nights sleep.

In the past they were often plucked from there colorful tents or old covered wagons by the more greedy of slavers or souls. They've learned to embrace what they are, clever and manipulative. Their fingers are agile and thin and crafting jewelry almost seems to be passed down from generation to generation. Nothing brings them down for long, but woe be to the one that angers an entire wandering tribe of them. For they will likely stop at nothing to ruin your lives. They understand what they tread upon. The earth gives up many secrets and the language of wild animals is not lost to them. From the howl of the wolves and its meaning, to the soft grunts of the deer at night.

Character Creation

Starter Classes: Thief, Bard, Druid, Healer, Artisan, Warrior, Entertainer, Shaman

Advanced Classes: Hierophant, Seductress, Mist Raider Necromaner

Starting Stats:

Basic Stats 3 3 4 2 5 4 5

Armor Class: A, B
Weapon Class: A, B


Amahil on Belariath are swarthy, dark in complexion as one that's been in the sun all their lives. Graceful and more agile than High Humans and considerably more solid in the males then the females which tend towards more dainty, curve favoring features. They range in height from four foot nine to six foot three. Eyes range from stunning dark greens to soft sable browns and black. Hair is thick and rarely if ever cut, though the men prefer a shorn side and length in the back, all the better to tie back for their individual flare. From soft curls to straight as an arrow, their hair slips from the glory of sunset reds to the darkest pitch of black, blondes are a rarity. The physiques rarely vary from lean muscular but pliant bodies and talents range from the crafters to magically inclined. They are incredibly unique and yet quite versatile.

Preferring the 'dahsten' of the males, or vests of rural coloration, to the spontaneous flare of the soft sheerness in dresses and skirts. They desire very little in clothing to bind them especially since they are often seemingly on the run. But the colors worn once camp is made is always vibrant and as full of life as they. Gold is a preferred metal worn to fancy silken ribbons in hair, likely to tease ones fingers to see if all that wealth of hair is as soft as it looks. They don't want to look like anyone but what they are, a free uncaring spirit that will dance through the lives they come across, or even pilfer your purse. But one thing is for certain, they have very strong bone structure from hawk like noses, thin and yet attractive, to the wideness of eyes and the high cheek that curves sweetly.


Religion? You mean with the icons and statues and time off from the revelry and looting to the magic tricks? Certainly not. Religion means a tie to places, things, and other lives beyond their own. They won't have it! Certainly a sultry race with that scintillating glance from the corners of their eyes begging and wanton, or so you think, one would assume Ishtar highly prized as a Goddess and while they may give lip service to said Goddess, its not exactly factual.

They trick both themselves and others into believing such nonsense. What they do believe in, is the Black Stag. Fleet of foot, roaming, rustic, passing you by in the night when the moon is just right. This mystery of magical animal that can leap over twenty yards, is merely a fabrication told around the fires at night. But they believe in it, its unstructured tale is certainly mind boggling to the rest of Belariath. But to them it means treasure to come, good food, good wine or rum, the flow of ale and sweets to the soft silks they most enjoy feeling on their bodies. A well traveled road full of adventure. They shun the thought of making temples and sacrifices for, lets face it, being constantly on the move rather negates a long trip back to give out candied fruits or bits of cloth. They celebrate life every night, and why not? They are still alive aren't they? They aren't hungry, are they? Certainly not. But the Black Stag, so free and running ever forward is a lure that's passed down from generation to generation. They think and tell anyone that will listen, all the good and none of the spoils. But be wary, for they will often threaten you with such a haphazard creature when they feel threatened. "It will come for you! Its horns thrusting into your soft belly to tear you apart. Mark my words!" What nonsense you would think, certainly some animal isn't going to come into your home with black over sized horns and tear you asunder! But it doesn't matter what you think, only, what the Amahil think. And it will always be as such.

One religious celebration that happens twice a year, at spring and fall, is the Wild Hunt. They slip many a feather and a few twists of horns within glorious thick hair, strip down to near nothing and run among the trees, the plains of sand, even within what swamps they come across. Each carries a glowing, mossy rock. The glow comes from the moss upon said rocks, a natural occurrence found in the Southern region and only plucked up at night for that's the only time to see these wondrous acts of nature show themselves. With small light within hand, they take off among the wildlife and watch most keenly for even a glimpse of their past relatives spirits floating above ground, their own lost souls running, running with a leading Black Stag, their God. They show no exhaustion but there is always laughter and not always their own. But that of the spirits. In these times they bring but a dagger carved with care from the bones of any deer they had killed during the months leading to these days. Carefully decorated in colorful animation of hunts that were a pinnacle to their own lives, they proudly display them, slashing at the air, calling out to the spirits they once remember by name only to receive laughter and flitting forward as a reward. It is told that if they actually manage to catch up, they will be lead to the goal of their lives, Summersland. A haunting old tale of where only the most wily, crafty, most progressive of their tribes will reach once death has taken them from this mortal land. There they will find peace, food aplenty, fields of wheat and flowers. Where the fires never wane and where music hauntingly plays to sooth them. Where the dance goes on, and on and where the soul can forever be within a circle of celebration.

It isn't often the spirits of ancestors is seen, nor their God seen leading these long lost people, one might gain but a brief image, another so drunk, may claim they rode upon the back but fell off before Summersland could be reached, mainly because of laughter or forgetfulness that they were upon the Black Stag. Its the only moment perhaps in their lives that they will reflect and feel, sad. But once the day of this Celebration comes around again, they are just as motivated as the others, if not more so, to catch another glimpse, to grab hold of those magnificent horns and find their own, peace.


Who knows where they originated from, certainly the high life is all they ever seek, a wily mage among them can open pathways. A good bard is certainly the way of life, the lore keepers once said, that they loved the open airy wonder of warmth further to the South and certainly that's where one would find them in abundance. The sand under their feet, a good forest to run through and hide. A divine pool of water to wash in. Human in appearance certainly, with small rounded ears, a shorter life span then the variations of elves, but certainly longer than the High Humans. Perhaps it is their very life style that often helps them live longer, or be snuffed out suddenly. Life isn't mourned however. But it is remembered. They are a hardy soul with a voracious appetite to simply, be. Be as they want, look as they want. Take as they want and move as they want. They can't stand being to long in any one place and often are seen looking to the sky with a dreamy expression as if already picturing where their feet and wagons may take them. They've never made good slaves. And can become quite surely if caged for to long. Often if one is taken from their tribe of traveling sturdy horses and wagons to the dainty horses they use to race upon, the entire tribe will come looking for just that one individual and free them. Quick changing said person to look entirely different until they are forgotten and given up as lost. There have been a few rare cases of Amahils wandering off in search of their own type of adventure. Maybe to grow and learn, or perhaps take up a craft not often seen. They have a flare for the curiosity in everything 'new' or shinning.

This explains the complexion of course, a lot of time in the sun and the warmer climates certainly can be seen in their swarthy complexion. They keep 'a' tome. Just one. The stories within are complex and often riddled in variables that both seem truth and a lie. It talks of a dark King in times of real upheaval and true fear, where a village was plundered by this dark one and many went missing. They picked up what lives were left, only to have said same dark King find them again and their own brethren fighting them.

Perhaps this is why they move around so often and why the spirit of it has ingrained within their very being. It might explain their darker complexions. Certainly they had their fair share of real fears. Never committing to one spot means one cannot lay down roots or longer lines of lineage either. Flitting from spot to spot however holds its own advantages as one can never just be plucked up anymore for its hard to find your pray if it isn't where you left it. While they enjoy crafting jewelry and dying their own fabrics and they are good at it, nothing pulls at their hearts more then nature itself. Potion brewing, to poisons to understanding the rule of herb lore and adding it into their own little shows or selling to the unwary passerby. They don't usually delve higher upon the lands nor do they particularly like mountains. They are not a goat! They will steadfastly tell you. Their feet were meant to stay on the ground and their horses were meant to carry them over it as fast as they can go. But this lone tome, seems to bind them all together. Once a year they follow a long set down instinct of trails to gather in great numbers among a corpse of trees. They do not mourn the loss of life here, but rather celebrate it and pass on tales to sightings of wonders and creatures so that all may be aware of what each has come across. By the end of the night when the last keg or bottle is empty, all clothing is shed and thrown into the hungry fires. Cleansing themselves in a manner and writing upon the pages of the tome, those which survived the longest and what adventure and history they have to impart.


When you think of the Amahil, you think.. thieves, discontents, gold and the chimes of fingers flicking around you in musical freedom. Certainly they are all of those but they are so much more. Matriarchal with little formal bonding. Relationships made and broken easily. Children brought up by the band into which they are born. These too are a part of their world. Their Seers and Shamans leading each tribe and the band of their ever growing or decreasing covered wagons. But theirs is a world that ranges everywhere so why stop to smell the roses to long?

Entertainment is a must and of course with constant motion comes the story tellers of their groups. They'll share outrageous tales with anyone that stops by to listen and let the wine and ale flow to keep you there, enticing you to pause by one sturdy colored wagon and the old woman rubbing away at an old crystal, her wrapped head a colorful array of blues and reds to purples and gems dangling to the small round discs of gold to catch ones eye even further. Her heavy lined face would smile to you and all the wisdom in the world is there in those dark eyes, she would beckon you with ringed fingers and you would feel the pull to come closer and closer until her old voice reaches out like a song to your ears.

"I see the life you hold shinning back at me. Be careful though, what you gained by rueful means might bite."

What the hell does that mean? You are both appalled and intrigued and step even closer. "What would you know grandma?" As if you need to assert yourself immediately. But she only smiles knowingly and beckons you within that wagon. So many bobbles and doo-dads, from the oddity of chickens feet in a jar that look long weathered and dried, to the herbs hanging above you. To some unknown orange liquid bubbling away in a small cauldron but the smells are what capture your attention most. Its not unpleasant. Its sweetly inviting, like mint and basil that makes your mouth almost water. You aren't exactly certain what's on the unusual plate to the left of you and you're almost tempted to touch, until you hear a soft click of tongue and turn to see that old woman staring at you. Chiding without having to say a word and your hand is drawn back. Slowly of course, but there's that look of guilt you can't quite hide and you give her back that smile.

"Sit.. sit.. I can see into your past, your present and your future, if you want young man. I can even tell you what that life I see, is about to do. And tell you what to do about it. For a mere coin.. I can tell you everything."

The canvas falls to hide curious eyes, and those dancing around the fire smile to each other and the music kicks off louder and louder as more and more wander in close to that camp. Is it so unusual they might have a knack for such things? No more then the potions they create or even the sheep that the children are given to guard and keep watch on, follow behind them. To the few cows used for milk, their hides for leather, or their meat for eating. After all, one cannot steal everything all the time and they do have to eat. Surprisingly crafty with their hands it would seem as well as understanding nature and its surroundings to carrying the tales of other cities for those that might join them for the evening, to hear.

Children are the life they are nurturing but certainly not just one mother might bring up. But all of them. Everyone has a hand within their raising so that they can become a jack-of-all-trades just like papa. They aren't unhappy, that's for sure. They are raised with love, care and discipline. Taught the art of reading ones fortune to how to skin that very cow they've been dragging along, to take from the sheep its curly hair for wool. Also to turn a pretty skirt and wear that flaring vest though more muted in color than what the women might wear as they grow older. And how to turn a coin. Oh yes. Thrifty fingers never go amiss. While a stranger is marveling at all those thick curly locks, another child is likely hanging onto that strangers hip and fingers delving into a coin purse. If caught? Come now, they are just children, curious and ever poking into things. No worries. Here is your coin back! Well, most of it. Maybe.

But, have a care, while you think that handsome man over there playing his loot and being ever so gracious and wise is their leader? Think again. The woman run the show, and what a show it is. The men seem perfectly fine with all that. Leaving the decision making to the old ones is far easier and leaves them far more time for the fun of it all or finding a new skirt to chase. They love passionately and very deeply but never for long. And why should they? This is their adventure and they are grabbing it by the fist full's and refuse to let go, until something else prettier catches their eye.

Which brings us to their music, oh that kick worthy of leg music! You can't help but tap your fingers to their beat, your eyes following the circle of young beauties teasing the night away. Their voices mellow and rich and some of that more lilting sweet quality that captures the heart and the body. Certainly the best Bards around. They create music out of everything they see and can use just about any instrument and have made a few unique ones to give you every pleasure of ear. Who wouldn't want to listen in, have your heart stolen by a mere voice. I certainly would.


Were the Amahil always here? Certainly their way of life isn't singular to them, after all, even the High Humans drifted for a time until setting up roots, but that was their goal. At least, for most of them. There really isn't a set History that one can pinpoint with these wayward people. The High Humans will tell you that a few of them took to the wandering bug so much that some broke off and went their own way, travelling the Southern lands happily enough, enjoying the breeze on their faces and the taste of freedom on their tongue. Years darkening their skin to handle the constant sun and heat. Choosing spouses that were like minded but even that seemed to tie them down until they'd flit off to find another. It became more a way of life. Enjoy, celebrate, be whimsical but practical for survival. Bundle those wants up into one chaotic little package and you have what the Amahil are today. A lively group of tricksters and game players.

But everyone has an origin so perhaps all this so far is true. They just don't remember it all, a few tales here and there, even the elders among them differ in the stories told. A few in particular agree with the Tale of Semrie. It is believed he out of their fresh beginnings, discussed with the younger generation that it would be an exceptional idea to explore, take back their freedom and demand an equal say in where they went, to what they most wished. Being young is both a freedom and a pact of slavery in their opinion. Strong, fast, handsome, beautiful, an ability to soak up knowledge far faster. He declared their separation from the throng of Humans heading further North over their usual dinner in front of a bonfire and he and those he'd managed to sway to his outlook of favor, had turned on their heel and left as one. It couldn't have been many and nor did anyone really seemed concerned. They'll be back, this was going to be home soon. But not for Semrie. Home? The land was his home, and not just a mere acre or two. He would have all the land to call home, travel where he wished, live as he wished, play his lute as he wished. He was tired of the older gents telling him when to work, where to go, where to place the firewood, how to stack it. He should be a man to himself with others of like mind and he'd found that following. Shockingly, he also found trouble.

While a few of the girls had followed along, he hadn't taken into account that many of them were issued but one job to learn and do and not enough of them knew what was needed. Not just to make a camp and start a fire or fetch water from a known water source, which as they moved, became an increasing panic because, now they didn't have maps to follow and it was trial and error. While a few began to worry more about their empty stomachs and lack of warm blankets at night, Semrie plunged onwards, comforted that they'd always survived before and would do so again. While he was labeled a visionary, he wasn't labeled a practical man. Soon, some of the others began to step up, deciding it was time to stop counting on someone else to know or learn these essential needs of life, they slipped off to follow the wagon trails of the High Humans and get their dirty little hands on anything written down that would teach them more basic skills. Blanket making, animal handling, water sources, cartography. Curing meats and carving out wheels to making a bit of heavy cloth water proof. They'd come back after weeks of their pilfering victory, only to find their small camp had moved. Luckily it wasn't hard to track but what they came across was not for the faint of heart. Those they'd called friend and companion to leader, had been slaughtered and their goods trailed about the campsite in ruins or torn apart. Most would have turned and run right back to the safety of the High Humans, but not them. No. Then and there it was decided without a need for discussion that they'd enjoy this taste of freedom and while they hadn't had the skills to make a more stable existence, they now had the means to progress, learn and insert their own way of life within the process.

The cleaning up wasn't required, nature would take care of that, they simply salvaged what they could and left that odd campsite of death and destruction. They would forge on, they would thrive and they weren't going to mourn the dead for that would have made them weak in resolve, the heart of what they'd all wished for, would have been just as torn as their lost belongings. No. No they would not drown in what was lost, but celebrate in what was gained. Some say, it was the first celebration of the dead, when their God strode into their bonfire and their dancing and the music they played and stared them in the eye. As if giving a silent bow and understanding that perhaps these people, that had proven they could be resilient and loyal to a cause they believed in, would not just survive, but thrive. They'd been in awe but never lost a beat in continuing. The first and best step was never to look back and always, to live in the moment.


These may get their own page if expanded

Of course the Amahil being ever on the move, often through their history have branched out, either from an overcrowding band (one to many wagons and it both slows them down and inundates towns far to much and they are easily spotted) or from preferred climate. Sometimes the forested areas call to those in their youth, others, more a mountainous region and of course the majority prefer the warmth and rolling hills and sands of the most southern regions with intersperses of forests. Each (band) has their own preference but generally their looks to hair and eye coloration rarely vary. But in them, certain traditions have been adapted and set each band apart.

Bachchir Tribe:

Ah the love of traveling, the clear crispness of a mountain to your left and right, so majestic that this Amahil band cannot ignore its calling and often rarely stray from the sight of them. Perhaps the peeks call to one to conquer and climb? Its possible, after all, this race of roamers certainly enjoy adventure and a free spirited calling towards conquering an obstacle just to tell tales around their bonfires and sing songs about how close death was to breathing upon the backs of their necks. This band is more hardy, less prone to sickness and more heavily built than their sister bands. They tend towards more fur wearing and beards to piercings of many along their right ears, each piercing represents a mountain they've climbed and conquered. Even if its just a tiny little hill. Their wagons are built more for function then pretty colors dotting all around, heavier, more thickly coated for added warmth. They are perhaps, the more trusted band for society because their nature isn't as fickle and more pragmatic. Trading is tantamount because of harsh weather conditions. So they must keep good relations as much as possible.

You won't often catch them without their spiked boots on either, for nothing holds you better to a mountain then a good grip, a grand rope and spiked boots to sharpened tools of the trade. Their boisterous laughter exudes their grand spirits, for they may look more dour in their dressing then other bands, they certainly love life and apparently are not afraid to live it. Anyone that deliberately seeks a high peek knowing death is but another foot up, obviously must be in the best of mind frames.

The songs they sing are also more melodic and dramatic, no gentle flute playing here, its all about that high tense note to capture the audiences attention while a wily young man recounts the tale of that glorious Mt Morning. Hand gestures exuberant as facial expressions for nothing keeps one on the edge of their seat then the danger this band member faced and is now alive to tell you.

Feranic Tribe:

There it is before you, the magnificent of redwood trees, the towering branching of oak and the mystic feel of cedar and pine. Ahh, breath it in, spread your arms out and spin to the hypnotic soft beat of real nature around you. This band certainly enjoys the canopy of the forest over their head. Every inch of forested areas screams out to them to embrace their inner calm, to smile at adversary and to know its embracing you in its warmth and nurturing you while protecting from the elements. This is what they've been seeking all their lives. To dance among such an audience is truly magnificent. At least, to them. Everything in copes of tress is usable, from their leaves to the branches to the bark upon a tree to the wood itself. One can make a fine fire here but certainly they never overlook the safety of said fire. Their wagons differ from the others, its not that they are more colorful, or less, or less sturdy. But often decorated in feathers and more primal pictures of animal hunts to larger birds of prey lifting up something unusual.

The hunting of course, is much better here as well and they know all the trails of nearly every heavy forest out there, whether you see them or not, makes no difference to them. They've also adapted to a much quieter step, more stealthy, near invisible within its canopy. They also tend more towards wearing green and sporting a bit longer hair that's often entwined using bark they've worked between agile fingers to smooth it out, create smaller ties for more intricate braids upon their women. They are also more lean and agile then other bands and certainly enjoy a more robust bit of cooking. One must have a grand appetite to enjoy dancing among the giants. Often their celebrations run all through the night for they seem to have much more energy and of course, are more attune to the earth beneath their feet.

They are also the most suspicious lot one will ever find. They prefer to go in and out of any city they come across. Move in, do your business, get out. Thinking perhaps that their lore and knowledge could be coaxed from them should they stay to long. They feel they have the most to lose with to much contact with different societies and certainly their bands are more apt to lose women and men to slavers for their more exotic look.

Skills and Abilities:


Blending: All their lives they have traveled, never once staying longer then a week in any location. Often spoke of in whispers or outright anger and chased from village to village, they've learned to adapt mannerisms and clothing choices to better blend within any society they come across. Your eyes might halt on that pretty form and wide intelligently vibrant eyes, but while you're looking left, they are taking right, right from your pockets most likely. From their looks to their voices, everything is changeable and often such lilting voices make one far to comfortable to think anything more then "My, what a lovely companion.". They can be highly entertaining and often use their women as decoys for who wouldn't want that lush curvy form upon their lap?

Fleet of Foot: As has been stated many a time and often witnessed, the Amahil are quite quick on their feet and often as slippery as an eel to pin down. Their agility should be legendary and their crafty nature is more an enhancement of this than one could guess at. Yes, they love to take from you and give to themselves, but once done so its rare they are caught openly because they are soon dancing off as if they'd never been at your side to begin with and leave that fresh feeling of having been the only one they were looking at. Which isn't to far fetched from their circumstance that is. Quick to move, they don't like to paint a target on their heads but its hard to find them once they have moved, as already they are walking out that door or down the road, counting their blessing of ample rum they may be buying later or the honey ale they often prefer.

Mechanics: +1 Modifier to initiative when combat begins. They gain an additional plus one for every 5th level the character reaches (level 5, 10 15) up to a maximum of +7 (at level 30) to initiative.


Arrogance of a supple mind: Of course, they just nimbly stepped away and got what they came for, the problem is while they always expect you to be angry, they don't expect you to find them. It can be hard, for they've likely already learned the lay of the land and where best to hide but their jovial laughter and lilting voices to their dancing and love of music to the finer crafting of jewelry can make them sloppy. Believing themselves above your petty searching and redemption need, they don't hide for very long or you may even spot them searching for another victim. As if their mind refuses to grasp you might be more intelligent then they. They'll first try to talk you out of anything you have in mind once caught, but their glib tongue isn't as fast as their feet and often they try to get a crowd involved, thinking the more eyes and voices will lend them the chance to make another quick escape. A scene is reckless but the attention is thrilling.

Light Travelers: Something one may take note when coming across any Amahil caravans is the armour they wear, or more accurately their lack of. Even the biggest and burliest of them outright refuse to wear armour made of metal. It's too heavy, too expensive, difficult to maintain, unecessary and gets in the way of more intimate matters... The reasons will vary but the truth is the same. All Amahil outright refuse wearing armour of metal, from plating to chain with a aversion that seems in their very blood. Only the decorative circlets being the exception.

Mechanics: No Amahil will wear any armour made of metal for any reason, restricting them to cloth or leather with the sole exception of this rule being circlets.