The theurge is one of the most popular classes in our New Paths Compendium for Pathfinder RPG. Now, Ryven Cedrylle offers this distinctive class for your 13th Age roleplaying game…
Wizards cast spells. Clerics utter prayers. Sorcerers draw on their magical bloodlines and druids draw on the power of nature. You do none of these things, or perhaps all of them. For you, magic is simply magic, regardless of from whence it arises. You are not bound by the precepts of the arcane or the divine. You do as you see fit, limited only by your ability to channel the energy you desire through your very being. Others call you “theurge” for your ability to call upon divine magic without the sponsors of the gods. Perhaps you do in fact have a relationship to a deity that assists you in your work. On the other hand, you might be your own god.
Play style: With its free-wheeling style of combat magic, the theurge is designed for new or experienced players who want to take on the role of a spellcaster without the complexities of preparing a spellbook or suite of prayers. Players who enjoy making lots of choices or exploring a class’ potential for hidden gems may find the theurge a bit underwhelming. Theurge characters model fictional characters such as Gandalf the White or Albus Dumbledore.
Ability Scores: As a theurge, your magic might come from rigorous study, powerful faith or channeling magical energy in a brute-force fashion. Add +2 to your Intelligence, Wisdom or Constitution so long as you haven’t added to that score with your racial bonus. Whichever stat you choose is the one you will use for attack and damage with your MAGIC attacks (see below).
Races: Many dwarves prefer the path of the theurge to that of the wizard, because they don’t have to rely on elven traditions and rituals to accomplish similar feats, and it fits well with their strong religious culture. Gnomes enjoy the rebelliousness of accessing one type of magic via another type and blending them. Humans stand astride various traditions, making the theurge a natural fit. Half-elves and half-orcs, already neither one race nor another, relate to the bridging nature of the theurge’s craft.
Backgrounds: Disgraced Research Wizard, Saw Through The Temple’s Lies, Bearer of the Forbidden Tomes, Chosen of Dasha, Eclectic Education
The snow was piled a human’s height this year, taller in some places. “Baba Yaga hides fresh secrets this winter,” went the saying.
And so the Lantern Festival was invested with an unusual fervor in Urdengard this year (and in most of Domovogrod). Everyone was ready for spring’s triumphant return.
Every torch, lantern, and flaming branch was pressed into service for the parade. A flotilla of candles was released on the lake. Magical floating lights were prepared en masse to ascend to Khors’s threshold.
It was just the sort of desperate hope that gave Clattermap a warm feeling in his coin purse. Selling magical and clockwork lights to soulworn fishermen was the best business he’d found in a year. People were hungry enough for comfort that they’d even buy from a gnome, selling from a rickety booth on a side street. And they paid well for his clever treasures.
A woman approached Clattermap’s booth. She wore silver rings braided into her long auburn hair and smelled faintly of sulfur. “I need to do something about this darkness,” she said.
“Good lady, I have just the thing,” he said. His smile contained perhaps two too many teeth. “This clockwork robin’s breast shines when you sing. When the dawn hymns are sung, it changes from red to yellow, signifying the—”
“Put your considerable girth between me and the crowd, else it will look as though we are breaking in,” Ivka said slyly as his nimble, scaly hands furiously worked a set of picks. Gremmel, twice his height and four times as thick, glared at him, glanced over her shoulder and did the best she could to mask the kobold’s efforts from the Zobecki throng making its way down the busy market street.
“Aren’t we?” she replied huskily. Knowing Ivka’s dislike of cramped spaces, she pressed in close to rebuke his casual insult. Ivka’s eyes widened in alarm at his imminent envelopment.
“Well no, Haradus invited us. Three bells after high sun. The old wizard never let us down before, something must be wrong. Yes, what kind of friends would we be if we didn’t check in on him, duty to our good and dear friend is all.”
“Do you always practice your lies before you need to use them, Ivka?”
“Only with you!” he replied.
“I hate to admit it, but you are right, Haradus has never missed an appointment.”
“Like clockwork!,” Ivka couldn’t resist the pun even if Gremmel was too thick to appreciate it. He imagined the gearforged mage’s strange copper brow furling angrily at him. “Okay Gremmel, stand back. The lock is vanquished, I will now remove the wards.”
“Are you madder than the Ruby Despot? Your lute against the wizard’s spells? If I’d known I never would have…” Before Gremmel could finish, Ivka made several quick motions and barked out a few unintelligible words. The door creaked open.
The eastern Margreve was desolate, an endless waste of sparse trees. Finna crunched through falling autumn leaves, her footsteps echoing against the silent, lifeless backdrop.
Her hunger hadn’t been so bad yesterday, for she had gorged herself on candied apples at the festival the night before. Finna loved apples. Every autumn after harvest time she would run to the orchards and choose a few of the bruised apples left on the ground. Never pick an apple off a tree, her father had told her, because that belongs to someone. The candied apples had tasted even sweeter this year because they were especially for her.
The harvest festival was for remembrance, her mother said. Centuries ago, a terrible sickness had rolled out of the Margreve into the tiny village of Lundar, nestled against the forest on the Rothenian Plain. Only one young maiden was brave enough to seek aid from the forest itself. Within a few days, a thrush descended into the town square and spoke with the voice of the maiden.
Nera thought she had never seen a man so strong, which was funny, really. The rocks Johr piled onto the cairn were so small. She sat with her back to his travel bags and watched him wander across the blasted land in search of stones. Pulling her cloak around her shoulders the wind played with the expensive fur of the collar and hood. She squinted into the dimming light as Khor’s chariot raced west.
The light of the day faded away and still her guide laboured to shape the cairn. She knew only too well what it was like to lose a brother. The Wastes were no place to bury loved ones, but sometimes the gods do not give you a choice.