[4e] Fallen - Rogue's Gallery
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  1. #1
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    Gallant (Lvl 3)

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    [4e] Fallen - Rogue's Gallery

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  2. #2
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  3. #3
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    Atrius, Half-elf Bard
    "Strength is having the courage to act."

    Atrius was born into slavery, the child of a human slave and an unknown elf. He chose to train as a gladiator in a chance to rise from his origins, and follow his dreams. But now he has found himself on a steep trip back down.

    Atrius fought for the crowds with flashy swordplay and graceful movements. His fighting style still mimics this, but in the brutal fights for his life he will use any tactic he can get his hands on, be it swordplay, magic, or simply making friends with his opponents.

    "Gather round and listen! Hearken to the tale of Atrius the Bold, champion of the ring! A mighty warrior! A legend in his own time! Men feared him! Women desired him! And many had him, truth be told. Many women, a great many women. . . but I digress. . .

    From the humblest of beginnings he strode forth with blade in hand to carve his own destiny! Every warrior knows that real strength lies not in the body, but in the mind. Having the courage to strike when it is needed, that is true power! And when opportunity came for this fey-marked son of man, Atrius met the challenge head-on. He was a mere stripling when he defeated the legendary Grimhammer! A mighty orc warrior from the frozen north, humbled by a lowly slave boy. It was a mighty dual! Grimmhammer roared fierce defiance at"

    My words were cut short as I ducked out of the way of a boot thrown across the room, nearly clipping my head. The boot was followed by a short burst of cursing. I stared down my critic, an aging veteran who quickly dropped his gaze. But I remained silent nonetheless, my rhythm broken. I looked around the dingy slave quarters and sighed deeply.

    It is odd how certain moments in time continue to shape your life so long after they have passed. Barely remembered taunts from my youth still sting me today. Other humans who sneered because I was part elf, everyone else who sneered because I was part human. All of them looking down at me because I was small, weak, unimportant. Even from my earliest days I could feel the fey blood flowing within me, prompting me to unleash it's potential. But I did not desire a life of magic and study, I longed to be a warrior, a hero from the fireside tales; sword in hand, a man alone, pitted against the world. They mocked me for my dreams. But I knew that I would not stay a household slave forever. I swore that I would not spend my life sweeping floors.


    The first of these moments burns in my memory above all others. The day I reached out and took what the world refused to offer me. The master's son wished to start his own stable of gladiators, and his father had gifted him with his choice of the slaves, and the retired champion, Kerak Grimmhammer to train them. The announcement was made, and several of the stronger boys chose to take the offer, dreaming of a chance at a better life. Then I stepped forward. I stared upwards as Grimmhammer scowled down at me.

    "You, boy? A mere twig could never last in the arenas! Come back when you can stand up in a stiff breeze!"

    And then he laughed. And everyone laughed with him. At me. Laughed at the idea that I could ever be a warrior. They all expected me to simply give up, to run and hide behind my mother's skirts, to live a life of no consequence. But I had other ideas. I felt my hands tighten around the broom in my hands as I gripped it like a sword, screaming my defiance I darted forward and swung as hard as I could, shattering the wood against Grimmhammer's head. Silence dropped like a stone across the room as everyone stared at me. I stood there, still gripping the broken broom and staring unflichingly at my own doom. Grimmhammer slowly reached up and rubbed his jaw as he regarded me.

    And then he laughed. But this time it was a very different laugh.

    "Oh I LIKE you! You really don't understand fear, do you? Very well, let's see what we can make out of you."


    I recall the first time I set foot on the arena sands. The fight itself is a mere blur, but the moments leading up to it are firmly etched in my mind. I stood just inside the ring, staring upwards at the throngs of people. Grimmhammer, stood behind me, my trainer, my mentor, my friend. I was about to put to the test everything he had taught me over the past years. I stood transfixed by the roar of the crowd, an intoxicating sound. Grimmhammer clapped me on the shoulder and gave a short laugh.

    "It is a wonder to behold, isn't it? In my homeland there is a mountain, riddled through with caves. The wind whips through the mountain, and to stand within it is to hear the gods play the world as their instrument. It is an incredible noise and the only thing I have ever heard that can rival the crowd in their glory. Now, go and discover what it feels like when it's your name they are chanting!"


    Thus began my life as a gladiator. I had learned much from Grimmhammer. How to fight, how to win, but most of all how to look good while I did it. A gladiator's career hangs on his ability to draw a crowd's attention. Be good, be bad, it doesn't matter. If you do it colorfully enough, they will love you. I was a champion, and I loved every minute of it. I wanted for nothing. Wine, women and song flowed past in an endless stream of pleasure, which still couldn't compare to the thrill I got hearing the roar of the crowds as they chanted my name. Nobody dared laugh any more.

    I spent less time with Grimmhammer in those days. I had learned all he had to teach, and it was painful to watch him succumb to the ravages of time. He was already far past his prime when he became my trainer, and the intervening years had not been kind. To see the once proud warrior so weak was frightening to me, and I shamefully avoided him in favor of my own glory. But one day, he called me to his side, and I answered.

    "Ah, my proudest achievement. I wish to ask something of you. I have reached the point in my life where I must face the fact that certain dreams will never come true. Long ago, when I first came to this land, I often dreamed of returning to see my homeland once more. Now it is far too late for me to make any such journey. But you, you are still young, with many years ahead of you. I would ask this of you. If ever you should find the chance, I would ask you to go in my stead and take a memory of me with you to leave there."

    He pressed a small stone pendant into my hand, and closed my first around it.

    "That was given to me by my father. Take it with you if you find a way."

    I glanced down at the unassuming piece of stone and told him I would remember the promise, should I ever have the chance to visit his homeland. Then I placed it in pouch, tossed it in my chambers and forgot about it. Some months later, he passed away without us having spoken again.


    When the fall came, it was sudden. Some debts were called in, some business ventures failed, some gambling went badly. For a while, I had been Atrius the Bold, beloved champion. But I was first and always a slave, given away in exchange for a debt forgiven. The arena masters themselves would now hold my contract. No more for me were the priveleges of a champion. Everything that was mine, was never truly mine. I was thrown into the slave pens with a few scattered possessions, and a pouch containing a forgotten stone pendant.

    The love of the crowd is a fickle thing, and the only thing they love to see more than a champion at the top, is to see one ground into the dirt. My fights have become more and more brutal. No more clashes between two brave challengers, now I am thrown against anyone and everyone. My blood flows daily, I fight for my life. Some of my fellow slaves are with me, organizing impressive but survivable matches. Others long to be the one who finally puts me in my place and ends the legacy of Atrius. I have fallen a long way. The crowds laugh as I scrabble for survival. The time has come to leave this place and once again seize a new destiny. I must forge a path for myself. I must find my chance for glory once again.
    Level 1 - Household slave.
    Level 2 - Volunteers for gladiator training.
    Level 3 - Training under Grimmhammer, first steps into the arena.
    Level 4 - Rise of a champion, glory is heaped upon him. Death of his mentor.
    Level 5 - Sold to clear his master's debt. Arena degrades into bloody fights for survival. Priveleges lost. Fall from favor.
    Level 6 - He tries to keep his spirits up, and works with other slaves, but the conditions and constant battles are wearing on him.
    [imagel]http://www.enworld.org/forum/attachments/talking-talk/41481d1253135574-d-d-4th-edition-new-campaign-discussion-thread-atrius.jpg[/imagel]Atrius is of average height for a half-elf, which makes him seem quite short when pitted against many of his arena foes, but he is fairly broadly built. His fey blood shows through in the cast of his face and eyes, blending with his human features in a fairly appealing exotic appearance. His shoulder-length black hair was once his pride and joy, but since his fall has become somewhat tattered.

    In the Arena:Even now, Atrius strides onto the sands of the arena as if he owns the place. He faces with defiance the jeers from the once adoring crowds, and stand unfliching as the opposing gate opens to reveal his opponent.

    Out of the Arena:Atrius after a fight is a much different creature. Sometimes it will have gone well, a flashy confrontation between two showmen. This Atrius will be invigorated, smiling and proud. And glimpse of the old champion. But recently, it has all to often been a different Atrius who has returned, a man who has just killed for his own survival, soaked in a mix of his own blood and someone elses. Until he gets clean, he remains silent.
    Character Sheet
    Atrius, level 6
    Half-Elf, Bard
    Bardic Virtue: Virtue of Valor
    Arcane Implement Proficiency: Arcane Implement Proficiency (heavy blade group)

    Str 13, Con 16, Dex 14, Int 10, Wis 10, Cha 19.

    Str 13, Con 13, Dex 14, Int 10, Wis 10, Cha 16.

    AC: 20 Fort: 17 Reflex: 17 Will: 19
    HP: 58 Surges: 10 Surge Value: 14

    Arcana +8, Bluff +12, Intimidate +12, Acrobatics +9, Athletics +8

    Diplomacy +10, Dungeoneering +4, Endurance +6, Heal +4, History +4, Insight +6, Nature +4, Perception +4, Religion +4, Stealth +5, Streetwise +8, Thievery +5

    Bard: Ritual Caster
    Level 1: Arcane Implement Proficiency
    Level 2: Melee Training (Charisma)
    Level 4: Toughness
    Level 6: Weapon Focus (Heavy Blade)
    Feat User Choice: Mounted Combat
    Feat User Choice: Focused Expertise (Longsword)

    Bard at-will 1: War Song Strike
    Bard at-will 1: Guiding Strike
    Dilettante: Eyebite
    Bard encounter 1: Shout of Triumph
    Bard daily 1: Slayer's Song
    Bard utility 2: Song of Courage
    Bard encounter 3: Charger's Call
    Bard daily 5: Stirring Shout
    Bard utility 6: Mighty Sprint

    Ritual Book, Vicious Longsword +2, Magic Hide Armor +2, Breach Bracers (heroic tier), Amulet of Health +1, Everburning Torch, Pouch, Belt (empty), Dagger, Potion of Healing (heroic tier), Alchemical Reagents (Arcana) (20), Drum
    Traveler's Chant, Explorer's Fire, Battlefield Elocution
    On Things Gladiatorial
    Why Atrius Fights: Originally, it was for the crowds. Now it is more a matter of survival, they may have dragged him down, but he won't give up. And even at his bleakest moments, when placed on the sand, with a sword in his hand. . . losing is still anathema to him.

    What Atrius Would Do If Free: Fame is and always has been his desire. He wants the stories of future generations to be about him. He sought his fame through the arenas, but has realized now the futility of that path. The old stories are always of heroes who did things, righted wrongs, protected the weak. If he escapes, his ultimate goal will be to find someone who needs him, so that he can start his climb once again.

    But for now he will be content to escape, and get free of this city. The arenas have brought him in contact with peoples and races from across the world. He has only ever heard of these places, perhaps it is time to see them.

    Given complete free reign, his first stop will be Grimmhammer's homeland, far to the north. While training under him, Atrius often listened to the orc's stories of home, and although it fell by the wayside, he still has a promise to keep for an old friend.
    On The Gladiators
    Caged Fury: The panther, eh? Seems inoffensive enough. A useful one to have standing by your side on the sand, but not one for friendship outside the ring.

    Kadaj: He plays the game well. We've established a good working relationship to keep us alive. But I wouldn't call him a friend. He's very dark, driven by some secret that he doesn't speak of much.

    Following Darkness: I find him unsettling to say the least. Not exactly alive, not exactly dead. His single minded devotion to killing is disturbing to watch. There are plenty of gladiators who care nothing for the show, but his driven purpose is something else alltogether.

    Q'ynn Daelrith: He seems to have forgotten that we're all slaves here. Holding himself apart will not make any friends in a place where it is very dangerous to have only enemies.

    Pirx Daywatcher: The goblin had the right idea. Give the people a show, and they won't care about anything else. Then he went and got himself killed. I half think this place is haunted by him, though.

    Rodeh: We haven't spoken much. Mostly I'm glad I haven't had to face him in the ring, yet. Still, he seems a decent enough sort, a proud warrior, but not one who delights in the slaughter. There is something odd about his behavior though.

    Scholar: This one bears watching. Too smart to be a slave in the arena or anywhere else. He seems a little mercurial, but a good source of information, if you've the need.

    Vecnite: Frankly dangerous, and not just to those facing him. One day they'll just put him down rather than deal with his wild anger. We'll probably all be a little safer.

  4. #4
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    The Great Druid (Lvl 17)

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    Pirx Daywatcher, Goblin Ranger
    "The thing looks so silly balancing on that great big ho-." -- last words of Lazulus Pyne, Praetor for the XIV time and Serpentmaster of Darvil.

    Last week, Pirx killed the Praetor. It was a beautiful shot from horseback, though the ring that was his target, just over the wooden board, and into the Praetor’s throat. As the Praetor gasped for breath, Pirx shouted in a perfect Draconic accent, "So all slavers too shall die!" Pirx didn’t get away, but he is hiding – looking to escape, and to bring others with him.

    If you survive in the goblin pits -- when you are meant to be little more than fodder amidst the afternoon spectacles -- the gatekeepers notice. One or two escaping death is fine, but doing so over and over... well, it draws attention. Pirx was noticed, and even became friends with Thorgil the gatekeeper, telling him stories about his home on the steppes, where he and his brood had thrived, above the land where the two armies fought. Goblins can be quite friendly, it seems, when they think they are about to die.

    Pirx was a novelty: his clear speech and civilized demeanor were faintly ridiculous, but he looks inoffensive. Soon enough, he even convinced Thorgil to get him a bow; Pirx would do a trick. It was a good trick. And soon Pirx was promoted, out of the pits, doing trick shots for the crowds. This was much safer, serving as a distraction from the real fighting. Pirx served as comic relief, an entertaining ball of blue-black fur, and would hit his targets even when standing on the back of a horse. As long as he entertained, he would be fine.

    But we all make bad decisions. Last week, when Pirx shot the Praetor, he thought he would be able to ride away in the confusion. He didn't, and the response came swift. Thorgil was blamed -- slaughtered in the arena where he had served for so long. And Pirx is now hiding, in the shadows of the subbasement of the arena, skittering behind the cages and avoiding the guards, eating rats, and looking for a way out. Not just for him. Pirx wants to bring others with him.


    Level 1 - Living on the steppes, a pack of goblins avoid being noticed. (feat: Alertness)
    Level 2 – Trained as a Daywatcher. When the sun is up, most goblins stay underground, but danger can come from anywhere. Pirx saw the Dragonborn approaching, climbing the hill, but not soon enough. (feat: Expert Tracker)
    Level 3 – Slaughter. Barely a dozen survived as the Empires borders extended up into the mountains.
    Level 4 – Thrown into the pits. Goblins might be used as food for the larger beasts, or as running targets in the larger spectacles. Their lives aren’t worth much, but Pirx survives. (feat: Improved Initiative)
    Level 5 – Trick riding. Pirx can take it easy – working on technical skills, and not needing to be always on the lookout to survive. Of course, some gladiators envy Pirx’s privileged position, but conflicts can only be played out in the ring.
    Level 6 – With the Praetor’s death, Pirx became wanted. When he couldn’t escape, he took the corpse of another goblin killed in the pits, and dressed it as him (we all look alike to the Dragonborn, he hoped). Now he is hiding, presumed dead, waiting to act. (feat: Sneak of Shadows)

    In the dark, if you don't see him, you'd think he had the voice of a naturally gifted singer. Not a professional, but enough to entertain you in your kitchen party, the party you keep imagining holding the day you leave the arena. He's humming the tune to himself, and you'll be there, someday soon.

    Pirx is roughly three feet tall, though he seems shorter because of his hunch. A whisp, really -- a ball of blue-black fur with huge goblinoid eyes that seem to be all pupil; no white; opal spheres that sit above a wide smile with sharpened teeth. His overlong fingers seem delicate, but that's because you're not used to seeing so many knuckles. They wrap around the horn handle of his bow, pull back the drawstring with a practiced speed. And he smiles, as he shoots. He hums then, too.

    In the Arena: Thorgil had made a little costume for Pirx, bright yellow and red to stand out as he rode around doing his acrobatics. He dressed a goblin body in the suit when the Praetor was killed, and has it no longer.

    Out of the Arena: Pirx is hiding, and has been gathering resources when and where he can.

    Character Sheet
    Pirx Daywatcher, level 6
    Goblin, Ranger
    Background: Explorer/Guide

    Str 8, Con 15, Dex 20, Int 10, Wis 14, Cha 12.

    Str 8, Con 14, Dex 17, Int 10, Wis 14, Cha 10.

    AC: 23 Fort: 16 Reflex: 19 Will: 16
    HP: 52 Surges: 8 Surge Value: 13

    Nature +12, Acrobatics +12,* Endurance +9,* Perception +12, Stealth +14,* Thievery +14*

    Arcana +3, Athletics +1,* Bluff +4, Diplomacy +4, Dungeoneering +5, Heal +5, History +3, Insight +5, Intimidate +4, Religion +3, Streetwise +4

    * +1 when not in Hide armor.

    Level 1: Alertness
    Level 2: Expert Tracker
    Level 4: Improved Initiative
    Level 6: Sneak of Shadows
    Ranger: Defensive Mobility

    Bonus: Mounted Combat
    Bonus: Weapon Expertise (Bow)

    Goblin at-will: Goblin Tactics
    Ranger at-will 1: Nimble Strike
    Ranger at-will 1: Twin Strike
    Ranger encounter 1: Evasive Strike
    Ranger daily 1: Split the Tree
    Ranger utility 2: Hunter’s Privilege
    Ranger encounter 3: Thwarting Shot
    Ranger daily 5: Splintering Shot
    Ranger utility 6: Evade Ambush

    Hunter’s Quarry (Ranger)
    Prime Shot (Ranger)
    Sneak Attack, 1/encounter

    Languages: Goblin, Common, Draconic

    Bridle of Rapid Action (level 5): Bridle of Rapid Action. To make the horses look better than they are, the arena uses magical enhancements that won't be noticed.
    Summoned Hide +2 (level 6): "rescued" from a small halfling corpse, and hidden in its ethereal space until needed.
    Distance Shortbow +2 (level 6): this is his trickbow.

    Cloak of Distortion +1 (level 4; 840 gp): Thorgil's proudest possession, simply wasn't noticed when they came for him.
    160gp personal

    On Things Gladiatorial
    Pirx had thought the trick-shooting would keep him safe – as long as he was seen a sa clown and not a fighter, he could offer entertainment to the crowds when the other bodies were being cleaned up.

    If he does escape, Pirx would like to return to the Steppes. He has no broodlings there any more, but it’s where he grew up, and where he’s comfortable. Of course, Pirx is sometime impetuous, and there are a lot of magistrates here with exposed necks.

    On The Gladiators
    In character comments on the other PCs.
    Caged Fury: When I need a distraction, he'll be the first one I let out of his cell.
    Q'ynn: He's seen me since I faked my death. Said nothing though.
    Following Darkness: He's become skittish in the past few weeks. I think he knows something.
    Atrius: He was kind to me -- we would talk down below.
    The Scholar: We spoke for several minutes before he noticed I was a goblin. Or before he mentioned it, at least.
    Kadaj: Showy, but it's an act. He seems relentless when he wants something.
    Last edited by Kobold Stew; Friday, 20th November, 2009 at 11:29 PM.

  5. #5
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    Q'ynn Daelrith, Human Invoker
    "When you strike one, you provoke us all."

    Challenge Entries

    Challenge I
    Quote Originally Posted by Insight View Post
    The first thing Q'ynn Daelrith notices, once the portcullis lifts, is a cold, strong breeze against his face. A persistent wind whips around the bowl of the arena, causing Q'ynn's tattered tabard, the one featuring the Daelrith family crest, to flap incessantly in response. Daelrith steps onto the dirt arena floor to see tonight's opponent, the Half-Orc Barbarian known as Shaylor Umblereck.

    Daelrith, not sure how he'll fare against this beast, knows only quick thinking and perhaps some luck will enable him to win tonight's match. Shaylor, full of vitriolic intensity, charges forward, brandishing a greataxe caked with the blood of forty past opponents, most of whom didn't survive.

    Q'ynn Daelrith realizes he needs to slow this big, burly monster. Damaging or disorienting the Barbarian would be a side benefit to consider. Not wanting to be pinned against the arena walls, Q'ynn slides slightly away from Shaylor's trajectory and unleashes Kord's malediction against the opponent: "Kord grant me bane against this unworthy heathen!" Golden sheaves of light spray the area around the incoming Barbarian, annoying him if nothing more. Q'ynn thrusts his magic staff at the Half-Orc. As he does this, the Barbarian begins to see visions of his own demise.

    Shaylor, under the assault of Kord's might, shakes it off and charges forward, easily tracking down Q'ynn Daelrith. The Barbarian flies into a rage, swinging wildly his greataxe. Kord's malediction, however, throws the Barbarian's attack wide. The crowd begins to come alive with the Barbarian's attack, only to see it miss by quite a bit. Q'ynn Daelrith, emboldened by the knowledge that Kord's malediction interfered with Shaylor's strike, calls again upon his deity's power: "Brace me, my Lord, and bring Ruin to this battered fool!" With a strike from Kord himself, the Barbarian is dazed, allowing Q'ynn to escape from Shaylor's reach.

    Q'ynn, himself fatigued from the use of his divine abilities, isn't able to get that far away. Fortunately, Shaylor was slowed enough that the Barbarian was unable to close into melee range. "This combat is close to an end, graceless barbarian scum," Q'ynn says to his opponent. "Kord, lord of strength and of war, I call upon your might to finish the Half-Orc I see before me!" A shaft of light, seemingly from the heavens itself, shines down on Shaylor, enveloping him in radiance. The Barbarian cries out, not in fear, but in the pain of Kord's might. Shaylor drops to one knee, trying to surge forward, swinging his greataxe, but unable to close in on Q'ynn.

    Choryl Velt, arena master for the night, stamps his giant staff-pennant against a large, flat stone amidst the second tier of the arena stands. "It is done," Velt announces. "Q'ynn Daelrith is the victor!" A battle horn sounds.

    Daelrith turns to face Velt and the crowd. He raises his magic staff in victory, awash in the feeling of defeating an opponent for the very first time. Shaylor Umblereck, unwilling to accept defeat, snarls. "I will not submit!" The Barbarian gets to his feet and, his fangs bared, charges forward, knocking Q'ynn to the dirt floor. Q'ynn barely had time to roll over to see Umblereck swinging his nasty greataxe down towards the Invoker's head. Q'ynn dodges, but not enough, as the axe digs into Daelrith's shoulder, drawing first blood.

    Umblereck stands, facing Velt. "I am the victor," the Barbarian claims. "I have drawn first blood! Give to me the spoils."

    "No, Shaylor!" Choryl Velt replies forcefully. "I have decreed Q'ynn Daelrith the victor. The horn has sounded!" An assistant approaches Velt and whispers in his ear.

    Meanwhile, Q'ynn Daelrith rolls over and gets up, still bleeding rather profusely from the axe wound in his shoulder. The Invoker glares at Shaylor, the Half-Orc. Daelrith realizes, however, that the Half-Orc may be in the right, at least in his addled brain. Daelrith is still in mortal danger. The Half-Orc could turn, at any moment, and finish Daelrith before any of the guards could intervene. Q'ynn considers running into the tunnel, but also wants to stand his ground. Daelrith was declared the victor, after all. How would it look to run now?

    "Shaylor Umblereck," Choryl Velt says. "Under a strict reading of the arena rules, your claim is correct."

    Q'ynn Daelrith sighs. He knows where this is going. At least he thinks he does.

    "However, the horn has sounded and I have made the victor declaration," the arena master adds. "This leaves us at an impasse. Unfortunately, that means I must declare a draw." A wave of cries and boos emanates from the crowd. "All bets... all bets will be returned. Please, form one line to the banker's window."

    Q'ynn looks over at the Half-Orc, who barely understands what's going on. Regardless, the simple Barbarian realizes that he's been robbed, at least in his mind. Daelrith, seeing a slight change in Shaylor's body languages, runs into the tunnel. The portcullis is still down. "Open this thing," he demands. "Hurry!"

    A slave smiles at the Invoker, slowly cranking a wheel to raise the portcullis. Bearing down on Q'ynn is the Half-Orc, bringing his greataxe along for the ride. Just as Q'ynn ducks under the gate, Shaylor brings the axe blade down on the space Daelrith had occupied, barely missing. As Umblereck prepares to attack again, a robed figure in the hall, waiting for his own turn in the arena, uses his wand to shoot a thin, blue ray at the Barbarian, freezing Shaylor Umblereck in his tracks.

    "Thanks much, friend," Q'ynn says to the unknown Wizard.

    "You'd do the same for me, wouldn't you?" the Wizard replies with a smile.
    Challenge II
    Quote Originally Posted by Insight View Post
    "Q'ynn," Grumbar said. "Tell me again of your time before the arena."

    Q'ynn Daelrith turned to see his aged friend. Grumbar Addleren was probably the oldest gladiator, at least physically. The human former soldier was in his 50s and had seen so much war in his time that Q'ynn thought the old codger should have been a general or some sort of military advisor as opposed to a a forgotten slave seeing his last days in the arena. Of course, Grumbar laughed off such suggestions. At this point, Grumbar saw all of his life as a series of combats of one sort of another. Outwardly, the old soldier was happy to go into combat against some 'young upstart', just to show them that age and experience still sometimes beats youth and energy.

    "Tell me of when you were a noble at Bael Surth," Grumbar added. "It soothes this old heart to hear of more peaceful times."

    "All right," Q'ynn replied. "I suppose I can recall something peaceful."


    It was autumn in Bael Surth. A festival was coming up. It was the Feast of Lanterns. People would gather by Lake Wunther near dusk. A band of minstrels would play songs of local color on a small island not far from the lake shore. People would often sing along and, drinking as the night went on, make merry. Children, both nobles and otherwise, crafted and released paper lanterns into the water. Magi influenced the lake's waves so as to cause the paper lanterns to move back towards the island and those minstrels. In time, the paper lanterns would seem to dance upon the waves in time to the music. I was once one of those children, the ones who crafted lanterns and set them upon the water. It was one of those rare times when a noble might mingle with a commoner, but the tale I am about to spin would happen later, during my adolescence.

    I was fifteen. As a scion of House Daelrith, and a dashing fellow if I do say so myself, I had a great many young girls of the court at my beck and call. I could romance most of them at my pleasure and, being the son of one of the wealthiest families in Bael Surth, and filled with ardent demeanor, I did so. There was one girl, however, who was seemingly beyond my reach. That was the one I really wanted, of course.

    Her name was Iana. I never knew her last name. Iana was a servant girl. She worked in my family's house, mostly carrying water and wine around during dinner and other hosted events. Iana was a vision of simplicity and grace. She had none of the affectations of nobility. She had no airs. She went about doing her job, saying nothing, even when insulted. Her beauty was a timeless one and I could do nothing but watch her as she moved about my house.

    Iana and I bumped into one another seemingly by accident at that year's Feast of Lanterns. I say 'seemingly by accident' because that's how I arranged it. In fact, I paid Iana's mother a kingly sum to ensure that Iana would be at the event and to ensure she would be at a certain place at a certain time. Iana's mother understood what my nobles peers could not: that sometimes, a human heart knows not the boundaries of social grace.

    I bought Iana a drink of peach juice and cinnamon and we sat down on a bench by the shore. Iana knew who I was and was a little reluctant to speak directly to me. I implored her to be frank and even with me as I would be to her. I told Iana of my love for her, to which she giggled, but I could tell she understood.

    We sat there, at that bench, until well after the Feast of Lanterns. I learned so much about the lower classes, the advantages of having no burden of social standing, but also their hardships. Iana and her family appreciated how well they were treated at House Daelrith; it was common in other noble houses to beat slaves and that almost never happened in our house. I also learned of Iana's life beyond the walls of our estate. The truth of the matter was that Iana was engaged to be married to another servant and that, while she appreciated my love for her, Iana could not be mine.

    I walked Iana back to her family's simple home in the Lower Quarter and bid her good night. On the way back to House Daelrith, I considered hiring an assassin to 'take care' of Iana's suitor, thus leaving her to me, but that seemed too harsh. I considered paying the suitor to leave her at the altar, but, after speaking with my uncle, Jord, himself wise in the ways of romance, I decided that I should let the marriage go on. After all, the truth was that Iana would never really be mine. My family would never let me openly court a servant girl. Iana's life would be better off with another servant.

    On the day of Iana's marriage, I attended the ceremony, in disguise, hiding in the back. Her wedding party received a huge gift: an onyx statue worth 1,000 gold pieces and flowers to the tune of another 250 gold pieces. This gift came from an 'unknown donor', who was, of course, hiding in the back of the chapel.

    Once Iana was married, I arranged to have her moved to the noble house where her husband's family worked. As much as I was happy that Iana was in a good place, seeing her didn't ease my heart any. I had to remove her from my sight so that I only had good memories of her presence in House Daelrith.

    Last I heard, Iana and her husband were expecting their second child. On their anniversaries, until I was myself sold into slavery, the couple received a gift of flowers from an 'unknown donor'. I imagined Iana's face when she saw the gift arrive and I hope that, somehow, she knew they were from me.


    "This place, it changes you," Grumbar said. "I was always a warrior. It don't make no matter to me whether I fight in here or out there. But you... you had a life once, didn't you? Someday, you'll have a life outside of here."

    "I hope you're right, Grumbar," Q'ynn Daelrith replied. "I hope you're right."
    Challenge III
    Quote Originally Posted by Insight View Post
    Q'ynn Daelrith was almost finished mucking the last stall in the gladiatorial stables when he heard a familiar grunt and then a sneeze from the rear of the stables. Theebie was awake.

    "Criminy!" the griffon exclaimed. "What's that smell?" Theebie didn't really care that much for the smell of other animals, especially the warhorses, and the stench of their excrement offended his senses even more.

    Q'ynn, bucket in hand, rounded the corner of the large stall to see Theebie roughly flap his wings and shake his head. "You know exactly what that smell is," Daelrith said.

    "Doesn't mean I have to like it," the griffon replied. "What are you still doing here?"

    That was a good question on two levels. Daelrith had spent more than the required time cleaning out the stables. He often dallied here so that he was less likely to be chosen to fight. Q'ynn really didn't care for the company of most of the other fighters. There were a few he liked: Grumber, of course, Sadaj, the dragonborn, Manripper, the half-troll who was nicer than his name sounded, Atrius, the eladrin, Pirx, strangely, and Kadaj, the goliath. Some of the newer gladiators he barely knew and, since they weren't likely to be around long, Daelrith decided it wasn't worth his time to get to know them.

    But Theebie's question also struck a deeper chord. Why was Daelrith still fighting in the arena? Surely, Q'ynn had fought enough battles and earned his masters enough glory and gold. Normally, those slaves who win enough matches were released or moved onto new venues. Q'ynn wondered if maybe other forces were at work keeping him in the area.

    "Kord be praised," Q'ynn said. "You have a lot of questions this morning."

    "Oh, Kord this and Kord that," Theebie replied. "One would think Kord were your sire the way you talk."

    "He is my deity," Q'ynn said. "Were it not for the grace of Kord's divinity, I likely wouldn't be standing before you now."

    The griffon ruffled his feathers. "And this is bad, how?"

    "You're in a bad mood," Daelrith pointed out. "I think someone needs to be fed." Q'ynn moved to an awful-smelling trough full of various animal and beast scraps, the freshest of which was a week old.

    "Darn right," Theebie said. "Have any sheep?"

    "I don't see any," Q'ynn replied, holding his nose. "I see some owlbear... and some horse, I guess."

    "Ooh, no horse!" Theebie said. "I guess the owlbear."

    Q'ynn took a shovelful of owlbear meat and dumped it before Theebie.

    "Say," Theebie said. "You never finished telling me that story about your grandfather and that mermaid."

    Q'ynn finished dumping the second shovel load of owlbear meat. In an attempt to evade the aroma, he took two steps back. "Sure," he said. "Why not?"


    If you recall, my maternal grandfather was Kiernan Malley, a sailor of some renown. He sailed the Shining Coast, from Port Maul to Garigos to Ethizar, all the way to the Ends. So famous was Kiernan Malley that, when the war broke out between Salthea and Uither, a conflict that became known as the War of the Maiden's Ear, King Hedrizas of Salthea commissioned my grandfather as admiral of the Salthean navy. Admiral Malley led a fleet of seven tall ships, at the head of which was King Hedrizas' flagship, the Courser, one of the fastest and most powerful ships in the known world.

    A half-elf, Admiral Malley found himself captain of a flagship that was also half-elven. Not in the way you think; the crew of the Courser was half human and half elf. Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem. In the Salthean navy, elves and humans had worked alongside each other for generations. The problem, as you could well imagine, was the enemy. Uither, located on the edge of the Staw Forest, was allied with the elves of said forest and populated its naval and ground forces with those elves. It was likely, then, that elves would be pitted against elves and, according to elven religion, that could not happen.

    My grandfather had a plan, a dangerous plan, but a plan nonetheless. Admiral Malley knew of an island known as Harpies' Rest. The island was notorious among sailors. They avoided Harpies' Rest because of the inhabitants' penchant for charming sailors and luring them to their untimely deaths. Malley knew, however, that the harpies had been wiped out because he and his crew had been the ones responsible for driving the wicked creatures from the island. Malley sailed his fleet across Greydepths Bay, where it was likely Salthean and Uitheran navies would clash, to Harpies' Rest and explored the island. There, Malley located a great, ancient conche shell. Blowing on the shell summoned a mermaid named Pashreeta, whom Malley had known, on a rather intimate basis mind you, many years before. Admiral Malley knew of the mermaid's ability to charm elves, which most creatures couldn't manage, but also knew that Pashreeta was unlikely to leave the island. Thus, Admiral Malley proposed marriage and the two were wed then and there.

    Pashreeta traveled alongside the Courser back to Greydepths Bay. Within a day or so, sure enough, Uitheran ships loaded with elven archers and marines, crossed into view. The Courser drove straight for the Uitheran flagship, the Intrepid. The elves on both ships saw each other and confusion ensued. As neither party really wanted to do battle, Pashreeta intervened. She used her charm powers on the Uitheran elves, who immediately came under the mermaid's power. Pashreeta caused the Uitheran elves to board the Courser and ally themselves with their fellow elves, forming a huge force. Together, the elves conquered the rest of the Uitheran fleet and sailed towards Uither.

    One thing naturally led to another and before long, Uither was forced to capitulate and sign a peace treaty that exists to this day. And all because of a mermaid and her ancient and unabiding love for a half-elf sailor.


    "That's ridiculous," Theebie remarked. "No sea creature ever fell in love with a human."

    Q'ynn saw a bit of owlbear flank about to fall from the griffon's mouth. "You've got a --"

    "Ah," Theebie replied, flipping his lip and catching the morsel. "Thank you. Anyway, I don't believe it."

    "It's true," Daelrith replied. "I can prove it."

    "Balderdash," the griffon said. "Besides, if your maternal grandfather married a mermaid, then who was your grandmother?"

    Q'ynn began to finish his work. "I can show you the proof if you want."

    The griffon finished off the rest of the owlbear. "Mmm," he said. "Hits the spot." He looked around the immediate area. "Any more owlbear?"

    Q'ynn nodded his head. "Nothing left but horse," he replied.

    Theebie grimaced. "Do they expect me to starve in here?"

    "If I kill something in the arena, something you can eat, I'll insist they bring it straight here," Daelrith said. "Last chance to see the proof."

    "Proof of what?" Theebie demanded. "Your ridiculous tale of maritime copulation?"

    Q'ynn stopped what he was doing, putting his filthy mop aside. Drawing up his left sleeve, Q'ynn revealed a secret he showed to few.

    "Are those... scales?" the griffon asked, astounded. "Maybe my eyesight is starting to go."

    "Your eyesight is fine," Q'ynn said, rolling his sleeve back down. "That's not the only place they appear, but it's the only place I'm going to show you."

    "But that means..."

    "It doesn't mean much," Q'ynn said. "I can swim a little better than most. That's about it."

    That sure shut the griffon's mouth. All he could do is sneeze and grumble for the next five minutes, whereupon Q'ynn Daelrith was finished with this work in the stables and returned to the gladiator barracks.
    Challenge IV
    Quote Originally Posted by Insight View Post
    Q'ynn Daelrith, bloodied, beaten, bruised, exited the field of battle, the arena that had now become his prison. It was only a trick of fate that Daelrith had survived this latest match. Of course, Q'ynn would claim that, in the former nobleman's victory, Kord, his deity and the god of competition, had shown that Daelrith was the better combatant. Still, it was close, something that reminded Daelrith of his own mortality and that, one of these days, even Kord's grace would not be enough to save him.

    Daelrith, the former noble, now a slave, had always known death. It stalked him, in dreams, in waking life, in happiness and in sorrow. Everywhere could death's hand be seen. Some might assert that Daelrith was lucky to have escaped the scourge, but, in truth, Daelrith would tell you of a time when he didn't feel quite so lucky to have been confronted with the end of all things...

    In his youth, in Bael Surth, Q'ynn and his family spent their summers in the pristine luxury of a small riverside fishing village, Lecarm. It was a village in population, but actually, the settlement was rich in that many wealthy and noble families from Bael Surth and elsewhere would summer there. In fact, many, including the Daelriths, owned second homes in the Lecarm area.

    It was during the summer of Q'ynn's 13th year. He and his extended family went down to the river's edge, as they were wont to do on bright summer days. The locals had built several large pavilions for the visitors to use; some said they built the pavilions to keep the rich snobs from interfering in the village's fishing business. In any event, Q'ynn and his family were at the river's edge, in the pavilion area, along with many other families.

    During his summers, Q'ynn and his cousins would play with other children of the wealthy and noble. One of these kids, Jorn Taal, was something of a ringleader and would often lead the other children on adventures in the woods and coves in the surrounding area. One day, Taal led the kids down to the coves, small caves situated along the riverbanks and to the north. The area was dotted with possibly hundreds of these coves. Some were great fishing spots and, most days, you could find fishermen there, or even local kids there, learning their future trade.

    There were often 30 kids in Taal's entourage, and this day was no different. He led the kids into many coves that the boy claimed were haunted by the spirits of ancient mariners and river pirates. As the day went along, and the kids had been traveling from cove to cove and from one haunted forest grove to another, the group started to separate. This wasn't intentional, but Taal didn't much care for some of the other kids, including the Daelriths, and allowed them to fall behind. There were coves and areas Taal avoided and for good reason -- some of them actually were haunted or otherwise really dangerous. Of course, Taal didn't bother sharing this information with the other children.

    Lost, Q'ynn and his cousins were trying to find their way back to the Daelrith pavilion. They were in the middle of the woods, but Q'ynn thought that perhaps a certain trail looked familiar. He led the cousins, who really didn't know any better, along this trail that led them down to the rivers's edge. The trail went to a set of natural stairs, made from the granite found throughout the Lecarm area. The kids descended the stairs, thinking they would lead to the river, but instead, the rocks led down to a cove none of them had seen. Inside, the kids heard chanting and smelled incense, though at that age, none of them knew what this could mean. Instead of turning tail and running, the kids entered the cove, heedless of what was about to befall them.

    What the kids found was something that shattered their young minds: a scene of unrepentent debauchery, a sick, evil ritual to some dark god unknown to youngster's lips. The priest, a half-orc in tattered, red robes, stood before a black, stone altar whereupon a bound, naked female half-elf was laid prostrate, strange sigils painted on her body, while the priest held a jagged dagger above her. The chanting continued, and the boys, transfixed in the presence of such a scene, could only watch, frozen in place. The chanting continued and the priest, unaware of his new audience, yelled out something to his dark god and drove the dagger into the female half-elf's chest, spraying blood and gore in the name of this nameless god.

    The feeling Q'ynn experienced at that time, the first brush with death, the first touch of evil, was something he still carries with him to this day. It haunts the seemingly stoic and sometimes, even brave, former nobleman who now survives on dealing death to others. Daelrith thinks back to that scene of pure evil and wonders what he might do to stop it. Sometimes, when he dwells too much on his own current failures or near-death experiences, Q'ynn wishes he could go back to that moment, do something to stay that half-orc priest's hand, and maybe, just maybe, things would turn out differently.


    Level 1 - Lived in Bael Surth; House Daelrith enslaved; Arrived in Orc Camp.
    Level 2 - Lived in Orc Camp; First escape attempt.
    Level 3 - Lived in Orc Camp; Sold to Arena House.
    Level 4 - Gladiator Fights.
    Level 5 - Gladiator Fights.
    Level 6 - Gladiator Fights.

    In the Arena: Q'ynn is careful and strategic in a fight, especially if he's fighting solo. He tends to avoid direct melee confrontation as hand-to-hand combat isn't his forte. In a sense, Q'ynn has been forced to learn to fight in melee, but that doesn't mean he likes it!

    Out of the Arena: Q'ynn is aloof and standoffish when not in the arena. He still feels stung by the loss of his noble heritage and imagines how others view his family's loss of face.

    Character Sheet

    Q'ynn Daelrith, level 6
    Human, Invoker
    Divine Covenant: Covenant of Malediction
    Noble Scion Benefit: Dungeoneering
    Background: Noble Scion (Noble Scion Benefit)

    Str 10, Con 15, Dex 8, Int 14, Wis 20, Cha 10.

    Str 10, Con 15, Dex 8, Int 13, Wis 17, Cha 10.

    AC: 17 Fort: 18 Reflex: 18 Will: 21
    HP: 45 Surges: 8 Surge Value: 11

    Arcana +10, Religion +10, Dungeoneering +15, Insight +13, History +12

    Acrobatics +2, Bluff +3, Diplomacy +3, Endurance +5, Heal +8, Intimidate +3, Nature +8, Perception +8, Stealth +2, Streetwise +3, Thievery +2, Athletics +3

    Invoker: Ritual Caster
    Human: Baleful Malediction
    Level 1: Resonating Covenant
    Level 2: Invoker Defense
    Level 4: Power of War
    Level 6: Action Surge
    Feat User Choice: Mounted Combat
    Feat User Choice: Implement Expertise (staff)

    Bonus At-Will Power: Avenging Light
    Invoker at-will 1: Mantle of the Infidel
    Invoker at-will 1: Visions of Blood
    Invoker encounter 1: Whispers of Defeat
    Invoker daily 1: Silent Malediction
    Invoker utility 2: Wall of Light
    Invoker encounter 3: Word of Ruin
    Invoker daily 5: Malediction of Blindness
    Invoker utility 6: Symbol of Hope

    Ritual Book, Alchemical Reagents (Arcana) (50), Mystic Salves (Heal) (50), Sanctified Incense (Religion) (100), Antivenom (heroic tier) (3), Holy Water (level 1) (2), Tanglefoot Bag (level 2), Magic Staff +2, Irrefutable Cloth Armor (Basic Clothing) +2, Cape of the Mountebank +1, Holy Symbol, Spiked gauntlet
    Hand of Fate, Brew Potion, Comprehend Language, Purify Water, Silence, Last Sight Vision, Water Walk, Affect Normal Fire, Eye of Alarm

    On Things Gladiatorial

    Why Q'ynn Fights: Q'ynn fights in the arena because he has no choice. He wishes to be freed from his enslavement and hopes that fighting well will give him that chance. If not, Q'ynn will find some other way out.
    What Q'ynn Would Do If Free: Q'ynn would return to Bael Surth and confront those who deposed his family.

    On The Gladiators

    Atrius: Q'ynn admires the eladrin's spunk and enthusiasm for melee combat. Daelrith wishes he was as brave.
    Pirx Daywatcher: Q'ynn finds the goblin a curiosity, as Daelrith was raised to believe that goblins were basically worthless.
    Rodeh: Q'ynn doesn't know the dwarf very well and stays well away from him.
    Last edited by Insight; Tuesday, 20th October, 2009 at 01:48 PM.

  6. #6
    Novice (Lvl 1)

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    Aug 2009
    South Carolina
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    Block eblue562

    Rodeh Minehelm, Dwarf Warden
    "You want some of him? Heh, you'll have to go through me first, lass."

    Rodeh comes from the Minehelm clan, enslaved by giants and sold into slavery for the sport of it. Coming from the "civilized" portion of the giants (as if there were any, according to Rodeh), he would be guaranteed his freedom if he could survive. Granted, they never said how long he must survive...

    In the arena, Rodeh is a loud-mouth, often taunting his opponents and swearing in the lavishly popular dwarven tongue. He often even makes up his own swear words, which usually consists of the enemies mother, feces, and a giant hammer.

    "I just want to go home." Rodeh sighs heavily as he topples down, exhausted from yet another fight in the gladiator's arena. Excelling as he has in the fighting for several years now, the loud-mouthed arena fighter is quiet when in the confines of the Resting Chamber, and quieter still when alone. Setting his large shield down on the blood-covered stone, he notices a small gash in his forearm. Grumbling, whispers magic at his leather armor and it immediately vanishes, exposing some cloth wraps that have been disinfected with great care. Rodeh covers the small wound the strip of cloth gently and stands.

    He is stout, even by dwarven standards. Overwhelming strength has always been his one good physical trait, and fighting as long has he has brought about more wisdom than most who wield a sword. But it is his spirit that makes Rodeh stand out among the gladiators. The stout dwarf joined the coliseum shortly before The Great Riot broke out, in which a few prisoners overpowered the guards and stole a key. In a desperate attempt to break out, the gladiators were met with sheer brutality, but it didn't stop with those who attempted to break out. All of the gladiators were beaten so severely that most of the entire season was postponed. Rodeh was sure that it wasn't for his unyielding endurance, he wouldn't have survived.

    The two friends he was able to make in that short time were among those slaughtered. Since those riots, he vowed that he would protect those that he called friends to his death, which didn't seem to come easily to him.
    Rodeh reached up and touched the top of his forehead with his finger, tracing the large scar that ran from there all the way to his chin, barely missing his eyes and severing his lips. Were it not for the help of an apprentice healer, he would have barely been able to talk or eat, but the scar still remains.

    "Ol' Split Lip, dat's what they call me," Rodeh managed with a half-smile. Thinking of home once more, he touched his sword, strong and bloodied hand tracing the runes dancing along the edge. The weapon reminded him of his Family Blade, Amma, meaing Servant. Forged by his ancestors in the wild and mountainous homeland his clan called "Ge'shan," this blade was passed down for many generations in his family, even when the Minehelm clan was enslaved by the Giants. Infused with “dwarven magic” as his father called it, the blade shot out to protect friends and allies in their times of desperate need. As part of their sport (or pleasure, Rodeh couldn't know), the slavedrivers sold Rodeh to the arena, and he was never able to hear the legends of it again. Rodeh hoped to not have to settle for a replica once he earned his freedom and could go back to the clan.

    The Clan. His family, his home. Rodeh could only guess what happened to them after he was gone, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Giants would try to keep them as slaves for a very long time. Rodeh spit on the earth every day for these many years, vowing to rid himself and his friends of the bonds that bound him here, and then free his family from the cluthes of the giants. Together they would continue to Ge’shan and rebuild their homeland, firing up the blacksmith’s furnace once more.
    A sharp pain radiates from the bottom of his skull and down throughout his chest, landing squarely in the pit of his stomach. Rodeh grunts heavily and begins the process of the silently begins his knees to allow himself up. It was the damn Rat again. Although Roden didn’t know exactly what was causing this pain, he could comprehend a few things about it. One was that it had to be a Rat, because it kept gnawing at him, and annoyed him when he least expected it. The other was that he hated it. Hated the pain of feeling the Rat’s pain, hated the bond the malicious warlock Jornilei (also a Master of the Arena) placed between them.

    Finally making it to his feet, Rodeh slowly trudges the hundred or so feet down to the small window at the opposite edge of the Resting Chamber. The pit in his stomach growing larger and more painful, he peers out across the Arena floor, where hundreds have died at the expense of his own sins, and into the Holding Chamber. Magically covered by darkness even Rodeh could not see through, Rodeh hears a loud roar of pain as his stomach crescendos in response. Wincing through the almost unbearable pain, Roden makes one more promise;

    “Whatever you are, I will stop what is harming you. You are not a friend by choice, but perhaps will be a friend by chance.”

    Brief map of history as it relates to character levels.
    Level 1 - Scuffled with other dwarves during early parts of captivity because of his strong sense of family and protection.
    Level 2 - Participated in a mini "faction-war" between the dwarven slaves, which lasted two days before the Giants were able to put it down.
    Level 3 - Organized revolt against Giants, but was swiftly put down. Tortured for seven days and survived. Giants realized his potential in arena.
    Level 4 - Sold to arena masters with intent of making money. Wins match after match.
    Level 5 - Participated in the organized uprising by holding back some guards and protecting his friends from the brutal beatings.
    Level 6 - Survives uprising and throws himself into arena combat with renewed disgust and strength. Looking for a way out.

    Rodeh is a stout dwarf with large, strong arms and a chest that he can balance two mugs of stout on. Known far and wide for his incredible strength, muscles ripple up and down both is legs and arms. A scar runs from the top middle of his forehead and down in between his nose and left eye, ending just below the lower lip. This scar was given to him by a guard during the uprising of the arena. Rodeh carries a large, heavy shield to protect himself and his allies, and also a longsword that reminds him of Amma, his Family Blade. He wears tough leather boots that strap to his shins, and frayed leather pants. His armor consists of his summoned leather armor. Below that, Rodeh carries heavily sanitized cloth bandages to cover the wounds he receives during battle.

    Rodeh is a very gentle soul, outside of the arena. Quiet and soft spoken, he quickly can come to the defense of his friends and allies, realizing that they are the ones who will keep him alive as well. He chats when needed but not much more. Always aware of his surroundings, Rodeh never misses anything but forgets most as not important.

    During arena combat, however, Rodeh becomes a loudmouthed little behemoth, taunting insults and hurling profanities that sometimes only he can understand.

    In the Arena:

    When Rodeh wishes, once per day, he is able to assume the Form of Winter Herald, increasing his defensives and giving him a frightening visage to his foes. His body becomes like icicles and his skin hardens and looks as though it is freezing, turning a deep blue. His eyes glaze over and blaze blue fire, and his voice thunders like an echo off a glacier.

    Character Sheet
    ====== Created Using Wizards of the Coast D&D Character Builder ======
    Rodeh Minehelm, level 6
    Dwarf, Warden
    Guardian Might: Earthstrength
    Background: Dwarf - Ancestral Home Lost (+2 to Perception)

    Str 19, Con 16, Dex 10, Int 10, Wis 14, Cha 8.

    Str 18, Con 14, Dex 10, Int 10, Wis 11, Cha 8.

    AC: 22 Fort: 18 Reflex: 15 Will: 16
    HP: 73 Surges: 12 Surge Value: 18

    Nature +10, Endurance +11, Athletics +10, Perception +12

    Acrobatics +1, Arcana +3, Bluff +2, Diplomacy +2, Dungeoneering +7, Heal +5, History +3, Insight +5, Intimidate +2, Religion +3, Stealth +1, Streetwise +2, Thievery +1

    Level 1: Toughness
    Level 2: Sudden Roots
    Level 4: Against All Odds
    Level 6: Improved Initiative
    Feat User Choice: Mounted Combat
    Feat User Choice: Weapon Expertise (Heavy Blade)

    Warden at-will 1: Thorn Strike
    Warden at-will 1: Weight of Earth
    Warden encounter 1: Thunder Ram Assault
    Warden daily 1: Form of Winter's Herald
    Warden utility 2: Nature's Abundance
    Warden encounter 3: Earthgrasp Strike
    Warden daily 5: Hail of Thorns
    Warden utility 6: Mighty Sprint

    Defensive Longsword +2, Summoned Leather Armor +2, Cold Iron Shield Heavy Shield (heroic tier)

    On Things Gladiatorial
    Although his motives are pure, Rodeh fights on in the hopes that one day, someone he protects with his shield will help him break free from the Arena. Taking the road of "make friends, drink with everyone" mantra, Rodeh protects all those assigned to him in hopes of developing friendships that will last beyond the barred cell his sleeps in at night.

    If Rodeh were freed, he would attempt to break his clan out from the giants clutches so they can return to their homeland and rid it of the drow. He would, however, be indebted to those who helped him and would gladly adventure with them on whatever quest they needed to complete. He would also love to see the fabled blade Amma, wherever it might be.

    On The Gladiators
    In-character comments on the other PCs.
    Q'ynn: Doesn't talk much, but fights with vengeance.
    Atrius: A bit flashy for a lass, but means well..
    Pirx: Amazing, a goblin with a bow. Sheer madness.

  7. #7
    Caged Fury, Razorclaw-Shifter Monk 6
    "Meditate on the wisdoms of the Panther God and find truth.."

    Caged, or 'Panther' (as he is called as stage name here) is relative new to the arenas of Arkhosia, spending his last years in the pits of Bael Turath. Time will tell, if he can win the crowd...

    In the Arena, Fury tries to single out the most dangerous opponent and goes in for the kill. This can be helpful for a team, but he prefers one against one matches.

    Background: Criminal (Assassin).
    Caged Fury is part of a line of shifters that overly often produce offspring with a dark complexion and a feline appearance. Traditionally, these shifters are put into custody of the Panther cult to serve at it's guardians and assassins. Fury strongly beliefs and is proud of this tradition. He served the cult well, until evidence was found for his betrayal. He got framed.

    A patron and strong supporter of the temple persuaded them to give him fury as a slave, so he could fight in the arena for him.


    Level 1 - Apprentice 'assassin' in the temple of the Panther God.
    Level 2 - Doing his 'work' for temple. Mostly staying in Bael Turath.
    Level 3 - Gets digraced and is forced to fight in 'The Pit' the great arena in the capital.
    Level 4 - Refuses to kill without temple sanction. Forced to do it to save himself
    Level 5 - Survives. Fights. Survives. Faith not wagering.
    Level 6 - Fights. Survives. Fights. His only motivation is to get back and punish the ones who are responsible for his fate.

    Fury look much like a human, with a bit darker complexion, slightly pointed ears and teeth and catlike yellow eyes. All these changes become much more pronounced when he shifts when hurt.
    He is pride and has a very catlike demeanor and mannerisms with some big difference: He doesn't like to play with his prey.
    His voice is a full baritone that is sometimes accompanied with a growl.

    In the Arena: Fury wears blackened brass knuckles with clawlike protrusions. He wears tight dark clothing with a hint of red and black sandals. He doesn't talk much during battle and let's his actions speak for him.

    Out of the Arena: Fury doesn't speak much more. but he carefully listens and try to make no personal enemies. He often only wears simple loincloth and a catclw pedant around his neck. He prays before each battle.

    Character Sheet
    Name Caged Fury Player: WD
    Shifter (Razorclaw) Monk (Centered Breath) XP ? Level 6
    Background: Criminal (Assassin)
    Initiative +7 Senses Low-Light Vision
    Passive Insight 16; Passive Perception 21
    HP 56; Bloodied 28; Surge Value 14; Surges Per-Day 11
    AC 20; Fortitude 18; Reflex 19; Will 18
    Saving Throws
    Speed 6
    Alignment Unaligned
    Languages Common, ?

    Str 11 Dex 19 Wis 17
    Con 14 Int 10 Cha 10

    Racial Abilities
    Razorclaw Shifting

    Class Features
    Monastic Tradition (Centered Breath), Unarmed Combatant, Unarmored Defense

    Melee (Basic):
    Bloodclaw Wrappings: +11 / 1d8+6
    Unarmed (Prayer beads ki focus): +10 / 1d8+5

    At-Will Powers
    Centered Flurry of Blows

    Dancing Cobra

    Five Storms

    Encounter Powers
    Oath on Enmity

    Open the Gate of Battle

    Twin Thunders

    Daily Powers
    Masterful Spiral

    One Hundred Leaves

    Utility Powers
    Harmonious Discipline

    Purifying Meditation

    Bonus: Implement expertise (Ki Focus), Mounted Combat
    1 Disciple of Divine Wrath
    2 Melee Training (Dex)
    4 Toughness
    6 Durable

    Skills (without item bonuses)
    Acrobatics* +14
    Perception* +11
    Religion* +8
    Stealth* +14
    Thievery* +14


    Equipment unfinished
    Bloodthread cloth armor +1 (5), Sandals of Precise stepping (6), Bloodclaw Wrappings +2 (7), Enchanted Prayer Beads (Ki Focus) +1 (360gp), Amulet of Physical Resolve +1 (520gp), Potion of Healing (50), Standard equipment (15gp)

    own: 25gp
    arena: 30gp

    On Things Gladiatorial
    Why Fury Fights: Survive another day to get a chance for revenge and restore his church standing.
    What Fury Would Do If Free: Return home and find traitor. Serve the cult.

    On The Gladiators
    In character comments on the other PCs.
    Bargr: Monstrous and bestial... but some say the same things about me, when I change.
    Rodeh: Once a slave, ...
    Kadaj: We are much alike. But her mission lacks a purpose.
    Atrius: Glory hound. Seems more at home in an arena than most of us.
    Following Darkness: He is creepy. He fights a bit like me. Seems to be of some strange cult.
    Stan: I'm glad this one's cell is far from mine.
    Q'ynn: Keeps a distance. That id fine by me.
    The Scholar: Useful in a big fight. Likes Arkhosia to much.
    Pirx: Isn't he dead?
    Vecnite: Heard his people wage a kind of civil war. Wished he would be one of the other side.

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