Hanable's Hunters (OOC) - Always accepting Alts
G'day Bront,
As requested. Here's the PC outline for Grilok.
Grilok Hookfang (half-orc druid) strode purposely through the muddy streets of Shantytown. His long legs and steady stride bearing him resolutely towards his goal, the dirty hole in the wall that he and Sithek called home. A palpable sense of anger hung heavy in the air around him causing the human scum of the dirty seaside district to scamper quickly out of his way.
His heavy boots sloshed through what passed for muddy streets in the dung heap that sprawled haphazardly at the foot of the City of Towers. The heavy tread of the sturdy leather boots, like the hem of his mottled fur and scale cloak, were caked with the smelly, black, oily mud of the lower ward. The mud seemed to collect all the vileness of the upper city and deposit it in stinking puddles in the slums far below, before sucking at the spirit (and the feet Grilok thought miserably) of the souls that had the misfortune to live in the stinking rat infested midden heap.
The harsh, dirty environment that he had chosen as his ‘lair’ since being exiled by the Ghaash’kala reminded him of his homeland somewhat but it didn’t improve his mood at all. At least the heavy skull of the horrid boar that was nestled snugly upon his head kept most of the rain from his remaining good eye, and had the added bonus of keeping his face paint from running.
A street urchin, bolder or hungrier than the others, darted forward and slid to a halt in front of the towering brute causing him to stutter to a halt mid-stride. The child’s eyes looked up pleadingly, his lips quavered and he stammered as he blinked fat oily raindrops from his eyes.
“P-p-p-lease s-s-s-s-sir, spare a c-c-c-coin for some food?”
“Be gone man-cub”, grumbled Grilok in his deep throated brogue. “It grows dark and these streets too often claim the life of the young and weak…”
Suddenly the child grabbed at the bone and volcanic glass talisman that hung heavily from a colourfully beaded leather throng braided and looped around Grilok’s neck. With reflexes honed through long hours working the Labyrinth of the Demon Wastes, Grilok’s hairy, black nailed hand flew to the ivory hilt of the heavily battle nicked scimitar that hung familiarly at his side. The curved blade slashed through the air like a serpent of steel striking the child’s head a meaty blow. The child slumped heavily and immediately to the ground.
“…and foolish!” Grilok finished.
Grilok’s single eye stared unblinking at the small bundle that lay at his feet. He checked his scimitar for blood, and seeing none, quickly sheathed it in its snakeskin home. Mud splattered over the dirty, threadbare cloak that covered the small boy as Grilok’s heavily booted feet stepped over the young would be thief. He stopped, an exhausted sigh escaping his lips and turned his head back to regard the unmoving heap.
“Hunger drives the weak to acts of desperation when a toothless cub would risk the wroth of the caged boar.” He grumbled. ” Hunger is not a weakness, and the cub did show courage, if foolishly, indeed he may yet have some role to play in the events that unfold. And possibly may even be of some use to me.”
Grilok quickly scanned the lawless slums that surrounded him. Sensing no other immediate threats he smoothly knelt down beside the body. His hands closed around the heavy amulet that had so recently been the target of theft. He pulled the leather throng over his head, muttering angrily to himself as it momentarily snagged on one of the broken teeth of his snarling boar headpiece, and waved it in intricate patterns over the child’s inert form. His breathing quickened and he softly chanted guttural, ancient words of power. A soft blue light lit the child’s face bringing into stark relief the tightly stretched skin that covered the lump that had risen where the flat of Grilok’s blade had connected.
The child’s eyes slowly opened and for the first time he stared fully into Grilok’s face. Seeing the single blood-shot, cat-slit eye and the ragged empty socket that once housed its twin up close had an immediate affect on the whelp. He let out a startled scream and tried to scrabble crab-like backwards through the black muddy slime, only succeeding in splashing smelly muck all over the front of Grilok’s leather breast plate, bringing an even deeper scowl to Grilok’s ink-stained face.
“Be quiet and still man cub or I’ll deliver another blow to that bone head of yours and maybe silence you for good!”
Grilok quickly stood up and brushed the sticky mess from his chest.
“On this day you have been very lucky young buck.” Grilok growled, his deep bass voice having an immediate calming affect on the child. Flicking the putrid black mess from his fingers he reached down to help the child up from the muddy street. His mouth broke into what he hoped was a reassuring smile but, in truth, the heavily carved teeth, hooked tusks and black gums had the opposite affect and only increased the waifs anxiety.
Rolling his eye and clamping his mouth shut Grilok dug into the small cloth sack that dangled loosely from the braided hemp rope that he used as a belt. His thick stubby fingers closed around a cold, greasy garlic and mutton sausage that he had saved from his lunch. He pulled it from the sack and offered it to the thin wastrel that stood forlornly before him. The food reminded him that Sithek would be worried, hungry and impatient (and not necessarily in that order) and that a worried, hungry and impatient Sithek wasn’t likely to be a good thing for he or his neighbours.
“Come boy take the food and get to your shelter, I have not the time to waste standing here trying to convince you I mean no harm.”
The boy snatched the sausage and ran, his little legs pumping in the thick slurping mud. Grilok watched the boy bolt around the corner and then he turned his steps back towards his home.
/-OO-\
It had been another frustrating day of dead ends and red herrings and Grilok was no closer to clearing his name. It angered and frustrated him to be stuck in Sharn but this is where his exile had led him. The people of these soft southern cities believed that the war had ended but the Ghaash’kala knew that it went on, and would likely never end. Everyday the Ghaash’kala fought against the tide of darkness that threatened the whole of Khorvaire. Everyday the Clan that protected the borders of the Demon Wastes held at bay horrors that these soft southerners could only dream of. And everyday that Grilok was exiled was another day where he let his brothers die defending the weak and believing that he was a murderous coward.
Two hard years it had been since his humiliation, a humiliation that had cost him his life and left him feeling hollow and dirty. It had almost broken him. He had been spiralling out of control, giving into his anger and drinking heavily. Beaten, broken and bruised he had limped from the Labyrinth and straight into a self-induced hell. If not for the selfless sacrifice of Sithek then he would still be wallowing in self-pity. In fact, truth-be-told, he probably would have given his beliefs away and become one of life’s wasted chances.
But Sithek had saved him. She had bought him back from the brink of insanity, and had woken him to his purpose, had given his anger a focus. He now had drive, although the endless frustrations in his investigation were starting to wear awfully thin. It might be that he needed to look at enlisting aid, a concept that was fairly alien to him since his separation from the Clan. He didn’t think of Sithek as aid. Sithek was family, an extension of himself.
Admittedly, he didn’t know much about who may have framed him for the murder of the visiting Silver Flame priests. They had said that they were hunting a thief who had stolen an artefact of great importance to their church. He had been asked to escort them to Ghaash Dar so that they could plead their case before the Ghaash’kala elders.
On the second evening of their journey though tragedy struck. The guards that accompanied the expedition had been out scouting the area immediately around the site the group had chosen to rest in. Grilok began setting up the camp while the priests dismounted, dusted off their prayer mats and knelt to begin their evening prayers. That was when all hell broke loose, or so Grilok had been told. He could recall nothing of how the priests had died or why he had been spared. Grilok had been discovered standing covered in blood in the middle of the circle of dead priests. All he could recall was the smell of cinnamon and the name ‘Belkorr’ screamed into the night.
The Silver Flame hierarchy demanded restitution and the Ghaash’kala delivered it in the form of a branding, the loss of an eye and exile. Grilok was branded on each palm with the broken circle that identified him as a coward. His left eye was ruined with a sharpened stick, eventually, after infection had set in, Grilok removed the pulped mess that remained. And, what hurt worst of all, he was exiled from his home and divorced from his purpose.
To be continued???
As requested. Here's the PC outline for Grilok.
Grilok Hookfang (half-orc druid) strode purposely through the muddy streets of Shantytown. His long legs and steady stride bearing him resolutely towards his goal, the dirty hole in the wall that he and Sithek called home. A palpable sense of anger hung heavy in the air around him causing the human scum of the dirty seaside district to scamper quickly out of his way.
His heavy boots sloshed through what passed for muddy streets in the dung heap that sprawled haphazardly at the foot of the City of Towers. The heavy tread of the sturdy leather boots, like the hem of his mottled fur and scale cloak, were caked with the smelly, black, oily mud of the lower ward. The mud seemed to collect all the vileness of the upper city and deposit it in stinking puddles in the slums far below, before sucking at the spirit (and the feet Grilok thought miserably) of the souls that had the misfortune to live in the stinking rat infested midden heap.
The harsh, dirty environment that he had chosen as his ‘lair’ since being exiled by the Ghaash’kala reminded him of his homeland somewhat but it didn’t improve his mood at all. At least the heavy skull of the horrid boar that was nestled snugly upon his head kept most of the rain from his remaining good eye, and had the added bonus of keeping his face paint from running.
A street urchin, bolder or hungrier than the others, darted forward and slid to a halt in front of the towering brute causing him to stutter to a halt mid-stride. The child’s eyes looked up pleadingly, his lips quavered and he stammered as he blinked fat oily raindrops from his eyes.
“P-p-p-lease s-s-s-s-sir, spare a c-c-c-coin for some food?”
“Be gone man-cub”, grumbled Grilok in his deep throated brogue. “It grows dark and these streets too often claim the life of the young and weak…”
Suddenly the child grabbed at the bone and volcanic glass talisman that hung heavily from a colourfully beaded leather throng braided and looped around Grilok’s neck. With reflexes honed through long hours working the Labyrinth of the Demon Wastes, Grilok’s hairy, black nailed hand flew to the ivory hilt of the heavily battle nicked scimitar that hung familiarly at his side. The curved blade slashed through the air like a serpent of steel striking the child’s head a meaty blow. The child slumped heavily and immediately to the ground.
“…and foolish!” Grilok finished.
Grilok’s single eye stared unblinking at the small bundle that lay at his feet. He checked his scimitar for blood, and seeing none, quickly sheathed it in its snakeskin home. Mud splattered over the dirty, threadbare cloak that covered the small boy as Grilok’s heavily booted feet stepped over the young would be thief. He stopped, an exhausted sigh escaping his lips and turned his head back to regard the unmoving heap.
“Hunger drives the weak to acts of desperation when a toothless cub would risk the wroth of the caged boar.” He grumbled. ” Hunger is not a weakness, and the cub did show courage, if foolishly, indeed he may yet have some role to play in the events that unfold. And possibly may even be of some use to me.”
Grilok quickly scanned the lawless slums that surrounded him. Sensing no other immediate threats he smoothly knelt down beside the body. His hands closed around the heavy amulet that had so recently been the target of theft. He pulled the leather throng over his head, muttering angrily to himself as it momentarily snagged on one of the broken teeth of his snarling boar headpiece, and waved it in intricate patterns over the child’s inert form. His breathing quickened and he softly chanted guttural, ancient words of power. A soft blue light lit the child’s face bringing into stark relief the tightly stretched skin that covered the lump that had risen where the flat of Grilok’s blade had connected.
The child’s eyes slowly opened and for the first time he stared fully into Grilok’s face. Seeing the single blood-shot, cat-slit eye and the ragged empty socket that once housed its twin up close had an immediate affect on the whelp. He let out a startled scream and tried to scrabble crab-like backwards through the black muddy slime, only succeeding in splashing smelly muck all over the front of Grilok’s leather breast plate, bringing an even deeper scowl to Grilok’s ink-stained face.
“Be quiet and still man cub or I’ll deliver another blow to that bone head of yours and maybe silence you for good!”
Grilok quickly stood up and brushed the sticky mess from his chest.
“On this day you have been very lucky young buck.” Grilok growled, his deep bass voice having an immediate calming affect on the child. Flicking the putrid black mess from his fingers he reached down to help the child up from the muddy street. His mouth broke into what he hoped was a reassuring smile but, in truth, the heavily carved teeth, hooked tusks and black gums had the opposite affect and only increased the waifs anxiety.
Rolling his eye and clamping his mouth shut Grilok dug into the small cloth sack that dangled loosely from the braided hemp rope that he used as a belt. His thick stubby fingers closed around a cold, greasy garlic and mutton sausage that he had saved from his lunch. He pulled it from the sack and offered it to the thin wastrel that stood forlornly before him. The food reminded him that Sithek would be worried, hungry and impatient (and not necessarily in that order) and that a worried, hungry and impatient Sithek wasn’t likely to be a good thing for he or his neighbours.
“Come boy take the food and get to your shelter, I have not the time to waste standing here trying to convince you I mean no harm.”
The boy snatched the sausage and ran, his little legs pumping in the thick slurping mud. Grilok watched the boy bolt around the corner and then he turned his steps back towards his home.
/-OO-\
It had been another frustrating day of dead ends and red herrings and Grilok was no closer to clearing his name. It angered and frustrated him to be stuck in Sharn but this is where his exile had led him. The people of these soft southern cities believed that the war had ended but the Ghaash’kala knew that it went on, and would likely never end. Everyday the Ghaash’kala fought against the tide of darkness that threatened the whole of Khorvaire. Everyday the Clan that protected the borders of the Demon Wastes held at bay horrors that these soft southerners could only dream of. And everyday that Grilok was exiled was another day where he let his brothers die defending the weak and believing that he was a murderous coward.
Two hard years it had been since his humiliation, a humiliation that had cost him his life and left him feeling hollow and dirty. It had almost broken him. He had been spiralling out of control, giving into his anger and drinking heavily. Beaten, broken and bruised he had limped from the Labyrinth and straight into a self-induced hell. If not for the selfless sacrifice of Sithek then he would still be wallowing in self-pity. In fact, truth-be-told, he probably would have given his beliefs away and become one of life’s wasted chances.
But Sithek had saved him. She had bought him back from the brink of insanity, and had woken him to his purpose, had given his anger a focus. He now had drive, although the endless frustrations in his investigation were starting to wear awfully thin. It might be that he needed to look at enlisting aid, a concept that was fairly alien to him since his separation from the Clan. He didn’t think of Sithek as aid. Sithek was family, an extension of himself.
Admittedly, he didn’t know much about who may have framed him for the murder of the visiting Silver Flame priests. They had said that they were hunting a thief who had stolen an artefact of great importance to their church. He had been asked to escort them to Ghaash Dar so that they could plead their case before the Ghaash’kala elders.
On the second evening of their journey though tragedy struck. The guards that accompanied the expedition had been out scouting the area immediately around the site the group had chosen to rest in. Grilok began setting up the camp while the priests dismounted, dusted off their prayer mats and knelt to begin their evening prayers. That was when all hell broke loose, or so Grilok had been told. He could recall nothing of how the priests had died or why he had been spared. Grilok had been discovered standing covered in blood in the middle of the circle of dead priests. All he could recall was the smell of cinnamon and the name ‘Belkorr’ screamed into the night.
The Silver Flame hierarchy demanded restitution and the Ghaash’kala delivered it in the form of a branding, the loss of an eye and exile. Grilok was branded on each palm with the broken circle that identified him as a coward. His left eye was ruined with a sharpened stick, eventually, after infection had set in, Grilok removed the pulped mess that remained. And, what hurt worst of all, he was exiled from his home and divorced from his purpose.
To be continued???
Me again Bront. As requested here's Maynard. I'm still working on his full background, this is just a quick mental sketch.
Cheers
Daz
Maynard Pek is a Karrnathi Changeling Ranger who is currently in the Lhazaar Principalities looking for evidence that will link the Bloodsails to a spate of recent pirate attacks against Karrnathi interests. During his time in the Principalities Maynard has been approached by the Gray Tide. He feels at home amongst the ‘Tide’ and hopes to be able to immigrate to Last Point once he has completed his current mission. He now feels no love for Karrnath, in fact since being in the Principalities he has discovered the truth concerning the purge of the changeling race thirteen hundred years ago and has sworn never to return to his birth country.
He still feels some loyalty though, even if it is misguided, to Derk Dhaal, his contact within the Karrnathi government. His self-belief, dedication and determination will not let him set aside his current mission but as soon as he finds evidence linking the Bloodsails to the pirate attacks he expects to leave the service of Karrnath. Whether Derk and the rulers of Karrnath allow him to leave is another question entirely.
Cheers
Daz
Maynard Pek is a Karrnathi Changeling Ranger who is currently in the Lhazaar Principalities looking for evidence that will link the Bloodsails to a spate of recent pirate attacks against Karrnathi interests. During his time in the Principalities Maynard has been approached by the Gray Tide. He feels at home amongst the ‘Tide’ and hopes to be able to immigrate to Last Point once he has completed his current mission. He now feels no love for Karrnath, in fact since being in the Principalities he has discovered the truth concerning the purge of the changeling race thirteen hundred years ago and has sworn never to return to his birth country.
He still feels some loyalty though, even if it is misguided, to Derk Dhaal, his contact within the Karrnathi government. His self-belief, dedication and determination will not let him set aside his current mission but as soon as he finds evidence linking the Bloodsails to the pirate attacks he expects to leave the service of Karrnath. Whether Derk and the rulers of Karrnath allow him to leave is another question entirely.
QUILER LON - Elven Bard of House Phiarlan
The Demesnes of Shadow in House Phiarlan specializes in the verbal and illusory arts when it comes to entertainment. Members within the House are actors, magicians, and storytellers, Quiler Lon (his stage name) has been a performer for the House for hundreds of years, specializing in the humorous storytelling arts. His comedic commentaries and rants about everything that goes on across the continent of Khorvaire have been looked upon favorably by noble and commoner alike, and there are very few places where he would not be allowed to perform. Everyone needs a good laugh every now an again, and coming to see a performance of Quiler Lon is sure to be a fun time.
However, there is a dark side to Quiler that nobody is aware of. Quiler is actually a Shadow member of the Serpentine Table, the espionage wing of the elven dragonmarked House. For the past thirty years Quiler has worked the spy game for the House... gathering and passing on information, causing "accidents" to occur in areas he might visit, and all sorts of other occurances that nobody would ever suspect the wide-eyed, smiling humorist might be capable of. And this is just the way Quiler likes it. Life is just a big game... and what better way to play it than moving the pieces when nobody is watching?
Quiler has just recently joined the organization called Hanable's Hunters... a treasure hunting group. At first glance, having a humorist such as Quiler in the organization does not seem to be a good fit, however it was determined early on that the road ahead for the treasure hunters could be fraught with peril, and having someone around to lighten the mood was terrific for morale. And Quiler has fit that to a T. It also doesn't hurt the fact that as Quiler supports the Hunters in their endeavors, he relays important information on their discoveries back to House Phiarlan. If the Hunter's were aware of how many places House Phiarlan has swooped in right behind the Hunter's arrival in order to pick clean the areas themselves, Quiler would get strung up faster than you could believe. But for Quiler Lon, living on this jagged edge is the sort of excitement he craves, and thus he walks the micro-thin line as carefully as possible. This is the game of life after all... and he's playing it to the fullest.
The Demesnes of Shadow in House Phiarlan specializes in the verbal and illusory arts when it comes to entertainment. Members within the House are actors, magicians, and storytellers, Quiler Lon (his stage name) has been a performer for the House for hundreds of years, specializing in the humorous storytelling arts. His comedic commentaries and rants about everything that goes on across the continent of Khorvaire have been looked upon favorably by noble and commoner alike, and there are very few places where he would not be allowed to perform. Everyone needs a good laugh every now an again, and coming to see a performance of Quiler Lon is sure to be a fun time.
However, there is a dark side to Quiler that nobody is aware of. Quiler is actually a Shadow member of the Serpentine Table, the espionage wing of the elven dragonmarked House. For the past thirty years Quiler has worked the spy game for the House... gathering and passing on information, causing "accidents" to occur in areas he might visit, and all sorts of other occurances that nobody would ever suspect the wide-eyed, smiling humorist might be capable of. And this is just the way Quiler likes it. Life is just a big game... and what better way to play it than moving the pieces when nobody is watching?
Quiler has just recently joined the organization called Hanable's Hunters... a treasure hunting group. At first glance, having a humorist such as Quiler in the organization does not seem to be a good fit, however it was determined early on that the road ahead for the treasure hunters could be fraught with peril, and having someone around to lighten the mood was terrific for morale. And Quiler has fit that to a T. It also doesn't hurt the fact that as Quiler supports the Hunters in their endeavors, he relays important information on their discoveries back to House Phiarlan. If the Hunter's were aware of how many places House Phiarlan has swooped in right behind the Hunter's arrival in order to pick clean the areas themselves, Quiler would get strung up faster than you could believe. But for Quiler Lon, living on this jagged edge is the sort of excitement he craves, and thus he walks the micro-thin line as carefully as possible. This is the game of life after all... and he's playing it to the fullest.
Temujin
First Post
I still have to go over everything to make sure it's legit, but as it stands here is my character:
[sblock]
Brogen Intaur "The boar"
Human Cleric 5 (XP 10,000) Alignment: CG
Height: 6'3" Weight: 214lbs. Age: 33
hair: black eyes: green skin: light-brown tan
STR 16 +3
DEX 15 +2
CON 11 +0
INT 10 +0
WIS 16 +3
CHA 14 +2 (+1 at lvl 4)
HP: 25 (8 + 6 + 4 + 5 + 2)
Init: +6
BAB/Grapple: +4/+7
Speed: 30ft
ACP: -4
AC: 17 (Breastplate + Dex)
Touch/Flatfooted: 12 / 15
Fort: +5
Ref: +3
Will: +7
Skills:
Concentration +8 (8 ranks, CON bonus)
Diplomancy +5 (2 ranks, CHA bonus)
Heal +7 (4 ranks, WIS bonus)
Spellcraft +2 (2 ranks, INT bonus)
Intimidate +6 (4 ranks, CHA bonus, cc)
Languages: Common.
Feats:
Two-weapon fighting
Weapon Focus: heavy mace
Improved Initiative
Quick Draw
Abilities:
Human Traits
Turn Undead 5/day
Domain: War, Strength
Deity: Dol Dorn
Spells: (5/4+1/3+1/2+1)
0-lvl spells
Guidance x2
IMW x2
Light
1-lvl spells
Bless x2
Cause Fear
Divine Favor
Enlarge Person (d)
2-lvl spells
Bull's Strength (d)
Hold Person x2
IMW
3-lvl spells
Magic Vestment (d)
Blindness
CSW
Items:
2x Heavy mace of spell storing (4624gp)
3x Elixer of Fire Breath (3300gp)
Breastplate (200gp)
Backpack (2gp)
2x Potion(CMW) (600gp)
4x Potion(CLW) (200gp)
Total wt: 57 lbs.
Monies: 76gp
Appearance:
Brogan is a large man, standing over 6' tall and with wide shoulders and a muscular back. His head is periodically shaved to the stubble, and is pitted with scars, prizes of his combat
experience. His right eye is interruped by a long vertical slash, and is practically forced shut by the scar, forcing the right side of his face into a perpetual grimace.
Background:
A vetran combat medic, Brogen has seen his fair share of death on the battlefield. His father was an active battle medic when Brogen was a child, and to the young, everything their parents do is spectacular. Modeling himself after his hero and father, Brogen trained himself and learned the skills so that one day, he too might join glorious battle, helping the wounded as he went along.
Sustaining himself off tales that his father brought back with him after a long campaign, he happily set out to enlist once he reached the proper age. Finally! Now he would see the wonders and experience the adventure that his father was! Once he was there, he found out how different reality was. Disillusioned by the war and the cause, he quickly deserted. Though he has found a temporary cause and home in Hanable's Hunters, the horrors and memories of his past remain with him. Having lost friends and comrades in battle, Brogen is afraid to make get close to people any more, and as such comes off as a gruff and uncaring person, but just doesn't want to feel that sort of pain again. He also has trouble trusting new recruits, and his experience in the wars have forced him to rely on those who's strength has been proven - They last longer and their experience means you last longer if they're watching your back.
[/sblock]
[sblock]
Brogen Intaur "The boar"
Human Cleric 5 (XP 10,000) Alignment: CG
Height: 6'3" Weight: 214lbs. Age: 33
hair: black eyes: green skin: light-brown tan
(Set 2)
DEX 15 +2
CON 11 +0
INT 10 +0
WIS 16 +3
CHA 14 +2 (+1 at lvl 4)
HP: 25 (8 + 6 + 4 + 5 + 2)
Init: +6
BAB/Grapple: +4/+7
Speed: 30ft
ACP: -4
AC: 17 (Breastplate + Dex)
Touch/Flatfooted: 12 / 15
Fort: +5
(+1 due to Con)
(+2 due to Dex)
(+3 due to Wis)
Skills:
(4 human, 2+int+human/lvl)
Diplomancy +5 (2 ranks, CHA bonus)
Heal +7 (4 ranks, WIS bonus)
Spellcraft +2 (2 ranks, INT bonus)
Intimidate +6 (4 ranks, CHA bonus, cc)
Languages: Common.
Feats:
Two-weapon fighting
(human)
(domain)
(lvl 1)
(lvl 3)
Abilities:
Human Traits
(extra sp/lvl, x4 extra at lvl 1, extra feat)
(3+ 2 cha)
(1/day, +1/clr lvl to STR, 1rnd) + (Weapon Focus: heavy mace)
Deity: Dol Dorn
Spells: (5/4+1/3+1/2+1)
0-lvl spells
Guidance x2
IMW x2
Light
1-lvl spells
Bless x2
Cause Fear
Divine Favor
Enlarge Person (d)
2-lvl spells
Bull's Strength (d)
Hold Person x2
IMW
3-lvl spells
Magic Vestment (d)
Blindness
CSW
Items:
2x Heavy mace of spell storing (4624gp)
25 lbs.
Breastplate (200gp)
30 lbs.
2 lbs.
4x Potion(CLW) (200gp)
Total wt: 57 lbs.
Monies: 76gp
Appearance:
Brogan is a large man, standing over 6' tall and with wide shoulders and a muscular back. His head is periodically shaved to the stubble, and is pitted with scars, prizes of his combat
experience. His right eye is interruped by a long vertical slash, and is practically forced shut by the scar, forcing the right side of his face into a perpetual grimace.
Background:
A vetran combat medic, Brogen has seen his fair share of death on the battlefield. His father was an active battle medic when Brogen was a child, and to the young, everything their parents do is spectacular. Modeling himself after his hero and father, Brogen trained himself and learned the skills so that one day, he too might join glorious battle, helping the wounded as he went along.
Sustaining himself off tales that his father brought back with him after a long campaign, he happily set out to enlist once he reached the proper age. Finally! Now he would see the wonders and experience the adventure that his father was! Once he was there, he found out how different reality was. Disillusioned by the war and the cause, he quickly deserted. Though he has found a temporary cause and home in Hanable's Hunters, the horrors and memories of his past remain with him. Having lost friends and comrades in battle, Brogen is afraid to make get close to people any more, and as such comes off as a gruff and uncaring person, but just doesn't want to feel that sort of pain again. He also has trouble trusting new recruits, and his experience in the wars have forced him to rely on those who's strength has been proven - They last longer and their experience means you last longer if they're watching your back.
[/sblock]
...
Last edited:
Similar Threads
