Almander Kane's page

Almander reverses the flow of his swinging Falcatta and brings it back against another skeleton.
Att 11; dmg 7.

Almander pulls out his blade with a ringing cresendo that echos off the sewer walls, he engages the closest pile of bones and slashes at it with his Taldorian Falcatta.
to hit 22, to dam 6.

Almander gauges his companions skill at battle, not worrying about mere skeletons, hescans the battle field for signs of the mindless undead's contoler if any!

Almander looks for something to bar the trap door to buy some time in our flight, "We need to move, it won't take those hell's lapdogs too long before they pick up our scent."

With the last of the companions down the ladder, Almander follows. Knowing today is not the day for a fight.

"I am in"

"we should eat, we will need strength, I suggest we pull tables together, so we may share in these talks over dinner"

"Well Ashenal, like you I am an artist, except my medium is blades" The elder warrior takes a sip of the wine and cherishes its strong flavor, "The name is Almander, I teach the house of Jaggere to wield weapons of war" Almander looks down, saddened, "I once taught a more noble family, but all that remains of that great house is ashes" Almander looks up to the assembled group, his steely eyes pierce each one of them. "I am sorry, I do not enjoy talking about myself, you, elf, what thoughts are you forming, the chin-strokes speak volumes"
Almander finds himself subconciously humming the minstrels banned tune.

The weary elder lights up at the wine, but even more at the gentleman from Taldor, he stands and crosses the space from his chair to the bar in a grace that dares his age to slow him down. for those paying attention a Falcata swings from his belt, it seems this Chelish son has Taldorian roots. "Well met Ashenal, I have heard your name, but cannot place it, please indulge me". Looking the smaller man up and down, "Perhaps the theater?".

The hard clank of iron shod boots hammers off the soft wooden floor of the bar room. A figure, a Hell Knight, stands in the doorway. At first glance, terror fills the lesser patrons of the bar fearing they have been discovered. The more hardened in the tavern quickly realize, the soot black armor differs from the diabolical lap dogs from the house of Thrune. This man, is no Hell Knight, just another desperate Westcrani hoping for change. His large muscled frame is contrasted by thinning, greying hair, this man is no novice boy, the wrinkle lines etched on this aging warriors face, provide a map indicating he has seen entirely too much blood shed at the hands of devils and worse. He kicks out a chair and sinks into the chair as it buckles under the weight of his ebon armor. Gauntleted hands pound the table as they come to rest. He looks defeated, tired, even sad, he lets out a sigh hoping the winds of change blow hard.