Male Half-elf Rogue (Scout) 2
44gp 6sp 7cp
Several years ago Professor Lorrimor and a few traveling companions had come across a lynching in progress. Ever the busybody, Lorrimor inquired as to the man's crimes, as they were about to string him up. It was replied that the victim was a fiendling, a creature of unnatural evil that didn't deserve any better fate than to dangle. The Professor looked closer at the man about to be stretched, his features weren't fully human, it was sure enough, but he wasn't a tiefling either. There, bound and gagged, before the Professor was the the single scruffiest half-elf that he had ever seen. After another short exchange it became clear that the only crime he was accused of was being of creature of diabolic blood. In short, it was hateful and ignorant men being hateful and ignorant. The Professor and his traveling companions intervened on behalf of the half-blood, running off the small lynch-mob. Urgent business on Lorrimor's part meant they parted ways under that hanging tree, but not before the scruffy half-elf had, rather unceremoniously, thanked him and vowed that he would one day repay the debt.
That half-elf was a wanderer who took work as a caravan guard, scout, and sometimes a bandit if necessary. His name was Dortlin, just the one name, he didn't have another, probably because he was a bastard, the son of some logging camp whore and a daddy with tainted blood he never saw. He grew up rough and to make matters worse he seemed to have knack for rubbing people the wrong way. His mama used to say that sometimes when you mixed things they didn't come out right. Dortlin thinks she was probably right.
Recently, Dortlin had just come off a job and found himself at a nearby settlement. There he overhead a trader coming through from Ravengro talking about the passing of Professor Lorrimor. Still feeling indebted to the Professor, Dortlin set off to Ravengro to pay his respects, and see if he could settle the debt how owed the man post-mortem.
It's hard to say what you might notice first about Dortlin, perhaps his ruined right eye, stuck in a perpetually scarred squint. Or maybe it be the prominent ears jutting from his head, a clear evidence of his non-human ancestry. Or if you were close enough it might be the smell of stale sweat and dried booze. His dirty blonde hair hangs greasily around his head down to this shoulder. He is dressed in well traveled clothes that hold their fair share of trail dirt and stains, and likewise the old studded leather armour that he wears. This is all topped off with an old ratty grey-green cloak. Resting on his shoulder is a longspear.