About Jeremiah Flynt
Male, Human, Gunslinger 4/Champion 1
Attack Bonus: +8 (+6)
-Rapid Shot 6/6 (4/4)
Damage: 1d8 (+6)
Ammunition: Loaded 6 Reg
-Alchemical Silver x6
-Cold Iron x6
Acrobatics: 11 (3+4+4-1)
Craft (Guns & Ammo): 8 (3+1+4+0)
Perception: 9 (3+2+4+0)
Ride: 11 (3+4+4-1)
Sense Motive: 6 (0+2+4+0)
Survival: 9 (3+2+4+0)
+4 max dex
-1 AC penalty
Gunsmith (Pistol): Starting pistol
Grit: Pool equal to wisdom modifier, gains grit at start of each day equal to wisdom mod. Can be regained by confirming a critical hit with a firearm or by dealing a killing blow with a firearm.
Feats and Traits:
Indomitable Faith: +1 will
Never Stop Shooting
Hard to Kill: Auto-stabilize under 0 hp, not dead until negative hit points equal twice constitution score. Bleed affects normally.
Mythic Power: 5/day
Surge: immediate action, use mythic power to add 1d6 to any d20 just rolled after results are revealed.
Level: Quick Draw
Feat 1: Weapon Focus
Flynt is ex-militia, he had been keeping Alkenstar safe from the threats of the Mana Wastes since he was sixteen. He was taught how to handle a gun and maintain it during his time protecting and serving the Grand Duchy. However, the naive idealism of youth was quickly ground down by life in the militia. Eventually he came to blows with a superior officer and was nearly discharged. Instead he was demoted and assigned to a patrol route out in the Wastes in order to ingrain into him the folly of challenging authority.
It was out there in the Wastes that he found something… growing in a cave during one of his patrols. Whatever it was ate his horse and two of his comrades. After it broke his leg in three places his commanding officer wrote him off as dead and gave the order to blast the entrance of the cave to keep this thing from chasing them any further.
Trapped in the dark, Flynt dragged himself through passage after passage, fueling his body with terror and a stubborn refusal to die. He could have sworn that more than once the creature was right behind him. After another close escape Flynt found himself in a cave with a very familiar couple of smells, sulphur and bat droppings. Desperate and tired of running, Flynt improvised a splint with his musket and set to work as quickly as possible.
Supplementing his waning rations with captured bat, he stumbled through what he remembered about making black powder. After a couple of false starts he had enough for a small bomb of his own. The creature was upon him as soon as he could no longer mask his scent with the bat guano and seized the young militiaman in its tentacles. Flynt was ready this time and as the creature opened its toothless maw to swallow him, Flynt hurled his pack, now bulging with black powder, in first. Worming a hand free, he drew his pistol and fired.
The resulting explosion and the creature’s death throes collapsed the passageway and plunged the two into a subterranean river. As the dead thing was washed down into the darkness, Flynt struggled to the side of the river and managed to pull himself out. When he came to he was in a strange cavern somewhere deep underground. Before him was a hellish motif in stone, lit by strange crystals that lined the walls. Men, monsters, and machines stood frozen in the midst of bloody war, all petrified. He would have thought it some sort of terrible piece of art if not for the horrid detail. Eyes of opal, blood splashing across the ground in veins of ruby, magical effects preserved in emeralds and turquoise.
The only exception was in the exact center of the hellscape stood a woman, her arms outstretched made from the same stones and gems as her pained companions but with her eyes closed and face serene. Feverish, chilled to the bone, half-starved, and mildly mangled, Flynt collapsed in front of her. In the sporadic moments of consciousness that followed, he saw many things that simply could not be but at this point reality was a tenuous concept for young master Flynt. At one point he could have sworn the serene lady cradled his head in her lap and sang to him in a soft wordless song. In another fleeting moment of wakefulness he witness her carving the stone heart from the chest of a towering warrior before turning on him with the blade. Familiar faces danced and laughed all around him and then…
When Flynt woke next he was back in the Wastes somehow stumbling toward Alkenstar with a new scar on his chest and a unnerving lack of a pulse. He was alive, but things were entirely different, colors were sharper and everything smelled cleaner. It was as though someone had lifted a veil from his face. Needless to say that the Militia was no longer the life for him. So he left Alkenstar, trying to find someone show could explain what had happened to him.
Fortunately, skill with firearms was something that will always be in something of a demand so Flynt never went hungry. Unfortunately, his understanding of the forces at work in this world is far less honed than his other skills. So mercenary work became his mainstay.
Flynt is a mutt, his family line can be traced back to the cosmopolitan nation of Nex and then drawn from all parts around the Inner Sea. His slightly dusky skin darkens into a rich tan after long periods in the sun. His skin has suffered from the elements a little. Time spent out in the Mana Wastes and guarding the walls of Alkenstar have left him looking rather weathered despite his relative youth.
His hair is dark and thick save for a swath over his right ear that turned grey when it grew back after a close call with a misfiring blunderbuss. The same injury took a little flesh from his right ear as well, leaving the edges a little ragged in places. His eyes are often shadowed by his strong brow and even when they are not he has a habitual slight squint. He has a sharp jaw as well that he often rubs when deep in thought and often sports the stubbly beginnings of a beard due to negligence.
He is not a big man but not small either. His body is wry and lean, built for speed and not brute strength. His quickness is such that often times his iron seems to leap into his hand of its own accord. He dresses simply in good boots, a light blue homespun shirt, faded black serge pants and a simple brown suede vest. Over it all he wears a well worn and many times patched, brown leather duster. Usually a glint of light chain can be seen lining the interior of his duster by keen observers. To protect his eyes from the sun and now his head from the sporadic rains of Ustalav, he has a tan wide brimmed hat.
Flynt is not what you would call the most delicate man in the world. He was raised by people who recognize the sweat of a man's brow before they recognize the papers in his hand. He is loyal to those that help him and a surprisingly good judge of character in others. While he is not the most diplomatically inclined, he does often try words to defuse potentially explosive situations. It just usually does not work.
He reveres Abadar and Pharasma for some very practical reasons, Abadar represents the contracts that now define his livelihood and the more important agreements between individuals which he has always tried to honor. Pharasma garners whorship on the grounds that she will ultimately be the one in charge of you soul when you pass on and that should be respected. Still, he does not dwell on metaphysical matters often and puts much more stock in the here and now.