Nightflier's Land of Ice and Blood

Game Master nightflier

Velkirth learned the tales of his people from his father, who learned it from his, who learned hit from his, down the line for hundreds of years. According to the tales, his family was descended from one of the mightiest of warrior sages who stood at the right hand of one of the ancient kings. During the overthrow by Baba Yaga it was Velkirth’s ancestor who was one of the first to refuse the fey’s rule and was executed for his stance.

For generations his family has lived on the border with Irrisen, doing their part to provide resistance to Irrisen’s corrupt rule. During times of open war, there was always a Rimetongue at the front of a charge, voice raised to the heavens, sending his Ulfen brothers into a frenzy. During times of “peace” there was always a welcome shelter in the Rimetongue homes for smugglers and resistance fighters, staging raids into the witch held lands.

It was one especially hard winter when this legacy reared its ugly side to young Velkirth. A blizzard had been blowing for 2 solid days, the household settled in to ride it out when the trolls came. Velkirth never learned if the attack was specifically targeted at his family in reprisal for their actions or if it was simply a band of hungry trolls seeking a meal across the border. It mattered little to the young boy who watched his family butchered by the lumbering beasts.

Blood filled the air and flames soon engulfed his family home as the beasts rampaged, felling his father and brother before turning on his mother and sister. The youngest, Velkirth had been put to bed earlier on and was awoken by the sound of the door being smashed in by a large blue-skinned foot. Quickly scampering down into a crawlspace under the house he could only watch in mute horror as his family was taken from him.

After it was over the trolls threw the lamp oil around the structure and laughed as it began to burn before they disappeared into the blinding snowstorm. Velkirth could only huddle shivering next to his burning home, using the flames to keep him alive during the blizzard while the smell of burning meat, what once was his family, settled over everything.

It was by miracle and luck alone that Velkirth survived that night, although he would bear the scars from it forever more, his right hand and feet a deep frostbitten black color. Carrying on in his family’s tradition, he recites the tales of the Ulfen’s lost home to those with a mind to listen. While he hopes one day to take a wife and raise a family, his heart burns too hot with hate and anger to let him focus on that and there is a fear growing in his mind that the last of the Rimetongue’s may die out with him.

At age 7, born in a small village near Hagreach and as with all Bronding children, the child who would come to be known as Cælin is the son of a butcher. Travelers by nature spend short northern summers making slow loops through Hagreach and Thanelands, facilitating trade. He was fostered out to learn a trade. In Cælin’s case this was to Offa, his mother’s brother. Offa was a warrior and he trained young Cælin in the ways of battle.

There was little doubt that Cælin would become a warrior – he was a strong but not too bright of child, with none of the mental spark of his brothers and sisters. 4th in line, there was no way he would inherit property and he had no flare for craft. Cælin liked to hit things and physical endeavors, and so a warrior he became. When he came of age he inherited his uncle’s weapon Deeathbellow and was given a ring byrnie by the Eorlderman. These are his most treasured possessions and he keeps them in immaculate condition.

But for all his dullness, Cælin was well liked amongst the clan. He had a sense of fun, a willingness to do almost anything, and he delighted in eating and drinking all kinds of things. Where ever mead flowed and meat was roasting, there was Cælin, looking for a story to hear (for he had no talent in that regard) or a woman to fondle. His like of drink and his strength meant that Cælin could find himself in trouble, as he was easily led, but so far nothing to untoward has happened.

Of some concern to his parents and Offa is Cælin’s friendship with Alric, the seneschal’s assistant. Alric has always been a reliable source for Cælin to get things from the larders and Cælin has rewarded this with stanch loyalty. For those who know Alric’s reputation for dubious moral sense, Cælin’s friendship seems misplaced. But Cælin’s reputation for slow wittedness has helped disguise the fact that he has fairly lax morals himself.

Finally though, Cælin has a secret which none know but Offa. Once, while hunting near the Henna, Offa and Cælin saw a gigantic black boar with but one tusk staring at them from the edge of the woods. Thinking it to be the Mæstbar of legend, the two hunters charged heedlessly into the forest. While in pursuit, Cælin tripped and fell down a steep slope, hitting his head hard upon a rock. When Offa scrambled down to check on him he found Cælin in the grip of some uncontrollable fit. The moment passed, but Cælin lives in fear that another blow may set him off again, this time either in battle or in front of the other clan members. Cælin believes it is a curse upon him from the goblins that haunt that forest. Offa has agreed to keep his secret, but worries that it to do so may be a mistake. For Cælin, the dark woods of the Henna hold a hidden fear. As a result, nether have ever told of the time they saw the Mæstbar.

Who am I you ask? Does the name Thorolf Thurgonson not ring bells in your ears? No? Well then come. Sit. Raise a mug and I will tell you of my deeds. I was born of a line of warriors, great thanes whose lineage stretch back to the world’s foundings. A line of proud men and women whose very names would make the stoutest of hearts quake; whose very visages would break shield walls. Names like Wulf the Fierce, Asha Silvertongue, Braen Seven-Fingers. They said the blood of fey and giants ran in our blood. ::sigh:: But no longer I fear. You see, there are but two of us left. Myself, and my sister, Igraine.

My childhood was a happy one. I lived in my father’s great hall, master of the lands which we held for the Darkwine. Igraine and I would practice our mock battles with wooden swords and shields, dreaming of the day we would stand alongside our father and take our places in the shield wall. At night we would sit by the hearth and listen to old Brengin tell tales of adventure and battle, of strange creatures, daring raids, blood feuds, King’s battles with the Linnorns, and the treachery of the witches on our border.

Ironically, it was on one such night that they came. We had no warning. Our sentries had been poisoned with a sleeping draught administered in their mead by one once my father’s friend, now my enemy. Turlach, that accursed whoreson! I remember to this day the looks he would steal at my mother when he thought no one was watching. Even at the tender age of seven I knew what they meant. He coveted her, and I, young fool that I was forgot those looks and never mentioned them. And so, the black-heart was able to open our gates to the enemy unhindered, without even so much as suspicion of his betrayal. The trolls, wolves, and black sorcery fueled by a witch dressed all in white fur poured in and men died. Turlach killed my father, but my mother he did not have, for she took her own life rather than fall into his clutches. Outraged, he found my sister and grabbed her and threw her across his saddle before tossing a burning torch onto the Hall, setting it ablaze. Snarling, I leapt to my feet, grabbing my father’s sword and rushed at him, but he only laughed at the puny form of a seven year old. He reached back and hurled a spear straight towards me, turning his mount around contemptuously and galloping off, his pet witch in tow, even as the spear hurtled towards its mark. It was then that the gods intervened miraculously, for this is what happened: I knew I was a dead man, for Turlach’s aim had been true, yet on I rushed. But my death was not fated for that day, for suddenly a form appeared, materializing out of the very air in front of me. A suit of spiked, iron armor, in which I swear there was no flesh. Do not look at me like that! I speak the truth, and any man who says otherwise will taste the iron of my blade. For Gorum himself intervened that day and turned aside the spear and I was spared that my family may one day have its vengeance. Mark my words, there will be no blood price sufficient, no weregild adequate. Turlach will die by my hands. And I shall discover what has happened to my sister.

I lay in the snow as the wind howled about, the heat from the burning hall at my back likely the only thing that saved me from a frozen death. The next day I was rescued by a man of the Blackravens. Took me in, fed me, nursed me to health. Raised me I guess you’d say. Now that I am older, I’ve taken the oaths, both to the Ravens and to the Shrine of Gorum. My unique… talents as one of Gorum’s chosen give me unique strengths in the cause of rooting out the agents of Irrisen for the Blackravens – and that in turn gives me unique opportunities to search for my hated enemy and word of the fate of my sister.

Sunset here again. Just a question. Are you allowing the current 'beta test' of "Advanced Race-guide Playtest"?

If not, I can make a 'Faux' Half-Giant by taking the 'Teifling' race (Stripping out certain resistances such as those to fire and electricity) while adding the 'Giant'- Or 'Large'- template followed by the 'Young' template at first level to reduce the CR to 0 again. Then, at a level of your choosing, possibly 4th or 5th, removing the 'Young' template, 'growing' Xane and not taking an advancement in a class at that time to keep the balance? Thoughts? Suggestions? Ideas?*Bows*

Much cheers to you and yours. Also, as for 'Class'? I shall simply go with Fighter and be the 'brawler' of the group.

Long before Karl the Bastard was born, a crofter's daughter from outside Jol met an elven minstrel by chance on the road. Within a week, she was gone and her furious father vowed vengeance on his wayward child and the poxy elf who had stolen her away. Ten years passed and the daughter returned, with the elf and a son in tow. Although the young Karl did not know it, they had been forced to flee gambling debts and worse in Varisia.

Karl's grandfather allowed them to stay the night. In the morning, there was no sign of Karl's elven father, and it was not long before Karl and his mother were disowned and sent on their way. Karl's mother did the best she could, but eventually turned to a life of prostitution when she had exhausted every other means of putting food on the table.

At the age of 14, Karl discovered his mother's activities and left her shack, never to return. He eked out his existence at the edges of the Grungir forest, seemingly better able to spot and surprise the game within than even seasoned hunters. Before long he made a name for himself as a trapper, tracker and guide in the wild spaces of the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. Soon, he had even done well enough to support his mother, but this success came to late. By the time he discovered her whereabouts, she had succumbed to the bloody flux, and lied buried in a pauper's grave.

He decided to return to his maternal grandfather's home. A reckoning was due. But upon his return to the family croft, the old man was gone. Some said dead, others fled. But Karl would not depend on the words of others. He would see the old man's corpse before all was said and done, and so he tracked him, a hunter in search of his prey.

Karl headed East into the Hagsreach following a trail of rumors, too stubborn to realize that he might never find the old man. However, his own personal vendetta soon paled in comparison to the horrors unleased on the lands he journeyed through. He saw first hand just what the trolls, dire wolves, goblins and white witches had done to his homeland.

Karl realized that his feelings of being out of place, of never belonging, of being an outsider despite his Ulfen blood were not the fault of his grandfather or the local youths who had labeled him 'Bastard' and 'Whoreson' no matter how many times he gave them split lips for their troubles. It was because he had never truly stood up for his homeand its people.

Now was the time of need, now was when Karl would show his people just what a bastard could do.

I place the details here again for your perusal. *Bows*

If not, I can make a 'Faux' Half-Giant by taking the 'Teifling' race (Stripping out certain resistances such as those to fire and electricity) while adding the 'Giant'- Or 'Large'- template followed by the 'Young' template at first level to reduce the CR to 0 again. Then, at a level of your choosing, possibly 4th or 5th, removing the 'Young' template, 'growing' Xane and not taking an advancement in a class at that time to keep the balance? Thoughts? Suggestions? Ideas?*Bows*

Much cheers to you and yours. Also, as for 'Class'? I shall simply go with Fighter and be the 'brawler' of the group.

Ragnar was raised in Trollheim by his father Kolgrim Redthirst- a powerful priest of Gorum. Kolgrim settled in Trollheim for the promise of frequent battle against the town's foes in Irrisen. While Kolgrim was quite powerful, he did not take any sort of organizational hand in the church of the Lord in Iron- his place was on the front lines of any conflict, his sermons delivered at the hacking edge of his greatsword.

Unfortunately for his son, that was also his philosophy toward fatherhood.

Ragnar never knew his mother; upon reflection, it would be easy enough to imagine that he had been adopted by his father, had there not been a clear resemblance between the two of them. From a young age, he lived ever in his father's shadow- while other boys were learning to hunt and fish, playing with wooden swords and roughhousing, he was reciting the Iron Lord's hymns and being punished for missing a word or lacking fervor, cleaning the blood and grime from his father's arms and armor and carrying out other tasks to "make a man of him". Kolgrim wouldn't be satisfied unless his son grew up to be the mightiest of Gorum's followers, a warrior-priest fit to paint the snows of Irrisen red. A favorite lesson of the great priest was to take up a notched old sword and attack his son with it, forcing the boy to defend himself. Even if he wasn't using his full strength, Kolgrim would often leave Ragnar with gashes and bruises- some even harsh enough to require the use of healing magic. Ragnar learned quickly that hiding behind a shield was the best method of curbing his father's aggressions during these "lessons" and through painful trial and error, he learned the best basic sword and shield techniques. His father kept baiting him, hoping to "stoke the fire in him" and draw out the rage Ulfen warriors are so known for; but his son never threw himself into it, always remaining in control and on the defensive.

In what time Ragnar had to himself, he would carve wooden animals and monsters with a small knife. He enjoyed working with his hands, though he feared his father ever finding his handiwork. So Ragnar left his finished pieces in spots around the village, away from the hall he shared with his father, for the other children to find.

One day when Ragnar was fifteen, his father discovered him carving an elk from a piece of birch. While the boy expected to be punished, he didn't expect the fury Kolgrim vented on him.

"Your only craft is war!", Kolgrim roared, as he grabbed his son and sent him hurtling toward a weapon rack. "If you're tough enough to waste your time with this", he said, crushing the elk beneath an iron boot,"then you can handle some real steel!" Kolgrim pulled out his own sword, a black iron beast of a greatsword and leapt for his son. Ragnar had only a split second to get his battered shield into position before his father started hacking at him with all his might. Blow after blow rained down on him and Ragnar could not possibly contend with his father's full force. The greatsword sheared through his shield and into Ragnar's chest. Gasping and bleeding, he fell to the floor, his body growing cold as his life left him.

Ragnar remembers death only briefly- a long line of people of all description, young and old alike. A great spire. A grey woman on a throne. It was an eternity that passed in the blink of an eye before an iron fist gripped the back of his shirt and yanked him back to the world.

He gasped with pain, but no sound buy his breathing escaped his ruined throat. Ragnar jolted, his father above him with a hand pressed to his chest. He was on the altar to Gorum in the church.
"Get up.", Kolgrim said,"And don't let me catch you wasting your time like that again."
Ragnar tried to say something, but found that he could no longer speak. Raising a hand to his throat, he found a puckered line of scar tissue... the funny thing is, his father's sword had caught him across the chest.

Still weak from his return, Ragnar rose when he was certain that his father was soundly sleeping and packed up his belongings. Clothes, food, a short sword, a shield. He opened the door and stepped out into the cold northern night, never looking back.

It was a long trek for the lad to reach Karlsgard Or a closer setlement- I haven't got the Land of the Linnorm Kings book with me, so I haven't had a chance to look up where everything would be. on his own. He stumbled through the city, mute and lost, never having seen so many people in one place before. Ragnar scraped by for a time, sheltering in alleys or on floors, doing odd jobs for tradesmen that took pity on him. Each person that gave him a job, he left a small carving- a token of his gratitude. Eating a meal on an ale hall step, he saw a notice- "THE GRIFFON'S CLAW SEEKS NEW RECRUITS, INQUIRE WITH OLAF AT THE RUSTY BUCKET". A mercenary company. Ragnar didn't like the idea of returning to a life so close to his father's... but what skills did he have? Carving toys for children? Moving sacks of flour or ingots of iron? On reflection, the only thing he really knew anything about was fighting. He gathered up his things, tore down the notice and found the Rusty Bucket.

"I don't know kid, you're awful young.", the one-eyed mercenary said,"You could get killed pretty easy the work we do. Don't you have a family?"
Ragnar nodded, scribbled on a piece of butcher paper- "I can handle it. Let me prove myself."
Olaf exchanged a glance with Snorri, the dwarf sitting next to him. The dwarf shrugged and stood up, swinging a dagger at Ragnar from under his cloak. The Stolen-Voice deflected the knife with his wooden shield, pulling out his short sword. Compared to Kolgrim, the dwarf's testing blows were downright civilized, like he was waiting for permission before each thrust. Ragnar kept up as the attacks came faster, moving around the dwarf and keeping from being hemmed in. The other patrons started clapping, laughing at the display. The dwarf slid under Ragnar's guard and slammed a fist into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Ragnar smacked the dwarf with his shield.
"Hah!", Snorri barked,"The mute's got talent!"
Olaf nodded, though he wasn't as amused as Snorri.
"I still don't like taking on someone that young... but if it's what you're set on, lad, then welcome aboard."

For the next few years, Ragnar was a junior member (a nice way of saying "henchman") of the The Griffon's Claw company. There were five principal members- Snorri, a dwarven warrior with some underhanded methods, Bronwen, a half-elven scout that Ragnar nursed something of a crush for; Olaf, the grizzled ranger, Anya, a changeling woman with long nails and terrifying magic and finally Landon, a halfling and a priest of Erastil. It was Landon that became Ragnar's closest friend over the time of his employment. The halfling had a friendly attitude and a paternal interest in the young runaway and taught him the tenets of Old Deadeye. Though his talents did not lie in matters of faith (what with his ruined throat), Ragnar became an ardent follower of Erastil. His time with the Claw helped Ragnar overcome his rotten childhood and find a place in the world where he belonged; he didn't get a chance to see too much action, but he learned a lot from watching the others and on the occasions where a rampaging monster or foe would break through the group's defenses, when it was up to the young fighter to stand between the vulnerable casters and the threat. Landon eventually figured out some small way to mend Ragnar's severed vocal chords- he still can't speak well, but it's easier to make himself understood.

It was on a cold night several weeks later in Ragnar's eighteenth year that the Griffon's Claw came apart. Crossing Hagreach, Anya simply disappeared. The changeling was never the most reliable member, but it was strange for her to just vanish. Olaf picked up her trail and the group followed into a cave. By the light a cauldron's fire, they found Anya and a coven of hags. Their former comrade turned on the party, hurling hexes and spells. After a pitched battle, Snorri and Olaf, as well as Anya, lay dead. Landon and Bronwen didn't have the heart left to continue after that. After burying their fallen friends, Bronwen bade farewell to Landon and Ragnar, striking out south. Landon ultimately settled on finding a new home for himself, where he could start a family and help the community. While Ragnar felt more than tempted to accompany his friend/surrogate father to accomplish that, he knew that Trollheim wasn't far away. And there was someone he had to see.

He found the town much as he had left it; an armed camp with little cheer or welcome. He spent an evening at the ale hall, listening for news of recent events before walking with heavy steps to confront Kolgrim... only to be surprised by a new priest in Gorum's chapel. Kolgrim, it turned out, went missing during a skirmish with ice trolls miles east of Trollheim and hadn't been seen in years. Dumbstruck, disappointed and, yes, a bit relieved, Ragnar settled back into his old home, finding ready work for his shield arm but still gnawed by his old wounds.

Deep within the mountains lived a great clan of dwarves. Toiling away under the mountain they forged great wonders, brew the best ales, a content and peaceful folk. That is untill one fateful day. Unknow to them, a force of trolls were gathered mysteriously under one banner discovered the hidden entrances to the clans stronghold. The dwarves fought valiently but since they had no time to prepare the clan was wiped out. Thanks to the efforts of his parents Otto was hidden away. He heard the screams of his kin the murderous laughs of the trolls. At one point he heard the slithering of a great beast through the tunnel with a roar that shook the mountain. For what seemed like days the dwarf heard the intuders ransacking his home. When was all quiet Otto left his hiding spot. The walls were decorated with the blood of his kin and anything of value had been stripped. He perform the burial rites the best he could for the bodys he could find and he made a choice. He would avenge his clan one, to hunt and destroy every troll he could find. Taking what supplys he could he left in search of his enemy. Tracking the filthy beasts. Finding one pair of tracks had seperated he followed. He was led to a icy cave. Walking in he found the beast fast asleep. Creeping in he drew his axe, as he raised it up high above his head, the troll awoke. Grasping the young dwarf high into the air Otto thought he was done for. Just as the troll was swinging for the killing blow, a few arrow struck him in the neck, causing it to drop the dwarf. Half concious, Otto witness in a green cloak fight the Giant. The man brought the beast down and soon made a pyre of the beasts body. The man then came over and have him aid to his injurys. The man was a ranger. Otto told him his story and pleaded the Man in the green cloak to train him. After years of learning about the ways of the wild Otto stuck out on his own, with a bit more wisdom this time, to hunt down his prey. Dropping his clan name He now calls himself Trolljegeren(troll hunter). As he search for signs of of trolls he ahs taken up the job of a mercenary to support himself.

I have the basic outline for my character's background but I just am too tired to write. And I fear I won't make the deadline (it's now 9:27pm, Friday night where I am). Good luck on the game.

Sigourd was a rambunctious and rebellious young girl. More often found fighting with her brothers than learning the ways of preparing bear skins and far more interested in wandering the pine forests than learning about house keeping.

So, as her clan elders tried more and more to bring her to heal in regards to what a young girls should be, she rebelled more often against them. Till, one evening she'd had enough; Taking down one of the ancestors swords from whee it hung upon the great cave's wall, to adding a great fur cloak to cover her too large and equally borrowed chain shirt, she slipped out into the darkness of the valley and was soon lost beyond the borders of her clans' demises.

It was actually many years until Sigourd's wanderings finally settled down in a small valley of her own. Now grown to full maturity and, after more than a few run ins with brothers and cousins, she knew her family had accepted her hard fought for Independence, she st about 'settling' in. It took some little time for her to make the caves 'comfortable', but the hunting and game were plentiful so Sigourd wanted for little.

Now a single being in the wild might come to fear the predators of said environs. Sigourd, however, as a mature Frost-Giantess was in effect the valley's highest level predator. Using her great bow, spears and javelins down to even just bare rocks or her prized family sword- not even the large white pelted cave bears thought of crossing her even larger self.

In time, as a Frost-Giant's life span is longer than most creatures, at the southern, warmer end of Sigourd's valley the game and sport began to change. No longer where deer, elk and moose the common things for the hunt, but bison and cattle began to replace them. Again seemingly in no time at all to the long lived Sigourd, little human steadiness began to pop up like mushroom rings all over the plains her valley opened onto.

Secretly she would often hid within the edges of her forest's pines and watched the comings and goings of these little folk with interest, of course never fear, their distantly viewed existence looked upon with curiosity. Often times her musings being during the expeditions she would mount in which to add 'cow' and 'horse' to her larder.

Now, from the human's perspective, the loss of some of their herds to predators of the wilds was only expected as the way of the world, but to begin to lose prized mounts and other possessions to some creature that could simply lift said animal from a corral. Or worse yet, simply open a large barn door to reach in and pluck prized oxen from their pens, eventually brought the ire of the people of Barlenstead to bear upon the thieving of their lively hood.

Soon, as tales are want to do, the story spread and those of a more marital and adventurous nature drifted closer to learn and 'deal' with the threat to Barlenstead.

The first group to range into the hills were local youths seeking glory and adventure. When they had not returned after many months, with the fear and trepidation growing, a larger and more experience number of adventurers drifted in from the whispered spread of rumors of glory and treasure to be had.

Sigourd, in the meantime, had no idea such things were afoot. She hadn't even met the group of youths directly. Only coming across their path and eventual remains in a snow bear's den. The same cave she'd first tried to make her home in only to find the roof leaked and the opening faced the seasonal storms. These short comings had finally won out over Sigourd's stubbornest, but not before she'd decorated the opening with carved statues in the rocks of a pair of rampant elks and large paving stones as a form of steps, the better to reach the raised cave mouth.

Taking the bear pelt and human trinkets back to her home, she puzzled for a short while as to the meanings of these signs. But not very long as her giant-ish nature came to the fore and so she began to 'prepare' things for any 'guests' she may have of the little folk.

The tales of these encounters make for a much longer tale than this teller has time for, needless to say many an adventurer met their weirds at the hands of Sigourd, their tales becoming nothing more than strands in the Giantes' own legend. It was one of these adventurers who's addition had an unexpected turn in Sigourd's tale.

Barlingson Fergasun was/is the fellow's name. As large and loud and feisty a fighter as there ever was. A man just as prone to scream, leaping into a fray as calmly loose arrows into an engagement. It was Barlingson who survived his groups encounter with Sigourd, but in the doing of something else happened. While the size of his frame was not quite up to the standards of Frost-Giants, his spirit, strength and personality almost certainly were enough to capture a certain frost maiden's heart.

Teifling Race:

Variant based on Pathfinder adventure module, Issue25, PG 64
+2 Str, +2 Cha, -2 Int, Darkvision 60', Resist Cold 10/-, Fire weakness Take X1.5 more damage from fire based spells and attacks, +2 to Climb Skill, +2 to Survival.

Giant template:
Bestiary, PG 295
Increase 'Size' by one (Medium => Large)
Increase damage by one step
Increase Str +4, Con +4, Dex -2
Increase natural Armor by +3

Young Template:
Bestiary, PG 295
Decrease 'Size' by one (Large => Medium)
Decrease damage by one step
Decrease Str -4, Con -4, Dex +4
Decrease natural armor by -2

Str 18 (-17Pnts) +2 Teifling =Total: 20
Dex 12 (-1 Pnts) +2 Young template =Total: 14
Int 13 (-2) -2 Teifling =Total: 11
Wis 08 (+2 Pnts) =Total: 08
Con 15 (-7 Pnts) =Total: 15
Cha 14 (-5 Pnts) +2 teifling =Total: 16

+1 Natural Armor, Darkvision 60', +2 To Climb and +2 to Survival Skills, Resist Cold 10/-, Susceptible to fire increase damage from heat and fire based sources and attacks X1.5

"Big and brassy!"
"Buffed and sassy!"
"Fit as a fiddle and ready to game!"

Humanoid:

Languages: Common, Giant

Age: 16

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Height(Medium): 6' 10", Weight: 140 lbs,

Eyes: Pale Blue, Skin: Pale

Class/Level Fighter/1

Init:+2

Senses: Darkvision 60' , Perception+1

Special: Resist Cold 10/-, Natural Armor +1, Fire susceptibility X1.5 Fire damage,

---
Str: 20
Dex: 14
Int: 11
Wis: 08
Con: 15
Cha: 16

---

HP:15 Wounds: Total HP:

AC:21 : (+6Chainmail,+2Shield,+2Dex,+1Natural)
Touch: 12 () ,FlFt:19()

Saves:Fort: +4,Ref: +1,Will: -2

Spd 20 ft (squares)

Combat Stats

Attack:Bab:+1

Melee:
To Hit:+6
Dam:1D8+5(Long Swd) 19/20 X2

Ranged:
To Hit:+3
Dam():1d8+5(Spear) 19/20 X2

Ranged:
To Hit:+3
Dam():1D6+5(Throwing Axe) 20 X3

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"The story of Xane" See above spoiler

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Feats & Traits:

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Skills:
Acrobatics(Dex):
Appraise(Int):
Balance(Dex):
Bluff(Cha):
Climb(Str): +2 Race Bonus
Concentration(Con):
Craft(Int):
Diplomacy(Cha):
Disable Device(Int):
Disguise(Cha):
Escape Artist(Dex)C:
Fly(Dex):
Handle Animal(Cha;):
Heal(Wis):
Intimidate(Cha): +2 Trait Bonus.
Knowledge(Int)(arcana)
Knowledge(Int)(engineering):
Knowledge(Int)(dungeoneering):
Knowledge(Int)(geography):
Knowledge(Int)(history):
Knowledge(Int)(local):
Knowledge(Int)(nature):
Knowledge(Int)(nobility and royalty):
Knowledge(Int)(religion):
Knowledge(Int)(the planes):
Linguistics(Int):
Perception(Wis): +1 Skill Point
Perform(Cha):
Profession(Wis):
Ride(Dex):
Sense Motive(Wis):
Sleight of Hand(Dex):
Speak Language:
Spell-craft(Int):
Stealth(Dex):
Survival(Wis): +2 Race Bonus, +1 Skill Point, +3 Class
Swim(Str):
Use Magic Device(Cha):

Possessions:

Starting Moneys: 900 Gp
Chain mail,
Wooden Shield +2 AC
Long Sword,
Dagger,
Throwing Axe (X2)
Spear,
Bed Roll,
Sea Chest,
Rope 50' (Hemp)
Other Equipment to be fleshed out upon acceptance

Spending Moneys Left:

EXP:

Deep within the mountains lived a great clan of dwarves. Toiling away under the mountain they forged great wonders, brew the best ales, a content and peaceful folk. That is untill one fateful day. Unknow to them, a force of trolls were gathered mysteriously under one banner discovered the hidden entrances to the clans stronghold. The dwarves fought valiently but since they had no time to prepare the clan was wiped out. Thanks to the efforts of his parents Otto was hidden away. He heard the screams of his kin the murderous laughs of the trolls. At one point he heard the slithering of a great beast through the tunnel with a roar that shook the mountain. For what seemed like days the dwarf heard the intuders ransacking his home. When was all quiet Otto left his hiding spot. The walls were decorated with the blood of his kin and anything of value had been stripped. He perform the burial rites the best he could for the bodys he could find and he made a choice. He would avenge his clan one, to hunt and destroy every troll he could find. Taking what supplys he could he left in search of his enemy. Tracking the filthy beasts. Finding one pair of tracks had seperated he followed. He was led to a icy cave. Walking in he found the beast fast asleep. Creeping in he drew his axe, as he raised it up high above his head, the troll awoke. Grasping the young dwarf high into the air Otto thought he was done for. Just as the troll was swinging for the killing blow, a few arrow struck him in the neck, causing it to drop the dwarf. Half concious, Otto witness in a green cloak fight the Giant. The man brought the beast down and soon made a pyre of the beasts body. The man then came over and have him aid to his injurys. The man was a ranger. Otto told him his story and pleaded the Man in the green cloak to train him. After years of learning about the ways of the wild Otto stuck out on his own, with a bit more wisdom this time, to hunt down his prey. Dropping his clan name He now calls himself Trolljegeren(troll hunter). As he search for signs of of trolls he ahs taken up the job of a mercenary to support himself.

Str 16(-10)
Dex 14(-5)
Con 16(-10)+2(dwarf)=18
Int 11(-1)
Wis 12(-2)+2(dwarf)=14
Cha 12(-2)-2(dwarf)=10

[spoiler=Charater Sheet]Hp: 17
Int: 4:+2 (Dex) + 2 (Trait) Speed: 20

AC [17] = 10 + 4 [hide] +2 [Dex]+ 1 [Dodge]
Touch AC [13] Flat-Footed [14]

FORT+6 = 2 [base] +4 [Con]
REF +4 = 2 [base] +2 [Dex]
WILL +2 = 0 [base] +2 [Wis]
(+2 vs poison, spells, spell like abilitys)

BASE ATTACK BONUS +1
Basic Melee Attack +4
Basic Ranged Attack +3

Greataxe +4(1d12+4) X3 Type:S
Light Crossbow +3(1d8) 19-20X2 Type:P Range:80 Ammo30
Dagger +4(1d4+3) 19-20X2 Range:10 Type:S/p Ammo:2

CMB +4= 1 [BAB] +3 [Str] +0 [size]
CMD +16= 1 [BAB] +3 [Str] +2 [Dex] +0 [size] + 10
(+4 vs Bullrush/trip on solid ground)

Class Skills:
Craft(weapons) +5 = INT 1+1+3(+2 with metal or stone)
Craft(Alchemy) +5 = INT 1+1+3
Handle Animal† +3 = CHA -1+1+3
Know(Nature) +5 = INT 1+1+3
Perception +6 = WIS 2+1+3(+2 with stone)
Stealth* +7 = DEX 2+1+3+1(trait, becomes 2 when in rocky or hilly)
Survival +6 = WIS 2+1+3
Armor Check Penelty:-3

Feats:
Dodge: +1 Dodge bonus to AC
Toughness: +3 hp, +1 every level after 3rd

Traits:
Reactionary: +2int
Ruthless:+1 to confirm criticals
Highlander: +1 on stealth

Class Abilitys:

Favored Enemy: Giant(+2 bonus on Bluff, Knowledge, Perception, Sense Motive, and Survival, weapon attack and damage rolls against them vs giants)

Track:A ranger adds half his level (minimum 1) to Survival skill checks made to follow or identify tracks

Wild empathy: ranger can improve the initial attitude of an animal. This ability functions just like a Diplomacy check to improve the attitude of a person (see Using Skills). The ranger rolls 1d20 and adds his ranger level and his Charisma bonus to determine the wild empathy check result. The typical domestic animal has a starting attitude of indifferent, while wild animals are usually unfriendly.To use wild empathy, the ranger and the animal must be within 30 feet of one another under normal visibility conditions. Generally, influencing an animal in this way takes 1 minute, but, as with influencing people, it might take more or less time.The ranger can also use this ability to influence a magical beast with an Intelligence score of 1 or 2, but he takes a –4 penalty on the check.

Favored Class Ranger +1 Skill point

Racial:
Dwarf
Slow and Steady: Base speed of 20' is never modified by armor or encumbrance
Darkvision 60 feet
Defensive Training: +4 dodge bonus to AC vs. giants
Craftsman: +2 craft with stone and metal(replaces greedy)
Giant Hunter: +1 to attack rolls vs Giant, +2 to survival to track Giants(replaces hatred)
Hardy: +2 to saves vs. poison, spells, and spell-like abilities
Stability: +4 CMB vs. bull rush or trip attempts while standing on solid ground
Stonecunning: +2 Perception (stone). Free check within 10 feet of hidden doors or traps in stone.
Weapon Familiarity: battleaxes, heavy picks, warhammers. Any weapon with 'dwarven' in its name is treated as a martial weapon.

Hide Armor
Greataxe
Light crossbow(30bolts)
Dagger(X2)
Alchemists fire(X2)
Backback
Bedroll
Blanket(winter)
Hemp rope(50ft)
Rations(x4)
Waterskin