Meowzebub
First Post
Luvaine bar-Boere “the Barber”
Luvaine is an unusual caravan guard in these parts. He does not seek out traveling companies, but is typically sought out by the merchants or caravan masters themselves. He is renown for his luck, his nerve, and ability to get caravans to their destinations. Much of his past swirls around the tale of a lame blacksmith, Latherne.
Luvaine originally showed up in these parts, years ago. He was indentured to a blacksmith traveling to the Complex for the abundant available work. The terms of his contract were unknown, but rooftop burglary was rumored to have been the cause. The pair were waylaid on the way. A rain of a dozen arrows fell on them. The blacksmith cried out, waking Luvaine, sleeping in the nook of the sheet metal forge hood. As the old man encouraged the mule, Luvaine threw anything and everything out of the wagon to slow their Bugbear pursuers. Steel ingots and loosened coils of wire proved most effective. Luvaine, from his time on the streets had discovered a knack for throwing rocks and knives, the blacksmith’s equipment seemed a natural extension. Plus this tactic made the wagon lighter. Although the hammers proved too awkward, the half-pound ingots rained a bloody barrage. The wire coils exploded like springs and many fell hopelessly entwined. Soon battered, bludgeoned and entangled assailants were all left behind except one. This turned out to be Chulkas, an especially aggressive Bugbear set on soon becoming chief of his clan. He dodged ingots, and hammers, and leapt over the wire coils as they bounced on the trail. He eventually ran alongside the wagon and attempted to smash the wheels with his axe. The wooden wheels took mighty blows and started to totter. He managed to pull ahead and brought his axe down on the poor mule, dropping it in its harness and causing the wagon to careen to a halt. Chulkas laughed as he paused to catch his breath.
Luvaine was desperate, his master sat cowering on the buckboard, there was nothing left to throw. He had his knife, but resisted the urge to throw it, as it would likely be his last defense. An anvil lay there, but what were the chances to drop that on his attacker. There was also some rope. A desperate plan formed and he set to work.
Chulkas declared his prowess and decided to attack the man and save the youth for later. His first mistake. He reached under the wagon and dragged the crying man out. But as he straightened up, his laugh of triumph died in his throat with the noose that tightened around his throat. Shock registered on his face and he looked up and saw the scrawny young human holding the other end. The laugh came back as he dropped the useless man, snapping a limb in the process, and made to pull the rope free. The lad stepped back and bumped into the far edge of the wagon, and the anvil balanced there. A deft twist and the rope looped the anvil before it plunged off the edge of the wagon. Chulkas’ head collides with the wagon and is left there suspended.
The blacksmith crawls forward and makes moves to kill Chulkas, but Luvaine easily holds him back due to his wounds. Quickly he tells of his idea, as they have no transportation, Chulkas will have to do. Luvaine finds a few remaining short pieces of wire to lash the bugbear’s massive hands. The rope secures his arms at his side and him to the harness. Knowing a threat of force might not be enough to ensure Chulkas’ cooperation, Luvaine sets quickly to shave the Chulkas’ head. The blacksmith stares in amazement.
When Chulkas comes to, he is given the option of pulling the wagon to town and facing the guard’s imprisonment for robbery, or attempt to break free and return to his clan. Luvaine holds up a mirror and the shame is obvious. He could not go back like this and after a long argument is convinced his best chances lay in cooperating.
With fierce determination he drags the battered wagon, as if to show that even in his humiliation, he can drag the wagon better than anyone. At the gates, the crowd splits to let the strange sight pass. Two guards fall in line behind. Reaching the central plaza, the wagon gives a final shudder as two wheels disintegrate. Luvaine deftly hops to ground amidst the crash of the forge hood and bellows and the pained mutters of the blacksmith.
A huge crowd had gathered as word spread of their procession into the square. At the strange looks from the guards, Luvaine introduced himself, explained to them that Chulkas was a bandit bugbear and should be taken into custody. The crowd muttered at these words. As the guards struggled to cut the shaved bugbear free, the laugher started, soon growing to a roar. By the time he was free of the harness, a rage was evident in his pale shorn face. This was not part of the deal, humans would not mock him. Tapping unknown strength, Chulkas snapped the bonds that contained him. The guards fell back at the display of brute power. The crowd began to panic. But Chulkas only had eyes for the one who was responsible for all this, Luvaine. Realizing his danger, Luvaine sprinted back down the lane, the Bugbear roaring in rage behind him. The guards later reported Luvaine maintaining a good lead as they passed back out the gates and into the forest.
It was two nights later the Clulkas’ head was found on a stick along the road. No sign of the lad. The road became known as Iron Pass as travelers often found occasional metal items poking out of the dirt in the trail or in the underbrush beside the road. Traveller’s took to saving such pieces as good luck against bandits, Luvaine’s Luck.
It was not until eight years later that a man showed up in town that reminded people of that young lad, all those years ago. He was dressed strangely and smelled like a wild animal. But as he made his way through the town pulling a travois piled with furs, some of the long time residents made the connection. He wore fringed greenish-black leather armor, an array of hand-axes and knives visible on his person. The clincher for many was the tail of knotted hair that encircled the base of his wide brimmed hat and trailed down his back. He gave his name as Luvaine bar-Boere and many nodded although the last part sounded strange on his tongue. Many soon took to calling him the Barber.
Somehow surviving alone in the mountains, people noted how he seemed to go ‘native’ in order to get by. Occasionally he spoke dialects that no one understood, especially if angered. He took contracts now and again, seeming to negotiate a caravan out of trouble as much as fight its way through. He has earned a reputation of luck and success. This has followed him to his now main pursuit, gambling. No longer the ‘wild man’, Luvaine cuts a dashing figure. A wink and a smile opens many opportunities for him, and his mysterious past puts a check on those wishing to get behind his public persona or wish him harm. He has told some people the strange leather armor he wears is Owlbear, others Gorgon or Catablepas, the armor is strange enough that any might be plausible, but no one dares question him on it. It has the look of strangeness and runes about it that suggests it is not made of human hands, that is enough to squash most idle curiosity. For all his history, Luvaine now mostly amuses himself in local taverns, trading stories with caravan guards, playing cards, or showing remarkable skill at darts or daggers with gullible travelers from out or town.
Luvaine is an unusual caravan guard in these parts. He does not seek out traveling companies, but is typically sought out by the merchants or caravan masters themselves. He is renown for his luck, his nerve, and ability to get caravans to their destinations. Much of his past swirls around the tale of a lame blacksmith, Latherne.
Luvaine originally showed up in these parts, years ago. He was indentured to a blacksmith traveling to the Complex for the abundant available work. The terms of his contract were unknown, but rooftop burglary was rumored to have been the cause. The pair were waylaid on the way. A rain of a dozen arrows fell on them. The blacksmith cried out, waking Luvaine, sleeping in the nook of the sheet metal forge hood. As the old man encouraged the mule, Luvaine threw anything and everything out of the wagon to slow their Bugbear pursuers. Steel ingots and loosened coils of wire proved most effective. Luvaine, from his time on the streets had discovered a knack for throwing rocks and knives, the blacksmith’s equipment seemed a natural extension. Plus this tactic made the wagon lighter. Although the hammers proved too awkward, the half-pound ingots rained a bloody barrage. The wire coils exploded like springs and many fell hopelessly entwined. Soon battered, bludgeoned and entangled assailants were all left behind except one. This turned out to be Chulkas, an especially aggressive Bugbear set on soon becoming chief of his clan. He dodged ingots, and hammers, and leapt over the wire coils as they bounced on the trail. He eventually ran alongside the wagon and attempted to smash the wheels with his axe. The wooden wheels took mighty blows and started to totter. He managed to pull ahead and brought his axe down on the poor mule, dropping it in its harness and causing the wagon to careen to a halt. Chulkas laughed as he paused to catch his breath.
Luvaine was desperate, his master sat cowering on the buckboard, there was nothing left to throw. He had his knife, but resisted the urge to throw it, as it would likely be his last defense. An anvil lay there, but what were the chances to drop that on his attacker. There was also some rope. A desperate plan formed and he set to work.
Chulkas declared his prowess and decided to attack the man and save the youth for later. His first mistake. He reached under the wagon and dragged the crying man out. But as he straightened up, his laugh of triumph died in his throat with the noose that tightened around his throat. Shock registered on his face and he looked up and saw the scrawny young human holding the other end. The laugh came back as he dropped the useless man, snapping a limb in the process, and made to pull the rope free. The lad stepped back and bumped into the far edge of the wagon, and the anvil balanced there. A deft twist and the rope looped the anvil before it plunged off the edge of the wagon. Chulkas’ head collides with the wagon and is left there suspended.
The blacksmith crawls forward and makes moves to kill Chulkas, but Luvaine easily holds him back due to his wounds. Quickly he tells of his idea, as they have no transportation, Chulkas will have to do. Luvaine finds a few remaining short pieces of wire to lash the bugbear’s massive hands. The rope secures his arms at his side and him to the harness. Knowing a threat of force might not be enough to ensure Chulkas’ cooperation, Luvaine sets quickly to shave the Chulkas’ head. The blacksmith stares in amazement.
When Chulkas comes to, he is given the option of pulling the wagon to town and facing the guard’s imprisonment for robbery, or attempt to break free and return to his clan. Luvaine holds up a mirror and the shame is obvious. He could not go back like this and after a long argument is convinced his best chances lay in cooperating.
With fierce determination he drags the battered wagon, as if to show that even in his humiliation, he can drag the wagon better than anyone. At the gates, the crowd splits to let the strange sight pass. Two guards fall in line behind. Reaching the central plaza, the wagon gives a final shudder as two wheels disintegrate. Luvaine deftly hops to ground amidst the crash of the forge hood and bellows and the pained mutters of the blacksmith.
A huge crowd had gathered as word spread of their procession into the square. At the strange looks from the guards, Luvaine introduced himself, explained to them that Chulkas was a bandit bugbear and should be taken into custody. The crowd muttered at these words. As the guards struggled to cut the shaved bugbear free, the laugher started, soon growing to a roar. By the time he was free of the harness, a rage was evident in his pale shorn face. This was not part of the deal, humans would not mock him. Tapping unknown strength, Chulkas snapped the bonds that contained him. The guards fell back at the display of brute power. The crowd began to panic. But Chulkas only had eyes for the one who was responsible for all this, Luvaine. Realizing his danger, Luvaine sprinted back down the lane, the Bugbear roaring in rage behind him. The guards later reported Luvaine maintaining a good lead as they passed back out the gates and into the forest.
It was two nights later the Clulkas’ head was found on a stick along the road. No sign of the lad. The road became known as Iron Pass as travelers often found occasional metal items poking out of the dirt in the trail or in the underbrush beside the road. Traveller’s took to saving such pieces as good luck against bandits, Luvaine’s Luck.
It was not until eight years later that a man showed up in town that reminded people of that young lad, all those years ago. He was dressed strangely and smelled like a wild animal. But as he made his way through the town pulling a travois piled with furs, some of the long time residents made the connection. He wore fringed greenish-black leather armor, an array of hand-axes and knives visible on his person. The clincher for many was the tail of knotted hair that encircled the base of his wide brimmed hat and trailed down his back. He gave his name as Luvaine bar-Boere and many nodded although the last part sounded strange on his tongue. Many soon took to calling him the Barber.
Somehow surviving alone in the mountains, people noted how he seemed to go ‘native’ in order to get by. Occasionally he spoke dialects that no one understood, especially if angered. He took contracts now and again, seeming to negotiate a caravan out of trouble as much as fight its way through. He has earned a reputation of luck and success. This has followed him to his now main pursuit, gambling. No longer the ‘wild man’, Luvaine cuts a dashing figure. A wink and a smile opens many opportunities for him, and his mysterious past puts a check on those wishing to get behind his public persona or wish him harm. He has told some people the strange leather armor he wears is Owlbear, others Gorgon or Catablepas, the armor is strange enough that any might be plausible, but no one dares question him on it. It has the look of strangeness and runes about it that suggests it is not made of human hands, that is enough to squash most idle curiosity. For all his history, Luvaine now mostly amuses himself in local taverns, trading stories with caravan guards, playing cards, or showing remarkable skill at darts or daggers with gullible travelers from out or town.
