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<blockquote data-quote="Phesic" data-source="post: 5665999" data-attributes="member: 71223"><p style="text-align: center">[OOC]<span style="color: Black"><strong><span style="font-family: 'Arial'">Surgeon</span></strong></span></p> <p style="text-align: center"><span style="color: Black"><strong><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"></span></strong></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"><strong> Warforged Artificer</strong></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"> I wasn't born. Hell, I was barely built. I'm the aborted attempt to create an empathetic warforged, one with a bedside manner and a congenial smile. The process was halted due to catastrophic failure in the creation forge. I'm the result. Congenial, check. Smile, not so much. Half formed with only one leg, half a face and the barest skeleton for one arm, my first imperative in life became to live. The first 30 years of my existence was spent cobbling together the parts to make myself whole. The result is a patchwork of parts filched from fallen brethren or forged by a smith with no right to make parts for a living creature. Only one eye works and only half of my mouth moves when I speak. Both arms are a mish-mosh of different connective fibers creating an oddly interesting pattern of colors. The missing leg was supplied by a decrepit battleforge. Much too large for my frame, but functional. I seemed destined to suffer. As another mechanical man said long ago and far away "It seems to be our lot in life."</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"> The last 58 years have been spent trying to make others whole. The directive to heal others was hardwired in to me, so I drifted from town to town, helping where I could. "Surgeon" was the first name hey gave me, it was followed in time by "Doc" and "Patches". Often, I was chased from towns or shunned, rarely I found a place that appreciated and accepted me. All of this has happened before, and it will happen again.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"> But I never stayed long, something always pulled me away. I wasn't made to heal a town, I was made to heal warriors. Battle called to me, but there were no wars to answer it. I don't seek glory, but I do seek meat-sacks that seek glory. They are always getting broken.... and I have a plan.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"> Across my back sits a small pack. It contains medicinal herbs, sutures, etc. Around it is coiled rope (who the frack would adventure without rope?)</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span style="color: Black"> At my hip is a crossbow that is as patch-worked as I am(I don't get near the things that want to kill me).</span></span><span style="color: Black"> Slung over my shoulder on my other hip is a large leather pouch in which resides Several infusion receptacles.</span>[/OOC] </p><p><span style="font-family: 'ocr a std'"><span style="color: White"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'ocr a std'"><span style="color: White"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'ocr a std'"><span style="color: White"><span style="font-family: 'ocr a std'"><span style="color: magenta">I don't think that the orc's are the rivals Mal. Though I suppose they could pose problems given their...nature.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'ocr a std'"></span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Phesic, post: 5665999, member: 71223"] [CENTER][OOC][COLOR=Black][B][FONT=Arial]Surgeon [/FONT][/B][/COLOR][FONT=Arial][COLOR=Black][B] Warforged Artificer[/B] [/COLOR][/FONT][FONT=Arial][COLOR=Black] [/COLOR][/FONT][FONT=Arial][COLOR=Black] I wasn't born. Hell, I was barely built. I'm the aborted attempt to create an empathetic warforged, one with a bedside manner and a congenial smile. The process was halted due to catastrophic failure in the creation forge. I'm the result. Congenial, check. Smile, not so much. Half formed with only one leg, half a face and the barest skeleton for one arm, my first imperative in life became to live. The first 30 years of my existence was spent cobbling together the parts to make myself whole. The result is a patchwork of parts filched from fallen brethren or forged by a smith with no right to make parts for a living creature. Only one eye works and only half of my mouth moves when I speak. Both arms are a mish-mosh of different connective fibers creating an oddly interesting pattern of colors. The missing leg was supplied by a decrepit battleforge. Much too large for my frame, but functional. I seemed destined to suffer. As another mechanical man said long ago and far away "It seems to be our lot in life." [/COLOR][/FONT][FONT=Arial][COLOR=Black] [/COLOR][/FONT][FONT=Arial][COLOR=Black] The last 58 years have been spent trying to make others whole. The directive to heal others was hardwired in to me, so I drifted from town to town, helping where I could. "Surgeon" was the first name hey gave me, it was followed in time by "Doc" and "Patches". Often, I was chased from towns or shunned, rarely I found a place that appreciated and accepted me. All of this has happened before, and it will happen again. [/COLOR][/FONT][FONT=Arial][COLOR=Black] [/COLOR][/FONT][FONT=Arial][COLOR=Black] But I never stayed long, something always pulled me away. I wasn't made to heal a town, I was made to heal warriors. Battle called to me, but there were no wars to answer it. I don't seek glory, but I do seek meat-sacks that seek glory. They are always getting broken.... and I have a plan. [/COLOR][/FONT][FONT=Arial][COLOR=Black] [/COLOR][/FONT][FONT=Arial][COLOR=Black] Across my back sits a small pack. It contains medicinal herbs, sutures, etc. Around it is coiled rope (who the frack would adventure without rope?) [/COLOR][/FONT][FONT=Arial][COLOR=Black] At my hip is a crossbow that is as patch-worked as I am(I don't get near the things that want to kill me).[/COLOR][/FONT][COLOR=Black] Slung over my shoulder on my other hip is a large leather pouch in which resides Several infusion receptacles.[/COLOR][/OOC] [/CENTER] [FONT=ocr a std][COLOR=White] [FONT=ocr a std][COLOR=magenta]I don't think that the orc's are the rivals Mal. Though I suppose they could pose problems given their...nature.[/COLOR][/FONT][/COLOR] [/FONT] [/QUOTE]
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