Dengar Tonhil
Dengar Tonhil
Earth Genasi Male
Fighter 1
Lawful Good
Str 18, Dex 10, Con 16, Int 12, Wis 10, Cha 8
Fort +6, Ref +0, Will +1
Atk +5 melee (1d8+4/20x2, Flail), +1 ranged (1d6+4/20x2, Javelin) +1 ranged (1d6+4/20x2 throwing axe)
AC 15 (scale mail + shield) 10 (touch) 15 (flat footed), hp: 14
RA: Darkvision, Pass without trace 1/day, +1 saving throw vs earth spells and effects, outsider
Languages: Common, Chondathan, Dwarven
Feats/Skills: Strong Soul, Improved Toughness; Craft (sculpting): +3, Intimidate: +3, Knowledge (Geology) (cc): +3, Sense Motive (cc): +1
Equipment: Scale Mail, Flail, 10 Javelins, 2 Throwing Axes, Backpack w/bedroll, waterskin, 3 days rations, sculpting tools, Flint & Steel, whetstone
Description
Dengar Tonhil from a distance looks like any other militia member you might pass on the road. While broad at the shoulder and chest, he is of average height and weight, but as you look closer, it is easy to see the differences between Dengar and those he travels with.
Dengar's body is slate in color and his very flesh seems closer to stone than skin in its texture and appearance. Black eyes, deeply set underneath his craggy brow, stare out at all he passes, and while he does not mean any harm, it does not ease the discomfort it causes.
His armor is well cared for, as are his weapons, and although he will never serve as mounted cavalry, Dengar has proved his mettle in the minor skirmishes he has been involved in during his training with the militia.
Background
When I was younger, my grandmother would sit beside my bed and tell me the history of my people and my family. She would tell me of how Moradin gathered twelve of his trusted servants and bade them to live among his children and help them carve out a home deep in the heart of the earth. The servants did as they were told and worked tirelessly with the dwarves until Moradin came to the twelve and told them that their time among the mortals was almost at an end. The servants, who had come to love the young race nearly as much as the Soulforger himself, beseached Moradin to allow them to stay among the dwarves, even if it meant forsaking their own immortality to do so. The Soulforger pondered their request as while it seemed an easy one to grant, Moradin knew that for his children to grow as a race, he had to let them face the world on their own. However, if his servants were willing to forsake their immortality and live the life of a mortal, could he truly stop them? After seven days Moradin reached his decision and stripped his servants of their immortality, but not their powers. Thanking Moradin for his generousity, the servants went among the clans and after a time chose a mate and started a family of their own. With the Soulforger's blessing, the blood which flowed through their veins carried with it the powers of their father, but Moradin in his wisdom had weakened the bloodline, as he did not wish for his children to come to depend upon the "braclish", or chosen in the dwarven tongue, to solve their problems in all the days to come. As each generation passed, the bracklish's blood became weaker and weaker until there was soon no difference between them and their dwarven brothers and sisters. In the eyes of the dwarves, it was a fair and just thing as Moradin had given them aide when they needed it, but had not given them a crutch.
On the night of the Thunder Blessing, Moradin gave two gifts back to his children. The dwarven race would no longer fear the curse of the barren womb and for the first time in almost two hundred years, a braclish was born into the world.
My grandfather's father was the son of a dwarven mercanary and a human woman, and while my grandmother would tell me that their union was one of love, I have my doubts. If it was truly love, why did she hide the fact she was pregnant and journey to the Dalelands to have the child? Why would she give the child over to the priests of Ilmater shortly after his birth, neglecting to even name him in her haste to continue her phlight into gods know where.
Although a pious man, it was not his fate to walk as a priest, but he did serve as the groundskeeper for the church and when he took a wife, a seamstress by trade and choice, the clergy gave him permission to build a small cottage on the church's ground. It would take several years for him to save up enough money to complete the house, but as Tymora, Ilmater, and Moradin would have it, the day it was finished she went into labor and on the cold stone floor, my grandfather, whose skin was as gray as the stone tiles themselves, was born.
My grandfather would spend his entire life learning all he could of the blood which flowed through his veins. Everything he learned, he recorded in his journals and when he felt he had learned enough to quell the questions in his soul, he returned to the quiet life in the Dales and took a struggling young bard under his wing and soon made her his wife.
My father was born without Moradin's touch, and while my father would never admit it, he felt that he was less of a son because the braclish blood did not manifest within him. However, while the gift may have passed him over, there could be no doubt that when I was born that I was one of the braclish.
My father was a skilled bladesman and my grandfather a respected mage so it was no surprise that when the land was plunged into chaos during the Godswar that they would volunteer to defend it as best they could. I did not need my grandmother's stories to remind me of the day they left. I can remember all too well running up and hugging my father's waist, begging him not to leave us. I can remember the feel of his glove upon my head as he told me everything would be fine. I can remember the feel of tears on my cheek as I watched them ride out to meet their destinies. I can remember knowing I would never see them again.
I was right.
Before my grandfather left, he had given my grandmother the keys to his desk and told her that should the gods not allow him to return, she was to use the coins she would find to take care of the family. My grandmother had told him to quit giving Basheba ideas, but she took the keys anyway and promised she would look after us as best she could. It was a promise that she kept to the day she joined Milil's heavenly choir.
My mother passed away three summers after my grandmother died of the brain fever. The Ilmatari and Lathanderites did all they could, but in the end, the damage done by the fever was too much for her body to handle. I held her hand as she passed away and I buried her with the others in the small graveyard behind our house. After she died, the priests of Ilmater requested to buy the house back from me, to serve as a study for the church and their visitors, but I could not take their coin, especially since the land was given freely to my great-grandfather to begin with. I merely asked that they tended to the family's grave and put fresh flowers out when the spring blossoms bloomed. They agreed with a solemn nod and after packing only what I needed to travel to Mistledale, as well as my grandfather's journals, I left and began my part in the tale.
I have served in the Mistledale militia for six years now, and while others have come and gone, I remain. They have come to accept me here and I no longer draw the curious stares I did when I first arrived, and in turn I have come to accept the fact that while Moradin did not want his children to rely to heavily upon the braclish, we are needed once more, but for what I do not know. Until I am given a sign, I shall stay among my adopted clan and protect them as best I can. It was what my people were asked to do when the world was brand new, and it is a duty I willingly accept now.
