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

Game Master Mark Sweetman

I made a note in the submission post about the race choice. I used This Race (which, doing the math with the ARG system, is actually a really low powered race. Just discovered that.)

Ragnar isn't actually half ogre. He's was just born at the dawn of humanity. He's not so much half ogre as he is half cave-man.
Half ogre was just as close as I could come up with. I thought about building a custom race to represent a human throwback, but I figured Half Ogre works just as well if I ignore the "ogre blood" racial trait.

As for what brings him to town, it may be the first place he found after wandering out into the world. Being found by another PC and roleplaying that culture shock would be fun, or I could have been taken it a little while ago and owe the town for helping me. Or anything else that works best for the story.

I read the player's guide. I misunderstood thier take on Baba Yaga. I can easily change the reference to her in my character's backstory to another witch, maybe the "first daughter" or something, which keeps the important things the same but doesn't have me wanting to kill Baba herself.

Ragnar is actually an altered version of a character I played in a game with Mark Thomas (who just applied above). His character and Ragnar ended up being one of my favorite pairings in any game I've ever played. He's a great player and I'd love any chance to reprise that duo (or something similar).

Likewise, Viscount K is another gaming buddy of mine. We've been discussing the possibility of linking our character's backstories somehow, but I think we should apply separately for now, each character standing on their own merit, and link them if we both get into the game.

For what it's worth, both of them have my endorsement as players. They are very reliable and write well.

Nomadic- Often in trouble and often sent on expeditions until memory of her last transgression subsides, Miraliana has wandered the High Ice many times in her life and developed reflexes to survive in the wilderness.

(Date,Year)Aegnor told me he has a special mission for me. I am to take a couple weeks supply and make sure that the watchtowers are adequately stocked and repaired along the main route all the way to the Path of Aganhei. What a silly name. I am a bit exited, though. I am going to have several months to develop and perfect new tricks while I am out. And if they work well on the Frosties, think how well they will work on everyone else! Aegnor said I had to pick up the dog team tomorrow.

(Date, Year) I had forgotten how cold it gets out here. My ink froze solid for a week until I made it to the first watchtower. That snowstorm was pretty. I like how still everything was last night. I sang a song to the moon. He doesn't complain when I do. The ink is freezing in the pen. Oh well.

(Date,Year) I made it up to the watchtower in the pass. Apparently the lower end of the pass was blocked with an avalanche. I'm going down tomorrow to see how bad it is and report back to Aegnor and the Hunters. We might not get anything coming in that direction for a while.

(Date, Year) Found a Southron Elfess! She was half buried and half alive. Do two halves make a whole? It took most of the day to dig her out, even with the dogs help. I've taken her back to the watchtower and am trying to revive her. I hope she makes it. I hate building cairns.

(Date, Year) She made it! And she's a Wasp Queen! Wow. I never thought I'd meet one this far North unsupervised. She talks in her sleep something fierce, though. Muttering about her mission, eternal winter and Baba Yaga. I'll have to talk to her about it when she wakes up tomorrow and possibly return her signet. Maybe not. It's pretty.

Kalt has never connected easily with his fellow man. He is kind enough, and interested in the people around him, but he is a poor communicator of this interest, often seeming cold and distant by virtue of his appearance and awkwardness. At times, this bothers him, and he struggles against it to make friends. At other times, when he seeks the solace of wild places, or the solitude of a frosty winter night, he feels that he needs no one else. He is generally able to maintain his good cheer well enough by keeping a balance between these two moods, though it is a lonely life. His solo travels have put him in many hard situations where he has had only himself to rely on, and he has come to be a swift decision-maker, and a daring one. He doesn‘t hesitate in the face of danger. In fact, he has been known to take the riskier route, just for the adventure in it.
Important Item: The silvery-white chain shirt Kalt wears was a gift from his uncle Kjartan, before Kalt fled home to escape his father’s wrath. Kjartan gave it to Kalt to protect him should his father come seeking him, which seemed all too likely, given the killing rage Kalt’s father was in when Kalt fled home. Kjartan had worn it in his own ranging days as a young man, but having grown old and stout, he felt no one deserved it more – nor was likely to need it more in his life – than his frosty nephew, as he set out into the world.

Two negative traits:
Cold demeanor – Though he wishes it were otherwise, Kalt has a difficult time getting close to people. His unusual appearance and tendency towards solitude makes others think he wants nothing to do with them, but in truth he would be happy to have more friends.
Naive - Kalt's limited exposure to others has made him less suspicious of people's motives, and more easily taken in by their wiles. If he really focuses on someone, he is able to discern weaknesses in them that will aid him in a fight, but has not yet learned to look deeper and understand their intent.

Character Traits: Winter Warrior, Frostborn - see story below to see how they fit in his background (will likely take Heart of the Snows racial trait as well)

“As you’ll have guessed from looking at me, there are some who say I’m touched by the fey – though I don’t believe it. Fey folk have magic, and fear the touch of iron, and neither is true of me, and I can grow a beard when I choose. Though I can’t claim to not be a bit different from most folk. Cold doesn’t touch me, never has – and that’s how I came to leave the cold lands of the north.”

“My mother – Gunhild was her name - was older, past the age where she could expect to have a child, and full of sadness for the lack of a little one to love, but she was a beauty for the skalds to sing of. My father was younger by some years, mad with love for her and filled with rage – I think he wanted only to make her happy, and he blamed their childlessness on himself. That is what I was told, at any rate, by my uncle Kjartan, my sister’s elder brother, for that was all before I was born. And about my birth, I know nothing, for I am a foundling.”

“My mother used to tell me the story of how she found me. How she was out walking one day, having told my father she was going to look for spring herbs, though winter had not yet begun to relinquish its grip and no herbs were to be found on the snow on that bitter, icy day. I think she just wanted to be alone with her sadness, though she never said as much to me. In any case, she discovered my tiny body, even paler than you see me now, on a patch of ice in the shade of a great soldier pine. A woman who wanted nothing in the world more than her own child, she could not fathom how anyone could leave a babe out to die on the ice. She picked me up and to her amazement, pale and cold as I was, I cried out. And so did she, in joy and amazement, that she held a child, and at the thought that the child could be her own.”

“She wrapped me in her shawl and carried me quickly home, and her joy must have filled my father’s heart with gladness, to see her smile and laugh so at the change in her fortune. I guess they were happy for some years, though my mother much more so than my father. He had wanted a son of his own line, and one not so scrawny and…well, fey. Children left by the fey folk are not uncommon near Elfmeet, in the west of Icemark, not so very far from my home, and he came to believe more and more strongly that I was one of them. Though I’ll say again, I may look it, but I don’t believe I’ve got a drop of fey blood in me. But that’s not the tale we’re telling here, is it? My mother was happy, and loved me dearly. My father took good enough care of me when I was just a boy, though there was little love between us. As I grew, that little love became less. He felt I had taken his place in my mother’s affections, and resented me, and as I grew older, we fought. With words, I should say, at least at first. We would argue and shout and he would threaten, but before he could lay a hand on me, I would vanish into the wild, into the cold.”

“As I said, the cold doesn’t really touch me, and I took to disappearing into the woods and mountains – just for a few hours at first when I was very young, even walking out the door barefoot, in need of the peace and well-being I could find in the cold woods, where few others ventured and I could be alone. I hunted as a boy with my uncle, and he had seen I had some gifts in that regard, and that I would stick to a task until I saw it through, and he came to regard me kindly, perhaps even love me. He taught me what he knew of woodcraft and survival, and I built upon that.”

"As I grew, I travelled further and longer, and came to see I was not alone in the cold. The beasts of the frozen plains and the Iceworm Hills came to be my companions and my fascination. I would track and study them, moving through the hills without a sound, learning their ways and weaknesses, their secrets and strengths. Some I learned to avoid, some I failed to avoid and had no choice but to fight them to survive – though my study of them helped me in those fights, no doubt. Other creatures I was able to come to an understanding with, more so than with many people, and the cold wilds truly became my home.”

“My mother ever worried about my rangings, and her concern, and my lack of it, were the death of her. In my 15th winter, after a bitter argument with my father, I snatched up my pack and my weapons and set out on a long trek. I was gone for nearly two weeks, longer than ever before, when my mother took it upon herself to look for me. She was ill-prepared for such an outing, and told no one, leaving the house crazed with worry about me. She got lost, or gave up, or something, and was gone overnight, and found by my father after some days, frozen to death – and of all this I knew nothing. When I returned home, my father attacked me – and this time not with words. He said I was no son of his, and called me a son of the ice, for I had been born to the ice, and now had made my mother ice as well. Forgive me, I need a moment. I have never told this entire tale to anyone, and it was not so very long ago.”

“Ah, now, where was I? Ah yes, a son of the ice. That is now my name, Ísson, as I‘ve no wish to carry my father's name, and it reminds me of what my carelessness and selfishness did to my mother.“

“So, my father and I fought, both fueled by sorrow and rage, and to my surprise, I bested him. I had been hardened by my ranging and my instinct for studying my prey had taught me much about my father, though I never thought to use it. As I say, I bested him, and would have killed him had not my uncle Kjartan come running into the house and stayed my hand. He told me that my mother had loved us both, son and father, and would not wish us to harm each other. I saw he was right and, for my mother's sake, I stepped away from my father, who promptly snatched up a wood-axe and tried to kill me. My uncle held him off while I made my escape, for I knew my father would fight me to the end, and there is only one way for a fight to end when one man is unwilling to kill the other.“

“I left my home that day, some four winters ago, to place as much distance as I could between myself and my father, who I fear still seeks some strange vengeance on me. I made my way south and east, learning the ways and dangers of new lands and beasts, and eventually came to Heldren. I now use what I've learned of the cold wilds to guide those who must travel them, or wish to hunt them, or otherwise need to survive in them. And I now study my fellow man as I once only studied the creatures of the wild, noting their strengths and weaknesses, the good and ill of their ways, and it is a fascinating study. And when that study turns my mood too dark, I continue my own private explorations of these cold lands, to learn more, and seek quiet and peace.“

I could go either way if you have a preference but the prophecy reads:

No bed-shame shall you bear,
nor straw-death on your road to Hel,
no children of battle need you fear,
the shield of hags will ravens feed.

This prophecy was spoken directly to her by the norn, so there is no chance it was spoken to another, although people don't have to believe it, any more than they believed Achilles.

I also assume that if you know of her, or her pseudonyms, then you know the prophecy. Like all knights, she would be referred to by numerous pseudonyms. Her main pseudonym is of course Alfborne - for her real name is Hilde Blood-eagle, even though she is a bastard. Other pseudonyms would probably be made up on the spot depending on what they wanted to refer to:

Her fey heritage: Hilde Fey-touched, Alfsdottir, Hilde the Foundling, etc
Her father: Hilde Bloodborn or The Bloody Hatchling
Her prophecy: Hilda the Doomed, Fated or Hagcursed
Her paladinhood: The Fey Maiden (unlike most fey, she is chaste)
or any combination: The Hatchling Maiden, The Bloody Bough, etc

Never lie
Swear something three times if you are serious
Always give a gift of equal value to one you receive
Must have permission to enter a home

Not only would she follow all fey superstitions, she would also follow most gaelic superstitions in general. I can't promise I'll be perfect, but I'll certainly try to find as many as I can.

While it would be interesting to play a truly fey paladin, one that follows good by fey definitions and not mortal ones, I don't know that I would be able to do the mindset justice. Part of what makes fey so interesting is that we rarely understand their motivations. I would not know how to represent this other than by simply rolling a die, which I don't like.

I will write up her paladin code as I can. The verses I wrote so far have been very difficult and I haven't really found any rules on how exactly to write Skaldic poetry. There does not seem to be a meter you must follow and while rhyming convention is very specific, it doesn't hold when the poem is translated. I've therefore kept a few translated stanzas next to me and tried to more or less get the same feeling. I hope I've been successful because I'm a much better writer than I am a poet.

How does Annalisa view gnomes, dwarves and creatures of the fey?

"I could really care less about what shape or size a person comes in, to me it's all about personality. There are three main types of people in the world: Those who will fight alongside me, those who will fight against me, and those who will stand off to the sides and watch or hide in fear. I haven’t got much respect for the last group, unless they be truly unable to fight for themselves like crippled old men or wee little babes. Nay, I don’t care much at all for cowards.”

Did she leave home with the blessings of her parents?
”Not exactly. My mother wanted me to marry and start a family of my own. I told her I care not for the idea of marriage, and wasn’t interested in becoming a mother either. We fought about it for months. My father was content to let me follow my own path, secure in the knowledge that should he die he would be leaving behind plenty to care for me if I couldn’t make it on my own. My mother couldn’t let it go, though. So finally, one day I told her that I had had enough and that I was leaving. I left home with nothing but the clothes on my back and my father’s sword. That was three years ago.”

I note you've got Throw Anything and Catch Off-Guard - what improvised stuff does she like throwing around or hitting people with?

A jovial smile spreads across Annalisa’s lips, ”Well, there was this one time in a tavern about 3 months after I left home. Some drunken lout thought he could put his hands on me, so I broke a chair across his face. It knocked him out cold, he lay in the middle of the tavern floor the rest of the night. The owner was none too pleased, though, and thought to have me serve his other customers the rest of the night in lieu of payment. That went well for a little while, until I threw a flagon of ale across the room at another fellow for getting grabby with the bar wench. The lass was barely of a marrying age and as thin as a rail, she tried to shove him away a couple of times but he had wrestled her down into his lap. After that the owner just yelled at me and told me to leave, and not come back.”

”Another time, while out on the road I was traveling with a caravan acting as a guard. It was easy work and it kept food in my stomach. One night we were ambushed. My sword was knocked from my hand, and the only other thing nearby was an old dead tree. I reached up and snapped off a low hanging limb and used it as a club to bludgeon the man to death. I guess you could just say that I’ll use whatever is handy, if I can pick it up, if I can throw it, if I can swing it, I’ll use it.”

How do you reconcile Sven's opinion of all men being fundamentally good, being a Paladin and serving as a mercenary?

He’s never really reconciled it and it’s definitely something he’s struggled with during his time with the Spears. During his first years he brought quite a few foes, taken as captives in combat, before his superior or employers only to see them executed without a second thought. He often chafed at these conflicts and found himself being disciplined (pay cuts, humiliating clean up duties, etc) for refusing to follow orders. The clash of mercenary lifestyle against Sven’s strong ideals, are one of his driving motivations in leaving the Spears and searching a higher calling (one that takes him north).

What was his call to take up the Paladin's mantle? - and what god does he venerate?

Sven is a paladin in mechanics more than by title. He belongs to no religious hierarchy and has little formal training. The prayers he practices the most often are ones honoring the fallen (both friend and foe alike), thanking the gods for strength in battle, or praising good fortune or beauty in life. If you’d prefer that paladins commit to a patron deity his would likely be the one entity I’ve found that’s similar to him theologically, Ragathiel. Like Sven, he is a being of seeming contradictions - being the patron deity of duty and chivalry but also righteous vengeance.

He has the Oath of Vengeance... against what does he seek revenge?

The Oath of Vengeance represents Sven’s capacity for anger and the full extent of his wrath – something his father often cautioned him against. Not just anything can draw this rage out of him. Only a truly cruel and depraved foe would be capable of provoking the savage fury in his ulfen blood and bringing it to the surface.

You do realize that I count 15 as either Human or Human(Ulfen) and one Human(Chelaxian) out of the 31 I had race info on when I made my list the other day.

--------------------

Silvermane
Female Wolf
N Medium Animal
Init +2; Senses low-light vision, scent; Perception +5
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Defense
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AC 14, touch 12, flat-footed 12 (+2 Dex, +2 natural)
hp 17 (+7)
Fort +5, Ref +5, Will +1
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Offense
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Speed 50 ft.
Melee Bite (Wolf) +2 (1d6+1/x2)
Special Attacks trip
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Statistics
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Str 13, Dex 15, Con 15, Int 2, Wis 12, Cha 6
Base Atk +1; CMB +2; CMD 14 (18 vs. Trip)
Feats Toughness +3
Tricks Attack [Trick], Down [Trick], Fetch [Trick], Guard [Trick], Heel [Trick], Hunting [Trick], Seek [Trick], Track [Trick]
Skills Acrobatics +2 (+10 jump), Perception +5, Stealth +6 Modifiers +4 to survival when tracking by scent
Languages
SQ guard [trick], hunting [trick]
Other Gear You have no money!
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Special Abilities
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+4 to Survival when tracking by Scent +4 to Survival when tracking by Scent.
Guard [Trick] The animal stays in place and prevents others from approaching.
Hunting [Trick] The animal has been trained for hunting.
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.
Trip (Ex) You can make a trip attempt on a successful attack.

For all the practical "no nonsense" look, Baalgrufs face betrays a kind soul, his hazel eyes and ever present inkling of a smile making most feel safe in his presense despite the weapons he carries. His skin is bronzed with an uncharacteristic tan, stretched tight enough on his face to hint at the shape of his skull, eyes sitting deep in their sockets, more reminders of a life above ground, traveling more often than not.

His armor and weapons are well crafted but bear many signs of repair. Fully half of their surfaces look like they have been added later, the plain craftsmanship of men interwoven with the elaborately sculpted peices of the original dwarven design.

Only his heavy shield bears so signs of such repair, every scratch and dent lovingly left to tell its tale. A lifelike Serpents head rises out of its surface, bony ridges and horns jutting out into deadly shield spikes.

Baalgruf leaned back into his chair, thick smoke oozing from the edges of his mouth like some witches cauldron. He
savoured the taste of the tobacco, staring into the hearth while taking several short breaths through the ornate pipe.

Around him, sounds returned to the small tavern, as patron and server alike returned to the drinking of ale, cleaning
of tables and rolling of dice. A low chuckle escaped Baalgrufs lips. These Ulfen truly held his people in high regard for
his story to have attracted the attention of everyone. He never was any good at the Skalds trade. As if to reinforce his
own opinion, from amongst the children sat in front of him, one said:

"Why dont you do it proper? My dad always tells me Dwarves is real good at telling stories. We want rhymes and singing. You
tell it like some bedtime story."

Baalgrufs eyes looked over the children, finding the one who had spoken, a roundfaced boy, his arms crossed and a displeased
pout on his lips. Baalgruf pointed at the boy with the stem of his pipe, the tip bobbing up and down like a scolding finger.

"Now, now my dear boy, you shouldnt take everything you hear so literal. Its true that many a great legend-smith can be counted
amongst my people, but that does not mean we are all great poets. For example, ive heard many a story about how the Ulfen are
blood crazed warriors, charging into battle, blasted out of their minds on ale and herb..."

Several men around the room looked up from their cups, a mix of pride and outrage on their faces. Baalgruf quickly continued.

"...but that does not mean I think every Ulfen to be such a man. You would do well to weigh the worth of people as
individuals, no as a race...Except those blasted orcs ofcourse!"

He laughed openly at his last remark, the children joining in, the hypocricy of it lost on them. As the laughter died down, another
child spoke, this time a redheaded girl with big eyes.

"Mister, didnt you say you was a messenger from your home?"

"Yes, I did indeed."

The girl simply looked more puzzled, the rest of the children equally so. Baalgruf raised a bushy eyebrow, not understanding
why. Then he remembered the children ofcourse had not been present at the assembly when he had delivered his message to the
townsfolk earlier that day.

"Oooh right, ofcourse, you didnt hear. Well, you see, my clan recently took back our home, kicked those blasted orcs right out!"

He lightly kicked the air with one leg for emphasis. Several of the boys lightened up at the mention of battle.

"Hehehe, yes they never saw it coming. Only took five days before the last of them were sent howling down the mountain side.
They were ferocious ofcourse, but still no match for dwarven steel and determination. I personally killed atleast eight of the
devils...or maybe it was nine? Bah, all the same it was a glorious battle indeed!"

A timid little boy hiding behind his brother, pointed at Baalgrufs heavy dwarven axe, which was stood next to the chair,
leaning on a beautifully crafted, though well worn shield. The shields surface was wrought in the likeness of a majestic
Serpents head, the horns and bony ridges rising out of its surface to form wicked sheild spikes.

"d-did you k-kill em with that?"

Baalgruf picked up the axe, placing it in his lap.

"Oh this old thing? Sure, old Gertrud here has slain her fair share of orcs. But shes not the weapon that has laid low most
of my enemies"

He lovingly picked the sheild up, strapping it to his arm and holding it up for the children to marvel at.

"This beauty right here is Rimemaws Bane. It was given to me by my father, who himself inherited it from his father. To my
grandfather, my father, and myself, it has ever been as much a weapon as a shield."

The children frantically whispered amongst eachother, eyes wide with awe.

"Whos Rimemaw then?"

An older girl in her early teens had joined the group of children, asking her question as she sat down. Around her the children
turned their eyes from her, back to Baalgruf, the same question written plainly on their faces.

"Aaah Rimemaw."

Baalgruf brought his pipe to his mouth, leaning back into his chair yet again.

"Rimemaw was a mighty white Serpent. Now, the white ones are not the largest or the brightest, but he was
quite a beast all the same. His real name was Iglathnagor, but amongst those who knew of him he was simply known as Rimemaw.
And for good reason. The breath of a white Serpent is like the Heart of Winter, a single exhalation enough to send even a
dwarf to the Great Beyond in seconds."

"Rimemaw, like most of his kind, wanted a great treasure of coin and gem, a hoard to call his own and covet jealously. He built
his lair not far from where my grandfather Rothgar and his clan had made their home, their hold yet young, barely more than a mine.
When Rimemaw set out on his quest for treasure, the people of the valleys and the plains below were his victims, brazen claw
and terrible breath soon taking their toll on the lives and belongings of those poor people."

"It was many moons before my people heard of the plight of the people living below, but sadly, like so many dwarves before them
they were content to be safe in their mine and offered no help. But that would soon change."

"Rimemaw had all but bleed the coffers of the people dry, the waves of riches slowing to barely a trickle. Displeased, Rimemaw
looked elsewhere to satisfy his lust. And soon he found what he was looking for, in the veins of the worlds bones. He came
down upon my people without warning, not bothering to extort them for their belongings, for he knew no dwarf would ever buy
peace when it could be bought with the sweat of battle instead."

"The battle was terrible, but in the end my people prevailed, driving the winged snake from their home at great cost of life.
Many of my Rothgars clansmen rejoiced in their victory, but he did not, for he knew Rimemaw would not soon forget the wounds
inflicted that day, and neither would he. He took with him those who would follow, setting off in search of Rimemaw, even as
Winters Embrace lay heavy on Skyward Peaks."

"For almost a Cycle of the Heavens they searched, Rimemaw proving a cunning Serpent, his nest not easily found. Some lost
heart for cause, some found Swords Slumber at the hands of jotun along the way, untill finally, as winter returned,
only my grandfather and his two closest Sword Brethren remained. But their determination was met with reward, Rimemaws
nest finally discovered."

"But even in discovering Rimemaws lair, the journey was not yet over. The nest was a maze, every tunnel fraught with Trickster
Peril. When atlast they came face to face with the Serpent, already Hels Grasp hang heavy on their shoulders."

"Once again a mighty battle erupted between Dwarf and Serpent, Wounds Sea staining the walls and floor. Neither Dwarf nor
Beast would yield, Minds Worth spurring one, Covetous Heart the other. Soon only Rothgar remained standing against the beast,
his axe shattered by Biting Wind. As Rimemaw readied himself for one last deadly Heave of Chest, Rothgar swung his shield with
all the might he could muster breaking the Serpents jaw. Even as it stumbled, choking and coughing on its own vile breath,
Rothgar pressed forward, shield swinging again and again untill finally, Rimemaw was undone."

Baalgruf lowered his arms which he had been swinging around in jabs and parries against an invisible enemy, as his tale
had unfolded. Placing Rimemaws Bane on his lap he gently caressed its old worn surface.

"Rothgar returned triumphant, Rimemaws hoard soon swelling the clans coffers. It was that same weath that helped make
our clan home into more than a simple mine. They honoured him with this very shield and the name Rimehammer"

"Rothgar never abandoned the style of combat that had been born in Rimemaws nest, weilding no other weapon untill the day
of his passing. The style of combat and the skills of the hunt that his search for Rimemaw had given him, he passed along
to my father, and he to me. Which is my I was chosen to travel the land, to proclaim our triumphant return to any who
will listen. But that is just a means to an end. I hope that in my travels I will have the good fortune to meet a foe as
formidable as Rimemaw, that I may match or perhaps even surpass the deeds of Rothgar."

Putting out the last embers of his pipe he got up from his chair, looking over the assembled children.

"Now ill retire for the evening, I have a long day of travel ahead of me tomorrow"

As he walked up the stairs to his room, the displeased "aawwhing" of the children at his back, he wondered when the honour
of such a foe would finally be bestowed upon him.

The Good

Baalgruf is in many ways the "typical Dwarf", holding honour, family and ancestors in high regard. Unlike most dwarves however he is easy going towards strangers owing in part to the life on the road caused by his clans previous situation, and to his familys tradition as mountaineers and trackers in particular. He knows that a typical dwarven approach to other people will get you nowhere more often than not.

He is levelheaded and inclined to think before acting, prefering to have a plan before doing anything if at all possible. However should danger threaten his companions or those who cannot defend themselves he wastes no time in moving to intervene.

However...

The Bad

Baalgruf has no tolerance for any people with clearly monstrous features such as tieflings or even aasimar. He treats such people with condemning silence at best, outright hostility at worst. Being brought up on the story of Rothgar and living a life on the road where such people are almost universally brigands or worse his gut reaction towards people who "dont look right" is never a warm one.

Baalgruf feels a great need to find and slay a mighty foe, to prove to himself that he is worthy of his family name and the respect of Rothgar. This leads him to throw caution to the winds when faced with an especially imposing enemy, sometimes even leaving allies to fend for themselves while he goes off to face the enemy. In many ways it is like a goldfever, an ogre amongst goblins is like a nugget of gold, an irresistible challenge.

==DEFENSE==

AC 19, 12 touch, 17 flatfooted (5 armor, 2 dex, 2 Shield)
hp 13 (10 hd, 3 con,)
Fort 5 Ref 4 Will 2 (+2 vs Poison and magic)

==OFFENSE==

Spd 20 ft

Melee Dwarven Axe: +4 1d10 + 3 /x3

Melee Spiked Heavy Shield: +4 1d6 + 3 /x2

Melee Dagger: +4 1d4 + 3 /19-20x2

Ranged Javelin: +3 1d6 + 3 /20x2

==STATISTICS==

Str: 16, Dex: 14, Con: 16, Int: 10, Wis: 16, Cha: 8

Base Atk +1,Cmb +4 Cmd 16 (+4 vs bullrush and trip)

Feats: Power Attack

Class Features: Favoured Enemy (Goblinoid), Track, Wild Empathy

Languages: Common, Dwarven

Traits: Ease of Faith, Armor Expert

Skills(Armor check penalty included)[7]

Climb[1] +4
Diplomacy[1] +7
Knowledge Dungeoneering[1] +4
Knowledge Nature[1] +4
Perception[1] +7
Stealth[1] +3
Survival[1] +7

Equipment

Waraxe, Dwarven 30gp
Scale Mail 50gp
Spiked Darkwood Heavy Wooden Shield 117gp
5 Javelins 5gp
Backpack 2gp
Bedroll 1sp
Explorer's Outfit
Cold Weather Outfit 8gp

87gp 9sp

The area in which Thorolf differs most from the 'stereotypical' priesthood is in personality. While the god (and by extension his clerics) are impulsive and prone to violent outbursts, I see Thorolf as being more calculating and contemplative... patient might also be a good term.

Also, having had everything taken from him early on, he is less likely to 'like something and simply take it' himself - unless that 'something' is vital to his needs or agenda. Then he is not above the 'might makes right' philosophy. He is also as apt to use stealth and infiltration than open confrontation if he feels the situation warrants. (Not sure if that differs from the typical, but there you go.)

That said, he revels in battle (what true northerner doesn't?), its ebb and flow, the adrenaline, testing himself against others, and the euphoria of victory.

*With such a burning desire for vengeance on Turlach, why would he engage on a quest that will take him away from the Lands of the Linnorm Kings?

First reason being that Thorolf is still young and relatively untested. Turlach is older, has untold combats in his experience belt, and is surrounded by his own warband. One on One, Thorolf doesn't stand much of a chance. One against a warband, he doesn't stand any - and he's smart enough to know that. To that end he's hoping to build his own reputation and experience

Second, he is also after his sister. (I don't think it was very clear from the story, but the witch took her) I haven't read any of the AP, but I assume the first bit will take us near or into Irissen. If so, this would give Thorolf the opportunity to hunt for info as to her whereabouts.

Also, once committed to a task, his loyalty to his companions (not to mention his own sense of pride and dollop of stubbornness) won't let him abandon the quest once begun. And who knows but that this sort of thing isn't just what's needed to build a reputation around? A reputation that might attract other warriors with whom to return and challenge Turlach? :)

One day, the Inquisitors, in their all-too-familiar iron masks, kicked in Akorius' door. He commanded the imp to take Lucia into the other room and demanded answers from the Inquisitors. Two restrained Akorius while the rest began to search his home. The squeal of the imp being slain was followed by Lucia being dragged out, tears in her vibrant purple eyes. He tried to remain calm, calling on a law that assures he has a right to know what he or his family is being charged with. The Inquisitor started laughing, cruelly, gloating in that Akorius admitted Lucia was family by invoking the statute, before explaining that Akorius had broken the contract his parents had signed when he was first accepted into the Inquisition, decades ago. There was a fine-print condition that said just as Akorius was granted from his parents, so would he grant his children to the Inquisition if they so wished. Confused and outraged, Akorius pulled a curved dagger from an Inquisitor's belt and slew him with it before being shackled. The Inquisitors put a black bag over his head, whisking him away as he had done to so many before. He could hear Lucia crying, and told her it would be okay, over and over.
When the hood was removed, Akorius saw the Grand High Priestess behind a sacrificial altar, as he had seen her so many times before. Next to her was the Inquisitor he thought long dead, the one he turned in for treason when he was but a child. The priestess told him the Inquisitor's treason was all a ruse to shape and mold Akorius, bestowing in him his loathing of injustice and corruption, an outlet for his frustrations in academic training. The priestess had been molding and shaping him ever since he first drew attention by reporting his old tutor. Once he had become a successful Inquisitor, the next step was to test his will in control of Devils, which he failed. She admitted that she hadn't known about the child for many years, and it was then that Tisiphone walked out, smiling cruelly and seductively at Akorius. Tisi had betrayed him, after all that time, yet all he could think about was how much he missed her. She seemed to know it, teasing him that if he was truly dedicated, they could be together again, forever. Whispers of how respected and loved he would be, how all would be forgiven, all set right, everything back to how it was. He stared into her vibrant purple eyes, then signed the contract with shaking hand, unsure if he was doing it out of his own will or through Tisiphone's supernatural persuasion. It was then that Akorius' family came out, forming a circle around him and the sacrificial altar, smiling with pride, as Tisi began kneeling before him in submission. She whispered for him to close his eyes, her voice sinking deep into his mind, past all the walls of secrecy and self-control. His family and the priestess applauded around the Hellish altar, making him open his eyes. Tisi wasn't there, yet he could still hear her whispering, comforting him, congratulating him. His brief moment of happiness sunk into dread when he heard a faint cry he knew too well. Lucia. A cleric of Asmodeus carried her over his shoulder, her tiny wrists bound in black-iron shackles, her favorite little purple scarf soaked with tears. His heart jumped into his throat and he strained against his own shackles and the Inquisitors restraining him. The Grand High Priestess Aspexia held the contract loosely in her pale fingers, blood-red nails tapping on the parchment, on his signature.
Akorius only has vague memories of what transpired, which he tries desperately to forget. His hands moved on their own, while he screamed and cried in anguish within his mind, Tisi shushing and comforting him, as he took the blade to his Lucia. He remembers all the proud, ecstatic faces around him, smiling and applauding, welcoming him, as control seeped back into his limbs and he dropped the blood-soaked ritual skinning knife. Friends, family, his parents, his mentors, all hugged him, bowed their heads to him. Akorius picked up the blood-spattered scarf, purple like Lucia's eyes had been, and gripped it so tightly his bones creaked. He remembers only his mother's expression of surprise and disappointment when he threw off the Grand High Priestess' embrace and stumbled out of the Church of Asmodeus. He remembers seeing the common people of Egorian scramble out of his way, the merciless Inquisitor, as he trudged towards the city gate. He remembers wandering northward, out of the city, until dawn began to break, just as he came upon a sheer drop to jagged rocks below. Clutching Lucia's scarf to his cheek, he stepped off the edge.

Laying amongst those broken rocks, his blood covering them, he closed his eyes and waited to die. He woke with the sun glaring down at him, his lips cracked and bloody, pain through his entire broken body. Akorius saw the treetops swaying back and forth like cobras, twisting and warping as dehydration and blood loss set in. Tisi's soft, warm voice comforted him, telling him it would all be over soon and they would be together. It took several delirious moments for him to realize it wasn't Tisi speaking to him anymore, it was another voice, deeper, stronger, more melodic. The sun warped and twisted into the shape of a woman, her brightness making his eyes water and dim. The voice offered a quick death, not the days of dehydration while scavengers picked at him. He begged for it, at first, then in despair changed his mind. His pain and sadness turned to self-loathing, all the suffering he had inflicted on others--on Lucia--he deserved his fate. The voice then offered a different choice: a lifetime of atonement, or that quick, merciful death. A favor he didn't feel he deserved. Dying now would be selfish after all he had done, he needed to spend every breath til his last in atonement.

When he woke, he could barely sit up. So many broken bones and infected wounds, he was so thirsty though. Crawling to the nearby riverbank and drinking greedily, Akorius tried to make sense of his visions. Were they hallucinations? He listened for the melodic voice, or even Tisiphone's seductive purr, but he was alone. So begun his pilgrimage. Akorius roamed aimlessly away from Egorian, away from his 'family', away from his past, but never able to escape the memories that plagued him. The first village he came upon had a small temple, just a house really. The furniture had been replaced with altars and pews. Akorius went in to add to the donation box, when he saw a brightly-painted mural of Sarenrae above an altar. He recognized the Goddess from what he thought had been hallucinations and immediately fell to his knees, staring up at the mural in shock, feeling as dizzy as when he first woke broken upon the rocks. The room spun, and he collapsed. He hadn't eaten in weeks, and was suffering from exposure, wandering and sleeping in the open. The priest tended to him and taught him about Sarenrae, the Goddess of redemption. In between his lectures he began to hear Tisi again, whispering seductions in his ear, mocking the priest, mocking Akorius' 'redemption'.
So he kept wandering, just following his feet. When he came upon travelers beset by bandits or monsters, he stepped in, fighting brutally with no regard for his own safety, before continuing on his way, ignoring cries of gratitude or offers of reward. Cold and cynical, detached. The only glimmer of the man that used to be was in the tiny purple scarf he kept tied around his wrist. Eventually he made his way to the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, old, scarred, and broken, but determined to stay on the path of atonement.

Positive traits: Dedicated to Paladin virtues and code, has a good heart. Entirely selfless.
Negative traits: Honest even if it's seen as cruel. Cold and detached, unfriendly.
Appearance: Though not elderly, Akor is often referred to as "that old man". His hair is close-cropped and gray, with roughly shaven gray facial hair. Scars adorn his body, and not in a masculine macho way--they make him ugly. Though he bathes as regularly as he can (old habits die hard), he still looks like he's been living in the forest for years (because he has). He has a prominent nose and strong chin, and may have been handsome in his youth, but now his eyes are sunken and dark, weary and drained.
Attitude: Akor tries to keep emotional distance between himself and others. Conversations tend to be short and to the point, no nonsense. Despite all of the pain he seems to carry, he walks with some stubborn sense of pride that hasn't died. He doesn't back down from anyone, enjoying the occasional beating from lost fights as part of his atonement. Every wound from battles, every bruise from brawls is just a drop of atonement in an ocean of sins, and he relishes in every suffering he endures. He often stares off into space, watches the campfire for hours without saying a word, paces impatiently, or just slumps a bit and closes his eyes, seeming to sleep.

Note: I didn't add a lot of the extra benefits you offered as extras, just wanted to spend more time on the character and less on stats. I'll add it in later, along with equipment etc. if I am accepted.

Along the border an ambitious Winter Witch sought to expand her territory, summoning an army of fey to her side and pressing in towards Trollheim and directly into the domain of Haggar, as warden of the northernmost border. The fates however, deemed that the warrior and his people would not fall further, as a trio of Norns appeared before the warrior, warning him of the advance and granting his daughter, a skilled healer, with knowledge of a ritual that would grant his warriors power to face the witch and her trolls and giants.

When the witch's emissary, a Frost Giant warrior mounted atop a white dragon, arrived to accept fealty, the entire tribe attacked with an unrelenting fury, slaughtering them both despite heavy losses. Their blood was drained and mixed with herbs and mystical components, a ritual cast with painstaking precision and the blood consumed by all the tribe's warriors, imbuing them with the impervious nature of a frost giant and the unrelenting fury of the white dragon.

Such was the might of these magically imbued warriors that winter witch's plans for expansion were soon abandoned in light of continuous heavy losses, and a lack of support from the Winter Queen and her forces.

Hundreds of years later, it is whispered that traces of this power still lies dormant in the blood of some Northernmost Ulfen, a rumor that bears truth, for once in a generation a warrior manifests a portion of this power and the ability to truly embrace the cold that for all Ulfen is simply an inevitable aspect of life.

Sigrun was one so blessed, seemingly unaffected by the weather from the age of four. Her parents were outcasts, her mother, the daughter of a mighty Jarl and rumored to carry the blood of Baba Yaga herself, her father, a powerful warrior, born on a day of bad omen, a poor match despite his prowess and ability in the hunt. It was her mother's refusal to accept his fate that resulted in her being cast out, when her spurning of another warrior's approach erupted in a riot that killed a dozen warriors, most falling at Jagr’s devastating Lucerne Hammer.

The wild tundra was the home of an immeasurable number of deadly creatures, one of the deadliest being the dreaded winter wolf. Scenting a child protected only by two adults, the pack descended upon the family's hovel, managing to kill Sigrun's mother before retreating with 4 of their number dead.

Left with his wife dead and a five-year-old girl child, Jagr was forced to make a hard decision. Placing an axe and a doll at equal distances, Jagr set his little girl down in the snow to see which she would go to. The world of the north was no place for innocent childhood, and with pain in his heart, the man resolved that should the girl choose the doll, he would end her life, using his hammer to spare her the suffering that would inevitably fill her short life.

She toddled towards the axe, straining to pick it up.

The years were hard, but Sigrun was harder, the stoic child growing into a powerful and intense young woman, tough and focused, her father's pride and joy. No son could have done a father prouder, trained to hunt and forage, skilled in combat and prone to a devastating icy cold rage when in battle, the girl exhibited that in her the old blood was strong.

Alas the hard lessons of life were far from over, during a hunt, Sigrun and Jagr were attacked by a trio of Ice trolls, a battle during which Sigrun was rendered unconscious after being thrown into the trunk of a tree, her body buried in a snow bank. Believing his daughter dead, Jagr fought with no regard for himself, slaying two of the creatures before falling to the third, yet even in death he saved his daughter's life as the wounded troll took his body to feed upon, leaving the girl and its fellows in the snow.

Awakening hours later, she understood the scene, shedding tears for the first time since her mother's death. With no body to bury, there was nothing for her to do but pick up the father's mighty hammer and carry on, surviving through toughness, tenacity and cunning against all likelihood.

To Sigrun weakness on the surface is a sure way to invite death, and as such she attempt so conceal any weaknesses she cannot completely eradicate.

Yet beneath this icy exterior lies the scarred heart of the little girl who witnessed her mother’s death and blames herself for not being strong enough to prevent her father’s. Should someone be able to make their way beyond the many layers of walls she has built up, they would find someone who encases her insecurities in ice.

Tall and powerfully built, Sigrun's body is reminiscent of a masterfully sculpted statue. Powerful yet sleek muscle lines her form, her body impressive and intimidating, while still being indisputably feminine. Her skin is pale, spending much time in the dark gloom of continuous winter, lines of numerous battle scars across her body indicate a history of injury, yet the lack of depth or severe scarring indicates an ability to heal and an almost impervious nature, as if faint lines on the surface was all that could be expected from one trying to harm her.

Shockingly red hair stands out against her pale skin like a warning of danger, her intense green eyes matching the intensity, bursts of vivid color that lends life to a woman who otherwise appears as if carved from ice.

Her every movement speaks of confidence and power, a warrior's stride, stalking with a wariness born of a life of danger and violence, full of predatory beauty and deadly grace.

Inspiring: The combination of her physical presence, cold intensity and pure survival in the face of a brutal environment that by all accounts should have killed her has created a woman who evokes an emotional response in all who encounter her. To those fortunate enough to be her allies, she is as dependable as having a glacier at one’s back. To those who face her rage, it is akin to being set out in a blizzard, naked and afraid.

Socially inept: Living the life of a warrior and hunter alone in the wilds with her father, Sigrun lacks much in the way of social graces, much less any idea of how a “lady” is expected to act, even in a society as rough as that of the Jarls. She has a better idea of what to say to someone she intends to slay than one she hopes to befriend.

Untrusting: Sigrun does not easily allow others in, fearing a display of weakness in what she has come to know as an incredibly harsh world. While easy to admire she can be hard to like. (Despite having a 14 Charisma she can still easily say and do things that might piss people off)

•.Winter warrior

You grew up in the icy lands of Irrisen, and surviving in the cold snows of winter is second nature to you.
Benefit: You gain a +1 trait bonus on Stealth and Survival checks in ice- or snow- covered terrain.

•Resilient

Growing up in a poor neighborhood or in the unforgiving wilds often forced you to subsist on food and water from doubtful sources. You’ve built up your mettle as a result.
Benefit: You gain a +1 trait bonus on Fortitude saves.

Unafraid: The loss of her family and the truth of her origin has thrown, Joanna into a state neutral indifference that's not to say she actively leaps into dangerous situations. But she's not afraid too.

Affable: She's polite, this isn't a ruse or a falsehood she honestly tries to be as friendly as possible as she can be to others. This doesn't mean she's afraid to use her powers to kill, she just doesn't see a problem in being polite about it.

Negative Traits:

Warped Perspective:
She’s far to wrapped up in her own problems to realize there are others that would seek to take advantage of her. She’s gullible and over trusting especially of warrior types. (They remind her of Jarvastala)

Conviction:
Having lived alone Joanna is not aware of how to best help or contribute to a group. She'll often times put her own survival and needs above the lives of others.

Joanna was a gift, a crying screaming barely clothed gift but a gift nonetheless. Left upon the door of Jarvastala former adventurer now turned barkeep a man who had recently lost the love of his life. She was raised to be the daughter the man never had. For so many years she lived the semblance of a normal life. When questioned upon whom she was her -father- would laugh and jokingly say she was his daughter from a forgotten conquest. But yet she stood out with her small frame pale skin, and discolored eyes many in the village believe her to be cursed. Jarvastala (while a man of action in his prime) was not one to have his daughter be cast as a villain. He did his best to help her get past the stigma of the town encouraging her to be someone who wasn't afraid of the opinions of others. She never was truly accepted into the town but she did all in her power to fit in.

This changed when she reached the edge of her puberty, she received the -calling- as all changelings do. Her mother had prepared a special ritual for her newest child. The hag needed a tool to add to her growing coven, a weapon to wield against her rivals. Her daughter was the perfect candidate. She would give her daughter a portion of her power and prowess enough to make her a fearsome warrior but at the same time strip away her intellect and freedom of thought.

Joanna was already subject to the calling she had questions that needed to be answered.
When Joanna stumbled into her mothers camp she was nothing but a thrall. Everything was in order, however. Jarvastalar had followed his daughter into the depths of the Grungir and came upon the hag as she was warping his child.

Jarvastala was a warrior in his prime but now he was nothing but a shadow of his former glory.
He charged into battle nonetheless he had lost his wife and he had no intention of losing his only kin. He fought against the hag amidst the ritual his sword and steel clashing with her fang and claw. The hag was weakened but not without tools to cut the man down, as she lunged forward to slit the man's throat he brought his blade to bare shoving the sword deep into her gut.
The hag was the victor but her wounds were too severe she would need time to heal.

Witnessing her father's death freed Jona of the calling. The ritual had worn it’s corse. The residual magic lingered around Jona a blood red outline of the hag she had not become. In fury she crushed the weakened hag with her own magic.

Joanna returned to the village only briefly, to gather her essentials and leave never to return. Believing herself guilty of her fathers death she now roams from town to town seeking some meaning in her life.

Standing on top of a wintry hill as the snow falls, Raelyosraden looks upon the land below him. Taller than most elves with long white hair and eyes to match, fairly well built while carrying himself with a strong demeanor, 'Winter Watcher', as he's known among his clan, is also known for 'seeing' more than most. Growing up in the northern regions of Golarion, his nomadic tribe hidden away from the rest of the world, Raelyosraden has spent most of his life as sentry for his people.

"Winter's blade has become sharper. It is an omen," he says as a female of his tribe moves up behind him. "You fret too much, brother," an elf of fewer years, her hair equally as white, her skin much fairer, responds. "It is as it has always been. Cold. How can it be sharper?" she asks rhetorically. He turns and looks to his sister, before turning back to the land before him, eyes narrowed. "The cold I can bear, Mirrashylora. I have always seem to manage it far better than the others. You know as well as I, you grow up in unforgiving land such as this, you learn to survive. But this... this is no ordinary chill, sister. No, this is something... more. The land is in trouble, and we must take action, else, all is lost. I can feel it."

His sister smiles at him, thinking him way to over dramatic. "You always feel like something sinister is going to occur, brother. Why..." she starts before she's quickly interrupted, "And I am usually right."

Shaking her head, "No, you just assume you will be right. But I will not deny you are known for your 'sight'," she tells him, rolling her eyes, glad he's not looking her way. "You've always been one to expect the worst and I've never quite understood that about you, brother."

The ranger looks to her a moment before again turning back, "When one expects the worst, then he is prepared for it. But I promise you, I shall not stand idly by and watch it victorious. If it should come to pass, then so be it. But not without battle," he vows.

She looks to him, feeling sorry for him as she so often has. "Okay, dear brother, if you say so. But do you not think you are being a bit extreme? You do know Baba Yaga is to return, don't you?" she asks. "That is all this more than likely is."

Shaking his head, "No. I do not think so. But no matter, only time will tell if I am in error. And I do not fear that I am. We shall see." Looking upon the land, Raelyosraden can't shake the feeling that something's amiss.

Knowing there's nothing she can say that he will listen to, "Come, Raelyosraden, let us return. We have carried out our duties this day," she tells him. Turning his attention back to her, he complies reluctantly. "Very well. But I truly believe our duty has yet begun, Mirrashylora," he says in his typical serious tone. Giggling at him, "Yes, I know, you apocalyptic brother of mine. Relax dear brother, life is short! Even for those of us long lived," she grins at him.

Initially offended by her laughter, Raelyosraden relaxes, knowing that's just his sister's carefree way. They were so very different. He often wondered how they could possibly be related. "Very well. I will attempt at this 'relaxing' you speak of at some point in the future. But only for you, dear sister." A rare grin forms, but only for a moment. "Of course, if I happen to succeed at such a task, it is more than probable you would then find me dull and boring," he deadpans. "A moment and we shall depart," he tells her as he looks about the sky.

Looking at him curiously, she wonders what it is he's waiting on before it dawns on her. "Ah yes, I nearly forgot. It's been a while since I've last seen him. I must say, you've done well in raising him. He has grown strong since father gifted him to you. You should be proud he entrusted you with such." An internal grin forms as he continues to watch the skies. "I am... glad. Can you believe it's been nearly a year now?" He asks, keeping his sights toward the distance.

After a few more moments, a dot within the sky is spotted. It continues to get bigger, but not so much so, as it gets closer. Coming in strong, the eagle lands upon Raelyosraden's shoulder perfectly. A rare occurrence then happens: Raelyosraden genuinely smiles. "It is good to see you again, my faithful friend. I have missed you." He strokes the bird's head. Mirrashylora can only shake her head at the scene, finding it fascinating that one such as he can be so... soft. Of course, she always wondered if that was the reason her father gave him the eagle. Especially with the condition that he get to name her and not Raelyosraden. Serenity, he called her. Raelyosraden didn't initially care for it but grew to accept it, seeing how, he had no choice. "You are one of two worlds, brother. For one who takes himself so seriously, there is compassion in there somewhere," she grins.

"Tell no one," he tells her - nary a smile about him - winking. "Let us return. A journey lies before me. It is time to travel to Kopparberget to acquire the necessary metals needed for our people."

Snowblooded: "The cold I can bear, Mirrashylora. I have always seem to manage it far better than others."

Resilient: "You know as well as I, you grow up in unforgiving land such as this, you learn to survive."

Determined/Vigilant: Being a Snowcaster Sentry, this is the epitome of what he is. Ever watchful for enemies and never one to be deterred in any situation regardless. In his mind, that is what makes a true warrior. He would have it no other way. Plus, being such, aids him in defeating the 'worst' that is sure to come.

Unsociable: He's not the most charismatic fellow you'll meet. Not that he won't speak to others, it's just more of a business like demeanor. Because that's what gets things done.

He possesses a very focused, a very serious persona. If there's something that needs done - whatever that something may be - he is one to see it done, if at all possible. If he can't, then at least aid in whatever way possible.

Now, there is a soft side to him, but at this point in time of his life, only his sister has truly ever seen it. Well, that and his faithful companion, Serenity. Which, mind you, is why his father named the bird such. In hopes that one day, his son would find exactly that within himself.

About 6'6, 142lbs and 134 years old. A fair complexion(but not as fair as his sister's), he walks with a demeanor that tells you he is business like. If one were to see him one would think he appears quite sure of himself. Obviously, he is dressed for cold weather climates.

Raelyosraden "Winter Watcher"
Male Elf (Snowcaster) Ranger (Falconer) 1
NG Medium Humanoid (elf)
Init +3; Senses low-light vision; Perception +11
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Defense
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AC 13, touch 13, flat-footed 10 (+3 Dex)
hp 12 (1d10+2)
Fort +4 (+4 vs. fatigue, exhaustion, or ill effects from running, forced marches, starvation, thirst, or hot or cold environments, +4 trait bonus vs. nonlethal damage from cold environments), Ref +5, Will +2; +1 vs. cold spells
Resist cold 5
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Offense
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Speed 30 ft.
Special Attacks favored enemy (fey +2)
Ranger (Falconer) Spells Prepared (CL 0):
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Statistics
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Str 15, Dex 17, Con 12, Int 10, Wis 14, Cha 8
Base Atk +1; CMB +3; CMD 16
Feats
Traits Resilient, Snowblooded
Skills Bluff -1 (+1 vs. fey), Climb +6, Handle Animal +3, Perception +8 (+10 vs. fey), Sense Motive +2 (+4 vs. fey), Stealth +7, Survival +6 (+8 vs. fey, +7 to track), Swim +6
Languages Common, Elven
SQ animal companion link, desert runner, share spells with companion, track
Other Gear 150 GP
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Special Abilities
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Animal Companion Link (Ex) You have a link with your Animal Companion.
Damage Resistance, Cold (5) You have the specified Damage Resistance against Cold attacks.
Desert Runner +4 Con checks and Fort vs. fatigue, exhaustion, running, forced marches, hot or cold environments.
Favored Enemy (Fey +2) (Ex) +2 to rolls vs Favored Enemy (Fey).
Low-Light Vision See twice as far as a human in low light, distinguishing color and detail.
Share Spells with Companion (Ex) Can cast spells with a target of "you" on animal companion, as touch spells.
Snowblooded +4 to save vs. nonlethal damage from cold, +1 vs cold spells.
Track +1 Add the listed bonus to survival checks made to track.

ABOUT SERENITY

Serenity
Female Eagle
N Small Animal
Init +2; Senses low-light vision; Perception +6
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Defense
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AC 14, touch 13, flat-footed 12 (+2 Dex, +1 size, +1 natural)
hp 10 (+2)
Fort +4, Ref +5, Will +2
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Offense
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Speed 10 ft., flight (80 feet, average)
Melee Bite (Eagle) +4 (1d4/x2) and
. . Talon x2 (Eagle) +4 x2 (1d4/x2)
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Statistics
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Str 10, Dex 15, Con 12, Int 2, Wis 14, Cha 6
Base Atk +1; CMB +0; CMD 12
Feats Weapon Finesse
Tricks Attack [Trick], Attack [Trick], Attack Any Target [Trick], Come [Trick], Down [Trick], Fighting [Trick], Roam [Trick], Seek [Trick], Stay [Trick]
Skills Acrobatics +2 (-6 jump), Fly +8, Perception +6, Stealth +6
Languages
SQ attack any target [trick], come [trick], fighting [trick], roam [trick], seek [trick]
Other Gear You have no money!
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Special Abilities
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Attack Any Target [Trick] The animal will attack any creature on command.
Come [Trick] The animal will come to you on command.
Fighting [Trick] The animal has been trained to fight.
Flight (80 feet, Average) You can fly!
Low-Light Vision See twice as far as a human in low light, distinguishing color and detail.
Roam [Trick] The falconer can let his animal companion loose to roam and forage. He must let it roam for no more than a week. When the falconer lets it roam, it agrees to return to the place he let it loose within the time period he designates.
Seek [Trick] The animal moves into an area and looks around for anything that is obviously alive or animate.

• Given the Calistrian focus on vengeance - why does Miralania seem to accept punishment when caught?
  
• She seems a bit flighty - why would she commit to a full blown world spanning quest?
  
• Who was the southern elf that she found?

• Is his chain of a special material? - or is the description just fluff?
  
• Has he got fey blood? - and if so, why was he abandoned?
  
• Does he wear a beard?

• Baalgruf treats tieflings and aasimar with disdain... what about fey?
  
• Do the plates in his beard bear any dwarven runes? - and if so what would the say?

• How did a Sarenraen priest and place of worship survive so close to Egorian?
  
• With such a reason to hate the church of Asmodeus - why does he turn North?

• How attached to Ulfen society was she as she grew up? - was she an outcast for most of her life?
  
• Would she display any weakness to those that earned her trust? - and if so, what are her most suppressed frailties?

• Given that he's travelling to get metals, and is unsociable - why would he choose to engage on the quest?
  
• How does he view the shorter lived races?

• I'm assuming most of the dialogue between the two aspects will be internal, unless forced out during combat? - could you see Maeve taking control in non-combat scenarios - and if so, which?
  
• Do Maeve and Halla have nicknames for each other - or do they use truenames?

• Is he a devotee of Gozreh?
  
• Does he encourage his cougar into reckless behaviour alone? - or only with him at the cat's side?

• Is he a devotee of a god, or the Green Faith?
  
• Will he retain a preference for weapons, or revert to natural attacks as he grows in power

She actually has been an outcast for the majority of her life, first with her parents, then growing up at her father's side. Even then, sometimes on a good hunt they would go days without seeing each other, trusting to the other's instincts as they tracked prey. She is wary of Ulfen society but acknowledges that those of the tribes and lodges may often be the lesser of two evils.

•Would she display any weakness to those that earned her trust? - and if so, what are her most suppressed frailties?

Yes she would, despite herself, and she'd be quite surprised about it. Lonliness. As used to solation as she is a part of her desparately aches for human contact. Also, being hard all the time takes its toll. There is a part of her deep down that desparately needs to be held by somone stronger, that can make her feel safe and protected, though right now she would not only never admit it, but probably couldn't even recognize it.

For what it's worth I'd also like to give a ringing endorsement of both Doomed Hero and Viscount K having gamed with both in the past.