Ozmir Nightshade

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Gender: Male

Race: Tiefling

Class/Subclass: Rogue Soulknife

Family: Mother (Deceased), Father (Deceased)

Backstory/History:

Ozmir remembers little of his parents—only flashes of laughter, the warmth of a hand in his, and lullabies hummed softly at night. They died when he was young, victims of a fire that swept through their cramped home. Whether it was an accident or arson, Ozmir never learned. All he knew was that he woke up alone in the ashes.

Something changed in him that night.

He didn't notice it at first. He was too busy surviving—vanishing into alleys, slipping through the cracks of a city that didn’t care if he starved. He lied. He stole. He listened more than he spoke. And slowly, he became good at being invisible.

But sometimes, when the hunger gnawed too deep or the fear ran too hot, strange things happened. A flicker of pressure in his mind. A shimmering thought that cut sharper than any knife. The first time he felt it, he was cornered by an older gang of street kids. He reached for a blade that wasn’t there—and something answered. Not a weapon, but a thought given edge and weight. It didn’t last long. Just long enough to make them run.

He told himself he imagined it. But the feeling came back, again and again—like instinct, like breath. He kept it hidden, afraid of what it might mean. Afraid of what it made him.

Then came Kaelen. Quiet. Watchful. Too perceptive for comfort. When Ozmir’s latest con went too far—posing as a courier for an important family—Kaelen saw through it and offered him a choice: get caught and disappear into some prison pit, or learn how to disappear properly.

Ozmir chose the latter. He always chooses the path that kept him moving.

Kaelen taught him to walk like a shadow, to see without being seen, to step through city and wild as if he were part of the stone and leaves. But more than that, Kaelen saw the truth behind Ozmir’s eyes. One night, during a scouting job gone wrong, Ozmir panicked—cut off, surrounded, nowhere to run. The thoughts surged again, and so did the blade. Not metal. Not real. Just will and need, focused into form.

Kaelen watched him pull a knife from nothing—and nodded. “That part of you,” he said, “it’s not a curse. It's a tool. Same as anything else. Learn to sharpen it.”

That was the first time Ozmir didn’t feel afraid of the power.

Now he walks the space between scout and con artist, always chasing the next score, the next lie, the next way out. His names change with the wind, but trouble always remembers his grin—and the quiet shimmer of psychic blades that never leave a mark, but almost always draws blood.