About ServitorCrunch:
Servitor Armor Master Fighter 2 Warforged (Option 3) STR 16 DEX 12 CON 18 INT 14 WIS 10 CHA 7 Combat Stats:
Sledge +1: 1d20+10 (2d6+10, x3) Skills:
Feats:
Traits:
Equipment:
Background:
A dark workshop was the first thing the warforge saw. The engineers looked upon him with a bit of smug satisfaction. ”Where am I?” Was the first words to pass its lips, the question went ignored. Before the day was done, he was shipped off, gold changed hands, smiles and nods were given back and forth quickly, papers were written up, and the warforged has handed a pen. ”Sign here please.” The warforged looked confused.
”It’s… fresh.” ”Ah, well all the better then. We’re going to find you a name. Let’s see…” ”Miner, perhaps?” ”No, no, already got one of those, too confusing. …Ah, let’s stay simple though, shall we?” The woman looked the warforged in the eye. ”Write the word, ‘Servitor’ on that line there.” The warforged obeyed dutifully with knowledge fully known but never learned. From there, it was off to the mines. It was given a hammer, and told to break the rocks it was told to by one of its fellows. Servitor followed the orders, having never known a reason not to. The collapses were commonplace, but often underwhelming. The armor that made the warforged protected them from the collapses, then it was merely a matter of digging out the tunnel and retrieving the merchandise. It wasn’t like they needed to breath after all. For that matter, toxic fumes were of little danger to them as well, it was almost as if they were made for the job. The “mineforged” as some of the surface creatures sometimes called them while laughing toiled endlessly. As Servitor continued its work, the complaints of the miners began to reach its ears. They wanted something different, they wanted something… more. What it was always changed from one to the other, Servitor thought it to be terribly inconsistent, and yet, could not help but feel its nonexistent heart yearning for what they spoke of. The mine then collapsed on Servitor while he was working. His colleagues called to each other from their own places in the rubble, crying their pain, shouting their encouragement to each other, telling themselves that help was not long off, calling again and again to those who would not respond. The pain ate away at Servitor as its chest creaked and groaned under the weight of the boulder atop him. It wondered what it was that they spoke of. Why did Sledge wish to be a “merchant?” Why did Miner speak of the spells it could not quite remember? Why did Servitor wish to have these things it never saw, and never knew of? Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, laying there with mangled limbs and caved in chest, Servitor heard the tell-tale sounds of hammers, and picks. The sight of the light of the flames was strange to it, how long had it been since it had seen that glow? As its body was pulled from the rubble, it was rushed by its fellows to the upper levels of the mine were it was to be repaired. The surface creatures stood and watched the proceedings with bored stares. Once movement returned to its neck, Servitor looked at one of them. ”Why can’t I be a ‘merchant?’” The guard seemed slightly taken aback by the question for a moment, coming out of the silence as it did. Then the man chuckled, continuing into a full bellied laughter. ”Guess I win that bet… We had a pool going on as to whether or not you were actually one of the thinkin’ ones.” The words meant little to Servitor, as it waited for the answer to its question. ”You want to know why? Because that’s not what you were made for! You were made to serve us, and we say you mine!” Servitor still said nothing, and stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. Days past as the repairs continued, and with each limb that regained its function, each dent that was removed, Servitors spirits grew. It was about to return, return to its home, return to its colleagues, return to its work. Its work. He understood the words now, he understood why he worked in the mines. This was its purpose, this was its meaning. It took a long time to find the right word to express its feelings, but finally it found it “fulfillment.” The next day, another one of the surface creatures came into the workshop. He smiled as he placed a small pouch upon Servitor’s chest. ”What is this?” The warforged asked. ”Your pay for the last year.” ”What is this?” The warforged repeated the question. The guard hesitated, as he tried to understand the question. ”Its… uh, a token of appreciation from us. For all your hard work. You can spend it in town once your contract is up. I mean, once we took out the fee for your rent, the protection fees for the guards, replacements for all the tools you broke, your repair fee for the damage you took… it came out to be about two silver.” The guard’s face contorted, it almost looked strained, braced. ”We uh, decided to throw in the belt and the pouch for you too though, so you can keep it with you.” ”Thank you.” The warforged would have smiled if it could. The guard’s face looked strange again for a moment, pity? He turned and left without another word. Years past, and eventually the loose tongues of the guards had a rumor spreading amongst the warforged. The Lord of Blades. Speak of freedom, escape, revolt began to circulate in quiet whispers deep in the tunnels. Servitor tried to persuade them otherwise. This was where they belong, this was where they were meant to be. Its pleas fell on deaf ears. Several months later, Servitor was told to follow one of the guards higher up. Servitor went up, higher than it had been since it first entered. It took it several minutes of the conversation to realize that this was the woman who had named it, its mother in a sense. She looked so different from its memory, older. ”Several of your… friends, have escaped.” ”But I told them not to.” ”Yes, well, they didn’t listen. While you were in tunnel 5M, they staged an attack from tunnel 9A, killing several people in the process.” ”But why?” The woman stared for a moment, then smiled and shook her head before her face returned to a neutral expression. ”Because their minds are broken. They do not understand the world like you do.” Servitor said nothing, but rage began to bubble inside him. They killed their masters, lied and betrayed them, and for no other reason than madness. ”You’re going to bring them back. They went chasing the rumors of this ‘Lord of Blades.’ Go find them, and bring them back.” The woman threw a few sets of manacles and fetters upon the desk in between the two. ”How will I do this?” Servitor asked. ”We’ll send you with a hammer, break them like rocks, then use these to bind their arms and legs, and these…” She pulled forward several pairs of earplugs, and ragged cloths. ”Use these to plug their ears, bind their mouths, and cover their eyes. And repair them so that they’ll be functional upon return. Then send them back with a courier. Tell them they’re escaped criminals who’ve broken their contracts.” She shook her head and muttered. ”Just adding more time to their contracts, those fools…” ”I will bring the traitors back.” The words utter forth easily from Servitors lips. ”Excellent, and if you happen to find any of your wayward… brothers, who have no master. Send them back here as well.” ”I will.” The woman smiled once more. It was with this, that Servitor set forward into the world with nothing but restraints, a hammer, a belt and a pouch that held all its earnings over the years and newly made papers that made it “real” that the warforged set off into the world, with nothing but vengeance against his traitorous kind and this Lord of Blades in its still chest. Warforged Armbow 1d8+strength (19–20/×2) 85 ft.(Ammo: large crossbow bolts, Reloads with a move action) |
