Kareem Bishop

RACE

Human

GENDER

Male

LIFE STAGE

Adult

BODY SIZE

Medium

BUILD

Athletic

I was born into something I don’t remember, just fragments that don’t feel like dreams. Light too bright, voices too calm, like people who never had to struggle. Then it’s gone. What I got instead was the Bronx. Concrete, noise, people who mind their business or make you mind it for them. Foster homes, streets, figuring things out early. I learned quick—read a room, read a person, read when something’s about to go bad. Fell in with people I shouldn’t have, UNB ties, nothing I’m proud of but it kept me fed. I didn’t start fights unless I had to, but I finished them. Somewhere in all that I found battle rap. Not for fame at first, just a way to say things without swinging. Then I got good. Real good. People started listening, reacting, like my words hit harder than they should. I thought it was talent. Guess it wasn’t just that. At 18 I bounced. Army. Needed out, needed structure, needed something that wasn’t the same cycle. First tour I was a medic. Learned how fast people fall apart and how to keep them from doing it. Blood, pressure, decisions you don’t get to think about. Second tour I worked as a mechanic. If it ran, it was good enough. If it didn’t, you made it. Ugly fixes, real results. That stuck with me. Fix what’s in front of you, don’t wait for perfect. When I got back, things started getting weird. Too lucky sometimes. Too persuasive other times. Lights flickering when I was pissed, people folding in arguments they should’ve won. Mirrors started acting off. I ignored it. Told myself I was just adjusting, just stress, just whatever. Then one night I’m alone, and I look at my reflection—and it ain’t matching me right. For a second, I see something else. Not clearer. Just…wrong. Brighter. Like I’m not finished loading. Then it grabs me. No warning. No time to react. I’m pulled through the mirror like I weigh nothing. Everything stretches, folds, like the world don’t know where to put me. Next thing I know I’m hitting dirt hard enough to knock the breath out of me. I wake up outside a place I’ve never seen. Mountains in the distance, air feels different, quieter but heavier. Later I learn the name—Shou Lung, Kara-Tur. Means nothing to me. I got no map, no clue, no context. Just me, my gear, and one thing that makes zero sense. The bag. Looks normal. Feels normal. Isn’t. I check it and it just keeps going. Gold. Stacks on stacks. Way more than I’ve ever seen in my life. I don’t know where it came from, don’t remember getting it, but I know one thing—it’s real. Enough to change everything, if I even knew how money worked out here. I don’t know this world. Don’t know the rules, the people, the power, none of it. All I know is what I’ve always known. Things break. People fall. And I fix what I can. Everything else? I’ll figure it out.

GOAL & MOTIVE

Peace. I want to carve out a quiet life in this new world and maybe introduce some of the modern conveniences we take for granted

Skills and Stats

ATTRIBUTES

Fair

Health

Fair

Agility

Good

Strength

Legendary

Reasoning

Fair

Willpower

Good

Perception

SKILLS

Brawl

Good

Healing

Great

Crafting

Superb

Diplomacy

Superb

Melee Weapons

Good

Ranged Weapons

Fair

GIFTS

Noble Bloodline

FAULTS

Racial Prejudice

Oath-Bound

Inventory

Bag of Holding (5k gold)

Magical katana