Saga of the Taighean Dubha - a Reign of Winter PbP (Inactive)

Game Master Mark Sweetman

"This land does not become me." The statement is simple. His hand trembles as he puts quill to paper, hollow eyes only darkened by the meager candlelight. "Darkness closes in on me. Seven years have passed since I have set out to my appointed task. I know now the truth of it. I have known since the day I left. This was never a journey of knowledge. It was an execution."

He shoots to his feet as a sudden noise comes from outside the ramshackle hut. Ink spills across the parchment as his hand feverishly scrambles for the rusty knife. "Show yourself!" he calls out, sweat forming on his brow despite the freezing cold. Silence avails, nothing more than the rattling of wood and the whistle of the wind to answer him. His eyes wander frantically, chasing shadows on the corners of his vision. Slowly he backs away, shrinking down onto the pile of hay he calls a bed. He closes his eyes, breathing in sharply, and vaguely wonders if he will last the night.

Character Summary
He is the product of his environment. Thrust from the lap of luxury into the heart of the frozen north, this character explores how isolation and the desire to live brings out the darkest parts of a man. Having spent seven years lost in the tundra, he appears from the wilds once more, something both more and less than just a man.

Background Summary
He is an academy-schooled Chelaxian wizard from a minor noble house. However, he fell into the bad books with his order when he was publically humiliated in a magical duel. He was a disgrace, and they needed to get rid of him ASAP. So they gave him a task of overwhelming vagueness - to head to the Land of the Linnorm Kings and chronicle all that he could. He knew it was just a pretext for his exile, but he could not refuse them. And so he left.

His caravan never made it all the way - it was raided and scattered by the wayside, and he fled into the frozen wilderness. Seven years have passed since then, and much of the man he used to be has been stripped away, replaced by a dark and savage hatred, a growing madness and a hunger to live.

"This land takes much from you. Within a week I had lost two fingers off my left hand, and it has only been taking more from me ever since."

Appearance

Once, long ago, this man carried himself with dignity and respect. What was once neatly trimmed raven hair is now a shaggy black mane, a clean shaven face now thick with hair. His eyes are dark and sunken hollow-things, constantly vigilant and darting about. Closer inspection reveals that they are filled not with fear, but with a dark contempt and fierce will to live.

He stands around 5'8" in height, and his body is covered in scars from his time in the North. His left hand is missing its outermost two fingers.

His clothes are ragged, but still retain some semblance of their original splendour. Of note are his long fur-lined grey overcoat, which has been damaged and mended many times, and the grey fox pelt crudely attached to its collar.

Personality

Markus Septimus Hape. It has been a long time since he used that name. Those who know him call him Halfhand. It is his brand. His shame. Witch. Demon. They do not want him in their towns. He cares not. He doesn't need them. He doesn't need anyone.

In Cheliax he was cruel, arrogant and selfish. His time in the Land of the Linnorm Kings has only seemed to amplify this. They, along with his keen mind, have been the key to his survival in this dreadful land. Every time he has turned his back on someone in need, every time he has taken what he needs without regard for another he had won himself another day desperately clinging to life.

More than anything, though, contempt fills his soul. A burning pride which refuses to be extinguished. Born into a minor noble house, his ego has been fuelled since childhood. Perhaps this is the reason he has had the determination to survive as long as he did. So convinced is he in the value of his own life, that he will go to any lengths to preserve it.

But he has not been spending these days in vain, no. He has been out there, listening, watching. Every day he learns something new. He has learned how to survive. He knows the braying of the winter wolves, he knows the blood of trolls. No books or parchments have taught him these things - they were learned through sweat and blood. But he gains no joy from this. Each new discovery only brings fresh terror to his soul. Every sound is a warning, the smallest scuff a sign, all feeding his growing paranoia. Fae lurk in every shadow, beasts in every hill. He is beyond wary, ready to fight or flee at any moment.

As the bitter cold has gnaws away both his mind and humanity, so does it affect his magic. His spells had a grandeur to them once. But now they all little more than conjurations born of shadow and hate - dark things pulled from the twisted realms of his fractured soul.

frostborn: +4 saves vs cold environments, +1 saves vs cold effects.

strong swimmer: +2 to swim checks, +2 rounds to hold breath

You want to hear MY story? I don't really think you do. There's no romance, no heroics or glory, no faith, and certainly no lost happiness. I never had any to begin with. But, if you insist, you forfeit all rights to judge me, and all the bliss of ignorance.

I was found on my father's doorstep as a baby, with barely a scrap of clothing on me. The man brought me in, sheltered me, fed and cared for me, but never seemed interested in who I was or what I was really like. I was really just a wench to him. By the time I was old enough to lift a woodcutter's axe, I was chopping firewood. Once I could make my way to the village and back, I was buying the food from the market. The chores were mine to do. The rewards were his. He worked, sure enough, chopping trees or hauling fishnets, or whatever he could do at the time. What he earned, however, was mostly on his breath by the time he came home. What he handed me he expected to be spent on food. Thankfully, counting was not his strong suit. A coin or two here and there found hiding places all over the cottage over time. Sadly, as he left the cottage to disrepair over the years, light streamed in through the holes in the roof and walls revealing more of my stashes as time wore on. The cold I got used to; but the beatings whenever he found my hidden wealth...those I could only endure. I learned to hate him quickly.

Sadly, whenever I tried to use my coin for anything in town, I would meet with another unfortunate part of my birth: my eyes. Plain for all to see, my damnably mismatched eyes always drew the predations of the boys and the disdain and ire of the girls. Many a village trip ended with bruises, a muddy face, pulled hair, and possibly a lukewarm sweet roll covered in dirt. And those were the good days.

Father was also a bad teacher. Every time he intended me to learn a new chore, he would simply show me what was involved, put a tool in my hands, and expect it done. He was always surprised when I succeeded at my tasks. He tried to teach me how to swim the only way he could be bothered to: by throwing me into the water when I was six. I think he was more annoyed that I learned so quickly and took well to the water. I could see his veiled disgust at my adaptation.

Unfortunately for me, my father was terrible with women. He would rant and rave about the local maidens always rejecting him and pushing him away, even when he was sober. Since he wasn't a youthful man anymore, he lacked the charms he claimed to have in his younger days. Served him right. However, by the time I could start to grasp the true meaning of his frustration, I was starting to come of age. You know where this is going, don't you? It doesn't get any prettier; now's your chance to walk away.

Suffice it to say, the man who called himself my father gradually became my jailer. Without many paths away from the cottage save those that led to the village, I had little hope of simply running away. No one in the village would shelter or hide me, and I dared not face what lie beyond. I could find solace hiding in the trees at times, but he'd always find me and drag me home. I'm still trying to forget what he would do to me at night.

I found a new interest in the woods one day when I encountered a white fox scouting the snow for food. I almost didn't see him until he was right next to me. Neither of us jumped or ran; he returned my curious gaze without flinching or baring his teeth. He only darted away when a cracking branch betrayed father's presence. I came to understand that this fox was no ordinary creature; when he actually spoke to my mind, I knew I had found something extraordinary. He saw a strength in me that he admired; I saw in him the freedom to go where I pleased. Once father found out that I had actually befriended the vulpine, he not only tried to fell it with arrows, but he tried to teach me his last lesson: how to drown.

His hands were always far stronger than mine, and as he held me under the rushing water, my hands could not break his grip. My feet could not find purchase. The pressure on my lungs increased; I could feel my breath starting to slip, but I held it. For far longer than I dared imagine, for what seemed like a true eternity, I protected the air in my chest with all the will I could muster. He only released me when the fox leapt to his back, biting and clawing at his neck and drawing blood. Though blurry through the rushing river, I knew it was him. I heard his mind then, warning me: 'Down, below the surface. stay hidden. you will find air. do not come up.' As I let myself sink, I saw it: a grotto, hidden beneath the river all this time. With no light, I saw only the shapes with no color at all. It was the first time I had seen the world without light. How a lightless, waterless cave had formed beneath the small river, I didn't know. But as I crawled into the rocky alcove and curled up to sleep in complete darkness, I felt safe for the first time in my life.

Hours passed. Perhaps days. Hunger, however, is not so easily escaped. As I dove back into the water, I could only dread what awaited me. I found a surprise, however, when I reached the surface and spied a trail of blood leading through the woods. At its end was not the fox, as I had feared, but my father, grasping his dripping neck. He was pale and exhausted. He had foolishly been trying to avenge himself by chasing the fox, and paid in blood. I stopped to pick up the hunting knife that he had recently dropped nearby, and returned his glare of open contempt with my own. As I raised the blade, the voice returned. 'No! No weapon of man. Use your own. then he will not be slain by a child, but by the claws of a beast that no one can prove exists. You will be free.' He referred to the hardened nails that I had felt growing and sharpening over the years. I had never seen them as weapons, but gazing at my hand now, I realized what a gift they were. I knelt on the bleeding fool's chest, grabbed his limp hand away from his throat, put my own fingers around it, and pulled.

What happened next? It should be obvious. Blood washes off easily enough when you can hold your breath for several minutes at a time, and the river led to perfect paths of escape under the village. The fox came with me, and we've been inseperable ever since. He's taught me more than my father ever did. Now, I go where I please, keep what I earn, and suffer no indignity from any man. Now, if I can only find my mother...

...I hope she's just like father.

Vidak was the result of this union, a little boy with his mother's ruddy skin tone but his father's red hair. Like all Shoanti children he was raised to be able to take care of himself and to respect and venerate the spirits. In addition his father taught him about his own lands, beliefs and legends. Vidak loved the ancient sagas his father told him, stories of mighty heroes battling against fate itself. In turn Vidak told these stories to the other children of the clan as his father's skill in the Shoanti language wasn't enough and the children did not understand the Skald he did speak. Children of all ages, as well as the occasional adult, gathered around him every time he started to tell the stories. Trait: Savant - Perform(Oratory)

His skill as a weaver of tales did not go unnoticed and as soon as he was considered old enough he was taken as an apprentice by one of the tribe's shamans. Vidak was groomed to become a mediator in clan feuds, like many of the Shundar-Quah, as well as a historian (and magic if he becomes a Magus or a Bard). His father, not content with his son becoming a mere diplomat and scholar took it upon himself to train him in combat. Himself unfamiliar with Shoanti weaponry Vidak's uncle helped with this training even though it had to be done in secret.

Vidak spent years training as both a diplomat and a warrior until eventually the day for his rite of passage had come. His first, official rite was according to his role as mediator, the role the elders chose for him. To earn his passage he was ordered to join the Skoan Quah for a year and a day to learn from them the full history of his people and to join them in their fights against the risen dead if needed. Once he returned he'd receive his rite as a warrior, something his father requested.

The year with the Skoan was harsh. Their society felt as alien to Vidak as the two times he had visited the Elves of the Mierani forest to trade. For the Skoan the present revolved around the past and they taught Vidak well on the subject of his people's history. The only times they seemed to truly live in the present was when they went out to destroy the risen dead, which fortunately was a rare thing. After the year had passed they celebrated his passing on the last day, though a celebration with the Skoan always felt like a funeral. He returned to his own clan with a better knowledge of the trials of his people, a rekindled interest into his own ancestry and a tattoo on his chest signifying him as a historian.

Once he returned a true celebration was held, for now he was greeted as an adult instead of a child. The celebration were of short notice though as the next day his trial as a warrior would start.

This second trial consisted of him going into the Storval Plateau alone with nothing but his clothes and the blade that would be fitted into his klar. With that he was to go out, kill a horned spirestalker and bring back it's skull. That skull would then be fashioned into his weapon together with the blade used to kill the beast.
Vidak started his journey along the Chavali river, a place where the spirestalkers came to drink, but instead of the beasts he found their corpses mangled and broken, their flesh devoured and their bones scarred by acid. Scared but steeled in his determination to pass he moved on until he eventually found the killer; a river drake laid sleeping on the river's edge. The beast was wounded from taking on several of the large lizards and laid their awaiting it's death, but even a wounded drake was a fierce opponent as Vidak soon discovered. As he charged the beast it reared it's head and with a gurgling sound spit out a sizzling projectile, a glob of acid that only barely missed Vidak despite the creature's clouded eyes. It was nothing but sheer luck that he managed to plant his blade in the beast's neck without being mangled, only a long gash along his back to attest to the fight. The drake dead, Vidak used his blade to remove the head and decided he'd take it home.

Back at his clan he was met with amazement, something that only slightly diminished when he told the creature had been near death already. His father was proudest of all, telling Vidak how he made his ancestor's proud. The drake's skull would be fashioned into his klar and Vidak received his tattoo signifying him as a warrior of his Quah, the rune of Klartitil or Broad Klar, was tattooed on his chest next to the rune he received from the Skoan. Trait: If going with the Arcane Duelist, Auspicious Tattoo replaces Savant as I think the Bard class already has that trait covered in more than one way

Vidak lived with his people for several more years after that, serving them as both a warrior and a talker but eventually his curiosity got the better of him. He asked his father the one question he always wanted to ask but never dared to; why did he leave his own people? At first his father was hesitant as he had never told anyone his story, with the single exception of Vidak's mother, and he feared his son would think less of him for it, but Vidak was persistent. Eventually he told and while at first Vidak was shocked that shock quickly turned to resolve. Right then and there he decided he'd right his father's wrongs, clear his name. His father tried to discourage him, telling him the people up there were different and far less honorable, but his mind was set. Reason for a human other than a full-blooded Ulfen to be in the land of the Linnorm Kings.

The next day he announced to his clan that he'd be leaving them to go on his own rite of passage, a trial to discover his Ulfen ancestry and what it meant to him. With the exception of his parents and other close relatives the entire clan cheered and the elders commended him for his bravery. It wasn't for several weeks later that he actually set out, weeks spent saying good bye to those he loved and preparing for the long journey. It was during this weeks that his mother handed him a small token, a fetish made from animal hide and bones and containing the essence of the Quah's lands. On it's surface she painted a rune representing Drimiil, the Guardian Heart, a mother's last attempt to keep he son save. Item of great significance His father took care of his son's safety in a different way and arranged for his passage on the trade caravan from Riddleport to Jol where he'd work as a guard to earn his passage.

He wasn't far into the Lands of the Linnorm Kings that he understood his father's comment about his homeland. The people here were rowdier, eager to start fights over next to nothing. As a Shoanti you learned at an early age that such behaviour was nothing but stupidity yet here it prevailed, and while his strange looks made him an easy target the fact he towered over most Ulfen men discouraged them. That and the massive hammer he wielded.

In these lands he discovered that the banishment of his father wasn't the normal course of action but was instead the ruling of the local king. Determined to learn more about his ancestry Vadik managed to track down his father's brother, his uncle, in a small town just south of the Grungir forest.

There he arrived a few weeks ago. When he found his uncle's house he not only found his father's brother but also the man's wife and several children, Vidak's cousins. When he knocked on the door he was first greeted with axe and sword but when he uttered a children's rhyme in Skald, a rhyme created by his own grandmother, it shocked he uncle and caused him to pause. Vidak used this pause to explain the situation to him and after closer inspection by his uncle and his aunt, a sister of his father who lived elsewhere in the town, he was accepted, he was judged to have the same eyes as his father. Since then he has been staying with his uncle, aunts and more than a dozen cousins in total, working together and exchanging stories.

Like his Skoan Quah mentors Vidak has a great memory and knows manyv tales, tales he is glad to share with anyone, whether they want to or not. He is more or less oblivious to the fact that sometimes people just don't care what he has to tell them.

Vidak is a very calm, relaxed man even when doing battle. He fights with an anger befitting both his ancestors but always tries to keep it in check and is successful most of the time.

In short:
Positive traits:
Calm and relaxed, a part of his character honed by the elders of his clan when they trained him as a negotiator and diplomat.
Great memory, something he already had at birth but that was further honed by his teachers as they demanded him to learn the entire oral history of his people as well as fighting techniques and legends.

Negative traits:
Incredibly stubborn, pushes his own ideas and plans through despite shortcomings detected by others. Only diverges from his path for those he deeply respects and even then it takes some persistence on the part of other.
Oblivious to his own shortcomings, Vidak has been heralded as a great example of his people for many many years, meeting nothing but success over the years. Only very recently has he come to the point where his luck left him at times and was he confronted with his own shortcomings.

Back home Vidak used to limit his clothing to simple garb consisting of woollen pants and a protective hide if needed, exposing the many tattoos that cover his upper body. Now, further up north, Vidak has discovered that his traditional clothes won't do any more and wears clothes of Ulfen make. While still relatively simple he has exchanged the muted browns and greys for green and blue.

On his back he carries a massive Shoanti hammer, called an Earthbreaker, and on his hip he carries a klar made of a drake's skull in addition to a simple axe.

He paused for a moment to let it all sink in,

"They say that whoever defeats him will rule all the lands of the North but many think kit can not be done. Our elders say the wormdrake is a blessing to the Shoanti as while he lives the barbarians will not unite and attack us. I do not know. What would our elders say if the wormdrake came here? Would they still call him a blessing? Would you?" Vidak grinned at the gathered children as the young ones writhed in discomfort at the front of the group while the older ones in the back laughed at them. Vidak was satisfied.

The young Orc shoved off the hands holding him disapprovingly and crouched low to the ground, his eyes peering back into the snow determinedly and his nose gently sniffing in the wind; his had reached forward and he pointed quietly to spot in the snow - in which the hunters suddenly noticed a small foxhole. The boy just looked back at them and smiled.

***

“So is he your hound or your thrall?” asked the suspicious guardsmen as they stopped to gawk at the oversized orc hunter. “Maybe both” the grizzled warrior replied.

“He can track man or beast by scent as well as any hound, but can talk and tell us who and what he is following. He can keep us provisioned with fresh game out in the wilds, and has a knack for reading the land. He’s better behaved than my hounds and twice as loyal, very patient, always able to stay still enough and quiet enough to catch his prey and doesn’t mind sitting in the freezing cold all night if he has to. He’s about as smart as any other Orc, but he has a certain rat cunning and is pretty alert, and like the rest of his kind he’s not a great communicator, but we figure he ‘communicates’ well enough when we need to crack the front line of an enemy formation, look at the size of those muscles eh?"

"Any one of us gets injured and he goes barking mad, I reckon he’s descended from berserker stock. Then again he has his soft side too, loves sitting around listening to the skalds all night, if I can’t find him I just need to make my way to wherever Fair Olaf is orating his latest long winded saga and there he will be, like a big child lost in a dream. If he’s not there though, he’s probably raiding someone’s larder for their sweets, seems to have a soft spot for sweet things, which sometimes extends to sweet meads.”

“So that’s his good side, a dead loyal and protective hound he is, soft spot for sweets and long stories of adventure by the fireplace. A patient hunter, a good provider, and doesn’t make a fuss...most of the time...just don’t stop whatever is making him happy. If the skald is singing, don’t interrupt, if he’s eating, don’t touch his food. If something catches his attention he will probably pick it up and look at it, he’ll give it back when he’s done looking, or if you ask for it nicely, but yell at him or tell him he’s stealing and he gets upset. Don’t get him upset, you’ll end up skinned and hung from a tree with the rest of his catches.”

The guardsmen were not entirely convinced, and with cautious tone approached the Orcish beast to enquire further... “You, Orc, By the Vættir – tell us a story, a tale of your ancestors, or a story told to children before bedtime or an ode to the might of the gods. What do you lot even talk about?”

The Hunter just looked back at them, dark eyes simply measuring the men. “Bedtime tale eh? Well this is all they used to sing to me”

As you lay down set to sleep
shut your mouth make not a peep
for you might find under your bed
that things are waiting to make you dead.
If you find you need to piss
let out not a single hiss
if you get up for a stroll
you’ll be eaten by a troll
don’t cry out and whine and nag
because in the darkness waits a Hag
just stay there, shut up, and wait til morning
consider this your bloody warning.

The guardsmen, completely taken aback, pressed their case further, “tell us your story in accordance with Skaldic tradition”

A coarse laugh erupted.
“I aren’t a Skald, but here, I can manage this one”

Great big stupid village chief,
had a really dumb belief,
that he could steal the humans beef,
and not be treated like a theif.

After a while the humans came,
and rightly they did point the blame,
‘You damned orcs are all the same’,
And began to hack and maim.

Wasn’t long until we routed,
The village chief, his insides outed.
Upon the snow our blood was spouted,
We got well and truly clouted.

So I ran into the snow
Fast as my stubby legs would go
Flew across the icy floe
Barely even wet a toe.

Lived alone there for some time,
Hunting things and living fine,
Had my freedom, life was mine,
Though my life was on the line.

One day things changed and I was found,
And by these good men tighly bound,
After a good night sleeping sound
These good men made me their hound”

The guardsmen simply nod, and move away.

The old Warrior looked at Elghund appraisingly.
“We had many good seasons, and we are moving to where the warming sun hangs high all day and us old men can be spared the hardships of the cold. We can live like kings and buy many fine wives”
“Not for you though, is it? We all saw you on the boat looking back to the lands of ice and snow as though your heart was being pulled from your chest. You belong back there, ready to make your own tale and your own fortune, not to retire to a life of comfort. We are at our sunset, whereas you are just dawning”

“Time for us to part, Elghund, time for you to go home a free man, no longer a thrall”.

“There’s weapons and armour on our ship, take what you need, as we don’t have plans to use them anymore, I can hardly slack my bladder without needing a wall to lean on, so I won’t be swinging blades no more” he joked brusquely.

“Tell all who ask you are only a half blood, and trust no bastard who doesn’t pay up front”

Elghund only momentarily displayed a half moment of sadness at the realisation of what it all meant, and then as quickly as it came, the emotion left his harsh features.

A soft spot for skalds, sweet things and sweet meads, and an appreciation for coarse humour and practical jokes. He is also extremely inquisitive and likes to examine his surrounds, and left to his own devices will examine everything and everywhere with an almost ferret like interest (though he doesn’t quite grasp concepts such as privacy). He has the wisdom to know his social skills are lacking in human circles, so tends just to stay quiet and not upset the herd, unless the herd needs upsetting.

Positive traits:

A dutiful and faithful hound who takes enormous pride in his work and dedicated to the hunt. It’s something he’s good at and he enjoys it immensely, in fact Humans are his favourite as he thinks they are the hardest so he watches them most carefully of all.

He has a good sense of humour and is generally good natured, seeking always to be completely honest to his friends (sometimes brutally so) as he sees this as being loyal, although he can be overprotective and overbearing about it at times.

Negative traits:

Has absolutely no sense of mercy or fair play when it comes to ‘the enemy’, has no problem whatsoever when it comes to lying, cheating, using underhanded or dirty tactics, has no interest in offering quarter, and if they are sucker enough to surrender and drop their blades then all the easier to kill them moments later. A wounded animal is a dangerous one, so make sure they are dead. When the steel is drawn the battle is for keeps.

‘Slightly bi-polar’, one minute he’s drinking happily drinking mead and listening to the skald, the next minute someone has upset him and he becomes intransigent and quarrelsome until his friends come call him away and bribe him with either more music or more sweets, or the object of his annoyance gets a pummelling.

Gar Karrnson is somewhat of a mascot in town. Fully a head taller than the rest of the residents, and with dull green skin and black hair contrasting his pale neighbors, Gar is never missed when he travels through the town. His family has been in the town for a generation. They are allowed to stay so long as they carry their weight in service to the town as any Ulfen would and do not cause problems, hex anyone, steal, murder, etc. They were mostly trusted due to having been in the town for a generation, but because they are different there are many who watch them twice as hard to make sure they do no wrongs.

Despite his size, he goes to great lengths not to insult his neighbors. He likes his town, and knows that his place here is never a guarantee. After all the work his family has put in to earn a place here, he doesn't want to throw that away by being forced to leave. His ulfen neighbors view him as odd, not just for his stature but specifically for this behavior.

Having never encountered more than one or two other orcs or half-orcs at a time, Gar's "tribe" has become the ulfen people of his city. He has done his best to adapt to their culture and ways. This was as his father and his father's father and so on had done since the time they were in chains in Nidal. Fitting in with the locals is the best way to survive, and they truly weren't a bad lot to try to fit in with.

Those who had not seen him in battle would think him a broken beast, as he is one who does not boast of his strength above other men. When the time comes, his savage fighting style is a sight to behold. Few men will agree to wrestle a bear sober. He has no problem bragging about such feats so long as they do not insult his neighbor. He often goes to great lengths to be friendly to his neighbors and help them when he can. He often engages in light-hearted brawls in the tavern and has a reputation as being a particularly skilled and tough pugilist, but will leave if the mood turns ugly.

His mother died years ago, and his father is too old to undertake the journey to find another bride, if he even cares to. Karrn works the smithy, he is an expert at making the larger weapons that some ulfen prefer. Gar works in the smithy as well, and sometimes brawls for money in the tavern and accompanies the men on hunts when he can, especially if it is a particularly tough foe that he can prove his worth against. One such tale is as follows: see next spoiler

Our sheep, as cattle-kin, heard not the hounds of ravening
before white jaws' black song over Loki's shackles keened
Gar, son of Karrn, iron grip of Gorum, lord in iron
arrived to arrest the flow of slaughter-dew
cloud scraper and white jaws before the bane of wood
on winter's blanket under sky's black cloak
a spear's din and rime-breath without battle metal, yet
the red jowls traveled the Hel road under Gar's grasp

"Oh, this? My da' made it for me. To remind me where we came from. We are different from our brothers here. We know this well. We like it here. We help. We try not to offend. But we come from far away. Far ago. Ni-dal. My da's da's da's da', or somethin' like that, was a slave in Ni-dal. To whiteskins and redskins. Then Ulfen raided. Killed our masters. My ancestors wanted to be free. They took their chance. Our new free tribe moved north. To cold lands, so none would follow. Slaves not worth trouble. We live in snow for long, long time. We beared unbearable cold. We thought make us tougher. Cold and snow got worse, killed us off some by some. Da' and ma' came down south to ulfen lands. Ma' was too old and died sick. Da' works the smith. He is getting old, but he still good. He make this brooch, a fist and broken chain. Means to remember the slavery of our tribe long ago. We broke the chains with ulfen help, so now we help ulfen when they let us. Da' gave it to me when I killed the worg what ate many sheep last winter. It howl ice and snow on me, but I was born into snow. I made pelt into cloak, and I keep skull too. Part of it I didn't break, anyway. Keeps the pelt on, but this brooch means most to me. It means my family."

Brawn:
bi0philia – Ulfen Magus (Hexcrafter)
Black Dow - Ulfen Monk (Glima Master)
CromtheBLoodhammer – Orc Ranger (Witchguard)
Cuan – Shoanti Fighter or Magus
Doomed Hero - cursed vikingr hero
garabbott - ? Cavalier
Kagehiro - Ulfen Barbarian (Invulnerable Rager
PoorWanderingOne - Ulfen Fighter (Tactician)
Shifty – Orc Ranger
Tenro - Orc Tetori Monk
Twilightrose – Ulfen Fighter

Guile:
Luke_Parry - Ulfen Bard (Savage Skald)
Meowzebub - Gnome Knife Master Rogue

Piety:
Ashe - Angel-Blooded Ulfen Paladin of Tyr
Balodek - ? Oracle of Winter
DM Jelani – Ulfen Druid (Wolf Shaman)
Feral - Ulfen Paladin
scranford - Ulfen Inquisitor (Witch Hunter)
Sigurd Sigmundson - Ulfen Oracle (Ancestors)
Skorn - Ulfen Druid (Menhir Servant)
Willow Earthsong - Gnome Cleric of Gozreh

Other:
Anthony Krast - Dwarf ?
Black Dow – Interest Noted
Cuan - Interest noted
DM Carpe – Interest Noted
Dreaming Warforged - ? Druid
EbenTheQuiet - Interest noted
einroy - Interest noted
Fiallain Bo'airr - Interest noted
garabbott - ? Cavalier
GeraintElberion - Interest noted
LastNameonEarth - Interest noted
Namtarou - Dwarf ?
Oterisk - Interest noted
Shifty - Interest noted
Spazmodeus - Interest noted
Tirion - Interest noted
Twigs – Dwarf or Gnome ?
Viscount K – Interest Noted

His father taught him to respect the Elder Three
His mother taught him to focus and learn
His brothers and sisters taught him to survive
Since they did not, one and all
The trolls who orphaned him taught him to remember

Trained in Torag’s gifts of sword, axe, and chainmail
Practiced in Erastil’s ways of tilling, sowing, and harvest
Magnus lived to be judged by the Lord in Iron
He endured winter without complaint
He fought its predators with passion

He settled in villages
He worked the land in the summer
He protected the people in winter
Rivals did not like his face or ideals
He avoided ambush by migrating

To be continued…

His natural tendency to invoke rivalry has led him to trail deaths from many of his past villages. He carefully hides his past in silence and by helping others without being asked. His selective memory attempts to avoid meeting relatives of his slain.

Gorum is the first Elder in the lands of the Linnorm Kings. He cleared the mountains, forests, plains, and coasts of predators, so his chosen Ulfen could settle and hunt. He killed the Great Linnorm and set the precedent for the Linnorm Kings.

Erastil is the second Elder in the lands of the Linnorm Kings. He showed how to hunt with the bow and cultivate the land. He trained the Ulfen in the safety of the village.

Torag is the third Elder in the lands of the Linnorm Kings. He brought the riddle of steel and showed the Ulfen how to forge weapons, armor, and tools. Without Torag’s gifts, Ulfen can only fight with bows and spears and till the earth without metal plows.

While you must always honor the gifts of Erastil and Torag, you must live your life to be judged by the Lord in Iron. When you die, your soul will be brought before him to answer for your actions. If you are weak and cannot endure, you will be cast out of his hall.

Have I told you of the time I wrestled a Mountain Troll? No? Funny that. It wasn’t all that long ago, either.

I was at my favorite fishing hole. You know the one. Where I caught that pike as long as your Da is tall.

Hush. Of course I did.

In any case, after a hard day’s work for my Da, I settled in for some fine lounging and fishing. All of a sudden it sounded like a bull was crashing through the brush. A Troll, bigger than any man I’ve ever seen, comes straight out of the wood and falls into the shallows.

He picks himself up and just starts roaring and splashing and, in general, ruining my fishing experience. Now I figure I can do one of two things. I can take my scant few fish and leave, and have to face your father later when he laughs at me. Or I can go take care of the Troll and get back to catching my dinner.

Well, you know how much I like fish. So that decided that.

I set down my rod and snuck around behind the brute. It was easy enough to jump him and get a good hold on him. In one hand was a fistful of hair from his side, in the other was a fistful of earhair. I know it’s gross, but I didn’t really have a choice here. Anyway, it was a mighty struggle. You would have been proud of your uncle Skaldi.

It didn’t take him long to throw me. He’s a troll afterall. He could probably have thrown an ox cart, with the ox attached. I landed in the water and looked up just in time to see him charging me. That gaping maw with its yellowed tusks…

He stopped. That’s right, he stopped. While he was blinking at me he stopped, and said in the King’s own Skald, “Sorry about that. Which way are the Kobar?”

I snatched my hat out of the water and covered up again. Pointed southeast, and told him, “Er… Four or five tylptir.”

He smiled, thanked me, and looked a bit embarrassed as he moved to head off. I called after him and, not really knowing what else to do, offered him my fish for his trip. He thanked me again and disappeared into the wood.

How’m I supposed to know why he stopped. Maybe it was the ears...

Patience- Nyi has the patience of all craftsman attempting to improve their craft. He can spend days working on a single aspect of a project just to get it perfect. He brings this patience to all his projects, whether being a smith with the hammer, words or spear.

Grudge- Nyi holds grudges against those he perceives as wronging him or his clan (real or imagined) and he will try and exact vengeance for these injustices since he feels the gods have abandoned his Lineage and Clan and that is the only path for claiming justice he has.

Merciless-Nyi is harsh as the lands and times have made him. He has little pity for others to begin with and those who have chosen to stand in his way, he removes as quickly and as ruthlessly as possible, as a warning to those who would oppose him.

The Ulfen girl rushed through the woods frantically, tears streaming down her fair face. She wasn’t sure what to do with the screaming babe she held, but she knew she didn’t want anything to do with it. The abomination, the shame, the monster. . .
The monster that had her eyes.
She kept running, crying, hoping that no one had followed, and finally came to a glen. Secluded and serene, she figured this would be the perfect place to abandon the babe and feel no shame. She placed the infant on the ground, and sent a prayer to Torag. As she went to leave, she cast a final glance at the child. It had stopped crying when it saw her, and she saw deep back into the childs eyes. Her eyes. The eyes she’d never forget. She spun quickly and never looked back. . .

-

Shortly thereafter, a Witch of the Moon (Gealaí Maor) found the baby on a hike to gather herbs. She decided that the baby, being half-orc half-ulfen, would make for an excellent warden, and decided to raise the child on her own in the woods.

A few years went by, and the boy grew at a rapid rate, as half breeds tend to do. Life in the Grungir forest is harsh, and unforgiving, but not undoable as the witch had shown him. During his young life he befriended giants in the woods, not seeing the prejudices that humans normally do, but also learning of the hatred they harbour for humans. From the giants he learned hunting, and combat, with a focus on swordplay. His weapons and armor were given to him by the giants, hand me downs stripped off of corpses.

The child quickly grew, and quickly learned the lessons, and the importance of protecting his ward. He learned herbology and social skills from the witch. More importantly he was trained to hear the whispers of the moon. But before he mastered anything, his time with his Matron Mother was cut short. One afternoon, after a successful hunt, he returned home to find Gealaí cold, and still like the ice growing outside. He tried to shake her, to wake her, to no avail. This was when he left home. To the cities and towns Mhamó told him so much about in his youth.

_

He was trained somewhat in social skills by Gealaí, but not nearly enough which leads him to be ignorant of customs and traditions. He tends to be wary of humans, as taught by the giants, but is very open minded (instilled in him by his human witch pseudo-mother). He is average age for his race, 17 years of age. I picture him as being almost beautiful (only reason I’d want to make a 20 point is to beef his cha.. ), even amongst civilized races. Short black hair, and a handsomely cut face, more akin to ulfen than orc. Tusks are roughly 1 inch in length, and don’t protrude too much (could explain why he isn't killed or assaulted on sight). Gray skinned, which helps for camouflage in the snow Eyes of the deepest blue, like the moon light piercing through ice at night. Athletic build, as one of the forest might have. Stands at 6’1”, being of Ulfen (usually taller) and orc blood this is not a surprise. Chaotic Good, and always has been. He worships the giant god Skyrmir. Languages known include Common, and Giant.

Half-orc witchguard/Ranger build. Two handed weapon ranger wielding a bastard sword, and a bow. There isn’t any conceivable reason for me to have a breastplate at lvl1, being of the ilk I am, so he wears scale mail for now. Has a bastard sword because of the symbolism. Also, the bastards blade has always been my favorite sword.

15 point:

Str : 16
Dex : 12
Con: 12
Int: 10
Wis: 14
Cha: 11

Feats: Ferocious Resolve
Skills: Survival, Perception, Craft:Bows, Sense Motive.
First Favored Enemy: Humans
Track
Wild empathy

Boons:

20 point character
Str: 16
Dex: 12
Con: 13
Int:10
Wis:14
Cha:14
The beauty of his unknown ulfen mother was highly covetable, making her a target by the close orc tribes.

Also, wondering if I could get a breastplate for armor from the frost giants. obviously not one that is sized for them, but one stripped off a fallen enemy.

Being a savage race, the point boost to my cha would explain that’d I’d be a person of (almost) wonder, and npc’s would be willing to speak with me and deal with me.

I’m no hero, yet. This is a young, ignorant half-orc seeking a new ward to protect, and that could be any type of caster. He curious to the outside world, but not in a childish way. Basically I want to explore, fight, and protect my party and the world we live in.

--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 13, touch 13, flat-footed 10 (+3 Dex)
hp 7 (1d6+1)
Fort +1, Ref +5, Will +3
Resist cold 2

--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.
Melee Weapon +0 Base DAM

Sorcerer (Tattooed Sorcerer) Spells Known (CL 1):
1 (4/day) Shield, Burning Hands (DC 15), Grease (DC 15)
0 (at will) Disrupt Undead, Read Magic, Detect Magic, Light

--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 10, Dex 16, Con 10, Int 13, Wis 12, Cha 18
Base Atk +0; CMB +0; CMD 13

Feats Expanded Arcana (Sorcerer [Tattooed Sorcerer]), Fast Learner, Varisian Tattoo (Evocation)

Traits Focused Mind, Northern Ancestry

Skills Bluff +8, Craft (tattoo) +5, Knowledge (arcana) +5, Perception +7, Sense Motive +3, Spellcraft +5

Languages Common, Draconic, Skald

SQ +2 to reflex saves, bloodline tattoos, bloodlines (draconic [gold dragon [fire]]), empathic link with familiar, familiar tattoo, share spells with familiar

Other Gear --

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
+2 to Reflex saves You gain the Alertness feat while your familiar is within arm's reach.
Bloodline Tattoos (Ex) Bloodline spells are cast at +1 caster level.
Damage Resistance, Cold (2) You have the specified Damage Resistance against Cold attacks.
Draconic (Gold Dragon [Fire]) +1 damage per die for [Fire] spells.
Empathic Link with Familiar (Su) You have an empathic link with your Arcane Familiar.
Familiar Tattoo (Su) A tattooed sorcerer gains a familiar as an arcane bond, as a wizard equal to her sorcerer level. Her sorcerer levels stack with any wizard or witch levels she possesses when determining the powers of her familiar—this ability does not allow her to ha
Focused Mind +2 to Concentration checks
Share Spells with Familiar Can cast spells with a target of "You" on the familiar with a range of touch.
Varisian Tattoo (Evocation) Spells from chosen school gain +1 caster level.

==========================================================

Kettu
Arctic Fox
N Tiny Magical Beast ((animal))
Init +2; Senses low-light vision, scent; Perception +8

--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 15, touch 14, flat-footed 13 (+2 Dex, +2 size, +1 natural)
hp 4 (1d8+1)
Fort +3, Ref +4, Will +3

--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 40 ft.
Melee Bite (Fox) +1 (1d3-1/x2)
Space 2.5 ft.; Reach 0 ft.

--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 9, Dex 15, Con 13, Int 6, Wis 12, Cha 6
Base Atk +0; CMB +0; CMD 9 (13 vs. Trip)
Feats Skill Focus (Perception)
Skills Acrobatics +2 (+6 jump), Bluff -1, Climb +2, Fly +6, Perception +8, Spellcraft -1, Stealth +10, Survival +1 (+5 to to track by scent), Swim +2 Modifiers +4 to survival to track by scent, acrobatics (jump) +8
Languages
SQ improved evasion

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
+4 to Survival to track by scent (Ex) You are particularly good at Survival in certain environments or circumstances.
Acrobatics (Jump) +8 (Ex) You gain the specified bonus to acrobatics checks made to jump.
Improved Evasion (Ex) No damage on successful reflex save; half on failed save.
Low-Light Vision See twice as far as a human in low light, distinguishing color and detail.
Scent (Ex) Detect opponents within 15+ feet by sense of smell.

Those questions, and more beside, would go unanswered for the next score of years as Zarzanna raised the girl named Rikka. What none of the townsfolk could imagine was that Rikka had the same questions for Zarzanna and received no answers either. What Rikka did receive, on a daily basis, was grueling labor, back-breaking chores, mind-strangling questions that led to occult lessons, and calculated cruelty from the hag. She was under-clothed, under-fed, and overworked. Rikka's days were filled working outdoors - winter or summer - in a thin woolen shift. Her life was a constant struggle against unrelenting cold and deprivation but it toughened her. (Northern Ancestry) She grew used to it all: Used to living and working while half-frozen. Used to working through hunger. And used to working magic and answering the hag's incessant questions while frozen, tired, or hurt. (Focused Mind)

Being raised by the most feared woman in Black Tarn left Rikka a social pariah. Add to that her foster-mother's poor social skills... and Rikka finds herself getting into trouble in social situations.
Negative Trait #2: She is undiplomatic, speaks a little too freely, and can be abrasive.

Years of Zarzanna's systematic abuse has left her with vast amounts of self-control.
Positive Trait #1: Rikka is highly rational and self-controlled. She doesn't fly off the handle often and she is cool under pressure.

After years of working along and relying only on herself, Rikka likes working with others.
Positive Trait #2:Rikka is a team-player who likes the sense of 'community' that comes with working closely with others.

The blast of chill wind and the snow swirling into the meadhall, signal her departure. Rikka backs her way out the open door, eyes on the stewing fighter. She's seen the look before. He'll need to work himself up first. She slams the thick oaken door with finality, grabs the girl and trudges off into the snow, her breath coming out in steaming clouds. The maid's weeping draws a frustrated sigh from the sorceress.

"Stop blubbering, girl. He didn't butcher your clan, he made free with his hands. Why did you let him? You had a full mead-horn. Next time, put it across his thick skull... twice."

The girl shrugs helplessly then nods and continues to weep. The ale-maid thinks on the words and shrinks into herself, a sign Rikka had seen far too often of late among the village women. She lacks confidence in who she is and what she can do. She prods the girl, "What? He's a warrior and you're just a girl, is that it? Never heard tales of Valkyries?"

The maid finally finds her voice while she huddles deeper into her furred wrap. "Those are heroes and Gods, not people like me."

Rikka damps the urge to snap at the girl as she sheathes her handaxe. Her tone is measured. "You think so? Then I've a tale for you... There was once a girl, just a normal girl, raised by a witch. She knew no mother or father... just the witch who worked her and treated her cruel. At first it was very hard on the girl. Years of toil in the cold, living in a cave, suffering a witch's sharp tongue and abuses. It was a hard life but the girl persevered and slowly the work seemed less hard and the tongue-lashings less severe. That is way of things - adversity is the whetstone on which we are sharpened.

But the witch's cruelest act, the thing that hurt the girl most, were the unanswered questions. For the witch would never speak about where the girl came from or who she was. Mad the girl was driven by the mysteries: Was she the witch's daughter? If not, how did she come to be here? Did her parents leave her? Were they alive? Were they dead and she just a foundling? Why did the witch take her in? Why was the witch so cruel?

In time the girl grew to womanhood. She was a little thing, even full grown. No bigger than you or me. Certainly no match in strength or sword-training for a blooded warrior. But she was clever and the witch had trained her well - to endure hardship, to persevere, to show courage, to use what skills she had, and to find a way to survive. They were hard but worthy lessons. For the witch's cruelty was a training tool - sharper than a sword and more deadly than an axe.

And so when the witch cast the young woman out in the world, she was ready to face the dangers and find her fate. No warrior born could match her determination for none had been as tested as she."

Rikka looks to the ale-maid, "Sometimes cruelty can be a kindness and sometimes you have to fight to find peace."

The warrior from the mead-hall, having stoked his anger, had been stalking the women like game. Rikka turns on him suddenly, keenly aware of his pursuit. "Now that we've got you alone..." The snow whips between them and Rikka's eyes go from steel grey to blizzard white. She mutters a phrase under her breath and the snow beneath the warrior's feet creaks as it crystallizes into a thick sheet of glass-like ice. Grease His angry scowl is replaced by surprise as the fighter goes down hard on the impossibly slick surface, air exploding from his lungs. Rikka turns her white gaze on the girl, cruel to be kind and snarls a command, "Kick him now, HARD, in the face. Every man in that hall will think twice before touching you again after we're done here. Remember, you have skills more dangerous than hefting a sword."

Note: I went with more colloquial speech not knowing what expectations you had in terms of our characters' voices. If you'd prefer to go with more lyrical and poetic speaking, I can certainly do that.

On her 17th and 18th birthdays, Rikka's request drew only scowls from the hag who gifted her adopted daughter with extra chores.

On her 19th birthday, Rikka asked again... and received more than she bargained for. The Hag sighed and packed the girl's meager bag of belongings saying "You are a woman now. It is time for you to seek your destiny in the world. I have trained you as well as I can. Now the world will teach you more. But before you go, I will tell you what I may. That tattoo is no birth accident. You are the Dragon's Daughter, child, whatever that means. Your fate twines around that as much as the tattoo twines around you. Never forget it. I cannot tell you much more. Your past can't tell you who you are or who you should be, you must decide that for yourself."

The hag digs into a crack in the wall and pulls out a carefully hidden sack, flaking apart with age. From it, she pulls a thin semi-circle of etched, silverish, metal - a torc. The torc is of a sinuous dragon. One end of it terminates in a dragon's glaring head. The other has the dragon's tail lashed around a triangular stone with a rune. Unfortunately, much of the triangular stone is broken and gone. The rune is unreadable.

Zarzanna carefully brushes the dirt from the torc and puts it around Rikka's neck. "This came with you. It is your birthright." Not one for sentiment, the hag hardens her suddenly soft look, hands Rikka her bag, and pushes her towards the door. "Go child. Find your fate. Be what you were meant to be."

Rune-driven, rime-blinded || the Sorceress scales the mountain heights
Driven by the Dragon's oath || Her eldritch eyes, beyond mere sight
Gaze on the Witches' worlds || at a hoary hag's hand, all locked in ice.

A once torn torc is finally re-forged || and a lost rune recovered.
Wyrms vie at the worlds' end || as heroic hearts are discovered.
Furious Fates watch and wait || great destinies are at last decided.

15 pt stat buy
Str 10
Dex 10
Con 12
Int 12
Wis 16
Cha 13

Skills
knowlege religion
know nature
spellcraft
heal

Traits
Northern Ancestry
Animal Friend

Feat
Animal Affinity

Domains
Animal
Water

Appearance:

Willow stands just a few inches over 3 feet and is rather slender, weighing about 55 lbs. Her large eyes are a brilliant emerald green with flecks of gold and her long, thick hair appears streaked in several shades of green, ranging from a pale green to a green so dark as to almost appear black.

Willow typically layers her clothing in shades of greens and browns. A normal outfit for her consists of a pale green blouse with a dark green bodice and a brown skirt with leather boots. A thick, brown woolen cloak, lined with green silk is worn when it is cold out. She also likes to weave ribbons of various greens throughout her hair.

Personality

Willow almost seems to have two different personalities depending on the social situation. Among large groups of people she can seem shy and withdrawn. Among trusted friends and small groups of people, she seems to be rather cheerful and carefree. She also seems to possess what could be more than a healthy does of curiosity that can be seen as both a positive and negative trait. It really just depends whether it leads her into trouble or not.

Willow has always displayed a talent for healing and a need to nurture anything she finds injured, which her parents general viewed as a positive trait. Though, on occasion, it has led to minor disasters. Such as the time she brought home the injured skunk without informing her parents about it. It took over a week to air out their home after her mother accidentally startled it.

Due to her fairly isolated upbringing, Willow is also a bit naive when it comes to dealing with other people. She has trouble sensing peoples true motives and telling truth from lie. This naivety is a definite negative trait.

Background:

Willow grew up deep within the Border Woods, learning the faith and woodcraft of her parents and their parents before them. A curious young lass, Willow was usually to be found outside of their burrow style home, exploring the nearby areas and attempting to make friends
with every little creature that she found. She particularly exasperated her parents by always bringing home some sick or injured animal that she would find and insist upon nursing back to health.

Willow would have been quite happy to have stayed living deep within the woods, except for the recent incursion of strange and vicious wolves to the area. After Willow and her parents returned home after a supply trip to Heldren, they found their meager livestock slaughtered, their home dug into and large paw prints all around their little home and barn. Too afraid to stay, her parents gathered up what little could be salvaged and made the trip back to Heldren with the intent to reluctantly resettle there.

Rather unhappy with living in the town, even one as small as Haldren, Willow is constantly making trips back into the edge of the woods. Being a young adult now, she is considering leaving her parents and spending some time adventuring on her own.

Inherited Item
Willow's most prized possession is an intricately carved symbol of Gozreh made from the wood of a willow tree. It was crafted by her maternal grandfather and given to her maternal grandmother as a courting gift. It had been passed down to Willow's mother who in turn gave it to her the day she dedicated herself to Gozreh's worship.

Honor-Driven
Your honor is such a part of you that you can sense it (or its lack) in others. You gain a +1 trait bonus on Sense Motive checks, and Sense Motive is always a class skill for you.

The Metal weapons he was given to use felt wrong in his hands, Like trying to read another language, or use something in the wrong hand. He was less than Medocare, and his Brothers knew it. They were relentless, pummeling Kiger as much as they could in Practice. But Kiger would not give up, he was too Proud! He even refused to call out when a strike landed true. Soon, It became a Game to the others. "Who ever could make Kiger yelp, would get an extra helping of Dinner!" And so it continued, Untill Kiger took a Serious Injury to his head, and would not wake up. Concerned for his life, Kiger was carted off to the Clan's Shaman.

While the Shaman treaded his wound, Kiger Dreamed. He was sprinting though the snow-Laden Forrest, Chaseing a hare. He could Smell the Creature fear, and it thrilled him. Eventually he caught this Prey, and sank his Teeth into it, the blood running down shi chin. Only then did he realize he was not Himself. The Chase took place in teh Body of a wolf! The realization of this startled so, that he came to from his coma. The shaman told him, he had been growling in is sleep, and Even had let out a Chilling Howl.

From then on, the Shaman took Kiger under his wing, Taught him the way of nature, how to communicate with the beasts around him, to read the snowflakes, to never be lost in the wood. Kiger Excellent again, The Shaman's teachings coming Natural to him. He Craved the lessions, often spending more time with the Shaman than his own Parents.

When the Clan's Day of Age test came, All the Other Young Warriors were Pitted against each other, to Prove they were battle tested, and read for the harsh life of the Tundra. Kiger was last to be tested. "Bah, he will never pass! Forever a Boy he will be!" Shouted the boy who smote him. Ignoring the remarkes Kiger entered the ring to Find his Mentor Standing there Next to a Box, that had a covering over it. Kiger prepared himself for the trial,readying his Weapon, "You will not be Figting me, young one. "Said the Shaman." Your test is much harder than the others, for yor foe will not yeld, he will attack you Ferocously, untill you are dead" And with that the Shaman removed the cover, and open the Cage.... And Out flew a timber wolf! the crowd Roared in Excited me as the two combatants circled each other, looking for an opening. Kiger, drew on his Teaching, calming himself, and stairing right into the beasts eyes. He began to Chant, in a Language only the Shaman.. and the wolf reconized. Slowly, the beast relaxed, Sheathing his Fangs back into its maw, untill Finally, it Sat, waiting for Kiger's Comand. The Crowd Erupted into another roar, this one of Sucess and praise.

"From now on you will be Kiger WolfSpeaker, Shaman of our Clan"

Kiger and the wolf he faced have become Fast Friends, and are Rarely apart. Kiger ahs taken to callimg him SilverMane, and the Wolf seems to have approved.

Name: Bastagar Swiftthicket
Race: Gnome
Age: Middle Age
Class: Rogue (Subject to change depending on the party composition. If the group has a primary spellcaster I'll make him a sorcerer/arcane trickster with a fey pact or bloodline. This is the route I'm gunning for.)
15-pt Build : Str 10 (-3), Dex 15 (-1), Con 14 (+1), Wis 8 (+1), Int 11 (+1), Cha 16 (+3)
25-pt Build : Str 10 (-3), Dex 17 (-1), Con 14 (+1), Wis 8 (+1), Int 14 (+1), Cha 16 (+3)
Feat: Weapon Finesse

Character Summary Bastagar is an otherworldly being, a gnarled, white-haired creature old as the ash trees, although not nearly as tall. He is chased from village to village as a witch, stealing cheap trinkets with which he hopes to buy back his youth from otherworldly masters and to reverse the Bleaching.

Once a native of Delmon's Glen across the river, Bastagar travelled downriver across the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, making his home in Kalsgard after many journeys. The frozen north seemed to hold endless wonder for him as a young gnome, where he listened to great tales in smokey feast halls, tailed the great hunting parties of trappers and lords alike, and encountered all manner of the great and terrible creatures that inhabit the north. In Trollheim, he glimpsed the remains of terrifying ice-trolls as they were burnt at the pyre. Along the Rimeflow he saw men dragged to watery graves by the cruel nymphs that inhabit it's waters. Deep in the Summervale, knowing that the satyrs are found of wine from the southlands, he made a gift of a cask of Corentyn wine, and was rewarded with a branch from a Dryad's heart tree.

This all changed when he was captured by marauders and chained as a galley slave for the great raider and exiled prince, Ingimundr the Unruly. Gnomes do not last in captivity, and within a month the gnome had withered into a wicked shade of his former self, the life seemingly sucked out of him as his connection with the First World, with Alfheim, began to falter. Narrowly escaping, the Gnome returned home, where he wallowed in despair and apathy for many years, cursing this land where the sunrise never seemed bright enough, the rain and snows never seemed to let up and the tales all sound the same. Eventually his malaise became so great, his depression so profound, that even eating and drinking seemed too great burdens to bear. Unwilling to see their kinsman waste away into madness and expire, the gnomes of Delmon's Glen cast him out. Bastagar does not seem to hold a grudge, but his mischief has grown ever more cruel and frequent.

For the past five years he has travelled throughout the region, sometimes staying in feast halls and taverns, spinning dark tales that end in grisly deaths of all involved. Other times hiding in abandoned houses, dank cellars and near-frozen barns, scavenging what coin he can. Few townsfolk even know of the Gnome's existance, merely cursing as keys, trinkets and valuables are inexplicably lost. Eventually, however, he is always discovered and driven out as a rake and a roustabout, or every now and then as an evil spirit, to blame for all of the town's ills. He squirrels away these precious things and leaves them as offerings in woodland groves and wild places in his manic desparation. Of course, it takes more than a few brass necklaces and farmer's trinkets to buy back one's youth...

Monk(Master of Many Styles)
Alignment: NG (Neutral tendencies) <-- see traits

Traits:
Bullied
Enlightened Warrior

Feats:
Improved Unarmed
Dodge
Crane Style

Stats: - 15 point buy - Hopefully I will get some more.
15 Point Buy - Str: 12(2) - Dex: 17(7) - Con: 12(2) - Int: 9(-1) - Wis: 17(7) - Cha: 8(-2)
20 Point Buy - Str: 14(5) - Dex: 17(7) - Con: 13(3) - Int: 10 - Wis: 17(7) - Cha: 8(-2)
25 Point Buy - Str: 14(5) - Dex: 18(10) - Con: 14(5) - Int: 10 - Wis: 17(7) - Cha: 8(-2)

The next morning, I awakened Örnaugu, my father, with my cries. I was found, cold, but amazingly still alive swaddled in the rags I had been left in. My father viewed this as a sign from god that I was spared.

How I survived, I do not know. But I suspect it was from blood that was not Ulfen. I do not know what this blood was, but my father told me stories he heard from his mother, my amma, who had been told by her mother, my langömmu. This was a story of a birdman, a man, or creature, who had saved my langömmu from winter wolves while she return to her village from Trollheim. I do not know much of this birdman, but nine months later, amma was born. While she was just as Ulfen as every other girl, her eyes were supposedly amber, like this of an eagle. Likewise, my father to was born with amber eyes. And, as you can see, my eyes are also amber, not blue as is found with most Ulfen.

I grew up as a child in the brutal land that is the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. I learned to fight alongside the boys and other girls. I was not as big and strong as the others, but my father said I moved with the grace of a cat, and, thus, named me Köttur. As my father was a very poor laborer, we could not afford real weapons, so I trained to fight with a simple staff and, when I had no staff, my fists and feet. I do not know why, but as my father discovered when I was born, I was much less effected than most by the cold temperatures. When other donned heavy bear and seal coats, I would be found in a jerkin and skirt, something that was good as we could not afford such luxuries as bear and sealskin.

Being raised in poverty, my father and I had very little other than wood for the fire and food for our stomachs, usually. At my sixteenth birthday, my father gave me a gift. It was a necklace of plain silver from which hung a single small copper colored feather. Although the feather looked like it had been fashioned from copper by the finest craftsmen, it was in fact soft like a true feather. At this time my father told me the story that had been told him by my amma and told her by my langömmu. It was the story of the fateful night when my langömmu’s husband was killed battling winter wolves and ice trolls. The night when a strange birdman visited my langömmu’s hut. My father told me that this feather had fallen from the birdman those many years earlier and had remained unchanged and undamaged in the more than a century since that day.

More than a decade later as I neared my thirtieth Jahrzeit tragedy struck. For years other children had made fun of me for being different. My eyes and lack of need for clothing in cold weather were frequently the target of their jokes and bullying. But, at times they would be much crueler referring to me as a witches bastard and a child of witchcraft. I knew the truth, but dared not tell it for in the minds of the xenophobic Ulfen, having the blood of a birdman would likely be viewed just as poorly as being the child of a witch.

It was at this time that I was returning home one day from the woods. As I approached the village, I saw my father being accosted by several youths and girls ten years my younger. Before I could arrive to intervene, one of the youth’s raised an axe and struck my father while swearing and calling him a witches whore. I charged the youth and struck him with my fists, over and over. So blind and enraged was my assault that the other youths were taken by surprise and could not respond. By the time they realized what was happening, the youth was lying on the ground, his lifeblood draining into the snow.

Immediately, the other youths turned and fled not wishing to be responsible for not one, but two killings. Not knowing what to do, I fled. I ran to the hut I shared with my father, grabbed my few belongings including the feather necklace and then ran to Trollheim.

In Trollheim, I knew that eventually the youth’s family would demand a blood debt be paid. I had no money and did not wish to become indebted to the family for life, so I chose exile as a reasonable option. Thus, I found a caravan heading west to Kalsgard. Once in Kalsgard, I went to the docks and after a few fisticuffs in taverns was asked if I wished to join a longship preparing to head south for the summer. This would be the first of many such adventurers I took part in. While not common, women were not unknown riding these boats and my dislike of heavy Linnorm armor and resistance to cold made me a good choice to ride the front of the ship in the cold spray.

Over the next several years, I partook in raids up and down the coast of Varisia and Cheliax and even as far as Andoran and Osirian. My last raid was not expected to be my last, but probably would have. The family of the youth I had slain eventually tracked me down, so I joined a ship heading to far away Taldor. A chaotic land primed for raiding. But, in Taldor, we met more resistance that expected. I was captured.

After being held in chains for several days, I was put in a wagon with several other Ulfen who had survived. We travelled for many days across the hot desert. Eventually, I was sold into slavery in far away Qadira. A land so different than where I was born, it was almost unimaginable.

Despite my exotic, at least to the Qadirans, appearance, I was not a pretty girl. I was not destined for years of service in the temples of Calistria or in some Amir’s palace. Instead, I was sold as a common laborer, tilling soil and harvesting crops. This was my life for nearly two decades. I attempted to escape several times, but after severe beatings, I found that this was not going to be successful without the proper tools and training. This is when I met Master Gond.

Master Gond was a short elderly man with an amazing amount of spring in his step. What race he was, I could not say. But, anyone who mistook the hunched form and cane for a good target was in for a great surprise. Master Gond spoke little, but was one of the trainer’s of the gladiators which the Amir owned. One day as I was tilling the soil, I notice an old man sitting on a stone across the field with his legs crossed. Squinting into the sun, I recognized Master Gond. As the rock was near the well where water could be obtained, I said hello to the elderly Master. In return, he smiled and simply nodded back. However, the next day when I was assigned to another field, Master Gond was also there, sitting cross legged near the field’s well. And the next day as well, and the day after that.

Eventually after nearly two weeks of silently watching, Master Gond finally spoke when I came for water. He said: You are wise in how you till the field. Your agility bespeaks of great grace. You are not a farmer, you are an artist. I would like to train you if you are willing.

Taken by surprise as few ever hear the old Master speak, I did not know how to respond. Finally, I asked: But what can you teach me? I am owned and assigned to the fields.

Master Gond simply smiled: You have much to learn my young apprentice. Much to learn.

The next day, I found that I was not assigned to the field as I had been for every day for nearly twenty years, but instead was assigned to go to the gladiator training grounds. At the grounds, I found Master Gond sitting cross legged and watching a young man and an older man battle with wooden swords. The young man would charge in with great and powerful blows which the older man would easily parry before casually tapping the young man on the back and retreating.

Not knowing what to do, I stood quietly beside Master Gond and said nothing. Eventually the two warriors left the field, the younger bruised and exhausted, the older hardly sweating. Then another pair of fighter came and I watched them, turning and glancing at Master Gond every so often. Eventually, after nearly two hours, I asked Master Gond why I had been sent here. He did not respond, but simply looked at me before turning back and watching the other gladiators train. After nearly ten hours watching warriors battle, Master Gond nodded to me and then he stood and left the training grounds.

The next day, I was again assigned to the training grounds and again Master Gond was there. This happened day after day. I watched the fighters trying to discern what each did, but unsure of why I was here, not working, not fighting. Eventually, after more than a week, at the end of a day, Master Gond turned to me: So my apprentice, what have you learned?

I was unsure how to answer, so I responded with one word: Patience. Master Gond smiled and nodded and then left the field. For the next year, I trained with Master Gond nearly every day. Sometimes simply watching others fight, and sometimes training against dummies or other gladiators. Slowly, Master Gond taught me a strange type of fighting which combined the stance of a bird he called a crane with defensive tactics. My apprentice he said, You have not the strength of these young men, so instead you must use your wisdom and agility to avoid and deflect the blows of those stronger than you. You must anticipate from whence the next blow will come and avoid it or cause it to miss.

After over a year of training, Master Gond finally decided that I had sufficient training to participate in a gladiatorial match. My first fight was against a hulk of a man. It was the white giant girl against the brute. I fought well and used my training to deflect the mans heavy blows, but eventually I was beaten. After the fight, Master Gond was not disappointed: You fought well, but your youth still gets the better of you. You must learn to maintain your focus and use the wisdom you have attained over all your years, then you will become one of the great fighters in this land, perhaps great enough to win your freedom someday. If you lose your focus and lose you temper as you finally did today, then you will lose. You will lose everything.

For nearly thirty years I fought. I lost sometimes, but usually I won. Occasionally I would meet an opponent with a style for which I could not defend. Those who simply had too many attacks to defend or avoid. Those with magical powers. Even animals. But, I did frequently win and with winning came far greater rewards than those given a farm laborer. During this time, I even gained a nickname. They called me Köttur The Unhittable. Slowly I began to enjoy these rewards, and when I did, I began to lose. And lose frequently. When this happened, Master Gond returned. Where he had gone for many years, I do not know. But when he returned, I knew the error of my ways as he shook his head: Wisdom is training, training is wisdom. Focus is success, success is focus. Without focus, you shall have no success. If you relax in the lap of luxury, you are without training and without focus, and that is weakness. If you allow yourself to become weak, you will lose and someday, when you lose, you will not survive.

After this, I once again trained, and trained hard, focusing on making my body the agile weapon it was, and once again I began to win. Finally, five years ago, after nearly thirty years of competing in the gladiatorial pits of Qadira, I was entered in the competition which had great monetary rewards for the winning owner, and freedom for the gladiator. I fought well, but lost two matches before the end. The next year, I lost in the final match. Then, three years ago, I won the competition and gained my freedom and enough wealth to survive for a time.

But, what was I to do? Everyone I knew in the Land of the Linnorm Kings was assuredly dead. The blood debt would have long since been forgotten, so there was nothing keeping me from returning to the land I still though of as home. A land I had not seen in over fifty years. Thus, I went to the port of Katheer and as I had done so many years before, I signed on with a ship heading, but this time heading north and west. I was a guard, but the ship found that my concentration, agility and perception were great for watching for enemies on the sea. Every day I would climb the tall mast and sit in the crows nest, legs crossed just as Master Gond had done on the rock so many years earlier. I watched the seas and frequently spotted threats far off. For the next two years, I lived on ships, never truly learning the art of being a sailor, but always slowly making my way west and north until a month ago when I arrived back in Kalsgard, back in my homeland.

Now, what to do. These were not evil people who I had fled so many years earlier, they were superstitious people who did not know what the world held. And the reason for this was the horror to the east, Irrisen, and its white witches. What I could do to this eternal menace in the east I did not know. But, I vowed that I would do all I could to put an end to the menace that I viewed as the cause of my father’s death.

Two days earlier, rumor be told, the village of Rimeheim had been overrun in the night. Not one survivor was found, only body parts ripped limb from limb and blood splattered trails where bodies had been dragged and carried off. Tonight, the sound of the wolves and the trolls was much louder. The villagers all huddled in their huts close about their small stoves seeking to retain what little heat the frozen logs could provide.

Then, there was a roar and a howl nearby. Torstan, my langömmu’s husband grabbed his axe, as he knew the other village men were doing, and left the warmth of the hut to help defend the village. The battle was terrible, the ice troll far outsized even the tall Ulfen, and the freezing breath of the winter wolves could kill a man almost instantly. Nonetheless, Torstan fought valiantly, even slaying a mighty ice troll with a well placed axe blow.

Eventually, the number of wolves and trolls overwhelmed the defenders and the brave Torstan was slain by the club of a wicked troll. All appeared lost. Suddenly, as though from heaven, came an army of birdmen. Where they came from and where they went to, none know. But they came with mighty longbows firing arrows that sparked with magic and pierced deeply into the trolls and wolves when they hit. Within minutes, the tide had been turned and the trolls and wolves, those that survived, fled back to the hills and were not seen again for another hundred years.

Unfortunately this was too late for the brave Torstan who had perished before the arrival of the birdmen. When the sounds of combat ended, the womenfolk opened their doors to peer out and were amazed by the sight. Rather than monstrous trolls and wolves, in the village center stood a number of tall men with wings and feathers. Some were tending to the wounded Ulfen while other remained on guard should the wolves return. Seeing one of the birdmen injured, Eliverin, my langömmu, invited the brave birdman into her hut. I cannot say what happened or how my langömmu mourned that night, but nine months later my amma was born. Born with amber eyes just like the birdmen who had saved the village.

Were it not for her scars and general lack of interest in appealing to the stereotype of beauty held in the Linnorm lands, or elsewhere in the Inner Sea, she might be considered attractive. Tall and thin with long blonde hair worn in a braid to the middle of her back. One of her most pronounced traits are her long thin fingers, the type many men would consider perfect for holding, or in Köttur’s opinion perfect for crushing the windpipe of an enemy.

While she is trained as a warrior, Köttur carries herself as the peasant she was raised as and slave she was for many years. She still lowers her gaze when one of noble blood is before her. Her training with Master Gond has taught her to treat those of her station and below as equals, something which causes her to become irate when others treat a person as a lessor simply because of their race or some other distinguishing trait. A trait which has only grown since she watched those youths attack and kill her father all those years ago.

All in all, while Köttur is a deadly foe, a first glance, being tall and thin with long blonde hair, she appears as simply another Ulfen woman, thinner than most, but a nondescript Ulfen who has perhaps been in a few too many fights. In the heat of Qadira, Köttur usually garbed in a loose fitting blouse and loose pants. Now having returned to the cold of the north, she has found similar loose clothing but of heavier material than the light clothing worn in the south. Köttur prefers darker colors hoping to avoid attracting and more attention than necessary. She also has similar clothes in a whitish color should she be out in the snow covered lands.

When she is with friends, she tends to listen first and speak once she has had a chance to contemplate what she has heard. Except for the rare times when her temper has been raised causing her act on emotion, she rarely will speak first unless the situation demands her speaking. Years of training with the wise old monk has given her the ability to simply stand and watch an occurrence for hours if necessary without interfering.

Reliable - although she has run in the past, Köttur has learned the value of the team and others. Gladiator fights may usually be solo, but on many occasions she fought alongside other combatants. This, together with the training of Master Gond, taught her the value of being able to rely on others, and of other being able to rely on her.

Negative Traits:
Fiery Temper - the counter part to her general composed nature. When Köttur sees someone bullying or taking advantage of one less able, such as the elderly and those touched by non-human blood, Köttur has been known on more than one occasion to lose her temper and charge into the conflict without considering the possible ramifications of her actions.

Stubborn - Köttur has a drive to be the best, at most anything she tries. Thus, she is hesitant to try new things, and when she does, she frequently will focus on them to the exclusion of all else.

• How radical is Vakri in pursuing witches? – would he be capable of standing beside and protecting one?
  
• A large part of the AP involves pursuing and ‘saving’ Baba Yaga and acting in isolation – How would you think Vakri might process that information?
  
• Do you have a beast in mind that yielded Tulker’s horn? – or are it’s origins and script intended to remain a mystery?

• While I understand the idea with making him an adventurer coming out of retirement to explain the power backslide, I’m a little on the fence given his young age. Would you consider making him a little older – into the middle aged category?
  
• I must admit I like the name you’ve chosen for the mercenary group. Did they have a banner? – or war cry?
  
• Given he’s a once broken man now returning to the fight… how do you characterise the Barbarian side and his rage?
  
• I note that you've Charisma dumped - how do you reconcile that with being a previous leader of men?
  
• At 7 ft 4 inches you're the size of Andre the Giant... but 350lb makes you more of a Priest Lauderdale build. Did you intend to be burlier than that?

• Which spell did you choose for Magical Lineage?
  
• How do you reconcile an 18 in strength, 16 in dexterity and only a 10 in constitution? – the write up doesn’t suggest any frailty of body.
  
• How does your oracle’s curse play into the character?

• What was the bargain with the linnorm? – and what does Myrkr gain out of it?
  
• Who was his teacher in terms of worshipping the Eldest? And is there one he particularly identifies with?
  
• What does his eidolon look like? – and as a ‘shadow’ of the linnorm, does it have it’s own mind or does it merely follow orders?
  
• Could you roleplay Skaldi casting a summoning spell including the manner in which the animal appears – and how it departs when either killed or the duration expires?

• Could you give me a rough stat breakdown? – just to get an idea of how you’d build him.
  
• I assume you’re referring to Týr the god of Law from Norse mythology? How does Týr fit into the Golarion pantheon?

Serolt is slow to anger. He'd as soon see an opponent bested and alive to live with the shame as dead. However he is not above killing to make a point. Though he befriends the wolf, when they outlive their usefulness, he kills them and warms his skin with theirs and fills his belly with their meat.

Negative
The Fool - In part due to Serolts trust of others, and in part due to his own lacking intelligence, Serolt often gets into trouble. He believes what people tell him and has a hard time (even with a strong wisdom) seeing through their lies. A good bluff is likely to send Serolt out on a fools mission.
Range - Everything is measured by distance. Serolt is quick to make friends, but never close friends. He is quick to fight, but always with his bow, or a thrown weapon. He gravitates toward society, but always at the fringe. He does not think in terms of closeness. Without close relationships, Serolt often finds himself giving more than he gets, at a loss in close combat, and without a clue in larger cities.

He stands tall and broad and while he prefers ranged combat, he can handle himself close with his hammer or axe. He has some early baldness and the rest of his hair is braided with a strap of leather part way down his back. He has a full beard, often unclean.

He is quiet usually - at least in the early portion of the conversation - for he knows he is not a smart man. However he is friendly, and wise, and never stays out of the conversation for too long. He is often over-quick to lend his support to an ally - or even in some cases a stranger.

The strip of leather is from a wolf who snuck into the home of an ancestor. The wolf was large, and without fear, and took the eldest son of ørtogher. His wife awakened and found the crib empty and alerted the household. So deep was his shame ørtogher left the clan and his younger sons. He brought shame on the family.

The middle son, a young man named Vndir grew to adulthood with the family shame upon him. Unlike his older and younger brother however, he was strong, and with the bravery and courage of a proper man in the fold. He went out into the forest and did not return for a year and a day. When he did, it was with the pelt of that wolf as his cloak.

When he died, an old man with many good stories, he was buried with that fur, excepting a thick strip which has been woven into the eldest sons hair as a ward - and a reminder. Serolt, not the eldest sone originally, is now due to death and disease and so wears the braid himself.

Restless Wayfairer - Serolt's father and elder brother died hunting. His middle brother died to sickness several summers ago. He never really got on with his mother (who abandoned him). So Serolt has always been a wanderer. He is attracted to communities, and makes friends easily, but lightly. Deep friendships take time, and he is often off to the next town before that develops. It has given him an greater understanding of the region and it's people.

"It took two days of careful tracking through fresh snow and over hard ground. Eventually though, I found my quarry in a valley below me. It was a long shot, but if I could make it the hunt would be over and I could return with her pelt as a gift for the boy's bravery in chasing the wolf off in the first place."

"I drew my bow back and held the shot a long time gauging wind and weather. Eventually I let fiy - and sent another arrow quickly after the first. Erastil was with me that day and both arrows hit! The wolf, mortally wounded, fell in the snow."

"As I closed a few moments later, axe out ready to finish the beast should she still be alive, I saw why my arrows struck so true. She never moved. She was dead, and still suckling her young - three baby wolves. I'm man enough to tell you I cried right then and there - the boy had lied."

"No she-wolf would come into the village with three babies in tow. He must have sought her out and pelted her with snow or rocks to get that bite he wore. And now I killed four souls with my two arrows. I promised that one of the younglings should at least survive. I milked that she wolf as best I could and took up the largest of the brood."

He reaches down and scratches the ears of a large wolf at his feet. "And that's how Regin and I met."

I don't, as a rule, dump stats. If a 20 point buy, it would look something like (after racial bonus) Str 14, Dex 16, Con 13, Int 10, Wis 15, Cha 10. With 25 points, I'd add a little to Int and Cha - maybe Con.