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

Game Master Mark Sweetman

Long ago, in winter's heart,
when hunger and darkness beckoned,
set out into the fiercest snows,
a man called Faraldr the Fecund.
Winter may be be beautiful,
but it always takes a toll!

He struggled on in direst need,
despite the cold and travail,
he had fourteen hungry sons to feed,
and could not afford to fail!
Winter may be merciless,
but the strong will still survive.

Then as winter closed upon his heart,
stealing away all his vigor,
through the ever whirling snows,
he spied a terrible and lovely figure.
Winter may be wonderful,
but there always a price to pay.

She came out of the blizzards depths,
beauty so cruel it bought pain,
and as she walked ice form in her steps,
and she sang out this refrain.
Winter may be terrible,
but there always is a way.

Father of starving sons let me intervene,
I shall offer you a perfect deal.
Give me one son for your fourteen,
I'll see they do not miss a meal.
Winter may be hungry,
but those who would live must feed.

And so he lay upon a bed of snow and ice,
and gave to her his vaunted seed,
though he cursed her terrible price.
Thinking of his family he bitterly did concede.
Winter may perilous,
but its not immune to need.

Snows abated swiftly, she faded like a dream.
He found himself beside a great white stag,
red blood upon the snow, and rising from it steam.
Fourteen little lives saved, for one frigid shag!
Winter may be long and dark,
but it the end it to must flee.

Winter passed and spring did come between,
then summer's beautiful blazing days.
Autumn came, gods forgive a man fathering fourteen,
even if he forgot the price he still pays.
Winter may be gone for now,
but its never long away.

As chill returned Faraldr went abroad,
to gather wood to fuel the dwindling fire.
Turning then he saw her, whose price he ignored,
cradling two babes sired by their desire.
Winter may be frigid,
but death is not her goal.

A bargain struck a price you paid,
I can take no more, I have my son,
this one yours, raise him or to the blade,
I have my son now the deed is done.
Winter may be heartless,
but she still reigns supreme.

Faraldr found himself a father to fifteen.
Fourteen healthy hearty boys, strong and warm,
one who waited for the snows recalling what had been.
And to one Winter sang calling with each storm.
Winter may be a nightmare,
but to some it is also a dream.

Winter's son named Randvér, aware of his limitation,
a poor and lonely singer, who for you performs,
songs and sagas to conjure up, a pale imitation,
of stories done, and Winter's majestic forms.
Winter may be bitter,
but who can deny her majesty?

Winter may be beautiful, but she always takes a toll.
Winter may be merciless, but the strong will still survive.
Winter may be frigid, but death is not her goal.
Winter may be terrible, but the great will always thrive.
Winter may be perilous, but its not immune to need.
Winter may be heartless, but she still reigns supreme.
Winter may be hungry, but those who would live must feed.
Winter may be a nightmare, but for some it is also a dream.
Winter may be wonderful, but there's always a price to pay.
Winter may be long and dark, but it the end it to must flee.
Winter may be gone for now, but its never long away.
Winter may be bitter, but who can deny her majesty?

As Kellyn grew up he proved to be a valuable asset to the Dwarves, but they put in their share of work with him. Although he was kind-hearted, Kellyn was stubborn and overconfident. He was outgoing and he would help anyone, but he always insisted on doing things that the Dwarves thought too risky for such a creature. He acted as if he was too sizes larger than life and unbreakable.

His overconfidence often led to embarassing moments as he would fail at tasks he had been shown because he really wasn't paying attention, but insisted that he knew how to do it. He also took unnecessary risks which bothered his more reserved adoptive parents who told him time and again that "courage is different than reckless abandon and never to confuse the two." In time, he understood what that meant.

When Kellyn was young, it was quickly discovered that he had a knack for bargaining and getting the best of deals. He was also quick-footed and maintained a keen eye towards danger. When he would fashion and don his pretend armor with the other dwarven boys, his rarely ended up with dents as he anticipated the incoming blow and quickly delivered a countered. He also found it easy to trade something in his possession of mundane quality or value for something better from someone else, and by the time they figured out the true measure of the deal, he was at home for the evening eating his supper.

Kellyn is three feet tall and 37 lbs. with brown hair, green eyes and tanned skin. He keeps his hair longer than most halflings, but it is in a braid and although he wouldn't admit it, in compensation for the lack of a proud beard. He has fashioned his own armor with the help of his parents, proud smiths themselves. He chose a suit of dark brown studded leather to wear on his missions to the villages. He crafted his buckler himself under the watchful of his dwarven father.

Kellyn maintains an air of great confidence as he believes it to be a life-saving asset. He is loyal to his friends to a fault and honestly doesn't see himself as his true height. In his mind, he is six feet tall and weighs 180lbs. Kellyn also has great empathy for the underdog, someone struggling against or being bullied by someone else. His own experiences with the dwarven children at first instilled in him this ideal. He always walks with his head held high and despite his great pride, he is outgoing and addresses everyone he meets with cordial greetings hoping to lure them into conversation.

He is sent out of the stronghold with a small group of dwarves each month to make deliveries of goods to nearby and far away villages, where their armor and weapons are highly sought after by humans. One particular trip to Hoarwood proved perilous and cost him his adoptive brother, a warrior greater than he, an experience which plagues him still. Even when dwarves are lost, Kellyn always returns battered, but alive.

He has become very adept at the use of his halfling staff that bears what he believes his last name is, Thistleblood. He has proven himself worthy of the militant merchant status that his adoptive dwarven clan has laid upon him. Also, playing in armor since early childhood has made him accustomed to it as he seems to move sometimes as if he is wearing none.

Even with the love and concern of his adoptive clan, Kellyn often wonders about his real mother and possible siblings. He seeks others out because he often feels alone. This is how he made it through being chided so often as a halfling child growing up among dwarves.

Speaking for the attributes, that version of Garak is directly copied from the character sheet I have in my binder here. I tend to make a lot of characters I would like to play at some point in the future and keep them on hand in case I have a quick opportunity to fit them in somewhere. While I'm not completely settled on the stat array as listed, most of the other fiddly bits are pretty much in line with what I'm aiming for: class & archetype, character traits, skills, etc.

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'm fine with that. I arrived at the current total by picking a random starting age and adding 10 years to it, so I'm not really attached to him being young by any means.

I must admit I like the name you’ve chosen for the mercenary group. Did they have a banner? – or war cry?

To the banner: yes. I haven't sketched it out, but it is a ram's head facing head-on with runes carved along its curved horns.

To the warcry: no (as of yet). May have to remedy that.

Given he’s a once broken man now returning to the fight… how do you characterise the Barbarian side and his rage?

Releasing his rage is now a choice Garak can make. In his younger days, it wasn't a voluntary reaction - when his blood started racing he simply lost himself in the carnage (almost completely at times). His brothers/sisters in arms knew this well, and gave him a great berth whenever things came to blows. Getting clipped by an errant swing of Födorn (his old blade) was not a pleasant experience for any one.

Rather than being his natural state in combat, his rage has become another weapon in his arsenal - one he intends to control and exercise judiciously. From a tactics standpoint, and assuming here that he makes new friends to go a'killin' with, he will likely be way more concerned with keeping his group alive than he had ever been previously.

To clarify, I don't want it to come across mistakenly as something other than unbridled wrath. When Garak rages, even now, he is swimming in a sea of anger; it's not a very lucid or controlled state of mind, though he is far less likely to mistake friend for foe than in his youth.

I note that you've Charisma dumped - how do you reconcile that with being a previous leader of men?

He didn't lead his men through inspiration or example, really. The Swollen Goats were more of an alpha male hierarchy. Garak was the biggest and the baddest of the group, so they generally fell in line to avoid getting thrashed for questioning his direction - that and the plunder was most agreeable. Today, he has no ambition to be anything resembling a leader or "face of the group," given how his encounter with Urszula turned out.

Beyond that, he's a mostly reserved individual who is freakishly large and wearing a witch's curse plainly on his face.

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?

I think that's a typo on my part; he should be 7'2". I mostly used Conan Stevens (who, if I recall, is 7'1" and 320 lbs) as a reference for his build, albeit with a little bit of a beergut still hanging on.

Vakri is more observant and investigative than overtly confrontational. And his order only looks to neutralize the effect of Baba Yaga on the world, not all witches. His order strives to keep the world from winter...not eradicate witches.

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?

As stated above, his order's goal is to keep Winters grasp from overtaking the rest of the world. They realize that help must be taken when it's available. While distrustful, trust, once earned is repaid in spades. The members of the order are trained to take their own actions, and suffer the consequences, since their resources and numbers are low.

Do you have a beast in mind that yielded Tulker’s horn? – or are it’s origins and script intended to remain a mystery?

Really don't just thought it was a cool item, and am willing to let your willing and fertile imagination breathe life into it.

I'm traveling for work the first couple of days of next week, but hope to put together a little atmospheric background / history.

S10 20 Point Buy
D17
C12
I14
W10
C12

S10 25 Point Buy
D17
C16
I14
W10
C12

Feat: Weapon Finesse
Traits: Excitable (+2 Initiative from Gnomes of Golarion) , Poverty Stricken

It is the share of this restlessness that led Cearb to his current exile. Rumors were spreading of an Irrisan war party, and Cearb's father was tasked to the defense force. Catching sight of his Father's red cap, with its pinch of wold hair tassel, amongst the assembly of treants, trolls, and fey animals that set out for the fight.

Marveling at the sight of the fey troop, Cearb followed, at an age not fully realizing the rules of Nithveil. He followed the force to the Thundering River where they joined an uneasy band of Ulfen warriors. A force of Irrisan witches and their minions operated with impunity on the east bank while an uneasy truce seemed to extend over the group of Men and Fey unable to cross. The standoff lasted several days, some of which Cearb wandered off, bored by the lack of war. That was until he heard the yelling. He saw his father stomp from the camp and approach the roiling river. Laughing the Ulfen followed. They tossed their shields, one by one upon the water, and his father leap from each to make his way across. Into the quiet witch camp he sped and soon calls of alarm were raised.

Caullyn reappeared spattered in blood with several Winter witches in pursuit. From wands of blue, they shot blasts of sleet that Caullyn dodged, each time taking one more step into the river. The witches kept up their barrage until finally Caullyn stepped from the newly created ice bridge, back to the shore on his side of the river. A way across established, the horde of Men and Creatures charged the witches forces and a great battle ensued. His father seemed not to rejoin the fight, until it reached its desperate peak. He raced back a cross and nearly reached the Irrisan leader, but she froze him in his tracks. Others began to fall, and their steel began to fail in the cold. Elfar the Ulfen leader snatched the frozen Redcap and used his father's outstretched blade to fatally stab the witch while she uttered her last fatal curse.

The aftermath saw the witches forces shattered and broken, the Ulfen men in pursuit, but of the Fey, a few trow, treants, and animals licking their wounds slunk back into the forest by ones and two.

Once things quieted, Cearb went in search of his father, finding his shattered frozen corpse and some ways off his boots frozen to the ground. It was then the realization of his exile became known, for without an army to follow, Cearb did not know the way back to Nithveil.

Giving his Father to the Forest, Cearb made his way to LostHome, a refugee himself. He now lives a wandering life on the outskirts of town, watching the wood, waiting and watching for the return of those responsible for his exile and hoping one day to find his way back home.

Excitable to the point of distraction, Cearb finds wandering the Forest more to his liking rather then dodging the footfalls of the large Ulfen in the town. He has come to serve a role very similar to his that of his Father, Cearb has taken to serving as an agent between the Ulfen and the concerned Fey in the Forest edge. He also scouts for the town watching its hinterland for signs of Witches. Although extremely short, he does not see height as a physical measure of a man and takes no insult or slight easily. Although none among the humans would call the strange Gnome a friend, there are those who appreciate his efforts and by showing respect, Cearb will raise a horn with them on occasion.

A bit of his father and mother, though, is always there. Cearb seems to lack a full set of emotion and compassion. He does not anger quickly, but violence is always close, not needing a reason to rear. When he does act out, it can be for a slight on his person or a simple misunderstanding. Diffusing and distraction can often set Cearb on a different path, avoiding an episode.

On his wanders, he often carves as he walks. With his set of knives, he carves woodland scenes in antlers and tusks he comes across. By trading these, he always finds the towns meadhall welcoming, if not always understanding.

A restlessness that sees him never sleep in the same place twice. Always on the lookout for new experiences and never tiring of pursuing his current interest, until distracted. His wanderlust provides a near immunity to whatever foul magics empowers the Bleaching.

A carelessness that at times can endanger those around him. He does not have the empathy to thinks of others' safety when in pursuit of whatever is momentarily a concern. Raised among careless and fickle Fey have left their mark.

A reluctance to enter water and living in bowers and abandoned animal dens leaves Cearb in a state of unkempt. His hair, has taken to resemble the spike's of a hedgehog's hide, laced with fur and twigs. The remnants of clothes he wears are held together with lichen and moss.v

Cearb stands on the short side of 3 feet tall, that is boosted by the large boots he wears. His brownish skin and eyes, blend with his dirty skin and hair. His hair has hardened into a spiked mass, partially resembling a hedgehog pelt. His clothes are canvas and furs seemingly held together with a scattering of moss and lichens.

Knife handles protrude from numerous places such as his boots, belt, hair, and he is often just carrying one of his bent serrated blades, picking at his teeth, scratching his back, or working distractedly at a piece of scrimshaw.

Cearb wears his Father's frost-scarred boots. They are slightly oversized for him, but Cearb has learned to compensate. The boots were found (along with just the feet) frozen to the remains of an ice bridge just before it broke up and floated downstream after the battle of ShieldBridge (see below).

Cearb looked at the man, not comprehending.... [i]why such a person....and here he looks down over the table edge to the bread slice being ripped apart by two quarreling hounds, who had been poised for just such a lucky event.....would knock away his bread.... He then looked to the jar, its bounty spilled about its mouth, ...when he was so close to the sweet spread... He looks from his empty hand ...to his knife....a light seems to gleam from his eyes and the sound of heavily-booted running feet are heard throughout the hall...getting closer...bringing their steel...and their fury.

A skald familiar in the hall smoothly moves between the two, his furs a flash of color before Cearb's eyes. Disapproving calls ring out from those about the hall, But the Skald laughs and states that as a newcomer, Yver had likely never heard the tale of the Battle at ShieldBridge. The skald pulled the man back and pushed him into a wooden chair. Through the hall, the disappointment of a postponed fight was replaced by the expectation of a favorite tale.

Cearb sat himself on the edge of the table, sinking his knife into the scored table surface beside him. He wonders how the tale might end this time, and whether his father might be mentioned. The skald took and drained Yver's horn and started his tale.

Winter-wrenched leaves yet writhed, under marched the Witch army
Village burn bright, hoar cask beer blight

Forest forces gather, Moonchaser called her best
Fair and fell alike, the Fey did answer

Spear and shield brethren, southward join the fray
hearth hardened blades, hearts of equal metal.

River riven rivals, two camps rapids kept apart
Mal magics marked the one shore, Fey and Men the other

Eddy's edge offered sleep-death, at witches' eager beckon
Fighting fervor frozen, frost-painted spear tips

Tempers trod among the tents, no trellis on which to cross
The Fey seemed foe-forgotten, freeman chaffed to fight

Caullyn the Red Cap, called for his morning bread.
Elfar of the Ulfen offered insults, casting bread aflight

Slice-spun but snatched, Caullyn saved his snack
Asked for angry-answers, received arrow stares

“So Caullyn not to cut his hunger, cast upon this lot?
I will forage on farthen shore, and raid upon their fodder.”

“The river rises”, the men roared in jest
“How to cross the crest, no carrach or paddle?”

“You bear my boats, on brazen arms
Wooden wheels shall wing, this warrior across.”

Thrown shields skipped the surface, shoes never wet
Jotun-sized steps, as if on dragon ships

Denied the day's fresh butter, his hunger raised a din
With curved blade he did churn, battle-butter topped with cream

Barren breasts with their bitter milk
A withered table wrap, whiter than his bread

Maple red ran their ruin, riven from their veins
Dried leaves drank in color, for the day alive again

From afar the Men fretted, too far from the fight
Was the fey red fighter, to flash alone in the sun.

Racing back for the river, red cap in arrears
As a jar of mournful jostles, aflow with the morning's jam.

Spells sped to the shore, sealing the river's lip
Boot nails nixed, the ice's near death grip

Deigned to dance as a seal, dodging on a flow
Issen icicles spread their icor, inches beneath his toes

River's roiling rapids, paled before their rage
Sorceress spittle-curses, silenced the Thundering's call

Sealed foul witches fate, as Caullyn's foot-fell ashore
the path now paved across, frost petal bridge of snow

Beast roared and raced, oh the battle rang
Men cheered and charged, how the death knell clang

Bearing bread denied, Caullyn buttered slow
Witches can go waiting, vine withered in the snow

Icy claws still clutched, amidst the steel clatter
Baited breath from Boreal depths, froze man and bear alike

Sighing at the site, his bread aside in setting
Frost blistered booted feet beat tattoo, back down the icy pike

Sleet scriven flesh, scoured the scarlet field
Hunting Winter's harangued heart, a harbinger of the Melt

When pointed at the prize, poised at death's cusp
Death rimed the risen blade, arrested in its fall

Steel-cracked in the cold, ringing like fallen crystal
Elfar of the Ulfen, raised the only remaining blade

Cracked from his crusted boots, Caullyn lived again
Rang down a ragged rain, iron rusted with tears

Frozen fingers never slip, never forgetting their purpose
Only slightly slipping Death's grip, and for the moment sharing.

Men fell with fey that fateful day, foe-allied not for the first time
And witches bear-brace in fear, for bread in want of butter.

[larger]”And witches bear-brace in fear....for bread in want of butter!”[/larger]
The hall rings out in chorus. Horns rise and are drained. Dagger hilts are rapped on tables. Some eyes are moist at the memory of their own fallen friends at the hands of the Ice Witches.

The Skald watches as Yver's enjoyment of the tale turns to realization and a moment of perceived fright. He quickly gets to feet and crosses to the table. He cuts two slices from the dark loaf and offers one to the small warrior still seated on the table. Cearb smiles sadly looking down, the slice looking so big in his small grubby hands, his feet slowly rocking back and forth, kicking the air slowly, ”Twas my Da in that tale. All I have left of him is his boots. Elfar cut the Witch General down, wielding my frozen Da as a sickle, just as she froze him too.”

Yver's nods his understanding. Everyone in this hall is here from the same reason.”Let me refill your horn and we can raise ours together to the fallen but not forgotten.”

Cearb nods and hops down. The thud of his boots are solitary from the earlier din of rushing feet for now quitd. He joins Yver's table and the two curse the Winter chased by warm beer.

Down frozen road to rocky fjord,
Through Thanelands vast and forests thick
Deep in Grungir's grove is found
There, the liesmith, Lantern King...

Thence the fearsome fairie king
Holds him in godless heathenry.
Yearning for his stolen youth,
The withered-wretch serves willingly.

Bane of the wood burns bright in hearth
As the craven visitor comes again.
"Your treasures and trinkets be mine to take,
Weregild for my wretched fate!"

For stolen-silver stashed away,
Trinkets for the trickster-king,
A boon for his favoured-fool,
A grinning gift of prophecy:

"Weather of wolves is come again
Seek the witch-queen, sealed in chains.
Far from Thornwall, far from Thane
Steal youth stolen back again."

Character Summary: Bastagar is an otherworldly being, a gnarled, white-haired creature old as the ash trees, although not nearly as tall. He serves an otherworldly master, and the suspicious folk that inhabit the lands near the Grungir Forest, even his fellow Gnomes, are quick to cast him as a witch, evil spirit, or worse, forcing him to live in hiding. He takes freely from the villages he inhabits, though often leaves repayment in work or service. The terms of this arrangement, however, are always up to him. When asked about his goals, however, he chuckles merrily and taps his crooked nose, stating that they are for "Me to know, and you to ponder."

Background Summary: A wanderer and scribe for the Pathfinders, Bastagar lost his nerve after a brush with death and lived a life of seclusion in Delgan's Grove to the north, withering away under the curse of the Bleaching. Cast out by his kinsmen unwilling to see him wither into madness and expire, he wandered deep into Grungir Forest and begun worship of the Lantern King (whether the Eldest of the First World himself or some malicious fey trickster or other), who began to whisper lies into his ear, ways to steal back his youth. The wisdom of his early years half-lost to madness, he lives a life hiding in dank cellars and haylofts, chuckling wildly as keys, trinkets and valuables are inexplicably lost, driven from village to village by suspicious townsfolk damning him as an evil spirit or worse. However, he has increasingly come to believe that the long winter is linked to the bitter chill of the Bleaching. If he can undo one, he might just undo the other...

His true prized possession is a boon from his master, a branch from a dryad's heart-tree. This acts as a wand of goodberry with a few charges remaining, sprouting and bearing fruit when he whispers to it. This is the secret to his survival, and he clings to it dearly, his only tangible connection to the First World and his fairie masters.

For armour and weapons, I'll likely use leather and mithril chain for most of my career, I intend to grab the Arcane Armour Training feat for this purpose. I'm still undecided on weapons. I'm torn between a shillelagh (a little far removed geographically but the irishman in me can't resist) or what wikipedia calls the "viking sword" (a shortsword). I'd love to do a battleaxe too, on that front, but I'm short on feats already.

If at all possible, I'd like to go Rogue/1, Sorcerer/4, Assassin 1 as my entry path into arcane trickster. Given that my power level is going to pretty underwhelming compared to other 25 point buy PCs, I dont think this should be too underwhelming, but how do you feel about doubling up on prestige classes? Would this buildpath be okay? I feel it puts me pretty much on par with a wizard-trickster, and lets me access the PRC as soon as possible.My death attack DC will be dismal, I'm sorry to say, but it will be a nice toy to have nonetheless.

When her hair turned from russet gold to a silvery white akin to freshly fallen snow & began moving about as though it were another limb it was no longer merely apparent, it was inescapable. Soon thereafter the Jill arrived, whispering secrets to her in the darkness & the quiet.

That night she left her childhood behind her & with it the only home she had ever known. Making her way from trade caravan to trade caravan she followed the Path of Aganhei, over the Wall of Heaven, across the Crown of the World, until the day she came to Kalsgard & chance put a name to the presence she felt whispering to the Jill. Calistria

With the Sacred Sting's name on her lips, Restless Cherry Blossom (now an admonishment of an entirely different order) danced as the whispers led her. At first, she thought the whispers meant her to continue South, but when every Caravan she joined met with sudden, often darkly humorous, equally often merely ironic, fortune of...
questionable benefice, Blossom came to the conclusion there was something here for her.
Once more travelling South, but this time only so far as the outskirts of that forest which is home to 'He whose Head would unite the Linnorm Kingdoms', Blossom has danced several soles to parchment, every season teaching her more about the land & it's people. She has come to love them both, in her own way. Of course, as with any worshiper of the Sacred Sting, it's a 'here today, who knows where tomorrow' kind of love.

When he was still very small, perhaps four winters old, his father went out on a hunting trip. While he was gone a pack of worgs led by a winter wolf came to his home over the border from Irrisen. They were hungry and looking for a bit of fun. Hinrik's mother heard them coming and gave him to Borghild, his oldest sister, who ran with him into the forest. The rest of his sisters and mother were killed that day, playthings for the evil lupines. But their lives were not given in vain, their sacrifice gave Borghild and Hinrik time to get away. Borghild ran and ran, but eventually she grew too cold and tired to continue. By that time, she was deep in the eastern end of the Grungir forest. She collapsed in the snow, and did her best to keep little Hinrik warm. As she slowly expired from hypothermia, she could hear the sound of the worgs closing in on her. It sounded as if they were coming from all directions.

Just as she was giving up hope, it happened. The worgs burst into the clearing where she had collapsed, and at the same time that a pack of dire wolves arrived from the opposite side. The dire wolves lacked the intelligence of the worgs, but they were keen to defend their territory from what they saw as invaders. The worgs were outnumbered, but their haughty white leader ordered them to attack their "lesser" cousins. A great melee ensued; smoky, grey-brown fur on one side, against black on the other. There were casualties on both sides, but eventually the wolves drove off the remaining worgs and the winter wolf with them. Sadly, Borghild had passed away during the battle.

Little Hinrik lay crying in his sister's arms, and the dire-wolf alpha female approached him cautiously. She had recently had a litter of her own, and her maternal instincts were in full bloom. At first Hinrik was terrified, but then he intuited that the she-wolf meant him no harm. She knelt down and allowed the little boy to climb onto her back. The pack took him back to their den, and he was allowed to live among them as the runt of the pack. The life was difficult, but he managed to barely survive eating scraps of raw meat, nuts, roots and berries. His new brothers and sisters quickly grew to match him in size, and then surpassed him. A whole year passed this way.

Meanwhile Vannik had returned to find his family slaughtered. He tracked the worgs and Borghild to the grove where the fight took place, but found no evidence of Hinrik among the dead. This gave him hope that his son might somehow still be alive and he began to hunt that part of the woods, looking for him. He had no luck, but refused to give up until he knew for sure. Finally, after months of perseverance he managed to pick up the trail of the dire wolves. By this time a harsh winter combined with the worg battle had reduced Hinrik's group to a mere five dire wolves, sickly and near starvation. Vannik tracked them to their den, and when he saw Hinrik amongst them, he killed the alpha male. The rest of the pack retreated from the screaming human with the large sword, leaving Hinrik to his father.

Vannik took him home, but Hinrik never forgave him for what he'd done to the wolf pack. His father protested that they were just animals, but Hinrik insisted they'd helped him and deserved respect. Without his mother and sisters there to soften the place, Vannik's home became hard indeed. Vannik and Hinrik were constantly in the forest, hunting and trapping game. They made quarterly trips into Whiterook to trade, and lived a relatively peaceful, if spartan life for more than half a decade.

However, one winter day as they were sitting by the fire in their cabin Hinrik heard a sound that made his blood run cold: the howling and laughing of worgs. By this time Vannik was quite old, and not the great warrior that he was in his younger years. Hinrik had only seen thirteen winters, and though brave was not yet strong enough to pose much of a threat. When the worgs arrived, Hinrik saw to his horror that it was the same winter wolf leading them who'd killed his mother and sisters. This time there were only three worgs with it. Hinrik told his father who the winter wolf was, and the old man flew into a berserker rage. He told Hinrik to run and dove at the evil canines, his great sword Volstungg flashing in his hands.

Hinrik ran and ran just as he and his sister had when he was a child. He ended up back in the forest where he had spent the year with the wolves. He found their old den, and hid inside, going to sleep. That night he had a dream, where a great old silver-backed wolf, larger than any he'd ever seen before, came to him. It told him "You have the heart of my people, son of man. Abandon your foolish wooden home, and live as we do. In this way you will learn the secrets of nature." When Hinrik awoke he knew what he must do. He crafted a simple wooden spear, and fired the tip to harden it. He spent the next five winters living in the forest. He became a member of a new pack, alpha in all but name, as he could not breed with the alpha female. He lived amongst the pack until he felt he truly knew the ways of nature. He had learned many secret prayers from the great silver wolf who would visit in his dreams, prayers that could work wondrous effects using the power of the living world. He'd also formed a special bond with one of the other wolves, a black-furred runt which the pack had left to die. Hinrik saw something of himself in the abandoned pup, and made sure that he survived. Hinrik named him Skuggi, which was skald for Shadow. The melanistic wolf had strange red eyes, and was completely mute. Nine months later, Skuggi had grown to be larger even than the pack's alpha. Hinrik didn't want to allow Skuggi to displace the old alpha, for whom he held some affection. Feeling he now knew how to live in harmony with the natural way, he decided it was time to return to the realm of men.

Bringing Skuggi with him, he made his way back to his family home. It was time to face his father. He arrived to find his father's brother Hrolf in residence. Hrolf told him the tale of how Vannik had succeeded in killing the worgs and winter wolf, but was gravely wounded in the struggle. The wound festered and he came down with a great fever. Hrolf found him several days later as he was dying. With his last breath, Vannik extracted a promise from his brother to preserve Volstunng and bury it in trust for Hinrik should he ever return.

All of this had happened almost five years ago. Hrolf took him to Vannik's burial site and together they dug up the great sword buried there. Hrolf was a man of great honor, and also offered to give Hinrik the house and his inheritance. Hinrik refused, seeing little need for material possessions beyond tools. He accepted a small sum of gold, and had the pommel of Volstunng reforged in the form of a snarling dire wolf, in honor of the alpha male that his father had slain with the blade. Freed now of family obligations, and not knowing another soul in the world, Hinrik decided he couldn't stay at the house. He thanked Hrolf for honoring his father's wishes, then left his family home with Volstunng and Skuggi, pleased to leave the site of so many painful memories behind.

In the two years since he has wandered the forests near where the Summermelt flows into the Thundering River. He mostly spends his time hunting and exploring, though if he comes across a creature of unnatural evil he does his best to put it down. He occasionally heads into one of the towns to sell furs and buy some small supplies to make his life easier. Most recently he's made a stop in the town of Heldren. He's currently enjoying a couple days in the Inn, which are probably the only two days in a year that he will spend indoors.

#2)Hinrik is as level as a frozen lake. Not much fazes him, and he remains calm and decisive virtually all the time.

#2) He's serious to the point that he's sometimes unable to detect sarcasm.

#2) Lie or cheat to save face or gain financially.

#3) Break his word.

Hinrik looks a little unusual for an ulfen. He's got dark brown hair, instead of the more common blonde or red. It hangs in oily locks down to his shoulders. Most of his body is covered in coarse dark hair of the same color. His beard has yet to fully grow in, though his cheeks and chin support an ever thickening growth. This, combined with his black eyes, led many in Whiterook when he was a child to whisper that someone in Hinrik's family tree must have bedded a Kellid.

Hinrik is tall, though not a giant. While some men have a few inches on him, there are few that boast a more well muscled frame. So sinewy and hairy are his limbs that he resembles the great black wolf that follows at his heel. The canine is large and shaggy, its amber eyes alert and scanning at all times.

Hinrik tends to use body language to communicate and only talks when necessary. He walks in graceful silence, attempting to go unnoticed. He's dressed in hide armor, and has a simple, worn looking backpack and wooden shield strapped to his back. The foot and half long hilt of some kind of large blade stick up over his left shoulder as well.

Since that day, Hinrik has trained ceaselessly with the sword of his father, learning to wield it with ease. He calls it iron-tooth, but its proper name is Volstunng.

"First hunt in filmy frost, final moment comes.
Sitting silent, siccative dyes smeared over skin.
Tracks tracing a traffic record, on tract of naked snow.
Lying, lichen covered, licking frozen lips.
Spear spanning sparse boughs, sprung the trap's become.
Through threads the shaft; thrill! Thrashing in the blood.
Each eat eagerly, earned by killing..."

When he finishes, he stands, as does the great black wolf at his feet. After a long hard look and a nod, he turns and makes his way silently up the stairs.

"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 wonders if he'll last the night.

Character Summary

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 publicly 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.

Character Traits

• Exile (+2 Initiative) - Whilst his exile bears the veneer of appointment, its intent is perfectly clear. He was sent to the Land of the Linnorm Kings to die.
• Highlander (+1 Stealth, Stealth is a class skill. Bonus increases to +2 in hills or rocky areas.) - Those who cannot disappear into the shadows do not survive long in the wilds. He has long since learned to the best way to conceal himself from wandering beasts.

"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

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 splendor. 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.

Iron-Bound Journal
One of the few possessions that wasn't lost in his journey, this heavy tome is bound in red leather and iron. An exquisitely made book, it has its own waterproof case. Removing it or placing it back in the case is a small effort on its own, and it is something that he only does when he knows he has time. He uses it both as a spellbook and a journal.

This book was given to him by his father, a Chelaxian judge, who always stressed the importance of recording everything for posterity's sake. He has had this book since his first lessons in magic, up until this day, making it his oldest possession.

Personality

"Who is Markus Hape?"

Markus Septimus Hape. It has been a long time since he used that name. Those he know here 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 fueled 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.

Positive Traits
There are few things any man would say is 'positive' about the Halfhand. However, there are some things that unquestionably seperate him from the common rabble. The first is his intellect. Whilst the wilds have torn at his sanity, his mind still remains as powerful as his days in the academy. He is a lateral thinker with a penchant for finding solutions to his problem. Indeed it is so that without this ability to adapt and learn, he would have perished long ago. He is always looking to expand and hone his mind, constantly learning new things (terrifying though they may be) in order to survive.

The second of his traits is his grim determination. Markus does not give up easily. If he fails he must know exactly WHY he failed. He will not be satisfied until he knows, and when he does, he tries again with this fresh knowledge in mind. This persistance is sometimes mistaken for foolishness or pride, but it is anything but. He knows when to pull back, when to escape and formulate a new plan. What he doesn't know is how to give up.

Negative Traits
Numerous in Hape are the traits that many men of civility would deem "Negative", mostly born of his Chelaxian upbringing. His cruelty and his pride are examples of this, both products of the culture of Cheliax. He once paid homage to Asmodeus, though this was mainly lip service, but the lessons taught to him of caste and power have stuck with him forever since. He may be disgraced and in exile, but his blood is still of noble origin, and he finds little sympathy for the common folk despite his experiences.

However, not all of his flaws stem from his upbringing. His paranoia is undoubtedly a result of his isolation. If he was a little more ignorant, perhaps it would not be as bad. But his thirst for knowledge, his desire for power, drive him to learn all he can of the North lands. He has learned the thousand and one ways he can die in the snow, learned the names of wicked beasts that hide in his shadow. Now he is constantly on edge, his fingers twitching in anticipation of an ambush.

"It seems so long ago now, things that happened in another life, to another person..."

-

A hollow hearted man || Born of black blood lands
Broken are the brother-bonds || Slick venom in his veins
No favour of the God-Fiend || Rune-Caller called away
From dark is darkness cast || Brotherless, betrayed

House numbed by feather's fall || Mind wrent by winter's blade
The raven watches, waiting || For the First to claim his stake
The Half-Hand lifts the anvil || From forge-mind he draws steel
A beast-thing born of hatred || Wrought from the winter's chill

Early Life (Birth - 12)

"Privileged" does not even begin to describe the life that Markus was born into. Whilst his house of birth was only a minor one, they still enjoyed all the perks of nobility, if not the same prestige. Slip (halfling) servants waited on him hand and foot. Never was there a day when Markus went hungry. From a young age he was tutored in the arcane arts by a hired Conjurer. When he came of age, he joined an academy to further refine his skills.

-NPCs-
Antonio Hape: Markus' stern father - a judge and wizard of repute. No doubt corrupt in his practices, he practices law with an iron fist, showing little sympathy for those without the coin to buy it.
Natalia Hape: Markus' distant mother, a typical highborn socialite. She married Antonio for the money
Serana: Markus' halfling nanny. Essentially a surrogate mother, though Markus never really viewed her as anything more than a servant. He was rather mean towards her, and would frequently torment her with minor magics.
Pavlos the Red: A dark-eyed conjurer who gave Markus a straight view of Cheliax. He did not suffer the delusions of grandeur that so availed the nobility. A strict taskmaster, he would frequently cane the backs of Markus' knuckles when he made a mistake.

School Age to Graduation (12-22)
Hape was a brilliant child, but no more so than the dozen other classmates who studied alongside him. His progress was astounding, compared to that of a normal person, but alongside his peers... Perfectly average. Here he studied until the age of 22, and graduated from his academy with honors. Things were looking good for Markus. He had a bright future ahead of him.

Fraternity years (22-27)
Upon his graduation, he was invited to join a fraternity of wizards who called themselves the Dukes of Dusk. Mostly they would cause troubles for other fraternities and try to build up their own reputation. This would eventually climax when the Dukes and their rivals, the Umbral Knights, came head to head. In the heat of the moment, Markus agreed to a public wizards' duel, to determine which of the two were superior once and for all. The winner would claim glory, the loser would be assimilated. In front of a crowd of hundreds, Markus was completely humiliated. His arrogance was his downfall, and he found himself completely outmatched. The Dukes were disbanded, absorbed into the ranks of the Umbral Knights, Markus along with them. However, his reputation was ruined. He was a disgrace, and the whole city knew it. They would laugh in his face on the streets, hurl rotten fruit as he passed. So when the time came for him to take up his fateful task he accepted with a heavy heart, knowing that whatever was out there could be no worse than the humiliation of his home. He didn't know how wrong he was.

-NPCs-
Alessio: Head of the Umbral Knights, and the mage who humiliated Markus in a duel.
Ciro: Former leader of the Dukes. He never really liked Markus.
Donna: The closest thing Markus had to a 'friend' in the Dukes. She and Markus had a brief fling. It didn't last.

The Adventurers (28-29)
Markus joined a caravan of adventurers heading north towards Irrisen, paying good gold for their protection. They journeyed through many dangerous places and fought many splendid battles whilst Markus hid out of sight. Numerous were the stops along the way, ranging from the mundane (Such a helping farmer find his lost daughter) to the fantastic (Battling wyvern on the slopes of treacherous mountains). During this time, Markus recorded many findings and observations, chronicling each of the group's adventures. However, before their journey could be completed, the party was attacked by a cadre of stone giants whilst traversing a fjord. The wagon was overturned in the chaos, with Markus violently tossed from his seat into the raging waters of the river. When he awoke, the caravan was nowhere to be found.

-NPCs-
Berenar: A kind-hearted Shoanti fighter and de facto leader of the group. His gentle and protective nature was somewhat disturbing to Markus, and he didn't know exactly what to think of him.
Fingers: A halfling rogue of exceptional quality, able to "pick any lock from here to Absalom", in his own words. Markus looked down on him because of his heritage and trade, but the halfling didn't seem to dislike him all that much.
Giosetta: An Elven priestess of Shelyn. Markus was attracted to her, but only superficially. She couldn't stand him.

Exile (29-Present)
For the next six years, Markus would remain lost in the taiga. He would hide where he could, building makeshift huts and lean-tos, camping in dry caves. A solitary existence. One of fear. Each day he contemplated making the perilous journey northward to find settlements, but he knew he would not survive the journey. If the weather did not kill him, the trolls and fae certainly would. He had to prepare. Relearn all he knew. He would not die here. Every day he would write in his journal, recording what he had learned of the beasts and the taiga. With no spare scrolls or rolls of parchment, he turned to more primitive things, learning to scribe magical rune into stones and sticks, experimenting constantly, desperately, to find a way to conquer the elements. Eventually his study bore fruit in the form of Endure Elements. With this new power, he ventured out into the world once more, his knowledge allowing him to avoid and survive in the hostile environs of the north. From then onwards
would wander from town to town. His return to civilization was underwhelming. Those who knew of his abilities feared or shunned him. Those who didn't saw him as weak. They called him halfhand. Called him demon, witch. Eventually his contempt for the filthy commoners overwhelmed his need for human interaction and he returned to the wilds, venturing only into towns when he needed fresh supplies. If they didn't want him, that was fine. He was above them anyway. In time they would have reason enough to fear him. He would master this land. The biting winds and driving gales would bend to his whim. In time he would do more than just survive. He would thrive.

-NPCs-
Whoever you like! Fill it with plot-relevant NPCs, other characters, or even just normal townsfolk. This can be fleshed out more when (and if) everything is finalized.

• Was the witch a complete hermit? – or did she visit towns with Cailleach in tow?
  
• What race was the witch… and what did she teach Cailleach of his heritage?
  
• What does the moon whisper? – when it chooses to speak to Cailleach?

• Does she identify ethnically as Tien or Ulfen? – or does she stand apart?
  
• She works as a midwife… but to whom does she tend? – I would think that as an ‘outsider’ she would find it difficult to work in such an intimate role?
  
• Who taught her the ways of Pharasma?

• How would your character react if called out as a changeling in a crowded room of judgemental Ulfen?
  
• How have you lived since leaving your home? – and what brings you to Heldren?
  
• Was it only the fox that laid your father low enough to be coup de graced?

• Once Vidak gets the ability to rage, how will you reconcile that with his calm and relaxed personality?
  
• How old is Vidak? – did he leave a little lady behind when we went north?
  
• He seems very experienced reading through his background – how do you reconcile that with starting at 1st level?

• Is he happy being his own orc? – or is he in the market for a new master?
  
• How does he fight? – is he trained, or is he more from the ‘harder is better’ school of warfare?
  
• Does he walk upright like a normal person – or does his movement have bestial overtones?

• I find it difficult to see an orc, let alone a family of them, being adopted as a mascot of an Ulfen town. What was the first act that led to their being accepted?
  
• Why would Ulfen seek out Orc made steel?
  
• What would Gar do if a group of visiting Ulfen came into town and drew steel on him?

As far as age goes Vidak is 21 with his first rite of passage taking place in his early teens. He did have a girlfriend when he left but it wasn't anything official yet.

As far as his experience goes, he has mainly seen a lot. During his year with the Skoan Quah he spent most of his time learning inside tents or at sacred sites. He has seen the undead during that period but as a mere pupil functioned as a back up when it came to fighting and like I said, it was a quiet year.
The drake he killed was near death already, he basically lopped off the last 1 to 5 hp. In my idea this, combined with his teaching, upgraded him from a lvl 1 commoner to a lvl 1 fighter (or magus, depending on what's needed)
The years after he hunted with his people but that was just game and they hunted as a group.
The trip to the Land of the Linnorm Kings he spent as a guard on a well established route and as part of a large caravan, he hardly was the only guard. The search after was again mostly spent in registers and talking to people.
In total I'd say you could qualify him as too experience for lvl 1, but the way I see it he has seen more than he has actually done and most things he did do were as part of a large group. The drake is the only exception but that was more luck than skill.

I will still focus on Style fears, likely the Crane, Monkey and possibly Boar styles. But will have to get them with my normal feats rather than monk bonus feats.

Cearb entered the mead hall, a fortnight custom to hear the word of the town, to barter his scrimshaw, and see those who cast an understanding eye his way. Never wary of scaling the ale barrel, he brandishes his horn and prepares to lean in and dip at the low level of liquid available. But as often the case, a concerned, but friendly offer, is made to fill his horn and save the risk of his falling in, never crossing his mind the hall's occupants sharing a fear he might fall in, thus skunking the beer. This time Uten and his son, Utur, woodmen and on familiar terms with Cearb and his forest wandering. They fill his horn and pick out the stray dried leaves that had fallen into the barrel.

Climbing a chair, Cearb makes his way up to walk the long table. He pulls a jagged knife, one of many from his belt or boot, he seldom keeps track of these things. Having cut a chunk of roasted joint and bread he makes his way toward a stoneware vessel of preserves mixed with honey.

Before reaching his goal, a recent arrival to LostHome, drunk on his recent woes, reels into the table, knocking the bread from Cearb's hand. The bread slowly falls, to catch first on the table edge, before gravity pulls it down spinning to the ground. ”Look out Little Man. A warrior's appetite will wait for no little boot to trod upon its dinner.”

Cearb looked at the man, not comprehending.... why such a person....and here he looks down over the table edge to the bread slice being ripped apart by two quarreling hounds, who had been poised for just such a lucky event.....would knock away his bread.... He then looked to the jar, its bounty spilled about its mouth, ...when he was so close to the sweet spread... He looks from his empty hand ...to his knife....a light seems to gleam from his eyes and the sound of heavily-booted running feet are heard throughout the hall...getting closer...bringing their steel...and their fury.

A skald familiar in the hall smoothly moves between the two, his furs a flash of color before Cearb's eyes. Disapproving calls ring out from those about the hall, But the Skald laughs and states that as a newcomer, Yver had likely never heard the tale of the Battle at ShieldBridge. The skald pulled the man back and pushed him into a wooden chair. Through the hall, the disappointment of a postponed fight was replaced by the expectation of a favorite tale.

Cearb sat himself on the edge of the table, sinking his knife into the scored table surface beside him. He wonders how the tale might end this time, and whether his father might be mentioned. The skald took and drained Yver's horn and started his tale.

The din of running feet is his [i]Ghost Sound that goes off when he gets upset or confused, and it creates the sound of a Redcap's booted feet approaching quickly.

Once in Kalsgard, things changed. With a Tian population high enough to form its own quarter, Norðrljós had to wrestle with the issue of identity for the first time. Here, she feels stuck between the two cultures. Ulfan look at her and immediately think her Tian, much like how asian-europeans tend to be thought of as asian by europeans. In the Jade quarter there are enough different Tian ethnicities that it is easier to fit in physically, and she has enough knowledge of the culture and language to be able to pass. This makes it strongly appealing to identify as Tian. However, her father is Ulfan and the idea of family is very important in both cultures. This is her dilema, does she identify as with the culture that she can best fit in to, or the one to which her father, her family, belongs.

Guðrún 'Life-hands' Kjartansdóttir was the priestess that took Norðrljós on as apprentice. The reason, because there is always more work to be done than hands to do it, and Pharasmins tend to be less concerned about a person's background than most. The temple of Pharasma ensures that every person, even the beggars that regularly freeze to death, have proper funeral rites, preferably in tradition of their homeland if there is someone who knows them. Because she looks the part, Norðrljós would often be given the task if the body was found in the Jade quarter. Hence the Spirit-guide trait. The temple also provides birthing assistance to those who cannot afford it, and the desperate poor that rely on the temple aren't usually too picky. Further details on Guðrún are available if you're interested.

Norðrljós mostly serves in the Bone quarter. As the poorest district, residents are just happy to have a trained mid-wife attend them, or an actual priest perform funeral rites. For several years, she acted only as Guðrún's assistant when outside the temple. As her teacher was an Ulfan and already known throughout the quarter, there wasn't a great deal of objection to having a 'foreign' assistant present. After a few years, she began to handle births and funerals on her own. People don't see the person, they see the robe and holy symbol.