About Balsooma Hishal
14 AC (+3armor, +1dex)
16 Fort (+3, +2con+11)
Touch of Chaos (Sp): Melee touch attack. For the next round, any time the target rolls a d20, they must roll twice and take the less favorable result. 5/day(3+2wis)
Monster Lore (Ex)
Stern Gaze (Ex)
Cunning Initiative (Ex)
Detect Alignment (Sp)
Martial Weapon Proficiency(Falchion)
+0 Bluff(+0cha, 0rank)
+8 Climb(+4str, 1rank)
+* Craft(-1int, 0rank)
+1 Diplomacy(+0cha, 0rank, +1trait)
+0 Disguise(+0cha, 0rank)
+2 Heal(+2wis, 0rank)
+6 Intimidate(+0cha, 2rank, +1Stern Gaze)
+* Knowledge(Arcana)(-1int, 0rank)
+* Knowledge(Dungeoneering)(-1int, 0rank)
+3 Knowledge(Nature)(-1int, 1rank)
+* Knowledge(Planes)(-1int, 0rank)
+* Knowledge(Religion)(-1int, 0rank)
+8 Perception(+2wis, 2rank, +1trait)
+6 Profession(Smith)(+2wis, 1rank)
+7 Profession(Sailor)(+2wis, 1rank, +1trait)
+1 Ride(+1dex, 0rank)
+8 Sense Motive(+2wis, 2rank, +1Stern Gaze)
+* Spellcraft(-1int, 0rank)
+1 Stealth(+1dex, 0rank)
+6 Survival(+2wis, 1rank)
+8 Swim(+4str, 1rank)
+1 Acrobatics(+1dex, 0rank)
-1 Appraise(-1int, 0rank)
+* Disable Device(+1dex, 0rank)
+1 Escape Artist(+1dex, 0rank)
+1 Fly(+1dex, 0rank)
+* Handle Animal(+0cha, 0rank)
+* Knowledge(Engineering)(-1int, 0rank)
+* Knowledge(Geography)(-1int, 0rank)
+* Knowledge(History)(-1int, 0rank)
+* Knowledge(Local)(-1int, 0rank)
+* Knowledge(Nobility)(-1int, 0rank)
+* Linguistics(-1int, 0rank)
+1 Perform(oratory)(+0cha, 0rank, +1trait)
+* Slight of Hand(+1dex, 0rank)
+* Use Magic Device(+0cha, 0ranks)
Spells - 1st (2/day):
1 Standard Action - V, S, DF
50' - Caster and all allies within a 50' burst centered on caster
10 rounds - 1 min./level
Saving Throw none; Spell Resistance yes (harmless)
Bless counters and dispels bane.
Shield of Faith
Cure Light Wounds
Spells - 0th (unlimited):
+1 Perception/Profession(Sailor). 1/week reroll Profession(Sailor)
Voice of Velvet (Vudrani)
Armor and Weapons
Light Load: x < 100 lbs
Balsooma is a huge young man with bronze-coloured skin, closely-cropped black hair, and a short, groomed beard. His arms bulge with muscle like immense seed pods. Visible through his open white shirt is a broad swathe of colour across his upper chest: Besmara's jolly roger, tattooed in blood-red ink. Strapped to his back is a large, thick-bladed sword. When he speaks, his voice betrays the Vudrani blood in his veins with its rich, warm tones.
Balsooma grew up in a small, pirate-run port in the north of The Shackles. His mother was a local tavern girl. His father, a smith who had fled Katapesh to avoid the penalty for several counts of murder.
Taking after his father - no small man himself - Balsooma grew into a big lad, made all the more bulky by spending days learning his father's trade. As the count of his years grew, so did the size of his arms.
Pirates were an everyday occurrence in Balsooma's life. He idolised their lifestyle, as, often after a sweaty day's work in the smithy, he would be called to help his mother at the tavern by carrying too-drunk-to-stand pirates back to their berths. On these voyages he was informed - with great gesture and slurring - as to whatever feats of grand swashbuckling his drunken pirate passenger had carried out last.
At nights, he dreamed of piracy. To him, it seemed like the ultimate freedom: the wind in your sales, the creak and sway of the deck beneath your boots. He took to smithing with a passion, seeing it as his part in the grand scheme of things. He'd beat battered cutlasses back into shape, and forge the broken ones anew. The thanks of "Aye, you done good lad. I'll have you on me crew when next we put in," coupled with the pat on the head - or shoulder, when we was older and taller - was worth as much to him as the coins dropped into his calloused hands.
After his nineteenth year, Balsooma traveled to another nearby port, to stake out his own smithy. Two months later, the port was hit by the Chelish Navy.
Balsooma stood, watching the port crumble in a roaring inferno of choking smoke and hungry flames. Waves washed around his legs, sucking at his sodden boots. He had survived the raid by way of beach-combing on the far side of the island when the Chelish ships arrived carrying death and flame. He drew a short knife from his belt and opened a long cut on his right palm. As blood dripped from his hand, he swore an oath to Besmara that he would spend every waking moment hunting any and all who would try to bring piracy to its end in The Shackles. From that day, until the day she decided to claim his soul, he would be her bloody cutlass of vengeance.
So sworn, he stalked back to the ruined port. As he went, it almost seemed like the wash of waves upon shore whispered a murmured blessing.
He found his smithy charred, but usable. Gathering up whatever molten slag he could find - remains of swords, earrings, coins, knives, hooks and the like - he forged himself an oversized cutlass - one to fit a two-handed grip. The end result was more slab of metal than elegant blade, but it suited him well enough. He settled down to wait for the next ship to come into dock. He could barter passage on it: find his way to a larger port. One, perhaps, where some of those who failed to heed Besmara's code lay berthed. Perhaps somewhere like Port Peril.