Baronmaker: A Pathfinder Settlement Adventure (Inactive)

Game Master leinathan

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APPEARANCE
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Ehiz is of average height and his tanned skin betrays his outdoor occupation. Fit as a fiddle, the man has muscular arms, strong shoulders and legs that are used to the hardships of farming and hunting. He has grown a mighty beard and moustache that dominate his face, sitting underneath a prominent hawkish nose. Cool green eyes loom above, calmly observing the world around him.

The man refuses to travel without his worn red leather hat, decorated with the feathers of hunting birds. He wears non-descript clothes fit for farming or hunting, usually some shade of brown or beige, and has a sturdy leather coat for when the seasons demand you to dress warmly.

When needed, Ehiz will wear his well-maintained chain shirt over a layer of sturdy cotton and linens. A thick leather girdle around his waist keeps the chain from rattling (too much) and distributes the weight more evenly over his body.

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BACKGROUND
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Ehiz hails from the surroundings of the village of Claes, a small fishing hamlet in southern Andoran. The constant threat of pirates and raiders helped the area develop a strong sense of community and as such, trinkets and items of worship of Erastil are to be found in every house. The God’s call resonated strongly within Ehiz and he has always observed the proper rituals and ceremonies to honor Erastil. But where other religions call forth their believers to awe inspiring temples for training and divine guidance, Erastil has a set of roaming priests – sustaining themselves through hunting and foraging and the kindness of strangers – who visit particularly promising devotees. They leave behind an anointed acorn and it if it develops and takes root, the priests return to give the devotee the basic training required to fulfil the ceremonies and rituals of Erastil.

Married, and his wife with child, Ehiz was 24 when these priests visited his humble holdings. T’was nothing more than a few acres and a modest house, but it sufficed. Feeling some anxiety, Ehiz was ecstatic when the acorn sprouted a stalk. He planted it so that one day its shadow would fall over the house. The seasons went by and the man grew ever more at ease with his new role as a priest of Erastil, roaming the surrounding countryside to bless the newborns, perform marriage rites and observe proper planting rituals and ceremonies so that the Father may bless our crops.

He was approaching the age of 30 when disaster struck and a virulent flu ravaged the lands. The oak tree had yet to cast a shadow over his house when his wife drew her last breath. The tree was yet to shed leaves when his daughter, not even two years old, was taken into Pharasma’s embrace. Alone and bewildered, the man found his thoughts wandering into unknown corners of his mind more and more. If his girl had grown into a woman, wouldn’t she be able to take care of these lands? Pick up the bow and hunt and when needed, nock an arrow with the intent of taking a life when yet another group of pirates would roam the lands in search of slaves and plunder. He was sure she would’ve been able yet everywhere around him young girls were actively kept away from such tasks. Ehiz changed and whenever he’d visit nearby villages and farms, he’d also include the girls when it came to matters such as hunting, using the bow and spear, and physical training. This caused an orthodox backlash from his fellow priests and the resulting tension and religious unrest helped Ehiz make a hard decision: to sell his lands, at a bargain price, and sign up for a mad quest to bring Erastil’s culture to the other side of the ocean. Arcadia beckoned.

Leaving wasn’t easy and during his last tumultuous years in Andoran he had met a young woman, Alise, whose smile brightened up the room around her. In her burned a holy fire so bright that Ehiz knew she needed not his guidance. Erastil watched over her. Her skills with the bow put him to shame and secretly, when weariness claimed dominion over his body and mind, he imagined that part of his daughter’s spirit traveled with the woman. Somewhere above, his wife was smiling, and on the long journey to Arcadia he found his thoughts constantly returning to Alise, hoping she was well, wondering what she was up to. Only a father could understand this type of love.

Luckily the journey had more than enough things to keep him occupied. From the many opportunities to hone his fishing skills – which were quite underdeveloped for someone originally from Claes – to socializing with the crew and other travelers, there was always something to do. A young man by the name of Arven, barely 19, had signed up for the journey with little more than a bag of gold to sustain him. The boy knew no trade, had no particular aptitude for physical labor and way too little worldly experience to understand that his inheritance wouldn’t sustain him in Arcadia. The naivety was held aloft by dreams of glory. Ehiz spends considerable time showing the boy how to fish, how farming works and that no woman worth her name will fall for him if he’s nothing more than a meager bag of gold with no skills nor profession to his name.

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PERSONALITY
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Calm and collected, Ehiz has stuck to his father’s advice: unless it must be done now, sleep on it for as long as you have to. Anger is a rare emotion to him and patience could’ve been his middle name. He enjoys hunting when not tilling the fields and abhors the notion of sitting by idle. He actively seeks companionship, enjoying sharing a meal and drinks with friends and strangers alike, knowing that the seeds of civilized society are sown during such events. Preferring his cup to be half full over being half empty, Ehiz holds no grudge towards the Gods for taking away his wife and daughter, instead using what time he has to leave the world behind a better place.

All said, Ehiz isn’t always an easy person to get along with. Those who show disrespect to their elders, a lack of regard for their community and or partake in excess are frowned upon and this disapproval is then written all over his face. While patient, he has no qualms about reprimanding his students, going into great detail about anything and everything they’re doing.

"Arcadian Central Defense Force Corporal Yosiah Crint, Ambassador for the 14th Regiment, Devoted of Kofusachi, reporting for duty, sir!" Yosiah half-shouted the words quickly, articulating every syllable as he brought his fists together in front of his chest in salute. It was customary to present oneself - rank, station, and Devotion - when granted an audience before a new superior officer.
"A Kofu, eh? It's not often we see a cadet choose The Laughing God and succeed. You must be quite the promising warrior, for Perrin to vouch for you." Durbin barely hid his scoff of disapproval as he named the God - often considered a laughable choice among members of the ACDF. Yosiah nodded at his Commander's statement. Uncle Perrin was twice the man you are, and you'd be wise to remember it, you old coot. "Yes, sir. Perrin had only good things to say because I do only good work, sir. The Laughing God reminds me of my father in his lessons: When it is time for revelry, revel joyfully and with abandon. When it is time to work, work hard for one's own pride, and to be the sort of man that women will swoon for and men will drink with. When it is time to fight, it is best to be lucky." Durbin's scornful smile contorted into a more genuine grin as he stopped pacing, looking Yosiah in the eye. "Your father was a smart man, and it seems I have given old Kofu short shrift. These are wise words. You will act as point-man for your squadron, Corporal Crint. You will lead an exploration of the jungle to our south. Not much is known of the area, as we have been too busy fighting to expend the resources. But we've become desperate enough to send a team, in the hope that there may be defensible terrain, resources, or something that may prove useful. You depart in the morning, Corporal. You'll rendezvous with your men about two days south. Here are your orders." The commander reached to pick up an envelope from the nearby table, handing it to Yosiah. "You are dismissed."
As he left the Commander's office, Yosiah sighed, removing a gauntlet from one hand and using it to wipe the sweat from his brow. You've come a long way, Crint he thought to himself, smirking and enjoying the short walk to his quarters. And it'll be a long way, yet. Better get some sleep.

Yosiah got the sort of sleep that a military man only knows when not in the field - the deep, hard slumber of a man who wishes to dally on the edges of death's eternal slumber, as he knows he may reside there himself, soon enough.
He dreamed of home. He thought of his mother Para and wife Mazi, working on the big ranch they'd all bought with their inheritance from when Uncle Perrin had died, with no idea where Yosiah could be stationed. It was not long ago that Yosiah was home, working as a tradesman at the family lumberyard. He could chop, strip, split, saw, and sand as well as his brother Arlind, or any of the others, but his real talent was as a salesman. He loved talking to customers, dickering over prices, reading their tells. There was an art to the game, and he missed it. It was this procilivity that led him to seek assignment as an Ambassador after he heard rumor of the national draft. He knew that he would be taken - he was a strong, able-bodied man - but he refused to join the rank and file soldiers that would be sent to die in a pointless war. So he enlisted pre-emptively, and endured the hellish training administered by the ACDF - the real-deal training, mind you, not the abbreviated 4-week course the draftees went through - so that he could become an Ambassador. Yosiah hated every day of it. Not only did he want to be home trying to have a child with Mazi, he wanted to be home in the lumberyard. He missed the feel of an axe made for wood, not skulls. He missed Para's wonderful, spicy cooking, and his nightly gatherings at whichever run-down tavern was in vogue that week. But, alas, it was better to choose one's fate than to have it thrust upon one. So Yosiah took his lumps, laid in the bed he made for himself, and whichever other nonsensical maxim his mother used to spout at him.

Corporal Yosiah Crint stands tall above most of his fellow Arcadians. His broad shoulders and lanky, wiry arms belie his warm smile, hidden beneath a thick, bushy beard. His dark hair is tousled and matted, as he does little to maintain it, but somehow it gives him a certain unkempt-handsome quality when it's visible - which is not often, as he is rarely without his helmet, which affords a full view of Yosiah's face, but protects the soldier's skull, ears, and neck.
His body is similarly armored, nearly always. A thick sheet of chain links protects the gangly torso beneath, and a drab, green tunic is barely visible peeking from beneath the armor. Gloves protect his arms and hands, both of which are scarred and calloused beneath the rough leather.
He's prone to tap on his buckler as he speaks, and his axe hangs from his waist, never far from his dominant left hand.

Yosiah, above all else, is a coward. He has been thrust onto the path he is on, and he is thankful for that. It was fate, he knows, that made him choose to enlist rather than wait, or try to dodge the draft. It was fate that he spent a month praying, engaging in exotic rituals and traditions in service to a dozen deities, seeking the God or Goddess who would claim him, and further, it must have been fated that Kofusachi choose him as His own. Life in service to The Laughing God is exactly the life he sought before the ACDF, he simply hadn't known it yet. Now, bolstered by his Devotion, and with foreknowledge of his good fortune, Yosiah can once again laugh and smile and enjoy his journey, though it is not the one that he had originally intended for himself.
After all, he knows, fate guides men and women to reach the height of their potential, and Yosiah is honored that his potential is apparently greater than he had ever expected.
As a result of his recent revelation, his cowardice is somewhat subdued, though it still lingers behind his eyes in a tense room. He is prone to brash speech and bravado, and cares little for the rule of law. In Yosiah's mind, there are only two rules: Be a person who brings more joy into the world than he takes, and do not begrudge fate when things do not go as planned, for she is fickle.

Human Warpriest (Devoted Champion) 2/Expert 1
CG Medium humanoid (human)
Init +3; Senses Perception +6

Defense
AC 18, touch 13, flat-footed 15 (+3 Dex, +4 armor, +1 shield)
hp 21 (3d8+6, +2 FCB)
Fort +4, Ref +4, Will +7
Defensive Abilities

Offense
Speed 30 ft.
Melee Buckler (Light Shield) +7 (1d6+1) or
Handaxe +5 (1d6/x3)
Ranged Throwing axe +5 (1d6, 10')

Special Attacks
Warpriest Spells Prepared (CL 2nd; concentration +4)
Orisons - Detect Magic, Light, Create Water, Guidance
1st - Divine Favor x2, Cure Light Wounds

Blessings (Su) Travel, Luck - 4/4 per day

Fervor(Su) 3/day, 1d6

Statistics
Str 10, Dex 16, Con 14, Int 8, Wis 14, Cha 12

Base Atk +2; CMB +2; CMD 15

Feats Weapon Focus (Light Shield), Weapon Finesse, Upsetting Shield Style, Improved Shield Bash
The ultimate goal will be TWF with handaxe and shield using Unhindered Shield, Upsetting Shield Style, and Improved Shield Bash

Traits fate's favored, shield bearer
Skills Diplomacy +7 (3 ranks), Bluff +5 (1 rank), Sense Motive +8 (3 ranks), Perception +6 (1 rank), Knowledge (Religion) +3 (1 rank), Survival +6 (1 rank), Profession (Trader) +6 (1 rank), Profession (Woodsman) +8 (3 ranks), Profession (Soldier) +6 (1 rank), Profession (Cartographer) +6 (1 rank)

Languages Common

Special Qualities
Aura (Ex) Chaotic Good aura
Luck Blessing (Su) Touch an ally, roll any one ability check, attack roll, save, or skill check twice and take the better. Lasts for 1 minute or until used.
Travel Blessing (Su) Swift action, ignore all difficult terrain for 1 round
Focus Weapon Weapon Focus as a bonus feat
Sacred Weapon (Su) Weapons with Weapon Focus - 1d6 damage
Fervor (Su) 3/day, heal 1d6 damage or swift action to cast a spell targeting self only

Other Gear Masterwork Breastplate, Masterwork Buckler, Handaxe x2, Throwing Axe x3, Mapmaker's Kit, Warpriest's Kit (Backpack, bedroll, belt pouch, holy text, flint and steel, iron pot, mess kit, rope, soap, spell component pouch, torches (10), trail rations (5 days), waterskin, holy symbol), Folding Shovel, 173 gp

Karzok was one of the few half-orcs that was the product of a happy, healthy relationship. They lived in relative solitude, on the edge of the Shudderwood, with the closest town being Tamrivena. His human father, Dennin, was a hardworking lumberman and his orc mother, Erza, was a housewife who would carve the leftover scraps into magnificent trinkets to sell at various nearby markets. When he came of age, his mother carved him a thick blackwood ring which he still wears on his right hand. Although now it is stained with her blood.

The attack came unexpectedly in the night. His father’s rivals were always trying to undermine him, but he always came out on top, whether through wits or smart business practices. They couldn’t stand the fact that the most successful lumber business in the area was run by a man who bedded with an orc. So they contracted some men to take care of him. It happened on a night like any other. They slipped something into his drink at the tavern and then they came in the night and slit his throat while he slept. His mother put up a hard fight, felling a handful of them before she was dealt a fatal blow and they fled into the night. She died shortly after in Karzok’s arms. As she exhaled her last breath, a crushing wave of despair surged through Karzok, fracturing his very essence. A darkness seeped out of his body and coalesced into an exact copy of his physical form. In his grief, Karzok didn’t notice it at the time, but this was the very first manifestation of his shadow double.

Karzok was never particularly brave or strong. He had no training in combat or hint of magical talent. He was a simple young man with a bit of skill in carving that he had picked up from watching his mother over the years. In most social circles he was considered a half-breed and an outcast. The friendships he did have, however, were steadfast and lifelong. One of those friendships was with a local street rat, Kiv. After the attack, Karzok gathered up his things and reached out to Kiv. Kiv was a con artist plain and simple, and therefor he found common ground with Karzok as always being on the outside looking in. He was smooth, easy to talk to, and laughed a lot. But when it came down to it, he would do whatever it took to get what he wanted. Kiv owed Karzok a favor for cutting him on a deal his father made with a fletcher in Tamrivena. He was able to get Karzok two important items: a sword he had swiped from a raided caravan a few weeks back, and, more importantly, a list of the men involved in the murder of his father. He also informed Karzok that the man ultimately responsible for the murders, his father’s rival Henrig Broadcreek, was also dead. Apparently, there was a dispute over the money the murderers were promised and they took their payment in blood.

After gathering a few things, Karzok fled blindly into the Shudderwood. He wasn’t in his right mind when he left everything he knew behind. The list of men responsible for the murders was stuffed deep down into his pack and forgotten. He spent many months eking out a meager existence in the wood, but in that time he began honing his skills as a hunter. He would stalk through the wood after game and with the hides of his kills he began fashioning together a suit of armor. After tanning the hides, he would carve intricate patterns over the leather. He crafted the suit of armor in a style he found in an old book his father gave him when he was young. It was a book of Tien legends filled with noble samurai and stalking ninja. He studied the swordplay within, and--while his wide bladed sword was much less elegant than their katanas--he would mimic their fighting styles. He admired the strength and tenacity of the mounted warriors and the efficiency and deadliness of the assassins. He combined these tenants into a trademark combat style. He struck hard and fast and with deadly accuracy. He also carved himself a bow for the times when he had to fell game from afar. His confidence grew as his hesitancy to kill waned. Then the day finally came when he reached deep into his pack and drew out the list. He memorized every word then threw it into the dying embers of his campfire. He walked out of the wood, heading south.

Travelling from town to town he pieced together more and more information about the men and eventually he found that they were heading to Absalom to embark on an expedition to establish a new colony in Arcadia. He found that the men were collectively known as Breddaric’s Blades, their leader being Breddaric Valethorn, a name of which he was unfamiliar. Having no ties to the lands in which he travelled, Karzok made the decision then and there that he would follow these men to the ends of Golarion if he had to. The laws of men no longer apply to him. He will have his vengeance one way or another.

Karzok met up with a Irrisenian woman named Sorala on the road south, Fighting Chicken’s submission, who decided to join him in his journey to Absalom. Along the way, they fought off bandits and resolved a dispute centered around cattle rustling. The two swordsmen have developed a friendship, and Kazok appreciates that the woman walks a similar path as he does; one looking towards escape and a new beginning. Mechanically, this comradery will be represented by the teamwork feat Escape Route.

Karzok is of a medium build with a scraggly beard and unkempt dark brown hair. His hands are scarred from his trials and tribulations of being a carver and novice leathersmith. His clothes are threadbare and slung over his shoulder are a makeshift shortbow and a surprisingly fine greatsword. His armor is also of exceptional make, the leather lamellar covered in intricately carved patterns of leaves, birds, and simple animals. A hooded dark gray cloak hangs loose from his shoulders. He has a thick dark wooden ring on his right middle finger and carries a torn and tattered book of Tien legend which he pulls out of his pack and reads when there is nothing else to occupy his attention. He is a man of few words, but is relatively well-spoken. At the moment the only person he trusts is Sorala, a woman he’s been travelling with for a number of weeks.