Rook - a rotten bastard

I'm writing the history of a character of mine, Rook, a Hexblade Warmage. I thought it might make good reading, and feedback could only improve it. Let me know what you think (I'm going to do this in installments so it isn't too big).

Rook's Story

. . . A gallows's child, Rook's mother collected the seed from a hanged man in order to conceive him. After 13 months, he was born to the witch and named after her cat familiar, Rook. No maternal instincts blighted his hag-mother, she steeped him in witchcraft and cruelty equally, using him as a gopher, aid, and a target for her cruelties. Rook, her familiar, tormented the boy, scarring his back and ankles with scratches that would not heal properly. With a life dominated by her, he developed a mean streak that he unleashed on the local peasantry, growing up to be a feared bully and an accomplished terror.

. . . On his 18th birthday, Rook tended the hut he and his mother shared as she "took care of business" at the local village. The familiar, as it typically spent its time, terrorized Rook, biting and clawing from surprise, overturning cups, and launching onto him, then quickly off before he could react. He generally would swat it and no more, for to harm the familiar would be to anger his mother, but this day he grabbed it by its neck and dashed it against the wall. Before it could stand, he began stomping it to the ground, yelling abuses and curses with an anger long suppressed. With broken limbs, the cat was unable to escape, but with unnatural vitality it suffered abuse beyond what its body should have been able to suffer. At last, as he throttled the life from it, its eyes changed to those of his mother. In response, he snapped its neck and tossed the body into the fire. Sure to face punishment or death for this murder, Rook grabbed his things and fled into the woods - ready to slay his mother if she pursued him.

. . . Meanwhile, his mother stalked through the village – taking what she wanted from farmers and shopkeepers. Farmers simply walked away when she showed, while shopkeepers called her thefts gifts. Both hated and feared, none would dare anger her for fear of being cursed. While taking spools of thread, she abruptly stood upright and cooed out ‘Rook’. Staring off into space, she began shaking her head, then shouted the name again. She collapsed into a heap with a spasm. The shopkeeper checked to see if she was dead, but was disappointed to see she still breathed. The constable was called, the witch bound, and the village debate begun. Who should kill her; would the slayer be cursed, should she instead be revived? None dared strike the killing blow, but all agreed it would be better if she died. The best method, they agreed, was a public execution – everyone helping, but no one person specifically responsible. They would give her a trial for witchcraft, following tradition so as to rob her of foes to single out as cheating her.

. . . The strongest villagers went to the witch’s home, with torch and spear. Her son was to be slain outright unless he surrendered, and the house to be burned to the ground – destroying the witch’s magical tools and charms. With Rook already fled, they searched the house then put it to the torch, watching it burn. Once done, they returned to the village with the bad news, the witch’s son had escaped. They quickly started the 4 day trial.

. . . Rook saw the smoke from his home and quickly returned. Unsure of what had happened; he stole onto a farm and captured a farm boy to question him. Upon learning his mothers trial and assured fate – he battled between the urge to save his mother, and the urge to attend the burning and watch her squirm in the flames. Instead, he brained the farmboy, robbed the farm, and fled the village altogether. He left the valley on the 3rd day of the trial.

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Full paragraph breaks are your friend.

where does he go from here?

what does he know about the area?

what did he take?

what does he look like besides the scars? will others know him on sight? can he disguise himself?

where does he go from here? Cool - interest. Perhaps I should have written more then just this before posting. I'll see what I can get done today.

what does he know about the area? Familiar with the local area (10 mile radius) - unfortunately, the people in that radius are familiar with him too.

what did he take? He took his hunting spear, an old short sword, his blanket, a change of clothes, and a bag of food. He also took his fetish, a wax figure of him his mother made - it includes a bit of his blood, hair, and fingernail clippings.

what does he look like besides the scars? will others know him on sight? can he disguise himself?

Rook is just over 6' tall, with a dolls eyes and red hair that begins with a widows peak an ends at his shoulders, typically tied in a pony tail. He has a hatchet face, very angular - almost fey, and a pointed chin. Blessed with mostly straight teeth, his canines overlap the adjacent teeth, causing them to jut out. He is muscular, lean, but with over-fair skin that often reveals his frequent rashes and sunburns. Careful scrutiny reveals his left leg is slightly longer then his right, giving him a uneven gait and swagger. He has yet to be able to grow facial hair, despite his use of herbal crèmes to encourage their growth.

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so how many players in the group?

and how do you make Rook seem like he should belong or that the others would even want him in the group?

so how many players in the group?

Well, he's played in 3 convention games and a dozen or so solo games (me & a gm). When with other players, he is a bit of a.... pain. Last con game, we entered the town & offered to help them deal with lycanthropes threatening them - but I wanted whores and inquired about the mayors wife. The constable, a rather tough fellow, incapacitated me despite my best attempts to intimidate and threaten, and I was jailed. The group managed to get me out (paying my fine). To get even, I used an elixir of love and a 'fertility' token to spend an afternoon with the mayors wife. In several months, she should be the proud mother of a red headed child...

and how do you make Rook seem like he should belong or that the others would even want him in the group?

Generally I'm tolerated - I'm loud, obnoxious, and a bully, but I carry my weight and treat compatriots as members of MY gang. I've gone so far as to put myself between my fellows and the enemy - though I clout the fool who made it necessary afterwards. Other players often believe I'm 2-3 levels above them when we begin due to his behavior. By the time they discover he's lower level then them, he's done enough on the groups behalf to make him worth keeping around (with an intimidate of +11, I've gotten folks to give way to our groups needs... and scared away a few foes more powerful then myself.)

He's a gestalt hex blade/warmage at 3rd/3rd. When he's played in con games, he’s been with groups 2-3 levels above him (not counting the +1 level adjustment for gestalt).

He's a jerk. He's sexist, racist, and classist. He's lucky to still be alive with his AC and HP. Too bad he doesn't realize it.

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More on Rook

. . . With no immediate prospects and the chance of getting caught and put on trial, Rook fled into the woods, scraping by for a month with his limited woodsman skills. Finally tiring of root and roast squirrel, he began poaching on the farms, stealing piglets, goats, and chickens for his meals and taking clothes from the lines if they looked large enough to fit him. When seen, he brazenly took what he wanted after staring down the farmer most of the time, though in the late summer of his 20th year, while robbing a foundling farm, the man ran to the house, grabbed his bow,and gave chase. Rook hexed the farmer and yelled threats from behind trees, but the man didn’t relent, sending arrows deep into the trees with his powerful bow. Afraid, Rook went to release the piglet only to discover he’d killed it when he’d dived for cover earlier, crushing it with his weight. Leaving the carcass, he expected the farmer to relent – only to hear the farmer curse him back and renew the chase.

. . . Scared he’d end up a dead man, Rook hid in the bushes, hoping the farmer would run off in the wrong direction so he could escape. Instead, the farmer ran straight towards him, looking down occasionally to make sure he was still on track. Rook set the spear and impaling him as he ran by the bushes, lifting him up into the air halfway before the spear shaft split in two. The farmer twitched, gripping the spear like a lifeline, his eyes slowly dimmed. Rook watched him die. A young man, perhaps 5 years older then Rook. He wore a cheap wedding band and homespun clothes. Rook took the ring and went back to the farmstead, armed with the dead man’s long bow.

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The ongoing story of Rook

. . . The wife stood at the door, waiting for her husband. She watched Rook step out of the forest, holding her husband’s bow. With a cry of horror, she slammed the door shut and began wailing for her loss. Rook ran up to the door to pull it open, only to find she had barred it. Circling the house, he found the back door, but found it locked as well. The windows were set high, with small openings and heavy shutters. Tired from his race through the woods, he began beating the door, shouting names, and began a tirade of threats if she didn’t open the door. The wails finally stopped, but no door opened, no noise was made. After 10 minutes of waiting, Rook climbed up the side of the house and hacked through the thatch roof with his short sword. He found the woman next to a table, dead; she had impaled herself on a dagger. Rook was stunned – this wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

. . . He searched the 2 other rooms but found no one else. She had killed herself to avoid him. Not sure how he felt, he wandered about the house until he noticed that food was cooking, an iron pot in the hearth had a stew boiling. He hadn’t meant to kill anyone – the farmer made him do it, and the lady killed herself. It's not like I’m a monster, he thought, I’m as human as they are. It’s not my fault. They were stupid – I just wanted a piglet to eat. He went over the events in his mind, building up his innocence until he felt justified, practically a victim to their stupidity. The stew tasted fine and the cold marriage bed warmed him in the night.

..............any feedback folks? Poor writing, suggestions, critique? Would you let your daughters date him?

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...some more on Rook just before I go home. If I get the chance, I'll write some more this week. Feedback/critique would be great. I'd like this to be decent when I'm done, and this has been written in my spare time at work - between tasks, so I'm sure the narrative voice wobbles a bit, as does the quality. Oh well.

After ransacking the house, Rook had collected some copper and silver coin, a suit of studded leather armor, and clothes that fit him, if but poorly. Before leaving, he stooped over the woman’s corpse and pried off her wedding ring. Fearing the discovery of the woman and a hunt for himself, he lit a pile of clothes on fire, using lamp oil to get the blaze going, and then lit the thatch roof on fire with an impromptu torch. It would look like a simple fire, no worries, and no hunt for him. He unbarred the front door and stepped out, bumping into the standing corpse of the husband, the broken spear still sticking in his chest. Rook’s eyes bulged.

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Ok, this installment is rushed - I have a Dr appointment today and just wanted to get something out. Well, any feedback? Hello?

. . . . Rook’s mind stumbled as it tried to make sense of the corpse reaching for him, finally tripping into the now as its cold hand slammed his chest, knocking the wind out of Rook. He’s dead but not dead, he’s dead but not dead… Mother! It had to be mother. Rook scurried back into the burning house, his mind circling – this is the sort of thing mother could do. The sort of thing she would do. Momma sent the dead man to kill me! His cloak caught fire as he backed over burning thatch, fallen from the roof. Circling around the table, he used his off hand to beat at the flame. The dead man lurched towards him. “Did Momma send you? That bitch isn't dead yet, is she?” The corpse started sidling up the left of the table, circling it to reach him, its clouded eyes moving to follow him. “Is that you in there, Momma?!”

. . . . Rook almost tripped over the wife, her burning dress licking his legs with fire, as he circled the table opposite the dead man. Choking on smoke, eyes watering, Rook waited till his back was to the open door, the rushing air from outside slightly cooling him. He readied himself to run through the door when flaming thatch crashed between him his exit, brushing against him and forcing his retreat to avoid being caught in its downfall. As he lurched back, he shoved the table, knocking the dead man reeling back. Rook’s smoke blurred eyes went from despair at to burning with triumph as he watched the stumbling corpse. “Momma, yar gonna burn again!” He shoved harder against the table, shoving the stumbling dead man against the wall. Leaning over the table, it swung its club-like hands, but the table was too long for it to reach him. Rook felt as if he’d ignite, the flames tore at his skin, burning the hair of his arms and baking his skin, still he held the table in place, pinning the farmer’s body over the pyre. “Stay dead, Momma.” Rook fled the burning house, dodging the fallen thatch to leap through the open door, swearing up a storm.

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